Death Benefits (22 page)

Chapter Twenty

“Do you know Stoddard's widow?”

Sal Donalli took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. “I think I met her once.”

“She's had a hard life, Sal.”

“I guess so, losing her husband.”

“It's a lot worse than that. Her only daughter is in an institution. Her only son had Down's syndrome. He's been dead for years. On top of all that, she's in a coma in intensive care. She's been there since she was attacked in her own home last week.”

Sal winced. “Jesus Christ, that's awful.”

I let him think about it.

It was Saturday morning. Benny had left early for his interviews at Washington University School of Law. We had agreed to meet at my office around noon.

Benny had been upset when he heard I was going to visit Donalli without him, but I explained that it was going to be tough enough getting Sal Donalli to open up to me alone; he'd never talk around someone new, especially someone with no affiliation to Stoddard Anderson's widow.

I had tracked Sal down at a construction site in South County, where he had been going over change orders with one of the foremen, who left shortly after I arrived. It was just the two of us now, standing out by the freshly poured foundation.

“If she recovers,” I said to Donalli, “she'll still have a tough life ahead of her. Stoddard lost a lot of money in the stock market and in his real estate investments. He didn't leave her much. That piece of art is worth a lot of money, Sal. Stoddard took a big risk to get it. He wanted her to have it. It belongs to her, Sal. It's going to help her have a comfortable old age. Think if it was your wife.”

Donalli shoved the cigar in his mouth and turned away. He walked around the perimeter of the concrete foundation, scratching the back of his head. I followed him. He stopped by a bulldozer and turned to me.

“How big you say this piece of art is?”

“About this big,” I said, showing him with my hands.

He studied my hands and removed the cigar from his mouth. After a long pause, he took a deep breath and exhaled. “This conversation never took place,” he said, pointing his cigar at me, “and I'll deny it on a stack of bibles. You understand?”

I nodded. “Of course.”

“I didn't want to get involved in the first place. I did it only 'cause Stoddard done me some favors over the years.”

“Tell me what you did.”

“I hid a box for him.”

“What kind of box.”

“Steel. Like one of your safe deposit boxes at the bank, except this one had its own lock.”

“When?”

“About a month before he died. Stoddard called me at home on a Sunday. Asked me to meet him at my office that night. I did. He showed up with that box. He told me he needed to hide it for a while. He knew I had one of them big safes in my office, and that we had round-the-clock security guards. Said he couldn't tell me what was in the box. Wanted my promise that I'd keep it secret, that I wouldn't open it.”

“You mean it's in your office?” I asked in amazement.

“Was. Not anymore.”

“What happened?”

“I had it in there for about a month. Practically forgot it was even there. Then one afternoon, out of the blue, Stod calls to tell me he wants it back. Sure, I say, come on by. He says to me he don't want anyone to see him there, could he pick it up that night? After dark. Somewhere away from the office, where no one would see us. Sure, I say. So I meet him at a job site that night around nine o'clock. I had the box in the trunk.”

“When was this?”

Sal studied the foundation walls. “Wednesday, June nineteenth,” he finally said.

“That was the day after he disappeared.”

Sal nodded. “Didn't know it at the time. Found out later. Should have known something was up, though.”

“Why?”

Sal turned to me. “Guy looked like shit. You gotta understand, Rachel, Stoddard Anderson don't never look like shit. Guy like that looks sharp even when he's taking a dump, you know what I mean. But that night, he looked worse than a bum. His clothes looked like he'd been sleeping in 'em, he smelled of booze, his hair was all messed up, hadn't shaved. The poor guy was going nuts.”

“How so?”

“When I got out of the car without the box he went crazy. ‘Where is it, where is it?' he yells. I tried to calm him down, but all he wanted was the box. So I opened the trunk and gave it to him. He thanked me like crazy, tears running down his face, begged me to promise to never tell anyone, which I did. And I kept that promise until today. I never told no one until you, Rachel.”

“What happened after that?”

Sal shrugged. “He left. Got in his car, revved the engine, and laid a patch getting out of there.” Donalli shook his head. “I gotta tell you, Rachel, his brain wasn't hitting on all cylinders that night.”

“Where did he go?”

“No idea. That was the last time I seen him. Two days later I open the paper over breakfast and about coughed up my poached egg when I seen that article on him disappearing. I almost called the police, but I remembered my promise to him. And anyway, what could I tell the cops? I hadn't seen him since that night. I didn't know where he'd gone. So I kept mum.”

“You never heard from him again?”

“Nothing. Last time I saw him was that night. I don't know what was in that box, and I don't know what he did with it.”

***

As I got out of the car, I decided to do it by telephone instead of in person. I thought the odds might be better that way, especially on a Saturday morning. So I placed the call to the First State Bank of Creve Coeur from the pay phone in the parking lot of the First State Bank of Creve Coeur. The receptionist connected me to someone named Doris in account inquiries.

“Doris, this is Annie Goodman at Kendell Exports,” I said, trying to sound just a tad breathless. “I'm Mr. Kendell's secretary. Mr. Kendell Senior, that is. I'm calling to check on a wire transfer.”

“Incoming or outgoing?” Doris asked.

“Incoming. Mr. Kendell told me to make
sure
that First National wired eleven thousand dollars into one of your accounts yesterday afternoon. He wants to confirm that it got there.”

“What's that account number?”

I gave her the ParaLex account number I had copied off the back of the canceled checks I'd found in Portia McKenzie's files. Doris told me to hold while she checked on the computer.

“I'm sorry, Miss Goodman,” she said after a minute. “There was no wire transfer into that account yesterday.”

“None? That can't be. Are you positive?”

“I'm sorry, Miss Goodman. Nothing yesterday.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Oh, maybe I have the wrong account number. I'm supposed to have the number for the ParaLex account.”

“You have the right account number. That's the ParaLex account.”

“Oh, no,” I said, sounding more frantic. “Could you check the other ParaLex accounts? Maybe the money got sent to one of the other ParaLex accounts.”

“I'm showing only one account for ParaLex, Miss Goodman.”

“Oh, no. Oh, no. What do I do?”

“I don't know. I wish I could help.”

“My boss is out of town. I don't know how to reach him. He thinks the people at ParaLex already have the money. My heavens, the ParaLex people must think they have the money, too. Have they called to confirm the transfer?”

“I don't believe so, Miss Goodman.”

“I've already tried their office number. No one answers. I've got to get in touch with them. Today. Who should I call?”

“I don't know, Miss Goodman. Who do you normally deal with at ParaLex?”

“That's the problem,” I moaned. “I've never talked to them before. Do you know who their president is?”

“I don't,” she said.

“Well, who has signing authority on the account?”

There was a pause.
C'mon, Doris
, I silently begged, my fingers crossed.

“I'm sorry, Miss Goodman. We're not supposed to give that information out over the phone.”

“Oh, please, Doris. I have to let them know. My boss will absolutely kill me if I don't.”

Another pause. “I don't know,” came the reply, but this time with less conviction.

“I won't tell anyone, Doris. I promise. All I want to do is call them and tell them the money will be in their account first thing Monday morning. I just have to reach them before Mr. Kendell does. You have no idea what a terrible temper that man has. Please, Doris.”

Another minute of groveling did it. Doris took a deep breath, paused, and then told me the name of the person with signing authority on the ParaLex account.

I absorbed the information in silence. “Are there any other names on the account?”

“No. No one else.”

“No one added in the last month or so?”

“No one.”

“Thank you, Doris.”

I hung up the phone and stared at the passing traffic on Olive Boulevard, weighing my options. After a few minutes, I removed my long distance credit card and dialed a familiar Chicago number.

***

Reed St. Germain had on his Saturday-at-the-office outfit—an all Land's End set featuring a white crewneck sweater over a green Oxford cloth button-down shirt, khaki pleated twills, tan ragg socks, and tan bucks. He was seated against the edge of his desk, posed, arms loosely crossed over his chest, sleeves of his sweater and shirt pushed back toward the elbows.

“Isn't this somewhat far afield from the focus of your investigation?” he said, ignoring the pending question.

“I don't know,” I answered. “Remy Panzer is one of the last people Stoddard Anderson spent time with before he disappeared. I interviewed Panzer on Thursday. He never mentioned anyone at the firm other than Stoddard Anderson. I was surprised to see him in your office on Friday. To the extent your meeting with him related to Stoddard Anderson, I don't think it is ‘far afield.'”

“Now Rachel,” he said, his face softening into Smile No. 7 from
The Managing Partners Handbook
(Legal Press, 1988), “there's nothing sinister going on here. Remy Panzer happens to be a client of the firm. As with any client, he has a legitimate expectation that the legal affairs he entrusts to us are protected from disclosure by the attorney-client privilege. I can assure you that our legal services for Mr. Panzer have no relation to the insurance matter you are investigating. How
is
that going, Rachel? Any idea when you'll be wrapping it up?”

“I have a meeting with the claims guy from the insurance company on Tuesday morning. It all depends whether I can get all my ducks in order by then. Look, Reed, I don't need to know the details of your work for Panzer. But I do need to know whether Panzer's matter touches on
anything
having to do with Stoddard Anderson.”

“Really, Rachel. As we both know, you've been retained
solely
on the insurance matter. I've seen the retention letter. If and when Mrs. Anderson elects to expand the scope of your services, we can discuss this again. Until then, you are going to have to take my word for it: What we are doing for Remy Panzer has no bearing on what you have been retained to do for Mrs. Anderson.”

“You better be right, Reed.”

He chuckled, Smile No. 7 (“We're in this together”) replaced by Smile No. 4 (“Don't fuck with me, honey”). “I
better
be right? Come now, Rachel, we are hardly adversaries.”

“That's my assumption, too. But you have to understand: I have a client to represent. I don't know you well enough to take your word for it—at least not when it might affect my client. As far as I'm concerned, the only one whose word counts here is Ishmael Richardson's. He's the one who retained me. You can surely tell him what you're doing for Panzer without breaching the attorney-client privilege. If Ishmael tells me to take
his
word for it, then I will.”

I gave him back a Smile No. 4. His right eye twitched.

“I have to talk to Ishmael tomorrow afternoon, Reed. He wants to hear a report on the status of my Stoddard Anderson investigation. I think he wants to hear from you, too. In fact, he asked if you'd be available. I told him I assumed you would be. I'm supposed to call him at three o'clock. I told him I'd make the call from the office. That way, if we miss connections he'll know where to contact me. And you, I guess. Here's what I'll do. I'll step out of the room during the call and you can tell him what you're doing for Remy Panzer. Then you can call me back in. We'll let him make the decision. If Ishmael tells me it's none of my business, I'll drop it. Okay?”

I said it all with a pleasant smile on my face—my we're-in-this-together smile.

By the time I finished, Reed St. Germain looked like he was about to pop a few rivets. Breathing deeply through his flared nostrils, he stared at me. “I'll be here at three tomorrow,” he finally said.

So much for future referral business from Reed St. Germain, I said to myself as I walked out of his office.

Chapter Twenty-one

The phone was answered on the third ring.

“Yo.”

“Hi. This is Rachel Gold. Is Nancy Winslow there?”

“Just a sec. Mom!…Mom!!…For you.…Don't know. Some gal.”

A moment of silence.

“Hello?”

“Nancy, it's Rachel Gold. Sorry to call you on a Saturday.”

“No problem. I was just cleaning the garage. What's up?”

“I've been trying to get in touch with a Dr. Bernstein. Mr. Anderson saw him about a week before he disappeared, according to his appointment calendar. I called Bernstein's office yesterday and left my name with his receptionist. He never returned my call. I called again this morning. I got his answering service. They told me they'd give him my message, but I still haven't heard from him.”

“Dr. Bernstein?”

“He's a dermatologist.”

“Okay.”

“Ring any bells?”

“Name sounds familiar. I probably made the appointment for Mr. Anderson.”

“Did he tell you why he was going to see a dermatologist?”

“I doubt it, Rachel. If he did, I sure don't remember.”

“Any ideas?”

“A skin doctor. Hmmm.”

“Acne? Eczema?”

“I don't think so.”

“You notice any sort of rash?”

“All I can think of is maybe dandruff? Don't dermatologists treat dandruff?”

“I think so,” I said. “Did he have bad dandruff?”

“I never noticed it much before. But over the last month or so, I guess it must have flared up—if that's what dandruff does.”

“How do you mean?”

“You could really notice it when he wore a dark suit. It'd be all over the shoulders. I'm sure it bothered him. He was real fussy about appearances. He never said anything to me about it, but I'd see him brushing it off his jacket when he left the office.”

“Anything else besides dandruff?”

“Not that I noticed, Rachel.”

“And Mr. Anderson never talked to you about his visit to Dr. Bernstein?”

“Not that I recall.”

***

“Dandruff?” Benny repeated. “You got to be shitting me.”

“Not necessarily dandruff,” I said. “It could have been something else. Dandruff is what his secretary guessed.”

It was 12:30 p.m. Benny had just arrived at the office after a morning of interviews with faculty members and the dean of the law school.

“From a gold Aztec dildo to a case of dandruff,” Benny said, pacing the office. “Talk about going from the sublime to the ridiculous.”

“Which is the sublime?”

He stopped and grinned. “Good point.” He sat down in the chair across from the desk and propped his feet on the edge of the desktop. “Any luck finding that guy at the sewer district?”

“Still no answer at his home. He's due back at work on Monday. I'm hoping he'll be home by tonight or tomorrow.”

“So what's your guess now? Does MSD stand for that Donalli guy or for the Metropolitan Sewer District?”

“Probably the sewer district,” I said. “Donalli had no idea where Anderson went after he left with the steel box. I don't know why Anderson would have used Donalli's initials if Sal didn't know where it was.”

“Maybe Anderson wrote that note the first night in the hotel. Before he saw Donalli. Maybe that's why he decided to tear the note up. Because it was no longer an accurate clue.”

“Or maybe he wrote it after the second night, and MSD stands for the sewer district.”

“All I know is I am starved,” Benny said, standing up. “I got me a powerful hunger for some hickory-smoked pig snouts. How's that sound?”

“Absolutely disgusting.”

“Ribs?”

“Better.”

“Shall we?”

I looked over at the list of names I still hadn't contacted. I looked at the
60 Minutes
videocassette I still hadn't viewed. I looked up at Benny and gave a weary sigh.

Benny gave me an elaborate bow. “Of course, my darling. I would be delighted to bring you back some ribs. Perhaps madam would like some cole slaw and fried sweet potatoes as well?”

“My hero. Benny, you are really going to make a wonderful husband for one of those blond, leggy shiksas of yours.”

He put his hand over his heart. “I'm saving myself for you.”

“Which reminds me, Benny. Speaking of blond, leggy shiksas, what's the story with you and Gwendolyn the runway model? The one with stilts for legs.”

“The story?”

“Is it getting serious?”

He blushed, caught off guard. “Depends on what you mean by serious,” he said, trying to sound offhand.

“You know what I mean. Are you guys doing it?”

“Jesus Christ, Rachel.”

Behind him, Melvin Needlebaum suddenly appeared in the doorway.

“Aha!” Melvin barked. “The receptionist was not hallucinating. It is indeed you, Benjamin.”

Benny turned and grinned. “Mel, baby, how's the main vein?”

Melvin giggled. “Uhh, up tight,” he recited, “and, uhh, out of sight.”

It was the opening riff to their old routine, back from the days when we were all young associates at Abbott & Windsor. Benny and Melvin had shared an office their freshman year at A & W. For the first six months or so, Benny detested Melvin, whom he called “the Geek.”

But then something magic happened. Benny returned to the office one night after having downed several beers with a few college buddies passing through Chicago. Melvin was still there—Melvin was always still there. For the first time, Benny and Melvin actually had a conversation, the substance of which Benny never disclosed. And then, wonder of wonders, Benny invited Melvin back to his apartment, where Melvin smoked his first—and only—joint and listened to all of Benny's Firesign Theater albums. Benny had listened to those albums hundreds of times—enough to have memorized most of the comedy routines, a feat Melvin matched after just one play of each record. From that night on, Melvin was no longer “the Geek.” Instead, Benny called him “my science fair project.” He and Melvin worked up a bizarre routine—a grab bag of rock lyrics, Firesign Theater routines, and other stuff—that lasted fifteen minutes. They sprang it on the rest of us in the firm cafeteria the next morning, and it became an instant associates' classic.

“My liege,” Benny said to Melvin, “what has happened to your nose?”

“I, uhh, just returned from Rome.”

“What-what?”

“What-what-what-what?”

“Excellent, Mel, excellent.” Benny looked at me and winked. “This fucking guy is totally insane. This guy is beyond New Wave. M.C. Eraserhead.” He turned to Melvin. “Are you sure you didn't do a lot of acid back in college?”

“Hydrochloric or sulfuric?” Melvin answered, punctuating it with a machine-gun burst of laughter.

“Hey, Mel, I heard you took Rachel out to dinner last night.”

“Indeed I did. An excellent meal. We also dined with a tall Hispanic attorney by the name of Salazar. Mr. Salazar and I engaged in a most stimulating discussion of the sale of tax benefits under ERTA's Safe Harbor Lease provision.”

“You talked about the sale of tax benefits, eh?” Benny turned to me. “My condolences, Rachel.”

“You're very kind,” I said.

“Say Mel, you want to put on the old feed bag?”

“What?”

“Satisfy the inner man? Stuff your face?”

“What?”

“Eat lunch, you douche bag.”

“I regret that I must decline your offer, Benjamin. Earlier today I arranged in advance for delivery of a sandwich, a dill pickle, and a large iced tea to the southeast conference room at precisely one p.m.” He checked his watch. “I am due back at my deposition in fifteen minutes.” He nodded at me. “Good day, Miss Gold. Good day, Benjamin.”

And with that, he was gone.

Benny stroked his chin. “You notice, you never see him and Joe Montana in the same room at the same time. Makes you wonder, doesn't it?”

“Now that you mention it, I've never seen you and Roseanne Barr in the same room, either.”

“Very astute, Miss Gold. You think I sing off-key by accident?”

“Speaking of keys, that reminds me. Can you do me a favor when you go get lunch?” I sorted through my purse and removed a small, folded-up envelope. “Here,” I said, handing it to Benny. “There's a key in there.”

“To what?”

“I don't know, but I have a hunch. It's the only key on Stoddard Anderson's key chain that the police couldn't match to a lock. Anderson apparently rented a post office box downtown. I saw this month's bill.” I leafed through my notes on the yellow legal pad. “It arrived after the police inventoried his stuff. They don't know about it. Ah, here's the number.”

On a separate piece of paper I copied down the post office box number and address and handed it to Benny. “See if he got any mail since he died,” I said.

“Aye, aye.”

After Benny left, I reached for the
60 Minutes
videocassette on Tezca and the Aztlana religious cult. I still hadn't seen it. If Tezca was behind the quest for Montezuma's Executor, as Ferd Fingersh and the Customs people suspected, there might be something worthwhile on the videotape.

I walked down the hall in search of a television and a VCR.