“In the top file drawer,” Loretta said, taking it out and handing it to Bethany.
“Okay, got it. Her name is Naomi Skinner. I’ll tell Rob about the tool kit, and what we suspect about Hairspray. Maybe he can confirm it.”
Bethany made the call, while Loretta waited. When she’d finished speaking to Rob, Bethany said, “Let’s hang prints. I agree with Dinah—this is a horrible place. The sooner we’re done, the better.”
Three hangers were waiting for them outside the print storage room. Two Dinah had hired; the third was Zeke, wearing jeans, a blue work shirt, and a big grin.
Bethany smiled. “I thought you’d turn up,” she said.
Thirty-Three
Dinah was at her desk in the gallery by eight Monday morning. She was determined to complete the acquisition of the prints she needed for the corridors at DDD&W. She’d call every US dealer who might have the type of prints she was looking for. Each print must be reasonably priced, and be in stock, ready to ship. Thank goodness none of them needed special framing. She’d given the framing contract for all six hundred of the corridor prints, in inexpensive wood painted black, to a framer in Staten Island. In return for the big order, she’d received a discount and a promise to work around the clock to get the job done fast. Speed was even more important now than when she’d made the deal.
By one o’clock, she’d located the last of the required prints. She breathed a sigh of relief. Every purchase brought her closer to the end of her association with the loathsome crowd at DDD&W.
She turned to her mail, including the latest missive from her secret informant, messengered over by Bethany. Look for the horses. Surely a reference to the Stubbs paintings? She pondered the note, frowning. If she needed to sell two stolen paintings by Stubbs, how would she do it? She’d have to think about that, but for now, she must speak to Ellie. She dialed DDD&W and asked for Ellie McPhee.
“There’s no one here by that name,” the operator said. Dinah hung up. They must have fired her. But wouldn’t the operator have said “I’m sorry, she’s no longer with us”? There was no point in calling Human Resources. With the department’s manager dead, it would be in chaos. She’d have to turn the problem over to Rob. She couldn’t shield Ellie any longer.
After hearing the party line about Harrison—“good cop, nice guy”—from half a dozen acquaintances in the department, Rob knew he’d encountered the hard blue wall. He was wasting his time calling anyone on the job. He’d try an old friend who’d retired so recently he was probably still in the loop but might not have qualms passing on gossip about Harrison. Unless Harrison was a buddy? Unlikely. Nick looked like Santa Claus and had a similar personality; that was why his friends called him Nick. He would have nothing in common with Harrison. He was in luck. Nick answered on the first ring.
“Rob, hi, guy! Great to hear from you. How’re things?” he said, sounding genuinely glad to hear from him.
“Fine, but busy,” Rob said. “If you ever want part-time work, I can always use your help, Nick.”
“Maybe I’ll get bored after a few months of doing nothing, but it ain’t happened yet. If you need me, though, I always have time for a friend.”
“I’m not desperate, but thanks for offering. Say, what can you tell me about a guy named Ed Harrison? He’s partnered with Joe Quintero. I’ve run into the two of them on a case.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. Harrison isn’t as bad as some—‘course that’s not saying much—but he shouldn’t be on your case. I nearly called you about it. It’s caused a lot of talk.”
Rob frowned. “How’s that?”
“Harrison moonlights for DDD&W. Security work. The guards at the DDD&W building—the Fry Building—are paid to call him on his cell phone about any problems at DDD&W. They phoned him when that woman was killed—that’s how he got involved—he shoved his way in and grabbed the case. If anybody’d cared, maybe they’d have fought for it, but everybody knows it’s nothin’ but trouble, so he was welcome to it.”
Rob could hardly believe what he was hearing. “You’re right—he shouldn’t be on the DDD&W murder case. Do you know who at DDD&W hired him?” Rob asked.
“A guy named Danbury—I remember it on account of my niece lives in Danbury, Connecticut. I heard Harrison makes a bundle outta those DDD&W people. He needs the money bad—he’s got a wife and kids, and he’s also got a girlfriend. People say his sweetie works at DDD&W, and she doesn’t come cheap.”
“Oh, my God, worse and worse. Do the brass know about this?”
“Doubt it, but everybody else does, including Quintero. I’m amazed Harrison has got away with it as long as he has. Sorry for not calling to tell you about it.”
“That’s okay. You’ve told me now. Thanks, Nick. I owe you.”
Rob put his elbows on the desk, his head in his hands. He had to report Harrison. And Quintero, who, at best, was guilty of helping Harrison cover up his tie to DDD&W. But unless it was handled exactly right, the disclosure could make Dinah’s situation worse. The department didn’t take kindly to being told one of their own was crooked, and they’d be furious if the story got leaked to the press. This was politics, and not his kind of thing. Jonathan was the client. Let him decide what to do. He picked up the phone, called Jonathan, and told him everything he’d learned.
“That certainly explains Harrison’s hostility toward Dinah, and his determination to pin the murder on her,” Jonathan said. “He’s a henchman for DDD&W, paid to take care of damage control, even if it means hurting an innocent person. I don’t think you should be the messenger on this, Rob. I’ll call Sebastian Grant and get him on the case. I’ll tell him about the fight in the ladies’ room, too. He should know that somebody was quarrelling with Patti Sue over a partner who’s apparently seeing both of them.”
“Good plan,” Rob said, with an inward sigh of relief. The brass wouldn’t shoot the messenger, but they wouldn’t like him much either, and Rob needed to stay on their good side. They were often his clients, and even more often, an important information source. Sebastian Grant was the perfect choice to pass the word. At One Police Plaza, they already detested the Cobra, who was indifferent to their opinions.
Thirty-Four
Jonathan had been so busy Monday morning, he’d forgotten to eat the lunch he’d ordered hours earlier. He was struggling to choke down a dried-out roast beef sandwich with room-temperature milk when Blair Winthrop phoned. Winthrop had spoken to William Tolliver, the SEC chairman, who would see that the SEC made their investigation of DDD&W a top priority. Tolliver had said that DDD&W was on their list, but the company was small and an oddity, so they’d put it off while they dealt with larger and more typical organizations.
“Why is it odd?” Jonathan asked. “I mean, other than the obvious? Like the split in the company, which the SEC probably doesn’t even know about.”
“Tolliver says most firms that are accountants and consultants were originally accounting firms that expanded into consulting because consulting is a lot more profitable. DDD&W is the opposite—a consulting firm that acquired an accounting firm, much less profitable than their existing business. Their strategy doesn’t make financial sense, and even more peculiar, they acquired D&W after it was obvious that firms consulting for the clients they were auditing faced legal problems. Nobody could understand the merger when it took place, and they still can’t.”
Jonathan drew a big question mark on the pad in front of him. “Coleman’s friend Amy, who works at DDD&W, told Coleman the firm needed lots of quants to analyze the financial services industry in which they’re trying to be a major force, and a lot more to deal with the taxation issues in their merger and acquisitions practice. They hired a big hitter from Bache, Gold & Glatz—a man named Michael—uh—Moose Shanahan to run those areas, and he claimed you couldn’t get anywhere without an army of numbers guys. She said that was the justification for the merger. Does that make sense to you?”
“No. I’ve never heard of a consulting
company acquiring a company to get a bunch of accountants. Tolliver thinks DDD&W should be investigated, and so do I,” Blair said.
“Good. What about the district attorney? About the art sales tax?” Jonathan asked.
“The people in the DA’s office will begin questioning people at DDD&W this week. Somebody at Great Art Management ratted them out. Patti Sue Victor will be the first person they interview—she’s Great Art Management’s contact. GAM spotted her as a patsy at a conference of art dealers and corporate collectors and hired her on the spot. The DA’s people have identified about twenty people at DDD&W guilty of tax evasion on not terribly expensive art they bought through Great Art Management. None of the senior management at DDD&W is among the twenty,” Blair said.
“Twenty? Good Lord, the mind boggles,” Jonathan said.
“Indeed. I read in the Wall Street Journal that the New York DA had nearly a hundred people under investigation for this type of crime. That sounds like a lot, until you hear there are twenty at one firm,” Blair said. “Anyway, that’s it for the SEC and the DA’s office.
“For everything else, you have to come to Boston. I’ve set up several appointments for you tomorrow, starting with lunch at the Firm with Ned Carville. He can tell you everything you need to know about the Davidsons. He knew them well, and since we have no legal connection with the family, he’s free to give you the background you’ll need for your afternoon appointment with Lucas Parker, the attorney in charge of the Davidson estate. Parker’s the son of Davidson’s executor, who was a friend of Davidson’s. Parker Sr. lived in New York and died soon after Davidson did. After his father died, Parker Jr., who lives in Boston, took over the management of the estate. The father was highly regarded, but I don’t know anything about the son,” Blair said.
Jonathan drew another question mark. Blair knew all the A-list lawyers in Boston, and nearly everywhere else. If he didn’t know Parker, the lawyer was at best a nonentity. A second-rate lawyer handling Davidson’s affairs? Odd, except that nepotism got him the job. If Parker Jr. were incompetent or a crook, that could explain a lot.
“Finally, we’re having dinner with Ian MacDonald, the chairman of the board of the Prince Charles Stuart Museum. I’m told he’s eccentric, but a decent chap. He can’t get to Boston from Stuartville until nine or so, so dinner will be late—we’ll dine at the Century Club—and you should plan to stay over. I’ll put you up, of course.”
“Thanks a million, Blair. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Thirty-Five
At three o’clock Monday afternoon, Coleman, wearing a lightweight wool suit the color of early spring leaves and a silk blouse a shade darker, arrived in the thirty-third floor reception area at DDD&W. The day was again rainy and cold, and she’d nearly frozen, even with a lined raincoat over her suit. She gave her coat to the receptionist, who seemed flustered when she heard Coleman’s name but kept her head long enough to call Amy’s assistant. The young woman ushered Coleman into a conference room where two clean-cut young men and Amy waited.
“Coleman, these are my associates, Michael Gerstner and Terry Howard. They’ll be working with me on your project. They’ll take you through the numbers, especially on the production side, since that’s where you said you need the most help.”
The presentation was clear and succinct. First Home was overstaffed, a little on the editorial side, a lot in other areas—accounting, finance, marketing, production. Amy and her team would interview and evaluate everyone in those departments and suggest which employees should be kept, and which terminated. Coleman knew a fair amount about most of the editorial staff and hoped to retain about half of them. She would talk to those who interested her right away.
Amy’s team had checked on the two magazines’ office leases. Coleman could get out of First Home’s lease—the building had a tenant who wanted to take it over. ArtSmart’s landlord would let Coleman have additional space. There’d be substantial cost reduction from the relocation of the reduced First Home staff; their offices were glitzy and overpriced.
Coleman could cut costs by using a single printer and a single paper supplier for both magazines. Amy gave her a binder summarizing their findings to date. They’d have additional recommendations by Wednesday.
No one mentioned Hunt Frederick’s attempt to bar her from the office, and since in Coleman’s mind the Cowardly Cowboy was toast, she didn’t give him a thought until she was back in her office and saw the column items she’d left on her desk that morning. She’d love to know how he was responding to the press. Maybe Bethany and Loretta would have heard about his reaction. The Byrds should be e-mailing a report on their day’s activities anytime now. Rob had cautioned them not to put anything in print that they didn’t want the world to know or to see produced in court—their reports should be short and cryptic. She checked her e-mail. Oh, good, there it was.
To: Dinah, Coleman, Jonathan, and Rob, from Bethany and Loretta.
Subject: A day at the office
Hairy Ferocious found the Angel’s bag of tricks, says he knows how the Angel magicked the trap. Cowardly Cowboy wrote the troops that the rhino heads were at the cleaners, home Friday. Dried Peach had a hissy fit, and a horny animal chased her off. We hung 150 prints. Lots of bystanders, questions, interruptions.
Coleman smiled. She’d probably have to translate the letter for Jonathan and Rob, but she understood every word. The Byrds were in fine fettle, their senses of humor intact. But she sobered when she thought about “Angel’s bag of tricks.” What had Dinah left behind? How could Harrison possibly “know” Dinah “magicked” the killing trap—when she hadn’t? Were the Stubbs really out being cleaned? Or was that a cover story, cooked up by the Cowardly Cowboy?
Thirty-Six
Coleman had agreed to meet Jonathan, Dinah, and Rob Monday night for an early dinner at a small Lexington Avenue bistro, well known for its cassoulet. She was reluctant to pair up with Rob again, but she had to support Dinah, and for that, she needed to be a part of this investigation. She’d do her best to keep Rob at a distance.
The restaurant was warm and redolent of garlic and roasting meat, appealing on this chilly night. They ate cassoulet, and everyone but Coleman drank a young red wine from Cahors, while Rob updated them on his investigations. The big news was about Harrison: Rob was sure he’d be removed from the case. Maybe Quintero, too.
To Coleman’s disappointment, Rob’s investigators had turned up nothing against Hunt Austin Frederick. He’d sowed some wild oats in college but had, like other famous Texans, been born again in midlife—didn’t smoke, drink, do drugs, or gamble. He was a regular churchgoer and donated money to charity, especially education and his church. After an expensive divorce from a feather-brained Texas deb who’d amused herself with her tennis pro while her husband was traveling for DDD&W, Hunt Austin Frederick was said to have been grateful for the chance to move to New York and take on a challenging new assignment. He’d kept a low social profile since his arrival in Manhattan.
Rob’s people had done a quick check on DDD&W management. The founding Davidson was dead, of course, and Rob assumed his stock was tied up in his estate. Based on shares owned, the organization should be called Davidson, Frederick (who had acquired a healthy chunk of stock when he became managing director), Douglas, Danbury & Weeks.
Ted Douglas, descendant of the original Douglas and inheritor of the Douglas family’s stock, lived in a magnificent apartment on Sutton Place with his wife of many years, Glenda Gould, heiress to a Pittsburgh fortune. They owned a weekend house in East Hampton, and a ski house in Vail. They had no children. They belonged to the right clubs, attended the most prestigious benefits, played tennis, and skied. They lived a typical well-off Manhattanite life. Neither money nor social position was an issue in a world governed by Glenda the Gould, as Coleman had long ago christened her.
Since Leichter had been made a partner at Weeks’s behest, Rob had also had him investigated. After the merger, when Weeks and Leichter moved e
ast from Chicago, Leichter bought a small house next door to the one his father-in-law had chosen in Teaneck, New Jersey. Leichter, his wife, and their four daughters were said to be firmly under his in-laws’ thumbs. Leichter worked long hours and played golf every weekend with Father Weeks. His wife was preoccupied with the house, the children, and her mother. Their social life appeared to be totally child-related. Their expenses, like his income, were modest, but no one interviewed thought Leichter aspired to more.
Oscar Danbury had bought a town house in the East Nineties when he moved to New York. He lived there with his wife, who’d been his high school sweetheart. They had two sons away at school. Work was apparently his only interest, and his wife volunteered at a nearby hospital. Danbury was rumored to be a miser, with a great deal of money tucked away in conservative investments.
The detectives investigating the Victor sisters had discovered a neighbor who lived across the hall from them and hated them. The neighbor, an ancient crone with little to do but spy and gossip, reported that both sisters had mysterious boyfriends— criminals, she was sure. She said one of the men looked like a TV mobster—she’d seen him with Frances twice—and Patti Sue’s beau was “weaselly like.” Age? Couldn’t say. Color? Not black; she’d have noticed. But the men were “real ugly.” She swore she’d recognize them if she saw them again. She claimed she always knew the sisters would come to a bad end.
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