Trophy Widow (10 page)

“What about the wife?” Jonathan asked.

“She has to be naked, too.”

“That sounds good.”

“I'll say. But wait. There's more. When the husband makes love, he has to be enthusiastic. It's Jewish law. Let me read you this thing.” I reached for my briefcase at the foot of the couch and snapped it open. “Mrs. Kalman had me write it down. Listen to this. There was this medieval Jewish sage named Rabenu Yaakov. He wrote the definitive Jewish guide of the Middle Ages, something called the
Tur
. Here's what he said about marital sex: ‘When a husband is intimate with his wife, his intent should not be his own pleasure but, rather, he should be as one honoring an obligation to another.' Mrs. Kalman said under Jewish law the husband is commanded to learn exactly what his wife wants in bed. You listening?”

“I'm all ears.”

“Good. In fact, the learning part is so important that the Torah says the husband has to spend the entire first year of the marriage free from any outside distraction so that he can devote all of his energies to learning how to satisfy his wife.”

“I think I could handle that.”

“You better, Jonathan, because as near as I can tell, unbelievably good sex is the only possible explanation.”

“For what?”

“For why those poor Orthodox woman are willing to put up with all that obnoxious male chauvinism. Frankly, your rabbi and I are not in synch here. Women can't be rabbis, can't be called up to the Torah, can't be witnesses in a Jewish court of law. Even worse, they have to stand by as their husbands recite that awful morning prayer thanking God for not making them a woman. I don't know about the rest of those women, Jonathan, but let me tell you something about me. It's going to take a steady diet of world-class love-making from you to make me put up with that prayer every morning. Now get back to work and win that case.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Kiss those adorable girls for me and tell them I miss them.”

“I will.”

“I love you, Jonathan.”

“I love you, Rachel.”

Chapter Ten

Billy Berger's female assistant put me in a conference room and brought me hot coffee in a green mug that had Gateway Trust Company's familiar logo inscribed in gold. The front wall of the room consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows facing east with a dramatic view of the Mississippi River and the Arch. The other three walls picked up the coffee mug's color scheme—green walls hung with gold-framed photographs and historical prints of the St. Louis riverfront dating back to paddle wheelers along the levee. I sipped my coffee and watched a towboat push a double row of barges upriver, its powerful screws churning the brownish water into a cappuccino froth. The barges stretched out in front of the tow by the length of at least two football fields.

The door opened and Berger entered, followed by a younger man. The two resembled one of those before-and-after portraits, although which was which was not quite clear. Billy Berger was large and ruddy, with thick lips, broad features, big teeth, and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He reminded me of the head bear in Disney's Country Bear Jamboree. His sidekick was skinny and pale and fastidious, with severe steel-rimmed glasses resting on a pointy nose. Berger was in his early sixties but seemed far more vigorous than his sidekick, who was at least twenty years his junior.

“Howdy, Rachel,” Berger said, reaching across the conference table to shake my hand with a big callused paw. “I'm Billy Berger. It's a real nice pleasure to meet you. This here is Mr. L. George Mizzler, our general counsel.”

“Miss Gold,” Mizzler said with a curt nod and reached across the table. His handshake was bony and moist and creepy. I resisted the urge to wipe my hand dry with a napkin.

The men took seats side by side across the table facing me. Mizzler placed a set of file folders on the table in front of him and frowned at them.

“I want to thank you both for meeting with me,” I said.

Berger nodded and leaned back, lacing his fingers together and resting his massive hands on his paunch. “Our pleasure, Rachel.” He gave me a hearty smile. “You have a mighty fine reputation in this town, both for your legal talents and for your loveliness. I'll say this right off the bat: you must be a regular Clarence Darrow if your admirers understated your legal talents to the same degree that they understated your beauty.”

“Thank you, Mr. Berger. I think that's the most elaborate compliment I've ever received.”

He chuckled and nodded his head as he looked toward his stern assistant. “I can tell this gal's a regular pistol, George.” He turned to me. “And let's put a stop to that ‘Mr. Berger' nonsense. Makes me feel like an old fart. Call me Billy.”

I knew enough about Berger to resist his folksy manner. The trust business was the third snake pit he'd conquered in a remarkable career that had started after he dropped out of high school to sell used cars at his father's Chevy dealership. When a heart attack felled Russ Berger a few years later, his twenty-two-year-old son took over as the president of Berger Chevrolet. Sixteen years later, he sold his thriving dealership to one of his competitors and started a new career selling life insurance. Within three years, he'd become Northwestern Mutual's leading salesman in Missouri. Before the decade ended, he'd realized that there was an even more lucrative way to service the scores of doctors, lawyers, and business executives who were his customers, namely, handle their trusts and estates. Gateway Trust Company, founded nine years ago, now boasted a larger portfolio of assets under management than the trust departments of every local bank. While charm and corny jokes couldn't hurt your business, you don't accomplish in one career what Billy Berger had accomplished without also possessing a keen sense for an opponent's soft spots and a willingness to exploit that knowledge.

“I understand you're representing Angela Green these days,” Berger said.

“I am. That's why I'm here.”

“I had George here check our accounts.” He nodded toward Mizzler. “Couple of living trusts, right?”

Mizzler opened two of the folders and read, “‘The Angela Green Living Trust Number One and the Angela Green Living Trust Number Two.'” He looked up, serious. “She receives monthly statements on both. Current assets in Trust Number One are”—he glanced down—“eighteen thousand three hundred and forty-one dollars and change. As for Trust Number Two, twenty-eight thousand five hundred and twenty dollars and change. If you'd care to review the statements, I have the most recent several months.”

“No, thanks. I didn't come down to talk about her trusts. As you may know, I'm representing Ms. Green in a lawsuit filed by the son of Samantha Cummings. Miss Cummings was Michael Green's fiancée. The lawsuit is premised on the contention that Mr. Green had essentially adopted Miss Cummings's son at the time of his death.”

“That's about what I heard,” Berger said.

“I understand that your trust company did a lot of work with Mr. Green and his clients.”

“I don't know that I'd call it a lot,” Berger said, “but I'd agree that Michael was a good customer of ours.”

“Were you friends?”

“Friends? You could say we were friendly. Not exactly bosom buddies. We grabbed a bite to eat together a few times a year—that sort of thing.”

“Did he talk to you about Samantha Cummings?”

Berger pursed his lips in a thoughtful manner—or at least he feigned a thoughtful manner. I'd already realized that Berger—like any good car salesman—was a master of disguise when it came to what was really going on in his head. He could do “sincere” or “innocent” or “thoughtful” or whatever other emotion was to his advantage at the moment, arranging those broad, ruddy features into the appropriate mask. The only clue that something else might be going on behind the mask was the hard glint in his gray eyes.

Finally, he said, “I think he mentioned that gal during one of our last lunches. He was talking about the upcoming wedding—how excited he was and all that.”

“Were you invited?”

“I can't recall. Probably.”

“Did he talk about her son?”

Berger frowned. “It's not sticking out if he did. I guess it's possible, but I don't recollect.”

I hadn't expected to get much out of this line of questioning, and I wasn't. It didn't matter. The questions were mainly fillers up front to cushion the real purpose of my meeting, which was about to start now.

“Your trust company is still handling trusts for a lot of his clients, correct?”

“His
former
clients,” Mizzler said, a self-satisfied edge to his voice.

“His former clients,” I repeated, giving Mr. Meticulous a pleasant nod. “Specifically, I'm referring to the children in the Merker class action. According to the court records, your trust company still files an annual statement with the clerk of the court on each of those cases.”

I knew this because on my way downtown I'd stopped by the clerk's office and looked through several of the individual files in the class action.

“Why do you have an interest in those cases?” Mizzler asked sharply.

I shrugged, acting nonchalant. “Just trying to get a handle on Michael Green's activities during the last few years of his life. It might be relevant for my case. On the subject of those class action files, though, I did notice one difference since Michael Green's death.”

“What was that?” Mizzler asked.

“There is no longer an annual service charge by Millennium Management Services.”

Mizzler seemed puzzled. “Who?”

“Millennium Management Services,” I repeated. “What did they do for you?”

Mizzler turned to Berger, who was gazing at me with his head tilted, as if he were pondering me or my question. Berger gave me a quizzical smile and said, “Now help me here, Rachel. How exactly do those class action files relate to the lawsuit against Mrs. Green?”

“I'm not quite sure.”

Mizzler sniffed. “Then I'm not quite sure that we can answer your question. As a regulated financial institution we have certain confidentiality obligations toward our customers—especially those who are minors.”

“Actually, Mr. Mizzler,” I said, “that's not the case here. Those court files are public, and everything in them, including your annual reports to the court, are public. The reports you filed during the last three years of Michael Green's life show payments to Millennium Management Services. Since Mr. Green's death, however, the reports show no such service charge.”

“How is that relevant?” Mizzler snapped.

“That depends on what that outfit was doing for the trust company back then.”

“Apparently,” Berger said with an affable chuckle, “they were providing a service. Now I may be just an old car dealer, but I sure as hell don't plan to pay some outfit for nothing.” He turned to Mizzler. “Let's check those files, George. See what we can turn up.”

“What exactly is Millennium Management Services?” I asked them both.

Mizzler glanced at Berger, who was gazing at me. “I don't seem to recall,” Berger said. “Maybe there'll be something in the files on that outfit. If so, we'll be sure to let you know.”

“I'd appreciate that,” I said, though I doubted whether I'd ever hear anything further from Gateway on the topic of Millennium Management Services. “One last thing. About a week or so before Michael Green's death, he had a big argument with you in his office. What was that all about?”

Mizzler stiffened angrily. “Are you attempting to contend that Mr. Berger's relationship with Mr. Green has any—”

“Hold your fire, George,” Berger said, raising his hand like a traffic cop. He gave me a big smile. “I'll be frank, Rachel. I liked Michael, but he had what you could call a volatile temperament. The man could be a real hothead—which I suppose can be a good thing in a trial lawyer. If we had an argument that day, it sure wouldn't have been the first time.”

“Did you have an argument?”

“Don't remember yea or nay.”

“What did you used to argue about?”

“Oh, everything from sports to business to women.”

Mizzler said, “This is entirely outside the scope of your lawsuit, Miss Gold. The trust company and Mr. Berger have been more than cooperative today, and I can assure you that if you need any additional information directly relevant to your client's case, we will be willing to take any such requests under advisement. Until such time, however, I must insist on adjourning this meeting.”

Berger smiled and lumbered to his feet. “Guess I better follow my lawyer's orders, eh? It's what we pay 'em for. Been a real pleasure, Rachel. We ought to get together sometime for lunch or a drink. Just give my gal a buzz and see if we can set something up.”

***

Nothing?” I repeated.

“Not a thing.” Jacki shook her head. “I checked with the secretaries of state of Missouri, Illinois, and Delaware. I went by the public library and checked phone books from all over the country. Nothing on any company by that name.”

We were in my office that afternoon.

“What about an Internet search?” I asked.

“I tried. I got about ten million hits for Millennium, but no Millennium Management Services.”

“What about the payments on all those minors' trusts? Where did Gateway Trust send them?”

“According to the court records, to a lockbox in the Canary Islands.”

“Terrific,” I said glumly.

I reached for my telephone messages. I'd spent the lunch hour at the veterinarian's office getting Ozzie his annual checkup and a shot. Jacki had just returned from lunch with her new boyfriend.

“So how's Bob?” I asked, flipping through the messages.

She blushed. “He's doing fine.”

“Things going okay down at UPS?”

“Bob thinks he's in line for a promotion.”

“Inside work?”

“Yep.”

“That's wonderful.”

Bob was a big, burly guy—about as big and burly as Jacki. He had a dark beard and a wonderful smile. He was the UPS delivery guy in our area, which is how he met Jacki. He was an absolute doll, and—given the very existence of his relationship with Jacki—an open-minded individual.

“New dress?” I asked.

“I got it last weekend.”

“Very nice.”

“Really?” She colored again.

“Really.”

I was smiling. After a frustrating morning meeting at Gateway Trust Company and forty minutes in the crowded waiting room at the veterinarian's office, the mere sight of my secretary buoyed my spirits. And what a sight she was. Jacki Brand was a former Granite City steelworker who was putting herself through night law school while working days as my secretary, paralegal, law clerk, and all-around aide. Standing six feet three and weighing close to two hundred and forty pounds, with plenty of steelworker muscles rippling beneath her size 22 shirtwaist dress, she was surely the most intimidating legal secretary in town. And also one of the best. I'd call her my girl Friday, except that anatomically she was still a he—and would so remain until next summer, when she would undergo the surgical procedure that would lop off the last dangling evidence that her name had once been Jack.

“What's on the schedule this afternoon?” I asked, putting down the phone messages and reaching for my calendar.

“Nothing but your meeting with Charlie at four.”

Charlie Ross was the investigator I'd hired to do a quick background check on Billy Berger and Beverly Toft's other two suspects, Millie Robinson and the Dingdong Man.

“I called Stanley Brod from the vet's,” I told her. “I asked if one of us could go over there this afternoon to look through his records on Samantha's art gallery. Maybe you could do that.”

“Sure.”

“I've already looked through the art gallery's payables ledger. Samantha was making payments to that Millennium outfit on each painting she sold by an artist named Sebastian Curry. I'm going to try to locate the artist. Meanwhile, we need to review the rest of the gallery's records to find out who bought the paintings.”