Then a second-string quarterback said something Bennato didn’t like, and Bennato grabbed him by the throat, an action that was only remarkable for the fact that it was captured on national TV. The very same people who stood up and cheered when the players knocked each other down and ground their opponents’ faces into the mud recoiled in horror at this display of violence. The boy’s family sued. The university, eager to avoid the publicity of a trial, pressured Bennato to avoid the courtroom at any cost. The ensuing settlement forced him into bankruptcy while the scandal sent him into obscurity—which is where he remained until four years later when Beau Rendell offered him a coaching job.
“Who are you?” demanded Bennato, setting down his glass and apparently realizing for the first time that he was not alone in Beau Rendell’s kitchen.
“Kate Millholland,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m a friend of Chrissy and Jeff’s.”
“Tony Bennato,” he said, taking my hand and giving it a rough tug. “If you’re a friend of Chrissy’s, then maybe you should be the one to go upstairs and give her this,” he continued, pulling out a business envelope bearing the Monarchs logo and handing it to me.
“What is it?” I demanded, lifting the flap and looking inside. It was full of small white tablets, dozens of them.
“Sleeping pills. The team doctor wants Jeff to take two of them now. The rest are for later.”
“He doesn’t need them,” I said, handing the envelope back to the coach.
“You don’t understand—” protested Bennato, refusing to take them back.
“Yes, I do,” I cut in. “Sleeping won’t help anything.” I knew what I was talking about. If I’d taken every sleeping pill that was pushed on me after Russell died, I would have been out longer than Sleeping Beauty.
“You’re not listening to me,” protested Coach impatiently. “He has to take them.”
“He’ll be fine now that he’s with Chrissy.”
“I’m not concerned about whether he’s fine or not,” snapped Bennato. “The cops are going to be here pretty soon, and when they show up, I think it’ll be better for everybody if Jeff’s sound asleep.”
“Why do you say that?” I demanded, not sure I wanted to hear the answer.
“Let’s just say that things got a little out of hand at the stadium.”
“In what way?”
“I was in the front office when they found him. Beau said he wanted to see me about something so I left practice and went upstairs. When I got there the security guard had just found him.”
“Where was he?”
“Lying at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to his office. I guess the guard was making his normal rounds and literally stumbled upon him lying in the dark on the D concourse.”
“Dead?”
“Probably, but there was no way of knowing at the time! The security guard called the paramedics and I went and got the team doctor out of the training room.”
“Where was Jeff?”
“At first we couldn’t find him. We turned the place inside out, looking for him. It turns out he was in the john washing his hands.”
“So when did things get out of hand?” I asked.
“When we told him about what had happened to his father.”
“Why? How did he take it?”
“He went berserk,” replied Bennato with no attempt to conceal his distaste.
“What do you mean?”
“He ran downstairs to where the paramedics were working on Beau, yanked them off of him, and shoved them aside. Then he grabbed his father by the front of his shirt and started shaking him.”
“Maybe he was trying to revive him,” I suggested.
“I don’t think so,” replied Bennato, taking another sip of Scotch and rolling it around as if he was trying to wash away the bad taste in his mouth. “Not unless you think he was trying to wake him up by screaming, ‘You asshole! You asshole!’ ” at the top of his lungs.
* * *
I found Jeff in his old bedroom lying curled up on his side on the bottom bunk of his childhood bed. Chrissy knelt on the floor beside him, stroking his hair. The room itself was a time warp of purple and gold. There was shag carpeting on the floor and curling posters of Monarchs players gone by on the walls. I wondered when the last time was that he had crossed the threshold.
I was obviously less appalled by Jeff’s behavior at the stadium than Coach Bennato was. From my perspective, given the Rendells’ financial straits, it was as understandable as it was regrettable. Unfortunately, neither the paramedics nor the scores of front office personnel who must have witnessed the outburst had any idea of what had been behind it. They were probably on the phone right now peddling their eyewitness accounts to the tabloids.
However, it did raise another issue, one that hadn’t occurred to me until I spoke to the Monarchs coach, and that was what, if anything, to tell the police about the team’s financial situation. The police conduct a routine investigation of every unattended death, and in the case of someone as prominent as Beau Rendell they would go out of their way to make sure that every i was dotted and every t was crossed. They were sure to have questions about what had prompted Jeff Rendell’s outburst over his father’s body, and they would be expecting answers.
Even though the door was open, I knocked softly on the doorframe. Jeff did not seem to hear, but Chrissy looked up, her eyes wide with distress.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said. “But I need to talk to you guys for a minute.”
“What is it?” asked Chrissy in a whisper.
“I need to ask Jeff whether he talked to the police at all while he was still down at the stadium.”
Jeff shook his head.
“What would the police want with Jeff?” inquiried Chrissy.
“They’re going to want to talk to everyone who was anywhere near Beau before he died. They have to try am piece together what must have happened by talking to anyone who was at the stadium this morning.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” said Jeff, practically in a whimper.
“I don’t think you should,” I replied. “At least, not until we’ve worked out what to tell them about what’s happening with the team and the bank.”
“Oh, god, I never thought about that,” gasped Chrissy. “If you tell the police about it, you might as well put the whole thing up on billboards. Someone will leak it.”
“That’s why I agree with Coach Bennato. It’s best if Jeff doesn’t talk to the police right now. Let them find out more about how Beau died. The more they know, the fewer questions they’ll have left. I guess the team doctor prescribed some sleeping pills for Jeff,” I ventured, opening the envelope, taking out two of the pills, and handing the envelope to Chrissy. “I think it’s best if you hold on to these,” I said. It didn’t seem like a particularly good idea to give handfuls of barbiturates to someone in Jeff’s frame: of mind.
Jeff propped himself up on one elbow. “Why don’t you get me a glass of water so I can take these things?” he asked his wife.
“Sure thing, sweetheart,” she replied, giving him a quick kiss on the forehead before getting to her feet to fetch it.
Jeff waited until she was out of the room before he spoke, and then it was in an urgent whisper.
“Did Bennato tell you how I acted when they told me what happened to my dad?” he asked miserably.
“You went into shock,” I replied.
“I went insane.”
“Don’t say that,” I said. “Besides, there’s nothing you can do about it now.”
“I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything,” I replied, meaning it.
“I need you to keep something,” he said, pulling something from his pocket and thrusting it into my hand. “Don’t tell anyone else you have it,” he whispered quickly, as Chrissy stepped back into the room.
I silently made a fist around the jagged edges of the object. It was a key.
CHAPTER 6
What are you doing here?” he asked unpleasantly, spying me over the top of his glass.
“I came as soon as I heard.”
“Business must not be too good if you have to drive all the way to Milwaukee trying to drum up clients.”
“Listen, Harald. You were Beau’s good friend. I’m Chrissy’s. Let’s just leave it at that. Sometimes at a time like this, things get said that people later wish they could take back.”
“So, with your vast experience, you’re lecturing me on behavior?” he demanded sarcastically.
“Harald, take my word for it,” I replied in my most conciliatory tone. “It is not my intention to say anything that would hurt or offend you, especially not today.”
Feiss, apparently mollified, reached for the bottle and refilled his glass. I suspected that he was the same kind of alcoholic as my father, the kind who drank constantly but was seldom drunk.
“Chrissy and I were talking earlier, and she said that you handled all of Beau’s affairs, including his estate planning.”
“Yes, I did.”
“So how did he leave things?”
“Everything goes to Jeff.”
“Absolutely everything?”
“Yes. Everything.”
“Who’s the executor?”
“Jeff.”
I was grateful that it wasn’t Feiss, but I tried not to show it. “So how did he leave it? Is there an in vivo trust in effect or any other mechanism that would limit tax liability?”
“Originally there was, but we were forced to dissolve it as a condition of the loan agreement with First Milwaukee. Gus Wallenberg insisted that if he was going to lend Beau the money, the Monarchs’ assets not be sheltered in a trust.”
“You mean he wanted to make sure that the bank had a clean shot at the assets if Beau couldn’t make his payments.”
“You’d have to ask Wallenberg. I don’t know what his thinking was, I only know what’s in the agreement.”
“But you do know what Beau was thinking. You were his closest confidant. He may have kept secrets from Jeff, but he didn’t keep any from you. So what I want to know is what was he planning to do to keep the bank off his back?”
“He was about to sign a deal to move the team into a new stadium in the suburbs.”
“How close was he?”
“The developer was in the process of drawing up the contracts. As soon as they were signed, Beau would have gotten the check.”
“How big a check?”
“Enough to satisfy the bank.”
“I assume the developer would be willing to deal with Jeff”
“The question is will Jeff be willing to deal with them?”
“I’m sure at this point Jeff just wants to keep all of his options open.”
“That’s not what it sounded like this morning.”
“What do you mean?”
“You haven’t heard about the scene this morning?”
“Are you talking about Jeff’s behavior when he found out about his father’s death?”
“No. I’m talking about the shouting match he had with Beau just before he died.”
Great, I thought to myself. And the hits just keep right on coming. Out loud I asked, “What did they fight about?”
“The bank, moving the team. Gus Wallenberg was on his way down to the stadium to talk about the financing for the new stadium. Jeff wanted his dad to show Wallenberg L.A.’s offer in order to put pressure on the bank.”
“And did he?”
“By the time Wallenberg showed up, Beau was already at the bottom of the stairs.”
“So do you know whether Jeff got his father to agree to try to negotiate with the bank for more time?”
“You’ll have to ask Jeff, but I can tell you from the way that it sounded, I’m pretty sure they didn’t agree about anything. Where is Jeff, by the way? I haven’t seen him.”
“He’s upstairs, asleep. He took a sleeping pill so I’m sure he’ll be out for a while.”
“Good.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because when he wakes up, he’s going to have to deal with the fact that the very last thing he probably told his father was that he could take his football team and shove it right up his ass.”
* * *
The police showed up while Harald Feiss was standing on the front lawn, bathed in klieg lights, issuing a statement on behalf of the family that no one had authorized—not Jeff, who was still deep in pharmacologically induced slumber, nor Chrissy, who was standing beside me silently: fuming as we watched from an upstairs window. As soon as the police pulled into the driveway, I ran outside to intercept them. Thankfully, the reporters were too busy hanging on Feiss’s every cliché to notice. No one ever accused TV journalists of being newshounds.
Two men with neat ties and shiny shoes got out of a white Caprice, flashed their badges at me, and identified themselves. They were both middle aged, rheumy eyed, and remote. The taller of the two said his name was Eiben. He had a lean, pockmarked face and a brush cut. He spoke with the kind of bland courtesy that’s taught in customer service training courses. The other man’s name was Zellmer. He was older, thicker, and wore his thinning gray hair in a comb-over that was remarkable if only for its ambition. Everything about them said cop.
I led them down the garden path and through the garage into the house so that they wouldn’t bump into anybody. Then I ushered them into the bookless room that Beau Rendell had called his library. It had white shag carpeting, black leather furniture, and a wet bar. All it was missing was a painting of Elvis on black velvet.
“We’re here to speak to Jeffrey Rendell,” said Eiben, looking around and taking it all in.
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that’s not possible right now,”
I replied, doing my best to sound apologetic.
“I’m not sure I understand. When we spoke to his attorney at the stadium, he promised to make him available to be interviewed when we came out this afternoon.”
“Unfortunately, he’s been given a sedative on doctor’s orders. He’s sound asleep.”
“Now why would he need a sedative?” inquired Eiben earnestly, as if he really wanted to know.
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask the doctor.”
“I’m asking you.”
“I don’t like to speculate, but maybe it has something to do with the fact that Jeff was very upset by his father’s death.”
“How upset?”
“I don’t know,” I shot back. “How upset would you be if your father had just died?”
“My father died when I was four,” deadpanned Eiben. “He got drunk and fell down a well. When do you think that Mr. Rendell might be available to make a statement?”
“I would think sometime tomorrow.”
“Would you mind explaining to us exactly what your relationship is to the Rendells?”
“I’m a personal friend of Jeff and his wife. I’m also their attorney.”
“So who was this guy Feiss we talked to this morning?”
“He was Beau Rendell’s lawyer and business adviser.”
“That’s a lot of lawyers. I guess it’s the money that attracts you guys—kind of like maggots and old meat.”
“What a delightful metaphor,” I replied in my best imitation of my mother at her most charming. “I hope you don’t mind if I use it sometime.”
“So I take it you knew the Rendells pretty well,” he continued, ignoring my attempt to be irritating.
“I guess you could say that.”
“So how would you characterize the deceased’s relationship with his son?”
“Jeff and his father were very clo
se. They had worked together every day for nearly a decade.”
“Would you say they got along?”
“No better or worse than a lot of fathers and sons.”
“Would you say that Jeff and his father argued a great deal?”
“I’d say that Beau argued with everyone. I’m sure you read the sports pages.”
“You can’t always believe everything you read in the' papers,” observed Zellmer sagely.
“True. Beau was the Monarchs’ owner. His son was the team’s general manager. Owners and general managers disagree all the time about what’s best for the team. Jeff’s personal relationship with his father was a close one.”
“So you wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Jeff Rendell and his father had a violent argument this morning?”
“I told you, Detective. Owners and general managers invariably disagree, often acrimoniously, and especially when a team is doing as badly as the Monarchs are this season. So, to answer your question, no, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least.”
The two detectives exchanged a quick glance, like the shorthand of two people who have been married a long time, and they rose to their feet in unison.
“Well, thank you for your time,” said Eiben, patting his pockets and extracting a business card. “You’ve been very helpful.” He handed it to me. “Please make sure that Jeff Rendell gets in touch with us as soon as he’s able.”
“Of course,” I replied.
“Do you mind if we have a look around on our way out?” asked Eiben.
“Not if you have a search warrant.”
“Well then, I guess we’ll be on our way.”
“Let me show you out,” I said, following them through the kitchen and walking them back out to their car. In the little time we’d been talking, the wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees. I blew on my hands and watched the detectives as they got into their car and drove away. In spite of the cold I stood there long after they’d disappeared from sight.
Rough Trade Page 6