Death Benefits (24 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

I was leaning against the left front leg of the triceratops with my arms crossed over my chest. I stared up at the tyrannosaurus that towered overhead. Its open mouth revealed a menacing set of teeth—dozens and dozens of long white daggers. Kids had thrown five, six, seven tennis balls into its mouth. The yellow balls rested against the bottom row of teeth like a mouthful of lemon drops.

I was in Dinosaur Park, a small hollow in the southeast part of Forest Park that was screened from view by a circle of trees. Dinosaur Park is just below and behind the Science Center, which is perched on a hill overlooking Highway 40. It has two permanent residents: a triceratops and a tyrannosaurus rex, both full scale. They face each other in classic battle pose—the gray triceratops with its horn tilted up toward the exposed brown belly of the tyrannosaurus, which is turning for the attack, its tiny forelegs clutched, its huge tail about to swing around, its head frozen in a silent roar.

At the moment, Dinosaur Park had one visitor. Me. I was alone, wearing a cinnamon polo shirt, long pleated twill shorts, aviator sunglasses, and a stone-colored canvas islander hat. I didn't have a .357 Magnum in my purse, but I did have good running shoes on my feet and Benny Goldberg standing watch up at the Science Center.

I didn't hear him approach.

“Are you Miss Gold?”

I turned.

He was pure-bred civil servant, right down to the small details: wire-rim glasses; a brown, pencil-width mustache; four Bic pens in the plastic pocket protector of his white, short-sleeve Dacron shirt. He was bald on top, with close-trimmed sidewalls, the hair a mixture of brown and gray, no sideburns. His stomach bulged below the high waistline of his brown Sansabeit slacks. He was wearing gray Hush Puppies.

“Albert Weidemeir?”

He glanced around, nervously scratching the back of his neck, and then he nodded.

“Are you alone?” I asked.

He glanced around again and nodded. “Are you?” He had a nasal voice.

“No.”

He started.

“I have a colleague nearby,” I explained. “He's here to make sure we aren't being followed. We don't want to be followed.”

He nodded.

“I represent Mrs. Anderson,” I said. “Did you know her?”

He began with a shake of his head but ended with a nod. “I met her once. No, twice.”

“The property belongs to Mrs. Anderson, Albert.”

He shoved the fingertips of both hands into the waistband of his brown pants. “I don't know where it is.”

“I can help you, Albert. I don't want you to get hurt. Your best bet is to tell me what you know.”

I waited.

He avoided eye contact, glancing down.

“Don't you see?” I continued. “You tell me all about it, and then it's my problem, not yours. If the FBI knocks at your door, you just tell them to talk to me.”

“The FBI?” he whined, sliding his hands further down the front of his pants.

“At least the FBI,” I told him. “Probably the police. U.S. Customs, too. Maybe others. There are lots of law enforcement agencies involved. Everyone is looking for it. You're about to hit the big time, Albert.”

His face was flushed. He pulled one of his hands out of his pants and tugged at his thin mustache.

I studied him, watching as the scope of his predicament sunk in. “Tell me about it,” I said softly.

After a long moment, he sighed. “I should have just said no.”

I uttered a silent thanks heavenward. “No to what, Albert?” I asked gently.

“To Stoddard. When he called. I should have just said no.”

“When did he call?”

Albert had the date and time of the call committed to memory. The date and time meant that Anderson had contacted Albert the morning after he picked up the lockbox from Sal Donalli, which meant that Anderson met Albert the morning of the day after he disappeared.

“Stoddard caught me off guard. I mean, he sounded—well, desperate on the telephone. In fact, that is precisely what he said he was. He actually said he was desperate. He said that to me over the telephone. That just was not like him at all. I had never heard him talk like that.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted me to meet him. He said it was an emergency. He said he needed my help. But then he said that I had to swear that I would keep it a secret. I was so—so startled that I told him I would. He made me swear. I did. I swore that I would keep it a secret.” He jammed his fingers back into the front of his pants. “Of course, I had no idea at the time of what he was…that he was going to, you know…do that thing.”

“What thing?”

Albert shuddered. “Kill himself.”

“What happened after Stoddard called you that morning?”

“He told me to meet him. At a deserted warehouse on the south side. That morning. He gave me directions.”

“Did you go?”

Albert nodded.

“He met you there?”

Another nod.

“Tell me about the meeting.”

“He was very…agitated, Miss Gold. He had not shaved. His clothes were wrinkled. His breath smelled of alcohol. I distinctly remember that. Mind you, this was ten in the morning.”

“Did he have anything with him?”

He shook his head. “He said it was in the trunk.”

“What was?”

“Whatever it was he wanted me to help him hide,” Albert said, his tone now peevish, almost shrill. “He never told me what it was. Never.”

“What did he tell you, Albert?” I asked, trying to keep my voice soothing.

“He…he did tell me it was very valuable. And…and from the way he talked about it…it—that thing—did not sound like it was a large object.”

“What did he say that made you think it wasn't large?”

Albert Weidemeir looked down as he talked, staring at his shoes. He took a couple slow, deep breaths. “I don't recall specifics, Miss Gold. I just got the feeling that whatever it was, it was something small—something a person could carry.”

“Okay.”

“Stoddard said that it was imperative that he hide that thing in a safe place. He said it would have to remain hidden for a lengthy period of time. Perhaps years. Somewhere safe and secure. He asked me if I knew of a good place to hide it in the sewer system.”

“And you suggested the River Des Peres?”

Albert's head snapped up and he stared at me, slack-jawed. “He told you?”

“Sort of. What part of the River Des Peres?”

“You have to understand, Miss Gold, this was all against my better judgment. All of it. I am hardly the type of man to get involved in this sort of thing.” He was jittery, his arms jumping at odd angles as he spoke. “If I had any inkling that there were criminal overtones—well, I can assure you.” He took a deep breath and held it for a moment, shaking his head. “I work in the accounting department at the Sewer District,” he whined, as if that were explanation enough.

“What part of the River Des Peres?” I repeated.

“Section D,” he answered, head down.

“What's that?”

“Section D is the double-arch section that runs under Forest Park.”

“Is that where he hid it?”

Albert shrugged and shook his head at the same time, palms up. “I don't know.”

“Why not?”

“Section D wasn't my only suggestion. I told him about several other locations in the sewer system.”

“Such as what?”

“I told him about two brick feeder lines that might be better for hiding something in.”

“What made them better?”

“You could chisel out a few bricks instead of having to cut out a hole in cement. He listened to what I said, but in the end he hid it himself. He didn't want me to know where it was hidden. He told me he didn't want anyone to know besides himself. That way no one could be threatened. Or compromised. At least that is what he told me. But now look what's happened to me. He's barely dead a month and I am practically on the FBI's most-wanted list. I should never have gotten involved with this. Never. Nevernevernever.”

“So you don't know where it is?”

He shook his head. “I surely do not. You must tell that to the police. And the FBI. Please make them understand, Miss Gold. I don't know where he hid that darn thing, and I never ever ever want to know. I am an accountant, for heaven's sake.”

“He hid it himself?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes. That is what I am trying to make you understand.”

“How did he know where to go?”

Albert made a helpless, distressed gesture with his hands. “He asked me for blueprints. For several parts of the sewer system. He also asked me for some tools and supplies to help him hide it. He was quite despondent, Miss Gold. I was afraid he was going to have a nervous breakdown. He had always been a good lawyer and friend.” Albert shrugged helplessly. “I agreed to help him.”

“You were a good friend to him, Albert. You did the right thing.”

“That's what I thought. He was a very important lawyer, Miss Gold. A very important man here in St. Louis. He knew the president of the United States. And yet, when he was in trouble, he turned to me. I—I was—honored.” He reddened. “Stoddard waited there at the warehouse for me. I went back to the headquarters, got the tools and supplies, and then I drove back there.”

“What did you bring him besides the blueprints?”

“I brought him a hammer, a chisel, a shovel. I brought him a small bag of concrete. I brought the bucket to mix the concrete in. I brought him a big flashlight, too.”

A dad and three small boys came charging into Dinosaur Park. The boys ran around to the back of the triceratops and started climbing up its tail.

I gestured to Albert, and he followed me through the trees and down toward the pond.

“What happened after you gave him all that stuff?” I asked.

“He left. First he thanked me, and then he left.”

“That's it?”

He nodded.

We had reached the edge of the pond.

“Did you talk to him again?”

Albert didn't answer. He watched as a pair of swans glided past.

“Did you talk to him again?”

He glanced over at me. “How can I be sure you are really who you say you are? How do I know you are really her lawyer?”

“Here,” I said, reaching into my purse for the photocopy of my retention letter. It was getting dog-eared from being shown to people.

He read it once, and then he read it again. He handed it back to me.

“He called me the next day,” Albert said. “After dinner. I could not believe it. I mean, he had told me the day before that he would never ask me to do anything else for him. He had promised.” Albert shook his head in outrage. “Well, I finally agreed to meet him back at that warehouse.”

“And?”

“He looked terrible. Haggard. His shirt torn. His pants smeared with dirt or mud. He still had not shaved. I should have known then.”

“What happened at the meeting?”

“It did not last long. He gave me a large envelope. It was sealed with tape. He told me that the plan had changed slightly.”

“What plan?”

“I have no idea,” he whimpered. “I never knew of any plan. You must tell that to the FBI, Miss Gold.”

“What was in the envelope?”

“I have no idea. None whatsoever.”

“What happened at this second meeting, Albert?”

“He made me promise to put that envelope in my safe deposit box. He gave me very specific instructions. He told me I should wait for exactly one year. Then I should call his law firm to find out who is representing his wife. Then I should contact that lawyer and give him the envelope. When I give him the envelope, I am supposed to tell him that it describes an extraordinarily valuable asset of the estate. Except, when Stoddard told me that, I thought he said ‘state.' An extraordinarily valuable asset of the state. I—I didn't know he was talking about his own estate. I didn't know he—he was going to commit suicide.”

“What else happened?”

“That was it. He gave me the envelope. He gave me the instructions. He made me recite them. Then he made me swear that I would follow them. And then he left.”

“Did you hear from him again?”

“No. Never. The next thing I heard, he was missing. And then, well, then he was dead.”

“Did you do what he told you to do?”

Albert nodded. “The very next morning. I went directly from home to my bank. I put the envelope in my safe deposit box.”

“Is it still there?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

“Yes.”

I felt like doing one of those crazy touchdown dances football players do in the end zone. But I remained motionless, forcing myself to consider the best approach to landing this fish. Ironically, Albert Weidemeir also happened to be the best witness of Stoddard Anderson's mental state just prior to his suicide. And he was clearly spooked by the thought of having to deal with the FBI.

“I must tell you, Miss Gold, I was quite anxious about that envelope, even before Stoddard was dead. But then, after his suicide, well…” He paused to shake his head. “Even though I feel a certain obligation toward his wishes, I am most uncomfortable about having continuing custody and control over that envelope.”

I waited a few beats and then said, “I'd like to help you, Albert.”

He glanced at me. “You would?” He sounded hopeful.

“I can shield you from the criminal authorities. I'm willing to do that. But I'm going to need something from you in return.”

“Money?”

“No. Mrs. Anderson is my client. She'll pay my fees. What I need from you is a written statement of your observations of Stoddard Anderson's mental condition during the last time you saw him. The way he looked, the way he acted, even the way he smelled. I need it for the life insurance matter. The matter described in the letter I showed you. I can promise you that I will show that statement to no one but the insurance company. Okay?”