“Who?” my mother asked.
“Andros,” I told her. I looked at Benny. “Is he the only director, too?”
“No,” Benny said. “There are three. Andros, Harris Landau, and Betty Russell.”
“Is Harris Tommy Landau’s father?” my mother asked.
Benny nodded. “His firm, Landau, Mitchell & McCray, did the corporation formation work.”
“Who’s Betty Russell?”
“Harris Landau’s former secretary.”
“The lawyer and his secretary,” I said. “Not unusual.”
“What’s not unusual?” my mother asked.
“To have the lawyer and even a secretary from the firm named as directors for the client,” I said to my mother. “Especially for a real small company.” I looked at Benny. “Where’s his secretary these days?”
“Dead.”
“When?”
“Six months ago. Ovarian cancer. In her fifties.”
“How in the world did you find all that out?” I asked.
Benny smiled proudly. “Makes you tingle all over, doesn’t it?”
“Are there any shareholders besides Andros?” I asked.
“He isn’t a shareholder.”
I sat back, surprised. “Who is?”
Benny smiled. “You ready for this? Capital Investments of Missouri is a wholly owned subsidiary of Capital Investments of Illinois.”
“Which is what?” I asked.
“A wholly owned subsidiary of Capital Investments of Vermont.”
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“Nope. By the time I got to Vermont it was lunchtime. I’ll call the Vermont secretary of state’s office after lunch.”
I shook my head. “All those parent companies—that’s weird. Did you find out anything else about them?”
“Not yet.”
“What was a big shot like Harris Landau doing representing a pisher like Andros?” my mother asked.
Benny turned his palms up. “Don’t know. My guess is that he did it as a favor to some heavy hitter who referred Andros to the firm.”
“You find out anything else?” I asked.
“You were right about the insurance policy.”
“Life insurance?”
“Yep. A key-man policy.”
“How much?”
“One million dollars.”
I whistled. “Beneficiary?”
“I’m working on that one.”
“How so?”
“I’ve been sweet-talking someone named Marge down in the Houston underwriting department of the insurance company. She said that the original beneficiary was Capital Investments of Missouri but that her records show that there was a change of beneficiary put through last year. She’s trying to track it down.”
I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Isn’t this guy incredible, Mom?”
My mother nodded, her forehead wrinkled in thought. “You should ask this Marge who the agent was. If it’s someone in St. Louis, we could talk to him.”
“Good point, Mom.”
The waitress arrived. My mother watched in awe as she started unloading Benny’s order. “My God, you weren’t kidding.”
I shook my head. “One more item and she’d need a forklift.”
Benny looked at my mother and me with raised eyebrows. He gestured toward his food. “May I be the first to advise you lovely ladies that I will soon be consuming a chili dog and a large bowl of chili—both of which are loaded—indeed, gorged—with kidney beans. Within an hour my colon will be celebrating Mardi Gras. Mock me now, ladies, and I will be sure to put you both on the parade route.”
While Benny dug into his huge lunch, I told them about my plans for the afternoon, which included a visit to Mound City Mini-Storage.
“Why go there?” my mother asked.
“According to the business records, Firm Ambitions rented storage space there. Maybe there’s nothing in the space but old files, but you never know.”
Just then our waitress came over to the table. “Excuse me,” she said. “Is your name Rachel Gold?”
I looked up in surprise. “What is it?”
“Your secretary is on the phone. She needs to talk to you.”
I followed her to the bar, where the bartender held out the phone.
“I’m sorry, Rachel,” my secretary said, “but this man on the phone insists that I call you. He said you’d be very disappointed if you didn’t get to talk to him. I said you were at a lunch meeting at Blueberry Hill but he insisted.”
“Who is he?”
“I’m not sure. He told me to tell you his name is Nick the Greek.”
I felt my stomach tighten. “He’s still on the phone?”
“Yes. Shall I patch him in?”
“Okay.”
There was a click, and then my secretary said, “Go ahead, sir.”
“Rachel?” He had a deep, honey-coated voice.
“Yes?”
“This is Nick Kazankis.” It was an FM disk jockey voice. “Sorry to interrupt your lunch, but I wanted to make sure we touched base before I left town. My flight’s in two hours. We should talk before then.”
“About what?”
He chuckled. “Andros, of course. What I can tell you about him will be far more germane than what Sheila can.”
“How do you know that.”
He chuckled again. “Well, I suppose I don’t. I suppose I’m making an assumption. I’m assuming you’re looking for information that might be germane to the charges against your sister. If so, then we should talk. If, however, you’re trying to find out how big his cock was, well, I can’t help you there, and I’m going to have to ask you to seek that kind of information from someone other than my wife. It’s your choice, of course, but you’re going to have to make it fast. My flight is to Miami, where I change planes for Freeport. I’m going to be difficult to reach for a few days.”
I thought it over. “Okay, where’s your office?”
“Across the river.”
“In Illinois?” I reached into my purse for a pen. “How do I get there?”
“No need to worry about that. I’ve already sent a limo and driver. They should be there any minute.”
Chapter Twelve
The stretch limo featured a wet bar, a television, a stereo system, copies of the day’s Wall Street Journal, Chicago Tribune, and New York Times, a personal computer, a facsimile machine, and enough open space for a game of lacrosse. It had the desired effect: I peered out the window as we crossed over the Mississippi River into Illinois, trying to spot our destination, which I assumed would be a cross between the Taj Mahal and Tara.
It wasn’t, at least not on the outside. We turned into a nondescript strip shopping center just off the road near Granite City and pulled up to a three-story office building at the far end of the shopping center. Parked in front of the building was a red Infiniti J30 with an Illinois vanity plate that read NICK K.
The limo driver got out on his side of the limo, came around the side, and opened my door. It was then that I noticed that he had, in addition to freshly pressed gray livery and shiny black shoes, a cauliflower ear and a Cicero accent.
“Mr. K’s office is on da second floor,” he said, gesturing with his thumb. “I’ll wait right here for ya, madam.”
“Thank you, Jeeves.”
The building lobby was clean, but the elevator was out of order. The building directory listed him simply as KAZANKIS, N.—#203. No business name or other identification. I took the stairs with no Taj Mahal expectations. The only identification on the door to 203 was the word KAZANKIS in gold press-on letters.
The small reception area inside was a bit more upscale, with comfortable chairs, fresh flowers in a fluted glass vase, and current issues of Newsweek, For
tune, and Vanity Fair on the coffee table. The receptionist was a gorgeous honey blonde with a friendly smile. She was typing at her computer terminal when I walked in. I told her my name and she buzzed her boss on the intercom. She talked to him a moment, gave me a dazzling smile, and told me he’d be free in a few minutes. I declined her offer of coffee or a soft drink. I took a seat on the couch while she resumed her typing after putting back on a set of earphones that looked like the type the airlines pass out on longer flights. At first I thought she was listening to music, but then realized that the earphones were attached to a microcassette transcriber on the desk near her computer. It was similar to the device my secretary used for transcribing dictation tapes.
As I waited, I stood to look at the brightly colored framed posters on the walls. Each featured a gambling casino in the Caribbean. Behind the couch was one poster with the garish Princess Casino, a huge Moorish palace in Freeport, and another of El Centro in San Juan. On the other walls were several I’d never heard of before: Casino Maho in St. Maarten, Casino Troi-Ilets in Martinique, St. James Club in Antigua, Gosier-les-Bains in Guadeloupe. The posters surrounded the room, creating a heady swirl of tropical colors and beaming faces and shining roulette wheels and beautiful women. Taken together, they created one of those exotic worlds where you expect to find James Bond himself, in a black tuxedo, smiling roguishly across the chemin-de-fer table at a scowling Ernst Blofeld.
“Oh, Miss Gold,” the receptionist trilled, “you can go on in. Nickie’s ready for you.”
Nickie? I repeated as I opened the inner door and, to my surprise, stepped into the Taj Mahal.
“Come in, Rachel,” Nick Kazankis said as he stood up and came toward me.
I looked around. “Wow.”
It was a spectacular office—lots of chrome and glass and white leather. There was a Persian rug over a parquet wood floor. A dramatic cathedral ceiling rose two stories overhead, punctuated with skylights that were covered with stained glass. The sunlight streaming through the stained glass splashed reds and greens and blues on the white walls. The sounds of Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” cascaded through the room from hidden speakers.
There was no desk or formal office seating arrangement. In one corner a large white leather couch and matching love seat were arranged in front of a fireplace. Directly above the fire place were five huge built-in color televisions, each tuned to a different station, all with the sound muted. In another area of the room was a chrome-and-glass conference table with eight chairs. On the wall above the conference table there was a grainy black-and-white blowup of what looked like a news photograph. In the photo an enraged Nick Kazankis was standing on the sidewalk outside a building and in the process of slamming a Channel 5 minicam to the ground while a young male reporter with a microphone ducked out of the way.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Nick said as he extended his hand to shake mine. “I was trapped on one of those never-ending conference calls. Come sit down, Rachel. Let’s talk.”
I followed him to the couch-and-love-seat area. He took the couch and I took the love seat. A large framed portrait of Sheila Kazankis hung over the couch directly behind him. From a distance at the funeral, Nick Kazankis had reminded me of a pumped-up Mark Spitz. But up close in his throne room, he seemed more like a tough Arab sheikh dressed for cocktails at the country club. His deeply tanned skin looked leathery. He had dark eyes, a strong nose, and thick, jet-black hair combed straight back. He was wearing a yellow madras short-sleeved shirt, green twill slacks, boat shoes, and no socks. The top three buttons of his shirt were open, exposing a forest of black hair and a gold cross. The slacks were snug, especially around the crotch area, revealing, indeed emphasizing, that he—as the expression goes—dressed to the right.
He glanced at his gold Rolex. “We have less than thirty minutes,” he said with a charming but carnivorous smile. “Why don’t we skip the preliminaries and get started?”
“Fine with me,” I said.
“You’re trying to help your sister. You think she’s innocent.”
I shook my head. “I know she’s innocent.”
“Fair enough,” he said with a chuckle. “You know she’s innocent. For her sake, let’s hope you’re right. You want to find who killed him.”
“And who set her up.”
He nodded. “Presumably the same person. You’re looking for likely suspects, right? And his photo album seems like a good place to start.”
I was genuinely surprised. “How do you know about that album?”
He shrugged good-naturedly. “In my line of business, Rachel, it’s important to have current and accurate information.”
“Speaking of which,” I said with an inquisitive expression, “what exactly is your line of business, Nick?”
“Gaming. The world of chance.” He made a dismissive gesture, as if the subject bored him. “But back to your situation. You looked through his photo album, you happened to come across poor Sheila with a mouthful of cock, somehow you learned who her husband is, and suddenly”—he snapped his fingers—”you made the connection: gambling. Gambling debts and a jealous husband.” He leaned back with a predatory grin. “Am I right? Of course I am.” He reached over and pushed the intercom button on his telephone. “Sally, dear, bring in our account statements for Andros.” He crossed his arms over his chest and arched his thick eyebrows. “Why play cat and mouse, like in one of those silly whodunits? I don’t have much time, and you need to get off the wrong track and find the right one. Did he fuck my wife?” He frowned and nodded his head. “I’m afraid so. Did I get angry? You’re goddam right I did. Did I consider killing the little bastard? Maybe. Would I do it by poison?” He looked up and smiled. “Come on over, Sally.”
His secretary came in carrying a large maroon ledger book. She was wearing a short red leather skirt and matching red pumps, neither of which had been visible behind her prim reception desk. She had tanned dancer’s legs.
“Did you find Andros?” Nick asked.
She gave him a three-hundred-watt smile. “Right here, Nickie.” She opened the ledger book and set it on the coffee table facing him.
“Thanks, doll,” he said to her as she turned to go. “Wait a sec, Sally.”
She turned back.
“Rachel and I were just talking about jealous husbands,” he said. “Let’s say I found out some guy was doing Sheila, and let’s say I decided to kill him. Would I do it with poison?”
Sally smiled and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“How would I do it?”
“With your bare hands, right?”
Nick glanced at me with a proud smile. “This woman knows me.” He looked back at Sally. “And then what would I do when he was dead?”
She blushed. “Oh, Nickie.”
“You can tell Rachel.”
She giggled. “You’d cut off his weenie.”
“And?”
“And stick it in his mouth.”
He gave her a proud wink. “On the money, doll. Now go get ready.”
I had watched the performance with a skeptical eye. It could have been scripted in advance for my benefit, although why he would bother wasn’t clear.
After Sally left the room his smile faded. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and shook his head. “I probably wouldn’t cut it off. Hard to say. But no poison. Definitely no poison.”
“But would you try to set up my sister?” I asked.
“Your sister?” he said with an astounded laugh. “Why would I ever do that?”
“Her husband,” I said without a smile.
“You mean little Richie?” he said. The disdain in his voice was unmistakable. “That’s ancient history, Rachel. As far as I’m concerned, little Richie is just a pathetic, second-rate toady.”
“That doesn’t sound like ancient emotions.”
He gave me a patro
nizing look. “Little Richie isn’t even a blip on my radar screen.” He glanced down at the open page of the ledger book and scanned the rows of penciled numbers. “Okay,” he said as he turned the ledger book toward me. “In my business I need to keep track of certain debts.”
“Debts to you?”
“Some to me. Mostly debts to others, especially my casino clients.” He pointed to one column of numbers. “That’s the account for what he owed me.”
It was a running ledger, with dates and amounts going back several years. It showed a high debt of $14,500 about two years ago and a low of $2,500 about nine months ago. The last entry was dated two weeks before his death.
“So he died owing you five thousand, two hundred and fifty dollars?”
Kazankis nodded. “Tough luck for both of us. He would have been good for it.”
I pointed at the other columns. “What are these?”
He took me through them one by one. All were casino accounts, including one in Las Vegas, one in Atlantic City, and two in the Caribbean. Excluding the $5,250 he owed Kazankis, Andros died owing a total gambling debt of $13,500, divided fairly evenly among the four casinos. According to the ledger, his total casino debts had fluctuated over the past eighteen months from a high of roughly $50,000 to a low of $3,000, which put him somewhere south of high roller and north of chump change.
I looked up at Kazankis with a frown. “This means?” I asked.
“It wasn’t gambling,” he stated decisively. He motioned toward the open page and shook his head. “You don’t get killed for those debts. You don’t even get a broken leg.”
I sat back and studied him. “Do you still do those junkets down to the Caribbean?”
“Sure. I’m hooking up with one leaving today.”
“What’s the level of betting your junketeers do down there?”
He tilted his head from side to side as he thought it over. “Varies.”
“More than ten grand?”
He laughed. “They sure as hell better. Most are up in the fifty-to-a-hundred-grand range, some more than that.”
I pointed at the columns of numbers in the ledger book. “But not Andros.”
Firm Ambitions Page 13