Marked Man (24 page)

Family court, that last
bastion of civility, where mothers and fathers work unceasingly, with goodwill and decorum, to find custodial arrangements in the best interests of their children. Sure, and hockey is played by dainty men with fabulous teeth.

We were in family court, waiting for Judge Sistine to show up, sitting around and killing time. Much of a trial lawyer’s day is spent killing time, which just then suited me fine. It was Bradley Hewitt’s day to testify in his custody suit with Theresa Wellman, and I was a bit short on material.

After Theresa Wellman stepped down from the stand, Beth had spent the intermittent trial days granted us by Judge Sistine putting on a torrent of evidence about Theresa’s rehabilitation, her new job, her new house, her new life. We had shown, about as well as could be shown, that letting Belle live part-time with her mother might not be a total disaster. But the judge would have to decide more than simply whether Theresa could take care of her daughter. She would have to decide whether joint custody, as opposed to keeping Belle with Bradley full-time, was in the child’s best interests. Bradley Hewitt, with his suit and manners, his fine house and his high-paying job, would certainly put on a good show. And, to be honest, I didn’t quite know how to prove joint custody a better solution. But I had a plan, and killing time was part of it.

Bradley Hewitt, self-satisfied and self-assured, was sitting beside his attorney, Arthur Gullicksen, at the counsel table. His entourage
was lined up like black-suited ducks on the bench behind them. Gullicksen passed me a confident smile just as the courtroom doors opened.

We all turned and looked. It was Jenna Hathaway.

I turned back and checked out Gullicksen. His face took on a puzzled expression. He knew her, of course he did. I would have told him all about her, except I checked and found out I didn’t need to. One of his clients, an upper-crust Main Liner from an old, distinguished family, had been hiding assets from his wife, which was bad enough, but he had also been hiding them from the IRS. Jenna Hathaway had descended like an avenging angel and banged him into the Federal Correctional Institution at Morgantown for a good seven years. I let Gullicksen sit there and puzzle it out for a moment before I stood and walked toward Jenna.

“Thanks for coming,” I said quietly.

“Are you sure this is a good place to talk?” she said.

“No problem. The judge is forever handling some emergency childcare issue. This case has been held over longer than
Cats
. Did you look at the cooperation agreement?”

“Totally insufficient, and you have some gall to even try to pass this off as complete. I attached a few pages.”

“I thought you might,” I said. “Let me see what you added, and I’ll get back to you.”

She reached into her briefcase, pulled out the big red file folder in which I had delivered to her the agreement. As I took hold of it, I glanced at Gullicksen. With his eyes still on the two of us, he was now speaking very quickly to his client.

“I put in language regarding Charlie’s testimony and possible punishments concerning Chantal Adair,” said Jenna.

“Were you unreasonable?”

“You might think so.”

“Don’t be upset if I have some changes of my own.”

“You said you had something for me?”

I directed her attention to Bradley Hewitt, who was now staring at us with quiet alarm. I pointed at him, subtly enough so it wasn’t obvious,
obvious enough so he couldn’t miss that I was pointing. “Do you know who that is?”

“No,” she said.

“His name is Bradley Hewitt. Your office is investigating him in that pay-to-play investigation where you guys bugged the mayor’s office and got caught. He’s one of the go-betweens the mayor uses, and he’s testifying today. You might want to listen in on what he says.”

“It’s not my case.”

“I’m sure the U.S. Attorney would appreciate knowing what he testifies to today.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Could be,” I said.

She looked at the courtroom door, checked her watch. “Okay, sure. Thanks, Victor.”

I waved the file. “And thanks for bringing this.”

With the big red file folder clutched to my chest, I walked back down the aisle, pulled out the chair at counsel table, started to sit. Gullicksen was at my side before my butt could settle.

“What is she doing here?” he said.

“It’s a public courtroom,” I said. “Here for the show, I suppose.”

“What’s in the file?”

“Stuff,” I said. “Odds and ends.”

“I won’t let you ask about anything involving his business.”

“If his business is illegal and he is under investigation, don’t you think that could impact the custody decision?”

“This is totally out of bounds.”

“I practice law the way I play golf. Do me a favor, Arthur, and ask your client how he likes the veal chop at La Famiglia.”

At that moment Judge Sistine decided to grace us with her presence. “All rise.” We all rose. She brusquely made her way to the bench. “Be seated.” We all sat.

“Wellman v. Hewitt,”
said the clerk.

“Where are we, people?” said the judge. “I seem to remember we were going to hear from Mr. Hewitt today. Are you ready, Mr. Gullicksen?”

“Can we have a moment, Your Honor?” said Gullicksen.

“I’ve already given you a half hour by my unavoidable tardiness. How much more could you need?”

Gullicksen glanced at me and then said, “Certain statements made by Mr. Carl seem to indicate there is room for a settlement to this dispute. I think it might be in everyone’s interest to explore the matter.”

“How long will it take?” said the judge.

“Can you give us fifteen minutes?” said Gullicksen.

“Fine. And I must say, Mr. Gullicksen, it warms my heart to see the parties trying to work together for the benefit of their child. You have your fifteen minutes.”

“W
HAT DOES
this all mean, Mr. Carl?” said Theresa Wellman as we waited in the hallway for Gullicksen to continue to hammer sense into his client’s perfectly groomed skull.

“It means we’re going to come to some sort of an agreement,” I said, “as long as you don’t get greedy.”

“What about weekends, Theresa?” said Beth. “That’s what Bradley’s attorney is trying to convince Bradley to agree to. Let Belle stay with Bradley during the week and continue going to the private school she attends.”

“I want her all the time,” said Theresa. “She’s my daughter.”

“And she’s Bradley’s daughter, too,” said Beth. “Taking care of her during the week might compromise your job. This way you’ll have her back in your life and you can continue to build on the progress you’ve made. But if we push too hard, and Bradley says no, you could end up with nothing. Take this as a gift and see how it works out.”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it,” said Beth. She checked her watch. “You have another ten minutes to decide to say yes.”

As we watched Theresa Wellman walk away, a slight slide of victory in her step, Beth said, “What was in that red file folder?”

“Charlie Kalakos’s cooperation agreement.”

“Remind me never to get sued by you,” she said. “I had the house inspection yesterday.”

“How’d it go?”

“The boiler is a ruin, the water pipes need replacing, there’s a leak in the roof.”

“So you’re nixing the deal?”

“Of course not. Sheila was with me and was thrilled. She’s getting the price reduced.”

“Beth, the house is a wreck.”

“The inspector said its bones were good.”

“It’s a house, not a supermodel.”

“My mortgage was approved, we’re having the closing next week. Will you come and be my lawyer?”

“Isn’t this whole thing a little hasty?”

“Sheila says it’s a great opportunity.”

“Sheila’s a Realtor, she has the scruples of a mollusk.”

“I like her.”

“So do I, actually, but that’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

“Do you really think a house is going to solve whatever it is you need to solve?”

“Did you see how happy Theresa was? She really did change her life, didn’t she?”

“Let’s hope so for her daughter’s sake.”

“She’s an inspiration. If she can do it, I can do it.”

“And a house is the ticket?”

“It’s a start. During the inspection I was walking through all the rooms, imagining the way they’ll look after I settle in. The way, during parties, everyone will be hanging out in my new kitchen.”

“You don’t have parties.”

“But I will, with a house.”

“And the kitchen is a pit.”

“It gets morning light.”

“In April.”

“I was imagining the way my friends will stay over in the guest bedroom. I was imagining the way, whenever I wanted, I could work from home in the home office.”

“Any fantasies about the nursery?”

“Do you have a problem with my buying a house, Victor?”

Did I? Good question. Was I really worried that she was looking to real estate to solve an existential dilemma and bound to be disappointed? Or was I simply jealous that she was getting a house and starting a life when I seemed incapable of doing that for myself? And why had it suddenly gotten so difficult between us?

“No, Beth,” I said. “No problem. It’s a great fit.”

“What about the closing?”

“I’ll be there,” I said. “I promise.”

We return now to
the curious case of Sammy Glick.

Why, you’re a regular Sammy Glick,
had said Agnes LeComte during our little tête-à-tête on the edge of Rittenhouse Square. I had an idea of what the old buzzard had in mind, the slow, acid drip of condescension in her tone pretty much said it all. I hadn’t reacted much at the time, one thing I had learned over the years was to measure my responses to the insults that came my way, but it registered, yes it did. And I figured I’d go right to the source to get the full measure of her slight. So after running the name through my computer, I picked up a copy of
What Makes Sammy Run
? from the bookstore on my way to the airport. I was flying to Rochester. Business or pleasure?

It was Rochester. What the hell do you think?

“I
TOLD YOU
on the phone I had nothing to say to you,” said Serena Chicos. She was a small dark woman, fifty-some years of age, pretty and slim, with the sharp eyes and tense mouth of someone who had become used to giving directions and having them followed.

“I hoped if I came in person,” I said, “you’d appreciate the seriousness of my inquiry.”

“You hoped in vain,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have much work.”

“I can assure you, Ms. Chicos, that everything you say to me will be held in strictest confidence.”

“But I don’t choose to be in your confidence. As I told you repeatedly, I am simply not willing to discuss my tenure at the Randolph Trust.”

“Is there a reason?”

“It is ancient history. It is a part of my past that I have chosen to put behind me.”

“Do they know about it?” I said, gesturing toward the hallway. “Do they know what happened while you were there?”

I was standing in the doorway of her rather small office. We were on the second floor of an impressive granite building with a huge bell tower, the Memorial Art Gallery of the University of Rochester. She was in the curatorial department. Just down the hall was the director’s office, which was noticeably larger.

She smiled a tense smile. “I have been at this museum for twenty years, Mr. Carl. The administration here is no longer concerned about my qualifications.”

“So the answer is no.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint, but you will not be able to blackmail me into talking with you. My job as associate curator at the Randolph Trust was my first after I left school. It is clearly indicated on my curriculum vitae. In fact, it was Mr. Randolph himself who helped me attain this position just shortly before he died.”

“That’s interesting, since I heard you were a suspect in the robbery at his trust.”

“Who told you that?” she said sharply, but not before involuntarily glancing behind me to see if anyone was listening in.

“Maybe we could discuss this whole situation somewhere more private?”

She narrowed her eyes at me for a moment and then shook her head. “No, Mr. Carl. I will not talk about the Randolph Trust no matter what vile rumors are being spread about me. I’m sorry you wasted your time. If you want, I can give you a pass for the gallery. The collection is actually quite good.”

“But not as good as at the Randolph.”

“No. The collection at the Randolph is…astounding.” She sat
quietly for a moment, as if remembering it painting by painting. “Is that all,” she said finally, “because I really do have work.”

“It was Mrs. LeComte who implicated you in the robbery.”

An eyebrow rose. “Oh, was it, now? And how is the old bat?”

“Old. But still frisky and still there, on her throne. She said you had checked out certain blueprints just before the crime.”

“It wasn’t true.”

“She said there were fingerprints.”

“A mistake was made.”

“She also said your tastes were slightly vulgar.”

“My tastes? Have you seen the height of her heels?”

“And that your neck was too long.”

“There are thirteen masterworks by Modigliani at the Randolph.”

“What you’re telling me, I suppose, is that Mr. Randolph admired long necks.”

Her hand started to rise involuntarily to her throat, and then she caught herself. A man and a woman, deep in some conversation, both peered into the office as they passed in the hallway. Serena Chicos fiddled with her hands and then sighed.

“Where are you staying, Mr. Carl?”

“The Airport Holiday Inn.”

“I can give you a few minutes after work.”

“Splendid,” I said. “I’ll be waiting.”

H
IS GIVEN
name was Samuel Glickstein. Jewish, of course, which was certainly a significant part of Mrs. LeComte’s little dig. She was still rooted in that musty age in Philadelphia when to be a Jew was considered something sordid, like being a sloppy drunk or having a predilection for young boys, nothing to lose your job over, but still.
Why, you’re a regular Sammy Glick
. Yes, I was, wasn’t I? Little Shmelka Glickstein of the Lower East Side, whom we first spy as a copyboy at the fictional
New York Record
. “Always ran,” writes the narrator. “Always looked thirsty.” Sammy Glick.

What Makes Sammy Run?
by Budd Schulberg was quite the celebrated novel when it appeared in 1941. You know Schulberg, he’s the
guy who wrote
On the Waterfront
as a justification for naming names to the House Un-American Affairs Committee in the fifties. “I could have had class. I could have been a contender.” Sammy Glick’s shady maneuverings as he claws his way to the top made Sammy rich and Budd Schulberg famous.

While I was waiting for Serena Chicos at my hotel, I followed Sammy’s meteoric rise from copyboy to columnist, from columnist to Hollywood screenwriter, from screenwriter to producer to head of the movie studio, married to a rich redhead with flawless beauty. You go, brother. Sure he had to cross a few lines and step on a few toes, screw a few writers out of credits and help smash the union, but nothing he did through the whole of the book was worse than what your basic U.S. congressman commits before breakfast. And Sammy had better taste in shoes.

And yet I found the novel troubling. The problem wasn’t that I identified with Sammy Glick, the problem was that I didn’t, at least not enough, and not in the way I wanted. All my life his was the path I had expected to tread, the ruthless march to wealth and success, not to mention the redhead. But somehow I couldn’t pull it off. There was a weakness in my soul where in Sammy Glick’s there was only steel. If there was a curse in my life, it was that I didn’t have what it took to take what I wanted in this world. The great men and women in history all had that steel. If you think Gandhi was a pushover, you never tried to give him a ham sandwich.

And here again, in that crummy hotel room in Rochester, it was playing out. In my desk drawer back at the office there was a pile of gold and jewels just waiting to be appraised and sold. And Lavender Hill was offering a king’s ransom if I could just convince Charlie to sell the Rembrandt and sail off into the sunset. I was in the golden land of either/or, where I couldn’t lose, but instead of taking care of business, I was off on some quixotic quest to find a missing girl. You know what I was? I was a sap, pure and simple, and I felt it all the more keenly as I read about Sammy Glick’s rise up the Hollywood ladder toward a success that I would never match.

But I wasn’t reading the novel only to make myself feel blue, or to suss out the depth of Mrs. LeComte’s insult, or even just to pass the
time, though I was accomplishing all three. No, I was reading the novel because Mrs. LeComte’s comment hadn’t been as offhand as she made it seem, and I couldn’t help feeling that maybe, just maybe, somewhere in the book was a clue that would help me discover what really happened to Chantal Adair twenty-eight years ago.

And damn if I wasn’t right.

“I
WAS FRAMED,
Mr. Carl,” said Serena Chicos, and perhaps she heard the inevitable sigh I sigh whenever anyone tells me he has been framed, because she added, as if compelled by that very sagging of my shoulders, “No, but I was. Really.”

“By whom?”

“I don’t know for certain, and I am not one to cast aspersions.”

“As they were cast upon you.”

“Precisely.”

“But why would this person want to frame you?”

“To divert attention, to scuttle a career. When Mr. Randolph was alive, the Randolph Trust was like Versailles, a snake pit full of courtiers vying for the king’s attention.”

“And you were young and beautiful and long-necked, is that it?”

She stared at me without responding, her fingers tapping impatiently on the little round table in the hotel’s café. But then a half smile turned her thin, tense lips, and I saw it all, the young art academic, the old millionaire art collector, the shared passion, the mutual admiration, lust among the Monets and the Matisses, the Modiglianis, his old bony hands on her long lovely neck.

“It’s not something I’m comfortable talking about,” she said.

“Do you have any children?”

“Three. Two boys and a girl. And they are waiting for me at home.”

“I’m looking into the Randolph Trust robbery because something happened about the same time. A little girl disappeared. The detective involved in the disappearance thirty years ago believed that the robbery and the missing girl were somehow connected. On behalf of the family, I’m trying to find out if that’s so. Anything I can learn about the robbery would be a big help.”

“I told you, I had nothing to do with it.”

“I believe you, but you might be able to point me in the right direction.”

“I doubt it.”

“She was six when she went missing. Do you want to see a picture?”

“No,” she said. She sat back, crossed her arms, thought for a moment. “Mr. Randolph and I were together until I was forced to leave after the robbery,” she said finally. “There were suspicions that there was some insider help. An insider had to go. I was chosen to take the fall.”

“By Mr. Randolph?”

“No, by others.”

“And Mr. Randolph didn’t try to keep you?”

“There were two people who held sway over Wilfred, at least while I was there. One was his wife, a quite formidable woman. Their marriage had become something of a museum piece itself, more mummified than alive. But she had been with him when he was still poor and had helped him amass the collection. Whatever secrets he had, she knew them.”

“Even you?”

“I wasn’t aware of it at the time, but from what I later learned, they discussed everything. They lived their lives in the spirit of their times, Kinsey, Masters and Johnson. It was in many ways a time of greater personal freedom than we have now. But Wilfred was always a little terrified of his wife. And also of Agnes LeComte.”

“Mrs. LeComte? How did she get such power?”

“She had became a close friend of Mrs. Randolph’s, for one. And before Wilfred and I began our…personal relationship, he was very much with her. They had been having an affair for a decade.”

“Until he dumped her for you.”

“That’s right. The two women convinced him that, for the protection of the trust, I had to be let go.”

“It seems LeComte had a pretty good motive for framing you.”

“Obviously, yes. We were never close, and at first her resentment was palpable, but when she came back, things were very different.”

“Came back? From where?”

“From her sabbatical. After Wilfred made it clear to her that he had
found someone new, and after Mrs. Randolph refused to come to her defense, she left the trust. She was gone for more than six months.”

“What did she do?”

“Traveled, from what I heard, though she didn’t talk much about it. But when she returned, things were very different. There was something changed about her, she had found a certain peace, which I didn’t understand then, but now I think I do. I think she met someone during her travels, I think she fell in love. She would never admit to anything, but when she returned, she poured herself into the working of the trust, remained close with Mrs. Randolph, and began to take an active interest in my career. Maybe too active. Of course there was always an edge to our relationship, but she tried to become something of a mentor.”

“How’d that work out?”

“Not well. I already had a mentor in Wilfred. He was a brilliant man. He had so much to teach about so many things, and he was never boring. That is a rare quality in men, I’ve found, rarer even in lawyers.”

“Tell me about the robbery itself.”

“There’s not much to tell. That day we were closed, no visitors or classes. Wilfred was working with Mrs. LeComte in the gardens. The trust keeps a fascinating garden, full of rare specimens collected from all over the world. That whole day I was reviewing some records with Mrs. Randolph. After the night guards showed up, we all went home. No one knew anything had happened until we opened up the next morning and found the guards bound and gagged.”

“How did the crooks get in?”

“Apparently someone was inside. No one knows how he got there.”

“Any ideas?”

“None. It has remained a mystery.”

“Anything unusual about the guards that night?”

“The crew had been working together for ages. The supervisor was an old friend of the Randolphs’. The police naturally focused on them, but they all came up clean. Everyone came up clean except for me.”

“The fingerprints and files.”

“It wouldn’t have been so hard to fabricate the evidence, which was why no charges were ever filed. The file jacket could have come from anywhere. I handled many. And my signature on the sign-out sheet
must have been forged. Really, if I was stealing the blueprints, would I have signed them out?”

“Not likely.”

“I had enough freedom to take home what files I needed without a signature. But it was quite convenient for me to be blamed. Wilfred had been making noise about marrying me. I didn’t want that, but still, I heard later that Mrs. Randolph was horrified that he might divorce her. And Mrs. LeComte was growing concerned about my influence over the trust. Wilfred was giving me more and more responsibility.”