Heyward took some more papers out of his briefcase. “Now for a new topic: Coleman’s cousin Dinah is suspected of murder. Have a look at these and see what you think.”
Twenty minutes later, Hicks looked up. “I don’t see how we can help, do you?”
“Maybe. I’ll have to think about it a little more, talk to Jonathan again. I’m intrigued by the missing Stubbs paintings, and the missing heiresses.”
Forty-Seven
Thursday
Coleman had put aside her own and Dinah’s problems and was reading an article submitted by a decorator for First Home when her private line rang.
“Coleman, this is Heyward. Your white knight has arrived,” he said.
“Oh, I’m sorry Jonathan bothered you—I asked him not to—I already owe you so much—”
“You mustn’t think I’m doing this just as a favor to you. I’ve been looking for a new project, and this one fascinates me. We’ll get rid of Colossus, and then we’ll get to the interesting part.”
Yeah, right. What was interesting about the magazine business, except her job? Did he plan to take over her magazines, too? “Which is the interesting part?” Coleman asked.
“I’m interested in the manufacturing part of the business—the printing, the papermaking, the physical side of putting it all together. If you’re free, Andrew Hicks—he’s my assistant; I don’t think you’ve met him—and I can brief you on what we plan to do. We’ll come to your office, if that’s okay with you?”
Two hours later, Coleman escorted her brother and Hicks to the elevators, her head spinning. Tree plantations. Odorless paper processing. New technology imported from Europe. Restoring the US paper industry. When she’d realized that Heyward had no desire to be involved in the creative side of the business—her business—she’d relaxed and listened. She didn’t doubt he could do what he said he could. She’d seen Heyward the Genius at work, and she was awed. He was Jack the Giant Killer; George the Dragon Slayer.
When he’d completed his explanation, Heyward suggested that she let him take charge of everything to do with Colossus. When she hesitated, he said, “In your next letter, they’ll tell you your paper supplier will no longer sell you paper. Don’t panic: we’ve locked up enough paper to keep your magazines supplied for years. Same with your printers. You’ll have to trust me, Coleman. Think of it as a chess game. I’ll anticipate their every move, and I’ll always be ahead of them, no matter what they do. Ignore their letters. When you get mail from Colossus, don’t open it—have it delivered to me or Hicks. Your messenger won’t have far to go. I’ve taken over the penthouse in this building.”
“You have? Wow! That was quick. Okay, Colossus is all yours. If I can forget about those creeps, I can concentrate on revamping First Home—which is what I want to do more than anything. Thanks again, Heyward.”
She didn’t much like the idea of letting Heyward fight her battles—she’d expected that they’d work together to defeat Colossus—but another letter from Colossus had arrived today, and if she read it, she’d worry instead of work. She knew she didn’t have the expertise or the money to take on a huge, rich predatory company. Letting Heyward deal with Colossus was comparable to trusting Jonathan with financial matters. She was confident Heyward was at least as knowledgeable about whatever he undertook as Jonathan was in finance.
She might as well turn over Amy’s reports to Heyward, too—no point in reading that stuff if Heyward or one of his people would do it for her. She packed the gray binders Amy’s team had put together with the letter from Colossus and asked a passing intern to take the box upstairs to the penthouse.
She called Dinah to tell her Heyward was in town, and asked if Dinah would invite him to dinner, too. The more the merrier, Dinah said—or at least, the more distracting. She’d phone him herself. She’d already spoken to Rob, and he was coming.
Coleman’s phone rang again. This time it was the receptionist.
“Coleman, something’s going on in the lobby. One of the guys downstairs called to say the building’s been sold. People moving everything, changing signs. Do you know what’s happening?”
Coleman was horrified. Colossus must have bought the building—Heyward was too late. She and her magazines were about to be evicted! She dialed her brother. “Heyward? This building’s been sold—what? You did? I do? Good Heavens. I can hardly wait to see the sign.”
She hung up and spoke to Dolly. “Guess what? Heyward bought the building. The new sign downstairs reads CH Holdings. The C is me! Can you believe it? Let’s go look at it.” She grabbed Dolly’s leash, and the two of them rushed to the elevator.
She stared at the sign, trying to let it sink in: she was part-owner of a Manhattan building. Back upstairs, she called Dinah to share the news.
“Who-oo-ee. You are some lucky girl,” Dinah said.
Coleman agreed (although she feared there was still a long way to go before Colossus gave up and went away). She asked about the progress of the print hanging.
“They could have finished today, but they’re dragging things out so they can be around Friday morning to see the so-called Stubbs,” Dinah said.
“After they see them, I hope they’ll pick up the check and run,” Coleman said.
Forty-Eight
As soon as he looked at the binders Amy gave Coleman, and compared them to his study of Colossus’s activities, Hicks realized what was going on: the DDD&W team recommended this or that supplier to Coleman, but before she could evaluate their suggestions, let alone implement them, Colossus took the recommended suppliers out of play. If Amy and her associates listed “must hires” in First Home’s accounting or marketing departments, Colossus hired the stars before Coleman received the relevant DDD&W reports. Someone at DDD&W was leaking information to Colossus.
Hicks took his evidence to Bain’s office, where Bain and Jeb were discussing the paper business. After he’d described his discovery, Hicks added, “Miss Coleman may be missing out on some good people, but what’s more important is that what they’re doing is illegal—DDD&W is supplying, and Colossus Publishing is using, inside information. Somebody ought to put a stop to it. What I don’t get is why Colossus is being so obvious about it.”
“I think they want Coleman to know that they have access to her consultants, to information that should be privileged. They think they can undermine her confidence, and she’ll crumble, give them what they want. They want to make her believe she can’t even trust an old friend like Amy Rothman,” Heyward said.
“Can Amy Rothman be trusted? Maybe she’s supplying Colossus,” Hicks said.
“What do you think?” Heyward asked Jeb. “You know a lot of Wall Street people. Do you know her?”
Jeb nodded. “Yes, I know Amy, and she’s a straight arrow, never heard a bad thing about her. I reckon Moose is the mastermind of this little scheme. He left his last job because he wasn’t made head of investment bankin’—he wanted more status, and a lot more money. He needs money bad. Keeps gettin’ married, keeps gettin’ divorced. Expensive hobby. His new wife is a spendin’ champion. She pays more for clothes in a year than Portugal’s GNP. He was promised big money at DDD&W, but it was all on the come. He’s entitled to a hunk of the profits, but the business hasn’t gone nearly as well as he expected, and there are no profits. Poor ole Moose must have needed money bad, and spotted a way to get some. What a dope.”
Heyward looked amused. “Do you know everyone’s secrets?”
Jeb laughed. “Pretty much, if they’re players. It goes with the game. You got to know street gossip. Who’re you interested in?”
“What about Hunt Austin Frederick?” Heyward asked.
Jeb shrugged. “Hunt Austin Frederick’s richer than most people on the Forbes list—he’s got a lot of cattle to go with his hats. All those names he’s sportin’ are tellin’ us he’s kin to every millionaire in Texas, and he’s got a piece of ever’thing that makes money in the whole dang state. If he’s into wrongdoin’, it sure ain’t
cause he needs money. He ain’t been in New York long, which prob’ly means he’s innocent of anything at DDD&W in New York, but what with phones and e-mails and such, I reckon he could have been runnin’ things from anywhere. Only why would he steal? What’s his motive?
“Back to Moose; I reckon he is usin’ one or two of those little pissants that tote his briefcase to do the dirty work.”
“Are they likely to be using inside information for stock trading, too?” Hicks asked.
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Moose has always been a speculator. As for who else is mixed up in his racket, I think we can eliminate some of ‘em,” Jeb said.
“Who?” Heyward asked.
“That creep Leichter is so beat down by his father-in-law, he can barely breathe. I hear he’s one for the ladies, but since he couldn’t afford to buy a woman a hot dawg off a street cart, he’s said to stick to the company ink, so he can pay off his girlfriends with office favors. He’s prob’ly stealin’ paper clips, and messin’ around with any female that’ll have him, but that’s it.
“Oscar Danbury is a genuine lunatic. He could be up to anything, includin’ this. He’d steal if he got a chance. He thinks somebody’s going to kidnap him or somethin’—got bars in every window of his house, and a bank vault full of gold in case of the revolution. You’ve heard about his parlor trick?” Jeb asked.
Heyward held up his hand. “Yes, yes, spare us. I already know too much about that disgusting creature. Who else?”
“No other big-time players at DDD&W. Featherweights. Paper pushers. Small-town boys who should have stayed there,” Jeb said.
“How do you think the information is transferred?” Hicks asked.
“Nothin’ easier. I’m bettin’ every word DDD&W produces is computerized, and that there’s no security. One of Moose’s Merry Men digs into any files Moose is interested in, gives the information to Moose, and Moose takes it to Colossus, and they pay big for it,” Jeb said.
Hicks raised his eyebrows. “That simple? I’m surprised it doesn’t happen more often.”
Jeb shrugged again. “Maybe other DDD&W clients are also buyin’ inside information from ‘em. But it don’t happen in most companies cause you can go to jail for it. The feds and the New York Attorney General have been puttin’ away a lot of folks for insider trading, and they’ll be glad to catch a few more. I’m sure Moose will end up in jail, and he’ll take a bunch of others with him, includin’ his helpers at Colossus,” Jeb said.
“What do we do about it?” Hicks asked.
“We-ell,” Jeb drawled. “I think I should have a chat with Rick Oliver. Remember him? The banker who first contacted Miss Coleman? I reckon he’s a pawn, but I’ll make sure he’s out of the game, and that he tells Colossus all about us. It’s time to let the pirates know who the good guys are, and just how much we’ve got in our arsenal.”
“Good plan. I’m going to talk to Hunt Frederick tomorrow. I think it’s the courteous thing to do, given Coleman’s connection with his company. Maybe I’ll learn something about him—figure out what he’s up to, for better or worse. But before I do, tell me what you think about what’s going on at DDD&W. Is there a master criminal at work?” Heyward asked.
Hicks shook his head. “I don’t think so. People are taking advantage of slack management who’ve given them a license to steal. I see it as a collection of individual rackets.”
Jeb nodded. “Right. Mold grows in dark dank places. Maggots turn up in rotten meat. Same thing at DDD&W. Nasty scams sproutin’ up all over the place.”
“So how do we handle it?” Heyward asked.
“Sniper attacks. Sharp shootin’. Take ‘em out one at a time,” Jeb said.
“I agree. We’ll go after each one as soon as we can prove something against him, her—or them,” Heyward said.
“We’ve proved that someone at DDD&W is using inside information but not that it’s Moose,” Hicks pointed out.
“If we tip off the authorities that Colossus is usin’ inside information they’re gettin’ from DDD&W, with what we give ‘em, they’ll get a warrant and go into the DDD&W computers, and see who’s been messin’ around in Miss Coleman’s business. When Moose’s lackeys are caught, they’ll talk, and Moose will fold. I know—I’ve played poker with him,” Jeb said.
Heyward nodded. “Right. Jeb, please give copies of everything we have on this inside information lead to Rob so he can pass it on to his friend at the SEC. Hicks, you take everything we know to the DA. We might as well get them involved. Make sure you let Jonathan and Dinah and the lawyers know what’s going on. I’ll call Coleman. When I talk to Hunt Frederick, I’ll warn him about Moose. Coleman says they’re friends. If so, this will hit hard, unless Frederick already knows about it, which I doubt. But if he does, we’ll turn him in, too.”
Forty-Nine
Determined to dazzle Bethany, Coleman, and Dinah with her detective work, Loretta took a taxi from her apartment to the Park Avenue building where Patti Sue Victor and Frances Johnson had lived. She expected to flirt her way past a doorman, so she had put on a sexy black suit and white blouse similar to the outfit Bette Davis wore after her makeover in Now Voyager. But her blouse was tighter and lower cut, and her skirt shorter than Bette’s. She had to make concessions to twenty-first century male tastes. She carried the black leather briefcase her roommates had given her for college graduation. She wanted to look like the reporter she’d pretend to be.
She chatted up the pony-tailed doorman, who gave as good as he got. When she was sure he was sufficiently smitten to gossip about the tenants, she asked about the lady who lived opposite Victor and Johnson.
“Orlando. She’s an old crow. She keeps her door open twenty-four seven so she can watch the hall action. She knows plenty about them two—they were her hobby. I swear to God she din’t think of nothin’ else,” he said.
He walked Loretta to the elevator and pressed the button for the seventh floor, still talking. “The old lady was divorced maybe seventy years ago. She’s ninety if she’s a day and mean as a snake, but she’s got all her marbles. She’ll talk your ear off if you give her a chance,” he warned.
When Loretta told Mrs. Orlando that she planned to write an article about Frances Johnson and Patti Sue Victor, the old lady welcomed her with an open door and a great gush of words. She talked so fast Loretta had difficulty understanding her, but when she calmed down, Mrs. Orlando made a vitriolic kind of sense.
“Both of them floozies had boyfriends,” she said. “Nasty fellas. They sneaked around like thieves—night crawlers, both of ‘em—didn’t ever take those women out. Only who could blame ‘em? Mutton dressed as lamb, and neither one had morals as good as an alley cat. What do you want to know?”
“Do you recognize any of these men?” Loretta fanned out the photos she’d taken of Harrison, Quintero, Moose Shanahan, and Mark Leichter.
Mrs. Orlando pointed a claw at Quintero. “That’s one of ‘em. He’s the one looks like a goombah, greasy hair an’ all. He was courtin’—if you can call it that—Frances. And this one”—she pointed to Leichter—“he’s the one sniffin’ after Patti Sue. Ugly old thing! Neither one of them men would win a beauty contest, but then, them floozies looked like dog’s dinner.”
Loretta, on cloud nine, thanked Mrs. Orlando, tucked the photographs back in her briefcase, and floated to the elevator. She could hardly wait to call Coleman.
Fifty
The Cobra was in his element. He’d enjoyed telling the suits at One Police Plaza that Harrison and Quintero had been investigated by private detectives when the NYPD refused to do it. He loved giving them a summary of the cops’ misdeeds. When the bureaucrats sputtered that the investigation was retaliation for Harrison’s focus on Dinah Greene, and that they didn’t believe a word of it, he faxed each of them the Fry Building guards’ sworn statements about Harrison’s second job and his girlfriend. He gave them time to read them and called again. He listened with silent joy to their heavy breathing and their abru
pt hang-ups. There’d be a crisis at One Police Plaza today, and maybe at city hall.
When he’d wrung every drop of pleasure he could from razzing the top cops and the pols, he telephoned DDD&W’s senior lawyer to enlighten him about Harrison and his relationships with Oscar Danbury and Trixie. He explained that with the departure of Harrison and Quintero, new detectives would be appointed and the case reinvestigated, broadening the list of possible suspects. He reminded him that the Greene Gallery’s assignment would be completed by noon on Friday; the check must be ready and waiting.
He finished with the announcement that he also represented the Prince Charles Stuart Museum, which was suing DDD&W for the recovery of the works of art missing from the Davidson Americana collection. The relevant documents would reach Hunt Austin Frederick today. After he’d completed that call, leaving a shattered lawyer to spread the news inside DDD&W, he leaned back in his chair and sighed. What a great morning.
When Rob called his friend in the DA’s office, he was assured that Patti Sue’s death had nothing to do with their sales tax investigation. “The people at Great Art Management say Ms. Victor was a moron. They’re not sure she knew that she was involved in anything illegal,” Rob’s friend explained. “The DDD&W guys who were sending empty boxes to addresses out of state knew what they were doing, but they say all that Victor did was introduce the greedy louts to Great Art Management. This is how it worked: GAM had a program promoting art for young collectors. When the young collectors Victor introduced to GAM balked at the prices, GAM showed ‘em how to save money through tax evasion. But it was small potatoes—cheap art, and not much tax money involved.”
Fatal Impressions Page 19
