by Ann McMan
“I am so not the right person to ask about this.” Julia held up her hands. “That whole space-time continuum thing has never made much sense to me.”
“Thanks a lot,” Evan said.
“But, if you’re asking me for my opinion, simply in the abstract,” Julia offered, “I’d say, what could it hurt? It’s late. We’re all at home. No one is going back out. Stevie has parental supervision. And she made us these fabulous-looking cookies, which are losing their fresh-baked appeal with the passage of every second we sit here, debating this academic argument about the limits of propriety.”
“Nice out.” Evan considered Julia’s summary. “Okay, kid. Open it up.”
Stevie beamed at Julia. “I knew having you move in would totally work out.”
“Yeah. Don’t get cocky.” Evan reached out for a cookie from Stevie’s platter. There were two kinds—sugar and Toll House—arrayed in tidy rows. She snagged one that looked crammed with chocolate chips. “The night is still young.”
Stevie opened the wine with dispatch, which piqued Evan’s curiosity a bit. True, Stevie had always been a quick study, but something about her proficiency with a corkscrew raised a red flag.
She deferred that discussion for another day. Tonight, she needed to enjoy this easy camaraderie. She needed that more than just about anything.
Stevie poured them each a respectable amount of wine. It was clear to Evan that her daughter wasn’t going to push the envelope. Evan examined the label of the bottle she’d selected. A Mascota. She was forced to give her daughter grudging credit for her choice.
Maybe Tim was right and Stevie did get the family palate?
“These cookies are divine.” Julia took another bite.
Evan was tempted to say, So are you.
It was intoxicating to watch Julia chew.
Hell. It was intoxicating to watch Julia do just about anything. Watching Julia was better than Netflix.
Stevie held her glass of wine aloft. “How about a toast?”
Evan and Julia both raised their glasses.
“Here’s to getting what we want,” Stevie said, “and to loving what we have, even when we don’t.”
They clinked rims.
Evan allowed herself to relax into the guilty pleasures of great wine, home-baked cookies, and the healing companionship of two remarkable women.
Chapter Ten
On Monday morning, Julia paid an unannounced visit to the office of her father’s estate attorney. She didn’t bother making an appointment. If Arthur Squires wasn’t available to meet with her, she’d simply insist that a junior associate provide access to the documents she wished to review. She recalled from earlier conversations in the immediate aftermath of her father’s death that his will had made provision for some specific, continuing bequests to support various nonprofit groups. She had paid little attention to those when Art reviewed them with her. He stipulated that all of the funds would be disbursed annually from the trust account. All Julia would have to do is cosign the disbursement checks during each cycle of payments. It was pro forma.
But Julia’s curiosity about the identity of the specific beneficiaries of her father’s benevolence had increased after her discovery that his private club, Galileo, was becoming the nexus of Evan’s research on Judge Cawley. She had no idea what she expected to find, but she felt some trepidation about the exercise of looking into the bequests, nonetheless. Her father had, for all practical purposes, always been a stranger to her. His peripheral role in this developing “Six Degrees of J. Meyer Cawley” narrative disturbed her. And she could tell that it was disturbing to Evan, who seemed to be doing her best not to say more than she had to about any part Julia’s father played in this mystery.
It took her less than five minutes to take the elevator up to the seventh floor and walk the long corridor that led to the offices of Smith, Martin, Squires & Andersen. As expected, Art Squires was out of the office, meeting with another client. But the receptionist, who was very deferential and even more apologetic, ushered Julia into a small conference room and assured her that Mr. Squires’ associate, Erskine Robbins, would be right with her. She also offered Julia refreshment, which Julia politely, but gratefully refused.
She wasn’t sure how many hurdles she’d have to jump through to actually see the files she needed. Squires generally made her feel like access privileges to estate papers were precious commodities that could only be doled out after significant advance notice—and during certain phases of the moon.
Erskine Robbins hurried into the room less than a minute after the receptionist departed. He was a youngish man who exuded a frenetic air. He had a head full of wiry brown hair that looked wind-blown. Julia suspected it probably always looked that way—likely because Mr. Robbins was always in such a hurry.
“How may we help you, Ms. Donne?” he asked.
Julia was tempted to look behind him for other minions in his wake. His use of the royal “we” was quaintly old-fashioned.
“I appreciate your willingness to take time away from your other work to see me on such short notice.” Julia turned on the charm. She already topped the younger man by more than six inches. why not work the corners a bit before moving in to land a real punch? She took a step closer to him. “I’m really very grateful.”
Robbins took a half step backward and nearly fell over a chair.
“No. No,” he stammered. “We’re here to, um . . . meet your needs. In . . . in whatever ways we can.”
“That’s so comforting,” Julia beamed at him. “I won’t trouble you for long. I simply need to review some estate documents.”
“Oh. Of course, Ms. Donne. I’m happy to retrieve those for you.” He pushed his glasses up. “What, specifically, do you need access to?”
Julia pressed her advantage.
“I’d like to review the list of regular disbursements from my father’s trust. I was silly when Mr. Squires first shared those with me, and neglected to make a copy.” She rested a manicured hand on his skinny arm. “You know how silly we girls can be when we’re distracted.”
“Y-yes. Of course. I’ll, uh . . . I’ll go and get those for you right away.” He backed toward the door and promptly ran into it. “It’s . . . it won’t take but a few minutes.”
He disappeared down the hallway.
Julia felt like a sleazy imitation of Mata Hari—flashing her gams to try and gain release from Saint-Lazare.
It was a blessing that Squires had been out of the office this morning. Julia had always despised having to work with him because his demeanor toward her was always so . . . dismissive. Squires made it clear from the outset that his duty was to accede to the wishes of his client—J. Lewis Donne. Even in death, Julia’s father continued to preempt her right to manage just about anything.
Robbins returned, carrying a brown box. He set it down on the small conference table.
“I believe all of the trust documents are in here,” he said. “Would you like me to help you locate the names of the beneficiaries?” He gave her a look tinged with so much trepidation, Julia could tell he was praying she’d say no.
“Thank you, Mr. Robbins. I think I’ll do just fine. Might I trouble you for a pen and paper?”
“Oh. Of course.” He backed into the same chair again in his haste to turn and retrieve a pad of paper and about a dozen pens from a console near the door. He all but threw the items down on the table, and the pens scattered like jackstraws. Julia could see the muscles in his face tighten as he hurriedly bent to try and collect the pens.
Julia stopped him by touching his hand. “That’s just fine, Erskine. I’ll take it from here.”
He pushed his glasses up and nodded at her without speaking.
Julia waited for him to leave and close the door before she opened the box labeled Ganymede Irrevocable Trust: Estate of J. Lewis Donne.
The first thing she learned was that her father had established the trust more than twenty-five years ago. She’d had no idea abo
ut that, and found it odd that Squires never clarified that for her.
The list of trust beneficiaries was shorter than she expected. The largest sums of money were paid to two groups: a political action committee called “Citizens for Integrity in Government” and a philanthropic group described as a community service arm of his private club, Galileo. The latter group had enjoyed the longest history of support. She flipped through page after page of disbursements. The amounts of the donations escalated at different times. There were peaks of support during the decade of the 1990s and continuing until her father retired from the board at D&H, and her parents moved their primary residence to Paris. Still, his philanthropy to that group continued at what she considered to be a robust level. Annual, continuing disbursements from the trust were scheduled to continue at a rate of $25,000 per year. The group was earmarked as a 501(c)(3) organization, so all of the trust donations were considered tax deductible.
Good ol’ Dad. Even his best deeds were guaranteed to earn benefits.
There was another, older roster of personal trust disbursements that dated back decades. Julia flipped through those pages. They were mostly payments, made to individuals, churches or colleges. Some were marked as scholarship contributions to underwrite the tuition fees of numerous recipients. Others were noted as “booster” donations to support public school athletic programs.
No. That wasn’t right.Julia examined the names more closely. These weren’t public schools; they were parochial schools. All of them. And St. Margherita’s Parish led the pack in dollars of support.
Julia began to feel sick.
None of this proved anything. It could all be coincidental . . .
She continued to scan the lists of names. None of them meant anything to her.
Then she saw one she recognized, and her heart skipped a beat.
Joseph R. Mazzetta.
According to the ledger, her father’s trust had made six cash payments of $500 each to him between the years of 1995 and 1998. These were noted simply as “St. Margherita summer basketball camp tuition assistance.”
Julia closed her eyes and pushed her chair back from the table.
Oh, dear god . . .
It took more self-control than she knew she possessed to stand up, straighten her skirt, and calmly exit the conference room. She took nothing with her. No papers. No notes.
She didn’t need to.
She understood that the rest of her life would now be a process of trying to forget what she’d just discovered.
She left the firm, rode the elevator down to her floor, and entered the offices of Donne & Hale without stopping to speak with anyone. Once she was securely back inside her own office, she entered her private bathroom and cried for half an hour.
After composing herself, she walked to her desk, picked up the phone, and called her travel agent to book a flight to Paris.
◊ ◊ ◊
“Things are simply getting too hot. We’re shutting this operation down.”
Maya wasn’t surprised by the call from Zucchetto. Especially after he’d had time to share details about Tim Donovan’s visit to Brian Christensen in Gloucester City. It was easy to predict that his “client” would start running scared and decide to pull the plug.
These boys didn’t have the stamina to go head to head with the big dogs.
“We’ve already transmitted your final payment,” he continued. “The funds should show up by end of business tomorrow.”
“Is that it?” she asked. There was no reason to prolong their conversation.
“Other than to thank you for your efficient service. We are pleased that your recommendations did not overstate your abilities.”
“How kind of you to say so. I’ll be out of the hotel by tomorrow morning.”
“There is no need to feel pressured,” Zucchetto said magnanimously. “The room is paid for through the weekend. Why not take some time to enjoy the sights of the city?”
Maya’s curiosity was piqued by Zucchetto’s sudden burst of collegiality.
“I have always wanted to see the Liberty Bell.”
In fact, Maya couldn’t think of anything less enjoyable, with the possible exception of getting another root canal.
“Well, then,” Zucchetto said heartily. “Here is a golden opportunity. My client is happy to allow you to remain here as his guest until Sunday. That includes the use of your rental car.”
“How very kind. Please convey my gratitude to your client.”
“There is one last detail.” Zucchetto’s tone had resumed its customary brusqueness.
“And that is?”
“Once we terminate this call, every aspect of our business will be concluded. This phone number will cease to exist.”
“I perfectly understand your meaning.”
“I was certain you would. I wish you a very good day. Enjoy your time in this historic city.”
The line went dead.
Maya laughed before tossing the phone into the trash bin, along with the keys to the rental car.
She’d already placed the “do not disturb” tag on the outside of her door. Her suitcases were headed via courier to a hotel near the airport. She’d also reserved a new rental car.
There were still one or two loose ends that needed to be tied off.
Was Zucchetto really naïve enough to imagine that Maya would be content to sit here and flip through tourist brochures until his hired gun came calling?
Zucchetto’s bogus phone number wasn’t the only thing they planned to terminate.
Idiots.
Zucchetto and his “client” might have determined that things had gotten too hot—but that wasn’t the case for everyone.
Like most reptiles, Marcus tolerated the heat just fine.
◊ ◊ ◊
“Tim? This is Mike Duffy. I don’t know if you remember me. We played basketball together at St. Rita’s in the mid-’90s.”
When Tim answered the phone, he didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID. But that wasn’t unusual. Many parish members who weren’t among his regular contacts would call his landline to request hospital visits or ask for information about services or activities at the church.
“Yes,” Tim said to the caller. “Of course, I remember you. How are you, Mike?”
Mike Duffy had only been at St. Rita’s for a year or two, but Tim remembered him. The Duffy family had five kids. Mike’s father had been an airplane mechanic who seemed to move around a lot, and their time in Philadelphia had been fairly short—only a couple of years. Tim had found no current contact information on Mike, or his family, when he’d gone to the parish office to do his research on the whereabouts of former team members.
“I’m okay,” Mike said. “I live in Phoenix now, but I’m in town for a couple of days on business. I wondered if maybe you’d have time to see me. So, we could talk about . . . things.”
Things? Tim knew immediately what Mike wanted to discuss. After the revelations from Mark Atwood yesterday, Tim wasn’t sure he had the fortitude to take in any more—at least, not right now. Already, his stamina had commenced a slow leak and its steady drip, drip, drip was lowering his level of resolve with each passing hour.
But he was still a priest. And refusing to help someone in need was a betrayal of his vows.
“Sure,” Tim responded. “I’m happy to get together. It will be good to see you.” He hesitated before asking his next question, but put it out there, anyway. “What things did you want to talk about?”
Mike seemed to understand Tim’s question. “I’ve read some of the articles about the Church and all the men who are speaking up about the priests, and what they did. And I went to see Mark Atwood at his bar last night. He told me about your visit and what you talked about. So I figured it was okay to call and ask you about it—about Father Szymanski and the team?”
“Did Father Szymanski behave inappropriately toward you, Mike?”
“Inappropriately? I guess that’s one way to put it
.”
Tim closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mike. I don’t mean to diminish anything that happened. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Mike said. “Look. I don’t really want to talk about this on the phone. Can we meet? Maybe tomorrow night, after the conference wraps up?”
“Of course. Where would you like to meet?”
“I’m in Center City at the DoubleTree. My flight back to Arizona leaves tomorrow night at 10:15, so I have to check out of here as soon as the last session ends. Could you meet me at the hotel around six? Maybe we can talk in the lobby bar there? It’s pretty decent.”
“Sure,” Tim said. “I can do that. Where should I look for you?”
“The hotel has temporary parking for conference guests set up in the garage on level two. I’ll wait for you by the hotel elevators there with a pass for your dashboard so you won’t get towed. We can go down to the lobby together.”
“Okay.” Tim wrote down the hotel information and the time. “I’ll see you tomorrow evening. I’m . . . glad you called, Mike.”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Me, too. Oh—one last thing. My phone has to be turned off during the meetings, so I won’t be able to answer it if you call or have to cancel.”
“I won’t cancel. I’ll be there.”
“Great. Thanks for doing this, Father.”
“You don’t have to call me that, Mike. Tim is fine.”
“Okay. See you tomorrow.”
“Bye, Mike.”
Tim hung up,
After the call, he began to pace back and forth across his small living room.
What now?
He needed to tell Evan what he’d learned from Mark Atwood. He knew that meant she’d want to go to Shaken and interview Mark herself. But even if Mark named names, his determination not to go forward with any of what he knew would just make his information hearsay. So nothing he shared with her could be used to stop Judge Cawley’s nomination—and that was even if Cawley had been one of the perpetrators Mark referenced in his nightmare revelations about the Galileo Club.
If. If. If. There were just too many ifs.
