by Ray Merritt
So, as the saying goes, when in Rome, we joined in as we made a beeline to Paradeplatz, which is home to three of Zurich’s commercial titans—UBS, Credit Suisse, and Confiserie Sprungli. Herr Dahlgrens had directed me there, allowing that all proper Zurichoise went there to pleasure themselves on the world’s best chocolate.
In truth, it was as advertised—sheer ambrosia, sustenance for the gods. After we satiated ourselves, we settled in and topped it off with equally delectable coffee.
“Tuck, since we’ve got the time and there’s no one nearby, let me start to tell you what I found and what we know. Our flight isn’t ’til tomorrow morning. We’re making headway with the three foreign accounts. Uncovered a whole lot of transactions—both inflow and outflow. Only wire transfers so far. We can’t capture nonwire transfers such as personal deposits. Those don’t track back on our system.
“We knew that substantial payments were made to Cerberus, Chimera, and Hydra, the three Madeira companies. Now we know, thanks to a quick perusal of the documents Dorothy picked up at the bank, that the priest in Montserrat transferred most of that money into those three Swiss banks.
“One account is in Barquet S.A., Banque Privée Gèneve. From the notation ‘LG’—written, I presume, by the priest—on that batch of deposit slips provided by the sister in Montserrat, I’m assuming it’s Luc Grogaman’s account. It’s the largest of the three. My quick tally indicates about six million, and that’s just from these deposit slips. It’s distinctly possible that there were other deposits that we are not aware of.
“The second packet showed deposits in the East West Bank, Zurich. Those receipts have a ‘BB’ on them and I’m assuming that’s an account for Ben’s benefit. That has, according to those deposit slips, about two and a half million in it.
“The deposit slips in the final packet total a little less than four million and have the initials ‘ET’ on them. He paused, clearly uncomfortable. I’m guessing that’s ‘Evan Trombley.’ They were deposited in the third Zurich bank, Zingg & Co., Cie. The deposits in all but the one attributed to Luc ceased a few days before Ben and the priest died. And those three sets of initials are consistent with the names on the Madeira incorporation documents you just got from the safe-deposit box.
“So summing it up, what we have, I think, is a rogue priest who was in fact a cash courier who made many trips from Barcelona to Switzerland and muled substantial cash deposits to at least three Swiss accounts. Tinker to Evers to Chance. A sweet play! Luc directed monies to be put into Ben’s and Evan’s accounts, most likely without their knowledge. It would serve as insurance in case either or both started to give him trouble about his activities at ClearAire.
“Quite ingenious. Ben and Evan would be outraged and would, of course, deny any knowledge of the accounts, but the burden of proving that they didn’t know would be difficult. And just the adverse press about it would be devastating to both their careers and their legacies. Blackmail insurance!”
“That’s a lot to digest and I think you’re right, Dixie. Fra Jero was a fence, a common moola mule. I assume he took a fair percent for his efforts. All for the greater glory of God and an independent Catalonia and not necessarily in that order. He would have made Machiavelli proud.”
Sister Maddy was also right. Fra Jero had a dark heart and Luc took advantage of that.
“I suspect,” Dixie added, “Luc decided to kill the priest once he told Ben about what he had done.”
“Dixie, you have to hand it to Ben, he was a Wiz. We’ll never know how he pried the info and the certificates of incorporation out of Fra Jero. My guess? Ben was a great manipulator and he conned the old priest into assuming he was privy to the whole operation. After all, his name was on one of the certificates. As far as our priest knew, Ben, Evan, and Luc were all one happy family—of thieves!
“One thing, though, why would Fra Jero need to have the certificates of incorporation in his possession? I can’t figure that out.”
“I think I can explain that,” Dixie volunteered. “Money laundering is really a misnomer. Should be called ‘money soiling.’ In the late eighties, it got to be an epidemic. Narcotrafficantes had tons of dollars, francs, marks, and pesetas, duffel bags full, ready for deposit. Fear of being tagged complicit with these dirtbags, the Swiss and other European countries passed legislation that required proof of the account holder’s identity. That’s why the good padre needed impeccable proof of ownership—namely, the three certificates of incorporation. Fra Jero, I suspect, was the perfect—what did you call it—treuhänder, a trusted messenger beyond reproach.”
“Poor Evan. If this has to go into our report, he’ll be mortified. It could sink his bid for Executive Committee chairman. Most won’t believe it, but others will speculate that he just might be complicit.”
“Well . . . Tuck, one could argue that it’s not germane to our specific undertaking and doesn’t necessarily advance our inquiry into ‘who done it.’ ”
“Good try, Watson, but I’m not sure about that. Although we don’t have a scintilla of admissible evidence, I’d lay odds that Luc did it—motive plus opportunity. I’m betting that Luc killed Ben, Fra Jero, and, I fear, Andreas Amaroso. Ben wouldn’t succumb to Luc’s bribe. This was his ‘private purgatory.’ I think he feared that Luc would kill him. He sensed ‘an unkindness—a murder most foul.’ And he knew that La Moreneta—the Dark Lady—‘could not protect’ him from that.”
“Tuck, you’re good. Have you memorized the prec letter?”
I smiled. “I can recite it in my sleep.
“When Ben didn’t blink, I suspect that Luc had no choice—kill him, kill the delivery boy, and kill Andreas, for good measure.”
47
Viggie, with Drew and Nip, picked us up at Newark. Nip looked great, though she could have been a bit more animated to see me. Perhaps they were spoiling her. After obligatory rubs and licks, she settled in the back between Dixie and me. The trip to Mohonk Mountain House for the Executive Committee meeting would take a little more than two hours. The flight from Zurich was long. Fortunately Dixie and I had slept most of the way. Drew brought copies of our report along with her laptop and printer so she could quickly make changes. She had found a nearby bed-and-breakfast for the four of us. Mohonk Mountain House was not dog-friendly and definitely not associate-friendly, at least not that weekend, with a huddle of partners and a choke of clients present.
Not a day in the park for Dixie and Drew. Their professional lives might well have been compromised by this assignment. I would have to address that soon.
It seemed colder than it should be. It was still early November. Until now, autumn had been quite mellow and soft. At least the foliage was cooperating. Its plumage was dappled by the sunlight. The leaves remained firmly on the trees, golden yellow with flashes of crimson and bronze, while the undergrowth was still stubbornly green.
I remembered why I liked this place—the birds. Autumn is the best time for watching them and the Mohonk Preserve is perfect for that. Alice, the kids, and I would come here once a year in the fall. We too had to settle for one of the bed-and-breakfasts. Nip was always with us. The rooms were quaint, a bit corny, and a little crowded for intimacy, but at least four of the five of us loved it.
Fall was harvest time and the birds knew it.
Winter was coming. The rhythm and ritual of a bird’s life brook no delay. The jackdaws and herring gulls skittered about without much purpose while the hawks, kestrels, and crows were dogged in their efforts to take advantage of the harvest. They were the smart ones.
Particularly the crows.
The air was bracing. The road was moist. There were snow flurries dancing around, yet the sky was filled with birds. The whir of their wings grew increasingly loud. Clearly they were preparing to roost. Already hundreds had settled on the treetops. Their caws magnified their number. Frantic noisy displays like this are the hallmark of a crow gathering. Roosting is not their normal daytime activity. They prefer to spend most
of their time at their home base sunbathing.
It’s likely that the local farmers had turned over their fields and unearthed a treasure trove of edible delights. A large congregation would give them mutual protection from the night.
Tomorrow, quite likely, they would feast.
I was not looking forward to socializing with a squabble of partners. This kind of event was difficult to take, even in good times. And all eyes would be on me. What happens to their largest client—their biggest feedbag? And how will it affect the upcoming Executive Committee succession election? Will Evan be advantaged or disadvantaged? The intrigue that plays out at these infrequent events rivals that attending the election of a new Pope.
And no divine intervention could be expected.
I fear God looks the other way when it comes to lawyers.
Dixie left me at the front entrance to the Mohonk Mountain House, promising to return in two hours with Drew to shuttle me down to the hotel in New Paltz where the annual meeting of Ozone’s shareholders would be convened and where the Firm’s Executive Committee would hear our report tonight. Drew would make the changes I penciled in and have copies ready for the Committee.
The sheer magic of the Mohonk Preserve always awes me. A tranquil and mysterious lake abuts a massive hodgepodge of architectural styles as ungainly as its Indian name. It is the culmination of the dream of Quaker twins, Albert and Alfred Smiley, who purchased the several hundred acres in the late nineteenth century. The hotel is an uncomfortable pairing of Victorian and Edwardian marvels intended to be reminiscent of the grand castles and chalets of Europe.
It was no Montserrat.
Its founders hoped it would become a sanctuary for those who shared the Quaker compassion for nature and Native Americans. Unfortunately today the mood of its guests, who come mostly from New York, is starkly opposite to the tranquility Mohonk aspired to.
Nevertheless even the stubborn eventually succumb to its spectacular solemnity.
I entered the main building, sucking up as much mountain air as I could, and made my way to the partners’ welcome gathering in the Grand Hall, a high, wood-paneled room with a panoramic view of the lake and the comfort of a gigantic roaring fireplace. Big Law partners were at their worst at events like this. These partner gatherings were never relaxed. One did not come to blow off steam. Everything was moderated and manicured. No mojitos or champagne flutes. German beers acceptable. Good but not great wines were the drink of choice. A quick reflection on Woolly’s warnings was advisable. Try not to laugh too loud at silly jokes; keep in your comfort zone or at least outside your paranoia zone. It was fine to dress to the manner born, but one had to be careful—not too-hip styling, no edgy fits, or British flair. If in doubt, fall back on your baggy blue blazer, a button-down shirt, and a rep tie.
The partners all seemed to have aged and enlarged in the three years since I’d seen most of them last. Success was settling in. Less hair, larger waistlines, and less interesting repartee were evident. I was sure that most had larger mortgages and bigger overdrafts, having moved on from their starter wives. They all, I’m also sure, had given up the weed and limited themselves to wine to stanch the constant stress of maintaining their billings. For many, these weekend retreats were welcomed in only one respect. No spouses invited, saving many from the harassment of husbands or the whine of wives.
Everything in moderation, except in the parking lot. Most of the partners are hooked on German metal.
Unfortunately my presence didn’t go unnoticed for long. Lots of backslaps, knuckle-crushing handshakes, and shoulder rubs. No embraces. That would only bring unwanted attention. “How are you!” “How ya doing?” “Been too long!” “Hope to see more of you!” . . . the last being a recurring theme.
It was evident that I would be heartily welcomed back into the fold as a counterbalance to Evan. I would be a perfect candidate to take over the Ozone account. It was known that I was close to Dorothy, who many suspected didn’t cotton to Evan. I looked for Evan, but he was nowhere to be seen. He was likely meeting with Luc and others, prepping for the board meeting.
Luc’s vile plan to keep Ben from going off the reservation and Evan from freaking out might have backfired on him. Vile is not a strong enough word for a serial murderer of friends. I wonder how he treats his enemies. Ben’s legacy in shambles; Evan’s elevation to chairman about to collapse—the consequences of not-so-perfect blackmail.
Charlotte tapped my shoulder, ending my dark musing.
Ms. Williams—Charlotte to most of us—was her radiant, if not assured, self. Unlike most women partners, she made little attempt at neutering herself. No pantsuits or formless smocks to mute her gender. She was, as usual, the bright light in the room.
She had two new partners in tow. I recognized their names from the Firm’s announcement of their elevation. Ex-partners remained on the Firm’s mailing list for life. I extended congratulations. They feigned humility and wandered off.
“Tuck, how are you?” Charlotte inquired. “You look a bit tired. You OK?”
“Yes, just off the plane from Europe. I’m getting a little long in the tooth for all-nighters.”
“Sorry to hear that!” she whispered with a wry smile, her double entendre not lost on me.
“You’re reporting tonight. Right? How ’bout a little scoop?” she begged with a smile. “Tuck, the Firm is as tight as a drum. I fear that the tide is turning on Evan. He’s proposed lots of changes that some of the partners find difficult. His arrogance continues to bug some partners. I’m afraid his lead is dwindling.”
“Where is Evan, by the way?”
“Have you forgotten?” she smiled. “The election of a chairman is like a beauty contest. At the end you stop strutting your stuff. No late-game advantage can be gained by mingling with inebriates. I think Evan expects your report to give him the boost he needs.”
“Well, he’s going to be disappointed, sorry to say,” I allowed. “We’re coming up with a big ‘beats us’ when it comes to how Ben died. I better go. I have a car outside.”
Dixie was standing at the door, clearly very agitated, frantically motioning me to his side. It must be very important. It was a cardinal sin for an associate to intrude into this conclave and Dixie knew better.
I ushered him into an anteroom, hoping his transgression had gone unnoticed.
“Sorry, Tuck, but you need to know this now. Frank Mack was able to cross-check our info with his existing files. Seems that members of Ozone’s Executive Committee are required to list their banking references and accounts with the company and periodically update them. Frank ran them all down. What he came up with will floor you. Trombley has wired more than a million and a half dollars out of his supposed ‘unknown blackmail account’ in Zurich over the last three years.”
Pausing to catch his breath, he said, “That can mean only one thing. Trombley is complicit. He’s an accomplice of Luc’s, not a victim!”
48
Dixie and I hastily returned to Ben’s car, where Drew and Nip were waiting. Luc’s gray SUV with black-tinted windows and no hint of dust or ding pulled up beside us. The window came down and Evan peered out. “Jonathan . . .”
An uncontrollable eruption of indignation over his larceny rose in my stomach. He’d violated every tenet of every oath that lawyers are bound by when he succumbed to Luc’s rank payola. Evan had breached his allegiance to Ben, his oath to the Bar, and his obligation to the Firm.
I was unable to contain myself.
“We know about your Swiss account. That will be in our report.”
“Jonathan, you’re way off base. My accounts—wherever located—are all aboveboard and completely legal. I’m surprised you would suspect otherwise. I’m disappointed in you. For your information, that account represents the after-tax dollars from profitable investments. If you had concerns, you should have told me so in confidence, not blurted them out in public . . .”
Luc interrupted from the backseat. “Evan! This is a
private matter. I told you Tucker and his asshole assistants were out of bounds again. I told you to remove them. You ignored that. Now I suggest you SHUT THE FUCK UP! Sandy, move out!”
As Luc’s SUV drove off, everyone fell silent, lost in their respective self-doubts and recriminations. For Dixie and Drew, this was deeply embarrassing. Partners rarely argue in the presence of associates. Did I leap to the wrong conclusion? Did I not owe Evan at least a chance to explain? Wasn’t that what I was just doing? Not really. I was accusing.
This was going to get messy.
I rolled my window down. The air was crisp; the sky was cloudless. The moon had not yet risen but served as a back light that made the night creatures more visible. I noticed the crows roosting on the treetops and outer branches. My hunch was right—a harvest roost.
“Everyone, look up. The crows are roosting. This is going to be a big one.”
We all watched in awe.
Dixie attempted to break the uneasiness that embarrassed silence brings.
“Maybe they’re having their annual meeting up here too.”
“Personally, I find it a bit creepy!” Drew shuddered, hugging Nip tighter. “It’s not like that Hitchcock movie, is it?”
“You’re not going to go Tippi on us, are you?” Dixie added with a smirk.
We calmed our nerves with small talk and inanities. We were collectively giving our anxiety a time-out, but not for long.
“Oh, my God! What about our report? Do you want me to take out the info on Trombley?” Drew asked.
“No, don’t redo it,” I replied. “We just won’t submit a written report. I’ll wing it and let it all hang out. I’ll drop this load of dung right on their table—including Trombley’s accounts. Let the Executive Committee deal with it. Let them explain it to the SEC, the IRS, Justice, and the Bar Association. But first, I’d like you both to stall them. Tell them I’m tied up with Trombley. Serve them some factual hors d’oeuvres. Summarize the results of the interviews with the maid, the doctors, and the coroner. Feed them Abelard tidbits. Go easy on Kati, though; she’s gotten close to Dorothy. I’ll go see Trombley. I probably do owe him that. If he has a valid explanation for his Swiss cash account, I’ll apologize.”