“No, it wasn’t either of them. Do you have any comment?”
“Yes, I do. I always believe in the principle of de mortuis nil nisi bonum, but now that you’ve raised the subject, let me add something to what I told you. You knew Juliana, or at least what she looked like?”
Frost and Parkes nodded.
“She was uniquely attractive. Very special. Not my type, exactly, but a latter-day flower child. She knew she was sexy and liked to tease.”
“What do you mean?” Frost asked.
“I’ll tell you what I mean. She was always a quiet dresser, but she wore especially conservative clothes when we went down to Dallas. No point in offending the cowboys. It was always dressed-for-success suits, with those floppy ladies’ bow ties. But as our meetings wore on, usually late in the afternoon or early in the evening, Julie would take off her jacket. Then a few minutes later she would take off her tie and ever so discreetly unbutton the top buttons of her blouse. And slip off her shoes, resting her stockinged legs on the bottom rung of the next chair. All the while stroking that extraordinary hair of hers.”
“You were quite observant, Bill.”
“I couldn’t help it. She was always sitting next to me.”
“I don’t quite understand what this has to do with sexual harassment,” Reuben said.
“All I’m saying is that if she was harassed, my guess would be that she asked for it. Not jailbait exactly, but a tease who knew what she was doing.”
“Did she try this on you?”
Richardson paused, as if weighing the question, then responded, “Yes, I think it’s fair to say that she did.”
“How did this manifest itself?”
“By putting her feet on the bottom of my chair, not the empty chair on the other side.”
“Her bare feet?”
“She wore stockings, Reuben. But, yes. She put her feet on my chair and wiggled her toes. And stroked her hair.”
“This was at the meetings in Dallas?”
“Yes.”
“And I assume her overtures were rebuffed?”
“Absolutely. Screwing lady associates is not my style.”
Frost decided there was no point in being evasive any longer. He picked up from Parkes’ desk, where it had been lying face down, the draft complaint retrieved from Merriman’s word processor and handed it to Richardson. “Have you seen this before?” Frost asked.
Richardson put on his reading half-glasses and looked at the text quickly.
“This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever read!” he said, when about halfway through. “Where the hell did this come from?” he asked Frost, with a look that may or may not have been saying, “you old snoop.”
“Out of Merriman’s computer,” Frost said.
“Well, it’s absolute nonsense. Fiction.”
“You’ve never seen it before?”
“Never.”
“And what it alleges about you is not true?”
“Absolutely not true. But now I think you’ll understand why I always tried to stay out of her way—in Dallas, and back here in New York, except where business demanded. She had this teasing streak, and I decided to avoid her whenever I possibly could.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Thursday afternoon. I’d been out in Detroit, but I figured I’d better stop back here to make sure everything was going okay with On-Line. I’d brought the car down before I flew out the day before and left it in the garage downstairs, so I could come in from Detroit, check up on the deal, and get off to East Hampton.
“Anyway, to answer your question, Reuben, I got back here about five on Thursday and went over things with Juliana—that’s when we had our famous ‘quarrel’—and signed our opinions. Then I took off, I guess right around five-thirty.”
“That was the last time you saw her?” Frost asked.
“That’s right. Saw her or heard from her.”
“How did she strike you?”
“She was okay. She was really ticked off at some guy named Rawson, one of the bankers in the deal who was giving her a rough time. But I could understand that. I saw enough of him to know he’s a real hard-ass. Otherwise, she seemed perfectly normal.”
“You realize, Bill, the police will have to see this draft complaint of hers, sooner or later,” Frost said.
“I’m not sure I see why,” Richardson said.
“Unless her killer is found, I’m afraid it’s relevant.”
“I don’t agree, Reuben. But whether the police get it or not, everything it alleges is untrue. I’ll enter my general denial right now.”
“The police will also want to know where you were last Thursday night,” Frost said, proud of himself for questioning his former partner about his alibi without appearing to do so.
“Thursday night?”
“When Juliana was killed.”
“That’s easy,” Richardson said. “Nina and I were planning to spend the holiday weekend in East Hampton. She went out on the Jitney Thursday morning to get things ready and I came out Thursday night. I left here around five-thirty, as I already told you, picked up the BMW at the garage downstairs and went to the country.”
“So by eight o’clock, or thereabouts, you were in East Hampton?”
“I wish I could say that. You remember the weather was terrible Thursday night. Traffic was impossible. The Long Island Expressway was completely tied up. I didn’t get to East Hampton until very late.”
“What time?”
“I honestly don’t remember.”
“Did Nina hold dinner?”
“No, she’d turned in early and was asleep when I got there. I made some scrambled eggs for myself.”
Frost decided not to press his questions; others could pinpoint the details of Richardson’s alibi, though he did note that Nina had been eliminated as a corroborating—or contradicting—source.
“Can I get back to gainful employment now?” Richardson asked. Frost had no more questions and Richardson left, his self-confidence to all appearances unshaken.
“Do you believe him?” Parkes asked.
“He used to be my partner, Charlie. And he’s still yours. Don’t we have to give him the benefit of the doubt? Though I must say Merriman had quite an imagination if she made up the allegations in that complaint. Distasteful as it may be, I’m afraid we have to keep Bill in our sights.”
“What about Dr. Carson? You want to talk to him? He should be here any minute.”
“Why don’t you do that, Charlie. You know him, I don’t. Besides, it’s getting late and I want to talk to Luis Bautista.”
“All right. I’ll come down and report what he has to say, if anything. Where are you, 3433?” Parkes asked, making a note of the room number.
Bautista met with Frost in his temporary office. As agreed, the former detective had spent the day checking out the movements of Juliana Merriman and Marshall Genakis in the hours before Merriman died.
“Genakis repeated again that he’d met Merriman for dinner at their apartment and then he’d dropped her off out front here just before eight o’clock. He’s full of detail about what they had for dinner—he cooked, he says—but that’s not really corroboration.”
“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Reuben asked. “The important thing is where he was around nine o’clock.”
“I talked to his assistant at the restaurant. Also the chef. They both say he arrived a little after eight and was on duty the whole evening.”
“Are they telling the truth?”
“I think so. They were both nervous as hell, but they were cooperative.”
“Hmn.”
“Now we come to Merriman herself. You talked to her secretary, so you know she left here, supposedly to have an early dinner, around five-thirty. I haven’t talked in person to this fellow Rawson yet, but he said on the phone that she came back in time to make their conference call to Tokyo at eight. The call apparently lasted about half an hour, down in Conference Ro
om B. She and the paralegal, Beth Locke, were still here when he left around eight forty-five.”
“What does Locke say?”
“She confirmed what Rawson told me and said Merriman left the conference room shortly after Rawson did, probably just before nine. She said she was going to do a couple of things in her office and then was going home. And that was the last Locke saw of her.”
“So we’ve accounted for her movements up until about nine, which is when we think she was killed.”
“With one exception, Reuben, which I can’t understand. Joe Conklin pointed out to me that a record is made when any regular employee of this place comes in downstairs. A guy puts his magnetic card in the slot—”
“Yes, I’ve had the system explained to me already.”
“Conklin got a printout of the serial numbers of everyone who came through the downstairs entrance on Thursday, or everyone who used a magnetic card, anyway. He’s matched the numbers up and it appears that Merriman came back in here at six-fifteen—”
“That means she had a pretty fast dinner.”
“Or something. But here’s the crazy part. She must have gone out again, because the computer record shows her coming in again at seven forty-five.”
“Damn,” Frost said, after a pause to take in what Bautista had been saying. “I don’t suppose this fancy system can make a mistake?”
“Conklin says the chances of the gates downstairs miscoding a number are zero.”
“Did anybody see her come back?”
“So far, we haven’t found anyone who saw her in the office between five-thirty and just before eight. I’ve told Petito about it, and he’s having his guys check it out.”
“Since her secretary didn’t see her after five-thirty, it doesn’t seem likely she came back to pick up something she’d forgotten in her office.”
“Agreed.”
“What about Richardson?”
“You’re a tough guy, Reuben. I haven’t gotten around to him yet.”
“Sorry, Luis.”
“Oh, I did find out that Merriman’s harassment complaint was never filed.”
Frost brought Bautista up to date about the conversation with Richardson.
“Sounds like he was making a few preemptive strikes,” Bautista said, referring to Richardson’s description of Merriman’s teasing.
“There’re a couple of things that trouble me,” Frost said. “Putting the make on Bill Richardson wouldn’t exactly have been the shrewdest way for her to get ahead around here. From all we know, she was too savvy to try such a stunt. Plus the fact that her mother told me she’d always been shy around men—Genakis supposedly being the great exception.”
“Girls do grow up, Reuben.”
“I’m aware of that. But the pieces don’t fit together quite right.”
“So you think Richardson came onto her, without any encouragement on her part?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“And then you’d argue he killed her to shut her up, I suppose?” Bautista said.
“I’m not arguing anything at this point. But I do think you should start checking out Richardson’s alibi. And you might just note, if you haven’t already, that Richardson and Merriman both left here that night at roughly the same time, around five-thirty.”
Charlie Parkes appeared in the door as Reuben gave Bautista his instructions. The Executive Partner had not met Bautista before, so Frost made the introduction.
“Are you here about the ‘hotline’?” Frost asked. He explained its operation to Bautista.
“Talking to Carson is like pulling teeth,” Parkes said, when Reuben had finished. “But he brought her file along, and when I assured him that Merriman was still dead, he acknowledged that she had called the Carson Group about three months ago.”
“Do we know why?”
“She was seeking advice about drug treatment. ‘Detox’ programs, as Carson refers to them. For cocaine.”
“For herself?” Frost asked.
“No, for a friend. Carson’s records are definite on that. She explicitly told the psychologist she talked to that she was worried about a friend and wanted to know what the treatment options were.”
“The friend male or female?”
“No indication.”
“What happened after that?”
“Nothing. The psychologist suggested several alternatives and Merriman said she’d think about it. She never called again.”
“Do we really believe she was calling for a friend? Isn’t that what they all say?” Reuben asked.
“Carson admitted that.”
“Let’s not take our eye off Genakis,” Frost said. “If there really was a friend in trouble, he’s a pretty likely candidate.”
“Sounds like we’re still going down two separate roads, Reuben, like you said,” Parkes observed. “Genakis Lane and Richardson Boulevard.”
“Yes, and I just hope they’re not both dead ends.”
CHAPTER
13
A New Direction
Tuesday night Reuben found that his New Year’s socializing and intense concentration on the Merriman case were catching up with him. He had briefed Cynthia fully over a quiet dinner at Hulot’s, the small French bistro up Lexington Avenue from their townhouse. To his disappointment, his usually shrewd wife had no clever insights into the miscellany of facts he had served up with her warm quail salad.
By the time they returned at eleven, Reuben was exhausted and went directly to bed. The most intriguing puzzle of the day—why had Juliana Merriman returned to the office twice on the night she was killed?—plagued him briefly, but he was soon fast asleep.
Just before midnight, the telephone rang. Cynthia, who was still up, answered it in the library. Within minutes she was rousing her husband.
“It’s Charlie Parkes,” she told him. “I told him you were asleep, but he said he must talk with you tonight.”
Frost rubbed himself awake, wondering with some annoyance what could be so important that it couldn’t wait until morning.
“Yes, Charlie,” he said groggily as he picked up the telephone at bedside.
“Reuben, we’ve got a grade-A disaster on our hands,” Parkes said, talking rapidly.
“I’m aware of that, Charlie.”
“No, no, I don’t mean Merriman, though the Lord only knows whether this new goddam thing has anything to do with her murder.”
“What new goddam thing?” Frost said, impatiently.
“Brian Heyworth got a call at home about an hour ago from a fellow named Ames, at First Fiduciary’s branch in Tokyo. You remember he was supposed to take physical delivery of that consent from Machikin Bank. The one they needed to close the Applications/On-Line merger.”
“Yes, I do remember,” Frost said. “There was some mix-up about it.”
“That’s right. A fellow from Schoonmaker in Tokyo was supposed to pick up the original from Machikin and turn it over to Ames. But the arrangements got fouled up somehow, so Ames never got it. So they closed on the basis of a fax.
“Here’s the beauty part, Reuben. The man from Schoonmaker, name of Peter Wesray, has gone off to Singapore or Bangkok or some such goddam place and can’t be reached. So Ames, being the dutiful fellow he apparently is, got in touch with Mr. Hiseo—he’s the one who supposedly signed the thing—this morning. And guess what? He’s never heard of the consent!”
“What about the copy that was faxed to New York?”
“It must be a fake. Hiseo told Ames he’d never heard of the merger, never heard of the consent and said there’s no way Machikin would have agreed to it!”
“Did you talk to Ames?”
“No, I’m only passing on what Brian told me.”
“Are we sure there’s not some failure of communication here? The old barrier between East and West?”
“It would be nice if that were so. Ames told Brian that Hiseo couldn’t have been more definite. Never heard of it, and never faxed a co
py here.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“Did Ames show Hiseo a copy?”
“Heyworth asked him that. But Ames himself had never seen one. All he’d gotten was Wesray’s assurance that Hiseo had faxed the consent to New York.”
“What was that assurance based on, for God’s sake?”
“Wesray claimed he’d talked with Hiseo by telephone.”
“Can you hold on a minute, Charlie? It’s cold as hell in here and I need to get my bathrobe,” Reuben said.
“Sorry.”
Frost grabbed his silk Christmas present from a chair and returned to the phone.
“I take it there was nothing wrong on its face with the fax that arrived Thursday night?” Frost asked. “Nothing suspicious about it?”
“That’s what Brian Heyworth says.”
“Hmn.”
“I caught that, Reuben. Let’s hope he was right. With Bill Richardson hopping back and forth to Detroit, and Merriman’s death, and Brian stepping in at the last minute, this wasn’t exactly the best supervised transaction in the history of Chase & Ward.”
“Well, Charlie, let’s hope there’s no problem for the firm,” Frost said. “But the more important question right now is whether this fake consent had anything to do with what happened to Merriman.”
“I know. You remember she was the one who was insisting that they get the original document. Somebody who knew that this would be impossible might have killed her to get the deal done.”
“Like the people from Schoonmaker, you mean. What’s the fellow’s name who was working on the deal?”
“Rawson. Harvey Rawson.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Neither do I. He’s one of their hotshot M&A types.”
“With the morals to go with it, no doubt.”
“Probably,” Parkes said. “Look, I hate to do this, but can we meet first thing tomorrow, Reuben? We’ve got to find out exactly what happened, and I also want you to tell the boys what you’ve found out about Bill. I don’t want to make a habit of this, but can you be over here at eight?”
Frost did not even try to get the hour moved up. “Of course, Charlie. But aren’t you going to have to include Richardson and Heyworth if we’re going to get the full story on that fax?”
Murder Saves Face Page 13