“Do you think Andros had enemies?”
I pondered the question. “Ann was an enemy. She was furious when she found out he was having affairs with other women. She couldn’t have been his only conquest who discovered that he was fooling around with others.”
“So you think it was one of his lovers or a jealous husband?”
“Perhaps,” I said, turning to him, “assuming that the lover was a woman.”
Kimball turned to me with raised eyebrows. “A gay lover?”
“It wouldn’t be the first, as you certainly remember.”
He nodded, his lips pursed. “Your detective skills are impressive, Rachel. That was many years ago, and the file was sealed.”
“I’m motivated,” I said.
“So I see. Back to your earlier question—why make it look like your sister killed him?”
I said, “If it was a lover, maybe she found out that Ann was ‘the other woman’ and decided to get revenge on her.” Christie Maxwell popped into my mind, and I realized that she had never called me back. I made a mental note to call her first thing in the morning.
“What about the jealous spouse?” he asked.
I shrugged. So far, the only spouse I had found who knew of his wife’s infidelity was Nick Kazankis. Notwithstanding his attempts to steer me in other directions, I could still imagine him wanting to kill Andros. But I couldn’t imagine him wanting to set up my sister. “I don’t know,” I said, “assuming, of course, that it was a lover or a jealous spouse.”
“And you don’t?”
“I can’t assume anything, yet.”
He nodded. “You’re right. Have you found anything else suspicious?”
“I have some other leads to run down.”
“Also having to do with sex?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Drugs?”
“I don’t think so.”
He shook his head sadly. “If you have other leads, then I fear I have truly misjudged that man’s character. I believe he had solved his cocaine problems. His sexual problem, while chronic, was more in the nature of an addiction, regardless of the sex of his partner. But you think there were problems other than sex and drugs?”
We had pulled up in front of my house.
“I don’t know yet. I’m just not willing to limit my investigation to his sexual partners and their spouses. Not when there are other question marks out there.”
He shut off the engine and turned toward me. “Such as what?”
“Gambling.”
“Ah,” he said with a smile. “Nick the Greek.”
“Don’t tell me he’s one of your clients?”
“Oh, no,” he said with a good-natured chuckle. “Haven’t been able to pry him away from the competition. Harry Raven over in Belleville has represented Nick for as long as I can recall.”
“What do you know about Nick?”
“Actually, not much more than I read in the papers.”
“Then why did you immediately think of him?”
“Nick and Andros go way back together in the exercise business. I believe Andros worked for him at the time I was called upon to represent him.”
I nodded. “Nick showed me a ledger book with what he said were Andros’s gambling debts.”
“Nick showed you a ledger book?” Kimball asked in surprise. “Good heavens, when was this?”
“Today.”
Kimball looked at me with admiration. “You must be a persuasive lawyer, Rachel.”
I shook my head. “Actually, he sought me out. His ledger book shows total debts of under twenty thousand dollars at the time of his death, and those are spread among four casinos and Nick. He owed Nick a little over five grand.”
Kimball rubbed his chin silently. “Not enough,” he mused.
“That’s what Nick told me.”
Kimball thought it over. “How high did those gambling debts get?”
“About fifty grand, combined.”
“Still not enough,” he said, “unless there was a loan shark or off-the-ledger debts.”
“Pardon?”
“There’d have to be a lot of money involved to get him killed. There could be, of course, if there were other gambling debts not shown on the books, or if the real debts were loans used to pay down the gambling debts.”
“How would I find that out?”
He gave me a puzzled look. “I have no idea.”
“Great,” I said in frustration.
“Do you have any other leads besides gambling debts?”
I nodded. “His company.”
“Firm Ambitions?”
“I have some questions.”
“Such as?”
“I can’t find out who owned it.”
Kimball looked perplexed. “Didn’t he?”
“I don’t know. Firm Ambitions is owned by something called Capital Investments of Missouri, Inc.”
“Which is what?”
“I can’t tell.”
“Why not?”
“Because Capital Investments of Missouri is owned by a company in Illinois, which is owned by a company in Vermont, which is owned by a company down in the Cayman Islands.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Odd, although it could be a tax-avoidance strategy.”
I nodded. “Perhaps.”
“Do you know Harris Landau?” he asked.
“I know he’s Tommy’s father. I haven’t met him.”
“Call him tomorrow,” he said. “His firm helped Andros set his business up back when he started Firm Ambitions. As a matter of fact, I referred Andros to that firm. Harris ought to be familiar with the corporate structure, or be able to put you in touch with someone at his firm who is.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Harris is hard to reach. Use my name.”
“Thanks.”
We agreed to talk again when he returned from New York next week. I leaned over and kissed him quickly on the lips. “Thank you for a marvelous dinner, Charles Kimball.”
“It was my pleasure.”
I opened my car door. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
The lights were out and my mother was asleep when I walked into the house. I was stuffed from all the food and a little woozy from the wine. I didn’t notice the note on my pillow until I leaned over to pull back the covers.
It was a message from Benny, attached to the information I had copied down from the computer terminal screen in the Mound City Mini-Storage office. The message from Benny said: “See what your mother spotted. Call me first thing tomorrow.”
I looked at the page of notes it was attached to:
11346780 04-02 12:21
11346782 04-04 02:57
11346781 04-12 22:29
11346781 04-16 03:34
11346780 04-19 12:13
11246780 04-22 21:23
11246782 04-25 03:23
11246781 04-25 23:02
11236780 04-30 01:19
My mother had circled the April 16 entry and had written in the margin: “This was when Ann’s house was burglarized.”
I sat on the edge of my bed trying to construct a sinister but believable explanation for what otherwise seemed a mere coincidence between Ann’s burglary and someone’s use of one of the Firm Ambitions cardkeys. I heard a meow. Gitel was seated on the carpet in front of me.
“What?” I asked her.
She stared up at me silently.
I sighed. “Okay, Gitel.” I patted the mattress. “Come on.”
She leaped onto the bed and curled up against my hip. I looked down at her and smiled ruefully. “I shouldn’t let you up here,” I said with a shake of my head. I rubbed her gently under her chin. “You’ve been a real bitch to my Ozzie, and you know it. I’m telling yo
u now, Gitel, that once I get Ann’s situation straightened out, things are going to change around here. You understand me, young lady?”
She looked at me and purred. I decided to take it for a yes.
“Good,” I told her as I turned off the light.
Chapter Sixteen
“She just walked in,” Ann said. She was calling from her car phone in the parking lot of a Schnuck’s supermarket. “If you hurry over she’ll still be here.”
“How did you spot her?” I asked.
“I went in for some milk and eggs. On my way out I passed her going in with a shopping cart.”
“Which Schnuck’s?” I asked.
“Ladue Crossing.”
I checked my watch. Quarter to ten in the morning. It was a fifteen-minute drive from my office. “Okay, I’m leaving now.”
Ann was standing inside the supermarket near the fresh produce when I arrived. “Is she still here?” I asked.
She nodded. “Back in the dairy section. What are you going to do?”
I scanned the checkout lines. “Try to talk to her.”
“In here?”
I shook my head. “Out by her car.”
“Should we do it together?”
I looked at my sister as I weighed the alternatives. “No. I think it’s better for me to talk to her alone.”
Ann nodded. “You’re probably right. Do you want me to stick around to point her out?”
“Does she still wear her hair the way she had it in the picture?”
“Exactly the same.”
“Then I’ll be able to recognize her. You should go.”
“Okay.” Ann paused. “Rachel?”
“Yes?”
“I know Mom’s been helping you, and Benny, too. Is there anything more I can do?”
I gave her a sympathetic smile. “Not yet.”
“But it’s my mess.” Her eyes watered. “I want to help.”
“I know you do, Ann. But it’s not a good idea to get you involved in the investigative side of it. It will just complicate things if there’s ever a trial. I don’t want anyone to be able to claim that our investigation was somehow tainted by having you work on it.”
Her shoulders sagged. “I just feel so useless.”
“Don’t.” I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You’re the client. Go now. Sheila’s already in the checkout line.”
I was out waiting in the parking lot when Sheila Kazankis came through the sliding doors with a shopping cart filled with bags of groceries. She was wearing dark sunglasses, a white ribbed turtleneck sweater, charcoal stirrup pants with a pleated front and tapered legs, white socks, and brown suede penny loafers. Her long, coal-black hair was parted in the middle and her face was set in a worried frown. I moved slowly toward her as she pushed her shopping cart down a lane to the back of a black Jeep Cherokee. I counted seven bags of groceries and a case of Diet Coke. I waited until she had unloaded four of the bags.
“Sheila?”
She turned toward me with a start. “Yes?” she asked uneasily.
“My name is Rachel Gold. I wondered if we might talk for a few minutes.” I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
She didn’t seen reassured. “About what?” she said as she looked back and forth between her half-empty shopping cart and her half-filled vehicle.
“About Andros.” At the sound of his name she actually took a step backward. “You see,” I said, moving closer, “I’m Ann’s sister. I’m trying to help my sister.”
She shook her head tensely. “I can’t help. I’m sorry.” She reached tentatively toward her shopping cart and withdrew her hand. “I’m sorry. I can’t help.”
“I saw a picture of you and your husband,” I said gently. “You were both in a casino with Andros.” Her hand fluttered involuntarily to her mouth as I spoke. “I was wondering,” I said, “whether Andros ever talked to you about his gambling, or, for that matter, whether your husband ever did.”
She looked down, trying to catch her breath. She was actually shaking. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice quavering. “I don’t know about those things. I’m sorry I can’t help.”
While she was looking down I was able to see behind her sunglasses. The area around her right eye was puffy and discolored. “Is your eye okay?” I asked sympathetically.
She looked up, agitated. “It’s nothing. I bumped into something. It was stupid. I’m okay. I have to go now. I’m sorry but I have to go.”
“I understand, Sheila. I’ll leave you alone.” I reached into my purse and removed one of my business cards. “Here,” I said, holding it out.
She pressed both hands against her chest.
“Please take my card, Sheila. I’m not trying to upset you. I’m only trying to help my sister. I’m trying to find out who might have killed Andros. If you should remember something you saw or something you heard when you were around Andros—anything, no matter how trivial it may seem—please call me.”
I stood there silently, holding out my card. After what seemed a long time, she took it from me and quickly slipped it into her pants pocket.
“Thank you, Sheila.”
I turned and moved toward my car. As I walked away I heard the sounds of her frantically putting the rest of her groceries into the car. She was out of the parking lot before I had started my engine.
As I drove toward the exit, the image of Sheila’s black eye still vivid in my mind, I debated whether to return to my office or to drop in unannounced on yet another woman who had been avoiding me. I decided that, having already violated one of Miss Manners’s rules (“Ladies don’t pester strangers in supermarket parking lots”), I might as well go for the daily double.
Twenty minutes later I was cooling my heels (as we hard-boiled detectives say) in the glitzy reception area of Maxwell Associates. The receptionist and I had experienced what the warden in one of my favorite movies described as a “failure to communicate.” She had informed me, with an air of finality and just a touch of arrogance, that I didn’t have an appointment with Ms. Maxwell.
I answered, “I know that.”
“But,” she had said, just a tad flustered, “you don’t have an appointment.”
I leaned forward until our faces were about a foot apart. “So what?”
She had leaned back, apparently unable to fathom my response. I stared at her, expressionless, as her mouth struggled to form a reply. Giving up, she unplugged her telephone headset and ducked through the door to the inner offices of Maxwell Associates. I shrugged, took a seat in the reception area, picked up the current issue of something called Risk Management, and idly flipped through the pages.
Although I had needed to question Christine Maxwell, I was not looking forward to our encounter. I had known her briefly back in high school, back when her last name was O’Conner, back when I was a lowly sophomore and she was the great and powerful Chrissy O’Conner, vice-president of the senior class, managing editor of the student newspaper, and chair of the homecoming dance committee. In fact, it was on the homecoming committee that I had my one and only encounter with Chrissy O’Conner. Because ours was a three-year high school, the sophomores served as the grunts on all student council committees. I was a grunt assigned to the decorations subcommittee for the homecoming dance. Chrissy O’Conner issued orders to us all, acting every bit the true monarch even though her physical appearance was too harsh to qualify her for a homecoming queen.
That year, the queen was a blond Barbie doll named Susi Reynolds (and yes, she dotted her “i” with a daisy). Susi’s court included the two runners-up, known as the senior maids. Traditionally, the homecoming dance opened with the formal presentation of the queen and her court, each of whom was escorted down the red-carpet aisle to the throne by one of the three co-captains of the varsity football team. That year the co-captains were Rod Thayer,
a blond Ken-doll linebacker; Lamar Shelton, a hulking black center whose brutish demeanor belied a gentle heart; and Bobby Hirsch, the Jewish quarterback with dark blue eyes, dimples to die for, and a mezuzah around his neck. (Little did I imagine that night that two weeks later Bobby Hirsch would drop by my locker on the way to class and bashfully ask me out on a date—an event in the life of a sophomore girl equivalent to receiving Divine Grace.)
Anyway, I was helping backstage thirty minutes before the dance started when Chrissy O’Conner came charging by looking for someone or something. “Chrissy!” one of the other senior girls on the committee called.
Chrissy spun around, hands on her hips. “What is it?” she snapped.
“The escorts.”
“What about them?” She was tapping her foot impatiently.
“We need to match them up,” the other girl said. “Which one’s going to escort the queen?”
Chrissy shook her head in vexation. “Use your head. I’m not sending Susi Reynolds down the aisle with a kike and I’m sure as hell not sending her down the aisle with a nigger. Now take care of it! I’m busy.” She spun on her heels and stormed off.
I was so upset that I got dizzy and had to sit down. The rest of the homecoming dance passed in a dismal blur.
“Miss Gold?” It was the receptionist. She had returned with some of her composure but none of her chipperness. “This way,” she said without a smile.
I followed her down the inner hallway, past about a dozen cubicles, to the large corner office. “Wait here,” she ordered in a frosty tone. “Ms. Maxwell will see you when she’s ready.” She turned on her heel and marched off with an angry shake of her head.
Christine was standing behind her desk issuing instructions to an older woman holding a shorthand pad. I stood in the doorway and peered around her office. It was hardly the typical insurance agent’s office. Although it contained a desk, telephone, and other business equipment, Christine’s office had been decorated to look like an elegant but comfortable sitting room. There were fresh flowers and framed prints of nineteenth-century paintings of birds. The furniture was all Queen Anne mahogany; in addition to her table desk there was a console with cabriole legs and lacquered brass handles set against a side wall, two boudoir benches, a library stand on a tripod base, a small writing desk set against the other side wall, and an oval coffee table in front of a traditional skirted sofa that was upholstered in polished chintz. There was a silver tea service on a tea table next to the couch and a vase of fresh flowers on the writing desk. On the console were a chancery clock and a bowl of fresh Granny Smith apples. Propped up on the library stand was a folio-sized volume on flowering herbs opened to a two-page color photograph of blooming foxglove.
Firm Ambitions Page 17