by Dean Kutzler
Was this the key?
Jack yanked it free from the coffin and it fit in the palm of his hand as he held it under the phone’s light. An intricate rope-shaped ring lay in his hand. It gathered where the tassle ends of rope met and went straight out, past the circle shape equally on each side. The ends flanged downward, forming the little spikes that had held it onto the coffin. Jack flipped it over and felt little notches of different sizes along the spikes that were stuck into the wood. He picked off mahogany splinters that remained on the spikes and saw holes on the end. It looked like it was hollow throughout the shape. It was definitely a match to the shape on the door, but he noticed that it didn’t match the rest of the brass adornments on the coffin. It was much older, the patina clearly darker.
“NYPD! Come out into the open! Hands first—where we can see them!” The police had finally arrived and were gathered at the top of the ladder. The rain had lessened, but still poured down steadily over his uncle’s urn sitting in a puddle beside the ladder. The vault floor was slowly flooding in from the entranceway. Flipping the strange key over and over in his hand, Jack heard the priest’s words about justice echoing in his head as he gently closed the door to his third great grandmother Grace Elliot’s coffin. He pocketed the key and headed towards the ladder, ready to give his statement to the police.
Water rolled off the body bag in dizzying little rivers that ran nowhere. The EMT’s wheeled Franklin Elliot’s body into the ambulance. Jack opened the umbrella the police had given him and wrapped his arm around his mother, pulling her underneath it. As the ambulance started to pull away his mother began to shake. Tears edged the corner of his eyes and he sniffed them back. Time for that later. Right now he had to stay strong for his mother. She’d been a kept southern woman long before Jack’s birth and she would be well taken care of financially, but his father was the only life she had known. Adjusting was going to be a long, hard process for her. He was glad he hadn’t let his father’s indiscretion slip any further from his mouth during the limo ride. She’s better off in her perfect southern world.
The police had taken everyone to the station for questioning-Caroline DuBois, the real Father Joseph, the groundskeeper and even the nosey onlookers that were first on the scene. No one knew where the shooter had come from, nor had anyone other than his mother seen him.
Detective Scanlin had been apprised of the murder of Jack’s father and the lack of details at the scene. Jack also told him the name the priest had given him and said that the priest mumbled something incoherently and that the only thing he could make out was the name Stephen Alazar. He left out the part about the key, remembering what the priest said about the pawns in the justice system. More condolences were offered from Detective Scanlin and reassurances that he’d get to the bottom of what was going on. He even authorized a detail of a couple police officers to watch over his mother’s home.
The readings of Uncle Terry’s will had been scheduled for the day after his funeral. Due to the tragic event, his mother was unable to attend. Barnabas Leibowitz, his uncle’s estate lawyer offered to postpone for a future date, but Jack insisted on continuing with the reading. His mother had been through enough and now she had to plan her husband’s funeral. She would learn the outcome of Uncle Terry’s will from Jack when she was ready. It’s one thing recovering from the loss of a friend or even a parent, the tragedy speaks for itself, but the loss of one’s spouse or lover is a different tragedy altogether. The intimate bonds shared with a lover or spouse bring a person to a whole new level of emotion and the tragedy is felt deeper in the heart. In the very soul.
The recovery process is a much harder road to fathom, let alone travel. His mother insisted that she would be okay at home. She told Jack to remain in his hotel room and that she would check in with him every day. She surprised him. Despite her southern ways of familial bonds, she chose to mourn her husband’s death alone. He was secretly thankful for the space because he had a lot of investigating of his own to do.
The rainstorm had passed, dispensing enough tragic events for one day. The morning after shone bright with hope for a better day and promise of a new start, like it had been doing for the last few millennia in clear disregard of humanity. Jack took a deep breath and put on his sunglasses after walking out of his hotel. It was hard to believe the tragedy from the day before on such a beautiful morning in the city of cement as his mother had put it.
The lawyer’s office wasn’t far from his hotel and the fresh air would do him good. The stretch would allow his contemplative brain the time it needed to recap the events. Someone had murdered his uncle, a dying man in a catatonic state.
Why?
Had his uncle known something so important to warrant his early death? For fear he’d tell someone? Someone was targeting his family and they were making sure no one could talk. But about what? Jack pushed his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose. He wore them for more than just the sunny day.
His first step after the appointment with the lawyer would be finding this Stephen Alazar, the priest that Father Angeli spoke about. He wasn’t sure yet how he was going to play it out, once and if he found him, but he wasn’t giving him the odd key until he had some solid answers. The priest also mentioned something about the Sons of God finding him. Sons? What a strange expression. Last time he checked, there had only been one. Jack didn’t have a clue what any of it meant, but his experience in investigative work researching his articles gave him ideas on where to start.
The lawyer’s office was modest in decor with handsome wood paneling and minimal art. His desk was made of dark lacquered wood with a matching blotter set and standard leather high-back chair. Birds flew past the panoramic window overlooking the theater district behind the desk.
Barnabas Leibowitz Esq. was tall in stature with a lean muscular frame. His hair was short and dark, graying at his temples, giving him the older sophisticated look a fit man in his mid-fifties was eagerly gracious to welcome. He seated Jack in a comfortable wing chair in front of his desk and gave his condolences on his father’s death.
“I’m truly sorry, Jack, for all the tragedy that has unfolded on your lap in such a short time. My colleagues and I are quite baffled by the crime and saddened, to say the least. At this point, all we have left is our faith in the justice system.” His solemn smile lacked sincerity as he patted Jack’s back in comfort.
“Thank you, Mr. Leibowitz.” Jack nodded, taking his seat.
“Barnabas. Please, call me Barnabas or Barney, either would be fine.”
“Thank you, Barnabas,” Jack said, uncomfortable using Barney. It made him think of Barney Fife on The Andy Griffith Show.
“I promise to make the reading as quick and straight forward as possible.” He sat behind his desk and pulled a file from a drawer. “The provisions by which your late uncle had left for the reading had encompassed leaving his equity and possessions in percentages between your family and yourself basically.” He drew an imaginary dividing line in the air with his hands. “In light of recent tragic events, I had to amend the docket for today’s reading. Normally, in a case such as this one where an inheritor passes away before the time of endowment, that portion of the inheritor’s inheritance would then go into his estate until probate is discerned. Not only would that be extraneously costly, but it would also tie up the inheritance for an indefinite amount of time. You follow me so far?” He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over the docket, pride in his work ethic clearly showing on his face.
Jack nodded for him to continue.
“Your uncle was a very influential man and more than just a client to this firm. I was able to pull a few strings to avoid costly litigation.” He said straightening up in his chair, addressing the docket again. “I’m sure that your uncle had his reasons for secrecy, which I was not privy to in regards to the two readings. But that is no longer necessary now. Terry Elliot’s entire estate worth totals a sum of $4.2 billion. Non-liquid assets totaling two billion, the b
iggest portion of $1.5 billion deemed at the time fair market value for the brownstone, his main residency here in Manhattan and $500 million in varying stocks, shares, money market accounts and bonds. The total of all his liquid asset accounts respectively sum $2.2 billion. Your late uncle had made very good investment decisions with his hard earned money.”
“I’ll say,” Jack said feeling a twinge of guilt, fearing judgment from the lawyer, yet again. Although Jack had never directly discussed any money matters with his uncle, he did know that Uncle Terry had done quite well in his profession defending many important people. But the magnitude of his wealth was astonishing.
The lawyer flashed a tight-lipped smile as he continued. “As for the liquid assets, your late uncle had originally divided it equally amongst yourself and your mother and father as a unit, 25 percent for each of them. Since the loss of your father, your mother now receives the full 50 percent of his liquid assets. That percentage represents $1.1 billion. For sake of ease I have rounded the numbers, but the funds will be dispensed accordingly, to the penny. It is your fiduciary right as a family member, however, to contest any inheritance you find misgiven.” Another tight-lipped smile.
“Oh no, sir. I’m just—I ah, just didn’t realize he was worth so much.” Jack’s face reddened. This was twice now that he made the lawyer think him greedy. The first indiscretion was on the phone when he learned about the inheritance. He didn’t care about the money. He was still numbed from the loss of both his uncle and father and now at the staggering wealth his uncle had built. The hefty inheritance that he was going to receive hadn’t crossed his thoughts once. He’d forgo it all to have his uncle and father back. Jack couldn’t lie to himself, his face further darkened, but the pain from the loss of his uncle hurt worse than his father’s fresh murder. The shame of it bit at his conscience.
Is it wrong to deny your true feelings?
“Your portion of 50 percent represents the equal $1.1 billion.” The lawyer reached into the drawer and pulled out a form. “Please fill out all the pertinent info for how and where you would like your inheritance transferred into your accounts. It can be divvied up however you like between checking, savings, CDs, etc. It’s all on the form, but let me please advise you in case you are unaware. FDIC regulations limit the insurance up to $100,000 per depositor account. What that means to you is that you are only insured by the government, in any case of catastrophic loss on the bank’s part up, to $100,000 per account. In other words, if your account balance holds a sum of $100,001, and the bank goes under, you will lose $1. You would only be reimbursed $100,000. Most people aren’t aware of this, so I suggest that you open several accounts to remain within the FDIC limits and have the interest deposited into separate accounts. Any bank official can help you with the logistics.”
“That is great advice, Barnabas. Thank you,” he said, trying to ease his embarrassment at the lawyer’s judgment, his face slowly returning to normal. The lawyer merely nodded and continued.
“As for the non-liquid assets, I will spare you the long list of items that comprise $500,000 worth of tangibility that will be endowed to your mother.” He pulled yet another file from the drawer and slid it over to Jack. “I’ve had my assistant compile the list and draw up instructions in layman’s terms for your mother to follow in order to receive her portion of the endowment, when she is ready of course.” He nodded in sympathy. “And for the rest of the non-liquid assets, his sole residence, the brownstone and its entire contents, he bequeathed solely to you alone. It will take some time for the process of title transfer, but I’ll make sure it’s handled in an efficient and timely manner.”
Jack had done the mental math while the lawyer was summing up the non-liquid inheritance, figuring out that his uncle’s home was going to be left to him, but he was still dumbfounded when the lawyer finally stated it. Just like that, he was rich. His guilt tugged harder at his conscience, but he couldn’t help his feelings on this matter either. He would take the endowment and spend every last penny of it bringing his family’s murderers to justice.
“I just have one question, Barnabas, if I may?” he asked, filling out the documentation the lawyer had given him. “What would have been in my separate reading of the will that was excluded in the reading for my parents and I?”
“The brownstone.”
November 3, 3:20 P.M., EST
The Brownstone, Upper East Side
THE LOUD CONTINUOUS beep abruptly stopped once Jack silenced the entry alarm with the security code Barnabas had given him, along with the keys and some pertinent papers. He reviewed the systems console and then quickly changed the code for safe measure. The security system in his uncle’s brownstone was wired tighter than Fort Knox. No one got in unless they had the code.
His suitcase wheels softly clicked against the parquet floor as he set the bag down and turned, taking the familiar place in. He closed his eyes and treasured memories flooded his head like water to Noah’s ark, drowning his heart in sorrow. Many years had passed since Jack was a boy, running up and down the hallways of this majestic upper east side home. The home which now he would sadly call his own.
The decor hadn’t changed much over time. High ceilings and crown molding. The overall theme was rich in modern day French provincial style furniture and accents. The walls were richly dressed in William Morris wallpaper showcasing a variety of expensive periodical wall art matching the decor’s theme. Lazy midday sunlight shone in through handsomely dressed Baroque style windows, lending the brownstone an air of balance in design and fashion that complimented the warmth of all thirteen rooms. His uncle’s tastes were exquisite without bordering too close to rich aristocratic obnoxiousness. Jack didn’t think he’d ever get used to this place without his uncle around. Overwhelmed by it all, he went upstairs and unpacked.
During the cab ride from the hotel, Jack phoned his partner Calvin. Guilt seasoned his voice message as he apologized and filled him in on all that had happened—his uncle’s funeral, his father’s murder, the inheritance.
Over the course of Jack’s stay in New York, Calvin had left Jack several messages, each one more worried in nature than the last. He even played the Clavis card again. That little white spot on his cat’s nose twitched inside his head.
Oh, little Clavis.
Jack foolishly allowed the events to get in the way of returning Calvin’s calls, when it should have been the first thing he did.
Why did he wait?
Calvin had every right not picking up the phone, Jack thought after leaving his message. He should have phoned sooner. It was unwarranted neglect on his part. He missed Calvin and felt guilt course strongly through his veins like a spiraling eddy of regret. Calvin was right. Jack should’ve folded and let him come to Manhattan. Despite their separation, Jack’s heart ached for Calvin’s companionship to help him get through all this tragedy. But isn’t that sometimes what part of separation is about? Learning how to cope and abandoning codependency? Jack opened that little file in his head and tucked that one away along with the rest for later. He had a job to do and that started with finding Mr. Stephen Alazar. He headed back downstairs to his uncle’s office.
Jack began with the obvious—the phone book. The name Stephen Alazar didn’t carry the repetitious stead of John Smith and Ma-Bell had the proof. Not a one listed. There had been a few Alazars, but nothing close to Stephen, Steven or Steve nor even just the initial S. He tossed the book back under his uncle’s desk.
Before placing a call into his contacts back at the Gazette in Montréal and having to explain everything, he sat his scratched laptop down in front of his uncle’s computer monitor and took a seat. He glanced at the antique brass phone sitting on edge of the desk. Nobody used directory assistance anymore. Technology had improved and advanced the world, but in hindsight, evolution had its disgruntled points of view. Do live operators still even exist?
The reflection of Apple’s computer gear spun in Jack’s eyes like the carriage of a slideshow pr
ojector, flashing precious memories in the gathering tears while he waited to surf Thewhitepages.com. Fine scrollwork gently receded beneath his touch as he ran his hands about the surface of the handsome antique desk. Jack had seen many executive desks like this before, but this one had been his uncle’s desk. The one he sat at every morning or evening while he went about his work, preparing for litigation and such. The calendar blotter sat on top of the richly lacquered desk, filled with old appointments, notes and doodles. Sticky notes hung like floppy dog ears on each side the computer monitor and reached down to infect the stacked bins alongside the screen. Even the antique Rolodex had sticky note mouse ears. Sticky-happy, much?
The house had been kept like a museum, but Uncle Terry’s most personal effects littered the cubbyholes and nooks of his desk and work area, biting at Jack with painful endearment like salt in a wound.
The laptop was taking too long to turn on. That wasn’t normal for Apple. There must be more damage than just that scratch. They’ll never take it back, Jack thought to himself. Guilt quickly flushed his face when he thought about how he could afford another new one, now.
Maybe he’d have better luck and his uncle’s computer wouldn’t be password protected. He shoved the laptop aside and closed it. The forced air from the lid blew a sticky note ear off the Rolodex. As he was bending down to turn on the computer tower beneath the desk, his brow creased at what was written on the fallen note.
Benny Eloheem.
Jack put the sticky note back onto the old Rolodex and pushed the power button in on his uncle’s computer. While his hand lingered on the card file, his eyebrows raised. “Is that someone he was investigating?” He said to himself as he rolled back the cover. The cards spun like a magician’s trick as he wheeled through the contacts stopping at the letter E. No one with the last name Eloheem. He gave the Rolodex another spin, stopping at B just in case his uncle’s filing system was faulty. No Benny either. It must have been a court case his uncle had been recently working. That gave him an idea. His fingers laced through his goatee as he thought for a moment. He rolled the wheel back a click and his eyes narrowed.
