Jay Giles (8 page)
Judge Ott scowled. All the wrinkles in her prune face shifted. She glanced back and forth at us, at them, then consulted a large book, using her index finger to flip noisily through the pages. She found what she wanted, squinted at it for a minute, flipped around further, found something else.
The tension was killing me.
Finally, she looked up, made a loud, sucking sound as she took a deep breath. “Mr. Nevitt, I find no evidence that supports your contention that Mr. Seattle took advantage of Mr. Jesso. In fact, the evidence supports quite the contrary. It appears that Mr. Jesso and Mr. Seattle had a beneficial long-term relationship, a relationship strong enough that Mr. Jesso named Mr. Seattle his executor. Why you would choose to attack Mr. Seattle rather than work with him is not clear to me. However, you have chosen this course of action and have undoubtedly incurred the animus of Mr. Seattle. I see no reason why Mr. Seattle should be punished to serve your ends. I see no reason why he should be asked to administer a hostile estate, especially since Mrs. Jesso is the only beneficiary.” She sucked in more air in another of those deep breaths. “Therefore, I am removing Mr. Seattle from his obligation as executor and will name an officer of the court to serve as executor. Do you understand my ruling, Mr. Nevitt?”
“I do your Honor. I have one small concern.”
“Speak up, Mr. Nevitt. Let’s hear it.”
“With all due respect, your Honor. There is considerable indication Mr. Seattle substantially overcharged for his services. We are preparing to file criminal charges to recover those monies. I’m concerned that an outside executor might complicate this process.”
“Don’t talk around the issue, Nevitt. Say what’s on your mind.”
“Your Honor, I’d like you to appoint me executor of the Jesso estate.”
“Objection, your Honor,” Amy yelled in outrage. “As executor, he’d be able to orchestrate the facts to suit his case.”
“Not true,” Nevitt corrected her matter-of-factly. “What’s happened has already been recorded. The N.A.S.D. has that information and will issue their own verdict on malfeasance. That’s not the issue. The issue is Mrs. Jesso. She’s the sole beneficiary of the estate. As the sole beneficiary, she would like me to serve as executor, both to make sure the assets are properly administered and to make sure she isn’t denied justice in recovering what has been wrongly taken from her.”
“Your Honor,” Amy snorted. “Mrs. Jesso was married to Mr. Jesso for one week. Hardly enough time for her to understand Mr. Jesso’s stock portfolio, much less—”
“Be quiet,” Judge Ott ordered.
Amy was.
“Mrs. Jesso, do you want Mr. Nevitt as executor of the estate?”
“Yes, your Honor,” she answered meekly.
Ott looked over at me. “Mr. Seattle, would you feel at risk if Mr. Nevitt were executor?”
I looked at Amy for direction.
“I don’t want her opinion, I want yours, Mr. Seattle”
“I wouldn’t feel comfortable with him as executor,” I answered honestly.
“I’m not comfortable with it, either,” Judge Ott said reflectively. “Mr. Nevitt, the best I can do for you is make you co-executor with an appointed officer of the court. That officer will report to me. If he senses any impropriety, you’ll find yourself in front of me again, and it won’t be pleasant. Understand?”
“Yes, your Honor,” Nevitt mumbled.
“All right,” she concluded. “Mr. Seattle, you are excused, through no fault of your own, from serving as executor of Mr. Jesso’s estate. That will be noted on my ruling. Mr. Nevitt, you are appointed co-executor. The court will be in contact with you with the appointment of the other co-executor.”
She looked at her watch, then the bailiff. “Next on the docket.”
We were dismissed.
We turned to leave, and I caught a glimpse of a young blond man in a flashy green sharkskin suit staring at us.
“I thought it went pretty well,” Amy said when we were back in the lobby.
“It did, thanks to you,” I said. “You did a wonderful job.”
She smiled, obviously pleased. “Don’t tell me that,” she warned. “I bill accordingly.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Just kidding.”
“We’re not finished yet,” Julian said soberly. “This suit concerns me. We need to begin preparing for that as soon as possible.” He looked over at me. “I’ll have Amanda call both of you and schedule a time to begin. Is that okay?” We nodded. “See you both then.” He waved as he walked off.
I thanked Amy again and headed out of the building to my car. The man in the sharkskin suit fell in step next to me. He looked over at me. “Mr. Seattle, can I talk to you for a minute?”
I stopped, turned to face him. He was young, thin, not too tall. With hard black eyes, close-cropped blond hair, weak chin. The gaudy sharkskin suited him. The way he looked at me, I could tell the kid had an attitude. “This isn’t a very good time. What’s it about?”
He grinned, revealing crooked, pointed teeth. “Joe Jesso’s stocks.”
“What about them?”
“It’d be better to talk in your office. More private, if you get my drift.”
This guy gave me the creeps. “Call my office. We’ll schedule an appointment.”
He sneered. “I don’t think so. I’ll be by tomorrow afternoon.” It wasn’t a statement. It was a threat.
The dreams came that night. At 3:10, I woke in a sweat, sheets tangled around me. Eddie rested his head on my hand and whimpered. He sensed it was bad.
I’d been reliving my visit to the wrecked van in the police lot. There amidst all the other wrecked and impounded cars, a silver van with the front horribly caved in. Only shards of window glass remaining. The front passenger door cut away. The front seat stained with blood. On the floor by the brake pedal, one of Claire’s sandals. Across the seat, Michael’s backpack on the floor. Seeing the car, I’d realized the horror of their last moments.
Eddie licked my hand. I let him for a moment, then rubbed his ears. I wondered if dogs dreamed. Was that why Eddie was always awake by the side of my bed?
I untangled from the sheets, got up. I went into the bathroom and splashed water on my face. I was a bundle of nerves. Something about that blond guy had frightened me. Eddie padded in after me, looked up, and yawned.
“I agree,” I said to him. “It’s too early to be up.” I headed to the kitchen, raided the fridge for a glass of wine, took it to the library, read for half an hour.
Eddie was snoring when I put the book down and went back to bed. I slept fitfully, finally waking for good at five-thirty. At seven, I called Dr. Swarthmore.
“Matt,” she said when she came on the phone. “Good to hear from you although I didn’t expect it to be so soon.”
“I didn’t either. But I had another dream last night.” As I recounted it for her, I heard her making notes.
“Let’s talk about the good and bad,” she said when I finished. “This dream was farther along a time continuum than many of your other ones. I think that may be significant, an indication you’re in the final stages of the grieving process. I am concerned, however, that this dream came so close to your last one. You said you felt your friend Joe’s death triggered the last dream. What do you think triggered this one?”
I told her about the churning charges, my court appearance, the fellow who’d threatened me.
“That’s a lot of stress for anyone, Matt. I’m not qualified to advise you on your professional issues, but I do think you need to find relief, an outlet for some of this stress. Can you take a day off? Go fishing?”
“I’ve never been much of a fisherman. I do play golf.”
“Perfect. Get up a foursome. Do it today.”
Why not? A little client golf might be just the ticket. I could relax, do a little bonding with some of my better clients, maybe even avoid any further bad news or threats.
At the office, I booked a one o’clock tee time at the Longboat Key Country Club. In three more calls, I had my foursome: Luis Santoro, prominent antique dealer. Tom Westerkamp, retired ad guru. Greg Alwes, real estate developer. A good, congenial group.
I worked like a banshee the rest of the morning, skipped lunch. Eddie and I bolted out the door at twelve-thirty. “Have a good time,” I heard Rosemary call after us.
We met in the clubhouse, walked to the first tee together. Next to me, Eddie pranced around like a pup.
I was the last to hit. I took a couple of practice swings with my driver, cleared my mind. Took a cleansing breath. Swung. From behind me, Eddie took off like a rocket. Joyfully, he ran down the fairway after the ball, tracking it down, positioning himself next to it to let me know where it was.
“I knew about bird dogs,” Greg said watching him, “I’ve never seen a golf dog before.”
“You should get one,” Luis said, his voice soft, resonant. “Maybe, you wouldn’t lose so many balls.”
“The way Greg hits ‘em, any dog would be worn out after the first hole,” Tom added, laughing.
Caught up in the banter, I felt myself relax. Dr. Swarthmore had been right. I’d needed this. So had Eddie.
We played nine, had drinks and told stories in the bar, went into the dining room for dinner. Told more stories over dinner. At one point, Tom had me laughing so hard that tears streamed down my face. I hated for the meal, the camaraderie to end. After saying good-bye to each of them in the parking lot, Eddie and I got in the Saab, headed to the office. I wanted to see what had gone on this afternoon.
Pinned to the back of my desk chair so I couldn’t miss it, I found a note from Rosemary:
Matt, Two things you should know. Fowler called. Wants you to call him at his office as soon as possible. He said to call even if it’s late. Wouldn’t tell me what this was about. Also, a strange man came looking for you. When I said you weren’t here, he got really angry. He said you knew he was coming? I couldn’t find an appointment. I tried to make one, but he stormed out. Sorry. R.
He’d kept his threat. Whatever he wanted, I had a feeling, I’d just made it worse, even if I was following doctor’s orders.
I couldn’t do anything about him then, but I could take care of Fowler. I looked in the rolodex for his card, found his office number and dialed it, thinking he wouldn’t be there and I’d leave a message.
To my surprise, he answered. “Mr. Seattle, thank you for returning my call. I wonder if you might clarify something for me.”
“I’ll try.”
“Mr. Jesso’s records indicate a thousand shares of P&G purchased on April 6th and sold on May 12th. Two-hundred-fifty shares of Dell purchased on June 1st and sold July 1st. Three-hundred-fifty shares of G.E. purchased June 23rd and sold June 30th. Six-hundred shares of Pfizer purchased on June 28th and sold on July 10th. What can you tell me about those transactions?”
“I don’t think I can tell you anything. Those aren’t transactions I executed for Joe. Maybe someone else made them for him.”
“Are you sure? They have your number on them.” He was referring to the identifying number assigned each broker.
“My number? Can’t be.” I switched on my computer, called up the trade blotters that detailed Joe’s file. I knew they wouldn’t be there. They weren’t.
“You say they’re on my buy/sell confirmation forms?”
“They’re not on your forms, no.”
“Well, that’s it then,” I said confidently. “Somebody is throwing those trades my way.” Throwing a trade was how brokers described giving someone else credit for the transaction. Usually, it happened if you had someone in your office who was sick or needed additional income for some reason. Even though you made the trade, you put their number on the transaction so they earned the commission. “What’s the company? Maybe we can clear this up.”
“I’m afraid it’s not going to be quite that easy.”
“Why?”
“It’s your old firm—”
“Merrill Lynch in
Detroit
?”
“Merrill Lynch here in
Sarasota
.”
“That doesn’t make sense. They helped me when I first moved down here, but since I set up my brokerage I haven’t had any dealings with them. I’m a local competitor.”
“That may be, Mr. Seattle, but the fact is these transactions have your number on them.”
“What about dates? What about Merrill’s blotters? This is all trumped—”
“Mr. Seattle, please, my purpose in calling you was to shed light on these transactions. At the proper time, you’ll have your chance to refute them.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. There wasn’t any mystery to me about why these transactions had suddenly surfaced. Nevitt must have calculated I wasn’t to the four hundred percent automatic loss of license yet, and had someone throw some trades my way. I had Fowler repeat the buys for me, asked him to fax me copies of the slips. When we were finished on the phone, I did the math. Sure enough. I was at four hundred and two percent.
I went back to my rolodex, found Tory’s number. She could uncover who threw the trades. I dialed her number, got her machine. At the beep, I said, “Tory, it’s Matt Seattle. I could use your help again. I need to find out who at Merrill Lynch made some stock transactions and put my broker’s number on them. Can you give me a call and let me know a time we can get together. Thanks. ‘Bye.”
I hung up the receiver, started to check my voice mail, changed my mind. “C’mon, Eddie,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
Back at the condo, I changed into my workout clothes, headed down to the gym. I did an hour on the machines, hour on the treadmill. By the time I finished, I felt it. Eddie and I went for a quick walk. I took a shower, and went to bed.
I didn’t have dreams that night but woke to a torrential downpour. August was the rainy season, but that August was unusually wet. I stood and looked out the bedroom window. Rain fell in sheets. Eddie didn’t like going out any more than I did, but he cooperated with a very quick walk. Didn’t help, we still got soaked.
The drive to work was a mess. With
Florida
’s poor drainage, the roads—especially the ones around St. Armand’s Circle—were flooded, water often half way up the Saab’s wheel wells.
Eddie, sitting in the front passenger seat, was trembling. He didn’t like the noise of the high water under the car. I reached over and patted him. “Not a fit day out for man or beast, I know, but we’ll get there.”
We got our second soaking of the morning making the dash from the car to the front door. Inside, Eddie shook. My third soaking. Finished, he gave me kind of an oh-did-I-do-that look and trotted into my office.
I went to the kitchen, dried myself off with paper towels, made coffee, and carried a cup back to my office. I heard the squeak of the front door opening, the flap, flap, flap of some one shaking out an umbrella, followed by a distinct sniff, sniff, sniff.
“It’s wet dog I’m smelling,” Rosemary announced as she appeared in the doorway of my office. I watched her sniff, sniff, sniff, again. “Wet owner, too.”
I laughed. “She’s making fun of us, Eddie. Go shake next to her.”
“Don’t ya dare. I’m a mess already.” She fluffed her hair. “Look at my hair. I’m a fright.”
Fluffing hadn’t helped. Her blond hair hung limp. “I’d give you some of my curl if I could. You know that.”
She waved a hand at me. “Oh, go on. Rub it in.” The telephone rang, and she left to get it. “Took me forever and a day to get in; now they’re probably calling to tell us to evacuate.”
I looked out the window. The rain didn’t look like it had let up a bit.
Niagara Falls
was pouring off the roof.
I was bus`y that morning, the day’s normal business plus catch-up from yesterday’s time out of the office. I was placing a list of orders when Rosemary buzzed me. “Your friend Tory on two.”
“Got your message,” Tory said. “I hope this is something we can discuss over the phone.”
I looked at the copies Fowler had faxed to me. It would be difficult to explain about thrown trades over the telephone. “I’ve got stuff you need to see. Is there a time we can meet?”
“You want to go out in this? God, it must be an emergency. Hang on.” She put me on hold. Came back a minute later. “I wasn’t planning on going out today.”
“What a wuss.”
She laughed. “I may be a wuss, but you’re going to have to come to me.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Pier Grille? About four?”
“Good choice. If it doesn’t let up, I can get there by boat.”
I’d said it as a joke, but as I drove to
Anna
Maria
Island
, I wished I had a boat. Low areas that had been puddles on my drive in that morning were lakes. Stalled cars marked most of the deep spots. The Saab hit a couple I thought would do us in. It took us a while, but we made it to the Pier Grille, only to find their entire parking lot under water. I parked as close to the door as I could in what I hoped was the shallow end of the pool. I stepped out of the car and water rose above my ankles. Eddie was happy to stay in the car.
I probably looked like a drowned rat by the time I made it inside. I spotted Tory in the same booth by the window. She looked pleased with herself—and dry.
I dripped my way over, slid into the booth, wiped water off my briefcase.
She laughed at me. “You’re sure we couldn’t have done this over the phone?”
“What? And miss all the fun I had getting here? No way.” I reached into my briefcase, took out copies of the Merrill Lynch orders, spread them out on the table between us, explained thrown trades.
“So you want to know who at Merrill Lynch bought and sold these stocks and put your number on them?”
“Exactly. The other thing I need to know is that person’s connection to Nevitt. If we can find that, I can get these churning charges dismissed.”
A waitress came over, asked me if I wanted anything. Tory had a cup of coffee in front of her. I asked for one, too.
After the waitress left, Tory asked, “Won’t whoever did this at Merrill Lynch get in big trouble?”
“Kicked out of the business.”
“So that person’s not going to want to cooperate, and the company won’t want this exposed.”
Our waitress brought my coffee, refilled Tory’s cup and left.
Tory frowned, focused her gaze on me. “I want to be upfront with you about this. I’ll look into it for you, but I can’t promise anything. This is fairly sophisticated stuff. I have to assume whoever did it wouldn’t have made and won’t make a stupid mistake. I don’t think this is going to be easy or quick. I wouldn’t even know what to tell you in the way of an estimate.”
“Don’t worry about an estimate. See what you can find.” I took a sip of my coffee. “Do you need another retainer?”
She nodded.
“Thousand dollars?”
She nodded again, gathered up the papers.
I got a check out of my briefcase, wrote it out, handed it to her.
She took the check, dropped it in her black bag. “I’ll call as soon as I know something.” She left a couple of dollars on the table and departed.
I sat there, sipped my coffee. She’d been right. Nobody was going to fess up to this. The best I could hope for was finding a connection between one of the brokers and Nevitt. I left a couple of dollars for my coffee, started to slide out of the booth. My cell rang. I got it out of my briefcase. “Matt Seattle.”
“Matt,” Rosemary said. “That man who came yesterday? He’s back. And he won’t leave.”
