by Ray Merritt
“You do have a point,” Dixie added. “It does seem Ben was very conflicted. He had to know that death was coming, but probably believed that an exception would be made in his case. That’s a Saroyan line.”
“Well, I’m not buying the possibility of suicide, period,” Drew countered.
“Don’t be so dismissive, Drew,” Dixie said. “Ben was on the verge of possibly losing control of his company and maybe his legacy. He was smart enough to know that artificial insemination of an over-thirty-five-year-old with the sperm of a sixty-plus-year-old was at best a long shot—so to speak. And being somewhat estranged from his daughter, having cancer, and losing his beloved dog had to have taken their toll.”
I then added, in a whisper, “When you lose all those you love, suicide is much more viable than you might think.”
“In all due deference, Ben was no Jonathan Tucker,” Dixie said, looking down.
Trying not to sound awkward, I said, “Let’s get back to our analysis. Let’s list the possible candidates other than Ben. That universe would have to include Luc, Kati, Abelard, and even Leo. Eloise and Tremaine have to be included, but they seem like longer shots.
“So starting with my favorite, Luc Grogaman. He’s a professional soldier, and killing is an accepted consequence of that trade. Ben’s death was Luc’s gain. He ended up in charge of the whole show and now controls his own destiny. To the extent there is any serious illegal dirt at ClearAire, which I think there may well be, he could now keep it buried or clean it up. And he was present in London that day. I would not rule him out.”
“I’d put Abelard on the list,” Dixie volunteered. “He was there several times. And he lost the best job he will ever have and, if Drew is correct about his buds, it may have been much more lucrative than we thought. My only reservation is that he does not seem too smart and I’m not sure he has the cojones to kill. Yet if greed is the biggest tool in his box, then he just might have sucked up enough courage to do it. I’ll cede the floor to Drew on Kati. Another one of my favorites.”
Drew snapped to attention.
“My approach to this is simple. ‘What would Agatha think?’ These events actually fit her classic motif—a suspicious death with multiple suspects who have secrets that eventually get discovered. In this case, we are not going to gather them in a room and announce the guilty one. If Ben’s death is foul play, it was most likely murder by poison, and if so it was most likely added to Ben’s food or perhaps put in his Bloody Marys. Agatha believed that poison was the easiest way, especially when others were present. According to her, no one notices the person waiting on you.”
I rejoined the conversation. “It may not have been over money. Financial gain is not the only reason people kill. In fact, it is not the principal reason. From what I’ve read, revenge is.
“If we follow the motive trail, Luc and Abelard might have acted in fear of jeopardy. Abelard clearly was out of a job, and his personal transactions might not stand the light of day. And the same may be said about Luc. Leo or Kati could have done it in anger or for revenge. Ben was jettisoning Leo and making a more perfect son. Kati must have known that Ben did not want her to have his child. Neither could change Ben’s mind. Eloise and Dorothy don’t seem to have any motive. There are plenty of sperm donors around. And Tremaine? Well, assuming Abelard was her accomplice, I’m not sure what she gained. Why make herself perpetually beholden to Peter? She would have wanted Ben to live at least a bit longer so the full amount of the prenup kicked in.”
“There is another possibility,” Drew added. “Leo could have been trying to save—not kill—his father. He might have concocted another Merlin cure, hoping to make his father better.”
“Good point,” Dixie allowed.
I nodded concurrence and added, “I think we need to do a little more legwork. Drew, could you call Pervy and find out if she recalls who visited Ben the day before he died? It dawned on me the other night that he did not just arrive in London the day he died. I expect he arrived midmorning of the day before. Might prove helpful to know who he met with that day, if anyone. I’ll check with Terry and you check with Pervy. Probe her a bit more. Now that time has passed and there were, hopefully, no adverse consequences for her, she just might be even more forthcoming.
“Also check with Kati. What I haven’t mentioned is that Eloise and Dorothy are really incensed about Ben’s infanticide provision as it relates to Kati. Dorothy is going to ask Evan if there could be a way to make Kati’s choice less draconian. She’s willing to waive some of her share of the estate to accommodate that. She’s even willing to personally gift her the difference if she elects not to abort. She may have reached out to Kati already. So without promising anything, you can fairly give her a little hope.”
“If it’s not too late,” Drew murmured. “Her genes weren’t good enough for Ben. I hope it won’t offend you, but he really was a creepster—a serial aborter, a chronic Romeo sniffing up every woman he met, a terrible father, and a scuzzball with an outsized ego. I’m not sure he could handle rejection. Perhaps when he couldn’t select the gender of his daughter’s child, he finally offed himself.”
“I fear we’re circling the drain. Drew, talk to Abelard again. See what his temperature is now. I once read that murder—if that’s what we have here—turns a bright light on and a lot of people are forced to walk out of the shadows. What they do after a murder is often more telling than their conduct before it.
“I think we all have to be careful not to be proprietary about our personal theories. That can frustrate the process. For now, keep your mind open and just gather info. Dixie, pursue the Madeira companies. You may well be onto something, but it may have nothing to do with Ben’s death. We’ll see.
“OK, back to the trenches. I have to see Evan early tonight for cocktails at his apartment—a command performance. I’ve never been there before; don’t know anyone who has. And Dixie, can you come by my place about nine thirty tonight? I want to hear more about ClearAire. I should be home by then. Ask the doorman if I’m in. I may be out with Nip. He’ll know. We’re now doing our constitutional down to the UN every night. Join us.”
35
Four-fifty Park was not imposing from the street—it was not even on Park Avenue. Close enough, however, to use that address. But as the doorman personally delivers you to your host’s floor and the elevator opens directly to his apartment, you quickly sense that this is a place for quiet money.
Evan greeted me with his signature handshake and embrace, careful not to draw me close enough to penetrate the boundaries around his personal space.
“So good of you to come. There is much for us to talk about and I thought it best done away from the commotion at the Firm. It’s unrelenting these days, but I’m sure you realize that. It’s been a trying few weeks, to say the least.”
In the gray early evening light, the color was wrung from his eyes and he looked older than I remembered. Big Law can do that. His silver hair, not quite as thick as I remembered, hung unkempt around his ears; his incessant attempts to slick it back were to no avail.
“You look tired, Evan.”
“C’est la guerre!”
That was a sure sign of fatigue. When he got tired or stressed, his pigeon French would come out. I often thought it was an annoying affectation that he used to gain time and gather his thoughts.
He was certainly in his element. The apartment was undeniably old-school charming. He introduced me to his furniture—two Louis XV high backs, an extravagant Bella Italianate sofa set, a nineteenth-century museum-quality grandfather clock that, he proudly pointed out, was made of marquetry wood. He allowed that these all came from his recently departed spinster aunt—his last living relative. He then led me to his trophies—as he called them—an Antoine-Louis Barye sculpture, a Maurice-Quentin de La Tour, a small Henry Moore, paintings by Tiepolo, Picasso, Degas, and Dubuffet. Again all the largesse of his beloved auntie.
Seems his genes swam in a different pool than
mine.
I was sure this was not a social visit and as if he could read my mind, he announced, “Jonathan, things are getting out of hand. Quel dommage,” he sighed, with a gleam of worry in his eyes. A closer observation confirmed my first impression. He had aged overnight. He was a husk of the handsome man he once was. A trace of sag in his bottom lids and cheekbones revealed his anxiety. His narrow smile hadn’t altered, but it seemed a tad meaner.
“Well, let’s get on with it. We have a lot to cover. You know Russett has been amassing shares in what the Street is convinced is a takeover bid. And the Street has been following suit. The brokers are buying any shares they can get. He would never have done that if Ben were alive. The board is already gearing up. Ozone’s super voting B class shares lost their weighted value with Ben’s passing. The shares owned by Ben’s Trust and the foundation now return to parity with all the other shares from a voting standpoint. And even though they remain a potent voting bloc, we may find them neutralized.
“Tremaine’s attack dog, de Vil, is challenging my position as executor and trustee, and even as a director of the foundation. He wants the old Will probated, putting Tremaine in as executor and, in the interim, a court-appointed crony made temporary executor. You know that person would likely abstain from voting in this case. In the foundation, we could have a stalemate even if I’m not removed—Dorothy and me against Tremaine and Abelard. Peter was never properly terminated. His contract required formal written notice, so he remains as executive director and trustee, again deadlocking the board.
“The Street thinks Ozone’s parts are worth more than the whole. If Russett wins, he might just keep ClearAire sans Luc and sell off the electronics, which is not a growth industry now, as well as Dorothy’s division, which is going great and would bring a healthy price. Just those two divisions generate a billion in earnings before interest and taxes, and the market, even on a multiple of only ten, would value it at over several billion. Russett would get to keep ClearAire for nothing. I’m afraid Ozone’s in play. The daily volume has almost doubled. The stock is up 18 percent since Ben’s death.
“Add to that board unease. It’s more than just post-Madoff nerves. The SEC is all over Luc’s operation. Some members of the board want us to appoint a special counsel and Justice is nosing around. Luc is understandably worried.”
Evan continued, “It’s not that we are without defenses. We can seek a white knight if we have to. We already staggered our board seats and issued some poison-put bonds that require buy-backs at three times the purchase price. At worst, we have only made Ozone more expensive and at best bought time to find alternatives.”
He droned on about bear hugs, poison pills, sandbags, shark repellent, and sleeping beauty—Wall Street jargon for these battles.
“And as if that’s not enough, I have the succession issue at the Firm. Wiggie’s departing at the end of the year and the young turks are mounting campaigns to block my ascendancy under the banner of partnership democracy. In our business, as you well know, it’s billings that matter and I’m making the most rain right now. I’m the only masthead partner left. And I’ve offered to serve only one term. I’ll retire in three years and settle in Zurich. Love that city—it’s clean, food’s great, the old city’s charming, and people are proper and polite. I like that. These upstarts can wait. Not to worry though, we’ve faced worse—you and I,” he whispered as he placed his hand over mine.
He usually avoided physical contact. I always viewed it as an egalitarian conceit.
Maybe I was being too harsh. I was once his fair-haired boy. He was my Firm rabbi. I owed him. I was ambitious and street-smart. He called it “moxie.”
He poured another sherry for himself and offered me one. I demurred as he began to muse about the “old days.”
“You know, Jonathan, when I started, senior partners could recall the time when their predecessors refused to have phones in their offices, when appointments were still made by letter, and their first year’s income was $2,500. Everyone was a gentleman. Mutual respect was a given. I know this might sound a tad biased but there were no micks or hebes in the Firm. People didn’t act pushy or crazy. They were patiently waiting for their turn in the spotlight. People didn’t poke their nez where it didn’t belong!”
As hard as it was, I held my tongue. Evan could get like that when he was under pressure. White shoe law firms when he was young were exclusive—read restrictive—clubs. White male Ivy Leaguers from well-heeled, socially connected families were the only ones admitted. It was not until clients began to demand prowess instead of pedigree that they opened up to the rest of us.
“Evan, I need to ask you a few questions before we continue. I suspect you have a long agenda, so if I could interject.” He bristled at my rudeness, but acquiesced. “When did you, Luc, and Ben arrive in London?”
“I’m pretty sure it was the day before Ben died. I came in a day early. I believe Ben stopped in Barcelona and arrived later in the afternoon. Not sure when Luc got there. He stays at the Hamilton House. Can’t stand the place personally. It’s really not five stars anymore—filled with Africans and Arabs.
“Ben called a meeting with Luc and me that afternoon. After that I left and didn’t return until rather late that night.
“Jonathan, is this visit about your investigation? You know my position. Ben was under great stress. Kati wanted a commitment, I gather, Tremaine wanted the ranch, and Luc wanted the company. Not to mention his daughter’s lifestyle, his son’s challenges, and his own health concerns. I was there. He died of a heart attack. This so-called investigation you’ve been roped into is purely political. Billings breed bitterness. Don’t make yourself part of it.
“That is really what I needed to talk to you about. The Ozone board has set a special meeting for a week from now. It’s going to be a full-day session and, to keep the press away, it’s being held upstate at the convention center in New Paltz. You know where that is, don’t you? Everyone is staying at the Mohonk Mountain House. So since more than half of the partners will be up there to consult with the Ozone board and its committees, the Executive Committee decided to hold its meeting there too.
“We want you to give us a final report on your findings. We’ve decided that dragging your investigation out any longer will make it too much of a distraction. Luc is relentless in his harping about it, especially after today’s tawdry incident.”
“What incident?” I inquired, with an edge to my voice.
“Well, your associate, Dixon, apparently assaulted one of Luc’s key assistants, Mr. Sandino.”
“I . . . uh . . . do not believe Dixie would do that.”
“It wasn’t fatal. I’m sure it has been exaggerated. Anyway, I’ve handled it. So just wrap up your project and prepare your report. And by the way, Sandino’s just been appointed the interim head of ClearAire now that Luc is the interim CEO of Ozone.
“So now that you’ve gotten your walking papers, so to speak, I have a proposition for you. I would like to invite you back to the Firm as a senior partner. That would include membership on the Executive Committee. Your comp will be pegged at senior status, so if business holds up you’ll be making upward of three million plus next year.
“All of this investigation business should never have happened. Jonathan, it’s time for you to rejoin our world. You have so much to offer and to gain. And it’s more than that. I know how you like challenges. Well, that’s what is facing firms like ours.
“And you won’t have to worry about Luc and his ilk. In deepest confidence, I’m brokering a deal to get Russett to give me a price to buy ClearAire and then we’ll give Luc an opportunity to match that number on terms he won’t refuse. Luc will have his baby and Dorothy will then take over the reins at Ozone and you will work directly with her. Solves everyone’s problems except Russett’s, but he’ll get over it.”
36
A lot to digest.
Evan at his puppeteer’s best, pulling all the strings. I needed some
air. Luckily the night air was refreshing—temperate and windless. It had rained earlier and the sky was vivid as it often is after a rain. Only an occasional cloud and a moon sliver blemished its perfection. A perfect night, yet Nip was anxious. She sensed that all was not right with me.
She was right.
I was roiling with anger. Evan’s offer was tantamount to a bribe. I felt this had less to do with Luc and Russett than with Evan. He was orchestrating his final moment in the sun and wanted me to be his concertmaster. I couldn’t even consider his offer until I finished our assignment.
Pure conflict. He knows better.
Dixie was on his way. He had e-mailed me and called, but I had turned off my phone in deference to Evan, knowing his aversion to them, and forgot to turn it back on. I could see that Dixie was agitated as he half-ran down First Avenue. Nip and I had already arrived at the UN. I let Dixie catch his breath.
“I heard about Sandino. So what’s the story?” I asked, trying not to show my concern.
“What exactly did you hear?”
“Just that you ‘assaulted’ a client,” I replied.
“Well, in a manner of speaking that’s true.”
“Was he looking?” I asked.
“Kind of,” Dixie admitted.
“Oh, well, you know Woolly’s last words of advice—‘Never hit a client—if he’s looking.’ ”
He answered with a wry smile, “I’m not perfect.”
“So what happened?”
“I was trying to get information on the three companies we spoke of in the carriage house. We call them the three Furies—Frank Mack’s term.
“I was pushing for payment invoices and wire instructions for those three companies and after being stonewalled for three hours, I was told they all involved ‘diplomatic security contracts’ so that I needed approval from a senior ClearAire officer to override ‘the need to know’ ban. I asked for Sandino—he’s the only one I knew by name. He came and took me into a conference room, where without much provocation, he pressed me against the wall and grabbed me between my legs. He wanted to make a point, I guess. Tuck, no one does that without permission so I kneed him hard. When I left the room he was still wincing on the floor. I’m surprised he had any balls left to tell anyone what happened.”