( 2011) Cry For Justice

by Ralph Zeta

  “My mother has Alzheimer’s. Very advanced. She can’t be of any help to you or Amy.”

  Shit.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Steinberg.” I really meant it. It reminded me of my own mother’s illness and what a family experiences seeing a loved one slowly waste away.

  “Mackenzie,” she interrupted. “Please, call me Mackenzie. Steinberg was my married name.”

  “Very well,” I said, “Mackenzie it is.”

  “My friends call me Mac.”

  I smiled.

  “Tell me about Norma Kelly,” she said, bringing us back to the purpose of my visit. “I hadn’t seen her in years. Was it her MS?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  She glanced at me sideways, her eyes narrowing.

  “It seems she may have taken her own life.”

  Her gasp could not have been an act. “That’s terrible! Amy must be so shaken by this. How is she?” Her eyes revealed a sudden and sad realization.

  “She’s okay for now,” I replied. “Which is the reason why I’m here rudely taking you away from your guests. Please forgive the intrusion. I should have made an appointment.”

  “No, please,” she said. “My guests are fine; they can get on without me. Please continue.”

  I described the circumstances of Amy’s predicament and what she believed led to her mother’s death. Then, with lawyerly care, I explained what had prompted Amy to seek my help: that Mrs. Kelly’s husband, who went by the name of Evan Robertson, apparently a British national, had vanished, and all indications were he may had vanished along with most of their fortune. I had information that he may have been in the Naples area recently. She said she was not familiar with the name but, then again, she divided her time between her mother’s residence here and her own home in Connecticut.

  “But there are some people I’d like you to meet.” She stood up and walked toward the door. I followed her gladly.

  We passed a voluminous dining room whose massive table was set for some two dozen guests. We then walked by a restaurant-size kitchen, where the woman who had welcomed me now supervised a staff of four women in the same livery of black slacks, crisp long-sleeved white dress shirt, and black apron.

  Mackenzie led me through a French door near the far wall of the kitchen and outside onto the verandah, where we could hear the soft plash of wavelets on an unseen beach. It was a lovely evening, with the half-moon partially obscured by clouds as it hung low in the western sky.

  With an over-the-shoulder glance, she beckoned me toward a spacious columned loggia on the north side of the property. The elegant tile-roofed structure, open to the elements on three sides, had long, streaming white curtains that danced in the gentle breeze. Inside, a dozen well-dressed men and women sat on long, plush couches arranged around a large crackling fireplace. Soft jazz floated from hidden speakers, and numerous candles and flower arrangements made it an inviting space.

  “Oh, there you are!” said an older man holding a fat cigar. “We were beginning to wonder if you had deserted us, Mac!”

  Heads turned, and I was greeted by curious stares. Mackenzie introduced me to her guests. I couldn’t possibly keep them all straight, but the names were straight off Billionaires’ Row: DuPont, Walden, Rothschild, Stahl, Frère, Ellis, and Waltz. She introduced me as a friend and legal counsel to her mother’s dear friend who recently passed away in Palm Beach. Everyone I met was friendly and amiable in that aloof way in which those who grew up surrounded by old wealth keep lesser mortals at bay. And yet, Mackenzie, although she undoubtedly had enjoyed the same life of privilege, did not seem to suffer from that vaguely mistrustful aloofness that her guests seemed to share something that, in my book, made her stand out as someone of special character.

  A large black man dressed in the same manner as the house staff appeared at my side and offered me a cigar from an open mahogany humidor. I peeked inside. The elegant box was filled with fine examples of the very best Cuban contraband to be found this side of the Florida Straits. I chose a long stogie, and the man put the box on a nearby table, then cut the cigar for me and produced a silver lighter with a fine blue blowtorch flame. And soon I was illegally puffing away with the best of the billionaires.

  “Brandy, perhaps, sir?” the waiter asked in a melodic West Indian accent.

  “Yes, thank you,” I replied.

  Mackenzie took my elbow and guided me toward two men who were talking in a quiet corner of the loggia, and made introductions. The younger of the two was Chase Roebuck, an investment banker from New York. The older man was retired Rear Admiral George Allen Bond, of the British Royal Admiralty. Mackenzie explained to the men the purpose of my visit: that I was trying to locate a man by the name of Evan Robertson, a British national who may have frequented the area, regarding a matter of an estate. Neither man seemed to recognize the name. I showed them the copy of the old Polaroid. Admiral Bond examined the picture first. He was perhaps in his mid-sixties. He had longish white hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and deep-set blue eyes. The man who had given me the cigar appeared with a tray bearing a large snifter of amber liquor, which he presented it to me with a pleasant smile.

  “Hardy Perfection, a hundred forty years old,” Mackenzie murmured.

  I let the first sip rest on my tongue for a second or two. It was the finest cognac I’ve ever tasted before or since. With the aroma of the fine cigar, the balmy Gulf breeze, and the beauty of my hostess, it all added up to a lovely experience. Very unexpected.

  She was looking at me, studying my face. A smile formed on those perfect lips.

  “It was my father’s favorite brandy,” she said.

  I realized then that I wanted this evening to last much longer than it possibly could, and the thought caught me by surprise. I had just met her. For all I knew, she was unavailable, probably involved with someone else.

  “I can understand why,” I said, catching myself. “It is truly marvelous.” Now I was starting to sound like one of them.

  Chase Roebuck raised his snifter in a toast. “To Admiral Eugene Patterson Cahill the Third.” We all raised our glasses. “May he sail forever in friendly seas.”

  “Hear, hear!” echoed the voices in the loggia.

  “Thank you, Chase,” Mackenzie said, laying a hand on his arm. She was not wearing an engagement ring. It was difficult to fathom that a woman like her had not been snatched up long ago. Don’t get too excited, sport, I chided myself. With her looks it was safe to bet that my very lovely hostess had far more suitable suitors than I to pick from. The last thing she needed in her life was a closet cynic from Palm Beach who spent too much time in the sun and sometimes overimbibed.

  “You were always one of my dad’s favorites, you know,” she said to Chase with a sweet fondness in her voice.

  “That’s very nice of you to say,” he said, beaming, and leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She welcomed the gesture. “But that never did help me out much as far as you were concerned, now, did it, my darling?”

  She smiled and said; “Chase, you do know you’re much too good for me, don’t you? I could never live up to you.”

  “Darling,” he said to her, squeezing her shoulder, “you’re too kind.”

  Too good for her? From the looks of it, Chase-boy was a player of the first order, the kind of upper-crust understated bachelor who had scores of women waiting for him everywhere he went. What was I missing?

  After a moment’s chuckle, the old admiral said to me, “No, I’m afraid I don’t know this man. Sorry.” He offered the picture to Chase. Chase examined it for a moment. I saw something in his face a twinge of recognition, perhaps?

  “What is it?” I asked him.

  He ignored the question and instead walked to one of the large candles sitting on a brass pedestal, for a better view.

  “Chase?” Mackenzie said as we both watched him study the image.

  “I think this may be him,” Chase finally said, mostly to himself. “The quality of the pictur
e isn’t all that great, but I do believe I recognize the man on the left.”

  “You sure?” I asked.

  He returned the picture to me, and I tucked it back in the inside pocket of my jacket.

  “As sure as I can be.” Chase took a deep puff from his cigar and blew the smoke up and away. “That picture’s bit old, but the face is unmistakable.”

  “How are you acquainted with Mr. Robertson?” I asked, trying to judge whether we were both talking about the same person. From what I knew about Evan or Stefan, he would certainly leave behind clear memories.

  “May I ask what this is about, Mr....?”

  “Justice,” I replied. “Jason Justice.”

  “Chase, darling,” Mackenzie interrupted, putting a hand on Chase’s arm. She drew near and, in a lower voice, explained that I was a lawyer out of Palm Beach trying to locate this man, the husband of an old family friend, because apparently, a substantial amount of assets had gone missing from the estate, and the beneficiaries believed that Mr. Robertson may know something about where those assets might be found.

  He got it then, because he said, “The audacity taking advantage of a woman in such manner! It’s appalling.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I replied. “So how do you know Mr. Robertson?”

  “I really don’t know Mr. Robertson.” He sipped his cognac. “I know him by a different name.”

  Now we were getting somewhere.

  “Oh?” I feigned surprise.

  “A different name? Chase, are you sure?” said Mackenzie. She was asking questions on my behalf as though she were as interested in the answers as much as I was.

  “Quite sure, as a matter of fact,” he said. “The man in that picture doesn’t go by Robertson. I remember him using the surname Baumann can’t recall a first name.”

  Confirmation: Robertson was Baumann. This was indeed good news.

  “Could it be ‘Stefan’?” I asked.

  “Yes, I believe it was!” He snapped his fingers.

  Admiral Bond, although interested in the story, had no choice but to excuse himself. His wife beckoned impatiently. Mackenzie pulled Chase and me over to a nearby alcove, secluded from the larger area where most of the guests were congregated, and continued prodding Chase for the skinny on Baumann. Chase explained that he became acquainted with Stefan Baumann a few years ago in Miami, during the world-famous Miami Boat Show. They both were guests at a party on a yacht owned by a well-known Hollywood celebrity. Chase never actually met Baumann, for there where over a hundred guests in attendance, but he certainly came to know of him. Near the end of the evening, he noticed Stefan Baumann leaving the party accompanied by two scantily dressed women and another gentleman. As they walked off the ship, a man wielding a knife confronted Baumann, calling him a crook and a scam artist... screaming that Baumann had stolen everything his sister and father owned. He told Baumann he was going to make him pay for what he had done. The man seemed drunk but able to carry himself. Baumann tried to talk to him, but the man attacked him anyway.

  “What struck me as odd was that Baumann didn’t seem the least bit concerned,” Chase reflected. “He defended himself so well, it all seemed choreographed. In the most casual, unhurried flow of movement, he took the knife away from the man and had him down on the pavement, unconscious. Naturally, someone called security, and soon the place was surrounded by police, who interviewed the witnesses about what happened.”

  And that was how Chase had become acquainted with Stefan Baumann. The more I found out about the man, the more formidable an adversary he appeared to be. I wondered who he really was.

  I asked Chase if he knew the attacker’s name, but he didn’t. He remembered only that the man was apparently from Jacksonville and had gotten a long prison sentence for his pains. Sammy should be able to dig up the police report on the incident. I excused myself and stepped outside the loggia and called him. I asked him to look into the incident and was back with Mackenzie and Chase within a minute.

  “Following up on the information already?” she asked with a smile.

  I nodded and picked up my brandy from the coffee table. Nothing in this word would keep me from enjoying the rest of that magnificent liquor. “No time like the present,” I said.

  “Amy is very lucky to have you looking out for her interests.”

  “We’ll see.” I sat down. “Jury’s still out.”

  She looked into my eyes, studying them, and said, “Oh, I don’t know. Something tells me you’re the type of counselor I’d rather have by my side than against me.”

  I smiled.

  “So tell me, Jason,” Chase interrupted. “Where is home?”

  “North Palm Beach.”

  “Always?”

  “No, not always,” I said, picking up my cigar from the ashtray. It was no longer lit. “Moved around a bit.” I struck a match and rotated the stogie over it, puffing to get a nice coal before continuing. “I spent some time in New York.”

  “Oh,” said Mackenzie. “How long ago?”

  “I left about five years ago.”

  The larger group seated by the fireplace was clamoring for Chase’s presence. He excused himself and left us alone, and Mackenzie turned her attention back to me. It felt almost like a job interview with a flirtatious twist. I didn’t know whether to feel uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken, or flattered that this beautiful and very socially adept woman seemed so interested in my background.

  “How long were you there?”

  “About three years.”

  “What happened? Didn’t like the big city?” I thought I detected a hint of a smirk.

  “Nothing like that.” I had to smile. I took a puff from the cigar. She was relentless, but that smile made it all seem pleasant like being the new kid from out of town and finding that the prettiest girl in school has taken an interest in you.

  “I was only kidding. Please forgive me.” She took another sip of wine. “I’ve known a lot of Floridians who find it hard to live and work in New York for any length of time.”

  “It’s okay. My father became ill. I moved back so I could spend more time with him.”

  “I’m sorry, Jason.” She touched my arm. She had long, slender fingers and natural-looking nails. “I didn’t mean to ”

  “It’s all right,” I said. There was no way she could have known.

  “What happened with your father? If you don’t mind talking about it...”

  “He passed away.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I appreciate that.” I put the cigar back on the large brass ashtray and leaned back on the couch. Thinking about my father’s cancer suddenly made the thought of smoking even a fine Cuban lose its allure.

  “In a strange and macabre way,” I went on. “The fact that my father’s condition was discovered more than a year before his passing gave us an opportunity we would otherwise never have had. We got to spend most of that time together.”

  “You must have cared a great deal for your dad.”

  “More than I realized at the time,” I admitted.

  “He must have been a very special man.” She let that hang in there waiting to gauge my response, I suppose.

  But what was there to gauge? Of course he was special. I really missed my father. My achievements as well as my failures were his to share, and good or bad, he didn’t judge unless I asked, of course. He always found the time for my never-ending strings of football, baseball, basketball, and lacrosse games, even the out-of-towners. And when I was accepted to attend the Military Academy at West Point, he told me he was proud of me. I felt a pang of guilt, too. I told him how sorry I was that I wouldn’t be around. I was really trying to apologize for not following in his footsteps. I just had no interest in the business. I wanted to see the world, and to contribute to it somehow. But he respected my decision. As always, he stood by my side no matter the outcome.

  “He was,” I said. “I was very lucky.” It was time to change
the subject. “So what about you?” I said.

  She smiled. “I live in Connecticut and keep an apartment in Manhattan. I work in New York where, like any good old trust-fund baby, I run the family’s foundation, charities, and various other interests. But I visit here as much as I can. I love it here, and it’s where my mom is.”

  “No siblings?”

  “An older brother.” She looked away for a moment. “But like you, he wasn’t interested in the trust or the family business either. He wants to save the less fortunate. Joined Doctors Without Borders. He’s never around. Spends his time taking care of the needy in some of the remotest, most dangerous places in the world. Places no sane doctor would ever dare go. He doesn’t seem to care the more dangerous the place, the more it interests him.” Her expression changed, and her eyes acquired a certain sadness. “I worry about him.”

  “I imagine you don’t hear from him often.”

  “We don’t.” She shook her head. “Sometimes for months. Until recently, my mother used to worry herself to tears. She doesn’t anymore. I guess Alzheimer’s can be a blessing. It’s really frustrating, not knowing if he’s safe or injured or taken prisoner... or worse.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I replied, not knowing what else to say. It must be a similar situation to what my father endured while I was deployed in the lawless tribal lands on the Afghan-Pakistani border.”

  After a moment of silence, she said, “You look like the type that would drive your family insane with worry, too.”

  “Me? I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied in feigned innocence.

  “Don’t play coy with me!” she scolded, and crossed those shapely brown legs once again. “You know exactly what I mean.”

  I took another sip of brandy before answering.

  “You’re stalling,” she said, the sly grin curling her lips.

  “Okay, I give up,” I admitted. “Guilty as charged.”

  “So what’s your story, counselor? I bet you were one of those bad boys, the kind that raced anyone who dared to pull up next you at a red light. Trail of broken hearts everywhere.”