In Death's Shadow (9 page)

"Do you work six days a week, Gail?"

"Oh, yeah," she said. "Saturday's usually a half day, though."

"Slave driver," I quipped, referring to her boss, Jablonsky.

"I don't mind, actually," she said. "I can use the money."

"Can't we all?"

Just about the time Jablonsky was handing me back to Gail, Mrs. Bromley rejoined me in the breakfast room, waving a brochure. She waited for me to finish my conversation with Gail, then plopped the brochure down on the table next to my plate.

Smiling out at me from the front page of the full-color tri-fold, impeccably dressed, well-coiffed, gray-haired septuagenarian couples fished, swam, golfed, and otherwise were living large on the tragedies of others.

The brochure was sprinkled with mini-testimonials.
Thanks for the wonderful service!!! You told me to expect 18 to 24 months for my investment to mature!!! Imagine my delight when my $50,000 investment turned into $62,000 in just five (5) weeks!!! That's a whopping 249.6% APR!!!

It wasn't just all the exclamation points that made me want to barf.

"It's from MBFSG," Mrs. Bromley said, pointing to the investment firm's logo printed on a little gold address label stuck to the bottom of the last panel. MBFSG, I read, was offering one to five year "programs," with six, eighteen, thirty, and forty-two month contracts available "upon request." It didn't take a mental giant to figure out what the months meant.

"Do you know them?" Mrs. Bromley asked.

"Oh, yes, I know them." I looked up. "Do you remember the name of the investment adviser you spoke to?"

"The name's on the tip of my tongue. Czech, I think. Or Polish. Hungarian, maybe."

I took a wild stab. "Jablonsky?"

"Yes! That's it. Jablonsky." Her eyes narrowed and she studied my face intently, as if searching it for clues. "Oh, dear. He's the one, isn't he? The snake oil salesman you talked to?"

I nodded. "Be afraid," I said. "Be very afraid."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I like to think I've got an all-occasion wardrobe.

As I stood in the doorway of my closet wearing my
no shirts, no shoes, no worries
T-shirt from Cooper Island Beach Club, nothing seemed appropriate for visiting somebody as shady as Jablonsky.

Hanging on the rod to my right were the slacks, blouses, colorful tops, and casual jackets that had, over the past few years, become my uniform.

On the far back wall hung the business suits I abandoned along with the commute when I quit working in Washington, D.C. I knew I should send them to Goodwill, but some of those suits had sentimental value—the gray, double-breasted pinstripe I wore when I successfully interviewed for the job at Whitworth and Sullivan, for example. Or the red plaid jacket I had on when they told me I'd won the Drew Award for Excellence in Management: $10,000 plus a crystal paperweight with my name on it, shaped like an owl. Paul thinks I should chuck it all out. If you want to remember things, he says, buy yourself a charm bracelet.

We have arguments about my closet. Why Paul should care about something he can't even see when the door's closed, I fail to understand. In his closet, the hangers are three inches apart, precisely, like one of those New York

boutiques, where they have one salesclerk for every garment.

I continued to rummage, shoving clothing back and forth, separating empty hangers that clung stubbornly together; they would resume their romantic entanglements down in my laundry room. In the process, I found a jacket I'd forgotten—a perfect match for the slacks I'd recently purchased at Chico's. I located the slacks and draped the jacket over the same hanger, then went prospecting for a lavender blouse I vaguely remembered that might complete the outfit.

Wait a minute!
I paused, three hangers and two belts in hand, a pair of shoes tucked under one arm. If I didn't watch it, the situation could escalate into a full-fledged spring cleaning.
Focus!
Cluttered closets and messy drawers had always been my nemesis, but right then, I reminded myself, Jablonsky was my business, my only business.

I dropped the items I was holding onto a nearby chair, stared into the depths of my closet and got serious. In my previous visit to Jablonsky's office, I had come off as a bit of a dingbat. What would a dingbat wear?

Way in the back, barely illuminated by the overhead bulb, was a small section of closet I laughingly reserved for resort wear. I hauled out a halter-top Hawaiian print sundress I hadn't laid eyes on since 1986 and a hot pink cotton cardigan. I considered them critically. Might do. I had a Wonder Bra somewhere—Jablonsky seemed like the type who'd appreciate the effort—but alas, it wouldn't work with the sundress: my straps would show, and I was well past the age where exposed bra straps could be viewed as a fashion statement.

I had laid my outfit on the bed and was looking around for an appropriate pair of shoes when the telephone on the bedside table rang. It was Daddy, reporting that he'd arrived home safely from Arizona.

"Want to come over for dinner?" I asked. "Paul's still in Newport. I could use the company."

"Are you sure?" he teased. "I'll bring pictures."

"Promise?" I was possibly the only person in the world who actually
enjoyed
looking at other people's vacation slides. Daddy loved photographing sunsets, but some of his snapshots, I knew, would feature Cornelia Gibbs, the widow who was Daddy's off-and-on traveling companion.

"You and Neelie have a good time?"

"I'll never tell," he crooned, using his Cary Grant voice. That got my attention. Up until now, Neelie had always insisted on separate rooms, or cabins, as the case might be. I found myself wondering if the situation had changed.

I would pull a couple of steaks out of the freezer before I left for Glen Burnie, I decided. Bribe him with a thick, juicy steak and Daddy was putty in my hands. Add square-cut french fries and he'd tell me anything. "I think I'm out of club soda," I added. A recovering alcoholic, my father didn't drink. "Could you stop by Graul's and pick some up?"

"No problem."

"It'll be good to see you," I said. "I have a lot to tell you."

"Me, too," he said cryptically.

I opened my mouth to beg for a hint, but the charming rascal had already hung up.

Still holding the receiver, I plopped down on the bed and considered calling my father back. Then I smiled. Let him keep his secret for a few hours. I had more than enough to worry about that afternoon. I cradled the phone and padded off to take a long, hot shower. I had the feeling I'd need it.

Still smelling like lavender soap, I arrived at MBFSG a few minutes early and rode the elevator to the fourth floor, where Gail greeted me like a long-lost friend. Jablonsky probably paid her extra for that. "He just called," the young woman said, emerging from behind the reception desk. "He's been delayed in traffic, but hopes you won't mind waiting. Coffee?"

"A Coke, if you have one."

“Sure." I followed Gail into a kitchenette, where a coffee machine, microwave oven, and a small refrigerator vied for limited space on a butcher block counter.

She opened the fridge. "Diet?"

I shook my head. "Regular, please."

Gail handed me a Coke and selected a ginger ale for herself. "Let's sit," she said, gesturing with her can toward a small round table.

I sat opposite her in one of two chairs. "Have you worked here long?" I popped the tab on my Coke.

“Two years." She took a sip of her drink, held it in her mouth a moment, then swallowed. "I started out with Gil at Allstate. When he left Allstate to start up MBFSG, he brought me along."

"You like it here?"

She shrugged. "It's okay. What I really love is Annapolis."

"Where do you live, Gail?"

"I lucked out on a house over in Eastport. The couple who owns it? They're sailing around the world. So I'm house-sitting."

"Wow," I said, genuinely impressed. "Rent free?"

She snorted softly. "Practically. I'm getting it dirt cheap because I'm looking after Nitro. That's their cat."

Gail stood, walked to the door and peeked into the reception area, presumably checking to see if her boss had returned. "The money I'm saving, I'm putting in a boat fund," she continued, resting her back against the jamb. "Maybe in a few years—" She shrugged again.

"Have you ever been to the sailboat show?" I asked, referring to the event each October that brought hundreds of sailboats and thousands of sailing enthusiasts to Annapolis Harbor.

Her face lit up. “Tons of times. My boyfriend . . ." She blushed. ". . . I guess I should say my
ex
-boyfriend, used to refer to the show as 'Gail's boat porn.'"

I laughed, as she probably intended me to. But the hurt was still fresh in Gail's eyes. Sad, I thought, when one half of a relationship had a passion for something that the other half didn't share. "I've been," I told her. "All those boats. All that nifty equipment. It blew me away."

We'd been to the boat show more than a dozen times, Paul and I, drooling over sailboats we couldn't afford even if we set up housekeeping in a cave, gave up eating, and saved every penny for a million years. "Maybe if I sell my policy—” I let my voice trail off and I stared into space dreamily.

"Ooops, gotta go." Gail shot out the door. "Gil's coming.”

Thanks to Gail's infallible Gil-dar, she was back behind the reception desk and I was sitting in the waiting room calmly paging through a
New Yorker
when Gilbert Jablonsky breezed into the office. "Hannah! So sorry I'm late! Thank you for waiting."

"That's okay," I said, pointing at my soft drink can. "Gail took good care of me."

Jablonsky shot an exaggerated wink in his receptionist's direction. "That's my girl!"

When he turned his attention back to me, Gail crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, and I had to bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from laughing. I was beginning to like the woman.

"Thanks for seeing me, Gil." I eased myself out of the chair and gave him my hand.

He clasped mine in both of his and pumped it up and down. "My pleasure. Let's go back to my office, shall we?"

Jablonsky preceded me down the hall, shucking his sport coat as he went. "Hold my calls, please, Gail," he called over his shoulder. When we reached his office, he nodded to the chair I'd previously occupied. "Have a seat."

"So," he continued, once we'd gotten settled. "Have you thought about my offer?"

I nodded. "Yes, but I'm afraid my husband is dead set against it. It's really kind of s
weet
," I said, leaning forward and resting an elbow on his desk. "When I asked Paul about it, he went all
gooey
on me, saying I was absolutely
not
going to die, and we weren't going to sell that policy no matter what. End. Of. Story."

"The man loves you," he said.

I aimed a thousand watt smile at the guy. "I guess so!"

Jablonsky leaned back in his chair, hooking his thumbs in his belt. "So, Hannah, tell me. How would you feel about acquiring additional insurance?"

I wagged my head back and forth, my hoop earrings bouncing against my neck. "I don't think so, Gil. The premiums on the policy I already have are expensive enough."

A slow smile crept across his face. "It wouldn't cost you a thing."

"Now, Gil, I don't pretend to know very much about the life insurance business, but even / know you can't get insurance policies for
nothing
."

"Under special circumstances you can."

"I find that
real
hard to believe."

"It's easy. Let me explain." As he spoke, he ticked the points off on his fingers. "First, you apply for the policy. Then, we'll hold it for a couple of years, pay the premiums for you, and, after a suitable amount of time has passed—" He held out his hand as if something small and valuable were sitting on it. "We viaticate it for you."

I raised an eyebrow. "Why would I want to do that?"

"There'd be compensation," he said.

"Compensation? What sort of compensation?"

"For each policy you sign up for, we can pay you twelve thousand dollars."

I gasped. "You're kidding. Right?"

He shook his head. "I'm dead serious."

I continued to stare at him, slack-jawed. "Oh, wow!"

Jablonsky opened a file drawer, extracted several forms, and laid them one at a time—carefully, almost tenderly—on the desk in front of me. “Take a moment to look these over," he said.

I scooted my chair forward a few inches, to demonstrate how seriously I was considering his offer. I picked up the first application, attracted by its stylized logo and the words
Victory Mutual Life Assurance Company
printed in Goudy Old Style. The rest of the document was set in Times New Roman. If there's ever a demand for people who can identify typeface styles in their sleep, I'm your woman, and whatever their faults, I'd have the editorial work I did for Whitworth and Sullivan to thank for it.

Victory Mutual's application form had six pages, both sides, and was fastened together at the top. The other two applications were of similar length, but less attractively formatted. I studied them critically.

I'm sure the folks at Sun Securities of N.A. intended to symbolize rock-solid, strong-as-the-dollar security the way they scattered suns and obelisks all over the cover page, but if so, their art department had made a hash of it. The sunbursts were ragged and sickly yellow, hardly confidence-building. And I lost my way completely in Sun's maze of teeny-tiny print (New Zurica, sans serif, six points max). After several frustrating minutes, I put their application down.

The questions on the application from New Century Auto and Life were printed in fourteen point, light blue, GalexicaMono. What were they thinking? Easy on the eyes, maybe, but didn't New Century know that blue print doesn't photocopy well?

From the grunts and under-his-breath muttering, I assumed Jablonsky was busying himself with his e-mail. While he clacked away on his computer keyboard, I leafed through each application, reading carefully.

After fifteen minutes I spoke up. "Gil, this is so
confusing!
All these paragraphs and subparagraphs and words I don't understand? How can I possibly choose?"

He lifted his fingers from the keyboard, slowly, like a pianist after the last note of a sonata. "You don't have to choose," he said. "Perhaps I haven't been clear. I'm recommending that you apply for
all
of them."

A hot shot of adrenaline surged up my neck. My ears hummed. I'd read about it on the Internet, and there it was, up close and personal: wet inking. My signature would be barely dry before Jablonsky turned these policies around.

I stared at Jablonsky, who stared back at me, unblinking, while I processed that information. Three applications times $12,000. That was $36,000. It was a luxury vacation. A sunroom with a hot tub. A previously owned 450SL parked outside my door.

"That's legal?" I asked.

Jablonsky loosened his tie. "Absolutely legal."

I picked up the application from Victory Mutual and flipped through the pages, skimming the text. "You know, this isn't going to work," I said. I turned the form in his direction and tapped page six with the pen he had given me. "In this block it asks if I've ever been advised of, treated for, or had any known indication of a whole lot of things. Like cancer." I looked up to judge his reaction. "And over here." I flipped to the next page. "Here it wants to know if any of my parents or siblings had cardiovascular disease. My mom died of congestive heart failure. I'm sorry to disappoint you, Gil," I said, closing the application, "but there's no way I could pass a physical examination."

"That's the beauty of it," Jablonsky oozed. "A physical isn't required for policies in amounts under $100,000."

"Oh." I stared at him, blinking rapidly. So that was the path he was leading me down! About time that I rattled his cage. I turned back to page one and waved the pen over the block labeled
client.
I deliberately hesitated, sucking thoughtfully on the pen's retractor button.

The man had stopped breathing, I swear. Before he could pass out from lack of oxygen, I wrote
Ives
in the first space,
Hannah
in the second, and
A
in the third, then proceeded rapidly through the application form, checking some boxes and leaving others blank. On page five I paused. "Wait a minute! It asks here if this life insurance is for the benefit of a viatical company, or if there are plans to viaticate it, or if it replaces a policy that was already viaticated."

Jablonsky tented his fingers. "I can't tell you how to fill out the form, Hannah, but I
can
tell you if you have a wrong answer."

"Okay." I checked no and moved on. Had I ever been accused of a felony? No. Was I a pilot? No. Had I ever been charged with drunken driving? Never. Do I enjoy skydiving? As if.

Inevitably I arrived back at page six: medical history. "It asks about cancer, Gil," I reminded him, "and breast disease. Should I check 'Yes'?"

Jablonsky smirked. "That's not a good answer."

I'd read about that, too. Clean sheeting. Swearing on an application that you're healthy when you're not.

The man had gone too far, too far even for Hannah-the-Dingbat. I felt sick to my stomach, thinking of Valerie sitting in Jablonsky's office, in the same chair I was, listening to the same sales pitch, maybe even filling out the same damn form. And look where it had gotten her.

"I'm sorry, Gil, but I just don't feel comfortable lying to an insurance company." I stood up, laying the pen on top of the Victory Mutual packet.

"No one will ever know."

"
I'll
know," I said.

Jablonsky shrugged. "Thirty-six thousand dollars?"

"It's tempting,
really
tempting." I scooped up my handbag. “Tell you what. Let me go home and think about it for a couple of days. Okay?"

"I'll look forward to seeing you, then. You won't be sorry." He held out his hand.

I didn't want to, but I shook it. It felt hot, and damp. Good. I'd made the outlaw sweat!

"Call me if you have any questions." He was talking to my back.

I waved vaguely, then hustled down the hall, wiping my hand on the front of my sweater as I went, stopping only long enough to say good-bye to Gail Parrish.

"See ya," she chirped.

"I hope so," I said, meaning it. June was prime sailing season on the Chesapeake Bay. The next time Connie and Dennis called looking for crew, maybe I'd suggest Gail.

All the way down in the elevator, though, I worried about the receptionist. Did she know what her boss was up to? If he got sent to the slammer, would she have to go, too?

Yet if Gail were in on it up to her charming, tip-tilted nose, if she were helping Jablonsky rake in money hand over fist, would she spend her leisure hours cat-sitting? Scrimping on the rent in order to buy a boat? I doubted it.

As I crossed the parking lot to my car, I itched to blow the whistle on the weasel. Yet, if what Valerie had told me was true, Jablonsky's business with her had been completely legitimate. And if I'd sold him my
existing
life insurance policy, that would have been completely legitimate, too.

As for the clean-sheeting, what was there for me to report? I hadn't signed any forms and no money had exchanged hands, so as far as I knew, no laws had been broken. Hell, even if I'd had a secret microphone tucked into my bra, I couldn't remember a single thing Jablonsky had said to me during our meeting that might actually have landed the man in a court of law.

After the darkness of the lobby, it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the afternoon sunshine. I stood in the parking lot, blinking, trying to remember where I'd parked my car. Fortunately, I had one of those remote keyless gizmos. I pushed the unlock button and an orchid LeBaron parked near Manny's Auto Body flashed its lights at me and beeped. Ah, yes. I'd parked in the low rent district. I trudged off in that direction.

Judging from the cars surrounding mine, Manny's clients had a weakness for vanity plates. I had a vanity plate once:
SIR
5
ER
. Recently, though, I'd switched from the "Survivor" plate to one featuring a heron, to help Save the Bay.

I stopped and looked around
. I
12
HUGU
on a Taurus with a crushed fender.
PB
4
UGO
. I had to laugh. Even if the Subaru wearing that plate didn't have stuffed animals strewn about the backseat, you had to know the owner had kids.

Parked between the Subaru and me was a gold BMW, its license plate—
N
4
SIR
—enclosed in a decorative frame. I had to say it out loud—"Enforcer"—before I got it. Manny, it seemed, did body work for a dangerous crowd. I opened my door carefully. Wouldn't want to ding the paint of
that
dude.

I slid into the seat and slotted my key into the ignition. When I started the car, both the air conditioner and the radio came on, full-blast. I leaned my head against the headrest, closed my eyes and let Mozart and the cool air wash over me.

Jablonsky was defrauding insurance companies. That much I knew for sure. I also knew the names of three of them. That would be as good a place as any to start.

Maybe Jablonsky hadn't been
directly
responsible for Valerie's death. But I knew as surely as I knew that I was sitting in a car parked in Glen Burnie, Maryland, US of A that it had all started here. And if I picked up the string and began to follow it, I might eventually learn the truth about how Valerie had died.