Fresh Disasters (9 page)

S
tone sat on the arm of a formerly overstuffed chair in Herbie Fisher’s apartment and watched the two detectives pick their way around the apartment.

“Well, so far,” Detective One said, “this is vandalism, as I see it.”

Detective Two nodded in agreement.

“It’s kidnapping, possibly a homicide, with burglary,” Stone said.

Detective Two shook his head. “I don’t see anything missing.”

Stone sighed. “If you could see it, it wouldn’t be missing.”

“Huh?”

“Herbie had money here; you see any money?”

“Well, no, but how do we know there ever was any money here?”

“We have only the kidnap victim’s word for that, but it’s a start, don’t you agree?”

Cantor broke in. “Look, guys, my nephew has been missing for three days, and when we enter the apartment, we find this.” He waved an arm around.

“What can I tell you?” Detective One said.

“I’ll bet you could tell me a lot if the kidnapped person was a beautiful twenty-one-year-old model. I’ll bet your crime scene people would be all over this.”

“Here’s another thing,” Detective Two said. “You’ve disturbed this crime scene; it’s no longer any good.”

Stone and Cantor both held up both hands to show their latex gloves.

“We’re both retired from the job,” Cantor said. “You think we don’t know at least as much as you two assholes about crime scenes?”

“Now, speaking to us disrespectfully is not going to get you extra service,” Detective One said, sounding hurt.

“When I speak of you disrespectfully, it will be in the newspapers,” Stone said, “which is my next stop if you don’t get your ass in gear and put out a bulletin on Herbie. As we explained to you, he owes one of Carmine Dattila’s bookies a lot of money, so you already have a suspect.”

“Yeah, but that Dattila guy works out of Manhattan,” Detective Two said.

“He works wherever the fuck he wants to work,” Cantor pointed out, “and the kidnapping and burglary happened in Brooklyn, in, of all places,
your
precinct. And in just a minute, I’m going to be speaking to
your
captain.”

“While I’m speaking to the
New York Post
,” Stone added.

“Awright, awright,” Detective One said. “I’ll make out a report and get Mr. Fisher’s description circulated.”

Stone’s cell phone rang, and he flipped it open. “Yes?”

“It’s Joan. You have a new client waiting, so you should get your ass back here in a hurry. This one smells of money.”

“What new client? Eggers hasn’t said anything about sending anybody over.”

“Mrs. Bernard Finger.”

“I’ll be right there,” Stone said. He closed the phone. “Bob, you’ll have to take it from here; I’ve got a fire to build.”

Cantor nodded.

Stone ran out of the building, searching for a cab.

J
oan met him at the outer door to his office. “She’s
very
upset; I did the best I could to calm her.”

“Good girl,” Stone said, kissing her on the top of her head. He strode into his office and found Mrs. Bernard Finger sitting on his sofa, sipping a cup of tea and munching on a cookie, looking not at all upset. She appeared to be in her early forties, very well maintained and pretty much a knockout in her age group and maybe a couple of younger ones, Stone thought.

“Mrs. Finger,” he said, extending a hand, “I’m Stone Barrington. I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“Call me Bernice,” she said, shaking his hand. “I expect you know why I’m here.”

“Why don’t you tell me,” Stone said. “Tell me everything.” He sat down on the sofa and listened intently to every word she said, nodding sympathetically. He knew most of it, but when she patted a briefcase on the sofa beside her, he
really
began to listen.

“It’s all in here,” she said. “Everything.”

“May I have a look?” Stone asked.

She unsnapped the briefcase and spun it around. Inside were a number of file folders. “I think you will find this helpful.”

Stone picked up the folders. There were four, and they were a collective two inches thick. “May I take a moment to familiarize myself?” he asked.

“Take your time,” Bernice said. “I’ve got the rest of the day.”

Stone opened the first file and found himself staring at a series of financial statements going back over ten years. The most recent was dated a month before, and in toto the statements gave a very good picture of Bernie Finger’s climb from a net worth of four million dollars ten years before to a current net worth of thirty-eight million dollars. The beauty part, Stone thought, was that Bernie was at least fifty percent liquid. He went through the other folders, which contained brokerage account statements; bank statements; and copies of deeds for his Fifth Avenue co-op, the house in the Hamptons, a ski lodge in Telluride and, wonder of wonders, the new penthouse on Park Avenue where he had stashed Marilyn the Masseuse. Stone cleared his throat. “And Bernice, may I ask how you came by these documents?”

“Of course,” she said. “They were in the safe.”

“In the safe, where?”

“In our study—we share it—in our apartment.”

“And you had the combination to the safe?”

“We each have a safe. He didn’t know that I knew he kept the combination taped to the side of a desk drawer.”

“How long have you been married to Bernie, Bernice?”

“Seven years.”

“And were you married before that?”

“No, I was a businesswoman. I founded a cosmetics company, small but growing fast. Bernie made me sell it when we got married. He did the deal for me, and I never thought I got enough for it.”

“Bernice, I’m going to need a copy of your financial statement as well.”

“I don’t own anything separate from Bernie,” she said. “I put all my money into our joint accounts when we got married.”

“And how much did you get for your cosmetics company?”

“Six and a half million dollars.”

“And did you have any other assets in your own name at the time of the marriage?”

“I had a co-op on Park, paid for. Bernie sold both our apartments, and we bought the co-op on Fifth.”

“And how much of the money used for that purchase was yours?”

“Half: two million dollars.”

“And that was seven years ago?”

“Yes.”

Stone referred to the most recent financial statement in the folder. Bernie had valued the apartment at a little over six million dollars. “How big an apartment is it?”

“Six bedrooms, living, dining, library, study, kitchen, butler’s pantry, two maids’ rooms.”

Bernie had seriously undervalued his real estate for some reason, and lying on a financial statement was a felony. “Bernice,” he said, “who recommended me to you as an attorney?”

“Bernie did,” she said.

“What?”

“He talks in his sleep. He was bitching about you, calling you all sorts of names.”

“In his sleep?”

“Yes, that’s what he does when he’s nervous about the opposition. So, I figured, if Bernie is nervous about you, you’re my man.”

“Bernice,” Stone said, “I would be very pleased to represent you in this action.” He explained his fees.

“Can you take a percentage, instead of a fee?”

“Of course. If you’d prefer it I can do it on a contingency basis.” He certainly could! “I’d need a retainer, to apply against the contingency on the final settlement.”

“How do you think we’ll do in court?”

“Bernice, with a little luck, I don’t think we’ll ever see the inside of a courtroom. I would expect this to settle, and fairly quickly.”

“Stone,” she said, “are you telling me I’ve got Bernie by the balls?”

“Bernice,” he replied, “that’s a very good assessment of your position. And his.”

“Then let’s do it.”

Stone pressed a button on the phone. “Joan, will you please print out a copy of our standard contingency agreement and bring it in, please?”

“Yes, Mr. Barrington,” she replied meekly.

Bernice reached into her handbag, brought out a check and handed it over. “Will this do for a retainer?” she asked.

It was written on her and her husband’s joint checking account and was made out for a hundred thousand dollars. “That’s very generous, Bernice,” he replied, handing it to Joan as she walked in with the agreement. He explained the terms of the contingency agreement, while she nodded along, then she signed the document and Joan took it away to notarize.

Stone turned back to Bernice. “Have you thought about what you want in the way of a settlement?”

“I want the money I got in the sale of my business, the Fifth Avenue apartment, and the house in the Hamptons. He can have Telluride and the love nest on Park Avenue. And I want half of everything else.”

“I don’t think that’s unreasonable,” Stone said.

“And the everything else includes the bank account in the Cayman Islands.”

Stone’s eyebrows went up. “Do you have copies of the statements?”

“They’re in the bank file,” she said. “Oh, and you should know that Bernie didn’t pay taxes on what’s in that account.”

Stone’s heart leapt. “That’s good to know,” he said.

She rose to go, and he walked her to the front door. “I’ll call Bernie and arrange a settlement conference,” he said, shaking her hand and closing the door behind her. He walked back to Joan’s office. “You hotfoot it to the bank and get that check cleared before Bernie finds out she wrote it, and I’ll dictate a complaint as soon as you get back. I want him served first thing tomorrow morning.”

S
tone walked into Elaine’s and sat down. Dino was already there with his usual Scotch, and Stone’s Knob Creek arrived immediately.

“You look like you had a good day,” Dino said.

“Why do you say that?” Stone asked, sipping the bourbon.

“Well, you have a smile plastered on your face, and you don’t seem to be able to make it go away.”

“Dino,
nothing
could make it go away.”

“All right, tell me.”

“Well, first of all, the lovely Celia and I had a very good evening together, which lasted until after breakfast.”

Dino sighed. “I don’t suppose you’ll give me details.”

“A gentleman doesn’t tell.”

“What else?”

“Second, Herbie Fisher has disappeared.”

“That
is
good news.”

“It gets better: He may be dead.”

“Carmine Dattila?”

“The primary suspect. Herbie hasn’t shown or called Bob Cantor for three days, and his apartment has been ransacked.”

“Didn’t you say that Herbie owes Carmine’s bookie twenty-four grand?”

“And counting.”

“Well, it doesn’t make sense that Carmine would off him; he’ll never get his money that way.”

“Maybe he’s mad enough, what with the lawsuit, that he just wants Herbie to go away. God knows, I can sympathize.”

Dino shook his head. “Guys like Carmine don’t kill money. He would be more likely to get the money, then kill Herbie. Maybe that’s what he’s doing right now, torturing Herbie in a cellar somewhere, trying to get the money out of him.”

“Well, I would certainly not want Herbie or anybody else to be tortured, even if he did bring it on himself by betting with bookies, failing to pay, then suing Carmine.”

“But you don’t mind if Carmine offs him?”

“I’d off him myself, if I thought I could get away with it.”

“Well, the thought of Herbie dead isn’t enough to make you this happy. What else?”

Stone fished an envelope out of his pocket. “Read this,” he said. “Bernie Finger is going to be served with it tomorrow morning, but I thought you’d enjoy seeing it first.”

Dino opened the envelope and read the complaint. “Holy shit!” he said. “Bernie Finger’s wife has hired
you
?”

“Can you believe the luck?”

“I saw the pictures in the
Post
today,” Dino said. “I thought Bob Cantor’s fingerprints were all over them.”

“You think so?”

“I think more than that. I think you put Bob up to it.”

“I would never cop to that,” Stone said.

“Well, it is a little extreme for you, but there was that thing that Bernie said on Page Six about your lunch at the Four Seasons.”

“The guy offers me what amounts to a bribe to settle Herbie’s case, leaves in a huff when I call him on it, then lies about it to the
Post.
That kind of thing could hurt a lawyer’s reputation. In fact, that was his intention. Apiece like that in the papers could cost me a lot of business.”

“I guess he was trying to tell you not to fuck with him and his client.”

“Exactly. You know how reluctant I was to get involved in this suit, but now I’m going to nail Dattila to the wall.”

“And screw Bernie Finger at the same time?”

“Well, a little.”

“Handling his wife’s divorce isn’t going to make him happy.”

“Listen, God sent me that case. You know how Bernice Finger chose me? She heard Bernie cursing me in his sleep. How about that for a recommendation!”

Dino laughed. “That’s good; that’s really good.”

Stone looked at the front door. “No,” he said, nodding toward the door, “
that
’s good.”

Dino swiveled his head in time to see Bernard Finger and Marilyn the Masseuse being led to a table up front.

Stone grabbed the complaint from Dino’s fingers and stuffed it back into the envelope. “I’ll be right back,” he said, rising.

He walked toward the front of the restaurant. Finger didn’t see him coming, but Marilyn did, and her face fell. Finger turned around to look for the problem and found it immediately.

“Oh, hi, Stone,” he said. “I was going to call you in the morning to set up depositions in your case against Carmine Dattila. Why don’t we do Mr. Dattila and Mr. Fisher back to back in my office, day after tomorrow at two?”

“I’d be very happy to depose Mr. Dattila, Bernie,” Stone said, “but as you probably know, my client is momentarily indisposed.”

“Well, in that case, I guess we’ll just have to postpone depositions until Mr. Fisher is feeling more disposed,” Finger said, smirking.

“I hope, for your sake, that Mr. Fisher is found alive and well,” Stone said, “because if he isn’t, you’re going to be reading a lot about him and his lawsuit in the papers, and Dattila doesn’t like seeing his name in the papers, does he?”

“You’ve got no case, Stone,” Finger said. “Learn to live with it. It’s sad, I know, since that’s probably the only work you’ve got at the moment.”

“No, Bernie, it isn’t my only case,” Stone said, taking the envelope from his pocket. “I have a brand-new one.” He laid the document on the table.

Finger removed the document from the envelope, and as soon as he read the first sentence his face fell.

“You’ve been served, Bernie. Call me tomorrow, and we’ll arrange a settlement conference.” Stone sauntered back to his own table and sat down, pointedly not looking in Finger’s direction.

“You served him?” Dino asked.

“I did. What’s he doing?”

“He’s still reading, and he doesn’t look happy. Now he’s turning to Marilyn and saying something, and she’s wearing a huge smile and kissing him.”

“Well, I’m sorry to make Marilyn so happy, but if that’s the price of making Bernie unhappy, then so be it.”

“Uh-oh, here comes Bernie.”

Stone looked up to see Finger approaching, clutching the complaint.

“Can we meet tomorrow morning in my office at eleven?” Bernie asked, his face expressionless.

“Perfect, Bernie.”

“I’ll make short work of this.”

“That will be easy, if you accept Bernice’s terms. And Bernie,” Stone said, “remember: A lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client, so bring somebody. Oh, and congratulations to you and Marilyn on your engagement. I wish you every happiness.”

Finger turned around and stalked back to his table.

Stone waved for another round of drinks, and when they came he raised his glass to Dino. “You know, yesterday I was having trouble paying the bills, but today I’ve got a hundred grand of Bernie Finger’s money in the bank, and when I’m through with him, he’ll never know what hit him.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Dino said, raising his own glass.