by Ray Merritt
Enough, he’s had his moment. Now for mine.
“Evan, I wanted to discuss my engagement and get your take on the latest bump-up—Tremaine’s pregnancy. And, also, de Vil’s lawsuit.” It took him a few seconds to process my request.
“Oh . . . well, I don’t take de Vil’s suit seriously. They have no grounds to claim undue influence. Ben was his own man. He was in fact very lucid until the end. Anyone involved will testify to that. I have been the executor for the last twenty years, with the exception of two of the last three. That was Tremaine’s doing. She had a fit when he told her about my position. She gave him no peace until he named her. Once the honeymoon was over, Ben insisted we revert to his original preference. You can confirm that with Charlotte. When Charlotte told de Vil, just before the funeral, that I was the executor, they shouldn’t have been surprised. This is just legal posturing. Again that old expression applies. The best offense is a good defense.”
“Something like that,” I responded, mercifully not correcting him. He had reversed the famous Von Clausewitz line.
“They’re just, I suspect, trolling for a generous enhancement over what Tremaine got under Ben’s last Will, hoping that we pay up to avoid a sordid public media event. The rags would relish that. Look at what happened with Astor.”
“Particularly, I would think, when they see the Precatory Letter.”
Evan stiffened.
“Why on earth would we give them that? It’s addressed to me personally, and if I’m not to be the executor it would not be relevant. Additionally, it should be considered a privileged letter between a client and his attorney and out of their reach.” “
I understand, but arguably the letter goes to Ben’s state of mind, so the litigators and the Trusts and Estates folks might feel differently.”
“That’s absurd! They can all go fuck themselves!” Evan countered, with a turn of phrase I’d never heard him utter before. Obviously this matter had settled in his stomach like a prickly pear.
“That seems like something Charlotte would dream up. As for the child, I’m happy for Tremaine. It’ll give her something to remind her of Ben, other than her inheritance.”
“Don’t you find it odd that they would have been intimate at the same time he was essentially writing her out of his Will, terminating their marriage, and carrying on with Kati?”
“Jonathan, I don’t speculate on a client’s libido. You know as well as I do that Ben was always in high fervor. Sex may be the poor man’s polo, but it was the only sport Ben cared passionately about. And Tremaine, after all, was his wife.”
“Well, do you know if he was seeing any other women besides Tremaine and Kati?”
“Jonathan, you should know—better than most—that Ben and I were professional friends, not social friends.”
I believed Evan. Thinking about it, I cannot remember his ever referring to a single non-client-related person. I’m not sure he had personal friends. He was a true legal monk. The Firm was his ministry, this club his chapel. He needed no more.
I sensed this line of inquiry was over as far as he was concerned.
“Evan, the principal purpose of meeting with you today is to debrief you about the events that took place the day Ben died and get your input on them. You’re the only impartial person who was there.” I thought the last phrase might lubricate his response.
“Well, what would you like to know?” he asked. With Evan, a little sucking up goes a long way.
“Let’s start with the purpose of the trip to London.”
“Ben, Luc, and I were meeting with Darren Russett’s people about the possible sale of ClearAire. You know, Ozone’s private security and military assistance division—Luc’s baby. You haven’t been around in the last few years to witness its extraordinary growth. ClearAire benefited dramatically from wars and global unrest. It’s now surpassing the entertainment division in profitability. Ben wanted to sell. He feared that in time Washington would significantly reduce its dependence on hired guns. Deep down I think Ben found it dirty business. Luc was adamantly opposed. I tried to be a matchmaker, even suggesting at one point that Luc consider leading a buyout of the division. Luc rejected that. He felt the business needed to remain part of Ozone to succeed. Ben remained unpersuaded, but agreed to think further on it. Anyway, Russett’s offer was well below what Ben would accept. They’re hard bargainers, but I’m sure they’ll be back with more. Their courtship is just beginning.”
“Did you in fact meet with the Russett group?” I asked.
“Yes, in the morning, just after Dorothy left. As I recall, the meeting lasted about two hours, and after that Luc, Ben, and I huddled on the subject. Luc and Ben went at each other for about an hour. Darren and Ben go back a long way. They became very good friends—primarily through their common charities—UNICEF and the Boy Scouts. Ben idolized him. You do know that Russett is now the richest man in the world—next to Gates. Ben was very upset by Luc’s conduct at the meeting, even though Darren wasn’t there. He feared that Luc’s abrasive attitude would get back to Russett.”
“After that meeting, what came next?”
“Luc left, and Ben spent some time with Leo alone. Then he and I had lunch with Peter Abelard, the executive director of the Baum Foundation. He happened to be in London on foundation business and asked to have lunch. Ben fired Peter during dessert.”
“Why?”
“Ben wanted to change the foundation’s mission purpose from promoting the arts and amassing a collection back to its original mission purpose—fostering a better understanding of autism and enhancing children’s welfare and the appreciation of literature, particularly the study of how children’s books speak to adults. Subjects, I suspect, Peter had no expertise or interest in. And Ben wanted to make them not just guidelines but binding on the trustees.”
“Was that a reaction to the flap over Leona Helmsley’s millions to her dog?” I asked. “Remember that case? The trustees essentially ignored her direction and went their own way. That reminds me! I should put provisions in my Will relating to my dog and ensure that my executors don’t ignore my wishes!”
Evan seemed disdainfully nonplussed. So I proceeded with my inquiries.
“How did Mr. Abelard handle his termination?”
“I must say, Peter was quite the gentleman about it. I sensed he had been forewarned.
“After that, let’s see . . . ” Evan paused.
“Oh, I left to go make some stateside calls while Ben and Peter finished up. Then Ben met with his daughter’s friend, Dr. Thompson. She’s Leo’s psychiatrist—or psychologist of sorts. I was not needed for that.”
“Did you overhear what that was about?”
“Not really. My room had a door to the hall and a door into the living room of Ben’s suite. That one was a double so you could hear only loud sounds.”
“Did you hear anything loud during the meeting with Dr. Thompson?”
“Now that you ask, yes. Seemed like the two of them were having a blistering exchange. I could not make out what it was about. I presumed it had to do with Leo, but I am not sure. It was quite heated.
“I then left for a few hours. Went to Nutter’s on Savile Row to pick out some new shirts. They’re still the best. Later I returned to the hotel suite to report stateside on some corporate developments. When I got back, Kati had already arrived. I joined them for a quick drink and then went back to my room to freshen up. I was going to Harry’s Bar for cocktails with Sonia Shüller. She’s a new partner in the London office and later I had planned to have dinner with Jocelyne Masters. She is the widow of the former head of that office. She’s a lovely woman. Do you remember her?”
“No, not really.”
“Well, just as I was about to leave, Ben came out and asked if we would fetch the house doctor. He said he was not feeling well. We called the doctor, who came immediately. He and Ben retired to the bedroom. After a few minutes, the doctor came out and told us Ben had died.”
“Mus
t have been very traumatic.”
“Yes, we were close, as you know . . . I suspect the day was too much for him. His ticker just gave up.”
There was something hollow, detached, and matter-of-fact in Evan’s description of Ben’s last moments. I would have expected a little more angst, even from Evan.
“It’s unfortunate that his death occurred, but it was going to happen sooner or later anyway. You know, of course, about his condition. Perhaps it was a godsend—may have saved him a lot of pain.”
“On that subject, his cancer, who knew about that?”
“It was a tight circle—Dorothy and, of course, myself. I expect that Dorothy told Dr. Thompson—Eloise—and perhaps there might have been a few others, but I don’t think Luc or Kati or even Tremaine knew anything about it. Oh, and I expect his secretary did too.”
“One last question, Evan. What’s your take on Ben’s letter to you?”
“It was typical Ben. You know . . . as hard-nosed and serious as he was in business, he was quite quirky in his personal views and hobbies. He didn’t discuss them much with me. He really was into that fantasy literature. Can’t say that I am. I suppose it was his way to let off steam and have fun. I don’t make anything of the letter. As far as his demise, I certainly don’t think foul play was involved. For god’s sake, he had a heart attack.”
He paused, realizing that his annoyance was getting the better of him.
“The letter—just the jokester in him creating a little havoc. I’m sorry that Charlotte didn’t simply file it away. Then we wouldn’t be involved in this nonsense and wouldn’t have had to impose on you.”
He leaned toward me, his eyes staring straight into mine.
“Jonathan, you’re like a son to me, always have been. This inquisition that the Firm roped you into is pure partner posturing. The sooner you conclude this matter, the better for all concerned. Wrap it up quickly. We’re only doing this to placate the pantywaists at the Firm. We really owe it to the shareholders of Ozone to get back to business and to Ben’s heirs to let them get on with their lives.”
That was his summation and the signal that we were done.
21
“Yes, we’re on the road again. This time to Washington. Like a band of gypsies, on the road again! ”
Nip didn’t respond, but Viggie did. “I zingari? Non capisco! They live like wolves in the woods,” Viggie murmured.
Italians are not very hospitable to Romas.
“It’s a song,” I lamely tried to explain. Willie Nelson wasn’t in his vocabulary so I changed the subject. It was too early in our relationship to work on tolerance issues.
I had decided to have Viggie drive us down. It would give us a little break from Ben’s place and give Terry some time off to sort out Ben’s files without constant interruptions. Nip loved the car. And the Willard Hotel was very dog-friendly.
“Vig, I’m surprised you’ve never been to Washington. It’s America’s Rome. Quite beautiful.” And it was. Some view it as the first tangible manifestation of the City Beautiful Movement in America. That movement’s proponents believed in the power of fountains, statues, and tree-lined boulevards as an antidote for moral decay and social disorder. Not that it worked all that well in that last regard, but it’s still a stunningly beautiful city.
I was off to debrief Luc and garner some documents at Ozone’s Washington operation. Its elaborate offices are housed in the Evening Star Building on Pennsylvania Avenue, just an hour away from ClearAire’s principal training facility, which is located on 2,000 acres in rural Virginia. These two locations were Luc Grogaman’s fiefdom.
Luc had responded with undisguised disdain when he agreed to meet. He was a legend at Ozone. A former Navy SEAL who, after a short stint in the service, earned his MBA in record time. He then joined Ozone and rose quickly within the ranks. Grogaman was not one of my favorites. He seemed infected by a malevolence that I could not comprehend. Perhaps something had happened during his service days. I found him the opposite of Ben. Perhaps opposites do attract. And, I have to admit, they made an effective team.
We had a long ride ahead of us. Nip was no diversion. She had fallen sound asleep as soon as we cleared the Holland Tunnel.
So I engaged Viggie in more stories about Italy. He seemed to brighten up when he talked about his youth—other than his immediate family.
“Vig, what was living with your nonno like?” He looked at me curiously, but after a moment, took the bait.
“My nonno, he was a gradevole persona . . . a good man, a happy man. He had no one to live with so he liked to take me in. He would tell me stories, especially about la tratta delle marionette, Pinocchio. You heard the story, no?”
“Yes, it was one of my favorites.”
“But it’s not like the movie. That’s for bambini. The real story is about a boy who does bad things. He acted like a sciocco—an idiot. But he always comes back to his father, who—you know—had the same name as my nonno. Maybe that’s why he liked the story so much. Pinocchio, he had many adventures. You want me to tell you about them?”
“Sure . . . beats talk radio.”
“C’era una volta un pezzo di legno,” he said with a broad smile. “Once upon a time there was this piece of wood.”
Then we tramped through the somewhat sordid stories of a rebellious child who hated school, rejected authority, refused to learn, and took pleasure in laziness, a child who was occasionally cruel and dishonest, with barely a trace of integrity. He, of course, falls in with the wrong crowd.
The way Viggie told the story, the little wooden orphan was indeed very selfish and ungrateful, his “father” understandably hot-tempered, and the Blue Fairy quite hard-hearted.
Viggie told me, through these escapades, the story of his life—his pain, his outrage, his search for family. It would seem that the wood from which Pinocchio was carved was really humanity itself.
The only real difference between Viggie and the puppet was that Pinocchio was looking for his family tree and Viggie was running away from his.
“Do you know, Mr. T, that Mr. Baum gave money for a statue in the Pinocchio Park that was built on the river Pescia, right near my nonno’s house? It is beautiful, but not as big as the park in New York.”
“Yes, Terry told me a little about it.”
Viggie was a good talker as well as a good—and fast—driver. He could do both at the same time and without taking his hands off the wheel, a virtuoso performance for an Italian.
“How did you get to be such a good driver?”
Viggie beamed as he told me the story of his adolescence.
“You know, when I was young, before my family was killed, I was what they called un cattivo ragazzo, a bad boy. All I wanted to do was drive faster, shoot better, and run faster than anyone else. I thought that would keep me alive . . . and maybe if I was with my family that day they too would be alive. My hero was Mario Andretti. You know him? He was the greatest race car driver ever and, like me, he came to America when he was young. I only knew America from the movies—lots of fast cars and everyone had a gun. My nonno said no guns and no driving, but he let me go running. I ran many kilometers every day. And when my uncle told me I could come to New York, I was very happy. Mr. Ben, he was a lot like my nonno. He was hard on me but good. He said he would pay for me to go to school for race car drivers for three months. It was my dream and now I go there every year for two weeks to practice.
“He also helped me get a gun license and put me in a shooting club in Chelsea—not far from where we work. And he also got me into a gym. He was a good—a great—man. I loved him . . . and I loved his dog, Argos. Now they are both gone. I only cried three times in my whole life and these were two of them. Now I only have Mama Terry. And you and Dixie—er, Mr. Dixon. You know, he and I go to the gym together and for long runs on weekends. Sometimes in the big park where we went to with your dog and sometimes we go to Roosevelt Island and run along the water. Dixie is strong like me. He makes me work
hard. I like that . . . I like him.”
That was news. Dixie had never mentioned it. I smiled. These were not my children. Each was his own person. They didn’t need my permission.
Just as he finished, we entered the Fort McHenry Tunnel in Baltimore.
We would soon be in the capital.
I scrolled down my e-mails, past the spam that had slipped by my filter, until I got to Drew’s missive.
She reported success with locating Kati. She would meet with her the day after next. She advised that Dixie had interviewed the hotel doctor and had an audience with a deputy coroner the next morning. She indicated that she had other interesting info, not appropriate for e-mail.
We came into Washington and proceeded down Pennsylvania Avenue. The National Gallery was to our left with its subtle yet imposing modern wing. It had been Alice’s favorite museum.
Moments later, we pulled in front of the Willard, one of Washington’s most prestigious hotels. The “residence of presidents” is its tagline. It is fair for it to be boastful. The Willard has hosted every American president as a guest since our twelfth, Zachary Taylor. Lincoln stayed there with his family for the ten days leading up to his inauguration. The bill, including meals, totaled $773.75.
Only the prices and the plumbing have changed since then.
It’s a national treasure, full of history. The public rooms befit a place for the powerful and privileged. The grand foyer shows off its mirrored panels, marble columns, period chandeliers, and intricate marble mosaics, while a harpist serenades.
The private rooms are as one would expect—heavy curtains, high four-poster beds, mirrors, and TVs discreetly but strategically placed. The management had a sterling silver water bowl awaiting Nip, with a bottle of beef-flavored water.
Nice touch.
Nip surveyed the bed’s height. It was a giant leap for dog-kind, but she was game. And after one aborted assault, she made it. She sensed that Washington was a place where it was best to be on top.