Over His Dead Body

by Leslie Glass

  CHAPTER 27

  MONA WAS IN MARK COHEN'S OFFICE at eight Tuesday morning. She was wearing a very conservative lightweight black gabardine pantsuit, a purple turtleneck cashmere sweater that matched her purple alligator bag, and very high-heeled purple alligator shoes. She had not slept well in Le Refuge. Anxiety about Mitch's condition had roiled the acid in her stomach and the suspicions in her head. He had been perfectly well when he'd left her in Paris, and now all he could do was wink.

  During the night she went over every single one of her discussions with Mitch on the subject of marriage, divorce, and beneficiaries. Since he'd been so ardent about protecting the future of his precious children, the talks had always centered around protecting them, not her. Over a period of years, however, she'd managed to persuade him that she was more likely to take good care of Marsha and Teddy (both of whom she truly did adore) than Cassie, who had no idea about money. She'd assured him that even after they married, the children would still get everything in the end. She had no parents, no sibling, no family but his; after all, who else could it go to? What Mitch had done was throw in a condition that put her in jeopardy now. The condition was that if Mona had already passed on at the time of his death, the assets would go directly to his children. Mona knew that Teddy would never in a million years harm her, but Marsha was another story. Would Marsha and Cassie kill her? Would they kill her to cut her out of Mitch's will? she asked herself. Yes, they would.

  During the long night Mona had kept her expensive new drapes open. She couldn't bear being shut in at the best of times, but now she was afraid of being murdered in her sleep. The house was equipped with two sets of lights. Some came on at dusk and went off at eleven, like the runway lights along the driveway and the spotlights in the trees. Others were strategically placed in the eaves of the vast roof and were equipped with motion detectors that flashed on a battery of powerful sodium lamps every time a cat or squirrel ran across their field of vision. The lights were activated four times.

  Each time darkest night had become day in her bedroom, Mona sat up in a panic, thinking that Cassie's hit man had come to kill her. She was sorry she'd misplaced the pistol Mitch had bought her in Florida a few years ago. She was sorry that she'd left the telltale Jaguar out in the driveway. The property's five-car garage was about an acre away, down a hill. Same damn thing as Roslyn. She'd moved up in the world and still didn't have an attached garage.

  Dr. Cohen's office in Manhasset was near the hospital in the kind of modern four-story medical building with an elevator that spoke for the blind. "You have pressed two. Elevator doors close," it told Mona when she got in and pushed the button.

  "You have arrived on the second floor. On this floor are the suites of Drs. Cohen, Garfeld, Saperstein, and Gelfman. Have a good visit," it recited.

  Mona's blood pressure was way up. She entered the doctor's office wheezing badly. "Marta, I have to see him right away," she cried.

  Marta was the sort of invisible woman well past middle age that Mona and Cassie alike had a total horror of becoming. She was plump and had pale, crepey skin that she overblushed and overpowdered. Her boyish haircut was steely gray. She was all business; and no matter how nice Mona was to her, Mona knew this difficult, jealous old woman was going to refuse to like her.

  "Mona, you should have called first. He's fully booked all day. I know you're upset about Mr. Sales, but-" she started in on her now.

  "I'm not just upset, Marta, I'm ill. I had a very bad night. I have crushing chest pains, and my left arm is numb. I guess I'm having a heart attack."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, why didn't you call?"

  "Some people believe consideration comes first, even with doctors. I didn't want to worry him. Or you." Mona checked the waiting room. Two half-blind old people (clearly the ones for whom the elevator had been given that wonderful upbeat voice) sat next to their walkers. Other than that, the place looked pretty empty to her. She coughed up a mouthful of phlegm. "And my asthma is kicking up, I need a shot of Adrenalin."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake. Come in here right away." Marta took Mona into an examining room and left her there.

  Mona weighed herself just for the hell of it. In spite of Paris, she'd lost a pound. Gratified, she quickly climbed up on the table and crossed her legs. In less than a minute Mark raced in with her chart under his arm, looking appropriately concerned.

  "Mona. What's this about chest pains?"

  Mona was wheezing terribly. "This is so terrible about Mitch." She took his hand for support.

  "Take your time." He went to the sink and filled a tiny cup with water.

  "I'm just so sorry to bother you, Mark. I know how busy you are and how much you have on your mind."

  "This is what I'm here for, Mona. I called you last night, but you didn't pick up." He handed her the cup.

  She took a moment to sip from it. "Well, I couldn't. Cassie followed me home! Mark, I was so terrified. She threatened my life. I had to leave and check into a hotel."

  "What?"

  Mona burst into tears. "What happened to Mitch?"

  "He had a stroke." Mark gave her a handful of tissues and took her pulse. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he indicated that she take off her black jacket so he could listen to her heart.

  "How could he have a stroke? He was fine Friday." She took off her jacket, hopeful that this would lead to a hug. He must have pushed his little button, because just at the moment he flicked his fingers at the eyelet blouse, the nurse came in. Off came the blouse. He didn't even look at the bra or cleavage as he used his stethoscope to listen to her chest and back.

  "Have you been using your inhaler?"

  "Of course."

  "How often?"

  "Four or five times a day. It isn't working."

  "Have you been taking the Aminophyllin?"

  "It makes me nauseated. Mark, how could he have a stroke? Everything was going so well."

  "Sometimes the stress of a divorce can do it." He let the stethoscope drop on his chest. "Your asthma needs attention, Mona. That's probably why you're having chest pains. But we'll do an EKG and Crow enzymes. And of course you need new pulmonary tests. I want to do it while you're in crisis."

  Mona grabbed his hand again. "Did he tell you we are getting married?" The nurse, Irene, looked on from the door, placid as a cow.

  Mark went on unfazed. "And he was ignoring his high blood pressure."

  "What high blood pressure?" Mona cried.

  "He called me from Paris a week ago. He had headaches, felt dizzy. I warned him that he was playing with fire and told him to come right home. He waited until Friday. That's not good."

  Mona gasped. Her fiancé was sick? This was news to her.

  He turned to Irene and ticked off the procedures Mona was getting, including a shot of Adrenalin. As soon as she was gone, he turned to leave. Mona was crushed. After all the gifts she'd given his silly wife, the dinners they'd had together. The patients she'd referred him! Getting this kind of short shrift was unconscionable.

  "Mark, wait! I'm very concerned about Mitch. I need to discuss this with you."

  He stood with his hand on the doorknob, his face as neutral as a blancmange.

  "What's his prognosis?" she asked softly, softening toward him immediately, her breathing now deep and even. She was falling apart. She needed a hug, any idiot could see that.

  He shook his head. "Wait and see," he murmured.

  "Mark, I'd like you to consider moving him."

  His expression didn't change. "He's on life support, Mona. He can't be moved."

  "But I'm afraid for his life." Mona was so upset at the cold reception she was getting, she almost forgot to cough.

  "We're all afraid for his life," he said, cool as could be.

  "Mitch and I were getting married, Mark. I may even be pregnant. I missed my period this week. Just think about it. Cassie doesn't exactly have his best interests at heart here. I'm worried that she wants him to kick off."

  He s
hook his head, opening the door just a little to indicate his wish to leave.

  "I'm dying here, Mark. Whose side are you on?" Mona cried.

  "I'm not getting between you two on this, Mona. I'm his doctor. I'm doing the best I can for him."

  "What if the best for him is not the best for her?"

  "This is too much for me, Mona. I'm just a doctor. Please call me later for the results on your tests, I think you're going to be okay."

  "Mark, could we have lunch and talk about it then?"

  "I won't have results by lunchtime, Mona."

  "And I bought a little something for-honey, we've always been so close…" What was his damn wife's name, Candy, Sandy?

  "Mark, I'm all alone with this. There's only you."

  Mark peered out the crack in the door, poised to bolt. Mona jumped off the table and went to him.

  "Please don't get distant with me because of this Cassie thing. You know I love her with all my heart, and no one could be more sorry than I am about the way she's behaving. But we have to face this together. She's hurt him. She wants to kill him. And you know I don't want anything to happen to him because of me, Mark, and I don't want you dragged into a big legal thing."

  She lowered her head to his shoulder. It wasn't that easy a trick since he was much shorter than she was. His white coat was starched and fresh. His closely shaved cheeks smelled delicious. Quickly he closed the door against spies from the outside.

  "You're amazing," she breathed. "The greatest."

  When she went downstairs a few minutes later, there was a little smile on her face. She was certain Mark was on her side.

  CHAPTER 28

  CHARLIE SCHWAB HAD CHOSEN the Sales warehouse in Syosset as the site for his aud it. It was an unusual move, since audits were typically held in the accountant's office or in the IRS branch office. He'd chosen the Long Island location because the juice he was looking for would not be in Ira Mandel's Manhattan office, and he didn't want to travel into the city every day for an indefinite period in any case. He was also strapped for time. Gayle was ruthless about keeping their cases quick and productive. Move fast and move on, was her motto.

  A limited audit to clear up a teeny question about one detail of a transaction that had been recorded some years ago might require a stack of paper several feet deep and take a full day. To examine the books of a business like Sales Importers with a lot of product moving in from many countries and moving out to thousands of highly active monthly accounts in numerous states for even one year could take weeks. Full audits of big holding companies and conglomerates typically took months. It all depended on how much time was being covered, how much paperwork had to be examined, and how compulsive an investigator was. Charlie was very compulsive indeed, but he could also move as fast as the wind.

  In the middle of traffic he mused that the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms would definitely want in on this case. It was a big one, and ATF got involved at the drop of a hat. Charlie worried about the risk he personally was taking. He hoped that he wouldn't be making too many enemies by following his boss's instructions to do the grunt work alone. He didn't want to upset himself thinking about office politics, so he contemplated the question of spies instead.

  Because the possibility of finding uncollected revenues was ever present for the IRS, no one cared who informers were. The tax force relied on spies for tips. They also relied on newspaper articles about all sorts of events, both criminal and civil. Charlie himself had a large collection of obits of prominent and wealthy people who had died in the region. These obits helped them decide which estates to target with an audit. On the spy front, suffice it to say there were a lot them. Spurned spouses. Fired employees. The discriminated against, for one reason or another. The IRS was an equal opportunity tip taker.

  In the Sales organization someone was holding a grudge, a big one, and stood to win a nice bonus if the assertions proved correct. Sooner or later he'd find out who it was, or maybe he wouldn't. Didn't matter to him. Charlie concluded his thoughts and pulled up in the Sales parking lot. The red Jaguar was there, and he felt a little glow with the intuitive feeling that Mona would be useful.

  Inside, past the reception area, several banquet tables had been set up in an empty space near the bathrooms. Documents were stacked on the tables along with bottled water, sodas, a coffee urn, and bakery goods. Boxes filled with supporting documents were piled around and under the tables. One table had four folding chairs set up. The first thing Charlie noticed about the setup, aside from its lack of comfort, was that no one could possibly read there. It was dark as a cave.

  Ira Mandel was sitting at the food table eating a bagel with cream cheese. Never one of Charlie's favorites, Ira was a short man with an easy smile and forgettable features. He looked a little sleazy this morning in his shiny blue Italian suit and silver tie. As soon as he saw Charlie, he put the bagel down and stood up, licking his fingertips one by one. When he finished licking the hand, he held it out to Charlie, who pretended not to see it.

  "Ira," Charlie said neutrally.

  Ira did not appear in the least put off by the snub. "Nice to see you, Charles. This is my associate, Ted Sales."

  A young lug stepped out of the shadows.

  "How do," Charles said pleasantly. The youngster looked like an overly large twelve-year-old, very nervous in a tan suit and red tie. Small eyes and mouth.

  "Sir," he said formally, then bit down on his lower lip, losing it altogether.

  "Any relationship?" Charlie asked him.

  Ted seemed terrified by the question. "Sir?"

  "Your name. Sales."

  "Oh." Ted glanced at Ira before answering.

  "Yes, yes, he's Mitchell Sales's son. Very bright young man, wants to be an accountant."

  "Good for him," Charlie applauded. "Let's get going."

  "Please. Be my guest. Have some breakfast, will you? I have something I want to go over with you before we start."

  Just up the steel staircase a picture window showed where the main offices were. From where he stood, Charlie had a clear view of Mona Whitman leaning over the desk with her backside to him. Ira followed his gaze.

  "What can I get you?" he asked.

  "What?" Charlie blinked.

  "Breakfast," Ira prompted.

  "Oh yes. Thank you, I've already eaten." Charlie sat down at the table and took out his equipment. Calculator, laptop, pens. Pads. Altoids.

  Over his head, Ira glanced at Ted. "Pull up a chair, Teddy."

  Oh, now he was Teddy. Charlie ignored the scraping sound as Teddy pulled up his chair. He was minding his own business, paying no attention to anything but his own notes when quick steps on the cement floor let him know that the decorative Mona had arrived.

  "Teddy! I didn't know you were here yet. Isn't this terrible? I tried and tried to call you. How are you holding up, darling?" She rushed over to him and threw herself into his arms.

  Since Teddy didn't have the manners to rise for her, she ended up almost in his lap.

  "Hi, Mona." Teddy's reaction was a mixture of confusion and alarm.

  Ira lifted his eyes heavenward. Charlie wondered what the story there was. Mona regained her balance and stepped back to examine the young man's face.

  "I feel so bad for you. How are you doing, honey?"

  "I have a girlfriend," Teddy said with a shy grin.

  "No kidding, that's wonderful. Who's the lucky girl?"

  "She's a nurse," Teddy said proudly.

  "A nurse, she's a nurse?" Mona cried. "What kind of a nurse?"

  "Operating room. Isn't that cool?"

  Mona's attention wandered over to the accountant.

  "Ira, sweetheart. Hello." She clicked her tongue. "Terrible thing, isn't this?" Instead of embracing him, she made a little face. "Oh, don't be mad. I have no intention of butting in, I promise. I was just going to the ladies'. How do you like the little spread I put out? That's whitefish salad, right there. Your favorite, Teddy. Ira, could I have
just a word with you?"

  "Of course, Mona."

  Then she registered Charles Schwab sitting at the table very busily tapping on his laptop, totally ignoring her. "Oh my goodness, Mr. Schwab. I didn't know you were here."

  He glanced up at the sound of his name. She gave him a big smile as if they were old friends. No one could say he didn't have manners. Charlie jumped to his feet, wondering what it would take to turn her. "Miss Whitman, how's that ankle of yours?" he said cheerfully.

  "Still aching something terrible. What happened to you?" She raised her hand and came closer to touch the bruise on his forehead.

  "A little tennis mishap. It's nothing."

  "You play tennis, too? You're amazing. Did Ira tell you about our problem?"

  Ira frowned furiously at her. "Thank you for the food, Mona. No, we haven't gotten that far yet."

  Charlie divided his attention between them. And what was the story there?

  "Oh, well, sorry to interrupt. Is there anything else I can do for you?" She smiled brightly.

  Charlie held up his hand. "Light," he said.

  "What?"

  "We need some light."

  "Oh." She put a hand to her mouth like a little girl who'd made a big mistake. "Oops. Of course you do. I'll take care of it right away."

  But she didn't. Charlie returned to his laptop, and Teddy squirmed in his chair during the short hiatus while Mona had a private conversation with Ira. Finally Ira returned to the banquet table, and Mona went into the ladies'.

  "Are you sure you won't have some coffee?" he offered a second time.

  In such situations, Charlie was always reminded of a colleague of his who'd gotten very sick from rat poison served in a cappuccino during an audit. "Yes, but thanks anyway," he said.

  "Well, then, we can get right to it. Here's our situation. I want to alert you to a personal tragedy. Mitchell Sales had a stroke over the weekend. He's in extremely serious condition in intensive care, and we're concerned that he won't make it."