Death Benefits (10 page)

“Explain.”

He shrugged. “Been on the force eighteen years. Bring my lunch every day. Every day it's cheddar cheese on white. So the boys call me Mouse.”

“Cheese every day, huh?”

“I guess it's not too good on the cholesterol.”

“I don't know about that,” I said with a smile. “I've never heard of a mouse with a bypass.”

He smiled back. “Well, I never heard of one that lived too long, either.”

Chapter Ten

From the police station I drove downtown to Abbott & Windsor. It was a typical summer morning in St. Louis—the temperature was ninety-two and rising, the humidity was holding steady at ninety-five percent. With first impressions behind me, I had dressed for the tropics: a sage-colored twill jacket with roll-up sleeves, a peach silk T-shirt, a lightweight natural-colored twill skirt, and sandals.

Once I reached the office, I put in calls to the Missing Link, Remy Panzer, and Albert Weidemeir.

The Missing Link was out on a job site, his secretary Lurleen told me. During the brief conversation, I couldn't help but recall Nancy Winslow's description of the additional duty included in the job description of the Missing Link's secretary. Lurleen told me he would be back that afternoon and she'd make sure he returned the call.

Next I tried Remy Panzer. He wasn't in either. The bored and increasingly petulant male voice that answered the phone at the Panzer Gallery informed me that Mr. Panzer was at a client's home on the grounds of the Old Warson Country Club doing a private showing of selections from art work currently featured by the gallery. Acting as if I had just asked him to drive to Chicago and paint my apartment for free, he sullenly took down my name, phone number, and a short message for Panzer: “Called re Stoddard Anderson and work he was doing for you at time of death.”

The operator at the Metropolitan Sewer District told me that Albert Weidemeir was on vacation and would not be back at work until Monday. I gave her my name and Abbott & Windsor's telephone number and told her that it was important that I speak to Mr. Weidemeir as soon as he returned to work. I called Albert Weidemeir's home telephone number on the chance that he might have stayed home for his vacation. No one answered.

As I hung up and reached for my notes the phone rang.

“Miss Gold, this is Claude at the St. Louis Club.” He had a French accent—
Zees ees Claude
. “I understand you have inquiries regarding Mr. Anderson's dinner on June eighth.”

“You were on duty that night, Claude?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I understand that Mr. Anderson had dinner in one of the private dining rooms.”

“This is correct.”

“Do you recall who he had dinner with?”

“Yes, ma'am. Mr. Anderson dined with Mr. St. Germain.”

“Reed St. Germain?”

“This is correct.”

“Hmm.” I was surprised.

“Pardon?”

“Did anyone else join them?”

“I do not believe so.”

“Do you remember how long they were together?”

“I am most sorry that I do not. All that I can recall is that Mr. Anderson arrived first.”

I tried to jog his memory with a few other questions, but he couldn't remember anything else.

“If you think of anything else about that night, Claude, please call me.”

“I certainly shall, Miss Gold. There is one matter that perhaps you can be of assistance.”

“What's that?”

“Mr. Anderson—or perhaps it was Mr. St. Germain—one of the gentlemen left some business papers in the room. We found them later that evening. Unfortunately, I left on holiday the following day and did not return until after Mr. Anderson was dead. It has been most awkward for us to continue to be holding these papers.”

“What kind of papers?”

“They appear to be statements of account. I am most anxious to have them returned. I thought that perhaps I could send them to your attention, Miss Gold, if it would not be too much trouble.”

“No problem. Send them. I'll make sure they get to the right person.”

“Oh, this is excellent, Miss Gold. I shall send our runner downtown with the papers after lunch. We are most appreciative of your assistance, Miss Gold.”

I walked down the hall for a fresh cup of coffee. On the way back I asked Nancy to be on the lookout for a messenger delivery from the St. Louis Club after lunch. I paused at my door for a moment, and then continued down the hall to the large corner office. Reed St. Germain was on the telephone. He waved me in when he saw me in the doorway.

“So, Rachel,” he said cheerfully as he hung up the phone, “are you getting all those loose ends tied up?”

“I'm making progress.”

“Think you'll finish up today?”

I smiled and shook my head. “No way. But I hope to by early next week.”

“Really? That long?”

“I still have a lot of people to talk to.”

“Well, I'm here to help. Don't forget that, Rachel. Anything you need now?”

“Actually, yes. Tell me about your last supper with Stoddard.”

He gave me a puzzled look. “My last supper?”

“June eighth. At the St. Louis Club. According to the maitre d', you and Stoddard had dinner together that night in one of the private dining rooms.”

“June eighth,” he repeated as he flipped through his pocket calendar. “June eighth. Well, well. You're absolutely right, Rachel. It looks like I did have dinner with Stoddard that night.”

“What did you talk about?”

He leaned back in his chair and looked toward the ceiling. “June eighth,” he ruminated. “Nothing stands out, Rachel. We probably talked about the sorts of things we usually talked about at those dinners. Mostly firm administration matters. We were both on the management committee. It was hard for us to schedule meetings together during the day. Dinner was the only quiet time for us. As for what we talked about, it could have been anything from our associate hiring needs for next year to switching paper vendors. Nothing stands out.”

“How often did you two have dinners like that?”

Reed leveled his stare at me, holding it for a moment before giving me what I think was supposed to pass for a good-natured power wink. “Rachel, partners of this firm aren't privy to all of the matters that come before the management committee. Partners of this firm don't receive notice that members of the management committee are meeting. While I certainly want to help facilitate your investigation, don't you think we're getting a little far afield? After all, this isn't a deposition.”

I told myself that he was probably right. And anyway, no sense crossing the managing partner this early in the investigation. I forced a sheepish smile. “You're right. It must be the litigator in me. Tell me one thing about that dinner: How did Stoddard seem that night?”

St. Germain tilted his head and squinted his eyes in thought. “Frankly, I don't recall anything about that meeting. I suppose that means he must have seemed like his usual self that night.”

St. Germain's telephone started ringing. He glanced at it and then back to me.

“Go ahead,” I said as I stood up.

“You sure you don't have any other questions, Rachel?”

“If I think of any I'll come back and ask.”

“Great. You do that.” And with that he lifted the receiver. “This is Reed,” he announced as I left his office.

***

When I returned to my office, I sat quietly for a few minutes replaying my conversation with Reed St. Germain. Finally, I glanced down at my notes. The next person on my list was Cyril Burt, the insurance claims adjuster.

As I dialed his number, I put on my game face. When he answered I was ready for the ritual known as mau-mauing the claims adjuster. I told him that I represented the sole beneficiary on Stoddard Anderson's life insurance policy, that I was in town to investigate various matters surrounding Mr. Anderson's death, and that I wanted to schedule an appointment with him for sometime early next week to discuss the death benefits payable to Mrs. Anderson.

“Perhaps next Tuesday afternoon, Miss Gold?”

Today was Thursday. By Tuesday I ought to have a fairly good feel for the circumstances leading to Stoddard Anderson's death. “That should be fine,” I told him. “How does two o'clock sound?”

“Two o'clock it is.”

Time for the mau-mau. “I'd like one thing understood at the outset, Mr. Burt. I'm down here for two purposes: to gather facts and to see if you're interested in resolving the coverage dispute. My expectation is that I will arrive at our meeting with facts
and
with a reasonable settlement proposal. I am assuming that you will arrive at that meeting with facts
and
with settlement authority. If you won't have settlement authority by then, then send your boss, or whoever it is in your company who can cut a check. Okay?”

“Miss Gold, my hope is that we can use that meeting to open a dialogue.”

“If my client wanted dialogue, she would've hired a scriptwriter. She hired a trial lawyer. I don't want to open a dialogue, Mr. Burt. I want your company to open its checkbook.”

“Let's not burden our first meeting with unrealistic expectations, Miss Gold.”

“I don't have unrealistic expectations about our
first
meeting, Mr. Burt, because it's also going to be our
only
meeting. Either we settle the claim then, or you and your company can start working on your dialogue for the jury. Okay?”

There was a pause, and then, “Okay.”

“I'll see you on Tuesday.”

After I hung up, I said to myself, “Bitch.” Cyril Burt had no doubt uttered an even nastier noun on his end.

I spent the next half-hour interviewing some of the junior associates about Stoddard Anderson. The only thing of interest I learned was that Anderson did not regularly stay late at the office. Benny might be right about his labanzas. Or fishteras.

I sat down again with Nancy Winslow. As Anderson's secretary, she might have witnessed evidence of an extra-marital affair—the sorts of things that a secretary might be privy to, such as frequent phone calls from an unidentified woman, changes in Anderson's dress style or cologne, bills from florists.

Nancy shook her head. “Nope. If he had a thing for some mystery lady, he did a good job hiding it from me.”

She appeared to be telling the truth.

It didn't have to be a serious affair, though. He could have been a Don Juan type—lots of short-term affairs, even one-night stands.

“How about someone here at the firm?” I asked. “Any flings?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You mean Portia?”

“I don't necessarily mean anyone.”

“Who told you it was Portia?”

“Porsche? Like the car?”

“No. P-O-R-T-I-A.”

“Like the play?”

“What play?”

“Never mind. No one told me about her, Nancy. Who is she?”

“A paralegal in the trusts and estates department.” Nancy snorted in disgust and leaned forward, lowering her voice. “A real prick teaser, too. All the younger guys have the hots for her. She flirts with them, but that's all she does with them. She's after bigger game than that. Believe me, she's a very ambitious little girl.”

“Portia S. McKenzie?” I asked, finding her full name on the list of paralegals in the firm's telephone directory.

“That's her.”

“You don't like her.”

“I don't like the type. And neither do you. Wait till you meet her.”

“Do you think she was having an affair with Anderson?”

“God, I hope not. She flirted with him, but then that girl would shake her tits in front of anything in pants. Most of the guys here fall for it. You should see them. They hang around her office like dogs in heat.” She shook her head. “Men. I'm telling you, they're so transparent. Anyway, I never saw Mr. Anderson react to any of her come-ons.”

“Did she do any work for him?”

“Some. The kind of things paralegals in trusts and estates do for lawyers.”

“Stoddard Anderson wasn't in that department,” I said.

“Mr. Anderson had plenty of clients who came to him for estate planning. During the first client meeting on a new will or trust he'd have one of the trusts and estates lawyers sit in. Usually, it was Reed St. Germain. Mr. St. Germain was chairman of the trusts and estates department before Mr. Anderson died. Anyway, if it was really a complicated estate plan, they'd have Portia sit in, too. She'd take notes and help the client fill out the forms. After the first client meeting, Mr. Anderson would gradually get the client used to the idea of dealing with Mr. St. Germain, or whoever Mr. St. Germain assigned to the matter. But in the early stages, Mr. Anderson would sometimes give assignments directly to Portia.”

“Was she in his office frequently?”

Nancy thought it over. “Not that much.”

“Nothing suspicious?”

“Nope.”

“Switch subjects. Did Mr. Anderson ever mention something called ParaLex to you?”

“ParaLex? Doesn't ring a bell. Why?”

“I'm not sure. How could I find out if it's a new client of the firm?”

“That's easy enough,” she said as she swiveled in her chair to face her computer terminal. She typed in a command and hit the TRANSMIT key. After a moment, a prompt message appeared on the monitor screen. Nancy looked up at me. “ParaLex?”

“Right. One word, capital ‘L.'”

“If it's a client, it'll show up here,” she said as she pushed the TRANSMIT key.

I peered over her shoulder at the monitor, which flashed
Searching
several times before announcing
No client with the name ParaLex has been located
.

“I guess not,” Nancy said.

“Probably just a wild-goose chase anyway. Speaking of which, was your boss named the executor on many wills?”

Nancy frowned in thought. “Believe it or not,” she finally said, “I have no idea.”

“Would Portia know?”

“She ought to. And so would Mr. St. Germain. And so would Linda Salem. She's the other paralegal in that department.”

“Maybe I'll talk to Portia,” I said, more to myself than to Nancy.

But it turned out Portia McKenzie had already left the office for lunch. So had Reed St. Germain. And so had Linda Salem.