Jay Giles (2 page)
A week ago, as he was leaving, Joe had said casually, “Matt, I’ve got some news I want to share with you. I’ve gotten married.” I’d been stunned. He’d never mentioned a woman, much less that he was contemplating marriage.
Rosemary, of course, had wanted all the details. Joe had been evasive. All Rosemary learned was the woman’s first name—Janet. All I learned was that there had been no prenuptial agreement. I wanted to feel happy for him. But with Joe’s stock portfolio worth over two million, I had a bad feeling about this marriage.
I talked to Joe a couple of times on the phone following his announcement. He’d sounded happy, as if married life agreed with him. I decided I’d panicked, was being overly protective. As I drove to his condo, I replayed each of those conversations in my mind, searching for indications this was coming, adding the questions I now wished I’d asked. I should never have assumed he was okay. I should have made sure. I slammed my hand on the steering wheel. Why hadn’t I?
I flew by a wrinkled little man driving an ancient Buick, eased through a yellow light, and accelerated past a strip mall to the entrance of the community where Joe lived.
Laurel Lakes Condominiums was a single street curved around a small lake, the condos in twos, left and right units sharing a common wall. Every unit the same brown, the same two-car garage in front, garage door after garage door.
I wasn’t watching the garage doors, however. I was watching the identical mailboxes, looking for one with the name Jesso at the top. I found it and pulled the Saab into the driveway. Joe’s was the unit on the left. I got out, walked to the front stoop, and rang the bell. Eddie added a rare bark, as if to say, “Hey, I’m here, too.”
I waited. Waited. Didn’t hear anything. Rang the bell again. Waited. Waited. Waited. Nothing. I turned and headed back to the car. As I passed the garage window, I noticed Joe’s car inside. From behind me came the sound of a door opening. My spirits soared. He’d probably overslept.
I turned, expecting Joe in his bathrobe. Instead, I saw a square-faced, dark-haired man wearing a white shirt, loose at the collar, suspenders holding up dark blue suit pants. He stood on the stoop, barefoot, holding the screen door open. “Can I help you?” he asked irritably.
“I’m a friend of Joe’s. I was looking for him.”
He eyed me for a minute, finally said, “I’m his brother-in-law.” There was a pause—seemed like minutes, probably only seconds—before he said what I knew was coming: “Joe died last night.”
I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. “How did it happen?”
He shrugged. “Died in his sleep. Old age, I guess.”
“I’m sorry. He was a good friend.” Through the door, I caught a glimpse of a blond woman. Didn’t look like she had any clothes on.
“Yeah, a good guy,” the brother-in-law agreed flatly as he started to close the door.
I stepped forward, offered my hand. “I’m Matt Seattle.”
Awkwardly, he held out his hand. “Greg Nevitt.”
Now I knew who the enemy was. “Give your sister my condolences.”
His eyes narrowed. “Yeah, I will.”
I heard the screen door swing shut as I walked back to the car. I backed slowly out of the driveway, aware they were probably watching me. As soon as I left
Laurel
Lakes
, I was on the car phone.
My first call was to Rosemary.
“
Seattle
on Stocks,” Rosemary’s British accent was one of our trademarks.
“Rosemary, it’s me. It’s what we feared.”
“Oh, dear.”
“He died in his sleep last night.”
“Did you talk to the doctor?”
“No, his brother-in-law. Fellow by the name of Greg Nevitt.”
“Are you coming back to the office?”
“I’m on my way now. Can you give me Julian’s direct line?” Julian Ockerman was my attorney.
She read me the number. I hung up and juggled the phone and the steering wheel as I dialed. It rang twice before he picked up.
“Julian, it’s Matt. I’ve got an emergency. How soon can we get together?”
I heard him flipping pages in his book. “I’ve got a deposition at ten, filing at noon. How about two? Does that work?”
“I’ll be there. Thanks.”
Two o’clock found us sitting in Julian’s office high atop
Sarasota
’s only true skyscraper—One
Sarasota
Place. The office was impressive—an elaborate desk, expensive furniture and carpet, subdued lighting, fancy media wall. Normally, I enjoyed the panoramic view of the bay, the Keys, the Gulf. That day, I could have cared less.
Julian slouched on the sofa opposite me, arm over the back, feet up on the coffee table between us. He was tall and lanky, with dark brown hair slicked back, deep-set eyes, a hooked beak of a nose, and strong pointed chin. A face that could be intimidating. At that moment, however, it was inquisitive. “Tell me about this emergency.”
Eddie sat on the floor next to me, watching Julian.
I leaned forward. “One of my clients, a guy named Joe Jesso, died last night. I think he was murdered.”
“Why?”
“For his money. Joe married a week ago. Suddenly, he’s dead. That can’t be a coincidence.”
“Let’s step through this,” Julian said calmly. “How old was this client?”
“Almost eighty.”
“How old is the wife?”
“I don’t know. All he’d tell me about her was her name—Janet.”
“What makes you think Janet was after his money?”
“He was eighty years old. What else would she be after?”
He got up from the sofa, paced around the office. Eddie watched him as he paced. “Well, if this Janet woman is seventy, she might have been looking for companionship. If she’s twenty, likely she was looking for money. That’s why I asked her age.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t think to ask him that. I should have.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry. We can find out. What we’ve got is a fairly common scenario: an older guy who’s lonely, probably feels he doesn’t have all that much longer, wants somebody to keep him company and look after him. In short, he’s vulnerable. He meets a woman who’s nice to him, makes him feel good. Before you know it, he’ll do anything she wants.”
“Are you talking sex?”
He shook his head. “Sex isn’t the big issue. It’s companionship. Someone to watch television with. Talk to over dinner. Go to a movie.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“It’s not if the woman’s older, too. Then it’s usually beneficial for both.” He grinned. “But remember, we’re guys. Would you go for the seventy-year-old blue-haired matron? Or the thirty-year-old blond with fake boobs?” He didn’t wait for my answer. “You’d go for the eye candy. We men are such swine. I had a client, a widower about the same age as your friend with three grown children, worth maybe six million. He decided he wanted to marry the maid, a twenty-four-year-old girl from
Venezuela
who hardly spoke any English. I guess they’d played footsie. He liked it, wanted more. When he died less than a year later, the new wife inherited half the estate. The kids fought it, of course, but the judge said it was legal and ruled in her favor.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“You’d be amazed how often this happens. When guys get older, they don’t care. The rules change.” He shook his head. “There are a lot of unscrupulous women out there preying on lonely old men. Especially here in
Florida
with our large population of senior citizens.”
“So there’s a good chance she was after his money?”
“A very good chance.” He stopped, looked at me. “Do you know if he had a prenup?”
I shook my head. “He didn’t. I talked to him about a postnup, but.”
He made a dismissive gesture. “Postnups are useless. If it ever went to court they’d say she was intimidated into signing it.” He resumed pacing. “And you don’t know anything about her other than her name?”
“Not a thing, but I did meet her brother, Greg Nevitt, at the condo this morning. He’s the one who told me Joe’d died.”
He frowned, ran his hand through his hair. “What do you know about Joe? Any family? Children? Trusts?”
As close as Joe and I had been, I knew damn little. Perhaps because I didn’t like people asking me about my personal life, I’d never questioned Joe about his. We talked about things that were safe. Guy stuff. Work stuff.
“I can tell by that look, you know squat.”
“It’s not—”
“Squat.”
I sighed. “Okay, squat. What do we do?”
“Well, I think we need to know more about Janet.” He walked to his desk, started going through his rolodex. He found what he was looking for, pulled a Mont Blanc fountain pen from his breast pocket, wrote something on a piece of paper. “Here’s the name of a private investigator I’ve used. Give her a call, get her looking into this.”
He walked over, handed me the paper. On it was Tory Knight, a local phone number.
I stared at it, unsure that this was the right direction. “Shouldn’t I be going to the police, demanding an investigation, an autopsy?”
“Not yet,” he said sternly. “You have suspicions. You don’t have proof. If the death is ruled natural causes and a physician signs the death certificate, it’ll be tough to challenge.”
“Can’t we demand an autopsy?”
“Not without cause.”
“A millionaire married a week suddenly and inexplicably dies. Isn’t that cause?”
He plopped down again on the couch opposite the one where I sat, looked directly at me. “It’s an implicit accusation of murder and as such could be actionable. She’s legally the wife. She has rights. You float that accusation and she’ll take every penny you have.” Rebuke finished, he stood. “Have Tory look into the cause of death and the wife’s background, see what she turns up.”
I stood, tucked the piece of paper in my pocket. “Thanks, Julian. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Do that,” he said as he walked me to the door.
