He nodded, the soft light rippling gently over deep waves in his thick white hair. “If you are satisfied, Sheldon, I will accept that. Come into my office, please."
I said to Spree, “You go ahead. I'll be with you in a minute."
As Bentley and Spree walked inside his office, I went back to the entrance and into the hallway. The first thing I noticed was the lighted number above the door of the elevator, the “4” changing to a “3.” And the next thing was the complete emptiness of the hallway. A few seconds later, bending over, I could see the parallel waving lines on the polished floor, extending from where I'd left the two unconscious men to the elevator itself. Heel marks, undoubtedly, as one of them pulled the limp form of the other. Had to be the black guy, Andrew Foster, hauling the cowboy. I hadn't got him as solidly as I meant to, not with Spree making that noise like an earthquake in a tin factory.
When I walked into Bentley's office again, Spree was seated in one of two overstuffed chairs placed side by side before Worthington's enormous black-walnut desk, and he was just turning from a brushed-steel filing cabinet, a two-inch-thick red cardboard box in his hand. The box was about ten inches by fourteen inches, large enough to hold a lot of legal-size papers.
He placed the box on his desk, opened it, and took out a long official-looking document that appeared to consist of several sheets of white bond paper with neat lines of typing under the printed heading on the top sheet.
As I sank into the chair next to Spree, I mentioned that the guys I'd left in the hallway were no longer in the hallway, but had split for parts unknown. Bentley nodded silently, then handed the document to Spree, saying, “This is the document I prepared in accordance with Mr. Romanelle's wishes. I would like for you to read it, at least all of the first two pages, after which I will explain my view of the document's significance. You may then wish to read it again, before you sign it. The other pages are simply a listing of Mr. Romanelle's assets, which he desires be transferred into joint ownership with you, his daughter. Those assets, as you will see, are substantial."
Spree read the first two pages and glanced through the others, shaking her head slightly. Then she extended the document toward me, looking at Bentley.
He said, “Yes, I think Sheldon should read the document, since his work is not yet finished."
So I read the thing. It was headed “Claude Romanelle Inter Vivos Trust” and couched in the usual legal terminology, much of which seems deliberately designed to depress meaning and elevate obfuscation; still, I thought I understood half of most of it. Following a paragraph referring to immediate joint ownership by both signatories of the “list of assets attached as Exhibit A and by reference incorporated herein,” and arthritic language that appeared to embrace and include future additions to or subtractions from the totality of those assets due to inflation or deflation or increased or decreased market value or natural catastrophes and/or acts of God, presumably including pestilence and famine and termites, a separate paragraph provided among the whereases and hereinbefores that upon Claude Romanelle's death for whatever reason his daughter would become the sole beneficiary of the trust, whereas should Romanelle be predeceased by “the other signatory”—which I assumed referred to Spree—the trust assets would thereupon be distributed outright to a charitable entity called the Omarac Foundation—which I'd never heard of—after which the trust would terminate.
Despite the legalese and some paragraphs totally impenetrable by any merely human mind, the basic purpose of the document appeared, at least as I interpreted it, to be reasonably transparent: Upon signing the final page, where Claude M. Romanelle's graceful-looking signature was already affixed, Spree would—and at the same time would not—become richer by half the amount of Claude Romanelle's net worth, which according to the summation on the next to last page of the document had amounted, on the day the papers were prepared, to a fraction over twenty-three million dollars.
I mentioned my interpretation to Worthington and he replied, “Quite good, Sheldon. That is almost correct. But it is the ‘almosts’ that create havoc should imprecise agreements be subjected to the nit-picking analysis of attorneys. You may be sure that this document will survive any such analysis unchanged and unchallenged. It is true that Miss Rom—Miss Wallace both will and also in a sense will not become richer by many millions of dollars upon signing. The entirety of the assets listed therein”—he nodded his white-haired head toward the document, which was now back in Spree's hands—“will become part of the trust, of which Miss Wallace and her father, Mr. Romanelle, will be the joint beneficiaries the instant she affixes her signature at the place provided. However, from that moment forward, neither of the signatories may dispose of any of the listed assets without (a) the approval of the other, which approval must (b) be in the form of a written addendum to the trust agreement, signed by both parties in the presence of the designated attorney for both, Bentley X. Worthington, and none other."
I thought about that. “Unless I went astray somewhere,” I said, “Miss Wallace can't dispose of any of the assets—can't really consider any of it her own—unless her father, Claude Romanelle, agrees to her so doing, and not only agrees but signs a statement to that effect in your presence."
“That is correct. However, that stricture inhibits not only Miss Wallace, the daughter, but also the father, Mr. Romanelle. Not even he can dispose of the listed assets without her approval—approval, to repeat, in my presence."
“What I'm getting at,” I said, “is that it's almost like giving away a box of candy but keeping the sweets. Or not really giving anything at all."
“On the contrary, Sheldon. And Miss Wallace.” He looked directly at Spree as he continued. “The moment you sign this document, you will, in effect, be invested with absolute negative control of the described assets individually and in their totality. You cannot, without permission and agreement of the other signatory, dispose of or consume any of those assets yourself, but you can absolutely prevent their disposition or consumption by the other signatory, should you so desire, merely by withholding your agreement. The same, of course, is true of Mr. Romanelle—once your signature has been affixed and witnessed by me."
Spree said, “I believe I can understand the reason for all this, Mr. Worthington. After all, my father doesn't really know who—or what—I am. Isn't that right?"
“Precisely,” Bentley said, smiling upon her. “You have cut to the heart of the matter. The provisions we are discussing here are not unprecedented, or even unusual. If I may speculate ...?"
Spree didn't mind if he speculated. I didn't, either.
“Mr. Romanelle,” Worthington went on, “is in less than excellent health. Further, he was recently shot and injured by unknown assailants.” He paused and asked Spree, “I assume you have been informed of those facts?"
“Yes. Shell told me all he knows about those things before we left Los Angeles. But it wasn't very much. I'd certainly appreciate it, if you know any more—"
He interrupted gently. “Sheldon, by now, probably knows a good deal more about the situation than I do. But let me continue. Whatever his personal character and personality require that he do, it is my assumption that Mr. Romanelle truly desires that his daughter benefit from the estate he has amassed during his lifetime. She might inherit it—which essentially will be the case should Mr. Romanelle, for whatever reason, become deceased, after the document is signed. Or she might share some of those benefits during the life of the other trustee. However, we have at issue here a considerable estate, many millions of dollars, and the most elementary prudence suggests that it not be given away to, or divided with, one who is, essentially, a stranger. Not, that is, without certain reasonable and essential safeguards."
Spree was nodding. “That's what I was suggesting a minute ago. I really think it would be stupid of my father to sign over, or hand over, even a dime to me when he hasn't seen me in twenty years. He'd be a fool to do anything like that before we've even met, after all these
years. And I don't believe he is a fool."
“Precisely,” Worthington said again, again beaming upon Spree. “He has, therefore, caused me to include in the document's language those provisions mentioned. After all, what if his daughter should turn out to be some kind of monster, a modern Ma Barker or Typhoid Mary..."
“Or Medusa?” I offered.
“Or Med—” Worthington stopped, looked curiously at me. “Medusa?"
“Or Xanthippe."
“Oh.” Bentley saw the light. What if the daughter turned out to be, in the father's eyes, worse than the mother?
“Well, obviously you are none of those things,” Worthington said. “I don't know what Mr. Romanelle is thinking. He might even have wondered: What if she is gruesomely ugly?” He beamed. “Which, I say without fear of contradiction, it is evident that you are not."
Spree gave him a smile. It was only a little smile, but there wasn't a trace of ugly in it.
“So, then,” Worthington went on, “Mr. Romanelle has thus wisely, with my considerable assistance, protected himself against the possibility that he might discover his daughter not ... shall we say worthy? ... of his generosity. Such an unworthy offspring might seize all the assets available to her and flee with them, laughing all the way to Rodeo Drive.” He glanced at me, almost reluctantly removing his eyes from Spree's face. “In Beverly Hills."
“I know where it is, Bentley,” I said. “Don't get so carried away—"
“But I have not the least doubt,” he finished, again gazing at Spree, “that once you and Mr. Romanelle have met, he will surely, surely, find all of his quite natural fears and misgivings laid to rest. How could it be otherwise? My goodness, Miss Wallace, you are an exquisite—"
“Bentley.” I squeezed the word in, then continued, “May we assume it is your expectation that, once Romanelle becomes convinced his daughter is not a female Attila the Hun, he will probably limit or lessen some of the strictures presently set in cement in your document?"
“Ah ... yes. I do assume it. And Miss Wallace will become a wealthy woman on the instant."
“We haven't discussed this,” Spree said. “I mentioned it to Shell. But ... I'm not sure I want the money, his assets. I'm just not ... sure."
“Eh?"
Bentley X. Worthington's healthily pink and handsome face appeared to become less pink on the instant. Then it assumed the forceful, wise, somewhat rigid expression of the attorney who senses that his case, and wonderfully large fee, may be on the edge of the toilet.
He leaned toward Spree, saying earnestly, “That is a perfectly understandable reaction at this point, my dear. Understandable, and wise. The sensible procedure would be for you to sign the trust document now, and then determine, in your own good time, the course you wish to pursue once you have seen, and talked with, your father. Your father, who, though you have not seen him in long and long, may have grown, changed—as we all change in our path through this hard life—become a different person, a new man, a true father to the child he aban—has not seen for two decades."
“I agree with part of that,” Spree said. “It's true, isn't it, that—after I sign—I can, if I wish, change my mind? In a sense, erase my signature?"
“Absolutely. If you so wish. Merely by resigning as trustee and signing a statement to that effect in the presence of Mr. Romanelle and me."
“That's what I thought, from reading the document,” she said. Spree was silent for almost a minute, chewing the corner of her lip, as I'd seen her do before in my apartment. Then she said, “I'll sign. First, though, sum up the nature of those assets for me, will you? I glanced through those pages rather quickly."
“Certainly. There are two bank accounts; in round numbers, one amounts to $100,000, the other $65,000. Mr. Romanelle's residence in Paradise Valley, owned free and clear, is appraised at $560,000. One free-and-clear two-bedroom condominium in Villa Monterey, Scottsdale, currently rented year-round at $800 a month, valued at $90,000. A Mercedes-Benz automobile valued at $60,000. Furnishings, jewelry, gold coins, three bags of junk silver, valued currently at approximately $250,000. Plus 1,700,000 shares of Golden Phoenix Mines, Incorporated, listed with NASDAQ and quoted today at fourteen bid, fifteen and a half asked. Present value just under $24,000,000."
“If anyone could sell that many shares without knocking the price down under a dollar,” Spree said. And her next question was, “What's the float? Do you know, Mr. Worthington?"
“Umm, one moment.” He pawed through papers in the red box, pulled one out. “Fifteen million shares authorized,” he said. “Twelve million issued, five million of that closely held by principals."
“Three million in unissued stock, then, and five million that's probably under SEC Rule 144, control securities,” Spree said quietly. “So, for practical purposes, only a seven-million float, maybe less. I wonder—do you have the names of the principals, with the amounts of their positions? And if they've held their stock for three years or more?"
“Not at the moment. But I'm sure I can get that information for you if you wish."
“I'd appreciate it if you would, Mr. Worthington. Do you know much about the company? Golden Phoenix Mines?"
“Only the public pronouncements and releases, prospectus, latest annual report. However, I'll look further into that, you may be sure."
“Thank you. It seems advisable. Of the total assets, that stock accounts for ... let's see. Total twenty-four nine-two-five. And twenty-three eight for the shares max. So the shares account for ninety-five-plus, just under ninety-six percent of the entire estate."
“Yes,” Bentley said, looking slightly dazed, but no more dazed than I. “Yes, Fine."
In another five minutes, the last questions had been answered. Spree signed the document, then Bentley wrote in the date and his own signature, spelling the entire name almost legibly this time.
When Spree and I stood up, ready to go, Bentley said to me, “I mentioned speaking with Mr. Romanelle by phone this morning. He asked me to call him when this was done."
He was reaching for the phone when I said, “Don't call him yet, Bentley. OK?"
“Why not?"
“I told you some of what's happened in the last few hours. Remember, those two guys I clobbered in the hallway were lethally armed—and they were gone by the time I got back out there. Look, call Romanelle in, say, an hour. That's after the signing, which is when you said you'd phone him."
“Well ... All right. An hour from now, then."
“Good. Incidentally, when we leave here we're going to see Romanelle for the first time. It might help if you'd describe the man again. In more detail than you did on the phone."
He did so, quickly and concisely, after which I said, “Thanks, Bentley. We're off. I'll let you know how it goes."
He sighed. “Let me know in the morning, Sheldon. I'm taking my wife to the club tonight."
Chapter Nine
rumbling down in the freight elevator, I looked at Spree, trying, for a change, to see past the radiant loveliness of that special face. She was obviously intelligent enough; but maybe there was something more, something else I'd missed, or simply hadn't looked for.
It's a strange blindness, but even when we know better, we men too often assume that if a woman is extraordinarily beautiful, she must not be particularly brainy—when, in reality, the reverse is almost always true. Whatever it is that builds this house the spirit lives in, that forms the bone and blood and nerve and flesh, forms the living brain as well. It would be a poor carpenter who built splendid sturdy rooms and a roof that leaked, a poor mason who built a wall of the most expensive brick with the cheapest mortar. No, we're all of a piece, consistent, homogenized in a way; whatever the integrity and quality of a person is, it doesn't change between an arm and a leg or a thighbone and a nose, it's stamped indelibly on every piece and part from head to toe and on all the goodies in between. Even if, sometimes, we see a woman or man possessed of obvious cerebral splendor combined with what appears to
be pronounced homeliness of feature or even ugliness. And then we get back to the question of what beauty really is. Or Beauty. Which was much too deep for me.
So as the elevator descended, I merely enjoyed the caress of Spree's soft lips, and brow, and golden hair against my eyes, and said, “Where'd you pick up that stuff about float—and the ninety-six percent of assets bit, you do that in your pretty head?"
“I worked in a small brokerage firm for six months. Didn't like it, but I learned a little about equities, companies going public, how the market capitalizes earnings. The percentages thing, it's just a kind of mental trick—Mom told me Dad could do the same thing. But let's talk about that, if we do, when we're a mile or two from here. You've got me convinced, Shell. Or those two men convinced me. And ... I'm glad you've been so cloak-and-daggerish, so foolishly careful."
“Anytime,” I said. “You should see me when I'm reckless."
She gave me a small smile. “I thought I had.” Then that little frown line appeared between her brows. “Do you think those men, or others, may still be around? Looking for us?"
“Sure. But they weren't planted at the rear entrance when we arrived, and probably won't be when we leave. Even if they are, we'll be OK, Spree.” I grinned at her. “I've got two ugly guns now."
Another small, very small, smile from her. Then the elevator stopped at the ground floor. I went out, .38 S&W in my hand, its hammer cocked. But there was no trouble. In another minute we'd walked out the Manchester's rear entrance, through the Dillingham, and were back in my rented Chrysler Laser. Ten minutes after that we were on Camelback Road, rolling north toward Scottsdale.
Spree had been telling me about her current job—writing programs for a small computer-software company in L.A. called OmegaWare, and mystifying me hugely in the process—when she abruptly changed the subject. I'd swung over to Lincoln Drive and we were at the edge of Paradise Valley when she said, “Shell, you wouldn't believe how nervous I am."
“I might. It's an odd situation."
Shellshock (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 14
