Death Benefits (25 page)

“I suppose I could do that for you.”

“And,” I continued, watching closely for his reaction, “I won't tell anyone that you gave me the envelope.”

He gave a sigh of relief. “Then you
will
take it?”

In my mind, I leaned back, punched my fist into the sky, and shouted a YES!! that reverberated across the city. With my body, though, I pretended to carefully weigh his request.

“I will,” I finally said. “Since I represent his widow, Albert, you'll always know that you kept your promise to him. You were a good friend to the end.”

“This is excellent. I must tell you, Miss Gold, you cannot imagine how relieved I will be to finally get that dreadful envelope out of my safe deposit box.”

We made arrangements to meet outside his bank at twelve-thirty the following afternoon. I really wanted to do it first thing in the morning, but Albert couldn't get to the bank any earlier than lunchtime because of the Monday morning staff meetings he had to attend on his first day back at the office after his vacation.

As we were parting, I asked, “One more thing, Albert. This Section D—the tunnel under Forest Park. You say Mr. Anderson seemed more interested in that than the other places you told him about?”

“Yes, but that doesn't mean he hid it in Section D. As I told you, I do not know where he hid it. I cannot impress upon you enough—”

“How did Stoddard know how to get into Section D?”

Albert looked down at his feet. “I told him how. The river comes out of those tunnels over at Macklind and Manchester. The mouths of the tunnels are wide open. No fences or gates or anything like that. Anyone can walk in. I told him about that entrance.”

“How long are the tunnels?”

“From Macklind through Forest Park, I would say about three miles.”

***

As Albert Weidemeir walked briskly away toward the parking lot, his arms pumping and his hips rolling, Benny casually passed by him as he walked toward me, tipping his Yankees cap at him. It only made Albert speed up his pace.

“Nu?” Benny asked me.

I gave him a thumbs-up. “Albert's our man. And he's going to cooperate.”

“No shit. Good old Albert. Tell me about it. And do it in the shade, for Christ's sake. Look at me. I'm shvitzing like a hog. Summer in this goddamn town is like living in a fucking steam bath.”

We walked back to the Science Center, where I finished filling Benny in while he chugged a large Sprite, refilled the cup with water, and chugged that as well.

“Way to go, Albert,” Benny said when I finished. “Tell him I want to have his children. For lunch. I'm starved.”

When we got back out to the parking lot, I told Benny I had to go downtown for the meeting with Reed St. Germain.

“I still don't see why you have to be the one,” Benny said.

“I'm the emcee,” I said. “I set it all up.”

“Well, you know I'm going to have to be there.”

“You can't be.”

“Hey, I
can
be. You won't even know I'm there. I'll stay out of your way. Give me a research project, stick me in the library. Christ, it's air-conditioned down there. I've got to get someplace in this fucking city where the heat index is under a hundred. The climate control center of my brain has already gone to DEFCON-Two.”

Eventually, I relented. “I just don't want a circus down there,” I told him. “Here's the car keys. Wait for me by the car. I want to call both of them one more time.”

Chapter Twenty-five

Reed St. Germain appeared at the doorway of my small office at ten minutes to three, briefcase in hand. I looked up from my legal pad, as if I had been engrossed in my investigation notes.

“Come in, Reed.”

“Let's make the call from my office,” he said. “It's more comfortable.”

“We're not making the call. Ishmael is. I gave him my direct dial number. I think we better wait for the call here. Have a seat. And close the door.”

He did both, which put him at an immediate disadvantage. Some wit once said that big-firm lawyers are like wolves: They travel in packs. They share another trait as well: Big-firm lawyers—at least the male ones—are highly territorial, and view their offices as their lairs. Reed St. Germain was now in my den.

He slid around in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position. Fortunately, these were Abbott & Windsor guest chairs, selected by an all-male committee of lawyers. As a result, there is no comfortable position in those chairs. That's the whole point. In addition, the chairs sit a couple inches lower than standard ones, which means that the visitor is always just a tad below the lawyer behind the desk. The people in charge of a law firm's interior design play the same role as the grounds crew at the ballpark—in dozens of little ways they can tip the odds slightly in favor of the home team.

“Are you sure he even remembers about this call?” Reed said.

“Why do you say that?”

“He's out of town.”

“How do you know that?”

“I called earlier today. First his office, then his home. His wife said he was out of town until tomorrow.”

“Why did you call?”

“Uh, management issues. Certainly of no concern to you. Speaking of which, what's the story with this investigation?” Having faltered for a fraction of a second, he was now attempting to take charge, but from the wrong side of the desk. “When do you plan to wrap it up so we can get back to business around here?”

“Soon.”

“Define soon.”

“Come on, Reed,” I said with irritation. “I already told you that I'm meeting with the claims adjuster on Tuesday. My goal is to have everything wrapped up by then.”

“Well, that's good to hear. What have you decided to tell him?”

I smiled. “Now it's my turn, Reed. I don't think that's any concern of yours. I represent Mrs. Anderson, not the firm.”

He gave a snort of disgust, trying to sound gruff. “Last time I looked, we were paying your fees.”

“Reed, if you have a problem with my interpretation of my ethical obligations to Mrs. Anderson, I suggest you raise that with Ishmael. He's the one who retained me.”

“I just might,” he snapped, his face coloring. He checked his watch. “He should have called by now—if he's going to, that is.”

“He told me he would. I'm certain he will.”

“Don't be so sure. He's getting older, more forgetful. He's not the man he once was.”

Involuntarily, I glanced down at the button for the intercom line between my desk and Nancy's. The light was still on.

“While we're waiting,” I said calmly, “maybe I can tie up some loose ends. Help speed things up. Can I ask you a few questions?”

He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Go ahead.”

“Were you the one who did that to my car?”

The question seemed to land with palpable force, pushing him further back so that he momentarily lost his balance before righting his chair. “Your car? I won't even dignify that question with a response.”

“Did you call me later that night?”

“Did I what?” he sputtered.

“You heard the question.”

“Good God, lady, get serious.”

“I am serious.”

“And I am indignant. You can rest assured that Ishmael will hear about this.”

“Tell him. But first answer my question.”

“This is ludicrous.”

“What is ludicrous?”

“Even the suggestion that someone in my position would stoop to making that kind of call.”

I paused, nodding slightly. “What kind of call?”

He had realized his mistake. I could see it in his eyes as he tried to replay the last minute of our conversation in his head. “The kind of call you described,” he finally said, trying to sound belligerent.

“I didn't describe the call. I didn't say anything about it. I just asked if you were the one who called me later that night.”

“Word games,” he sneered. “This isn't cross-examination, lady.”

“It took me a while to figure it out,” I said, leaning back in my seat. “For a long time I really did think someone was trying to scare me off the Anderson investigation. I kept looking for a motive and couldn't find one. But that was before I pieced together the ParaLex scheme.”

If I needed any further confirmation, I got it from the way his eyes jumped when I mentioned the word ParaLex. I waited for him to say something, but he was waiting for me. I opened my desk and pulled out the ParaLex payment charts that Tyrone Henderson had printed out for me—the ones that listed each payment to ParaLex over the last three years. I slid them across the table.

I watched as he leafed through page after page of the lists of checks to ParaLex.

“Did you get this from our accounting department?” he finally asked.

I shook my head. “I got it from Chicago.”

“Who?” His voice was just a little hoarse now.

“Someone.”

“Ishmael?”

“Of course not.”

He tossed the printout on my desk. “You think ParaLex has something to do with Stoddard Anderson?”

“I think ParaLex has something to do with you.”

“Obviously it does. You don't need to be a rocket scientist to figure that out. And we certainly don't hide ParaLex from our clients. As you can see from these lists, we use ParaLex for administrative assistance in connection with many of our trusts and estates. As the head of that department, I suppose that makes me involved with any of our vendors, including appraisers, investment advisors, and other purveyors of services, such as ParaLex. But that doesn't make me any more
involved
with them than one of my litigation partners is
involved
with a court reporting service. Indeed, I should think these ParaLex bills pale in comparison to the fees we've paid to certain court reporting services over the years. Do you have any idea what those depositions in Bottles and Cans have cost over the years? Over a million dollars.” He lifted the printouts. “According to these, the ParaLex payments average under fifty thousand dollars a year.” He shook his head and he tossed the printouts onto the desk. “Compared to other vendors, that's peanuts.”

“Yes, but there's one difference.”

“What's that?”

“Those other vendors actually exist.”

That earned a facial twitch. “I'm not following you,” he said, trying to look confused.

“The court reporter exists. The property appraiser exists. The copy service exists. ParaLex doesn't.”

He forced a laugh. “Ridiculous. Of course it exists.”

I reached under my desk and lifted the St. Louis Telephone Directory. I heaved it onto me desk, where it landed with a heavy thud. “Call them,” I said.

He studied the telephone book, his arms again crossed over his chest. He raised his eyes to meet my gaze. We stared at one another. “You're on a wild-goose hunt, lady. Believe me, you're in over your head.”

“One of us sure is, Reed.”

I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a photocopy of the front and back side of one of the canceled checks to ParaLex. I slid it across the desktop. “That,” I said, “is a check in payment of a ParaLex invoice. Look at the back. It's been deposited into the ParaLex account at the First State Bank of Creve Coeur.”

He looked up, his eyes cold. “Where did you get that check?”

“That's not important.”

“Did that little prick-teaser give it to you?”

“Portia? She doesn't even know I have it. Is she in on this, too?”

“That check is client property. I could have you up on charges before the disciplinary commission. You've invaded a client's privacy. You've trespassed client property.”

“Oh, come on, Reed. Trespassed client property? You've
stolen
client property. I've talked to the bank, Reed. I figured out what's going on. That ParaLex bank account is your account. You own it. All these checks—all the money—they all go to you. ParaLex doesn't exist except as a name on an invoice, a name on a post office box, and a name on a bank account. You're ParaLex.”

He seemed to be fighting for control of himself. “You're wrong. You don't understand.”

“Stoddard Anderson found out about ParaLex, didn't he? That's why he had that meeting with you at the St. Louis Club.”

“Goddamn you,” he said, his eyes flaring. “No one knew. No one. No one. Not even Anderson.”

“Then why did he meet with you about ParaLex?”

“He never figured it out,” he said with contempt, his fists clenched. “All Stoddard wanted to know was why we were paying ParaLex to perform services that we might be able to have our paralegals perform. He wanted to know if we could phase out ParaLex, phase in our paralegals, and bill their time at a profit. I told him we could. I told him I'd start transferring those functions to our paralegals. All Stoddard Anderson wanted to do was increase the profit ratios in the trusts and estates department. He was satisfied with my explanation. He had no idea. None. No one did.”

He looked down, shaking his head. Suddenly, he slammed his fist on the desktop. “Goddamn you!” he shouted as he jumped to his feet and unzipped his briefcase. “I stopped ParaLex right after that meeting with Stoddard. It's done. It's over. No one ever figured it out. If you think I'm going to let you destroy me…” He started around the desk and pulled what looked like a short, wide crowbar out of his briefcase. “If you think I'm going to let you tell Ishmael about ParaLex…”

As I stood up, backing against the window, my office door burst open. In stepped Detective Mario Aloni, holding a gun in both hands.

“Sit down, sir,” he told St. Germain, pointing the gun at his head. “Drop that bar on the carpet. Now.”

Stunned, St. Germain staggered back to his chair. He looked down in confusion at the iron bar grasped in his right hand.

“Oh, Reed.”

St. Germain looked up at the sound of the familiar baritone. Standing in the doorway was Ishmael Richardson, shaking his head sadly. “A petty thief and a petty thug. I am so disappointed.”

Coming from the chairman of Abbott & Windsor, that last sentence was the equivalent of a judge imposing capital punishment. St. Germain winced, his head hanging down. He dropped the bar on the carpet. Aloni reached over and snatched it up.

Ishmael turned to Aloni and me. “Rachel, Detective—I would like to have a few moments alone with Mr. St. Germain. I would appreciate it if one of you would turn off that intercom device at the secretary station. Reed and I have some matters to discuss in confidence.”

We left after Aloni made St. Germain assume the position against the desk so that he could pat him down. On the way out, Aloni took the briefcase and the iron bar.

***

An hour later, Ishmael joined us in the conference room. He looked fatigued.

“Detective,” he said glumly, “I have attempted to achieve some justice today. I have done so because I realize that my firm must take full responsibility—morally if not legally—for Mr. St. Germain's malfeasance. Beginning on Monday, this law firm will implement all necessary measures to ensure that by the end of the week every client of this firm that has ever paid money to ParaLex will be reimbursed in full, plus interest accrued at prime rate. I will be more than happy to provide you with evidence of that.”

Ishmael gave a weary sigh before continuing. “I have also attempted to mete out appropriate punishment. Mr. St. Germain is in the process of clearing out his personal belongings. He has resigned from this firm. I have urged him to withdraw from the practice of law and turn in his license. He has promised to consider my recommendation. I intend to make him accept it, and I have reason to believe he will. Although the firm will repay the clients, Mr. St. Germain will, in turn, make full restitution to the firm. As of last Friday, his capital account with the firm stood at roughly ninety-five thousand dollars. He has signed papers relinquishing his claim to that account. He has also signed a promissory note for the balance, to be paid in full over the next eighteen months. Detective, I can show you those documents as well.”

Ishmael took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He looked at me with melancholy eyes, and then turned to Aloni. “I realize that you are here today in an unofficial capacity, Detective. I am telling you what has transpired between Mr. St. Germain and myself because of what Rachel has told me about you. She has good instincts about people, Detective. She believes that you are a man of compassion. Your presence here today on your day off is eloquent testimony of that compassion. I give you my word that my law firm will take all necessary steps to fully compensate any client whose funds were used to pay phony ParaLex invoices. I give you my word that Mr. St. Germain is leaving this firm today and, I believe, the practice of law shortly thereafter. He has been punished, Detective. The punishment is severe. I have questioned him closely about the attack on Stoddard Anderson's widow. I am convinced to a moral certainty that he had nothing to do with it. If you reach the same conclusion…” Ishmael let the thought complete itself.

“We still have the act of vandalism on Rachel's car,” Aloni said. He rubbed his chin. “That's a serious offense, although it is outside my jurisdiction.”

Ishmael nodded gravely. “Rachel and I spoke over the telephone at length on the subject this morning. Under my questioning, Mr. St. Germain confirmed her suspicions. He did it all—the car windows, the trunk of her car, the threatening phone call. He acted in the misguided belief that he could scare her off.” Ishmael looked at me with a weary smile. “He is hardly the first attorney to underestimate Rachel Gold. However, I have the sense that Rachel may be willing to walk away from that incident without pressing charges.”