“How many payments we talking about?”
“According to the financial records, over a two-year period the 309 Gallery paid one hundred thirty-eight thousand dollars in commissions to Millennium.”
“That’s a lot of dough.”
“That’s also a lot of paintings by one artist. Twenty-three altogether, which is far more than any other artist during that period. They weren’t cheap, either. Almost all of the Sebastian Curry paintings sold for fifteen thousand dollars.”
“That Millennium outfit got a six grand commission off of that?”
“Looks like it. She’d pay the artist seven thousand, Millennium six, and keep the other two as profit.”
“Any other payments to Millennium?”
“No, just the Sebastian Curry paintings.”
“Must be his agent.”
“That’s what I assumed, too.”
“But?”
I frowned. “That’s where the overlap comes in. Guess who else was paying money to Millennium Management Services?”
“Another gallery?”
I shook my head. “Gateway Trust Company.”
“Huh?”
“That’s where Michael Green had all those trust accounts for minors when he settled that big class action against the drug company. Gateway was paying Millennium Management Services an annual ‘consulting fee’ of one-third of a percent on every trust fund he established there.”
“How much we talking?”
“According to Stanley Brod, the total settlement amount was about thirty million, which means that the fees had to be running about a hundred thousand dollars a year.”
“How did you find out Gateway was paying those fees?”
“Because Stanley maintained a file for Michael on each of those trust funds. The payments to Millennium show up on the annual statements from Gateway.”
“So this Millennium outfit represents artists and provides consulting services to trust companies. What’s the story with that?”
I shrugged. “That’s what I’m hoping Billy Berger can tell me. He’s the chairman of Gateway Trust Company. I’m meeting with him tomorrow morning.”
“But what does Brod say?”
“He doesn’t. He knew about the trust company’s fees, but Michael never talked to him about them. He’d never made the connection with the art gallery commissions to Millennium until I pointed it out to him. He seemed kind of embarrassed about it. Felt he should have spotted the overlap himself.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“It really wasn’t his fault. One of his assistants handled the books for the gallery. I don’t think Stanley paid much attention to them. He was doing it mainly as a favor to Michael Green. When I was showing him the entries I could tell he wasn’t familiar with the records.”
“Have you talked to anyone at Millennium?” Benny asked.
“I have to find them first. They’re not in the phone book and I don’t have an address for them. I’ve got Jacki working on it.”
We paid the bill and stepped out into the late afternoon summer air. Benny walked me to my car, which was parked half a block north on Euclid.
“So when’s your next meeting with the rebbe?” Benny asked with a grin.
“We meet tonight,” I said. “After the dinner thing at the federation. Actually, I’m meeting with the rabbi’s wife again.”
“Oh, great. Is this going to be chapter two in the joys of Jewish life on the rag, or is tonight the night she turns you into a balabusta?”
Balabusta is the Yiddish expression for “mistress of the house.” It’s the term of affection and admiration for the classic Orthodox Jewish woman who functions in the role of chairman and CEO of the household.
“Actually, neither. Believe it or not, tonight the topic is sex.
“No shit? Jewish sex?”
I held up my hand. “Don’t start.”
“Me?” he asked, feigning innocence.
“Yeah, you. Good luck on the marathon, Barry White.”
He grinned. “Wait until you see me charge up Heartbreak Hill.”
“I think I’ll pass.”
***
I miss you, too, sweetie,” Jonathan said.
I was lying on the couch in my bathrobe and white socks, the phone cradled between my neck and shoulder. Al Green was on the stereo and Ozzie was curled on the floor below me, his big brown eyes watching my face. I’d been reading Daniel Deronda when Jonathan called from the mid-town Manhattan law office he was using during the trial. It was close to midnight for him—another late night of preparations in a securities fraud prosecution that was getting daily front-page ink in the New York Times. The good news: the defense was going well for Jonathan’s client. The bad news: the government was still weeks from resting, which meant the trial would last longer than expected.
We talked about his trial and his daughters and his parents and then he said, “Tell me about Angela Green.”
I described what I’d learned so far, including my initial review of the accounting records at Stanley Brod’s office. I was relieved to be finally talking to a former prosecutor and thus someone with more experience in this area than me.
He listened quietly. When I was through, he said, “It’s still a long shot.”
I sighed. “I realize that.”
“But you may have stumbled across a money trail. If you have, that could change everything.”
“How so?”
“Most murders are about anger or revenge, and this one fits that profile. Whether the killer was Angela Green or one of Michael Green’s angry ex-clients, the odds are that the murder was a crime of passion.”
“But what if it wasn’t?”
“Then there’ll be a money trail.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because if it wasn’t a crime of passion, then he was killed over money.”
“I don’t know, Jonathan. He doesn’t seem to have had much money.”
“Maybe he did and maybe he didn’t, but trust me on this. Somebody’s money—his or someone else’s—will hold the key to his death if it wasn’t a crime of passion. He’ll be connected to that money somehow. Just follow it.”
“I’m trying to.”
“Stay on the money trail and you’ll up end at the killer’s doorsteps.”
“Yes, sir.”
He paused and then chuckled. “Sorry. I tend to get a little carried away at this time of the night.”
“How about at any time of the night or the day?”
He laughed.
“Poor thing,” I said, glancing at my watch, “it’s really late for you. Are you almost ready for bed?”
“Soon. I have maybe an hour of preparation for a cross-examination tomorrow.”
I groaned. “I wish that trial would end already.”
“I know.”
Jonathan Wolf was New York City-born and -bred. He’d been raised an Orthodox Jew, and as a child attended a Jewish day school steeped in bookish traditions. Somehow, though, he fell in love with boxing. From his bar mitzvah on, he fought in every Golden Gloves competition in the area. At the age of seventeen, he won the Brooklyn title and traveled to Madison Square Garden to compete against the title holders from the other four boroughs. Jimmy Breslin tagged him “the Talmudic Tornado.”
He started his legal career in the U.S. attorney’s office in St. Louis, his wife’s hometown. During his prosecutor days he’d been a classic intimidator—stalking criminal defendants in the courtroom as if they were prey, boring in on them with rapid-fire questions. Six years ago his wife died of ovarian cancer, leaving behind two adorable little daughters, Leah and Sarah. He resigned from the U.S. attorney’s office and hung out a shingle as a criminal defense attorney. It was an astounding career change, and astoundingly successful. Althou
gh one might think that a Brooklyn accent and an embroidered yarmulke would be a drawback in front of a St. Louis jury, he’d become a preeminent defense attorney with a growing national practice. He was in his early forties now, his close-trimmed black beard flecked with gray. He was also drop-dead gorgeous and the sexiest man in the world, although I might have been a little biased on the subject.
“I almost forgot,” I said, smiling, “I had another session tonight.”
“With the rabbi?”
“No, his wife again.”
“And?” His tone was guarded.
“Very interesting.”
“That sounds a little more promising. What did you two cover?”
“Sex.”
“Ah, yes. The laws of onah.”
“I’m pleased to report that things are finally starting to look up, big guy.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“You never told me about the sex part.”
“You never asked me about the sex part.”
“Never asked? How would I have ever guessed? All those pious Jewish men in their beards and yarmulkes and dark suits. How was I supposed to know what was going on behind those bedroom doors.”
He was laughing.
“According to Mrs. Kalman,” I said, “one of the fundamental commandments of Jewish law is a husband’s duty to sexually satisfy his wife. You never told me this.”
“You never asked.”
“When a wife is ready for some hanky-panky, her husband better be ready, willing, and able to perform—and he better do a good job, too. Otherwise, she has grounds for divorce. The whole thing is right there in the marriage contract.”
“I never read the fine print.”
“You better, big boy. You would not believe all the official guidelines.” I sat up on the couch. “It’s like the Jewish Kama Sutra. First the husband has to have a nice loving conversation with his wife. Then he has to do lots of hugging and kissing. And he has to be naked. In fact, if the husband refuses to get naked with his wife, it’s grounds for divorce.”
“What about the wife?” Jonathan asked.
“She has to be naked, too.”
“That sounds good.”
“I’ll say. But wait. There’s more. When the husband makes love, he has to be enthusiastic. It’s Jewish law. Let me read you this thing.” I reached for my briefcase at the foot of the couch and snapped it open. “Mrs. Kalman had me write it down. Listen to this. There was this medieval Jewish sage named Rabenu Yaakov. He wrote the definitive Jewish guide of the Middle Ages, something called the Tur. Here’s what he said about marital sex: ‘When a husband is intimate with his wife, his intent should not be his own pleasure but, rather, he should be as one honoring an obligation to another.’ Mrs. Kalman said under Jewish law the husband is commanded to learn exactly what his wife wants in bed. You listening?”
“I’m all ears.”
“Good. In fact, the learning part is so important that the Torah says the husband has to spend the entire first year of the marriage free from any outside distraction so that he can devote all of his energies to learning how to satisfy his wife.”
“I think I could handle that.”
“You better, Jonathan, because as near as I can tell, unbelievably good sex is the only possible explanation.”
“For what?”
“For why those poor Orthodox woman are willing to put up with all that obnoxious male chauvinism. Frankly, your rabbi and I are not in synch here. Women can’t be rabbis, can’t be called up to the Torah, can’t be witnesses in a Jewish court of law. Even worse, they have to stand by as their husbands recite that awful morning prayer thanking God for not making them a woman. I don’t know about the rest of those women, Jonathan, but let me tell you something about me. It’s going to take a steady diet of world-class love-making from you to make me put up with that prayer every morning. Now get back to work and win that case.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Kiss those adorable girls for me and tell them I miss them.”
“I will.”
“I love you, Jonathan.”
“I love you, Rachel.”
Chapter Ten
Billy Berger’s female assistant put me in a conference room and brought me hot coffee in a green mug that had Gateway Trust Company’s familiar logo inscribed in gold. The front wall of the room consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows facing east with a dramatic view of the Mississippi River and the Arch. The other three walls picked up the coffee mug’s color scheme—green walls hung with gold-framed photographs and historical prints of the St. Louis riverfront dating back to paddle wheelers along the levee. I sipped my coffee and watched a towboat push a double row of barges upriver, its powerful screws churning the brownish water into a cappuccino froth. The barges stretched out in front of the tow by the length of at least two football fields.
The door opened and Berger entered, followed by a younger man. The two resembled one of those before-and-after portraits, although which was which was not quite clear. Billy Berger was large and ruddy, with thick lips, broad features, big teeth, and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He reminded me of the head bear in Disney’s Country Bear Jamboree. His sidekick was skinny and pale and fastidious, with severe steel-rimmed glasses resting on a pointy nose. Berger was in his early sixties but seemed far more vigorous than his sidekick, who was at least twenty years his junior.
“Howdy, Rachel,” Berger said, reaching across the conference table to shake my hand with a big callused paw. “I’m Billy Berger. It’s a real nice pleasure to meet you. This here is Mr. L. George Mizzler, our general counsel.”
“Miss Gold,” Mizzler said with a curt nod and reached across the table. His handshake was bony and moist and creepy. I resisted the urge to wipe my hand dry with a napkin.
The men took seats side by side across the table facing me. Mizzler placed a set of file folders on the table in front of him and frowned at them.
“I want to thank you both for meeting with me,” I said.
Berger nodded and leaned back, lacing his fingers together and resting his massive hands on his paunch. “Our pleasure, Rachel.” He gave me a hearty smile. “You have a mighty fine reputation in this town, both for your legal talents and for your loveliness. I’ll say this right off the bat: you must be a regular Clarence Darrow if your admirers understated your legal talents to the same degree that they understated your beauty.”
“Thank you, Mr. Berger. I think that’s the most elaborate compliment I’ve ever received.”
He chuckled and nodded his head as he looked toward his stern assistant. “I can tell this gal’s a regular pistol, George.” He turned to me. “And let’s put a stop to that ‘Mr. Berger’ nonsense. Makes me feel like an old fart. Call me Billy.”
I knew enough about Berger to resist his folksy manner. The trust business was the third snake pit he’d conquered in a remarkable career that had started after he dropped out of high school to sell used cars at his father’s Chevy dealership. When a heart attack felled Russ Berger a few years later, his twenty-two-year-old son took over as the president of Berger Chevrolet. Sixteen years later, he sold his thriving dealership to one of his competitors and started a new career selling life insurance. Within three years, he’d become Northwestern Mutual’s leading salesman in Missouri. Before the decade ended, he’d realized that there was an even more lucrative way to service the scores of doctors, lawyers, and business executives who were his customers, namely, handle their trusts and estates. Gateway Trust Company, founded nine years ago, now boasted a larger portfolio of assets under management than the trust departments of every local bank. While charm and corny jokes couldn’t hurt your business, you don’t accomplish in one career what Billy Berger had accomplished without also possessing a keen sense for an opponent’s soft spots and a willingness to exploit that knowledge.
“I am. That’s why I’m here.”
“I had George here check our accounts.” He nodded toward Mizzler. “Couple of living trusts, right?”
Mizzler opened two of the folders and read, “‘The Angela Green Living Trust Number One and the Angela Green Living Trust Number Two.’” He looked up, serious. “She receives monthly statements on both. Current assets in Trust Number One are”—he glanced down—“eighteen thousand three hundred and forty-one dollars and change. As for Trust Number Two, twenty-eight thousand five hundred and twenty dollars and change. If you’d care to review the statements, I have the most recent several months.”
“No, thanks. I didn’t come down to talk about her trusts. As you may know, I’m representing Ms. Green in a lawsuit filed by the son of Samantha Cummings. Miss Cummings was Michael Green’s fiancée. The lawsuit is premised on the contention that Mr. Green had essentially adopted Miss Cummings’s son at the time of his death.”
“That’s about what I heard,” Berger said.
“I understand that your trust company did a lot of work with Mr. Green and his clients.”
“I don’t know that I’d call it a lot,” Berger said, “but I’d agree that Michael was a good customer of ours.”
“Were you friends?”
“Friends? You could say we were friendly. Not exactly bosom buddies. We grabbed a bite to eat together a few times a year—that sort of thing.”
“Did he talk to you about Samantha Cummings?”
Berger pursed his lips in a thoughtful manner—or at least he feigned a thoughtful manner. I’d already realized that Berger—like any good car salesman—was a master of disguise when it came to what was really going on in his head. He could do “sincere” or “innocent” or “thoughtful” or whatever other emotion was to his advantage at the moment, arranging those broad, ruddy features into the appropriate mask. The only clue that something else might be going on behind the mask was the hard glint in his gray eyes.
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