Courthouse (37 page)

“Did you see anyone up there when you took him up?” asked Franco.

“Not a soul, not a soul,” replied the elevator man. “The place was dead as Kelsey's nuts.”

“You left Wainwright up there and came back down?” asked Franco.

“Sure, they were married and all, right? So I went up with him. The door was open. So, I figured the Mrs. left it open for him. I don't ask people to mind my business, so I don't mind theirs. Especially, about them kinds of comings and goings. You know what I mean? So, I left him there.”

“Then what?”

“Like I said. Then nothing. I heard some noise. Figured it was a car in the street backfiring. The next thing I know there was more cops here than I could count.”

Franco wasn't quite satisfied. “Anything else you remember about that night?”

McCormick thought for a moment. “No.”

“Okay. Thanks,” said Franco. He and Johnny walked out toward the street, and began to walk toward the car.

“What do you make of it?” asked Johnny.

“I figure,” Franco began, “that if someone had the key to the gates and doors in the back, like you said, he could have gone up the stairs, got into the apartment, left the door open for Wainwright and shot him. Then down the stairs again, and good-by. And listen to this,” Franco continued, “Zack Lord gets the old guy in the back drunk enough to take his keys. Gets a copy made and then he's got the keys.”

“He'd have to get that guy awful drunk,” said Johnny.

“From the looks of him, that guy in the back wouldn't complain too much, do you think?” asked Franco.

“Complain; He'd chew the bar rag if you'd let him.”

“I know Marc's going to think this is way out, but I think the thing could be put together.”

Johnny shrugged. “Search me.”

25

Wednesday, September 6, 8:45
A.M.

Marc walked on Broadway from his office toward Wall Street. It was a fine day; clear, bright sunshine, with just a hint that Fall was coming. As he walked, Marc enjoyed studying the people hurrying to work. He noticed that many girls, even older women, in the crowds of office workers were wearing pants. This was not just fashion, Marc thought; it was intended as a statement of their newly developed independence and freedom. It seemed, however, to indicate just the opposite. Since they all had donned the same basic clothes, almost a uniform of pants, it served at once merely to imitate men, as if pants were the real independence, and underscore the women's sheep-like quality to be herded into a style. The really independent female was now wearing a dress, but the female pants wearers wouldn't know that for about another year. Some of the younger women were wearing grotesque, clunky platform shoes, which made them so awkward they could hardly walk. But then, what was comfort or even appearance in the face of current fads?

As Marc turned into Wall Street at the front foot of Trinity Church, bells began to chime 9
A.M.
He entered the 1 Wall Street building, walked through the Irving Trust Company with its vaulted red mosaic ceiling, and then through the lobby to the elevators. He was on his way to the twenty-second floor.

As Marc got off the elevators, large letters set into the opposite wall proclaimed that he was now at W
AIN-WRIGHT AND
C
OMPANY
.

“May I help you, sir?” asked a darkly sun-tanned, petite girl in a white sweater and blue slacks. She was seated behind the reception table.

“Yes, I have an appointment with Mister DeWitt Wainwright,” replied Marc.

The receptionist picked up her phone and pushed a button on a small switchboard to her left. She waited. “There's someone who has an appointment with DeWitt Wainwright,” the girl said into the phone. She turned to Marc. “What's your name, please?”

“Mister Conte.”

“Mister Conte.” She listened again. “Okay,” she said as she replaced the phone. “Someone will be right with you.” Her attention returned to a magazine as she waited for her next visitor.

“You have a nice Labor Day vacation?” Marc asked in friendly fashion as he sat and waited.

“Yeah,” the girl nodded, looking up only momentarily as she said it. Her long earrings bobbed for quite a while after she nodded her head.

Marc waited until the earrings were still again.

“Did you go to the beach and get some sun over the holiday?”

“Yeah.” She smiled a moment to be pleasant, then looked down at her magazine again; the earrings began bobbing again.

Marc wondered how long the earrings would bob if she shook her head negatively. He was just composing a question that would bring a negative answer when a blond girl, fulsome, in a pair of brown pants with wide cuffs, clunky, dark brown, two-inch-platform shoes, and a beige sweater, appeared in a doorway to the right of the reception desk. “Mister Conte?” the blonde said.

“Yes,” said Marc, rising.

“This way, please.” She led Marc through a corridor spotted on either side with doors to small offices. Small plastic name plates had been inserted into metal slides outside each door, their impermanence perhaps purposely intended to remind the occupants that just as the name plate could be replaced without much trouble, so could they. Marc noticed as he walked that the girl he was following had a fully muscled, kind of pouty, rear end. She entered a large corridor, where there were two carved wooden office doors, and two desks, one outside each of the carved doors.

“Right this way,” she said, opening one of the carved doors. Marc entered a large room, with beige wallpaper and dark green leather upholstered chairs and matching couches. Behind a wooden desk was a heavy-set man, large in stature and face. His eyes were puffy, somewhat squeezed shut in his face by the extra, wrinkled flesh around them.

“Mister Wainwright, this is Mister Conte,” the girl announced.

“Hello, Mister Conte,” DeWitt Wainwright said, rising. He studied Marc carefully as they shook hands. “How can I help you? I'm not sure I want to; but tell me what you want anyway.”

“As I told you over the phone,” said Marc, sitting in a leather chair Wainwright had pointed to, “I represent your sister-in-law, Toni Wainwright.”

“Just leave it, you represent Toni Wainwright,” he said. “It's bad enough she uses my family's name without being reminded that she's related to me too.” He frowned with some distaste he wanted Marc to know was there.

“I take it you two don't get along,” said Marc.

“You could say that if you wanted to be charitable,” Wainwright countered. He took a pack of Camel cigarettes from the desk, offering one to Marc. Marc declined. As he watched Wainwright light up, Marc thought that the old stand-by regular-size Camels seemed small in comparison to the filter and extra-length cigarettes people smoked today. Yet, the old masculinity mystique was there, and it really didn't matter what size they were; they were a man's cigarette.

“In addition to the fact that she shot and killed my brother … that lousy bastard,” Wainwright hissed, a spume of smoke issuing from his mouth. “Excuse me. You're not here to hear the family scandal. Just let me suggest that Toni and I didn't get along from before.” Wainwright now blew some smoke high overhead, as he leaned back in his chair. “But what can I do for you? I know you're only doing a job as her lawyer.”

“I wanted to know a little more about a couple of financial matters,” said Marc.

“What the hell do finances have to do with my brother's killing?” he asked, coming forward in his chair, his elbows now resting on his desk.

“I'm not sure it has anything to do with it, yet,” Marc admitted. “I'm just following up some ideas right now. I don't know where they'll lead.”

“Well, let's get it over with,” said Wainwright. He looked at his watch. “I have to get to a board meeting in a few minutes. Do you want to know about Toni's interest in my brother's estate?”

“No. I want to know about your brother and Zack Lord.”

DeWitt Wainwright studied Marc carefully. “Zack Lord? I know he's screwing the ass off Toni, but what the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“I told you, I'm not sure. I'm just following up some leads.”

“You think Zack Lord …” Wainwright hesitated. “I mean are you thinking that Zack Lord had something to do with my brother's death?”

“I haven't said that.”

“And you haven't said that wasn't what you said either,” Wainwright retorted. “What the hell does Zack Lord have to do with this?” He thought a moment, his puffy eyes narrowing further. “You think that wise-ass Lord had something to do with this? With my brother's …” Wainwright was starting to breathe heavily, his jaw muscles rippling.

“Just don't get off on a wrong tack, Mister Wainwright,” Marc cautioned. “I haven't said I thought anybody had to do with your brother's death. I just need some information so I can put things together more intelligently. I'd suggest it'd be best if we all did the same.”

Wainwright stared at Marc now, his head cocking to one side. He wasn't used to anyone reprimanding him. “Exactly what do you mean? And what do you want?”

“I understand that Wainwright and Company underwrote Zack Lord's business when he first went public. Your brother gave Zack Lord his initial boost into the financial stratosphere, so to say.”

“That's a quaint so to say,” said Wainwright.

“I'm sorry if I don't get all the exact Wall Street terminology right. I don't invest in the stock market.”

“Why not?”

“I don't like the idea of my money being controlled by some faceless board of directors. I'd rather control it myself, make my own decisions.”

Wainwright shrugged. “Glad everyone doesn't feel that way.”

“Does Wainwright and Company still retain any interest in Lord's original and present conglomerate, his empire?” Marc asked.

“For what you want to know, yes. That is, as you know, Bob, my brother, was the one who originally was interested in Lord. He saw the guy was going places, moving fast. So he brought him into the house. Introduced him. Bob was convinced we could do well with Lord. So we underwrote Lord's first offering. Bob was always the moving force behind Lord around here. And it was Bob who actually held the main portion of our interest in Lord's various holdings. I think in addition to our taking some stock in the firm name, Bob also went heavily into Lord's stock with his own money.”

“And did that interest in Lord's company extend right up to the time your brother was killed?”

“Yes, Bob owned a very substantial portion of Lord's stock at the time of his death,” Wainwright said, sliding open a lower drawer of his desk. He took out a folder, opened it, and read something. “Bob owned about forty-eight million dollars of Lord's stock when he died.” He closed the folder. “I'd say that was substantial. Toni stands to own most of that now.”

“Toni Wainwright stands to own the Lord stock personally?” Marc asked with surprise.

“You're the lawyer. She was my brother's wife, legally at least, at the time of his death, wasn't she?” Wainwright begrudged. “It was his personal stock. He left everything to her in his will. Of course, as you know better than I do, if she's convicted of murdering him she wouldn't inherit his estate, would she? Don't think I'm interested in the inheritance, Mister Conte. I'm not being mercenary. I couldn't care less what's done with the money, as long as that little murdering cunt doesn't get her hands on it.”

“Are you angry only because of your brother's death? Or are there other reasons that existed before?” asked Marc.

“She was a ball buster from a long time ago, as far as I'm concerned,” replied Wainwright. “She used to toss poor Bob around like he was a soccer ball. She used to wrap him around her little finger. It always pissed me off. And I told him so. And her.”

“He pretty much listened to what she had to say, then?” Marc asked.

“You said it. Dumb bastard that he was,” Wainwright said lovingly. “I used to tell him. But she had some kind of way with him that I couldn't explain.”

“What do you know about Lord? About his present business holding?” Marc asked.

“Lord is a first-class prick,” Wainwright replied unhesitatingly. “He doesn't care about anything in the world, except getting more money, making a bigger splash, making a bigger show. He loves to see his name and picture in the newspapers.” This last was said with obvious disdain for public showing.

“How did Lord and your brother get along?”

“Great, for some reason. Bob really liked Lord. Zack does have a way about him. He's charming in the way all con men are charming. If you figure that's charm.”

“You see Lord as a con man?”

“Maybe that's too strong,” Wainwright admitted. “He's got a gift of gab, a good personality, okay? He's hustled his way to the head of a world-wide conglomerate and mutual fund that gobbles up businesses after Zack talks to the owners, charms them, convinces them he'll give them a huge pie in the sky.”

“What about Zack and your brother,” Marc asked. “He con your brother?”

“I don't know. Bob was a pretty smart guy,” said Wainwright. “He was younger than I am. But he wasn't easy to hustle. He and Lord got along really well, however. Bob liked Lord. At least up to the time that Lord started playing around with Toni.”

“When was that?” asked Marc. “Before or after your brother and Toni were separated?”

“We never really knew for sure if Zack and Toni were screwing around before she threw Bob out,” Wainwright replied. “I sort of figured afterwards that she must have been, that's why she threw him out. But we never knew for sure, to be honest.”

“Who is we?”

“Well, Bob and I talked about it some after she threw him out of the apartment and changed the locks. He figured that'd only last awhile. But then, he was shocked when she was really serious about it. She even started seeing Lord.”