Rough Trade (10 page)

I hesitated for a moment, turning the key over and over in my hand, tom between the desire to protect Chrissy and fear of taking part in deceiving her.

“In that case I’ll hang on to it for you,” I said, finally. “But you have to understand that if the police ask me directly if I have it, I won’t lie.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.”

“Good. So tell me, how did you leave things with your father?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said that you had an argument and that you told him you were quitting the team. Then what?”

“Then I stormed out, went into my office, and started throwing stuff into boxes.”

“And how did your father seem when you left him?”

“He seemed fine.”

“He didn’t seem ill or anything?”

“I really didn’t notice,” answered Jeff unhappily. “I was so upset, I didn’t pay much attention. I just wanted to get the hell out of there. I was so angry.”

“As angry as you were when they told you that he was dead?”

“What do you mean?”

“Coach Bennato said that you kind of freaked out when you saw your father’s body.”

“What do you mean?” he inquired, sounding genuinely bewildered.

“He said you pushed the paramedics out of the way so that you could get to your father....”

“What paramedics?” he echoed.

“You don’t remember pushing the paramedics out of the way and kneeling over your father’s body?” I demanded.

“No,” replied Jeff blankly.

He really didn’t remember—either that or he was a terrific actor. I knew that trauma often caused memory loss. Accident victims often have no recollection of the events that caused their injuries. Even though I understood that it was a natural mechanism of self-protection, it was still creepy to see. It also wasn’t going to do Jeff very much good. By tomorrow there were going to be people falling all over themselves to tell him exactly what he’d done. “So what happens now?” he continued.

“Well, for one thing we have to decide what, if anything, to tell the police about the team’s financial situation.”

“Why do we have to tell them anything? What business is any of this to the police?”

“The police investigate every unattended death. As far as they’re concerned, your father wasn’t just well known, he was also very wealthy. They’re going to want to make sure that they do a thorough investigation.”

“Of course, but I don’t see what the team’s finances have to do with how my Dad died.”

“You have to realize that there were lots of people at the stadium this morning who must have heard you fighting with your father. The cops are going to want to know what it was all about.” .

“How much do I have to tell them?” he asked, miserably. “The last thing I want anyone to find out is that we argued about moving the team. Do you have any idea what would happen if word got out that we were discussing an offer from L.A.? It would be all over the papers in a minute.”

“I understand all the reasons you don’t want that to happen,” I explained, “but I also want you to realize that you’re playing a dangerous game the minute you start withholding information from the police—no matter how good the reason.”

“So what do you think I should tell them?”

“It’s up to you. But if you’re serious about keeping the L. A. offer under wraps I suggest you tell the cops that you and your father were discussing confidential team business. Period. Then be prepared to have them push you a little.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s their job,” I replied. “Don’t worry too much about it. You have other things to deal with.”

“Like the bank.”

“Exactly. I talked to Chrissy this afternoon while you were sleeping. If it’s all right with you I made an appointment to go to the bank and sit down with Gus Wallenberg tomorrow. I’m hoping that in light of what’s happened he’ll give us a little more time.”

“Chrissy always tells me I’m not really good at saying thank you,” said Jeff, sheepishly, “but I want you to know how much I appreciate your help.”

“You know I would do anything for you guys,” I said, meaning it.

“I know it’s an awful lot to ask,” he began, slowly, “but I was wondering if you’d consider representing the team.”

“You mean replace Harald Feiss as attorney for the Monarchs?”

Jeff nodded.

“What about Feiss?”

“What about him?”

“He’s not going to be happy about being replaced. Not only that, but he’s also in a position to make things difficult....”

“Feiss has
already
made things difficult,” was Jeff’s reply. “He’s half the reason we’re in the mess we’re in. Not only is he a bad lawyer, but all he ever did was tell my father exactly what he wanted to hear. You know what I always ask Coach Bennato whenever we start talking about a particular player? Can he get the job done? If he can’t, then I don’t want him. That’s how I feel about Feiss. A lawyer who won’t tell you the truth can’t get the job done.”

“Well then, I’m not going to lie to you. I’d be thrilled to represent the Monarchs, but you have to understand that with your father’s death, you’re in worse shape today than you were yesterday,” I said, watching his face carefully to see how he was handling it.

“Worse in what way?”

“The way I understand it, your father bought the team thirty years ago for the then-unheard-of price of $48 million. Since then he’s borrowed against absolutely every penny of that. In addition he’s mortgaged this house, and from what Chrissy tells me, you’ve borrowed against your personal property, as well. Not only that, but as a condition of the latest First Milwaukee loan, the
in vivo
trust that would have protected his assets from estate taxes was dissolved.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that while you don’t have a pot to piss in right now, as far as Uncle Sam is concerned, you’re sitting on an asset that’s worth $300 million. That means that even after you deduct your liabilities and stretch the payments out for as long as the law allows, you’re still looking at something like a $100 million tax bill.”

CHAPTER 8

Chrissy and Jeff’s house was just inside the city limits, a historic landmark mansion erected at the turn of the century by one of Milwaukee’s early brewery barons. It was also one of the prettiest houses I’d ever seen. Perched on a high bluff overlooking Lake Michigan, it was set back from the street and flanked on either side by elaborate formal gardens. I parked my car in the circular drive and followed Jeff down the drive that led beneath the porte cochere to the side door that the family used.

Inside, the kitchen was half-timbered and had been decorated by Chrissy in the country French style with hand-painted tile from Provence, glass-fronted cabinets, and an enormous fireplace where tonight logs blazed and crackled. Chrissy, dressed in a quilted velvet bathrobe, sat in an oversize rocker in front of the fire feeding baby Katharine her bottle. There was a glass of wine at her elbow, and another stood empty beside it, no doubt waiting for Jeff.

I knew that there would be very few moments of privacy for the two of them in the days ahead so I did not linger. Pleading exhaustion and promising to talk in the morning, I kissed the top of my namesake’s head and made my way up the familiar broad staircase and down the hall to the suite of guest rooms where I always stayed. Chrissy had laid a heavy terry cloth robe across the foot of the bed and a neatly folded Monarchs T-shirt, size XXL, that I could sleep in. True to her word, there was even a mint on the pillow.

Given the amount of sleep I’d gotten over the past few days, I should have been ready to crawl between the sheets, but I was strangely keyed up. In part it was the prospect of having the Monarchs as a new client, but it was also a peculiar brand of jealousy that seemed to strike whenever I found myself under Chrissy’s roof. I know it seems unfair. We have always been so different, I tell myself that it’s foolish to compare. And yet I see her in the soft light of the fire with her baby in her arms and I can’t help but hold my life up against hers and measure.

I kicked off my shoes, stripped down to my underwear, and washed my face. Then I quickly pulled the pins from my hair and took down my French twist, not wanting to linger at the mirror. The office-induced pallor of my skin stood out in stark relief against the mass of my dark hair, giving my face a haggard look I found depressing. I sighed and slipped gratefully into the bathrobe, telling myself that it was going to get worse before it got better. I picked up the telephone from the bedside table and dragged the cord across the room to the overstuffed chaise and dialed my office to pick up my voice mail. There were calls from all of the usual suspects, including a half a dozen messages from one or the other of the Brandts. I was also half expecting a message from Stephen Azorini saying that he was bailing out of our meeting with the decorator that was set for tomorrow, but I was disappointed. Although I’d made enough of an issue out of it for him to be there, this time I actually found myself wishing for one of his hurried excuses on the tape. With everything else that was going on, wallpaper was the absolute farthest thing from my mind.

I hung up the receiver and hugged the telephone to my chest for a minute before punching in the other number. No matter how many times I told myself that I wasn’t doing anything wrong, I still always felt guilty for calling Elliott. I couldn’t help it. I’d spent the last three years trying to deny that there was anything more than a professional relationship between us. Of course, now that I had no cases he was working on and we were still on the phone a couple of nights a week, the fiction was getting harder to maintain.

Elliott is the other man in my life, the one that I am not moving in with. He’s a former prosecutor and an exmarine who struck out on his own as a private investigator and has built a thriving business specializing in the investigation of white-collar and financial crimes. In Chicago, a city filled with experts, he is simply the best there is. He has also never made any secret of how he feels about me. I am the one who is confused, who alternately rushes toward him and then pulls away.

“Are you okay?” he asked at the sound of my voice. It was his standard greeting.

“Why do you always assume I’m in some sort of trouble?” I demanded.

“Because you usually are. Where are you? I just called your apartment a couple of minutes ago and got the machine.”

“I’m in Milwaukee. Beau Rendell died this afternoon.

He was—”

“He was the owner of the Milwaukee Monarchs,” cut in Elliott. “I know that because I have a Y chromosome. Is there anybody that you
don’t
know?”

“Are we talking domestic or foreign?”

“I’m serious. How do you know the Rendells?”

“My friend Chrissy is married to his son.”

“Who is now the new owner of the Monarchs. They’re saying on the news that he died of a heart attack. They just did a piece on him on
SportsCenter.
When’s the funeral?”

“I don’t know yet. It’ll probably be in a couple of days. In the meantime you’ll be thrilled to know that you are now speaking to the new attorney for the Milwaukee Monarchs football team.”

“Wow. I’m impressed. Can I ask you something?”

“Ask away.”

“What the hell do you know about football?”

“What the hell do I know about doing a striptease?” I countered. “That hasn’t stopped me from representing Tit-Elations. Business is business.”

“Have you had a lot of reporters?” he asked, as if he were inquiring about an infestation of roaches or any other kind of pest.

“Not too bad. Of course, we’ve gotten a million calls, but we haven’t found anybody going through the trash yet.”

“You will.”

“Why? What have you heard?”

“Nothing. But that’s not going to make any difference.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s human nature. For some reason people don’t seem to be able to accept that famous people die just like everybody else. We expected extraordinary things from them in life, and that’s what we want from them in death. Dropping dead from a heart attack is just too ordinary. Americans think that an oversize life calls for an oversize death. Look at Marilyn Monroe. Look at JFK. In this country, when you’re famous, you don’t just die, you get a conspiracy theory, too.”

“Wonderful. And to think that I called you expecting to be cheered up.”

“Just be careful, Kate,” said Elliott, suddenly turning serious. “The last thing you want is for this to turn into something it isn’t.”

* * *

I had made arrangements to see Gus Wallenberg at his office at the bank the next morning. When I came downstairs, I found the baby-sitter in the kitchen, bundling up the baby for an outing in her stroller. Jeff and Chrissy, she reported, had both slept badly and had gone back upstairs to rest. I left them a note on the kitchen table and made my way through Milwaukee’s sedate rush hour to the First Milwaukee Building on Wisconsin across from the stately old Pfister Hotel.

Wallenberg’s office was a cathedral-like space on the top floor of the building and, as such, far removed from the actual commerce of banking that still took place from behind the gilded teller cages on the first floor. Wallenberg came out and ushered me back to his wood-paneled office himself, his wing tips gleaming. He was a tall man with a rigid, parade-ground carriage and an aura of brusque authority. His hair was gray and thinning, dragged tight across his scalp and slicked down with some kind of pomade that smelled vaguely of lavender and reminded me of my grandfather. He was, I guessed, the kind of man who couldn’t go ten minutes in conversation without finding some way of telling you just how tough he was.

He waved me into a clubby leather chair with one hand and settled himself behind his massive desk, the kind that seems at the same time imposing and impenetrable, like a Mahogany bunker.

“I must confess that I was a little surprised by your call,” he announced, getting right to the point. “Up until now I’ve always dealt with Harald Feiss.”

“No doubt that was the case while Beau Rendell was alive.”