"I'm not sure."
"Do you know how we can get in touch with them?"
"There's a banker in the Bahamas named Trevor Smith who handles everything. I'll get you his phone number."
I decide it's time to play a hunch. Finding out the story behind the International Charitable Trust is going to the top of Pete's priority list.
23
THE GRIEVING WIDOW
"My husband would have been touched by the great outpouring of love when he died."
—Elizabeth Holmes. Interview on NewsCenter 4. Tuesday, February 17.
"I'm terribly sorry about what happened, Beth. I know there isn't much I can say to change things." The next morning, I'm sitting in the Versailles-like living room of the Presidio Terrace mansion Beth Holmes shared with Bob. Although three and a half million bucks doesn't buy as much as it used to in San Francisco, Presidio Terrace is about as tony as it gets. The turn-of-the-century homes are occupied by a U.S. senator and her investment-banker husband, several Fortune 500 CEOs and a smattering of San Francisco aristocracy.
"Thanks," she says unenthusiastically, as she lights a cigarette. "You don't have to lay it on too thick. Everybody knows I served him with divorce papers that night."
It's nice to see she's not overwrought with grief.
She's early forties, with unnaturally bleached-blond hair, leathery skin from the tanning machine, a slightly altered nose, several minor enhancements to her hips and, if I'm guessing right, breasts. If all of her bodily adjustments slip at the same time, she'll probably look like a rubber band being shot across the room. On the other hand, she's a helluva commercial litigator. She reminds me of her ex-husband, Arthur Patton, without the charm or the chins.
"I know this may be difficult," I say, "but I was hoping you might be able to help us sort out what happened that night."
She smiles knowingly. "I find Skipper's version of the story a lot more convincing than yours."
At least we're starting on an even keel. "I understand you were at Bob's office that night."
"Yes, I was. I wanted to be there when the divorce papers were served. After all the shit he put me through, I wanted to see the look on his face."
"Couldn't you have waited until after the closing?"
She gives me a look of genuine disdain. "You don't get it. I wanted to deliver the divorce papers in the middle of his fucking closing, while all his buddies were around. Especially that pimp, Vince Russo, and the little tramp, Diana. Sweet little Princess Diana." She mutters something under her breath that sounds like the word "cunt."
I take a sip of the iced tea from the crystal glass provided by her maid. "I realize it's none of my business, but you know I've got to ask. What happened between you and Bob?"
She takes a long drag on her cigarette. "The same thing that happened with you and Rosie."
I think she may have intended that as a cheap shot. "Was he seeing another woman?"
"For God's sake, Mike, of course. Everybody knew about it. He was shtupping Diana for at least a year. When I found out about it at the beginning of December, I threw him out. He promised he'd make it up to me. Then he hopped right back in the sack again."
"With Diana?"
"Yeah. And with anybody else without a penis. If you think we've had a horny president, you should have seen Bob."
"Why didn't you file divorce papers at the beginning of December?"
"I gave him one last chance. He behaved for a week. Then my PI caught him with another woman. I threw his ass out for good." She stubs out her cigarette forcefully in the crystal ashtray.
"Do you know if he was still seeing Diana at the end of December?"
She lights another cigarette. "Don't know for sure. He was like a fucking rabbit."
"Do you know if he was seeing any other women?"
"I don't know that, either. My PI definitely saw him with little Diana in the beginning of December. And my PI saw him with somebody else after that. We couldn't ID her. It may have been Diana. Maybe a hooker, if my guess is right. He saw them at the Fairmont."
"Would you mind if I talked to your PI?"
"No problem." She turns to a servant who is standing by the door and speaks to her in Spanish. The servant leaves the room for a moment, then reappears and hands me a business card. It says Nick Hanson, Private Investigator. I recognize the name. I put the card in my pocket.
Maybe it's time to change the subject. "We got a copy of Bob's will." A small lie. Actually, all I know about the will is what Doris told me. "It seems you may inherit quite a bit of money from him."
"That's true. It doesn't make up for all the crap, but it's not a bad consolation prize." Interesting choice of words.
She plays nervously with her hair. "Charles Stern is handling everything. He may be as dull as a parking meter, but he's good. A third of the estate goes to me, a third goes to the kids and the rest goes to some charity in the Bahamas. It's going to take a while to sort it out."
"Do you happen to know the name of the charity?"
"It's called the International Charitable Trust."
Hello again. "Do you know anything about it?"
"Nope. Charles might be able to tell you something. Bob gave them a lot of money."
"Did it occur to you that if you split up, he might write you out of his will?"
"Yes."
"And you realize, of course, that his untimely death means your claim to one-third of the estate remains in place."
She stares daggers at me. "Of course." She pushes the phony blond bangs from her eyes. "I don't like the implication. I don't need the money. We can live perfectly well on my draw."
It's true, I'm sure. She must pull down at least four hundred fifty thou a year. Nice piece of change for a woman who's been described from time to time as trailer-park trash from Texas. She may lack a certain amount of finesse, but she's made it on her own in the big boys’ world. I decide to try something else. "Was there any life insurance?"
"It's none of your business. But the answer is yes. There's a million-dollar policy for each of his kids and a five-million-dollar policy for me."
At least I know where the money's going. Of course, I'd assume the beneficiary on the five-million-dollar policy would have been changed after the divorce. And she may get nothing if Bob committed suicide. Life-insurance policies contain a clause that says the beneficiary won't be paid if the named insured commits suicide within a couple of years after the policy is issued. "Do you know much about Russo?"
"He's an asshole. And a crook."
"I think we can all agree on that. We're still trying to find out what happened to him. Some people think he and Bob may have had some investments together."
She gives me a condescending look. "Whatever Bob did with Russo was between the two of them. Bob never talked about it with me. And frankly, I didn't want to know. As far as I'm concerned, they were just two horny bastards chasing underage girls in Southeast Asia."
"They really used to do that?"
She nods.
Not much left for discussion there. "Do you still see some people from the firm?"
"Charles Stern has been helpful. Art's been very supportive. It's nice when your ex still cares."
In many ways. "Do you think Bob was so distraught about the divorce that he decided to kill himself?" I decide I'd better see where she's coming from in case Skipper puts her on the stand.
She tugs at her cigarette and cackles loudly. "Don't be ridiculous, Mike. He was a few hours from a three-million-dollar bonus. That's all he ever cared about. He'd changed wives more times than most people change socks." She throws her head back and laughs again. "No, he wasn't distraught about the divorce. Hell, he was probably looking forward to it."
I'm sorry I asked.
"So the answer to your question," she continues, "is no. He wasn't the least bit upset about the divorce or the deal with Russo or anything else. The only thing he was upset about was that his little floozy, Diana, wasn't sleeping with
him anymore. He wouldn't have killed himself for it. Not a chance. Not with a three-million-dollar check waiting for him."
She blows a smoke ring toward me. "You don't have to take my word for it. You can talk to his shrink. She's that nutcase up in Marin County with her own radio show. Dr. Kathy Chandler. Give her a call. If you can't get her office, try her on the radio."
"Mrs. Fink," I say, "I know this is difficult, and I appreciate your taking the time to see me." Diana's mother, Ruth Fink, lives by herself in a dark bungalow at Twenty-second and Clement, about a mile from Joel's house. She's a heavyset woman in her late fifties with gray hair and lifeless eyes. The kitchen cabinets are at least sixty years old and look as though they haven't seen a paintbrush in the last forty. There are two pictures of Diana in the living room. Unless someone told you it was the same person, you'd never know. The woman in the first picture weighs at least 250 pounds and has brown hair and a long, crooked nose. The woman in the second picture is the trim, blond, sexy Diana that I knew. Joel was right. It was a rebirth.
"It's been very difficult," she says. "My husband died when Debbie was in her teens."
I'd forgotten that Diana was Debbie until her first year of law school.
"We managed to get by," she continues, "on my salary at the JCC and a few odd jobs that I picked up. We were lucky. We had enough life insurance to take care of most of the basics."
"Did Mr. Fink die young?"
Her eyes turn sad. "He had a heart attack when he was in his late thirties."
"Were you and Debbie close?"
"Yes, until she went to law school at UCLA. She got in with a different crowd. She changed." She glances across the room at Diana's picture. "She became less attentive to her studies. She stopped coming home at the holidays. She became fixated on herself. And making money." She takes a sip of water. "Then she got married to that boy Billy. He was her instructor at the health club. I knew from the start it wouldn't work out. She barely knew him." She shakes her head. "In some respects, I blame myself. I tried to stop her. I'm sure it only pushed her toward him. The marriage lasted less than a year."
For a brief moment I think about Grace and wonder how I'll react when she brings home her first boyfriend. The kid better have an impressive resume.
"Mr. Daley," she says defensively, "I just wanted what was best for my daughter. I wanted her to go to good schools and to get a good education. Is that so terrible?"
"Of course not, Mrs. Fink," I say. "That's what we all want for our kids."
"Toward the end, I hardly knew her. She started dating married men."
"Mrs. Fink," I say gently, "it doesn't always work out just the way you hope. Did she ever mention Joel Friedman?"
She closes her eyes at the mention of Joel's name. "Yes, Mr. Daley. She was very fond of Joel. He was a very popular boy in the neighborhood. I've known Joel and his father for years. I always thought Joel was a good boy. Now, I'm not so sure."
I figure it's best not to push this line of questioning too far. "Did Debbie have many friends?"
"Not really. She kept in contact with some of her friends from law school. The only people she ever mentioned from the office were Bob Holmes and Joel."
I'm beginning to thank her for her time when she interrupts me. "You know, Mr. Daley," she says, "there's one other thing you should be aware of. She had resigned from the Simpson firm. She'd accepted a job with a firm in San Diego."
"Why was she leaving?" I ask.
"She wanted a fresh start. She was pregnant, you know."
"I know." I look out the small window for a moment. "Why San Diego?"
"My sister lives there. I was planning to move down there myself. I thought it might be a good time for a fresh start for all of us. This house has a lot of memories."
"I see." Joel didn't mention that Diana was moving. "Mrs. Fink," I say, "I know this question is going to sound indiscreet."
She stops me. "I know what you're going to ask, Mr. Daley. The answer, I'm afraid, is I don't know who the father is."
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Fink. You've been extraordinarily helpful."
24
"I'D NEVER ASK YOU TO VIOLATE ANY CONFIDENCES, CHARLES"
"The only things in life that are certain are death, taxes and the need for tax lawyers."
—Charles Stern. Continuing legal education seminar.
The next morning I'm at the S&G office on a fishing expedition. Charles Stern has promised to give me copies of the firm's key-man life insurance policies. He's trying to appear cooperative. I could subpoena the firm's records. He knows it. It's a shot in the dark. I know S&G carried a life insurance policy on Bob. I'm trying to confirm how big the policy is. More importantly, it's a pretext for me to see if I can find out anything else about his will and finances.
I'm surprised he's agreed to see me. And I'm really surprised he's agreed to see me alone. Seems like every time I show up at S&G, I'm greeted by the entire executive committee. I accept his offer of coffee. He buzzes his secretary and a cappuccino magically appears. There's something to be said for big-firm amenities.
His functional office on the forty-sixth floor has S&G's standard-issue executive furniture: large, industrial-strength rosewood desk, matching credenza, two guest chairs and a bookcase. Most of the power partners have fancy custom-built furniture that they pay for themselves. Not Charles. He's too cheap for anything other than basic inventory. There's a small gray sofa next to the door, which he pilfered when one of my partners was fired a few years ago. The only picture on the wall is a New Yorker cartoon of an accountant hovering over a tax return. An antique adding machine sits on a small table beneath the cartoon. He once told me his father is the oldest living person still licensed to practice accounting in the state of New York. The bookcase holds about a dozen black loose-leaf volumes. The gold lettering on the spine proclaims they're called the CCH Standard Federal Tax Reporter.
His desk is immaculate. Not a scrap of paper. Not a speck of dust. I've always admired people who have a clean office. I don't know how anybody can possibly work that way. A state-of-the-art laptop sits on a small table next to his desk. It isn't turned on. It's a trophy. It shows he got the firm to buy him the computer. He isn't expected to use it.
He drinks coffee from a mug that bears the S&G logo. He's wearing his gray suit jacket. He straightens his tie and looks at me uncomfortably. "What can I do for you?" he asks. I wonder if he's forgotten his offer.
"I was hoping you had a chance to put together the copies of the firm's insurance policies."
He's relieved. "Yes," he replies. He buzzes his secretary and asks her to bring in a file marked "Insurance Policies." Charlotte Rogers is a middle-aged black woman who's been with Charles for about fifteen years. She's the lucky soul who gets to type all of his memos on billing procedures. She's reasonably pleasant about it. She appears with a large file folder almost as soon as he hangs up.
"Our malpractice policy is in there," he says. "I haven't the slightest idea why you'd want to look at it. I put in a summary of our medical policy. If you want the policy itself, I'll get you a copy."
I couldn't care less about the malpractice and medical policies. "Were you able to track down any life insurance policies?"
He nods. "There's a key-man life insurance policy on every partner. I've enclosed a summary of the policy terms. If you'd like the details, you can talk to our insurance agent."
"Hopefully, that won't be necessary." I'll see what I can get out of the insurance agent later. "How much life insurance do you carry on the partners?" This is, of course, something I should already know. I'm sure it was in a memo Charles sent out to the partners sometime in the last decade or so.
"It depends," he replies.
"On what?"
"On how valuable the partner's practice is to the firm."
"I see." This means they probably had a million-dollar policy on Bob and a five-thousand-dollar policy on me. "How big a policy did you carry on me?"
I
get the hint of a grin. The crow's-feet around his eyes crinkle. "The minimum. Twenty-five thousand."
More than I thought. "And the policy on Bob?"
"I think it was about two and a half million dollars."
Not bad. Bob was worth only a hundred times more than I was. I'm sure Bob would have said he was worth more. "Do you have any other policies on the partners?"
"No. We're just starting the process of changing carriers. Brent Hutchinson is in charge of insurance issues."
Perfect. S&G's best bullshitter gets to spend his free time schmoozing with insurance salesmen. I wonder if some sort of harmonic convergence occurs when that much bullshit is jammed into one room. "Maybe I should talk to Hutch," I say.
"I doubt he'll be able to tell you much," he replies. "He was just getting started."
If past history is any indication, Hutch hasn't started at all. I have no doubt he won't be able to tell me much about anything. "I was hoping you might be able to help us figure out Bob's will."
He looks at his watch. "I'll do what I can." He hits the do-not-disturb button on his phone. He probably wishes he'd had a similar button installed on his brain. "I can't say much," he says. "Attorney-client privilege, you know. And I've got a meeting."
So many meetings. So little time. I glance at the picture of the accountant. The resemblance is striking. "I understand. I'd never ask you to violate any confidences, Charles." The game begins. A small grin. For a moment, I think I can see a hint of color in his cheeks. "I understand you're the executor of Bob's will."
He studies his antique adding machine. "I am," he replies. "It'll become a matter of public record as soon as it's submitted to the probate court. We've notified the beneficiaries."
I'm watching him closely. He's being a little too forthcoming. This probably means there's nothing much of any consequence in the will. "I appreciate your honesty, Charles. It's a lot easier to do this informally. I was afraid Art was going to make me get a subpoena just to talk to you."
"He was just being careful. I'd rather tell you what I can. There's no point in turning this into something contentious."
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