No One Rides For Free - Larry Beinhart (7 page)

I heard sirens as we approached. I looked at my
speedometer reflexively, then out my rearview, and realized that the
siren wasn't for me. When we came around the curve we saw bubble-gum
lights coming from the opposite direction heading the same place we
were. I didn't think much of it and drove in after them.

There were four squad cars, lights flashing, and all
sorts of busyness at the far end of the lot where almost no cars were
parked. Curious, like any rubbernecking civilian, I strolled over.

Wood's body lay on the blacktop, facedown and
crumpled. Even from behind the hasty police barricade I could see
that something like a pipe or a tire iron had crushed the back of his
skull. I looked around the lot for his XJ-12. A uniform and a
detective were talking to a waiter. I sidled over to catch what I
could of the conversation.

"This guy says the victim has been coming in for
about three weeks. Usually alone," the uniformed officer said.

"What about a car? Does he know what kind of car
the guy drives? " the detective, on the same track I was on,
asked.

"A nice car, a real nice car," the waiter
said. "A Jaguar, but a regular kind."

"You mean a sedan?" the detective said.

"Yeah."

"Does he park it way over here, usually, I
mean?"

"I don't know what he does usually. I only seen
it once. "

"Was it way out here?" the detective asked.

"Lots of times, a man got himself a high-priced
machine, he likes to park it where nobody opening a door gonna
scratch at his paint," the uniform said.

"Yeah, I think we got a car theft with a
mugging. But let's look around, see if we can find it."

I noticed that some of the cops were scanning the
crowd of onlookers. There were fifteen or twenty of us by then. It
says, right on page fifty-eight of Practical Homicide Investigation,
"Obtain pictures of the people in the crowd. Often witnesses . .
. including possible suspects, will be watching." I wasn't
either, but neither would what I was doing there bear scrutiny.

I took one last look at
the corpse. The wallet, rifled, lay near it. The ring was off his
finger and the silver links were gone from his French cuffs. The
collar of his custom shirt and Savile Row suit were stained with
blood. His shoes were scuffed from the fall. His pants were soiled on
the inside when his body released urine and excrement, soiled on the
outside by oil and trash of the day gone by.

* * *

The killing made the morning edition of the
Washington Post. The tone of the story was muted schizophrenic. The
reporters clearly wanted to make something out of "secret
federal witness assassinated"; the cops were hanging tough with
"mugging and robbery, similar to several in the area recently";
and the editors were remembering that a Post reporter had won a
Pulitzer for journalism that ought to have been awarded for fiction.

The story must have also made the New York Times
because Choate Haven called me. Case closed.

"I can still get the transcripts," I told
him, greedy for the bonus.

"There is no need. Whatever Mr. Wood told the
SEC will be revealed soon enough, and while his testimony may lead
them to further investigation, any litigation must rest entirely on
the record and the record alone, not on facts skewed by an angry man
bent on 'getting even.' "

"Do you think he was killed for what he was
saying?" I asked.

"The average man in the street imagines
corporations involved in every sort of skullduggery, possibly because
they have not the opportunity or training required to examine the
situation realistically. As counsel to Over & East I am privy to
all aspects of their operations, and I can assure you, for the
record, that based on the reality, based on the facts, that sort of
speculation is frankly ridiculous. If Mr. Wood were alive and
testifying, I suspect that, as is usual, Over & East would spend
more on legal fees than on any penalties or fines."

Edgar Wood, a random chew in someone else's hunger.

To die for one's deeds is called glory. It doesn't
matter if the death is soiled and the deeds are tawdry; you can
still, like Jesse James, get a song out of it. If you think there is
a sea god and Poseidon is drowning you, for reasons of personal
malice, you can go under knowing your death is your own. We long to
link the effect to a cause that is ourselves; there is dignity there.
Wood was just dead.

Unless, of course, it had been the Colombians.

It really was not my business anymore. What was my
business was that Choate Haven had requested neither a refund nor an
accounting. I did not remind him. There was enough left that
bottom-line-wise, dollar for dollar, pay per hour--that is, by every
rational measure—it was my best case, ever.
 

8
PATCHEN

WHEN I FIRST
met Wayne he
was about two. Not knowing a whole lot about kids I decided to treat
him like a dog, and it worked out real well.

If you treat a little kid or a dog like a regular
person, you create tremendous frustration. For example, if you take
either one for a walk and expect them to go straight ahead at a
steady, even, purposeful pace, you have a very serious problem. What
is natural to either animal is to run ahead, then dawdle back, check
out the gutter on one side, the store fronts on the other, and when
they meet another of their own species they have to go through some
very strange, check-each-other-out rituals. Except when they don't.

Yelling at either one to train them to heel makes
sense. Getting nuts because they don't see going for a walk the same
way you see it just hurts all the parties concerned.

Wayne was now approaching the midget stage, sort of
like a regular person, but smaller. I think we found each other
instructive.

There is a dark side and a light side in all of us.
That is something I learned taking Wayne through the entire Star Wars
trilogy twice.

The force inside has its own urgency. It creates a
pressure to act and does not care what shape those actions have. It
is amoral, without concept of self-perpetuation or self-destruction.

In D.C. I felt its presence awakening, like a rush
from the adrenals. It was not the offers of. drugs, a woman and
violence; those things are always there for the picking. It was the
feeling that I wanted the kick of crossing the line. That I was
young, tough, resilient. That the legs had life enough for fifteen
rounds and I could take the body blows and be back up before the
mandatory eight-count was done. Forgetting that the last time I went
down, it had taken over two years to remember what getting up means.

Two divorce cases and one job fingering the inside
man in a series of garment-center thefts later, I decided to spend
some of the money I made down in D.C. We sent Wayne to get spoiled by
Glenda's parents and we went upstate to Mohouk.

We ate huge breakfasts, dressed for dinner as
required and generally behaved like gentry except for some of the
positions in which we made love. I hiked; Glenda strolled. My
favorite was the dawn hike: quick march up the mountains to watch the
sunrise, then back down for a plunge in a lake fed by springs and
melted snow. When I hit it, my testicles snapped back and my heart
pounded like it had a hit of amyl nitrate. I also started taking
rock-climbing lessons, pitons and all of that, and tore the pads off
two fingers after a slight error.

"If you want to go run up mountains and clamber
over rocks like a child, jump in icy water and enjoy the feeling of a
simulated heart attack, go right ahead. I will meet you back at the
hotel for tea," Glenda said, and actually meant it. Any other
woman would have made my stay half miserable with "We came to be
together, why don't you stay with me," or worse, attempted to
keep up, through blisters, strains and sprains, never murmuring a
curse of pain and only letting the sacrifice show in her eyes and
written in the invisible ledger where women count the debts that men,
unknowing, grow to owe them.

The week after we returned to Manhattan, Choate Haven
called.

Edgar Wood was survived by a daughter, a wife and a
mistress. The trustee of the rather considerable estate was the trust
department of Choate, Winkler, Higgiston, Hahn & Moore. The
mistress had been dismissed as a facility too distant to use when
Wood went out of town. She would not have figured in the estate in
any case. The wife was pre-estranged and when death came she decided
that she was more content as a widow than as the wife of a living
thief.

"Edgar Wood's daughter, however, is young and
impressionable. She has reacted to his death in a neurotic and even
obsessive manner. It may be guilt. She was out of the country, in
Ibiza I believe, at the time of death, and due to problems with
overseas communications and in locating her, she did not learn of the
event until after the actual funeral.

"
The police reports, which we have obtained for
her, make it quite clear that this was a mugging, plain and simple.
Apparently there had been several similar incidents in that area in
the months directly preceding, though none of them resulted in death.
I have gone so far as to speak to the local law-enforcement
representatives, and I have assured myself that they take the case
with utmost seriousness and that they have gone into the matter with
unusual thoroughness.

"In spite of that, young Miss Wood seems to feel
that not enough is being done. She has suggested that the police are
covering something up. To be quite frank, some of her statements and
accusations have been, shall we say, extravagant. In view of her
bereavement we have all tried to be tolerant of these hysterical
outbursts."

I could visualize that. A half-dozen pin-stripers
standing in a grave and tolerant circle around the screaming, spoiled
daughter of the rich dead Wood. A JAP in hysteria, swinging her Gucci
bag at increasingly patronizing old WASPs. And once in a
patronization mode the WASP is a stone wall. As the WASPs grow
blanker, her frustration rises and rises until it is total and she
begins to tear at her own clothes, the Italian silk halter and
designer jeans. The denim will not rip but the silk does, and at the
sight of breast the pinstripes call for sedation all around.

And there I was. Sedation.

"Although I and the other trustees regard the
use of a private investigator as, in all probability, a waste of
money, the estate is considerable and Miss Wood can certainly afford
to indulge her feelings.

"We have had clients spend their money on far
sillier things, believe me."

Humor, from Choate Haven. I was so shocked I chortled
along with him.

"As you are somewhat familiar with the case, I
thought perhaps you would be suitable. "

"
Should I mention that?" I asked.

"That's hardly necessary. And I think you should
report through our offices. You will find that more convenient, less
taxing, and naturally your reports will carry more weight that way."

"Part of my job, or all of it," I said,
"seems to be to reassure Ms. Wood that everything that can be
done is being done. I think she will find it more reassuring if she
can deal with me directly. Of course I will communicate anything and
everything to you, as her attorney, as well."

"Excellent point," he admitted.

"There's one more thing. Has the SEC moved
against Over & East yet?"

"
No, and I don't understand the significance of
the question."

"Well, sir"—he responded well when I said
sir—"if they have, it would make the Wood transcripts subject
to discovery. If we had copies of his statements it would tell us
that either no one or someone had a motive to silence him. I agree
with you," I rushed to add, "that we will, in all
likelihood, find nothing. But it is the testimony situation that is
obviously the basis of the daughter's fears and suspicions. If we
want to quiet them and bring her back to reality, we should meet I
that issue head on."

"I see the point you are making, and you may be
quite right. If the SEC proceeds with litigation, I shall try to
obtain relevant portions for you."

This time I got paid by check. There was a two-week
advance. After that, we would review and decide if it was worth
continuing. I also got a copy of the police report and the daughter's
phone number and address.

When I called her she sounded calm and businesslike,
and had a pleasant voice. We made an appointment for the next day,
Saturday, at 3 P.M.

Then I got hold of Ol' Chip and made a squash date
for 1:00.

In celebration of another overpriced job I bought
myself a new Head racket with competition gut. These small
indulgences can be thrilling.

Though he lost, three games to love, both sets, I
could see that he was pleased with me. Every interchange between an
associate and a partner is a test. Had I failed, after being
recommended by Chip, it would have been Chip's head on the block.
Apparently Choate Haven had never given him any feedback, either way,
until by rehiring me he expressed his satisfaction through action.
The relief was enormous, and Chip was feeling a rush of gratitude
that verged on warmth. Chip's field was Trusts and Estates, and the
steam room seemed a good place to pick his brains. I asked him if he
was involved in the Wood estate.