The Last Refuge (41 page)

Too wired to sleep, and nothing else to do, I took the gun down to my father’s workbench so I could look at its innards. Typical hard-assed engineer. Always curious about instruments of death.

Eddie stuck me in the ribs with his back feet when he jumped off the bed, barking like mad. It was daylight, but I hadn’t been sleeping very long, so it took a little while to get my bearings. I could hear the sound of someone banging on the front door even through all the frantic yelping.

“Goddammit, Eddie.”

I pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and answered the door.

“Hi, Jackie.”

“That has got to be the stupidest car on the whole planet.”

“The standard shift throws a lot of people.”

“Did I wake you? I hope so. What happened to your hand?”

Eddie had regained control of himself and was out on the lawn, buzzing around with his nose an inch off the grass.

“Coffee?” I asked her.

“No. Pickup truck.”

My automatic coffee pot had done its duty a half-hour earlier and the results were wafting around the house.

“Come on, it’s already brewed.”

“You got a lot of nerve.”

“You don’t want to know what happened?”

“Jesus Christ.”

After I had her hands filled with my biggest ceramic mug I was able to talk her into waiting for me out on the porch while I took a shower. She was still thoroughly pissed, but her curiosity, as always, held her on the line. I told Eddie to keep her company.

“Just don’t give him any dope. He’s loopy enough as it is.”

I poured myself a cup and took it with me to the outdoor shower, which I used until the pipes threatened to freeze, usually after the first of the year. Even in the early morning light, the day was clear and full of color, the sky the deepest blue.

I squandered gallons of hot water, creating clouds of steam that billowed from the shower and upset the local climatic balance. The floor of the shower was filled with red, yellow and orange leaves from the oaks and maples overhead. I cleared the drain with my feet and watched the water swirl away in a tiny vortex. I turned the hot water up another notch to massage my shoulders and the back of my neck. I
took a sip of the coffee. I tried to picture Regina seducing Carl Bollard, but it wouldn’t work. I wondered what she looked like as a young woman, and that was easier. Tall and straight-shouldered, firm handshake and wary eyes. A hard outer shell that was tough to crack, but once you did, it was all soft and tractable inside. Hopeful, but afraid of hurt. In need, despite her better judgment.

And always braced for the worst kind of disappointment.

I was able to stay clear of Jackie’s questions until I was in my clothes. I could feel the frustration penetrate the wall between my bedroom and the screened-in porch. She was pacing when I got there.

“I owe you big time,” I told her, before she had a chance to speak. “I know that.”

She was wearing a short wool coat in a giant red-and-black plaid. Her thick strawberry hair was tied up in a ponytail that spewed like a fountain almost from the top of her head. On her feet were a pair of beat-to-hell cowboy boots. Ready to start kicking.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to apologize,” she said.

“Actually, I need another favor.”

“Now who’s smoking dope?”

“Just drive to the Village with me. I’ll tell you everything on the way.”

She squinted at me as if contemplating a right hook. Probably pack a more effective punch than Jimmy Maddox.

“You think I have nothing else to do?”

“Okay. You’re hired.”

“What?”

“You’re hired. For real this time. Where do I sign?”

“I can’t do that.”

“Your last client just shot himself. You got an opening.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Come on. We gotta move. I’m not paying you to just stand around.”

Eddie was unhappy in the back seat of the Grand Prix. I rolled the windows down so he could stick out his head. The wind made it hard to talk, but I felt I owed him, after leaving him inside for so long the day before. I was still able to tell Jackie the gist of what I wanted to tell her before we got to the big parking lot behind Main Street. I gave it to her in a disorganized, disconnected jumble, without a lot of detail, but that was fine. If I’d told her more she’d have bailed out of the car.

“What’s my role here again?” she asked as I parked the Grand Prix behind the bank.

“Bodyguard.”

“Great.”

“Just stay alert and watch my back.”

“Speaking metaphorically.”

“Right.”

You could get to the main floor of Harbor Trust through a rear entrance off the parking lot. It was a simple glass door with the bank’s name stenciled in bright gold leaf. Inside was a long corridor that opened up into a big room with all the tellers, loan officers and personal bankers at their stations. I never came in this way, so it took a few moments to locate Amanda. She was at her desk, staring at her computer.
She almost missed us walking by, but at the last moment her eyes left the screen and locked on to mine. She looked startled.

“We’re here to see Roy,” I said, without stopping, though I tried to look breezy and offhand. Her eyes shot to Jackie Swaitkowski. I smiled and waved as we walked by the other personal bankers and up to the guy who manned the desk right outside Roy Battiston’s office. I didn’t know what his official job was, but I thought he’d suit the purpose.

“I’m Sam Acquillo. This is Attorney Jacqueline Swaitkowski. We’re here to see Mr. Battiston.”

The guy automatically looked over his shoulder at Roy’s door.

“I’m not sure he’s in. Can I say what it’s about?”

“Just tell him who’s here. He’ll see us,” I said. Then to Jackie, “His car’s in the lot.”

The guy went back to Roy’s office and disappeared through the door. Jackie and I stood there and waited. Amanda was frozen in her seat, her hands motionless on the keyboard, her face taut. And alert. The other bank employees ignored us, going about their silent tasks with an air of placid resolve. There were customers in line at the tellers and a few at the desks of personal bankers, or waiting, seated on wood-frame benches upholstered in synthetic suede. No canned music, I noticed, gratefully.

The guy came out and closed the door behind him, but not before I saw Roy at his desk, in shirtsleeves, writing something on a pad.

“Just give him a few minutes,” the guy said, then sat back down at his desk.

We went back to standing there in the dead calm of the bank. Jackie was doing a good job of looking neutral and disinterested. As if she had complete command of the situation. Poised and prepared for any eventuality.

I was beginning to wonder if there was another way out of Roy’s office when the door opened and he waved us in. He still had his assertive, can-do handshake, but his palm was hot and wet.

“Sam. Jackie.”

“Hi, Roy,” I said.

“You know each other,” he said, in a way that was part question, part revelation.

“Jackie’s my lawyer,” I said to him as I sank into one of his two herculean guest chairs. Jackie took the other. She manifested a fine lawyerly posture, even though she was dressed like she’d just come from mucking out a stall.

“I’ve worked with Jackie,” said Roy, dropping into his own chair behind the desk, “right?”

She nodded. He waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. He quickly gave up waiting.

Roy didn’t look too good. His skin was moist, adding a slight sheen to his bloodless complexion. He had the type of head that was more narrow at the top then the bottom. It expanded at the jawline, causing a jowly bulge he’d probably never lose even if he starved to death.

“So, folks, what can I do for you?”

His office was paneled in a light walnut ply, the carpet was deep green, his desk was chrome and covered in a laminate reminiscent of the masonite found in basement remodeling projects. No photos or trophies
or insipid executive games you get for Christmas from your family, or as a token of appreciation for speaking to the Kiwanis. There were two tables flanking the desk like outriggers. They were covered with files and stacks of loose paper.

“I’m here to pick up a document.”

I thought Roy looked relieved.

“Okay. Maybe Amanda could help you.”

“You know I’m the administrator of Regina Broadhurst’s estate.”

“Of course. We had her account as well. Amanda can pull the records, make copies.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

He still had the look of helpful curiosity.

“Okay, I’m sorry. Why don’t you tell me.”

It was never easy being Roy Battiston. He must have realized at an early age he was the only one in his family who could think. As he moved through school and got to know other kids and other families, as he read and looked around at people in Town, he must have been appalled at what fate had allotted him. Taunted, probably, like all chubby kids with glasses and intelligence, but worse for him, with his bad clothes and embarrassing relatives. The awakening must have dawned slowly, but then steadily strengthened, driving him deeper into his own mind. Forming a bedrock of worry and resentment. And eventually hunger took hold. Desire. Enflamed by the secret knowledge that he could do things nobody ever suspected he could do. Propelled by determination and conviction. Maybe a promise to himself to soothe away the pain with achievement. To cleanse shame
with success, the kind that mattered to people who mattered to him.

I never knew Roy very well, but I understood what happened to him.

“The trust. Carl’s trust. I need to see it.”

He started to fall back into his chair, thought better of it, and sat back up again. He put both hands palm down on the desk and took a deep breath.

“I really don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“As administrator of Regina’s estate,” said Jackie, “Sam has the obligation to identify and adjudicate all surviving assets and liabilities. Even those Regina may have been unaware of.”

Roy’s face had moistened even more while we talked, though his voice was still evenly modulated. The real story was in his eyes. Even behind his glasses I could see they were lit with alarm.

“You might have an opinion on this,” I said to Roy. “You think Hornsby planned it all along, or just let it happen?”

“Let what happen? Milton Hornsby was a business partner of mine. I have no other opinion of him.”

“Really. So you didn’t know Bay Side Holdings was owned by a trust created to manage the assets of a guy who’d been dead for over twenty years.”

“Of course not.”

“Personally, I think he just let it happen. Things just sort of flowed along and there was nobody there to do anything about it. After Carl and WB crapped out, Hornsby just kept right on going, paying bills, filing tax returns, complying with every statute and regulation and generally keeping his head down. Meanwhile
siphoning off a nice income for himself.

“Oh, and keeping the monthly allowances going to Regina and your mother-in-law. Barely enough to live on, especially when you think about what was there, but on time, every month.”

Roy’s face finally took on a little color. A bright dab of red on each cheek.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

“We know everything, Roy,” said Jackie. “The only question is what we’re going to do about it.”

“No, I disagree. You have no idea what you’re talking about.” He surprised me by half standing up from his chair. I stood up all the way.

“Sit down, Roy. You need to listen carefully. Concentrate on what we’re saying. This is the only chance you’re going to get.”

He slowly sank back down in his chair. So did I, trying to get comfortable in that scratchy upholstery.

Roy knew that Hornsby was a lawyer and the CFO of WB Manufacturing, but I told him again anyway. It was partly for Jackie’s benefit. I went on to tell them about Carl Bollard Senior, who had set up a trust after his wife died, realizing his wayward son was next in line. Anticipating his own demise, he wanted a way to keep a leash on Carl Junior, preserve the assets of the estate and keep the plant in operation. It gave Carl Junior five years to grow up. After that, he got everything no matter what. At some point, Carl Senior named his young CFO, Milton Hornsby, the trustee, probably to tie his son more tightly to the family business.

This was prescient, because the next thing Carl Senior did was die, leaving Hornsby in control of the
company, all its property and assets, and Carl Junior’s personal fortune. And consequently, Carl Junior himself. As it turned out, both guys were fine with the deal, given the tidy
quid pro quo.
Carl got to live like a king, or rather a legitimate CEO, while Hornsby basically ran the show. Carl was probably more than happy to let him. Hornsby was a lot younger than Carl, but he was Carl’s fairy godfather.

And the trust was his magic wand. No better way to plaster over Carl’s indiscretions. Carl was rich, spoiled and wild, and plugged into the Hamptons’ social scene. Regina worked at WB, in the plant. Handsome girl and hard as nails. But not too smart about men. He scoops her up, a few drinks, a few laughs, the usual ensues. He’s not about to marry her, but he takes care of her, financially anyway. Out of conscience or fear, who knows. Regina was never anybody you’d want to cross, at least not out where she could see you.