by Dave Daren
“I skipped my run today,” she said with a shrug. “Too much smoke.”
“Are you sure your figure will survive a day without a run?” I teased.
“I’m heading to the gym after work,” she assured me. “I heard there’s a new kickboxing class that’s guaranteed to make you sweat.”
“Walking outside will do that,” I pointed out.
“True,” she agreed with a mischievous glint in her eyes, “but then who would get you out of trouble?”
“My hero,” I sighed dramatically.
“You bet your cute ass I am,” she laughed, then held up a sheet of paper. “I sent the contract to Mrs. Burke early this morning, and she’s already signed it and returned it. She’s also sent a wire to the bank with the retainer.”
“It’s official, then,” I said. “So let’s get started on the research. Check on Burke and his old investment firm and see if you can find anything that smells like the mafia, or maybe one of the cartels.”
“Agent Smart told you that?” Sofia asked with a raised eyebrow.
“She said White Collar was investigating,” I replied. “But I think she might be involved as well.”
“Ah,” Sofia said as she tilted her head to one side. I could see the wheels turning as she contemplated her list of contacts, informants, friends, family members, practically half the population of L.A. I was sure. “I may know a couple of people I could start with.”
“Okay,” I replied. I decided not to press for details, discretion being the better part of valor. “Also, check through the court records and see if anybody filed a complaint against Burke. Agent Smart said White Collar was involved because some of his clients were unhappy with him.”
“Easy,” Sofia assured me. “But if we’re just going to have him declared dead, why do we need all this?”
“I don’t think the FBI has given up on the idea of finding him alive,” I replied. “And, for whatever reason, I suspect they’ll fight this motion as well. I want to know what they have so we can rebut it.”
“Ooooh,” Sofia drawled. “Taking on the big, bad FBI. Now I know Agent Smart won’t take any more of your calls.”
“We haven’t filed anything yet,” I pointed out as I strolled into my office. Sofia’s laugh followed me, and I had to grin in response.
I found Gloria’s email waiting in my inbox. She had attached the signed copy of the contract, and a copy of the wire transfer. I had to admit, having a client with money made it much easier to get paid. I scanned through her email, and saw that she’d also supplied the name of Matthew Burke’s old firm, as well as the name and phone number for his partner. I glanced at the clock and decided it wasn’t too early to call. Most of these guys were up early anyway, either closing deals in Asia or watching the first numbers roll in from New York.
“Durango Investments,” a sing-song woman’s voice answered after one ring. “How may I direct your call?”
“Albert Pickering,” I replied.
“And whom may I say is calling?” the pleasant voice asked.
“Vincent Creed,” I said. “My client has an account with your firm.” I figured that was probably true. I also didn’t want to tell just anyone who that client was.
“I’ll see if Mr. Pickering is available,” the voice noted, apparently unphased by my vague answer.
There was a click, and then soothing music filled my ear. It wasn’t anything I could identify. Heck, I wasn’t even sure what genre to put it into. It wasn’t classical, or the dreaded old pop songs played by an orchestra. I think I came in on the middle of the song, but then it stretched on for so long, I thought it might not have an actual beginning or ending. I tried checking a few more emails while the music played, but I found that my mind was drifting, and I realized with a start that I’d read the same one line email four times without really understanding it.
“Hello?” a voice called out as the music abruptly cut off. “Mr. Creed?” The accent was distinctly posh British, and I couldn’t help but picture someone in tweeds and wellies.
“Mr. Pickering,” I replied. “How are you today?”
“Quite well,” the voice stated after a moment’s hesitation. “May I ask what this is about? You told my assistant you represent one of our clients?”
“I’m representing Gloria Burke,” I told him.
“Ah, Gloria,” the voice said sadly. I heard a soft inhalation, and then a creaking sound. I was pretty sure Mr. Pickering had just leaned back in his leather chair.
“I was hoping we could meet,” I said. “I’d like to talk to you about Matthew Burke.”
“Matthew,” Pickering sighed. “Well, that’s a fine kettle of fish.”
“Er, yes,” I agreed, since I wasn’t quite sure where Pickering was going with that observation.
“I’m not in the habit of discussing people’s private affairs,” Pickering said more forcefully.
“Gloria gave me your phone number,” I assured him. “She thought you’d be able to help me build a bigger picture of Matthew.”
“What precisely is this for?” Pickering asked.
“We’re filing a petition to have Matthew declared dead,” I explained.
“Didn’t she already file that?” Pickering queried in a puzzled tone.
“She did,” I conceded, “And it was challenged. We need to be able to quash that challenge.”
“Who on earth would challenge that?” Pickering asked, sounding truly perplexed. “He died at sea, you know?”
“Yes, I know,” I replied. Obviously, Pickering hadn’t kept in touch with Gloria during this last year. That was interesting. “If we could just meet, I’d be happy to bring you up to date.”
“Well, I have a rather full schedule today,” he protested. I waited in silence until he harrumphed, and added, “I suppose I could squeeze you in at eleven.”
“Eleven would be great,” I replied.
“We’re on the second floor even though it’s Suite 101,” he added.
“Second floor, got it,” I said. “Thank you, Mr. Pickering. I’ll see you at eleven.”
“Yes, well,” he grumped and then hung up.
With some extra time on my hands before I had to head for the offices of Durango Investments, I dealt with some of the other matters on my plate. By ten, I’d managed to file a motion to dismiss, send an angry letter to a landlord who refused to repair a large hole in the tenant’s ceiling, and an eviction notice to a mobile home park resident who had amassed a ten-foot tall pile of used tires in his lot. I could hear Sofia’s steady typing, occasionally interrupted by the sound of a quiet conversation on the phone.
“I’m off,” I announced as I stepped into the outer office.
“Be careful,” Sofia said as she glanced up from her computer screen. “The smoke is supposed to be pretty thick the closer you get to the mountains.”
“I’ll go slow,” I assured her. I waved goodbye and sauntered into the heat outside. The air was heavy and fine bits of ash floated lazily along. I’d given up on white shirts for the time being. They became pockmarked with flecks of black and gray every time you stepped outside. At least with something darker on, you could almost conceal the debris.
Thankfully, the air conditioner in my Honda was still cranking out cool air. I followed the slow line of cars that were prowling L.A., working my way toward Glendale. Officially, Glendale is a city unto itself, but most Angelinos consider it a suburb of Los Angeles. It sits between the better known cities of Pasadena and Burbank, just a short jog from the San Gabriel Wilderness, where the fire was now entering its fourth day. It’s home to a good deal of money, mostly doctors and lawyers who can’t quite pay the price for a place on the beach.
The offices of Durango Investments were in a nondescript three-story office building near the College Hills area. It had the standard stucco exterior, painted a boring shade of beige. There were a few potted plants along either side of the front door, but they didn’t appear to be faring very well in the heat a
nd smog. I stepped into the lobby, and found myself standing in a small foyer with a marble floor and an old stamped tin ceiling. To my left was a single elevator and to my right was the directory listing for the building. Next to that, someone had taped a sign that helpfully announced that only Suite 100 was to be found on the first floor. All other office numbers beginning with 1 were to be found on the second floor. All offices beginning with the number 2 were to be found on the third floor.
Well, that made sense.
Straight ahead was the door for Suite 100, currently occupied by a company called Battersea Productions. I was sorely tempted to ignore the sign and stroll into the office, demanding to know where the heck was Suite 101, but since I needed to stay on Pickering’s good side for the moment, I gave up on that idea and pressed the call button for the elevator.
There was the sound of gears groaning to life, followed by a round of clacking noises. The elevator arrived with a hiss and a thunk, and the door slid open to reveal an elevator that could maybe hold two average-sized adults on a good day. I glanced around the foyer again, but since there wasn’t an obvious stairwell, I stepped carefully into the elevator and pressed the button for the second floor.
The elevator climbed slowly but steadily upward, and despite the noise, it was a smooth ride. My arrival on the second floor was announced by another loud thunk, and then the doors slid open to reveal a second foyer, this one painted a soothing pale blue with a plush matching carpet on the floor. Everything was muted and muffled here, including my footsteps as I walked across the floor to the door bearing the number 101 in gold. There was a small plaque next to the door that said Durango Investments. It was all very understated, yet still managed to convey the sense that only serious money was welcome here.
I opened the door and stepped into a waiting area. This one was painted a deep maroon, and was furnished with dark, heavy wood and leather. The only light in the room seemed filtered somehow, and I realized that most of it was coming from strategically placed lamps. The whole effect was distinctly masculine, though certainly a notch above mere man-cave.
I almost missed the petite woman sitting behind the monstrosity of a reception desk. While everything around her was big and man-friendly, she was positively tiny. Her gray hair was pulled back into a bun, and two brown eyes smiled warmly at me as I approached the desk. Her head bobbed slightly, and her hands flittered around the computer keyboard even though her eyes never left me. She looked like a small bird that had somehow wandered in here and gotten stuck.
“I have an eleven o’clock appointment with Mr. Pickering,” I said.
“Yes, of course, Mr. Creed,” the woman replied, and I realized it was the same one who had answered the phone. “I’ll just let him know you’re here, if you’d just take a seat.”
I ventured over to a leather armchair and sat down. It was probably one of the most comfortable chairs I’d ever sat in, and I secretly hoped that Pickering wouldn’t rush right out. I ran a hand slowly over the leather and had to smile. It was soft and supple, and I was positively envious. I heard the receptionist murmur quietly into the phone, and then there was nothing but peace and quiet for a good ten minutes.
The door to the inner offices opened without a sound, and if I hadn’t been watching, I would have missed Pickering’s appearance completely. He opened the door just enough to poke his head around the edge. He glanced around the room, as if checking to see how many people were waiting to see him. Or, more to the point, to see if I was still there. I stood up, and he quickly put a smile on his face. He opened the door the rest of the way, and waved me toward his inner sanctum.
Pickering wasn’t in tweeds and wellies after all, but he was in a very well-made, hand-tailored suit that looked like it came from Savile Row in London. The man himself was on the shorter side, with a bit of a potbelly that even the suit couldn’t quite hide. His hair had long ago turned white, and only a few hearty survivors still clung to the top of his head. The rest formed a nice ring around the sides and back of his head, all neatly trimmed and even lightly gelled.
We shook hands, and then Pickering led me down a short hallway to his office. The manly decor theme carried over into this space as well, with walls painted hunter green, more buttery soft leather, and a muted TV showing recaps from English football matches. Pickering sat down in a chair that had a vaguely throne-like appearance, while I made do with a more mundane armchair.
“So, Gloria,” Pickering heaved as he unconsciously smoothed a pant leg.
“She said you could provide background on Matthew’s business life,” I prompted when Pickering went silent for several seconds.
“Well...” Pickering stalled. He glanced at the crease this time, and his lower lip jutted outwards. It was a wonderful impersonation of Winston Churchill, though I don’t think he was aware of that.
“I realize it’s been several years,” I finally prompted. “And, of course, I wouldn’t want to interfere with your client’s confidentiality. But anything you tell me could be helpful.”
“I don’t really see how,” Pickering replied as he finally looked up. He studied me for almost a full minute. “We run a tight firm here.”
“But Matthew was not as careful,” I suggested.
“Well,” Pickering muttered again.
“I’ve talked to someone at the FBI,” I said. “I know they were conducting their own investigation.”
“Ah,” Pickering sighed. “You must understand, it does the firm no good to have any of that come to light. Everything was dealt with. Quietly. It will only cause harm to have it exposed now.”
“If the FBI finds out Matthew is still alive, then there won’t be any way to keep it quiet,” I replied. I wasn’t sure what we were talking about exactly, though embezzlement was the obvious guess.
“And if Gloria succeeds?” Pickering asked. “Will it finally be laid to rest?”
“I don’t work for the FBI,” I pointed out. “So I can’t make any promises about that. But, certainly, to everyone else, it will be the end of that chapter.”
“You have to understand Matthew,” Pickering finally started. “He was rather brilliant when it came to understanding investments, and finding investments that would make money. If he had stuck to that, he would probably be living in a place in Malibu by now. Somewhere on the water. That was what he always wanted, you know.”
“A place in Malibu, on the water?” I clarified.
“A place on the water,” Pickering sighed. “Though I think somewhere on an island was what he really wanted. You know, he and Gloria spent almost every vacation in the Hawaiian islands. He would have been happy there.”
“He wasn’t happy here?” I asked.
“As happy as he could be,” Pickering said with a shrug. “Though I think he felt like an outsider still, despite his success. Do you know his background?”
“I know he came from a small place in Texas,” I replied.
“Sad story, that,” Pickering mused. “Though not unusual. Father who drank, mother who left town in the middle of the night. He survived it all, and was determined to write his own story. He had a math teacher along the way, who showed him the real possibilities for someone who could understand numbers the way he did. That’s what turned him around. He realized then that he could be something better.”
“So he went to the local college, then USC,” I finished.
“I met him not long after that,” Pickering continued. “He was fresh out of grad school, and he was hired by the firm I was with at the time. They had him tucked away in some broom closet of an office with several other number crunchers. He was doing the analysis for the energy desk. I was trading oil then, so I read his reports. I realized he was much smarter than the average analyst, and he was seeing things that no one else did. I made a point of meeting him, and then consulting with him. I planted the seed, you know.”
“The seed?”
“I told him we should save our money so that we could start our own firm,
” Pickering explained. “I kept at it, even made a point of telling him that I hadn’t spent a dime of my year-end bonus. Things like that. He never said anything, but I could see that he was considering the idea. Then, as I was approaching retirement age, and the firm was not so subtly suggesting that I consider leaving a tad early, Matthew told me he was ready to leave and start his own firm. That was it. We turned in our resignations, and started Durango Investments?”
“Why Durango?” I asked curiously.
“Matthew picked the name,” Pickering mused. “Said it was the one place he had been happy as a child. I liked the simplicity of it. And it sounded more old southern California than Pickering & Burke.”
“What happened after that?”
“It was hard work, but we built a solid company,” Pickering said with a smile. “We only had a few clients to start with, mostly people who were impressed with the work I did on the trading desk. But we delivered solid results, and other people looking for more secure investments soon signed on.”
“Was Burke satisfied?”
“I think so,” Pickering replied. He frowned, and then added, “At least, initially. But you know how it is. No matter how well you’re doing, someone else has more money, a bigger house, a nicer car, a larger yacht.”
“And you must see that every day,” I mused.
“Yes,” Pickering agreed. “Many of our clients are quite wealthy. I’m quite happy with what we accomplished, and I’ve been able to lead a wonderful life. But some people aren’t satisfied with that.”
He stopped and looked at me, and gave me another Churchillian stare. When I didn’t leap to defend my client’s honor, he gave a brisk nod.
“Gloria and Matthew fed off each other’s needs,” he sighed. “Gloria needed to belong to the one percent, and Matthew needed to feel that he was more than just another kid from the wrong side of the tracks. I don’t know exactly when it started.”
