Trophy Widow

by Michael A. Kahn

  Finally, he said, “I think he mentioned that gal during one of our last lunches. He was talking about the upcoming wedding—how excited he was and all that.”

  “Were you invited?”

  “I can’t recall. Probably.”

  “Did he talk about her son?”

  Berger frowned. “It’s not sticking out if he did. I guess it’s possible, but I don’t recollect.”

  I hadn’t expected to get much out of this line of questioning, and I wasn’t. It didn’t matter. The questions were mainly fillers up front to cushion the real purpose of my meeting, which was about to start now.

  “Your trust company is still handling trusts for a lot of his clients, correct?”

  “His former clients,” Mizzler said, a self-satisfied edge to his voice.

  “His former clients,” I repeated, giving Mr. Meticulous a pleasant nod. “Specifically, I’m referring to the children in the Merker class action. According to the court records, your trust company still files an annual statement with the clerk of the court on each of those cases.”

  I knew this because on my way downtown I’d stopped by the clerk’s office and looked through several of the individual files in the class action.

  “Why do you have an interest in those cases?” Mizzler asked sharply.

  I shrugged, acting nonchalant. “Just trying to get a handle on Michael Green’s activities during the last few years of his life. It might be relevant for my case. On the subject of those class action files, though, I did notice one difference since Michael Green’s death.”

  “What was that?” Mizzler asked.

  “There is no longer an annual service charge by Millennium Management Services.”

  Mizzler seemed puzzled. “Who?”

  “Millennium Management Services,” I repeated. “What did they do for you?”

  Mizzler turned to Berger, who was gazing at me with his head tilted, as if he were pondering me or my question. Berger gave me a quizzical smile and said, “Now help me here, Rachel. How exactly do those class action files relate to the lawsuit against Mrs. Green?”

  “I’m not quite sure.”

  Mizzler sniffed. “Then I’m not quite sure that we can answer your question. As a regulated financial institution we have certain confidentiality obligations toward our customers—especially those who are minors.”

  “Actually, Mr. Mizzler,” I said, “that’s not the case here. Those court files are public, and everything in them, including your annual reports to the court, are public. The reports you filed during the last three years of Michael Green’s life show payments to Millennium Management Services. Since Mr. Green’s death, however, the reports show no such service charge.”

  “How is that relevant?” Mizzler snapped.

  “That depends on what that outfit was doing for the trust company back then.”

  “Apparently,” Berger said with an affable chuckle, “they were providing a service. Now I may be just an old car dealer, but I sure as hell don’t plan to pay some outfit for nothing.” He turned to Mizzler. “Let’s check those files, George. See what we can turn up.”

  “What exactly is Millennium Management Services?” I asked them both.

  Mizzler glanced at Berger, who was gazing at me. “I don’t seem to recall,” Berger said. “Maybe there’ll be something in the files on that outfit. If so, we’ll be sure to let you know.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” I said, though I doubted whether I’d ever hear anything further from Gateway on the topic of Millennium Management Services. “One last thing. About a week or so before Michael Green’s death, he had a big argument with you in his office. What was that all about?”

  Mizzler stiffened angrily. “Are you attempting to contend that Mr. Berger’s relationship with Mr. Green has any—”

  “Hold your fire, George,” Berger said, raising his hand like a traffic cop. He gave me a big smile. “I’ll be frank, Rachel. I liked Michael, but he had what you could call a volatile temperament. The man could be a real hothead—which I suppose can be a good thing in a trial lawyer. If we had an argument that day, it sure wouldn’t have been the first time.”

  “Did you have an argument?”

  “Don’t remember yea or nay.”

  “What did you used to argue about?”

  “Oh, everything from sports to business to women.”

  Mizzler said, “This is entirely outside the scope of your lawsuit, Miss Gold. The trust company and Mr. Berger have been more than cooperative today, and I can assure you that if you need any additional information directly relevant to your client’s case, we will be willing to take any such requests under advisement. Until such time, however, I must insist on adjourning this meeting.”

  Berger smiled and lumbered to his feet. “Guess I better follow my lawyer’s orders, eh? It’s what we pay ’em for. Been a real pleasure, Rachel. We ought to get together sometime for lunch or a drink. Just give my gal a buzz and see if we can set something up.”

  ***

  Nothing?” I repeated.

  “Not a thing.” Jacki shook her head. “I checked with the secretaries of state of Missouri, Illinois, and Delaware. I went by the public library and checked phone books from all over the country. Nothing on any company by that name.”

  We were in my office that afternoon.

  “What about an Internet search?” I asked.

  “I tried. I got about ten million hits for Millennium, but no Millennium Management Services.”

  “What about the payments on all those minors’ trusts? Where did Gateway Trust send them?”

  “According to the court records, to a lockbox in the Canary Islands.”

  “Terrific,” I said glumly.

  I reached for my telephone messages. I’d spent the lunch hour at the veterinarian’s office getting Ozzie his annual checkup and a shot. Jacki had just returned from lunch with her new boyfriend.

  “So how’s Bob?” I asked, flipping through the messages.

  She blushed. “He’s doing fine.”

  “Things going okay down at UPS?”

  “Bob thinks he’s in line for a promotion.”

  “Inside work?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  Bob was a big, burly guy—about as big and burly as Jacki. He had a dark beard and a wonderful smile. He was the UPS delivery guy in our area, which is how he met Jacki. He was an absolute doll, and—given the very existence of his relationship with Jacki—an open-minded individual.

  “New dress?” I asked.

  “I got it last weekend.”

  “Very nice.”

  “Really?” She colored again.

  “Really.”

  I was smiling. After a frustrating morning meeting at Gateway Trust Company and forty minutes in the crowded waiting room at the veterinarian’s office, the mere sight of my secretary buoyed my spirits. And what a sight she was. Jacki Brand was a former Granite City steelworker who was putting herself through night law school while working days as my secretary, paralegal, law clerk, and all-around aide. Standing six feet three and weighing close to two hundred and forty pounds, with plenty of steelworker muscles rippling beneath her size 22 shirtwaist dress, she was surely the most intimidating legal secretary in town. And also one of the best. I’d call her my girl Friday, except that anatomically she was still a he—and would so remain until next summer, when she would undergo the surgical procedure that would lop off the last dangling evidence that her name had once been Jack.

  “What’s on the schedule this afternoon?” I asked, putting down the phone messages and reaching for my calendar.

  “Nothing but your meeting with Charlie at four.”

  Charlie Ross was the investigator I’d hired to do a quick background check on Billy Berger and Beverly Toft’s other
two suspects, Millie Robinson and the Dingdong Man.

  “I called Stanley Brod from the vet’s,” I told her. “I asked if one of us could go over there this afternoon to look through his records on Samantha’s art gallery. Maybe you could do that.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ve already looked through the art gallery’s payables ledger. Samantha was making payments to that Millennium outfit on each painting she sold by an artist named Sebastian Curry. I’m going to try to locate the artist. Meanwhile, we need to review the rest of the gallery’s records to find out who bought the paintings.”

  Jacki frowned. “Why?”

  “Because someone was paying Millennium every time one of those paintings sold. That means that Millennium was acting as either the artist’s agent or the buyer’s agent.”

  “Or maybe the gallery’s agent.”

  “If so, then the buyer or the artist ought to know that.” I paused, mulling over an idea that Jacki’s comment had triggered. “Jacki, while you’re over at Brod’s office, see if he’s got a roster of Michael Green’s clients. Maybe in the billing files. If so, make a copy for us. Let’s see if there are any matches between his clients and the buyers of those paintings.”

  “Why do you think there might be?”

  “Just a hunch. Look at the chronologies. Two things happened shortly after Michael Green died. First, Gateway Trust stopped paying a service fee to Millennium. Second, Samantha’s gallery stopped paying commissions to Millennium. Maybe there’s no connection to Green’s death, but he’s the only link we know between Gateway and the gallery. Jonathan told me to follow the money. So far, this is the only money trail I’ve found.”

  ***

  “Brought us some goodies, counselor.”

  I looked up from the appellate opinion I was reading. Charlie Ross stood in the doorway holding aloft a white bakery bag.

  I smiled. “From World’s Fair Donuts?”

  “Where else? Got us some glazed and some cherry filled.”

  I placed my hand over my heart. “You’re my hero, Charlie.”

  “Just don’t tell the wife, huh? She got me on a new diet. Wants me to lose thirty pounds. Got a whole list of things I can eat—rice cakes, raw carrots, chicken bouillon, lettuce without salad dressing. I don’t recall glazed doughnuts on that list.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  He came in and sat down in the chair facing my desk. “Some diet. Lots of fiber and a grapefruit before every meal.” He grimaced. “The wife’s got me eating this cereal—looks like rabbit droppings. Gives me terrible gas. I’m thinking maybe the folks at Maalox are behind this diet.”

  “No fiber in doughnuts, Charlie.”

  “Not a trace,” he said, with a contented grin.

  “I’ll get us some coffee. You like black, right?”

  “That’d be fine.”

  Charlie Ross was an ex-FBI special agent who’d worked as a private investigator since his retirement from the government. He was good with records and even better with people, who tended to tell him far more than you’d expect, which was probably because he reminded them, like he reminded me, of the plump neighborhood butcher instead of the square-jawed G-man of crime-fighting lore. Although his jawline had long since softened into jowls, he was a resourceful investigator who’d proved his mettle during his FBI days in a twelve-hour hostage crisis at Boatmen’s Bank downtown and a four-day manhunt through the Ozarks.

  As we ate our doughnuts and sipped our coffee, he filled me in.

  “Plenty of court files on Billy Berger,” he said, checking his notes. “Been divorced two times—looked through those files, talked to one of his ex-wives. Nothing special there. He never told her much about his financial affairs when they were married, and she’s happy with the alimony arrangement.”

  “Why’d they get divorced?”

  “The usual. Billy’s got a zipper problem. Big time.” He glanced at his notes. “Let’s see. Got sued a few times during his days in the insurance business—disputes with policy holders. Two cases settled, another got dismissed. Been a plaintiff himself three times. Sued the contractor that built his last house, complaining about structural defects. Settled that one for one hundred twenty-three thousand dollars. In another case, he and three other investors sued the general partner of a real estate limited partnership when that deal went south. Some sort of condo development down in Branson, Missouri. Case settled last year, but the court file didn’t have the settlement agreement in it. At present, he’s got a suit pending against the company he bought his private jet from. Breach-of-warranty claim. Case is pending in St. Louis County.” He closed his notepad. “Pretty much what you’d expect to find for one of those rich entrepreneur types.”

  “I had a meeting with him this morning.”

  “What’d you think?”

  “Very smooth. Very slick. Very smart.”

  “That’s why he did so well selling cars and insurance.”

  “What about the other two people?”

  Charlie glanced down at his notes as he sipped his coffee. “Plenty of court files on Millie Robinson—what with the divorce, the cocaine problems, the custody battle with her ex.” He looked up. “That’s the one where Michael represented her ex-husband—that ballplayer.”

  “Larry Robinson.”

  “Right. He’s living in Detroit with the kids. Here’s an interesting one,” he said, reading his notes. “She sued Gateway Trust Company a year ago.”

  “Really. Over what?”

  “Can’t tell. File is sealed.”

  “Which court?”

  “City.”

  “Which division?”

  He studied his notes. “Three.”

  “Three is equity. Could be a dispute over management of a trust. Could you tell from the other files whether she had a trust with Gateway?”

  He paged through his notes. “Here we are—good thinking, Rachel. When she had her cocaine problem, the court ordered that her assets and all future alimony payments be deposited into a trust. The order appointed Gateway as the trustee.”

  “Think it’s worth talking to her?”

  Charlie scratched his neck. “Might be. I’ll look her up.”

  “How about the Dingdong Man?”

  Charlie chuckled. “That’s really something, isn’t it? Poor bastard.” He flipped through his notes. “Feckler moved to Kansas City last year. He’s working as a paralegal at the firm that represents all those tobacco companies. No court records on him over there. Must be keeping his nose clean. But here’s something interesting from before he moved. Samantha Cummings swore out a complaint against him two years after Michael Green’s murder.”

  “For what?”

  “She claimed he was harassing her.”

  “How so?”

  “Nasty phone calls, creepy letters. About her and Michael. Some pretty sick stuff. Like who missed his penis the most—her or Michael.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “The guy is one sick puppy. She swore out a complaint and the cops arrested him. Judge gave him six months’ probation and ordered him to keep away from her. The arresting officer is a vice squad detective named Vic Riganti. I talked to him this morning. He remembered the case. Said he thought Feckler was your basic harmless wacko.”

  “Do you agree?”

  Charlie frowned as he scratched his neck. “Hard to say. Those types usually are.”

  “But aren’t their phone calls and letters usually anonymous?”

  “Usually.”

  “But not here.”

  “That’s true.”

  I sighed in frustration. “The police never even talked to him after Michael Green’s murder.”

  Charlie nodded. “That trail’s pretty cold by now.”

  “They all are.”

  He pursed his lips thou
ghtfully. “You’re better off following the money.”

  “That’s what Jonathan told me, too.”

  “He’s right, Rachel. I worked the Hornig car bombing for Jonathan back when he was at the U.S. attorney. We followed the money trail right to the brother-in-law’s door.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “I wish I could talk to Samantha.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “We’re on opposite sides of this lawsuit. I can’t talk to her without her lawyer present. I doubt whether he’d let me talk to her anyway—especially with all the other defendants and lawyers involved. He’ll tell me to take her deposition. That way he can keep it all on the record and avoid inconsistent statements.”

  “Maybe,” Charlie said, removing a second glazed doughnut from the bag. “But what if you had a topic she didn’t want to have on the record?” He took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. He washed it down with a sip of coffee. “What if it was a subject her lawyer didn’t want the other lawyers to know about? Maybe he’d let you have a private session.”

  “Maybe so, but I don’t have anything like that here.”

  “Not yet.”

  I looked at Charlie. “What’s that mean?”

  He shrugged. “No promises, Rachel, but let me do a little poking around. You do this kind of work for thirty-five years and you learn to spot patterns. Pretty gal like that, coming out of nowhere, suddenly running her own business, moving in fancy circles, getting romanced by rich lawyers—gal like that often has something in her past she don’t want the whole world talking about. You find out what that is, you’ll get yourself a private audience with her.”

  “You really think there’s something like that out there?”

  “Can’t guarantee it, but like I say, you learn to spot patterns.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Fifteen thousand dollars?”

  “Not just one time, either,” I said.

  “How many?”

  “I counted twenty-three.”

  “For Sebastian Curry?” Ellen McNeil shook her head in disbelief. “That’s ridiculous.”

  We were in the back office at Unique Expressions, Ellen’s art gallery in the University City Loop. Ellen was tall and thin with intense dark eyes and long curly black hair. She was wearing a black turtleneck, a Navajo silver-and-turquoise necklace with matching dangly earrings, wheat-colored drawstring cotton woven pants, and clogs. Hard to believe that just four years ago, Ellen McNeil had been dressed in conservative business suits and earning tens of thousands of frequent flyer miles as a financial consultant for one of the big accounting firms.