Vanishing Act

by Seth Margolis

  Estelle Ferguson whispered. Joe D. could picture her, hunched over her desk, cupping the phone. “Not here. Not now. Could we meet later, for a drink?”

  “Fine. How about one of the places across from Lincoln Center?” The Art Alliance building was just around the corner from Lincoln Center.

  “Too close,” she breathed, then named a bar across town, on the East Side. They agreed to meet at 6:30.

  Joe D. showered and changed into his work clothes: black jeans, white oxford shirt, sneakers. He called Alison at the store and told her he’d be home late. Then he headed down-town to see Howard Lessing.

  Lessing lived on Gansevoort, a pretty, brownstone-lined street in the Village. Only Lessing’s building looked out of place, a six-story, white-brick eyesore that had managed to squeak through before landmark regulations put a stop to most development in the neighborhood. Joe D. pushed the button next to Lessing’s name on the panel just inside the front door. There was no intercom, but Joe D. had called before leaving, and arranged to meet Lessing at 3:30. After a few seconds the inside door unlocked with a harsh, throat-clearing buzz.

  Joe D. climbed two flights and knocked on Lessing’s door. The corridor was poorly lit, but what Joe D. could see looked grimy. Ironically, the place smelled sharply of commercial cleanser. The door was opened by a strikingly handsome man in his late twenties or early thirties. Lessing had longish sandy blond hair, eyes that seemed to be perpetually squinting, as if never quite grasping what was going on, and a slightly too-large nose that if anything enhanced his strong, confident appearance. He was tall and lean and wore a faded green T-shirt and blue jeans.

  Lessing gestured for Joe D. to enter. The apartment, he could tell at a glance, consisted of one small room and a tiny, windowless bathroom. It was dominated by a large, obviously homemade loft construction; the top was a bed, with sheets draped over the edge. Underneath was a desk, bookshelves, and storage drawers. Across the room was a small, low-slung sofa, none too clean looking. A small Formica table stood in front of a tiny kitchenette in a niche that appeared to have been gouged out of the wall. Every horizontal surface was piled with books, papers, clothing. Joe D. guessed Lessing and Joanna Freeling spent most of their time together at her place; a hundred of Lessing’s studios could fit comfortably into her loft. Maybe a thousand.

  “Not much, but I call it home,” Lessing said apologetically. Joe D. sat on the couch. Lessing pulled up a chair from the “dining area” and straddled it, draping his arms over the back.

  “I suppose you want to check out Joanna’s ‘alibi,’” Lessing said. He made quotes in the air with his fingers.

  “You were with her the night Samson was killed?”

  “That’s right.”

  “All evening?”

  “We had dinner at her place, around seven, seven-thirty. We watched the boob tube until maybe midnight. Then we went to bed.”

  “You stayed over?”

  “As is my custom most nights.”

  “Bit of an improvement over this place.”

  “A major improvement. But then, Joanna is a major improvement over solitude.”

  “Did anyone stop by that night? Anyone call?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “You two been together long?”

  “About seven months.”

  “How did you meet her?”

  “At an art opening, actually.”

  “You’re not an artist, though, are you?”

  “In this space? I’d have to do miniatures. Actually I’m a writer.”

  Joe D. nodded.

  “I’m working on a novel. My first.” Lessing gestured to his cluttered desk, as if offering proof. “Slow going.”

  Lessing looked surprisingly elegant, draped over the chair. He was one of those men who could throw a jacket over a T-shirt and be allowed into virtually any restaurant in town. In the same clothes, Joe D. knew he’d be rejected as shabby. Lessing didn’t look so much out of place in his tiny apartment as impervious to it, as if every molecule in his body were continuously rejecting the environment he was forced, temporarily, to inhabit.

  “How would you describe Joanna’s relationship with her uncle?”

  Lessing appeared to mull this over. “Financial,” he said at length.

  “No affection?”

  “None. From either side. The only heat in that family was between Joanna and her aunt.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “One thing I still don’t understand, how come you’re looking into this? The police are satisfied it’s a random thing.”

  Joe D. could have told him about his meeting with Samson a few days before he died. He could have told him about Seymour Franklin’s desperation to get his job back. He could have told him about his own need for three hundred dollars a day. Instead he said, “Maybe that’s how it will turn out in the end. A hijacking. I’m just making sure.”

  “For Seymour Franklin.”

  Joanna must have warned him. “That’s right.”

  “You know, of course, that he has his own reasons for hoping that Samson was killed by someone in the family.”

  “I’m surprised you know so much about him.”

  Lessing looked momentarily fazed but recovered quickly. “I’m in love with Joanna. I make a point of knowing about everything that affects her.”

  “How does Seymour Franklin affect Joanna’s life?”

  “He ran the company that paid the dividends that supported her life-style.”

  “And I don’t know why he swallowed the fly, perhaps he’ll die,” Joe D. continued. Lessing smiled without amusement. “How do you support your life-style?” Joe D. asked.

  Lessing looked as if he were considering whether or not to answer. “It’s not much of a life-style, as I think you can see.”

  “Still…”

  “I sell the odd magazine piece, write the odd press release.”

  And accept the odd donation from Joanna Freeling, Joe D. finished silently. He wondered if Lessing had ever earned his own keep. He doubted it: There was a soft, spoiled quality to him, a blurring around the edges, that just didn’t seem suited to grubby commerce. Joanna Freeling had a similar quality, but she’d had a rich uncle. Lessing had to rely on his wits—and his good looks.

  “It’s not a piece of cake, going out with someone as rich as Joanna,” Lessing blurted after a moment’s silence.

  “No?”

  “Everyone assumes I’m only interested in her money.”

  “But she’s beautiful.”

  “True, but when I mention that I’m seeing Joanna Freeling, people never say, ‘The gorgeous brunette who paints?’ They say, ‘George Samson’s niece?’ Then they look at me like I just won the lottery or something.”

  “Until very recently Joanna wasn’t all that wealthy.” Amazing, Joe D. thought, how quickly he was adapting to the world of the Samsons. A week ago he’d have called $250,000 a year—Joanna’s income from her trust fund—a fortune. Now it didn’t even make her “all that wealthy.”

  “It’s all relative,” Lessing said, almost sadly. Then he perked up. “Forgive the pun,” he said, and smiled.

  Joe D. thanked Lessing and let himself out of the claustrophobic apartment. Out on the street, he breathed deeply, checked his watch, and decided to walk uptown to meet Estelle Ferguson. After twenty blocks his leg muscles reminded him that he’d already jogged over four miles that day, so he caught a Sixth Avenue bus and transferred to a cross-town bus at Fifty-seventh Street.

  Twelve

  The bar selected by Estelle Ferguson had also been chosen, that night, by a swarm of after-work revelers. Joe D. had to fight his way to the bar through a dense crowd of men and women in expensive-looking suits with expensive-looking haircuts. He was a few minutes early. He ordered a draft beer and fought his way back to the front door, the better to spot Estelle when she arrived.

  He felt out of place without a suit and tie. This was Alison’s crowd, he thought, not mine. The tal
k all around him was of media schedules and debt-to-equity ratios and the sex lives of coworkers. Only this last topic made sense to him. Back on the Waterside police force he too had had coworkers, and they did indeed have sex lives. Now he had no colleagues, though he supposed he was a “professional” of sorts, which is what Alison seemed to want. When he was alone with her, it was easier to feel that they had a future together. It was in places like this that he became aware of the two separate worlds they inhabited. Alison felt that she could merge those two worlds, or at least bring him into her world. He wasn’t so sure. It used to be they talked a lot about their different religions: She was Jewish, he was Catholic. Now religion seemed like a subtopic of some larger issue that he didn’t think they’d ever really resolve. At least that’s how he inevitably felt in places like this bar, crowded with young professionals unwinding after a day spent making, borrowing, lending, counting, or disbursing money.

  “Hello, Mr. DiGregorio.”

  He turned in the direction of the voice. For a moment he didn’t recognize Estelle Ferguson and felt strange being recognized here, in this alien world. “I was afraid I wouldn’t find you,” Joe D. said when he’d regained his bearings. “And it’s Joe D.”

  “I don’t suppose we’ll be able to find a table. Maybe there’s a corner in the back where we could talk.”

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “I’ll have a Lilet,” she said after thinking it over. Joe D. had never heard of this, but relayed it to the bartender, who apparently had. He ordered a second beer and rejoined her at the far end of the bar.

  “Cheers,” she said, and took a dainty sip of the green-colored drink.

  “You seem nervous,” he said. Estelle Ferguson, though every bit as well-groomed as the other people in the bar, nevertheless looked completely out of place. She exuded a fragility that seemed threatened here. Her small but pretty blue eyes constantly darted about. She reminded Joe D. of a small bird surrounded by prowling cats. The New York Art Alliance—quiet, dignified, untainted by the smell of money, though obviously quite flush—suited her much better, Joe D. could tell.

  “What did you want to tell me?” he asked, once they’d found a less noisy corner in the back of the bar.

  She took a second sip from her drink. It didn’t look capable of providing much fortification. “I’ve been wanting to tell someone for the longest time. I just never knew whom to talk to. Then you came by and I thought maybe you would know what to do.”

  She stopped and looked at him, wanting encouragement. “Go on,” he said gently.

  She started to take a third sip, but wisely opted for a deep breath instead. “Mr. Arnot handles the finances for the Alliance, and as his assistant, I naturally get involved too. It’s not very complicated. We receive funds from our benefactors, and we pass along those funds to arts groups in the form of grants. Of course, we also have expenses, including salaries. Well, many of the organizations we support are kind of obscure.” She smiled uneasily. “You know, art programs for convicts with life sentences, museum tours for the blind, that kind of thing. Last year we gave two million dollars to a group of Latvian folk dancers who wanted to tour mental institutions. Still, I usually get to know the various organizations through their correspondence with us. But there’s one group I have my doubts about. It’s called the Caribbean League. I first came across it a year or so ago when we made our initial grant to them. Nothing large, I think it was about fifty thousand. But the grants continued, and they’ve gotten bigger and bigger.” She took another deep breath. “A few months ago I totaled up what we’ve given to the Caribbean League. It’s nearly five million dollars, and still growing.” Her voice quivered over the amount.

  “Is it unusual to give so much money to one organization?”

  “We make bigger grants to other groups. Music for Minors alone gets more than that each year. It’s a program for juvenile offenders,” she added primly. “But the thing is, I’ve never heard of these people. And then a month ago I was helping prepare our annual report. We give it to our benefactors, and we file it with the New York Department of State, which regulates charities like ours. Well, there was no mention in the information Mr. Arnot gave me about the Caribbean League. I asked him about this—I figured it was an oversight—but he told me he had decided to lump it in with other donations. That’s just the way he put it, ‘lump it in with other donations.’ I started to ask him why and he waved me out of his office. ‘Some of our benefactors don’t see why we should support Caribbean groups,’ he said as I was leaving. Then he muttered something about Caribbeans being black, and racism, and that was that.”

  “Doesn’t anyone check your financial records?”

  “Sure. We have auditors. But they just finished their audit for last year and they didn’t come up with any irregularities. The money just disappeared!”

  “Have you tried to track down the Caribbean League?”

  She nodded. “They’re not in any of the New York phone books. They’re not registered as a not for profit group with the New York Department of State.”

  “But you said checks were made out to them. Someone must be cashing those checks.”

  “But who? I mail them to a post office box here in Manhattan.” She smiled awkwardly, as if embarrassed by this.

  “Don’t the checks come back?”

  “Yes, in our monthly statement from the bank. It’s just like a personal account, really. Mr. Arnot handles that part.”

  “You’ve never seen a statement?”

  She shook her head. “They come in a very thick manila envelope addressed to Mr. Arnot. They’re always stamped ‘strictly confidential,’ so I don’t open them. I just put them on his desk.”

  “What happens to the statements once he’s done with them?”

  “He keeps them in a locked cabinet in his office.”

  Joe D. figured it was unlikely that Arnot would keep canceled checks that had been used to funnel money out of the Alliance. “I guess he’d destroy the checks made out to the Caribbean League,” he said, thinking out loud.

  “I don’t know. If we were ever audited by the state, the auditors would easily detect the missing checks by their serial numbers. It would probably be more suspicious if the checks were missing.” She paused and thought about this. “No, my guess is, the checks are still in his office.”

  “In a locked cabinet.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’s George Samson’s connection to this?”

  Estelle looked surprised. “I don’t think there is a connection. Except that he was our board president and largest benefactor.”

  “You don’t think he knew about the Caribbean League?”

  “He may have. Our trustees are kept informed about all major grants. I doubt he knew that the funds to the League weren’t being reported.”

  They both concentrated on their drinks for a while. Joe D. was wondering if there was a connection between Samson’s death and the Caribbean League. Could Samson have perhaps uncovered the fraud, threatened to expose Arnot, and been murdered to keep him quiet? Or perhaps Samson himself had been squirreling away the five million, in preparation for his faked death.

  “What was the relationship between Samson and Arnot?”

  “Close, I’d say. They talked frequently on the telephone.”

  “How frequently?”

  “Once or twice a day. Mr. Arnot also had a private line installed a few weeks ago, so it’s kind of difficult, monitoring his calls.”

  “He installed a private line a few weeks ago?”

  She nodded. “It rings only in his office.”

  Joe D. thought about this for a bit. “Last week, did Arnot and Samson speak more often than usual?”

  She squinted, trying to remember. “Last week? They may have. It seems to me that I put through more calls from Mr. Samson than usual. On Wednesday they spoke half a dozen times, though.”

  Wednesday was the day Samson was murdered, Joe D. reminded
himself. She must have seen his eyes light up.

  “But they always talk a lot on the day of a board meeting.”

  “Six times?”

  “Well, maybe not that often.” A beat, then: “Are you implying that there’s a connection between Samson’s death and the the Caribbean League?”

  “I doubt it.”

  She looked disappointed.

  “Then again, there might be. Is there any way I could see those bank statements?”

  “As I said, they’re kept in a locked cabinet. And Mr. Arnot keeps the key with him at all times.”

  “You said a cabinet, not a safe, right?”

  She nodded. Joe D. figured he could find his way into a cabinet without too much trouble. Getting into the New York Art Alliance building might be another story.

  “How could I get into the Alliance building after hours?”

  “You couldn’t!” she said, horrified. A tide of red flushed up into her pale cheeks.

  “Do you have a key to the front door?”

  “Yes, but there’s an alarm.”

  Joe D. remembered seeing it on his visit, a panel of numbers: To gain access without triggering the alarm, you had to push the correct sequence of numbers.

  “I’ll bet you know the access code.”

  “I do,” she confessed.

  “So if you were to lend me the key one evening, and give me the access code…”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t.” She drained the green fluid but continued to clutch the empty glass with both hands.

  “Estelle, why did you want to talk to me?”

  She looked suddenly quite sad. “I had to talk to someone.”

  “And now that you’ve talked to me, you feel better?”

  “Not really.”

  “You feel worse, because now that you’ve talked this thing through, you realize that there really is something going on. So you have a choice. Either say and do nothing more, and let the fraud continue. Or let me look into it and find out for sure.”

  She said nothing for a few moments. Then she began to speak in a soft, distracted voice.

  “My parents divorced when I was quite young,” she began, as if in answer to a question. “Every other Saturday I’d meet my father at the Met and we’d stroll together through the galleries. We didn’t bother with the special exhibits, we’d just wander into the permanent collection, particularly European paintings on the second floor. It was so peaceful there, so removed from the cares of the world. Those pictures became like old friends you’d see every few weeks. I felt safe and welcome there. When I was at Bennington I dreamed of working in a museum after graduation. Easier said than done. Half the girls at Bennington and a hundred other schools wanted the same thing. But I did manage to find a job at the Alliance. My father knew someone who knew someone—you know how that works. The Alliance was as close to the art world as I could get. I’ve thought about leaving but the truth is I’ve been very happy there. Safe. Until this Caribbean League thing. I feel very strongly that something evil is going on and I don’t know what to do about it.”