“How may I help you?” she asked.
“We’d like to see Ryan Jones,” I said. “He’s expecting us.”
If she saw our badges, it didn’t seem to faze her. “One moment, please.” She picked up a desk phone and quietly spoke into it. Then she hung up. “He’ll be right with you.”
As she said, Jones materialized in the lobby almost instantly.
“Yes, Detectives,” he said as he introduced himself, his blue eyes intense. “Why don’t you come back to the conference room?”
He wore an expensive blue suit, hot pink shirt, and a matching tie. He looked, quite frankly, sexy as hell. Not too many men could pull off that style, but I’d bet Harry could. Everything about Jones’s attitude was smooth, even the way he led us down the hall. He held a glass door open for us, and Spats and I entered a large conference room with an oval table. We took seats, and Jones slipped into a leather armchair. He swiveled it around, put his fingertips together, and stared at me inquisitively.
“What’s the purpose of your visit, Detectives?” he asked, clearly a man who wasted no time.
I began. “We’re in the middle of a murder investigation, and we found that the victim, Judge Henry Halloran, called here a few times in the last week.”
Spats pulled a notepad from his coat pocket and glanced at it, then listed the times. Jones nodded his head while Spats talked.
“Are you familiar with Judge Halloran?” I asked.
Jones wrinkled his eyes. “I think I heard something about him on the news last night, but I don’t recall the exact situation. Three judges have recently been killed, correct?” I nodded, and he said, “I don’t recall Halloran phoning. Let me check with Elise.” He stood up and left the room.
I glanced around. “Nice digs.”
Spats nodded. “So how do the uber-rich pay bills?” he asked in a hushed tone. “I’ve always wondered. Do they carry cash, have a credit card?”
I shrugged, but before I could answer, Jones returned and slipped back into his seat.
“Mr. Halloran wanted to speak to our client, Sanders Frost.”
I sat a little straighter. “Sanders Frost?” Spats tensed beside me.
Jones nodded. “Yes. Elise talked to one of my colleagues who instructed her to get a message to Sanders, and she did so.”
“I guess you don’t just look up someone like Sanders Frost in the online white pages,” I said with a smile.
He lifted up his hands. “I don’t know whether Sanders called Halloran back or not.”
I thought back to my reading of the Bradley trial. “Sanders lives in a mansion near University and Alameda.”
Jones nodded. “Yes, he’s been there for quite some time.”
“His gardener killed a man on the property,” Spats said.
Jones frowned distastefully. “Yes, that was about twenty years ago. An unfortunate event. I had only just begun working here.”
“What do you know about it?” I asked.
He straightened his tie as he thought. “That was a long time ago, but as I recall, Sanders’s gardener kept a stash of drugs in a shed at the back of the property, and Sanders didn’t know this. Wasn’t the gardener – I forget his name –working to get the grounds ready for a party? He’d met some other guy there, and they had some kind of altercation, I think, and the other man was shot and killed.”
“What else do you remember about it?” I prodded.
“No one knew about it until after the party. Sanders and some of the guests had gone back to the fountain and they found the dead guy.” He rested a hand on the table. “Didn’t the gardener deny the whole thing, said that he’d been high at the time? The jury didn’t buy it, I remember that much, and he went to prison.”
“Judge Halloran was the presiding judge on that trial,” I said.
Jones looked at me, his eyes puzzled. “And now he’s dead?”
I nodded. “And within the last week, he wanted to talk to Sanders.”
“Yes, but I have no idea what that’s about,” Jones said. “You’d have to talk to Sanders.”
“And I assume you have his number?” I asked.
His face pinched. “I normally don’t give that out.” He knew he was in a delicate situation. He had to protect the privacy of his client, but he also needed to work with law enforcement. “What if I call him and arrange an appointment, say an hour from now? If Mr. Frost agrees.”
I nodded. “That would be fine.”
Jones stood up. “Let me call him.”
He left the room again, and this time Spats and I remained silent. Jones came back a moment later. “Sanders will be available in about half an hour.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Let me ask, anything out of the ordinary about how Sanders has been acting lately?”
“I haven’t talked to him much, but maybe a little more abrupt than usual.” He shrugged. “That’s his way, though, so it’s hard to tell.”
I looked around at oil paintings on the walls and a high-end credenza at the other end of the room, then focused on Jones. I smiled. “If you don’t mind my asking, what exactly do you do?”
He returned the smile. “Most people don’t know what a family office does. We work solely for the Frost family. Are you familiar with them?”
“Vaguely,” I said. “Only what I’ve heard in the news, mostly about charity events.” I knew the family had billions, but other than that, I didn’t have a clue. Spats shook his head as well.
“Generally the Frost family has kept a low profile,” Ryan said. “Anderson Frost, Sanders’s father, lived here in Denver, but he moved to New York in the ’80s. He also has residences in New York and San Francisco. Anderson and his father – Sanders’s grandfather – did quite well in the oil industry in the late ’70s and early ’80s, and as you can imagine, with that level of wealth, it’s helpful to have people manage the finances and the family affairs. It’s a full-time job. That’s what we do.”
“I understand you’re a lawyer,” I said. “And Jones Limited employs at least one other lawyer, some accountants, and some assistants.”
He nodded, pleasant as ever. “That’s correct. I’ve worked for the Frost family for over twenty years, and my father was a lawyer for them before that. Managing financial affairs for high-net-worth families is a complex business.”
“What can you tell us about Sanders?” Spats asked.
“Well, he’s one of Brown Frost’s grandchildren, and Anderson’s only child. Sanders has lived here almost his entire life.”
He was careful, so I pressed him a bit. “Could you tell me a bit more? Where did Sanders go to school?”
“He went to a prep school in Connecticut, then attended Yale. He’s been married for twenty-five years, and he has a son and a daughter who are in boarding school now.”
“Where does Sanders work?” I went on.
He smiled. “Sanders is on the board of a couple of companies, and he devotes a lot of time to several charities.”
He was polite but guarded in what he would say about his client. I went on. “Do you recall Sanders ever talking about that murder?”
He shook his head. “Sanders and his wife were completely blindsided by it, and discovering a body like that, a complete stranger, that was quite a shock for everyone.”
Spats let me continue. “You remember that?”
“Oh yes. I was at the party, and Sanders was quite angry when it all happened. That party was a charity benefit, and his wife was upset that all the guests had seen that, and the police had them all stay for questioning. It really was a mess. His father wasn’t happy about it, either, didn’t like the family name being tarnished in any way.”
“What else did Sanders say?”
He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”
“You have no idea why Judge Halloran was trying to get in touch with Sanders? Halloran didn’t say?”
He shook his head. “No, I asked Elise that.”
“And you didn’t talk to Halloran
?”
“No, Detective, I did not.”
I believed that.
“Perhaps you should talk to Sanders yourself?” Jones said politely.
It was a dismissal, and I was okay with that. He was right. I’d get more from Sanders himself. Jones walked us back to the lobby.
“I hope you get to the bottom of things.” Jones said.
Spats and I thanked him for his time, and left.
“So why was Halloran trying to get in touch with Sanders Frost?” Spats asked as he punched the elevator button.
“Good question,” I said. “Let’s see what Sanders has to say.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Sanders Frost lived in a large mansion on a couple of acres surrounded by a tall wooden fence near University and Alameda. Once Spats and I were cleared by a security guard at the entrance gate to the neighborhood, we drove down a winding road, then up a long driveway to park in front of the two-story, white stone and brick mansion. The slate roof and the four-car garage were partially hidden by the evergreens that towered all around. Spats parked behind me as I got out of the Escape and walked up a long stone path to the front porch. Dark clouds had formed to the west, and the air was cold. I pressed the bell and, after a long moment, a butler in a dark suit, white shirt, and black tie opened the door. Before Spats or I could say anything, he spoke.
“Detectives, Mr. Frost is waiting for you.”
He moved back to let us in. We entered a massive foyer with vaulted ceilings and two staircases on opposite walls.
“Please follow me.” His voice echoed in the large space.
We crossed a black marble floor, and he escorted us down a wide hallway underneath the stairs, then took a right. We went to double doors that opened into a large, high-ceilinged game room. The butler stepped to the side, then announced, “The detectives, sir.”
Standing in front of a walnut pool table with lions’ claw legs was a man about average height, with charcoal hair, dark eyes, and a round face speckled with veins. He was bent over the table, a pool cue in his hands, and he glanced up at us.
“One moment.” He aimed the shot, hit the cue ball, and pocketed a striped ball. Then he straightened up, smoothed out his tan slacks, and laid the pool cue down on the table. He pulled at a gray cardigan sweater as he walked toward us.
“Sanders Frost,” he said as he held out a hand. Spats introduced himself and shook his hand. Sanders turned to me.
“Detective Spillman.” His handshake was feeble, held nothing behind it.
Sanders glanced toward the butler. “That’ll be all, Ferguson.”
Ferguson tipped his head and backed out of the room, closing the doors as he did so. Sanders looked at us.
“Could I offer either of you anything to drink?”
Spats and I shook our heads, and Sanders walked over to a long bar against the wall and poured himself a whiskey over ice. As he did so, he said, “My wife is out shopping, and I had a moment to myself. I wasn’t expecting a call from the police. What can I help you with?”
I took the lead. “Thank you for seeing us. We’re in the middle of an investigation –”
“Those judges that were murdered?” he interrupted. He lifted his glass and took a long pull from his drink.
“Yes.” I looked quickly around the room. Two pinball machines sat in one corner, a poker table in another, and a built-in glass case against one wall was full of trophies, what kind, I couldn’t tell.
“I do have a busy schedule,” he said, “but I’m always happy to help law enforcement.”
I resisted rolling my eyes. He clearly wasn’t doing anything important at the moment. “Judge Halloran, who presided over the Scott Bradley trial, called Jones Limited a few times in the last week or so, trying to make contact with you. Do you know why he would do that, or why he was trying to get hold of you?”
Sanders pursed his lips. “I have no idea.”
“Did you talk to him?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I’ve been pretty busy lately, and honestly, I got the message, but forgot to reply.”
“Would he have wanted to discuss the trial with you?” Spats asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t see why. It was a long time ago, and I haven’t thought about that incident in years.”
“Has Scott Bradley tried to contact you?”
He shook his head. “Not that I know of.” He moved around the bar and back to the pool table. He took another drink, then set the glass on a side table under a window. He picked up his cue stick, rubbed chalk on it, and as he aimed, he said, “That was a very unfortunate situation.”
“What can you tell us about it?” I asked.
He hit the cue ball, then straightened. “Forgive me. If you’d like to sit down …” He pointed with the stick toward a brown leather couch under one of the windows. Spats and I shook our heads and remained standing. Sanders shrugged. “I employed Scott for about three years. He was a nice young kid. I met him through the company that he worked for. He spent a summer at my house, was here almost every day, busy with the upkeep of the grounds. I had asked to have some trees moved and bushes trimmed. A large place like this takes a lot of maintenance, and he was a good gardener. After seeing Scott work for a while, I was impressed. He knew what he was doing, and you didn’t have to explain things to him. By the end of the summer, I decided to hire him myself and offered him a full-time position. He took it.” He aimed and missed hitting a ball in the corner pocket. He glanced at me. “I never had any problems with him.”
Spats crossed his arms as he watched Sanders play. “What did you know about his background?”
Sanders put the cue down, drained his glass, then walked over to the bar again. “I believe his parents were hard-working people. I don’t remember what his mother did, but his father was a gardener, and Scott said he learned everything from him.” A smile of admiration crossed his face as he poured more whiskey. “The dad must’ve been good at his work, because Scott certainly was, although I got the sense that his father could be difficult.”
“Did you know that Scott did drugs?” Spats asked.
Sanders paused. “No, I didn’t. Maybe that was naïve of me, but I had no idea. And I didn’t do drug tests or anything like that on my staff back then. He passed a background check, and he hadn’t been in any kind of trouble. And he did good work.”
“Did he seem like a vengeful person?” I asked.
He thought about that as he took another drink. “No, not that I recall.”
I kept an easy manner. “What happened the night Alex Knight died?”
Sanders contemplated his glass for a moment. “I can only tell you what I know. Or that the police surmised. We were having a big charity benefit that night, and Scott had worked all day out in the gardens.” Another drink. “I’m really proud of the yard and gardens, and I knew that people would be walking around. It was a warm night in July, and the weather was perfect. That afternoon, my wife and I were busy in the house, getting ready. As far as I knew, Scott was working in the yard. What I didn’t know was that he apparently had gone to the shed at the back of the property to get high, and he must’ve met his drug dealer back there.”
“When was the last time you saw Scott before the party?” Spats asked.
He frowned. “It was a long time ago, but I think it was maybe around three or so. I remember going back to the fountain sitting area at the far end of the property and telling Scott to make sure everything was swept up and ready to go. He said he was almost done, and I left him there. I came back inside and got involved in other things. Then our guests began arriving.”
“Did Scott seem high when you talked to him?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Not that I recall.”
“And then what happened?” I watched him closely.
He stood there, glass in his hand. “Our guests arrived, and we had an open buffet and bar. I was visiting with people, and then I decided to take a group out to the fountain. We came dow
n the path, and then saw Scott and that other man, Alex, lying on the ground. As I approached, I saw that Scott had a gun in his hand, and Alex was nearby with a bullet hole in his head.”
“Did you know Alex?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I’d never seen him before in my life. A couple of the women started screaming, and then Scott came to. He acted surprised, and he swore and got up. He said something about this wasn’t supposed to happen.”
I tipped my head, puzzled. “What did that mean?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Then what?” Spats asked.
He finished his drink. “Someone called 911, and the police arrived soon after that. It was a mess, quite frankly. None of the guests could leave, everyone had to be interviewed, and, of course, the party was ruined.”
“Yes, that must’ve been too bad,” I murmured.
He blushed. “I suppose that doesn’t sound too good. But you have to understand, it was a big charity benefit, and it affected donations. And our reputation.”
I nodded slowly. “How did the evening end?”
“They arrested Scott and took him away, along with the body. I didn’t see Scott again until I had to testify at his trial. I heard that he went to prison, and I don’t know what happened to him after that.”
So far, I wasn’t hearing anything that would explain why Halloran wanted to talk to Sanders. “Could we see the fountain?” I asked.
“Of course.” He grabbed his drink, realized it was empty, then set the glass down on the table and gestured at us. “It’s chilly out there now.”
“That’s okay,” Spats said.
We all walked back into the hall and stopped at some French doors at the back of the mansion. He went into another room and returned with a coat. He donned it, then open the doors and led us outside.
“It’s this way.”
The yard was huge, with a pool covered with a tarp and a lawn that had gone brown for the winter. There were lots of sculpted bushes, tall evergreens, and maple trees, some still with leaves. We walked by the pool and followed a path through tall shrubbery. The massive evergreens muted any sounds from the surrounding streets. We finally came to an open area with a large fountain that at the moment wasn’t flowing. Several benches were situated around it. It was a nice area. I pulled my coat against the cold as I looked around.
Deadly Judgment (Detective Sarah Spillman Mystery Series Book 5) Page 22
