Murder.com (7 page)

Thirteen

The Executioner

He may never have heard the epithet himself, but Jerry Gilbert was known among the Chase & Ward associates as “the Executioner.” Legend had it that if a partner felt that an associate should be fired, but didn't have the courage to do the job himself, he would arrange to have the victim assigned to Gilbert.

This myth credited the partners with too much efficiency in handling their personnel matters. It did, however, reflect the basic truth that Gilbert was a stern and difficult taskmaster: laconic in explaining assignments, sarcastic when ripping apart written work submitted to him (nearly always returned bleeding with editorial corrections and queries), and stingy with compliments and words of encouragement.

Those who survived their assignment working for Gilbert felt like combat veterans. In the case of some, the experience developed them into tougher lawyers, but a few left as shell-shocked, nervous wrecks, including the ones “executed.” At age fifty, Gilbert had a long career at the firm ahead of him; associates had hopes of avoiding his rough tutelage only through the luck of the draw, not because of the man's retirement or early demise.

Reuben knew of Gilbert's nickname, but had never been certain how accurate the popular wisdom was. All he knew was that he did not especially like the man—nothing personal and he didn't deliberately try to avoid him—but Gilbert was pretty stony and humorless, and thus not to Frost's taste. A good lawyer? Absolutely. A lovable person? No way.

“How are you, Reuben? Haven't seen you upstairs at the Hexagon Club recently,” Gilbert said once Frost was comfortably seated on the office's sofa. The Executioner took a seat in a chair opposite and put his feet up on the coffee table in front of him.

“I don't go up there as much as I used to. I feel a little bit in the way when I do. All the active partners discussing current business. The last thing they need is an ancient crock like me reminiscing about the good old days.”
Or about the day Graham Donovan dropped dead at the firm's table at the Club
, Reuben thought.

“Nonsense. You're always welcome, you know that,” Gilbert said, giving Reuben a narrow, pinched smile—the closest he came to camaraderie. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” The pinched smile a second time.

“I understand Edward Joyner—the late Edward Joyner—worked for you. “

“Yes.”

“I assume he was assigned to you to put him to a final test to make sure the firm was right to fire him.”

“Not at all, Reuben. Joyner came to me with a decent reputation. He was a pretty good lawyer, just a little too much self-confidence. That was the verdict when he started with me.”

“And?”

“And he was good—not outstanding, but good—until his divorce unstrung him. You know about that?”

“I think so.”

“He started being consistently late for work, not that that's a capital offense …”

“Agreed. Only Russ Townley favors the death penalty for late starts in the morning, as I believe you, and surely I, know.”

“Yes. But lateness was the least of it. His work became more and more careless, and he consistently missed deadlines. My discreet inquiries told me he was leading the club life. I don't mean the Gotham, Reuben, I mean those all-night coke joints downtown.”

“I'm glad you don't think the Gotham is a drug den,” Reuben said. He suddenly remembered with some embarrassment that Gilbert had been proposed for membership—and been blackballed.

“Quite the playboy, man-about-town, I understand. He had a messy little affair with a lawyer at …”

“I've heard about that.”

“And, if the grapevine is right, at least an attempted fling with Arch Tanner's wife. I never delved too deeply into that.”

“I've heard something about that, too,” Reuben said. In fact, Cynthia, after a luncheon with several other Chase & Ward wives at their club—also not a drug den; a good Protestant, thriftily priced Muscadet being the strongest stimulant available there—had reported on a rumor that Isabel Tanner was seeing something of an unnamed associate at the firm. Reuben realized it did not have to be Joyner; there had been other social occasions during which Isabel's feminine hand had been a bit too careless up against an associate's brow or cheek—or even thigh.

In the name of discretion, Reuben did not make any comment about Mrs. Tanner's propensities; he was sure Gilbert, like everyone else (except, presumably, Arch Tanner) knew about them.

“So, Jerry, Mr. Joyner fell apart on you.”

“Yes. He became completely useless. Though the extraordinary thing, Reuben, is that it did me absolutely no good to tell him so. I told him as directly as I knew how that he had no future here. He simply refused to take this in. Said he'd been through a bad patch and all would be well in the future. I told him point-blank that it was too late—too many marks against, but without mentioning specifically the hanky-panky stuff—and that he should be looking for ‘other opportunities elsewhere,' as the saying goes.”

“You really gave him an ultimatum?”

“Yes. Only about three weeks ago. I told him he had three months to find another job, then he was out.”

“How did he react?”

“With the greatest self-confidence, he said that he would prove himself in those three months. He knew he was partnership material, he insisted, adding that he was sorry about recent difficulties. He would not only be a partner but one who would make us all proud.”

“Whew! You sure you didn't kill him, Jerry?”

“No, Reuben. I had no interest in ending his life. I just didn't want this wildly self-assured son of a bitch around anymore, for the good of the firm. Can you blame me?”

“From all I've heard, I think not. You didn't exactly execute—I mean, fire—him without real cause.”

After carelessly using the word “execute,” Reuben made a quick exit as soon as decency allowed. Afterward, he thought that after his sessions with Townley, Lander, and Gilbert, they and Detective Muldoon could handle the Joyner case. He had a hunch he would be busy enough with the Courtland murder, which seemed more significant to the future well-being of the firm than the death of a horny, less-than-stellar associate with a giant ego and an unrealistic view of his own abilities.

Fourteen

Darcy Watson

When Reuben returned to his own office, there was a message from Bautista.

“I was calling to tell you that we've found a copy of the 1938
Collier's
story by Gere Dexter. It matches the underlined passage in those galley proofs we picked up at Marina's apartment pretty closely.”

“Great work, Luis,” Reuben said enthusiastically. “But where does that leave us?”

“I decided we'd better see Ms. Watson. See what she knows, if anything. I had to struggle like hell to get her address and phone number out of the Gramercy House people, but I finally did. She lives outside Philadelphia but comes to New York often. In fact, I got hold of her just before she left to get the train to the City. She's staying at something called the Cygnus Club. Do you know it?”

“Lord, yes. It's an old-line women's club. Cynthia's a member and I get dragged there every so often.”

“Good. Maybe you can protect me. I'm meeting Ms. Watson there at eight thirty tomorrow morning. You up for it?”

“As long as she doesn't want to read to us from one of her dreadful novels.”

Late that afternoon, Bautista called Reuben again.

“I'm afraid you've been disinvited to our party tomorrow morning.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ms. Watson just called to check to make sure she would be seeing me alone. She didn't mention you specifically, but said she didn't want to deal with any ‘outsiders.'”

“I suspect she had a little talk with my great friend John Sommers.”

“That's what I think, too,” Bautista said. “So I guess I'll be on my own. Is there anything you can tell me about her?”

“I've already passed on to you what Cynthia told me, that the Cygnus Club seems to be her home away from home. Nobody seems to know much about her personal life. Never married, Cynthia thinks. I've seen a couple of gossip-column references to her being with Sommers at some social event or another. But that's about all I can tell you.”

“Maybe I should try to read one of her books.”

“Spare yourself that, Luis. God knows I've never read one, but she's supposed to be ‘uplifting,' with novels upholding ‘family values.'”

“I guess I can skip them.”

“She also wears
salwar kameezes
,” Reuben said mischievously.

“What?”

Reuben took delight in explaining his recently acquired knowledge about Indian fashion and then wished Luis good luck. “Call me when you're finished with her. I'll be curious to hear what she has to say.”

Bautista was not put at ease by his fellow Latino doorman at the Cygnus Club. But having gained admission, he was directed to a large reception room that looked like the lobby of a Caribbean resort with its light pink walls, pastel-covered furniture, and tall rubber plants in each corner.

Alone in the room at the early hour, he heard the elevator out in the corridor open and heard Ms. Watson approach even before he saw her. When he did, he immediately understood what a
kameeze
—in this case a bright yellow
one—and a
salwar
—bright green—were. In fact, the tall woman, with her upswept black hair, looked like a giant sunflower.

“Mr. Bautista?” she inquired as she approached and shook hands. “Good morning. As I told you on the telephone, I suspect this little meeting is a waste of your time as well as mine, but of course I'll help you in any way I can.

“I should also warn you though that I must leave here not later than nine thirty. I have a class—my creative writing class—at Hunter College at ten.”

“I'm sure we can meet your schedule,” Luis said as the two sat down in chairs facing each other. Taking out his notebook, he asked her if she was familiar with the Marina Courtland case.

“Of course, but only indirectly through her father. You undoubtedly already know that I'm currently seeing him. Needless to say, the death of his daughter has preoccupied him of late. The poor man.

“To answer your question, I didn't happen to be present when the evil deed occurred,” she said sarcastically. She shifted her weight impatiently and stroked her upswept hair.

“Did you ever discuss her with Mr. Sommers?”

“Probably, but I don't recall a specific conversation. I was curious about her after she introduced me to her father. One day when we were both at Gramercy House.”

“Did you have any impression of her?”

“Yes, I did. She worked with me and John on my latest book, although only in a junior capacity. John's my real editor and always has been.”

“Did you talk to Mr. Sommers yesterday, after we first talked?”

“Yes. I was curious to know what was going on and why you wanted to see me.”

“What did he say?”

“That you were searching under every rock, and that I was probably one of them. One of the rocks.”

“Did Mr. Sommers ever mention an email that he had received from Miss Courtland? An email alleging that a passage from your recent novel was lifted from an old magazine story?”

“Oh, is she the one?! I didn't make the connection. John told me somebody in the office had made such a ridiculous charge but didn't mention any name. He said he would take care of the person, I assume by firing him or her. I took it for granted that he'd done so and didn't think any more about it. The whole thing was absurd.”

“So Miss Courtland's charge was baseless?”

“Absolutely.”

“If I told you we have a copy of the
Collier's
story she referred to, would that change your answer?”

“No, it wouldn't. If there's some sort of chance literary coincidence here, so be it. That happens all the time.”

“Even when there's a word-for-word similarity?”

“Mr. Bautista, I think we can end this rude interrogation right here. I'm not going to listen to you repeat libels by a young junior editor, especially one that, in my case, may have been jealous for entirely personal reasons.” She started to stand up.

“As you please, Ms. Watson. But one more question, if I may. Where were you the night of April twenty-seventh?”

“At my home in Ardmore, Pennsylvania. Except for my weekly trips to New York to teach, and occasionally to see John or Dan, I'm always in Ardmore. Unless I'm out on a book tour, which I haven't been since my previous novel came out.”

“Can anyone verify that you were in Ardmore that evening?”

“I doubt it very much. I'm a very private person and see almost no one when I'm at home. I
write
, not socialize. So I guess you'll just have to take my word for it.”

“As you say, Ms. Watson.”

Darcy Watson left the room and the Club without speaking any further.

Fifteen

Ben Gilbert

Against his own counsel of non-interference, Reuben did finally call Bautista on Monday of the next week.

“You fellows on vacation?” he asked.

“Negative. Just being methodical, thanks very much.”

“I'm sorry, Luis. I'm sure you are. It's just that curiosity got the better of me.”

“We've been working like hell. The commissioner's on our back and the halitosis I smell might even mean someone higher up is breathing down my neck. Unfortunately, the work we've been doing has led us to exclude some possibilities rather than to include any new ones.”

Bautista went on to explain that he and his colleagues had found the young fortune hunter that Marina Courtland had rejected a couple of years before. He was now attending the Harvard Business School and appeared to have an airtight alibi for the night of her murder: participating in a reading group of fellow students discussing a new book on the Boston Strangler.

“Slight irony there, I should say,” Reuben interrupted.

“Yeah. Can you believe it? But all eight guys participating swear he was there. The other thing we're doing, Reuben, we're going through her address book and her cell phone and calling every number. And we're examining every piece of paper we took away from her office and her apartment. So far we've come up dry, but we've got a long ways to go. But stand by, Reuben, we'll get there.”

“I hope so. I've got to get Dan Courtland off my back. He can't fire you but he can fire my law firm.”

“Keep it cool, Reuben, I'll write if I get work.”

“I've found work, I think,” Luis told Reuben in an early afternoon phone conversation less than forty-eight hours later. “I think we've solved at least one mystery.”

“What's that?” Reuben asked eagerly.

“Can I come over?”

“Since you're not going to tell me now, what choice do I have? Hurry up.”

Bautista related the new developments when he arrived. It seems that first thing that morning, a young man named Ben Gilbert had shown up at the Nineteenth Precinct on East Sixty-Seventh Street. When he told the desk officer in charge that he had been a friend of Marina Courtland, he was hustled off to the headquarters of Detective Borough Manhattan on Twenty-First Street. Luis summarized his story:

Gilbert was a medical resident in pediatrics at Cornell-New York Hospital. With his uncertain schedule and demanding hours at the hospital, he had found little time for dating, so a friend suggested he try an Internet service called Meet.com. The friend said he could warn potential dates about his haphazard schedule, and only those who were willing to put up with it would respond.

He had gone out with several girls contacted through Meet.com, with varying results. He had become especially attracted to a young woman named Hallie Miller, whom he described as being a junior editor in a publishing house, though he didn't know which one. She was terrific, and sympathetic to the professional demands on his time and uncomplaining about frequent changes in their dating schedule. This had often meant rendezvous at sometimes less than satisfactory late-night restaurants.

At some point, he decided that he was really interested in Miller and told her as much. Her response was to suggest that the two have dinner—during normal hours. They did, and it was over this meal that she confided that she was not Hallie Miller but Marina Courtland.

“And why did this fellow say she had done such a thing—using an assumed name?” Reuben interrupted.

“She explained to Gilbert that she'd had a bitter experience with a party who was after her money. You remember we were told about that. She thought she could find someone on Meet.com without money being a factor, and then come clean if the situation developed.”

“Extraordinary, but that fits with what we've been thinking.”

“I agree.”

“So what happened to this Gilbert fellow?”

“As he tells it, the money angle drove him away. He wasn't ready to take on a billionaire's daughter, at least not one whose father had views like those of old man Courtland. Gilbert's been a poor scholarship student all along and didn't think he'd fit in with the Courtlands.”

“He wasn't interested in being set up for life?”

“No. He didn't seem like that type of guy at all.”

“So there are young people who aren't totally greedy, out for the buck? Thank God, if that's true.”

“In his case, it seems to be.”

“Didn't he have any suspicion that she was using a different name?”

“No, apparently not. He found it odd that she never asked him to her apartment, but thought that she probably had a roommate she didn't want to tell him about. So their more intimate moments were in his tiny studio apartment on York Avenue, near the hospital. Only after the truth came out did he attach any significance to the fact that she never paid with a credit card when it was her turn to pay. She always had plenty of cash with her.”

“What persuaded this fellow to come to the police?” Reuben asked.

“He said he'd been reading about the murder in the papers and thought her murderer might be someone she'd met on the Internet.”

“A sort of virtual Mr. Goodbar.”

“Exactly.”

“Not Mr. Gilbert?” Reuben asked.

“Don't think so.”

“What do we know about him?”

“He gave me his personal ID and password for the Meet.com website.”

“Is that
M
-
E
-
E
-
T
or
M
-
E
-
A
-
T
?”

“Meet.com.
M
-
E
-
E
-
T
, Reuben, for heaven's sake. Anyway he gave me the info to get into his profile on the site.”

“So what did you learn?”

“He's twenty-seven. Red hair, one hundred eighty-five pounds, six feet even. Cornell College and Medical School. Likes intelligent, amusing girls, preferably pretty ones.”

“How original.”

“Wants to get married but not until he finishes his residency. Wants three children.”

“Anything else?” Reuben asked.

“Oh yes. Doesn't smoke, drinks moderately. Didn't answer the question about his income—probably because it's less than zero.”

“Luis, do you realize, assuming Mr. Gilbert is telling the truth, that with a few clicks on the Internet, you got more information than a squad of detectives could have discovered in a week, maybe a month, maybe never?”

“Yeah, I thought about that. There's more, too. Once Gilbert put his profile on the site, girls could respond. Hallie Miller did, so her profile is available, too. And there is a record of the emails between Gilbert and her.”

“Any surprises?”

“No, there are about half a dozen messages, but all about arranging to get together.”

“What about her profile?”

“I brought a copy with me. If HallieNYC, as she calls herself, is telling the truth, it's pretty revealing.” Bautista pulled several pages from a manila envelope he was carrying and handed them to Reuben. “Here, read it for yourself.”

Reuben did so.

HallieNYC

26-year-old woman [No picture]

New York, New York

seeking men 26–45

within New York City

About me and what I'm looking for:

I've been in New York City for two years, but I feel like a native. I'm more comfortable here than I ever was in the Midwest, where I grew up. I guess I'm a Blue-Stater at heart.

I work as a junior editor at a small publishing house and enjoy it very much. I love everything about the literary life, though my reading preferences are by no means confined to high-brow stuff; murder mysteries are definitely on my agenda. For example, I'm crazy for anything written by Julian Barnes, including the detective novels he wrote under the name Dan Kavanagh. My tastes are not exclusively literary, however. A good play, an exciting jazz concert, or a dance performance can get me out of my easy chair. And so will a good meal (and some good wine to go with it).

I'm looking for someone who is bright, down-to-earth, funny—even sarcastic—and honest, who can share the fun of the absurdities of Manhattan. He also should be kind and compassionate. Not a Wall Street or financial type interested only in money, conspicuous consumption, and getting ahead. I'm sorry to say he shouldn't be bald, either. He should be open-minded and good at communicating. With or without words.

I want someone to spend good times with and, if something more serious develops, well, great!

I consider myself above-average looking but I haven't included a picture here because I can't see basing a relationship on looks alone (particularly looks hyped-up in a doctored photograph).

More About Me:

Relationship: Never married

Have kids: None

Want kids: Someday

Ethnicity: White/Caucasian

Body type: Slender

Height: 5'6"

Hair: Black

Eyes: Hazel

Best Feature: Legs

Body art: Small figure, lower abdomen (college mistake)

Religion: [No answer]

Smoke: Occasionally

Drink: Social drinker

Sports: Tennis, swimming, walking, hiking

Exercise: 2 times a week

Education: BA

Income: [No answer]

Languages: English, French

Politics: Liberal to radical

Likes: Reading, discussing books, jazz (all kinds), travel (including weekends), wine tastings, dining

Dislikes: Crude pornography, flirting, money talk, words and phrases like “freebie,” “hang-ups,” “hooking up,” “issues,” “cyberspace,” and “pushing back”

About the date I want:

Hair: Any color (but not bald, as I said)

Eyes: Any color

Height: 5'7" on up

Body type: Doesn't matter; but good shape a must

Ethnicity: Prefer white/Caucasian, but will consider others

Religion: Any or none, as long as not rigid or fanatical

Education: At least a BA

Occupation: Anything not boring

Income: Irrelevant, but not a sponge

Smoke: OK

Drink: Moderate drinking OK

Have kids: No

Want kids: Wait and see

Luis waited while Reuben read the entire document.

“Interesting,” Reuben remarked when he'd finished, returning the printout to the detective. “Doesn't quite accord with Dan Courtland's view of his daughter—the little tattoo, wine tasting, drinking, smoking. Communicating ‘with and without words.' That's a good one. And ‘liberal to radical' politics. Dan would especially like that. I'm not terribly surprised, though.”

Reuben asked whether it was usual to have a picture with these “so-called profiles.”

“Yes, I'm told there's nearly always at least a selfie.”

“Hmm. I suspect she didn't submit hers because she was afraid someone might identify her as Marina Courtland.”

“That's my guess, too.”

“Now the sixty-four-dollar question, Luis—who else contacted HallieNYC besides Mr. Gilbert?”

“We don't have any idea. The only reason we know as much as we do, and have that profile you just read, is because we had access to Gilbert's account. She was just one of the people
he
contacted. But to know who else Hallie/Marina was in touch with, we'd have to know her password to get into her file.”

“It sure as hell isn't like mixer dances,” Reuben muttered. “Can't this Meet.com outfit give you the information?”

“Thought of that. Unfortunately, it's based in Bermuda.”

“Damn. Isn't there any other way?”

“Maybe. Let me explain. My IT guy can get to Meet.com on the computer and insert Marina Courtland's ID—HallieNYC. Then it asks for a password, which is what we don't have. But it also has a line to click ‘Forgot your password?' When you do that the program asks for your birth date—we have that—and another fail-safe question selected earlier by the user, in this case ‘What was the name of your first pet?' If we had that, we could get into Marina's data and find out who she was contacting—or was contacted by.”

“Name of her first pet? That's ridiculous.”

“Most of the test questions are ridiculous—name of your pet, name of your first boyfriend, mother's maiden name, et cetera. The idea is to pick some obscure fact that only the user, in this case Marina, would know. You pick the question and give the answer when you sign up. Then, if you forget your password, they ask you the question and if you give the right answer, they email you your password or instruct you how to get a new one.”

“Dan Courtland's the only one who's likely to know the answer to that silly question. And I have a hunch that's a long shot. Should I call him?”

“No harm done.”

“Come on, let's go upstairs.” They went to Reuben's study and he dialed Daniel's number. His secretary, Grace Wrightson, said that her boss was at the Indianapolis Speedway, but could be reached on his cell. This worked, though the background noise at the Speedway garage was very loud. Reuben put him on speakerphone so that Luis could hear. He also quickly told Daniel that the detective was in on the conversation before he could make a slighting remark about the police.

“I assume, Officer Bautista, the news is still the same—that is, that there's no news,” Courtland said. “Almost three weeks—
three weeks!—
after my daughter's murder.”

“We may have a break, sir,” Luis said.

“What is it?” Daniel shouted into the phone.

“It depends on a small bit of information that I hope you can provide us with. What was the name of Marina's first pet?”

“What? Are you out of your mind? Reuben, what's going on there?”