Face Value (14 page)

“I watched his interview. That question Stanley included about Warner running into Sari after hours. He seemed more confused than rattled by the question. Maybe he has a secret boyfriend. Maybe she came across the two of them somewhere else.”

“And what? Tried to blackmail him?”

I shrugged. “Something's off.” I put the car into gear. “We're missing something here.”

“What?”

I sighed. “I don't know.”

Chapter Thirty-two

They were my version of Tinker to Evers to Chance. Tony Manghini made a copy of the Hudson estate plan and gave it to Jerry who gave it to Stanley, who took it home to his mother, who gave it to my mother, who gave it to me.

One of the estate documents—Appendix B to both living trusts—was a list of marital assets. In addition to jewelry, furniture, and the two valuable paintings Sari had mentioned to Rebecca (one by Mark Rothko, the other by Francis Bacon, each valued in the high-six figures), the list included a spreadsheet of investments. There were recognizable individual stocks—Apple, General Electric, Google—and a trio of mutual funds from Vanguard. But there was also an 8.76 million-dollar entry for an investment in Structured Resolutions—the same company that had appeared on the financial statement of Dr. Jeffrey Mason, the defendant in my sexual harassment lawsuit, the same one that Pinky Zuckerman had tried without success to evaluate.

Thus my next issue: who to confront? David Hudson, CEO of Laclede BioChem? Claire Hudson, wife of David Hudson and lover of Brian Teever? Or Brian Teever?

I settled on Claire, which then posed the issue of where and how to approach her. One option was the lobby of the Marriott Hotel after one of her assignations with Teever, but that seemed a strategy better suited for a private eye in a detective novel. Sam Spade I'm not.

And even if she were still doing nooners with Brian Teever and even if I could figure out from Teever's expense reports when such future nooners would likely occur, I had no idea whether she exited the hotel in the company of Teever (which would make an approach too risky) or whether she even passed through the lobby on her way out of the hotel or simply rode the elevator down to the garage level.

A Google search supplied a possible solution. It revealed that Claire Hudson served on the board of the Woman's Exchange. Headquartered in the posh suburb of Ladue, the Woman's Exchange is a charitable enterprise dating back more than a century and devoted to the sale of handmade goods created by impoverished women and men. Even so, the wealthy female patrons of the Woman's Exchange know it less for its good deeds than for its Tearoom. On any given weekday at noon, the Tearoom is filled with that special breed of women known as the Ladies Who Lunch, many of whom order the Tearoom's Famous Salad Bowl, a concoction about as Old School as the patrons: chopped iceberg lettuce, chicken, ham, bacon, hardboiled eggs and Swiss cheese tossed in a thick Mayfair dressing.

That Claire was on the board significantly increased the odds that I could find her at the Tearoom on one of her non-nooner lunch hours. The next morning I called the Tearoom at ten-thirty, told the hostess that I was supposed to meet Claire Hudson for lunch but confessed that I couldn't remember whether our date was for today or tomorrow. She checked her reservation book and told me that Mrs. Hudson had reservations for four that day at 12:30. I thanked her and hung up without telling her my name.

I arrived at 1:15. Having studied the photograph of the board of directors on the organization's website, I was able to spot Claire Hudson at a table along the far wall with three other women I didn't recognize. I told the Tearoom hostess that I was there to see Mrs. Hudson but would wait for her in the Children's Boutique.

“And your name?”

“I'm Rachel.”

“Okay, Miss…”

“Just tell her Rachel.”

Although I'd dined in the Tearoom only once, I'd been a patron of the organization's Children's Boutique for years. I've purchased several adorable handmade outfits for my young cousins and the children of friends.

Twenty minutes later, as I was looking through the handmade children's toys, I heard someone clear her throat. I turned. Claire Hudson stood in the doorway, giving me a puzzled look. She was in her forties. Average height, fifteen pounds overweight, red hair cut in a bob and parted on the right, blue eyes, round face. Her appearance was more pleasant than beautiful, her aura more high school Home Ec teacher than sultry adulterer.

“Are you Rachel?”

“I am.” I put down the toy and walked toward her. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

She frowned. “Do I know you?”

“No.”

“What do you want?”

“Let's step outside. I'll explain.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “First tell me what you want.”

“Just to ask you a few questions. This won't take long.”

“How did you know I was here?”

Time to ramp it up a bit.

“I had two choices for the lunch hour,” I said. “This one seemed the better option for both of us.”

“What was the other option?”

“The Marriott Hotel downtown.”

She took a step back, her eyes widening. “What?”

“I'm not here to talk about that part of your life, Claire. It's none of my business. But another part is. That is why I am here. What I need to ask you won't take more than a few minutes. We can get it done quietly and privately in my car in the parking lot or we can do it publicly with a subpoena. I assume you'd prefer the quiet option.”

“What is it you want?”

“I'll explain. But not here in the hallway.” I gestured toward the front door. “We can sit in my car. It's right out there.”

I walked over to the door and turned back to her. “Let's go, Claire.”

It was at least half bluff—if she refused, what could I do?—but it worked. She followed me to my car. I opened the passenger side and she got in. I came around to the driver's side and joined her on the front seat.

“Thank you, Claire.”

She stared out the windshield in silence.

“You remember Sari Bashir?” I said. “The associate who helped Brian Teever with the estate plan for you and your husband? The one who committed suicide?”

“Yes.”

“You knew her.”

She nodded. “A sweet girl.”

“And apparently concerned about one of your investments.”

Claire turned to me with a frown. “How did you know that?”

I offered a friendly smile. “It's my job.”

“What exactly is your job?”

“That's not important now. Let's get back to Sari. She was worried about one of your investments.”

Claire nodded, staring out the windshield.

“Specifically,” I said, “she was worried about all the money you had tied up in an outfit called Structured Resolutions.”

She turned back to me, squinting slightly. “She was.”

“Back when she raised the issue, did you know anything about Structured Resolutions?”

She thought it over. “Not really.”

“Did you know it was in your investment portfolio?”

“Maybe. Probably not.”

“You told Brian Teever about her concerns?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“He told me not to worry.”

“Anything else?”

“Just that a young associate had no business prying into the financial affairs of a client, that he would take her off the matter, that I wouldn't have to deal with her anymore.”

“But did he tell you anything else about the investment?”

“No.”

“What about your husband?”

“What about him?”

“Did you ask your husband about that investment?”

She stared at me. After a moment, she said, “Yes.”

“When?”

“After my conversation with Brian.”

“And?”

She smiled. “He told me it was pure gold. The best thing in our portfolio. He told me not to worry. He said we'd been getting great returns five years in a row, that it beat the market every year.”

“Did he tell what it was?”

“What do you mean?”

“What kind of company it was?”

She frowned. “Something about buying settlements from personal injury lawyers. I didn't fully understand the details. Annuities, I think. Anyway, he told me there was nothing to worry about.”

“Did he tell you how he found out about the company?”

“At the club.”

“Which one?”

“St. Louis Country Club.”

St. Louis Country Club is the oldest and most exclusive of the St. Louis country clubs.

“Who told him about it?” I asked.

“He'd heard stories about it.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Just what a good investment it was. And how difficult it was get your money in.”

“Who told him?”

“Probably one of his golf buddies. Or someone else out there. We're not the only St. Louis Country Club members with money in that outfit.”

“You say it's hard to invest in Structured Resolutions?”

“According to David, you need someone with the right connections.”

“Did your husband have someone?”

“Brian.”

“Brian Teever?”

She nodded.

I thought that over.

“Is he a member of St. Louis Country Club?”

“Oh, definitely. His family has been in that club going back at least to his grandfather.”

“So he sold your husband the investment?”

“No, but he told David he thought he could get him a chance to invest. That was a big deal.”

“Why?”

Claire shrugged. “Apparently, you can't just put your money into Structured Resolutions. It's like a closed fund or something. You have to have a contact, some insider who can get you access. Brian had that contact.”

“Do you know who the contact was?”

She shook her head.

“Could it have been Brian himself?”

“I don't know. I really don't.”

I paused, going back over her answers, trying to see if there were any gaps. “After you had that conversation with Brian Teever, the one about him taking Sari off your matter, did you ever hear from her after that?”

Claire paused, her lips pursed, and then she nodded. “I did. She called me.”

“When?”

“A couple days later.”

“What did she say?”

“She said she was sorry, that she didn't mean to overstep her bounds, but that she'd been concerned about that one investment in our portfolio. I told she didn't need to apologize, that I appreciated her concern for us. I told her that Brian—that Mr. Teever had assured me everything was okay, that I had nothing to worry about.”

“And?”

Claire shrugged. “And that was pretty much it, I think. She said that was good to hear—about what Mr. Teever said and all. She said she still had one or two more issues to run down but that she wouldn't bother me about them unless there was a reason. I said it wouldn't bother me, that I really appreciated her concerns for us, even if those issues turned out to be no big deal.”

“Did you ever hear from her after that?”

“No.” She sighed. “The next thing I heard was about her death. So sad.”

Chapter Thirty-three

“Barry.” I sighed and leaned back in my chair.

I was on the phone with Barry Kudar, aka the Barracuda. I'd called him after returning to the office from my meeting at the Woman's Exchange with Claire Hudson.

“What?” he demanded.

I said, “We can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way.”

“I don't see why we have to do it either way.”

“Barry, I couldn't care less how you see it.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Do you really want to get hauled back before Judge Winfield one more time in this case? Does your client want to pay more sanctions? Do you?”

No response.

“Well?” I said.

“I don't understand, Rachel. You have all of my client's financial documents, and you took his deposition on those documents. What more do you want?”

“To fill the gap.”

“What gap?”

“In his financial records. We have a mediation coming up. We're not participating in that mediation until your client fills in the gap.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Structured Resolutions.”

“Huh?”

“Look at your client's financial statements, Barry. He has six-and-a-half million dollars in Structured Resolutions. It's his biggest investment. By far.”

“So?”

“I have a question for him about that investment. Just one question. We can haul him in here for another deposition or you can ask him yourself and call me with the answer.”

No response.

“Your choice, Barry. As I said, we can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way.”

“What's the question?”

“Structured Resolutions is a private fund. You can't just call your broker and invest in it. Apparently, you need a connection to get access to the fund.”

“How do you know that?”

“That doesn't concern you, Barry.”

“Maybe it does.”

“It doesn't. Back to my question. Because Structured Resolutions is a private fund, Dr. Mason needed a connection to get access to it. That's my question. Who was his connection?”

“That's it?”

“At least for now. But I need the answer. It's almost three o'clock. Get back to me today.”

I hung up without waiting for a response.

I had a stack of phone calls to return, an inbox filled with unanswered emails, and a demand letter to write—and I needed to get all of that done so that I could get home in time to prepare dinner for Sam and me. Tonight was my mother's bridge club meeting.

I'd forgotten about the Barracuda until my cell phone rang on the drive home. The caller ID showed it was Kudar's law firm.

“Yes?” I said.

“Brian Teever.”

“Okay.”

“Is that it?”

“For now.”

This time he hung up first.