"That's very generous of him," he said.
Celia smiled. It was insincere. You could tell by the lack of warmth in the eyes. The lack of smile at the corners of her eyes. The creases were the eyelids meet and crinkle. Some people call them wrinkles. I call them the irony of years. You have to smile to get through even a few months, let alone the monotonous and dreary foot soldiers that some call the years.
"How did the two of you meet?" asked Dykes.
He was a talkative fella now. Jackson sat almost mute. Perhaps Dykes liked her. Though I hadn't seen him offer her a Lifesaver which he had just recently popped into his mouth. The roll was down to two, maybe three holy mints. I couldn't tell. But then he hadn't offered me another one either. Maybe we were no longer friends.
"I've always been a fan of baseball," she said. "We met through mutual friends as it happened."
Dykes nodded and bled ink all over the page.
"Did your husband have any enemies?" asked Jackson, taking a swing for a change.
She transferred her gaze to him. She shook her head slowly.
"No, no one that I can think of. He was a very sweet man. Very kind. Very generous to everyone. His family, friends. Everyone."
Jackson smiled and nodded at her.
"So you can't think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt or kill your husband?" asked Jackson.
Celia shook her head.
"No," she said. "I'm sorry. Really I am. I wish I could offer you more help. I really want you to catch whoever did this."
More nodding bobble heads from Jackson.
"Did your husband have any financial problems?" asked Dykes, getting back up to bat. I'm sorry, I can't help myself. This is about baseball after all.
"Not that I was aware of," she said. "He made a lot of money, and his only extravagance was me."
"I'd say," I said under my breath. Nobody heard. Just as well.
"Though now that you mention it, I do remember him having a heated telephone argument late last week."
"Who was that with?" asked Dykes.
"His agent, Sunny MacKsay."
"Do you know what it was about?"
Celia shook her head.
"No, not really. I asked him about it. He just waved it off saying he was having a disagreement with Sunny over the upcoming contract renewal."
"Word on the street is he was looking for fifty million a year," said Jackson.
Celia nodded.
"He was worth it. The injuries he's taken. He probably only had a few more good years left. I don't know how much he was asking or what he was negotiating, but he did say he was worth at least fifty million for the next three years."
"Who takes care of your husband's money?" asked Dykes.
"You mean our money, Detective," said Celia.
Dykes nodded his head.
"That's exactly what I mean," he said.
"Dennis Blaney," she said. "He's a fund manager for UHNW individuals."
"UHNW?" asked Dykes.
"That means Ultra High Net Worth, Detective. You have to invest a minimum of twenty-five million with Blaney, and he needs to know that you're worth at least twice that with all your assets."
"And why does he need to know that?" I asked.
Celia shot another cold look at me, and shrugged.
"Because he only deals with UHNWs," she said.
"And how is that helpful to you?" I asked.
"Last year, Mr. Carrick," she said. "Blaney managed thirty-three percent on his AUM, which is assets under management."
"And what percentage of that did you and your husband make?" I asked.
I'd been around some high net worth individuals in my time. Mostly as clients. I wasn't exactly unaware of what hedge funds were.
"We got seventy-five percent of it."
"So you made around twenty-five percent on your money?"
"Twenty-four point seventy-five percent if you must know," she said, looking down her nose at me. "How much did you make on your money last year?"
I shrugged and nodded my head from side to side.
"I wasn't in the market last year," I answered. "I keep my hundred dollars under the mattress."
"And your husband was satisfied with this Dennis Blaney?" asked Dykes, getting back into the game. She transferred her gaze to him.
"I didn't hear him complain about him. Though I wasn't a personal fan of Dennis Blaney."
"Why was that?" asked Dykes.
"He didn't seem to take the wives of his clients seriously and I thought he took too much money."
"I'd agree with you there," I added.
She looked at me and then back at Dykes.
"It wasn't his performance fee of twenty-five percent, it was his management fee which is five percent."
I whistled.
"A fool and his money," I said, looking over their heads at the empty whiteboard.
It wasn't a question and no one spoke, though I could feel all the eyes on me.
"Did your husband have a will?” I asked. I was feeling my oats.
"Of course he did," she said.
"And who benefits?"
"None of your business," she said coldly.
I looked at her lawyer. He wasn't looking at me.
"In my experience," I continued, "the person most benefiting from a death is oftentimes the one most benefiting from that death."
It made sense to me. Salisbury looked over at Celia and nodded at her. She sighed heavily, her bosom heaving like the first moons in the night sky over Makeout Point. But that was a long time ago, and I digress.
"If you must know," she said. "In the event of Jimmy's death..."
She paused for good measure and quivered her bottom lip but she didn't cry. I think she was all out of tears, and I was all out of beers which was something I fancied this very evening.
"Now that he's dead," she continued. "I am the sole heir to his estate."
"That's what I figured," I said. "I thought you were money the first time I saw you."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" she asked.
"It means you don't believe in fairytales and sugar and spice and all things nice. Rather you fancy a man with a certain heft... to his wallet."
"Mr. Carrick," said Salisbury, "I'd rather you showed my client a modicum of respect at this difficult time. We are here at our pleasure and it is turning into displeasure."
I smiled at him.
"Did you and your husband have a prenup?" I asked.
"That's it," said Salisbury, standing up, "we're leaving. Are you charging my client with anything?" he asked Dykes.
Dykes shook his head slowly.
"Nothing except gold digging. But that isn't a crime, is it, Ms. Ensor?" I asked her. The smile was still on my face, as she got up.
"Those documents are easy to come by," I added, "and you'd do well to come clean."
She stopped by the door and stared at me with that frigid look I'd been getting from her all day.
"Yes, but he loved me," she said.
Salisbury put his arm around her waist and pushed her onward. I had the distinct impression she might want to say something else but she didn't.
"I'm sure he loved something about you," I said after her, but she likely didn't hear that last bit.
Dykes stood up and turned towards me when they were gone.
"That went well," he said, and he offered me one of his last mints. I took it. He offered one to Jackson who accepted and he popped the last one in his mouth, scrunched up the wrapper, took a three pointer for garbage can, and he made the shot. I was impressed.
"I think that went very well," I agreed.
"The rim shot?" he asked. I nodded.
"So you think she's good for it?" asked Jackson.
I shrugged.
"Maybe, she's definitely not the grieving widow I was expecting," I said.
Dykes nodded, then turned towards me.
"And that prenup. I'd like to see what that says."
"Me too
. You have any friends with the DA?" I asked.
"As sure as God made little green apples."
I nodded, looking out the door that Celia and Co. had just walked out of. She was long gone, but that stench of her fakeness lingered like cheap perfume. Or maybe it was cheap perfume I was smelling.
"I'm going to the ballpark," I said. "Anyone want to join me?"
Jackson and Dykes shook their heads.
"We've got paperwork to do and I want to speak to the DA about a warrant for that lawyer of hers. I bet he has the prenup papers."
"I bet he does," I agreed.
SEVEN
A Piece Of Israel
THE taxi man dropped me off at the front entrance. He was all talk about the upcoming games. Wanted to know who I was rooting for. I told him the truth. But I would have lied. There was a real fervor in the air and if I didn't feel a soft spot for the Lovable Losers I would have pretended to root for them regardless.
He was an interesting man. He was recently from Pakistan though his English was impeccable. He was an engineer he said, but was taking courses to upgrade himself in order to train as an engineer here in the States. That wasn't the interesting bit. The interesting bit was he didn't think the Cubbies would win. He thought losing was in their blood, their genes. And what with the star pitcher murdered, he had lost all hope. But still, he would be watching the games. He urged me to find the killer. They always do that. As if I wouldn't be able to solve the crime without their serious urging.
But still, it was tender and heartfelt. So much so that I asked him if he knew Ensor. He said yes. I had to clarify. Had he ever had the man over for drinks or dinner. Of course not. But he knew him. These are the fans for you. The true fanatics. He knew a guy he'd never met. Then again, so did I. I knew Ensor, and I was getting to know him more as each moment passed, through the people who knew him.
What I knew so far was that he was a kind man. A homebody and a dutiful husband. But the witness giving that account was unreliable. I was gonna shake some different trees. See if some bruised apples fell from them. I walked into Wrigley Field like I owned it. I didn't. And a security guard was the first to point that out, until I told him I was with CPD. Didn't even need to show a badge. That was a good thing, because I didn't have one. Not one from CPD and not one from LAPD. Not that they respect that badge out here. Though collegial courtesy often goes a long way.
The security guard pointed me in the direction of the change rooms. They had been recently renovated. Supposedly quite fancy now. I'd be the judge of that. They weren't. I'd been lied to. Or perhaps I'd misheard. Maybe they were going to be renovated in the near future. I didn't care. Didn't affect me and I wouldn't be around to check them out anyway.
I walked into the wrong one. It must have been the visiting team's change rooms. How did I know this? Maybe the sign I saw after I exited that said 'Baltimore Orioles'. Hadn't noticed that when I walked in. It was empty when I got inside, and it was smaller than my ex-wife's bathroom. But she'd married into money. Still, a small place for a couple of dozen or more guys. I found the home team's change rooms. They were better, but nothing I would have bragged about. It too was empty. I walked back the way I came. I found the same guard.
"I was looking for the team," I said to him. I wasn't happy.
He shrugged at me.
"You said you were looking for the locker rooms."
That is what I had said.
"Well, I'm looking for the team," I said.
"You might want to check out the bleachers," he said, and he nodded behind himself towards and exit that led to the covered open air bleachers.
I walked past him without a word. I didn't like him. But maybe it was my mistake. I didn't care. The game was starting in a couple of days and I'd like to have things wrapped up before then. Outside it was still sunny. Smudges of gray and white clouds hung lazily in the sky watching The Birds practice ball, just like the Lovable Losers were doing. They were all dotted about in clumps not dressed in uniform. I found the older out of shape guy amongst them and figured he must be the manager. He was talking with Stark. I walked along the aisle towards them. They were standing up against a railing. Stark saw me coming and nodded at the manager who turned around and looked at me. They shifted and stood facing me as I came upon them. I grinned a real friendly smile.
"Anthony Carrick," I said, holding out my hand to shake the manager's. "You must be the manager," I said.
He nodded involuntarily like folks will often do when you catch them off guard.
"Yeah, that's right," he said. "Israel Kreyling. Press aren't invited in yet. I'm afraid you'll have to leave."
I nodded.
"I'm not press," I said. "I'm here about the murder. I'm consulting with the CPD on this homicide."
He nodded more slowly this time. He was wearing a windbreaker over a striped shirt with blue jeans. He was shorter than average with curly graying hair. He had a couple of days stubble on his face and time had clung to his lower lids like a scared man clutching the balcony from the twenty-first floor. His eyelids themselves had formed jowls. But real jowls he did not have. He was probably fifty pounds overweight and the fat gave his face a youthful look save for the lower lids. He seemed like a hairy guy, the tufts of hair on the backs of his hands and fingers gave that away.
"I've already spoken to the police," he said.
I nodded, still grinning.
"Right, but you haven't spoken to me. And I'm not the police."
Stark leaned on the railing with his one forearm. He was my height on the lean, which meant he probably had two or three inches on me standing tall. That put him at around six, six one. Israel was not leaning on anything and he was still shorter than me.
"Well, what I can do to help you then?" asked Israel.
"Did you find him out on the field here?" I asked.
"What, you mean a couple of nights ago?"
I nodded. Israel shook his head.
"No, that wasn't me. It was Darian," and he nodded his head back towards the leaning man. I nodded at him too. He just stared blankly at me with his eyes in the shadow of his ball cap.
"I also understand that Ensor was having financial troubles."
Israel squinted at me for a moment and then shrugged. I liked to make stuff up. See who knows what without telling them the what I know.
"Hadn't heard anything like that. He was looking for more money though. But that's not uncommon for a pitcher of his calibre."
"I bet everyone around here is looking for more money," I said, looking past Israel and grinning at Darian.
"Yup, but they're not all worth it."
"You think Ensor was?" I looked back at Israel.
"Worth it, you mean?" I nodded. He nodded, we were two bobble heads in the back of a senior's car on his way to Florida. "Yeah, he was worth it. A rare talent. I haven't seen talent like that up close in many years."
I tilted my head and shook it ruefully.
"Still," I said. "Fifty mill, that's a lot of money, I don't care how talented you are. How do you legitimize something like that?"
Israel reached into his back pocket and pulled out a ticket. He shook it in front of him.
"With this," he said. "I take it you're not a fan?"
"I wouldn't say that," I said. "I have money on the Cubbies, I just don't share the fanaticism of some. What is something like that worth?"
He handed it to me. I looked at it. It was Field Box 111. I handed it back to him.
"That's twenty-five hundred," he said, and put it back in his pocket.
"That's a salary," I replied.
He nodded.
"That's what fans will pay," he said.
"Really?"
He nodded again.
"Last year, average prices were around a grand. This year they're going to be fifteen hundred to two thousand. This is a historic baseball event. Never before have we had two teams from each league get into the series with such a long losing streak on both sides. Fans wan
t a piece of that. Already I've heard tickets are selling on eBay for ten grand."
I shook my head and whistled through my teeth.
"I'll take that one if you're offering," I said.
He shook his head.
"Nah, this one's taken, but if you're serious, I can get you a ticket for the final in the Club Box if you're interested."
I nodded sincerely. I immediately liked Israel. His generous spirit and friendly gesture.
"I'd like that," I said. "If it's not an inconvenience."
"Not at all, perhaps it'll be an incentive of sorts."
He smiled at me.
"I don't need an incentive," I said. "We'll find out who did this."
Israel looked out over the field, watching The Birds toss balls around. Watching the pitcher throw some balls at the batter. They were soft balls. Even I could tell that. No way in hell they were showing their best stuff out there while the competition looked on like vultures on carrion.
"But," I said, returning to conversation. "Even a full stadium at two grand a pop is not gonna pay salaries."
Israel turned back to me and nodded.
"True, but you have no idea how much the TV rights go for, and the merchandise. This is a billion dollar business, just the Cubbies," he said.
I nodded.
"Plus we have sponsors and probably a dozen other streams of income that I'm not fully aware of. Put it this way, when the owner bought the team back in oh nine, he got it for seven hundred mill. That was about five times revenues. Businessmen buy these teams because they love the sport, but also because it's profitable. This is capitalism as a well oiled machine."
I looked out a the field again.
"How much is a team like them earning in salaries?" I asked, nodding my head at The Birds on the field. Israel followed my eyes.
"Over a hundred mill," he said. "Same as our guys. Our player salary expenses are a little higher at around one hundred thirty."
I nodded.
"That's a lottery win," I said.
Israel nodded.
"Yup, but for most of these guys, it's like winning the lottery," he said. "There's a lot of kids out there dreaming and hoping to make it to the majors. The odds are against most of them."
"Which is the most valuable team in the MLB?" I asked, more curious than anything, and taking a side road away from the task at hand.
Anthony Carrick Hardboiled Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3) Page 57
