Death Benefits (26 page)

Aloni looked at me.

I nodded. “I don't want to have anything further to do with him.”

“I intend to talk to the man,” Aloni said. “Alone.”

“Certainly,” Ishmael said. “But when you're finished asking questions, Detective, don't forget about the people who don't have to become his victims.” Ishmael leaned forward, the fatigue gone. “This law firm suffered a grievous blow earlier this summer with the loss of Stoddard Anderson. The departure of Reed St. Germain will add yet another layer of instability. So long as I can keep the true reason for his departure a secret, I believe his loss will not be a mortal blow to this firm. I believe we can hold this office together, maintain the client base. Detective, this office employs close to one hundred and fifty people—secretaries, messengers, word processors, and the like, as well as attorneys. These people are all innocent, as are the spouses and children who depend on them. Yet these are the very people who will suffer if this office cannot recover from this…this entanglement. Please consider the innocents when you decide whether anything further must be done here.”

Aloni promised to keep that in mind. He said he would call Ishmael that night after he finished questioning St. Germain.

Ishmael remained seated after Aloni left. His shoulders were slumped as he stared at the far edge of the conference table. His speech about all the people who depended on the firm reminded me of the weight of his responsibilities and the pain he felt over what he viewed as St. Germain's betrayal. I remained silent until he concluded his meditations with a sigh.

“Why?” I asked. “Reed St. Germain must be earning close to three hundred thousand dollars a year. This ParaLex scheme added less than fifty thousand dollars a year to his income. Why even do it? Surely he didn't need the money.”

Ishmael shook his head sadly. “But he did. Reed St. Germain achieved through marriage what he may never have been able to attain on his own, namely, admission to St. Louis high society and, through his wife's family's business, a handsome book of business. The price has been a marriage to an abusive and domineering woman. He appears to be quite intimidated by her—as well he should, since his social and professional status depend upon the continuation of that marriage. To that add the fact that she controls all of his personal finances. He literally hands her his draw checks twice a month. She deposits the money, handles the checkbook, pays the bills. She can account for every penny of their income. And apparently she does.”

“Okay.”

“That is the crux of Reed's predicament: His wife controls the finances, and she is a suspicious woman. For you see, Reed St. Germain has one very expensive compulsion: fornication. He quite literally appears to be addicted to extramarital sexual relations. To feed that habit, he needs, among other things, an apartment in the city and a sufficient supply of money to entertain and buy presents for his various paramours.”

“And so he invented ParaLex,” I said.

Ishmael nodded. “He kept the individual ParaLex invoices small enough so that the clients would not ask questions. Indeed, the heirs of a multimillion-dollar estate or the beneficiaries of a multimillion-dollar trust fund would hardly notice a quarterly payment of two hundred dollars or less. ParaLex served as a ready source of cash that his wife could never detect.”

“Until now.”

Ishmael nodded gravely. “I am afraid that the punishment I imposed upon him this afternoon will pale in comparison to what awaits him at home. I understand that the wrath of Janet St. Germain is wondrous to behold.”

He sat up and forced a smile. “Enough of this thoroughly disheartening topic. Let us turn to something upbeat, such as suicide. Tell me about your investigation of Stoddard Anderson.”

I filled him in generally—very generally. I told him of my upcoming meeting with the claims adjuster and I told him that in all likelihood I would try to settle the accidental death issue. He seemed satisfied. Of course, I left out a few minor details—such as everything having to do with Montezuma's Executor, including my meeting with Customs tonight and my rendezvous tomorrow with Albert Weidemeir to receive the contents of his safe deposit box. Why make it worse by telling him that the former managing partner of the St. Louis office—the one whose suicide had already caused a damaging scandal in the legal community—had probably also violated U.S. and international law by arranging to smuggle into the country a pre-Columbian golden blade handle in the shape of Montezuma's phallus.

I promised to call Ishmael after I met with the claims adjuster.

As I got up to go collect Benny and head off, Ishmael said, “I almost forgot.”

“What?”

“I did ask Reed about his meeting with that Mr. Panzer.”

“And?”

“Routine estate planning. Stoddard had handled Panzer's estate planning. Panzer came in to meet his new trusts and estates attorney and to ask some questions about the advantages of a living will.”

Chapter Twenty-six

“You put his nuts in a vise and you turn the screws. You want Tezca, you first gotta squeeze the faggot.” Bernie DeWitt reached for another slice of pizza and leaned back against the headboard. He looked smug, as if he had said something profound. For all I knew about nuts and vises and the like, maybe he had.

Ferd Fingersh nodded slowly and looked over at me. “He's right. We arrest Panzer in the act of paying you for the Executor. We make sure it's a clean arrest. Then we lean on him. He might just cooperate. If he does, he could lead us to Tezca, using the Executor as bait. When Tezca surfaces—boom.”

Bernie nodded, chomping on the pizza. “Tezca surfaces and it's ‘Assume the position, motherfucker.'”

Fingersh shrugged. “He gets to spend some time down at Marion. Mr. Salazar returns to his client a hero. Not a bad day's work.”

It was Sunday night. We were in Cottage 14 of a motel along Watson Road in south St. Louis that rented these tiny cottages by the week, by the night, or by the hour. We had ours until 2:00 a.m. There were five of us: Ferd Fingersh and Bernie DeWitt of Customs, Rafe Salazar, Benny, and me. Bernie had just returned with four large pepperoni and mushroom pizzas and a case of cold beer.

I had finally gotten in touch with Ferd Fingersh around five o'clock. He located the other two, and we all met at the motel at 8:00 p.m. I told them that I thought I might know where the Executor was by sometime tomorrow afternoon, although I didn't tell them how I was going to find out. I kept my promise to Albert Weidemeir.

“I don't like the plan,” Benny said as he twisted the cap off a longneck bottle of Budweiser beer. “‘Why should Rachel take that kind of risk? What makes you think this Remy Panzer is just going to pay her the money? What if he has no intention of giving her the money? What if he plans to hurt her? Or kill her, for Christ's sake?”

“Don't worry about that faggot,” Bernie DeWitt said, pointing at Benny with his beer bottle.

“Rachel will be perfectly safe,” Ferd Fingersh interjected. “You have my word on that. If we couldn't guarantee her safety, we wouldn't even consider it.”

“How can you be so sure?” Benny asked.

“It's not difficult when it's done right,” Fingersh explained. “We know how to do it right. Once Rachel figures out where Anderson hid the Executor, she'll call it in to us. We'll set up an exchange with Panzer for tomorrow night. We'll make sure it's in a safe place. By the time Panzer arrives that night, we'll have an army of men in position, including five or ten sharpshooters. We'll be monitoring everything with high-powered audio equipment and video cameras with telephoto lenses and night vision.”

“If he's wearing a watch,” Bernie said, “we'll be able to read what time it says. Better yet, we'll have half a dozen sharpshooters about to put a bullet right through the center of the dial.”

I was seated on the desk against the wall. I leaned over and lifted another slice of pizza out of the box on the bed nearest me, stealing a glance at Rafe Salazar as I did. Benny was on one bed, shoes off, back against the headboard. Bernie DeWitt was in a similar position on the other bed. Ferd Fingersh was seated on the well-worn armchair.

Rafe Salazar was leaning against the wall near the bathroom, his arms crossed over his chest. Earlier, just after Benny and I arrived, Rafe had pulled me aside to ask if he could buy me a drink after the meeting. I had said yes. I glanced over at him now. He was wearing stone-washed jeans, a black T-shirt with a Telluride Film Festival logo, and brown cowboy boots. The T-shirt accentuated his strong arms and lean torso. The tight jeans accentuated his narrow hips and certain other fine qualities. He looked awfully good.

“We're going to cover some other things with you, Rachel,” Fingersh said. “Such as what to do when you make contact with Panzer. We're going to tell you some of the instructions you'll have to give him. What he should wear, things like that.”

“I should be Rachel's contact,” Rafe said in a soft but authoritative voice.

Ferd looked over. “You?”

Rafe nodded solemnly. “Let's not forget that the only real party in interest here is my client,” he said. “My reason for being here is to ensure the safe return of El Verdugo. My client is willing to cooperate with the federal government's ancillary goal. So long as your pursuit of Tezca does not jeopardize the return of El Verdugo, my client will continue to cooperate. I want to make sure we don't lose our focus.” He glanced at me. “I also want to make sure we don't lose Rachel. You're using her to bait the trap. I want to make sure there's a safe way out of the trap before it slams shut.”

“Hey, Ralph, we're not going to put her at risk,” Bernie DeWitt said. “We ain't the fucking Mexican federales.”

“I'd feel better if Rafe was my contact,” I said.

Ferd put up his hand to silence Bernie. “That's great,” he said, smiling at me. “We can always use the help. Bernie and I will be plenty busy tomorrow making all your security arrangements anyway.”

Benny cleared his throat. “As long as we're all looking out for Rachel's interests,” he said, “I think we ought to address the issue of her fee for all this.” He turned to Rafe. “I understand your client is willing to compensate Rachel.”

“Yes,” Rafe answered.

“According to what Rachel's told me,” Benny continued, “Panzer, or whoever Panzer represents, paid millions for that golden woodie. Panzer's offered to pay Rachel a quarter of a million dollars for finding it. He claims that's the fee he promised to pay Stoddard Anderson. Rachel's planning to turn that fee over to her client, Mrs. Anderson. Now, if this thing came on the market legally, I assume your client would have been willing to pay millions, right?”

“Perhaps,” Rafe answered.

“Seems to me the
least
they can do is match Panzer's offer to Rachel,” Benny said as he turned to me. “Doesn't that seem fair to you? Your client could use two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, right?”

Benny's proposal caught me off guard.

Rafe answered before I could. “That's a reasonable request,” he said. “I'll pass it on to my client tomorrow morning with a recommendation that they agree to it.” He shifted to me, a hint of a smile on his lips. “I will try to have an answer for you by noon.”

I smiled back.

“Which reminds me,” Ferd said, lifting a large briefcase onto one of the beds. “We're all going to be moving around tomorrow. Bernie told me about Rachel's problems getting in touch with Rafe the other day. Can't have that happen tomorrow.”

He opened the briefcase and pulled out two portable telephones—one for me and one for Rafe. He explained how to use the phones and recharge the batteries. He had us each write down the other's portable telephone number, along with emergency numbers for reaching Ferd and Bernie.

“These are open lines,” Ferd said. “That means you could have other people listening in—usually by accident, but sometimes not. It's safest to assume someone's listening. So be careful what you say when you're on these phones.”

***

Rafe and I never got to have our drink. The five of us were in the motel room until midnight. Ferd and Bernie went over everything—from what I should say to Remy Panzer to how to select the best place for Remy and me to exchange the money for the Executor. Benny asked dozens of questions about the security arrangements, each of which seemed to elicit a long answer punctuated with acronyms and names of electronic devices. By eleven-fifteen I was stifling yawns. By quarter to twelve I had dozed off once, my head slumped forward onto my chest for maybe thirty seconds before I snapped up in surprise, my eyes coming into focus on Rafe Salazar, who was watching from across the room. He smiled. I shrugged. He winked. I stretched, trying to stay alert.

As the meeting droned on, I stood up and stepped outside the motel room into the hot, humid August night. There was a full moon and the sky was cloudless. Rafe joined me moments later.

I leaned against him, staring up at the moon. “I'm glad you'll be my contact.”

“So am I.” He put his arm around my shoulders.

“Think they have room service?” I asked.

“Why?”

“For that drink you promised me.”

“Here?” He looked down at me.

“You said the meeting's almost over.” I raised my eyebrows. “We have the room until two.”

He shook his head. “Not tonight, Rachel Gold. Not the night before a day like the day tomorrow may be. When we finally”—he looked at me and smiled—”have our drink together, it most definitely will not be in a seedy motel like this.”

“Oh? And where will it be?” He had a delicious, musky scent.

“I know a special beach on the east coast of Africa.”

“Africa?”

“Miles of pure black sand that sparkles like black diamonds. Palm trees along the beach, the jungle rising behind you like a dark green wall. You can rent one-bedroom cabanas right on the beach. They bring the drinks to you on the little veranda in front of your cabana as the sun sets. The sunsets are spectacular.”

“You've been there?”

“Oh, yes. It's magnificent, Rachel.”

We were silent for a moment.

“Africa's far away,” I finally said.

“Most exceptional things are,” he said.

“What if I can't wait till then? What if I get real thirsty?”

The door behind us opened. As we turned, Benny, Ferd, and Bernie walked out. The meeting was over.

***

An hour later I was in my bed, staring at the ceiling, when I heard what I first mistook for the chirp of a cricket. After the second chirp I realized the noise was from the portable telephone on the carpet by the bed. I lifted it onto my stomach and unhooked the receiver.

“Hello?” I said.

“You didn't get an answer to your last question,” Rafe said.

I snuggled back against the pillow and smiled into the dark. “I can't remember the question.”

“You wanted to know what happened if you couldn't wait for Africa, if you got thirsty before then.”

“That's right. Well, what's the answer?”

“It's in my hotel room. I got it tonight, after we parted.”

“Sounds intriguing. But remember what Ferd said: This isn't a safe line.”

“I don't mind who hears.”

“Then tell me the answer.”

“A bottle of French champagne. Moët et Chandon. For tomorrow night. For when this is all over. To celebrate. If you think you might still be thirsty.”

“That's sweet, Rafe. I'll be thirsty. I guarantee it.”

“Sweet dreams, Rachel.”

“Good night, Rafe.”

I fell asleep with a smile.