Noble Chase: A Novel

by Michael Rudolph

  The witness in the Henshaw case was an elderly retired businessman whose recollection of the disputed four-year-old events was faulty. Both he and his attorney were being cooperative, so Beth saw no need to work him over unnecessarily with a rough cross-examination. By four forty p.m., she had run out of questions and closed the deposition. The stenographer promised her a transcript within ten days.

  She walked over to her car, noted the expired meter and the ticket stuck behind the wiper blade. She took the ticket off and stuffed it in her coat pocket. Then she opened the car door, started it up, and in a minute was on her way north toward Talcourt.

  Beth drove up to North Providence, found the radio station, and parked her car on the side street across from it. WFEX-FM was a five-thousand-watt station playing soft rock for its audience in the Providence area.

  Upon entering the building, Beth found herself in an office furnished with four closely packed metal desks loaded with the day’s accumulation of empty coffee cups, but no people. Bright fluorescent lights were on the ceiling. One side wall was decorated with calendars and old album covers. The other side wall had the shelving that contained the station’s library of CDs. The back wall had a large glass picture window and a door that opened into the first-floor broadcasting studio.

  Beth walked over to the picture window and looked through it into the studio. She saw a muscular man sitting alone in the studio working at a console, his black hair in dreadlocks, full beard, with a diamond stud in his right ear. He was wearing jeans, sneakers, and a paint-stained sweatshirt from a Mount Pleasant High School. When he saw Beth, he smiled broadly and with his hand motioned her toward the studio door.

  She walked over to the door, opened it up, and stuck her head inside. “Can you tell me where Robert Talcourt is?”

  “Upstairs in studio two recording some advertisements. Is he expecting you?”

  Beth was surprised by the quiet, articulate voice. It was in direct contrast to the imposing physical picture the man presented.

  “Not really. Can I go up there?” she asked.

  “You can, but you’d probably trip and break your neck on the unlighted stairs. Why don’t you let me have your name and I’ll call him.”

  “Beth, Elisabeth Swahn.”

  “Will Bobby know you, Beth?”

  “Maybe. Tell him I was his father’s attorney. I’m in town on business and dropped in to say hello.”

  “Okay, just a second.” He picked up a phone and dialed a two-digit number. “Bobby? It’s Justin,” he said into the phone before dropping into a Jamaican Creole patois. Beth heard what he said, but that was about it. She couldn’t understand a word.

  After a few seconds of listening, he laughed and hung up the phone. “He says he’ll be down in a few minutes and that I shouldn’t try too much of my Rasta nightclub routine on you. He’s just finishing up now. Why don’t you find yourself a clean spot out there to sit while you wait. And my name’s Justin.”

  “Thanks, Justin,” Beth said.

  “I admit, the place does kind of look like a disaster hit it at the end of a day.”

  “That is something of an understatement,” she replied as she looked around the office. She heard his laughter even as the door to the soundproof studio closed behind her. She looked around, found a swivel chair next to one of the desks, and sat down.

  In a few minutes, Beth heard the thudding of footsteps bouncing down stairs. Must be an old wooden stairway, she thought, an old and very creaky wooden stairway, in fact, out in the hallway. When Bob Talcourt came into the room, she was amazed first and foremost by his height. This guy must be more than six five, and he’s slender, she thought. And he’s young looking, almost a baby face. Not at all like I imagined. He’s also got nice eyes behind those horn-rimmed glasses, and all those great brown curls rolling down the back of his neck.

  “You want to see me?” As he entered the room, he spoke to her in a monotone reserved for uncategorized strangers. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name when Justin mentioned it.” He was dressed casually, wearing khakis, black western-style boots, and a dark green V-neck sweater that scooped low enough to expose a few hairs on his chest.

  “My name is Beth…Elisabeth Piccolo-Swahn. My firm represented your dad in a case earlier this year.” She was trying to sound as cordial as possible.

  “Well, hello, Beth. My father and I were not very close to each other. What can I do for you?” It was a man’s voice, not at all boyish like his face.

  “I was in Providence for a meeting today and thought I’d stop in to pay my condolences. We were all very upset when we learned about your father’s death.”

  “Well, thank you. I appreciate that. And I didn’t mean to sound so abrupt,” he added. “It’s just that my father died two months ago and I didn’t expect to meet anyone in Providence today who knew anything about it. How did you find me?”

  “When your father retained us last year, he filled out our information sheet and listed you as next of kin. I never noticed it until I was going through the file last week getting it ready for storage.” First lies out, Beth thought to herself. How many will it take?

  “That’s more than just interesting. I never thought he considered me his next of kin.” He shoved aside some coffee cups and sat on the edge of the desk across from Beth.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “After he divorced my mother, he never bothered to visit or bring me to his place. I tried to start up the relationship when I came back to the States two years ago, but I never got very far.”

  “Where were you?” She already knew…from Google.

  “I was in Zaire with the Peace Corps trying to build and operate radio stations for the natives. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but it never got off the ground.”

  “Did you come back to Providence after that?”

  “When my fiancée invited me back to attend her wedding to some other guy, I decided it was time to return to the States.”

  “What a thrill that must have been.”

  “Well, it’s no matter. Anyhow, I’m being rude. The coffee here is hot, although highly contaminated with I don’t know what. Can I get you a cup?”

  “Thanks, I’d like that.”

  “How do you take it?”

  “Milk, Sweet’N Low if you have it.”

  “No problem. Let me see if I can find a clean cup around here.”

  “You know, I had a great deal of respect for your father. When he died, I had no one to even send a card to.” I wonder if lying becomes easier, she thought. I feel like the mystery guest on To Tell the Truth.

  “Hey, listen, I didn’t even hear about it myself until a week after it happened.”

  “Are you serious? How did you hear?”

  “His secretary got a call from some guy down in San Juan who had chartered the boat to my father. He wanted to know where his boat was. Diane didn’t know who to call, so she finally called me and I called the Coast Guard. I heard about the accident from them.”

  “That must have been a shock,” Beth said, focusing her attention on his facial expressions, looking there to figure out where truth ended and fiction began.

  “Well, the Coast Guard didn’t really have much to say. Just that there had been an accident with my father and his lady friend reported lost. They even mailed me an old red polo shirt they said was his. I don’t even know if it is his…it could belong to anybody for all I know.”

  “How awful.” She was moved by his distress. “You don’t even know, then, if he’s really dead.” She shifted back to her search for information, trying to provoke him into extending the conversation.

  “Of course he’s dead.”

  “But you don’t have any real proof.”

  “He ran the boat up on a reef. They sank. He died. How much proof do I need?”

  “Did he have any life insurance?” She already knew about a Metropolitan Life policy from the computer printout in her file.

  �
�I found one policy. He must have taken it out as part of his divorce settlement with my mother. But when I called the insurance company, they wanted some proof of his death.”

  “Makes sense. What company?” Beth asked. “Some are better than others.”

  “Metropolitan Life.”

  “Do you have a lawyer working on it?”

  “No.”

  “How much was involved?” She was skeptical about his disavowal.

  “The policy was for three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Why do you ask?”

  “I was just thinking about why you’d want to let it go by without fighting for it.” Take it easy now, Beth, she thought, don’t push him too hard. You just met, and this isn’t a courtroom.

  “There’s more to life than money.”

  “Of course there is, but money is one of the essential parts.”

  “You want to help me collect?”

  “Someone should. Was there a will?” Good, she thought, let him think I’m hustling for business.

  “I’m not sure I want to push it.”

  “Did you know you were the beneficiary of his life insurance?”

  “No, but I guess he didn’t really have anyone else. Except maybe his girlfriend, Erica.”

  “I never met her.”

  “My dad never had much of a family. An older brother out on the coast died years ago. I was his only child. The only reason he had any memorial service at all was because my mother had her minister here in town say a few words.”

  “Does your mother live in Rhode Island?”

  “Yes. She married a local doctor a couple of years ago. They’re living up in Warwick. I guess she felt like receiving absolution when she heard about my father’s death. She made a donation to the church so they’d hold a service.”

  “That was very kind of her, no matter what you think.”

  “How do you know what I think?” Bob asked. His voice suddenly took on a defensive cant.

  “It comes through clearly from the way you talk.”

  “I try not to show the anger.”

  “You’re not good at hiding it.”

  “Hey, look, my father deserted me when I was eleven.”

  “Everybody’s got their own life to live.”

  “That’s a crock!” he erupted emotionally, clenching his right hand into a fist for emphasis. “That’s easy to say and not so easy to accept.” His face flushed.

  Beth stood her ground, refusing to blink at his display, but inwardly she was moved by its intensity and connected to its cause. “I can imagine how you feel,” she said softly. “I lost my father when I was a lot younger than you were.” Boy, she thought, he sure sounded real that time.

  “I’m sorry. I have some buttons that are pretty easy to push. Dumping on you isn’t fair.”

  “That’s all right, perhaps I should go.” Beth looked at her watch and saw that an hour had passed. “I have a plane to catch. Thanks for your time.” She started to get up, uncertain if she wanted to spend any more time with this man.

  “Don’t be silly. I’m glad you came. Come on. Let’s go and have a drink.” His ebullience returned as quickly as he had blown it.

  “No, I mean it. It’s getting late.”

  “Please, Beth. I’m not usually so antisocial. And I’m also embarrassed because at twenty-five, I can’t forgive my dead father for leaving my mother, and what’s worse, I dump it all on somebody I just met.”

  “Well, it’s got to be real quick.”

  “Great. Just let me call Justin in the studio for a second.” Bob reached over for the microphone on the desk and picked it up. “Justin?”

  “Yes, Bobby?”

  “If Marcie calls, tell her I’ll be a little late.”

  “Should I tell her why?” Justin asked.

  “Be a good boy now. Just give her my message.”

  “No problem. See you tomorrow.”

  “Right. Good night.” Bob turned, put down the microphone, and motioned Beth toward the door. “Come on,” he said to her. “I’ll take you over to Barclay’s. It’s right down the block.” He followed her out the door into the street. The early evening wind hit them with a refreshing gust of cold air.

  “Who’s Marcie?” Beth asked, buttoning her coat as she walked on the sidewalk with him. (Your wife?)

  “My stepsister. I share a house with her and her husband. She worries about me a lot.”

  “The way Justin was teasing you, I thought the relationship was different.” (Sometimes, it’s good to be wrong.)

  —

  When Bob held the door open for her at Barclay’s, she gave him one point for ordinary courtesy. When he pulled out a chair for her at the table and carefully slid it under her as she sat down, it reminded her of Max out with Andi, a definite positive. But when he actually stood up for her as she returned from the ladies’ room, she knew then that whatever else Sloane’s son might turn out to be, he was certainly a gentleman in the classic tradition.

  “So is this where you radio guys hang?” she asked him.

  “Yeah, it’s the closest place with the best burgers and the latest hours.”

  “Do you live near here?”

  “A few blocks away.”

  “Where was your father’s place?”

  “He rented a place on the other side of town. I had to sign some papers when he sold our house because I was on the deed with him.”

  “How come?”

  “My mother insisted on it because she didn’t trust him.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “And I know he must have taken back a mortgage from the buyers because after the sale, I deposited a monthly check from them into a joint account I had with him. The checks stopped this year.”

  “Maybe they defaulted.”

  “Who cares.”

  “You really ought to check it out. Might be worthwhile for you.”

  “Are you volunteering?”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “It’s a yes.”

  “What’ll it cost me?”

  “Just pay for the beers.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  “When did he leave Providence?”

  “He got a condo in New York about two years ago when he went to work for Paramount.”

  “So tell me about yourself. Seeing anyone?” (Ping! Ball’s in your court.)

  I’ve been seeing a professor from Brown on and off, more off than on.”

  “How come?”

  “She’s totally focused on getting tenure and I guess I’m looking for a little more commitment. How about you?”

  “I broke up with the guy I was supposed to marry last year and moved into my own apartment. Then I dated an FBI agent I knew from law school for a while, but he got relocated to San Diego last summer, so nothing’s going on lately.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “I’m an only child. My real father died in an accident when I was five, so my mother raised me alone until she married my stepdad. He has two daughters and a son that I’m very close to.”

  “That’s great. I’m close to Marcie too, and I play basketball on the same team as her husband.”

  “I guess you could say we have stuff in common.”

  “I guess….”

  She was back out at Green Airport in time to return the rental and catch the eight thirty flight back to New York. By ten fifteen, she was back in her apartment, reviewing and making notes on what she had learned.

  “Beth?”

  “Yes, Carmen.”

  “There’s a call for you. Robert Talcourt? Sounds like he’s trying to sell you something.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Want me to get rid of him?”

  “No. Put him through.” The opportunity to talk to him again interested her on several levels.

  The intercom beeped again and the green LED started flashing. Although alone, Beth self-consciously straightened her blou
se, ran her fingers through her hair, and took a deep breath before picking up the phone. She decided to keep the conversation at arm’s length until she knew what he was calling about. “Elisabeth Piccolo-Swahn here,” she announced formally, although this time the hyphenated version sounded a little pompous to her ears.

  “Beth? It’s Bob Talcourt. Leonard Sloane’s son.”

  “Bob. Oh, hi!” she said, as if in belated recognition. “How’re you doing?”

  “Fine. I’m in the city today, and I thought I’d give you a call.”

  “What brings you here?”

  “I had an interview this morning for a DJ spot.”

  “Hope it went well.”

  “So do I. Listen, I’ve been thinking about some of the things you said when you were in Providence Monday, you know, about my father’s estate and his insurance. I picked up a box of papers from his condo after he died. I thought maybe if you had some time today, we could get together for a few minutes and talk. Maybe you could look over some of the papers for me.”

  “My day’s kind of jammed, Bob. I have a major hearing on for tomorrow.” She instinctively applied one of Clifford’s elementary rules for getting new clients. They must perceive their attorneys to be very busy and successful.

  “I didn’t expect to be coming to New York either, but the station didn’t call me until late last night. If you’re too busy, we can make it some other time.”

  “Hang on a second. Let me take a look.” She started scrolling through the office diary, hoping to find a window when Clifford would be out of the office. A conference with Sloane’s son was not something she wanted to share with him. Anyway, what did Bob want to see her for? She was the one trying to investigate him. If he was involved with his father’s scheme, what was he calling her about? And if he wasn’t involved, what was he calling her about? Well, she thought, only one way to find out, and she hit the flashing light on the phone.

  “Bob? You still there?” she asked.

  “I’m still here,” he replied.

  “How about three this afternoon? I can squeeze a little and shift things around.”