I was just about finished with my meal as was Imogen when they arrived, so there was no point in inviting them over to the table to sit. We did have a couple of glasses of wine left in the bottle that I wanted to drink before this lunch was over.
Shannon, Eric's wife, had already pulled over a chair from the table next to us and was gabbing with Imogen. Eric was still standing.
"You want to finish our drinks over there?" Eric asked, pointing to the edge of the patio.
There was a white rail that lined the perimeter of the patio.
"Sure," I said. "You ladies don't mind if we stand and watch these guys try to play golf?" I asked, pointing to the rail.
"Not at all," Ginny said. "You lads have fun."
Her English accent gets a little stronger when the drinks start flowing.
Eric and I strolled over to his table, he picked up his martini, and then we walked over to the rail. I sipped my wine on the way. I had already refreshed my glass before I had gotten up.
"Did you hear what happened?" Eric asked.
Of course I had heard what happened. I was there. At the crime scene. On the case.
"Just the basics," I answered.
"Unbelievable," he said.
I sipped my wine. I wasn't going to offer up anything new to Eric. I changed the subject.
"So how's the old market treating you?" I asked.
I know nothing about Wall Street. All I know is how to evaluate, finance, and structure a technology company. I can read a balance sheet and an income statement, but that's about the beginning and the end of my financial acumen.
Eric, on the other hand, was a finance guy at some hedge fund. I wasn't really sure what he did or if it had anything to do with Wall Street. The only thing I really knew about him was that he liked his martinis dry. And he was pleasant enough to be around.
He laughed. "You really have no idea what I do, do you?"
I laughed back. "None."
"Work is great. In fact, I'm glad that I bumped into you. I was going to wait until I saw you at the club alone, but now's as good a time as any."
"Oh Jesus," I said. "Here we go…"
He kept laughing, "Max, Max. Come on. Hear me out."
Money. Everyone's got it here at Delmar. And everyone wants more of it. It never ends.
I sipped my wine, hoping I'd be numb enough by the time Eric spoke.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
He sipped his martini slowly. I didn't know why he was drinking it at that pace. He was usually a chugger. He would drain his drink in record time and was typically on his second by the time I was on my third sip. He must have been building tension, leading up to his big pitch, which I was confident was surely coming.
"What do you know about derivatives?" he asked finally.
"Absolutely nothing," I said. "Why?"
"There's a guy out there that I just invested in, my own money, that's turning twenty-five percent returns quarter after quarter."
"And?"
"And he deals in derivatives. That's why I asked."
"Well, that's interesting. And what would that possibly have to do with me?"
Eric took a sip of his drink then spoke. "His firm is always looking for investors. It's like investing in a mutual fund or the stock market. He's sort of a wealth manager but one with big returns. Anyway, they only let people invest by referral. I figured you might be in the market, so to speak, for a wealth manager or a good investment at the very least. So I'm letting you know."
Now I'm not educated on the ins and outs of derivatives, but I do recognize that turning twenty-five percent returns quarter after quarter is good. Hell, it's very good. It's even great. For any business. But it had to be risky. I was guessing that it could all come crumbling down at any point. Regardless, I wanted to hear a little more.
"I appreciate it, Eric. I'm always looking. For what, I don't know."
"Funny, Max. This one might be worth your time."
"And money," I said.
"Of course. Money makes money."
"So, big shot, how much did you put in, if you don't mind me asking?"
"I put in the minimum."
"And that would be?"
"Two mil."
"Two million?"
"Yeah, but I've already made 500 K."
"On paper," I said.
I knew all about paper money. I've made plenty of it and lost plenty of it. Millions on paper doesn't mean a thing. Cash is king. And it always will be.
He laughed. "Isn't everything paper money? Zeros and ones on a computer screen digitally floating between people, banks, companies, countries."
"I like my money in cash. Where I can go to the bank and take it out."
"You can pull out any time. I've seen it, even in the past few months. Guy I know pulled out four million."
"Really?"
"Yup, he probably paid a small penalty, but who cares? Made a couple of million bucks and called it a day."
"I'm intrigued," I said.
"Listen, let me get you his info, and you can look into it. When you're ready to invest, just let them know I referred you," he said.
The perks of a country club, I guess. They say that all big deals are made on the golf course. They never say anything about making deals on the patio looking out at one. I took another sip of wine, and Eric threw back the rest of his martini. That's the Eric I know. Attaboy.
"Thanks," I said.
"You going to be around in a bit?"
I told him that we'd hang around and that in an hour or so I'd be in the main clubhouse with Ginny, having a drink. He promised to meet me there and to drop off the information. I thanked him again, and then we walked back over to the ladies.
Imogen and Shannon looked like they were engrossed in some riveting conversation that I was sure I didn't want any part of, so Eric and I chatted a bit more by the side of the table while Eric ordered another martini that he proceeded to drain rapidly. We discussed the weather, the club, the Yankees, and then we were ready for the checks. I signed mine. Eric signed his, and then we all dispensed some pleasantries as well as hugs, handshakes, and air kisses. Then we were done. I was a little tipsy. More like drunk, so I asked Mike for a golf cart shuttle to take us over to the main clubhouse. He ordered us one—it arrived—and off went Imogen and me at fifteen miles per hour on our way to see Bill.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was almost quittin' time for ol' Bill when we pulled up in our golf cart shuttle off to the side of the clubhouse. Imogen and I got out and proceeded to walk over to the golf marshal shed. Here we were again. Back at the golf course. Back where we had witnessed our friend lying face down in a pool of dried blood. His throat slit. Still in his golfing gear. His ball just sitting there waiting to be played. But it never would.
Bill was standing in the shed, flipping through his schedule book, eying something, and moving his finger along the page. He didn't even see us approach.
"What do you say, pal?" I asked, apparently startling Bill.
"Max, you surprised me."
He looked up from his book and spoke directly to us.
"Didn't mean to," I said.
"Oh, don't worry about it. I'm just getting old. You two looking to get in a quick nine? It's getting a little late."
I wasn't dressed for golf. Neither was Ginny. But what other reason would two people be standing in front of a golf marshal, if not to play golf?
"No, no. Not today. Already had a few too many, if you know what I mean," I said.
He laughed. "Do I ever."
He lifted his hand from under his book revealing an opened beer. He snuck a quick sip and then placed the beer back down out of sight.
"What can I help you with, Max?"
I looked over at his schedule book and noticed that there were no marks or doodles by any of the names. Since he had invited me to look into the shed when he revealed his beer, I snuck a peek at the book and seized the opportunity to ask a few questions.
"I
never noticed before, but your schedule book is pretty neat. No erasing or scribbling and doodling. Don't you get bored in there all day?"
He blushed. It looked like a blush of pride. He pulled out the book and put it in front of my face and Ginny's face for that matter.
"One line through a cancellation. Other than that, no marks. It's an old habit. On the tour you have to keep a perfect scorecard. If you make a mistake you put a line through it, no erasing. No doodling either. Just a neat, accurate record of the round. I guess it carried with me."
"And what neat penmanship," Ginny added.
Leave it to a woman to notice that. I was oblivious.
He blushed even more.
"I'll always take a compliment from a pretty woman," he said.
Now Imogen blushed. What was going on here? One word. Alcohol. Leave it to Bill, even after all these years. He was smooth. But, it was sort of old man smooth. They could get away with crap like that. Complimenting random women, calling them sweetie and darling. Somehow when you reached a certain age things that would get you slapped as a young man now appeared to work. Probably because the women viewed them as harmless. That was their mistake. These guys would jump on anything with a heartbeat. God bless them.
"You do have neat handwriting," I added. "Must be from signing all of those autographs."
That wasn't very nice. I knew it. He knew it. Imogen knew it. It was payback for his last remark. He wasn't famous. Around here, he did have a certain respect, but I wouldn't call it fame. He'd let the comment slide. I was sure of that.
"Well, it helps reconcile the books. Every day we compare the actual list of golfers against the computerized schedule then log it to make sure the guys like you pay."
I laughed.
"Hey, you're keeping tabs on me! I figured you'd let one or two rounds slide. Save me a few bucks."
"Can't do it, Max. It's my job."
"And I wouldn't want you to do it, Bill," I said. "Well, maybe, on second thought, at these prices, yeah, I would."
He chuckled.
I wanted to leave this conversation on a good note. I had gotten what I had come for. The news that whatever we saw on his appointment book from the day of the murder was an anomaly. That he was covering something up.
I stuck out my hand to give Bill a shake. He reciprocated, and we locked palms.
"I'll see you later, Bill. We just stopped by to say hi on our way to the bar. After all, why stop at a bottle of wine?"
He acknowledged our mutual admiration for alcohol by breaking our handshake and pulling up his beer for another swig.
"I'll be outta here soon enough," he said. "Might even grab a beer myself at the clubhouse."
"If you do, be sure to stop by, and say hello," Imogen said.
"I sure will, Mrs. Slade," he said.
We said our good-byes and headed over toward the clubhouse.
"How do you like that?" Imogen said.
"I like it very much, indeed," I said.
"He's hiding something," she said.
"I was thinking the same thing, my love."
"Bill is hiding something," she said again.
"Yes, I think we've covered that."
"I just can't believe it. Seems impossible that he would be an accomplice to murder," she said.
"All we know is that we've caught him—red-handed. But we still don't know what we've got. We'll have to dig a bit more. See what we can flush out. Then take poor ol' Bill to task for it."
"Will be a pity seeing him in jail."
"I wouldn't worry about that. We won't be visiting."
"Oh, Max," she said.
"Come, my love, let's go grab a drink. The night is young."
"And so are we," she added.
"Speak for yourself," I said.
"Pick up the pace, ol' man," she said, hurrying me along.
We spent the rest of the night drinking, enjoying a late light dinner, and meeting up again with Eric and Shannon. We talked some more and had a good time. He passed the information about the derivatives guy on to me, and I thanked him. Then we spent the remaining time together discussing the state of affairs of the Yankees.
When it was finally time to leave Imogen turned to me and whispered in my ear, "I love you."
And I loved her too. A lot.
"Now, let's get out of here," I responded, escorting her with interlocked arms to the door.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jabber was under my desk, curled in a ball on top of my feet, keeping them warm. I like to keep the office cool. So having a personal dog foot warmer is a perk. Plus, she likes coming to the office. Theoretically, she would meet new people too, if people came into the office looking for a private investigator. Today the only people who we were expecting were candidates for the open receptionist position.
Imogen had managed to set up an interview this morning. I didn't know how she had found the time yesterday to schedule this meeting in between our running around, but she had managed. The only downside to the interview process was that it was taking place way too early.
I like a leisurely morning. Typically, my earliest meeting should be ten. And if I'm being honest, I really don't like to do anything before eleven.
I was sipping my extra large coffee with cream as quickly as I could in order to wake up before candidate zero arrived. Ginny was leisurely drinking her coffee with soy, sitting on the couch, legs crossed, dressed in a cream skirt and white button down-blouse, staring blankly at the wall while I sat at my desk.
"What time is the person coming?"
Imogen looked over at me swallowing, "9:00."
"It's five to nine already. Where is she? It's bad enough I've been here since 8:30. Ticktock."
She didn't seem to care.
"No idea."
We sat staring at the wall, sipping our coffee for the next five minutes. Then, promptly at nine, someone walked into the office. If Jabber hadn't stood straight up, under my desk, exposing my feet to the cool air of the office, I wouldn't even have realized that someone had walked in. I was in some sort of trance. I think Imogen was as well.
"Nice and prompt," Imogen said, standing. "Coming," she shouted.
I guess not. She must have been tuned in the entire time.
"Let's see what you've dug up," I said, walking toward the door of my office.
Imogen ignored me, and we strolled into the reception area.
"Max, Imogen, good morning," she said.
Alese Steiner was standing in front of us in a different pair of perfectly fitting jeans, another T-shirt, and what appeared to be extremely expensive shoes.
"I'm sorry to come by so early, but I didn't think that this could wait," she said.
"No worries, we're always here at this time," I lied.
Imogen shot me a look managing to convey the sentiment that I was out of my mind.
"Would you like to have a seat, Miss Steiner?" Imogen asked.
"Alese," she said. "I think we're on a first name basis at this point."
Imogen chuckled. "Of course, Alese. Please, let's go to Max's office. Follow me."
We all walked over to my office, once again leaving reception empty, and found a place to sit in my sitting area. I avoided the club chair.
"What happened, Alese?" I asked.
She pulled out her cell phone from her Hermes handbag. Fiddled with it for a few moments and then spoke. "Here, listen to this."
Out of the phone's speakers came the sound of a computerized, disguised, distorted voice.
Die, Nazi Bitch.
The voice was slow, articulate, and clear. It was haunting in a way and must have been very disturbing to Alese.
"They called last night. Around ten."
"You didn't pick up?" I asked.
"I had fallen asleep. Didn't even hear it ring."
"At least they were polite enough to leave a message," I said, trying to bring some sort of levity to the situation.
"This is a silly question, but what number c
ame up on the caller ID?" Imogen asked.
"Private number," she said.
"We know they're not stupid," I said.
"We've got to try to trace it, Max," Imogen said.
"Of course we will," I said.
Whoever had called had her phone number and her address. That was what concerned me and what should have concerned her.
"Any idea how they got your cell phone number?" I asked.
"I have no clue, Max. And, to tell you the truth, I'm getting pretty freaked out."
"Alese, can I ask you something?"
"Of course, Max."
"I'm not trying to pry or to insult you or your family in any way, but this is a rather sensitive question."
"I'm an open book, Max. Ask away."
Imogen looked at me with a confused expression.
"Was anyone in your family part of the Nazi party?"
Alese's face dropped. The color ran out of her beautiful face. You could sense the tension that she felt. Meanwhile, Imogen almost choked. The way she looked at me made me think she couldn't believe that I would ask her that question point blank. But why not? We needed to know. How else were we going to find out the information?
She shifted in her chair, rather uncomfortably. "That's not something that we discuss, Max," Alese said.
"I appreciate that, but in this case I would say that it's relevant."
"Max, my family is from Germany. I'm a German citizen. You have to understand. World War II is a very sensitive subject. It's not something that we take lightly. Even using the word Nazi is highly charged."
German. That made sense. I all but figured she was from Germany. Not to stereotype but she was tall, blonde hair, blue eyes, beautiful with a very German sounding name. But no accent.
"Alese, I don't think we're trying to upset you or pry. I just think Max thinks it's relevant," Imogen said. "And so do I."
Glad to see that she was on board.
Alese took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. "Yes."
I couldn't believe my ears. Had she just admitted that someone in her family was a Nazi? I didn't say a word. I just sat there, drawing out the moment. Hoping that she would keep talking.
The Killing Green Page 5