Tuch waved away the information, unconcerned. “They were looking through Edmond Rabb’s file. Right?”
The secretary shook her head. “They were examining our record of your phone calls. They also had a printout from the phone company that listed all calls you made.”
“Goddamn it,” Tuch growled, irritated. “Did they have a warrant for all that?”
The secretary nodded and then referred back to her steno pad. “They kept asking me about a call to a place called Club West.”
Tuch’s face paled. “Wh-what?”
“A place called Club West,” the secretary repeated. “We don’t have any file on them.”
Tuch remembered making the phone call to Club West to set up a meeting with David Westmoreland. Stupid! Stupid! It would have been smarter to have used a pay phone. He’d have to make an excuse for that call. It was a good bar in a respectable part of Los Angeles. He could have called to find out what time they opened so he could meet a client there for drinks.
“All right,” Tuch said finally. “What else have you got?”
“Your banker called. He needs for you to send him information on the stock you own in Bio-Med.”
Tuch almost choked on his coffee. “What did you tell him?”
“That I’d bring it to your attention.”
Tuch held his expression even, but his gut was twisting and churning. The Bio-Med stock was the one asset he’d managed to hide from the bank and his other creditors. Everything else was gone or mortgaged. All he had was the Bio-Med stock, which one day would be worth millions. Although it had never shown a profit, its potential was mind-boggling, particularly with the discoveries that were about to come to fruition. My God! The ability to make people’s organs young again. How much was that worth? But now his Bio-Med stock would be gone. The bank had somehow found out about the stock, and they would easily find a buyer for it. And the money would all go to his creditors and he’d be left flat broke. Tuch felt the acid burning in his stomach.
There was a sharp rap on the door, and David Matlin entered.
“You’ll excuse me,” Matlin said formally to the secretary. “Make certain we are not disturbed.”
“Yes, sir.”
David Matlin watched the secretary close the door behind her; then he sat on the edge of Tuch’s desk. Matlin was a tall man with chiseled features and wavy gray-white hair. He was impeccably dressed in a dark pin-striped suit. “We have some important matters to discuss.”
Tuch poured himself more coffee. “So I hear.”
“We had a meeting of the partners yesterday afternoon,” Matlin began. “Apparently you were unable to attend.”
“I was tied up with the Rabb estate,” Tuch explained.
“All afternoon?”
“There were extenuating circumstances.”
“Such as?”
“The police now believe Edmond Rabb was murdered.”
Matlin’s eyes narrowed. “But he fell overboard.”
“With someone’s help, according to the police.”
“Do they know who did it?”
“I don’t think so,” Tuch said. “But everyone who was on the yacht that night is a suspect, and that includes me.”
“Is that why they’re looking through your phone records?”
Tuch nodded. “I think they’re digging into everything and everybody associated with Edmond Rabb.”
Matlin studied his manicured fingernails. For a tall man, his hands were remarkably small. “Do you think Lucy Rabb is involved?”
“I doubt it,” Tuch said. “The money might be tempting, but I believe she really loved the guy.”
“Well . . .,” Maitlin said, letting his voice trail off, always suspicious of young, beautiful women who marry old men. “Let’s return to the partners meeting yesterday. It seems that your draw is now substantially higher than the amount of money you generate for the firm. After calculating overhead, you are at least twenty percent off.”
“It’s the high-profile cases,” Tuch told him. “As you know, one spends a lot of time doing things in those cases that you can’t bill for.”
“We took that into consideration.”
“Maybe we should assign someone else to the high-profile cases,” Tuch suggested, knowing that no one in the firm could handle such cases nearly as well as he could. “That way I could concentrate on more lucrative matters in the practice.”
“We’ll leave things the way they are for now,” Matlin said. “But you must generate more income if you expect to continue receiving your current draw.”
“Fine,” Tuch said, glancing out the window to the ocean and wishing he were aboard the Argonaut with Lucy Rabb. “Is there anything else?”
“I’m afraid so,” Matlin said, his voice very somber. “Our accounting firm has gone over all of our books, including your old escrow accounts. They’ve found some serious irregularities.”
Tuch felt a streak of fear shoot through his body. He strained to keep his expression even. “Regarding what?”
“Three of your dormant escrow accounts,” Matlin went on. “In particular, the accounts of Mary Marshall, Benjamin Stone, and the Charles Warring Trust. There is over four hundred thousand dollars missing.”
“And that’s been double-checked?”
“Triple-checked.”
“There must be some mistake,” Tuch said, and walked over to refill his coffee cup. “Or perhaps some funds were transferred into other, special accounts.”
“Do you recall doing that?”
“Let me think back.”
Tuch lit a cigarette, his hand shaking despite his efforts to control it. He stared up at the ceiling as if concentrating to remember. But he remembered all too well. Tuch had gone into the accounts to cover his stock market losses. The escrow accounts had been dormant for so long. No one had touched them in years. So Tuch had stuck his fingers in, fully intending to return the money he had taken. But his losses and debts continued to mount, and he found himself taking more and more from the accounts. But he hadn’t realized he had taken so much. “I think I do recall some transfers,” Tuch said finally.
“Give me the particulars,” Matlin demanded.
“I—I’d have to review the files,” Tuch stammered.
Matlin pushed himself off the edge of the desk. “Then review them. Today being Friday, you’ll have the entire weekend to do it. I’ll expect your answers Monday morning. Ten o’clock sharp in my office.”
Tuch waited for the door to close, and then he ran over to the wet bar. He held his head over the small sink and began to retch, bringing up bile and coffee-tinged vomit. And when there was nothing more to bring up, he dry-heaved over and over again. Finally it stopped.
Tuch rinsed out his mouth and splashed cool water on his face, trying to compose himself. His whole world was collapsing. And it wasn’t just the money. It was his whole life. Tuch was guilty of embezzlement, and for that he could be disbarred and lose his livelihood. It was also possible he would spend time in jail. Unless he could come up with the money.
Four hundred thousand, he thought miserably, might as well be forty million. He had nowhere to go for the money. His Bio-Med stock would probably have covered it, but that, too, was gone now. The banks would suck it up like a vacuum cleaner. He wouldn’t see a dime from it. And he couldn’t transfer funds out of other escrow accounts, either. The accountants would be watching those accounts like hawks. “Where the hell do I find four hundred thousand dollars?”
Tuch went over to the window and looked out at the blue Pacific. Enjoy the view while you can, he told himself. You won’t have it much longer. His gaze drifted over to the marina in the distance. The good life, he thought, with Lucy Rabb and yachts would soon be a thing of the—
Suddenly his eyes brightened. Lucy Rabb and the Rabb millions! Lucy would be his way out. Oh, yes! Easy as pie. She’d do exactly as she was told. And if she refused, Tuch knew how to make her change her mind. A little fear could work wonders.
Tuch quickly rinsed his mouth out with mouthwash. He straightened his tie in the mirror behind the wet bar; then he ran a hand through his hair and patted it in place. He smiled at his reflection in the mirror.
You’re one clever son of a bitch, aren’t you?
Tuch left his office and hurried past his secretary’s desk.
The secretary looked up. “Is everything all right, Mr. Tuch?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
Lucy Rabb was putting on diamond earrings when Tuch walked into her bedroom aboard the Argonaut. She was wearing faded jeans and a white turtleneck cashmere sweater.
“We have to talk,” Tuch said.
“I’m kind of in a rush, Merv,” Lucy said, reaching for a blue blazer. “I’ve got a luncheon date in Ancien.”
“With who?”
Lucy smiled at his jealousy. “With a girlfriend.”
“She’ll have to wait.”
Lucy looked over and studied his face. “Is something wrong?”
“I’ve run into some financial problems,” Tuch said. He sat on the side of the bed and lit a cigarette. “I need a loan, and I need it now.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“A half-million dollars.”
“Ha!” Lucy exclaimed. “What the hell do you think I am, a bank?”
“You’ve got it.”
“Not until my husband’s will clears probate.”
“There are ways around that.”
Lucy eyed him carefully. “What do you need that kind of money for?”
“To cover a bad investment,” Tuch lied easily. “And since my wife owns over half of everything, I’d have trouble hocking anything without her permission.” He suddenly realized his mistake and backtracked. “But to be totally honest, there’s not much left to hock. Except for my Bio-Med stock.”
“Why not borrow against the stock?” Lucy asked suspiciously.
“Because my wife doesn’t know about the stock, and I want to keep it that way,” Tuch said, making it up as he went along. “I don’t want it to become part of a community property settlement when we divorce. You and I know how valuable that Bio-Med stock is going to be.”
“Billions,” Lucy said breathlessly.
“And billions,” Tuch agreed. “And I’m going to do everything under the sun to protect my stock. It’ll be that much more we can add to the ton of money we’re going to enjoy together.”
“Yes,” Lucy said, smiling at the words a ton of money. “It’s going to be so good.”
“You bet.” Tuch reached over and pulled her to him, burying his head between her breasts. “I just can’t get enough of you.”
“Oh, I wish I had time to jump in bed with you,” Lucy said, her voice huskier.
“Make time.”
“I really can’t.” Lucy sat on his lap and quickly kissed his lips and nose. “Tell me how we can get to my dead husband’s assets before his will goes through probate.”
“Just show the bank your husband’s will and what he left you,” Tuch explained. “They’d be delighted to have the Bio-Med stock you’ll inherit as collateral.”
Lucy stiffened. “I’m not going to put that up. That’s my future fortune.”
“It’s just temporary,” Tuch said soothingly.
“Temporary, hell!”
Lucy stood and went over to the mirror, where she angrily ran a brush through her hair. “I’m not going to risk that for anything or anybody.”
“You’re going to put it up whether you like it or not,” Tuch said hoarsely.
“Oh? Are you going to make me?”
Tuch gave her a hard stare. “Don’t forget, we’re partners in this. We’ve had a man killed, and that can send us to jail for a very long time.”
“Are you threatening me?”
Tuch shook his head. “I’m just telling you the way things stand. If I don’t cover these loans, I could be disbarred and sent to prison. I’d lose everything and become very desperate. And desperate people do desperate things. They might even turn state’s evidence in a murder case, provided they were given total immunity. Of course, I’d hate to see that happen because we’d all still lose. And all those millions would be long gone.”
Lucy stared back at him for a moment. Then she dropped her head submissively. “Let’s not fight. We’ve got so much going for us.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“Sometimes I don’t listen very well,” Lucy said apologetically. “Tell me what I have to do to get the loan.”
“I’ll make all the arrangements,” Tuch said, smiling at her. So easy, he was thinking, so damn easy. He’d gotten a half-million dollars in about five minutes. He wondered how long it would take him to get all her millions.
Tuch reached out for her. “Come here!”
“I don’t have time to get undressed and all,” Lucy said, resisting as he pulled her to him.
“Oh, I was thinking of something else.”
Lucy smiled seductively and got down on her knees. She unzipped his pants and pulled down his underwear, then buried her face in his crotch, flicking her tongue everywhere.
“Yeah, yeah,” Tuch moaned, and leaned back against a pillow. He watched her head bobbing up and down, immensely pleased with himself. He would end up controlling the Rabb millions and have Lucy Rabb as a plaything. The best of all worlds. Outside, small waves were gently bouncing off the side of the Argonaut. The best of all worlds, he thought again.
Tuch suddenly felt himself throbbing inside Lucy’s mouth. “Oh, Jesus!” he groaned loudly, grabbing the bedpost.
Lucy looked up at him, swallowing. “I like doing that.”
“I know.”
“Want me to do it again?”
Tuch forced a laugh. “You’ll kill me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” Lucy said, and got to her feet.
Tuch went into the adjoining bathroom and washed himself over the basin. He talked to Lucy through the open door. “I’ll run by the bank this afternoon and get everything set up.”
“Good.”
“Then you can sign the papers and the money will be transferred into my account.”
“Good.”
Tuch walked back into the bedroom. “And believe me, your Bio-Med stock will be absolutely safe.”
“I know that.” Lucy came over and hugged him tightly. “You’re not angry at me, are you?”
“No way,” Tuch assured her and kissed the tip of her nose. “I have to run now.”
“You’ll call me later?”
“For sure,” Tuch promised.
Lucy blew a kiss to him as he left, and then she went into the bedroom. She put on new lipstick and brushed her hair again, her eyes studying her reflection in the mirror. She wondered if she looked anywhere near as stupid as Mervin Tuch thought she was.
Lucy returned to the master bedroom and picked up the phone. She quickly punched in numbers.
“I have a big problem,” she said into the receiver without identifying herself. “And it needs fixing.”
24
Farelli was still drawing a blank tracking down the Russian immigrant. The Centurion Cable Company had given him a list of all customers in the area who had reported their television cable malfunctioning over the past three months. Farelli had checked each one personally. There were a hundred and four complaints. A hundred and one knew nothing about the Russian. Of the remaining three households, two were middle-aged couples away on vacation. And one was a seventy-two-year-old widow who had been recently hospitalized. Nothing, Farelli thought sourly. A big nothing. But Farelli knew the Russian had to have lived in the area. Had to. But where?
As Farelli drove by Rucker’s Hardware Store, he saw up ahead a Centurion Cable repair truck. He thought of a question he hadn’t asked. It was a question the company couldn’t answer, but a cable repairman might. Farelli quickly pulled over to the curb.
He walked back to the Centurion truck and waved to the re
pairman. “Hey, you got a minute?”
“Sure.” The cable repairman was a tall young man with brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. “What do you need?”
Farelli flashed his shield and showed the repairman a snapshot of the Russian. “Have you ever seen this guy?”
The repairman studied the photo and then shook his head. “Nope.”
“You certain?”
“Positive.”
Farelli decided to try another tack. “Did you ever have to repair a cable that somebody else tried to fix by themselves?”
The repairman thought about the question for a few moments before answering. “Nope.”
“Do you know of anybody around here who tried to fix their own cable?”
“Just one.”
Farelli’s eyes lit up. “Tell me about it.”
“Some old lady had underground wires that had rotted through,” the repairman recounted. “It would have been a big mess to dig up the wire and replace it, so the company put it off. She apparently got some outside guy to do it for her.”
“Did he do a good job?”
“Damn right,” the repairman said. “He didn’t dig up anything. He just strung the wire alongside her house.”
Farelli took out his notepad. “Give me the woman’s name.”
“Mrs. Anderson.” The repairman turned and pointed at a stucco house on the far corner. “That’s her house right there.”
Farelli studied the house briefly, recalling that it belonged to the seventy-two-year-old widow who was recently hospitalized. Some sort of heart problem, Farelli had been told by a neighbor. “You wouldn’t happen to know what hospital she’s in?”
The repairman looked at Farelli oddly. “She’s not in the hospital. At least she wasn’t this morning.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“Yeah,” the repairman said. “I was there a few hours ago. She called because her picture wasn’t so good. But it wasn’t the cable. It was the picture tube in her television set. It’s going bad.”
“I appreciate your help.”
“Any time.”
Farelli hurried across the street, hoping he’d found the right house. All he needed was the Russian’s full name. With that, Farelli could obtain the man’s Social Security number. And that would open up the immigrant’s whole world to them.
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