“When will they be back?”
“I don’t know. They had meetings. They may not return at all this afternoon. You could check tomorrow.”
I hate to leave a hot lead hanging. I thought about turning on my charm, but I had a better idea.
“Do you know who Wayne Miller is?”
“No.”
“Google him and Peer Gynt.”
She tapped her computer.
“You know him?” she said, somewhat impressed.
“Hold on.”
I called Wayne on my cell.
“Yes.”
“Did you find someone for the broken leg yet?”
“Jesus, Alton, you left here 15 minutes ago. I haven’t even made a call yet. I would have earlier, but I was calling around for you, remember.”
“Don’t use that tone with me, Miller, or I’ll put Scar in your mailbox.”
“What do you want now?” he said, resignedly.
“I’m sending someone over I want you to meet. She’ll be there within the hour, after she does something for me. You can thank me later.”
“Or not.”
He hung up.
“Let me see your phone,” Tanya said.
“Why?”
“To make sure who you called.”
I liked this Russian girl. She thought like me. After confirming that I had indeed called Wayne, she said, “wait here” and walked into a back office. A moment later she came back with a folder and went to a copier. After she was finished, she handed me several copies, with biographical information and contact numbers.
And the most-recent photo of Bessie Magruder.
I compared it to the original in the file. It was good enough. Both versions looked an awful lot like “Ashleigh Harper”.
Tanya handed me a folder to put my copies in and started writing a note.
“For the Brubakers, in case they come back,” she explained, not looking up.
“Will they be mad?”
“No. They are nice. And they are my agents, after all. They want me to find work. I won’t cut them out.”
She put on her jacket.
“Where is this Wayne Miller?”
I told her.
“I can’t make any promises on his behalf,” I said.
“No one is asking you to. I know how the game is played.” She softened. “I appreciate the contact. Even with the blackmail.”
“It’s how my game is played, sometimes, Tanya.”
She walked up to me.
“I have to run to the ladies’ room, to make myself even prettier.”
“You get any more beautiful, kid, and Wayne will have a heart attack.”
She leaned in and kissed me. On the lips. And lingered. Then she went out the door. Wowie.
There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that she would be in Peer Gynt in three weeks.
CHAPTER 18 - UNEXPECTED PAYDAY
I was still trying to shake off the effects of Tanya’s kiss when I walked into a nearby coffee shop. It was pretty empty and I did not feel guilty about sitting at a small booth and just ordering coffee. After the lunch I had with Cormac, I was not planning on eating until Thanksgiving.
I went through the Bessie Magruder information. She was born Bess Anne Magruder in Flynt, Michigan, and was now 78. Bessie was her stage name and her list of acting credits was impressive, although I noted that most of her gigs were in regional theaters and off-off-Broadway plays in towns that major highways had passed by. But she did have some Hollywood and New York credits, including some Broadway shows. All bit parts. She had appeared in several versions of the Law and Order franchise, including the original series, with Jerry Orbach. In itself, that was not very impressive. Just about every actor in New York was on the show at one time or another, and Bessie’s specialty was playing different versions of bag ladies, or old dead women. I read back to her earlier credits. Yes, there it was. Bessie once had a small part in The Fantasticks. I knew that Orbach was in the original cast and wondered if he helped her get a shot on Law and Order.
Bessie couldn’t have made much money playing the kind of roles she was offered, especially given the wide gaps in her acting résumé. There were years she hardly acted at all. I presumed she did not waitress all that time, which probably explained her arrest record. I had more coffee while I considered what to do.
I knew that Ashleigh Harper was really Bessie Magruder, which meant that Harper was most likely dead, or was being held prisoner in a basement reading James Patterson novels. All things being equal, she’d be better off dead. Besides, I don’t think they have basements on Bald Head Island. But to tell you the truth, I did not care that much, one way or the other. I did care about Anna Dickson. I suspected that the Harper fraud, for that was what it was, was connected to Anna’s disappearance, but I was a long way from proving that. For all I knew, Anna had run off to Madagascar with a drummer in a rock band. It happens. Repressed religious girl finds happiness, or at least sex, with a smelly musician. Except Anna really didn’t fit that profile. Remembering her naked boobs on the deck, I didn’t think she was very repressed. And I couldn’t imagine her abandoning a brother who did so much for her.
To me, blowing up the Harper scheme was secondary to finding out what happened to Anna. For all I knew, Harper had died of natural causes, and someone just saw a way to keep the goose laying golden eggs posthumously. I was pretty sure there was something criminal about doing that, and wondered if the fraud reached into the rarefied air of New York publishing. If it did, a lot of lawyers would get rich suing everyone in sight, including Harper’s publisher, Albatross House. Then, I remembered Godfrey Benedetto, who was deeply involved with financing Albatross. Investment bankers have ways of separating themselves from the financial catastrophes of their clients, but there could be some exposure. I pulled out my cell phone and called Barry Lewinsohn. It would not be good if his firm was still doing business with Albatross House.
***
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Godfrey Benedetto said, shaking his head. “I’m trying to raise another $100 million dollars for Albatross. I have meetings with potential investors all next week.”
“Albatross may need it for bail money,” I said.
“I can’t believe that someone at the publisher didn’t catch on,” Barry Lewinsohn interjected.
“Either they were in on it,” I said, “or they were blinded by the money involved.”
The three of us were sitting in his office on the 37th floor at 20 Exchange Place in lower Manhattan. Barry’s firm was named Lewinsohn & Son. I’d asked him about that.
“My father is old school,” he had explained. “I’m an only child. He’s retired now. When he’s gone, I’ll change the name. It’s too confusing, especially when the receptionist answers the phone. People think there is more than one son, or that she has a speech impediment. Besides, Laurene wants lots of kids and some of them may be daughters.”
Now, as I looked out over the harbor and watched the ferry plow toward Staten Island past the Statue of Liberty, Barry said, “We have to figure out what the fallout will be for our clients and the firm”
“Who are your clients?”
“Mostly large institutional investors who bought Albatross bonds,” Benedetto said. “If Albatross goes belly-up, those bonds will take a hit, depending upon what’s left of the company after the lawsuits are settled.”
“What about its stock? It will certainly nosedive.”
“Albatross is a private company.”
“Too bad. You could have made a killing shorting the stock.”
“That would be illegal,” Barry said. “People go to jail.”
“Yeah. Usually small fry like Martha Stewart or some schmuck in the back office. Someday I’d like someone to explain the illegal versus immoral distinctions that S.E.C. regulators and prosecutors make. I’ll take illegal over immoral all the time on Wall Street. The guys who almost bankrupted Western Civilization a few years ago apparently did nothing illegal, so n
one of them went to jail. But I don’t know how they can look themselves in the mirror on their yachts. But I digress. Just what is your exposure?”
“It depends,” Barry answered. “Some lawyers will probably accuse us of being party to the fraud. They’ll argue that we had to know.”
I thought about that.
“If you hadn’t gotten Alice and me into that luncheon, whoever is behind all this might have gotten away with it. You can argue that was the reason you asked me to attend. You were suspicious. I’ll back you up.”
My cell phone buzzed. I let the call go to voicemail.
“But you were invited to the wedding as a guest,” Barry pointed out. “We weren’t paying you.”
“So what? You had your suspicions and you took advantage of my good nature. I was happy to help you out. Hell, you could argue that I’ve been on your payroll for months.”
“How the hell can I do that?”
“Remember that large bonus you gave me after I helped Laurene out last year.” Actually, that had been Laurene’s doing, but it wouldn’t matter. “One man’s bonus is another man’s retainer. We’ll say that I’ve been working on the case since, and as soon as I found definitive proof, you put the brakes on further financing for Albatross and notified the authorities. Existing bondholders may take a bath, but with your record of probity, and willingness to testify against Albatross, you should be in the clear. It shouldn’t hurt future business if you are known for doing due diligence above and beyond the norm.”
“What if Albatross is just an innocent bystander?” Benedetto asked.
“They might not have known about the scam,” I said, “but I hardly think they are innocent. Why don’t we go over there and find out?”
Barry looked at Benedetto.
“Godfrey, set up a meeting at Albatross. For today. Meanwhile, I’ll get Alton on the payroll, officially.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I said, after Benedetto left. “Especially after the nasty things I said about Wall Street.”
“I happen to agree with you. Besides, it will look better. And you may have saved us millions.”
Barry went off to see how Benedetto was doing and I checked my phone message. It was from Wayne Miller.
“Jesus, Alt. I owe you. Tanya is perfect! And she can act, too.”
Maybe I should tell Wayne she’s also a hell of a kisser. I decided to let him find out for himself.
CHAPTER 19– A BRIDGE TOO FAR
Albatross House was on 8th Avenue near 57th Street. In the cab ride there, the three of us discussed strategy.
“I don’t want to show them all our cards,” I said. “If we do, they may immediately pull the plug on The Lighthouse Chronicles and try some damage control. Then the people on Bald Head might panic and disappear. My gut tells me that the two people who are missing, Ashleigh Harper and Anna Dickson, are dead. And I don’t think they died of natural causes. Let’s not even tell them that I went to the Harper luncheon on a whim.”
“Don’t we have a legal obligation to report a crime?” Benedetto asked. “And please don’t launch into another tirade about Wall Street immorality.”
“I wasn’t going to,” I said, smiling. “We need something that will hold up in court. We don’t even know if Albatross was a victim. And the manuscript might have been genuine. Unless I can prove that someone was murdered, there may only be a scandal that will make reams of lawyers rich.”
“But we have a fiduciary responsibility to our clients,” Barry said.
“Why? They’ve already been bilked. They’ll have to go to court. You are not going to do any more Albatross financing. And there is something else.”
“What is that?”
“If the people behind this are as ruthless as I think they are, they will tie up any loose ends before they disappear.”
“Loose ends?”
“He means the fake Harper,” Benedetto said.
“Right,” I agreed. “I met the woman. She may be a con artist, but she’s an old lady. I can’t see her being the brains behind such an elaborate scam. Once it is exposed, she becomes a potential witness. I don’t want to get her killed if I can help it.”
Barry nodded.
“OK, so what are we doing at Albatross, and who are you supposed to be?”
“How is the book doing?”
“It’s sold a lot of copies, but the reviews have been mixed.”
“I read that a lot of people feel as if they’ve been misled. Some bookstores are offering to refund money to disappointed customers.”
“That’s true,” Benedetto said. “And the fact that Harper, or whoever she is, refuses to come off her island to do a book tour has generated a lot of rumors that she’s not all there, mentally.”
The cab pulled in front of the building where Albatross was located.
“Here’s the play,” I said. “I’m the private investigator that you hired to look into allegations that Ashleigh Harper has dementia. You are worried that more bonds will be a hard sell to investors if they believe the author is senile and is being manipulated. I’ll say that I found her to be fragile but am not sure about anything else. We’ll ask them what they think. I want to get a feel for how high up this goes. Maybe something will shake loose.”
Albatross House was on the 14th floor and when we exited the elevator we were greeted with all the deference that investment banking money commands. A receptionist led us down a plushly carpeted hallway flanked by walls that were plastered with book covers and various publishing awards. She sat us in a paneled conference room and offered coffee and bottled water. We all declined, and a moment after she left two men and a woman came into the room. We stood.
“Godfrey, how nice to see you,” the taller of the two men said.
Benedetto introduced Barry and me to the man, whose name was Odin Glenneagle. I did not quite believe it until I read his business card later. I mean, who the hell is named Odin Glenneagle? He was the chief financial officer of Albatross House and was wearing an expensive blue suit.
“Well, a private investigator,” Glenneagle said, smiling. “I guess we’ll have to be careful what we say.”
I thought the smile was a bit forced. He introduced his companions. The other man was Wallace Webster, the fiction editor at Albatross House. The woman was Margaret Whittaker.
“Peggy is new to Albatross,” Glenneagle said proudly. “She was editor of the literary journal at Wellesley.”
“My girlfriend teaches at Barnard,” I said, just as proudly.
That threw Glenneagle off for a second, but he recovered.
“Peggy is now Ashleigh Harper’s personal editor”.
She had to be in her early 20’s and was pretty in a stern, Ivy League sort of way. She looked out of her depth, and soon proved it.
“I’m still not clear on why we are here, Odin,” Webster said. “We’re not on the business side of things.”
Webster’s tone, particularly the way he said “business”, fell somewhere between condescending and dismissive. He was wearing a lot of tweed and a tartan scarf. When he sat down, he flipped the scarf over one shoulder, crossed his legs and stared out the window.
“I asked for you and Peggy, Wallace, at Godfrey’s request. He and Barry have provided important financing for Albatross House. If you must know, I’m in the dark about why your presence here is needed, as well.” Glenneagle turned to Godfrey. “Perhaps you can enlighten us.”
“Well, as you know, we are preparing to raise more money for Albatross House. Normally, that would not be a problem. But while The Lighthouse Chronicles has been a financial success for you, thanks mainly to pre-orders that assured its two-million first printing would sell out, reviews have been, to put it mildly, mixed. Some of our investors are worried about the potential for future Harper novels.”
“I did not realize that the mavens of Wall Street read books,” Webster said, still looking out the window.
“We mostly read corporate balance sheets,” Barr
y said coldly. “And, very frankly, I am not enamored of Albatross House’s.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Glenneagle said nervously. “No need to get testy. After all, we’re all after the same thing, really. Wallace, it is only natural that Wall Street, as you term it, wants to protect its investment. Perhaps you can reassure Godfrey and Barry about the prospects for our upcoming Harper releases.”
Webster sighed dramatically, and actually turned to face us.
“The so-called critics who denigrated The Lighthouse Chronicles failed to realize how far Ashleigh has evolved since To Bury a Turtle Dove,” he intoned. “Very frankly, I’ve always considered her first novel, which predated me, of course, to be a bit too wordy and saccharine. The unwashed masses have, for reasons I can barely fathom, elevated it to cult status.”
I would like to have pointed out that the “unwashed masses” he spoke of included most of the people in the country. I would have also liked to punch his lights out. But showing unusual restraint, I did not act on either inclination.
“When I first read the Lighthouse manuscript,” Webster continued, “I knew I was in the presence of genius. Harper had reduced her prose to pristine simplicity and made the banal, luminous. I have even higher hopes for her next novel.” He turned to Whittaker. “Don’t you agree, Margaret?”
I braced for more pseudo-intellectual blather from Whittaker, but she merely said, “Yes, Wallace.”
She looked at Webster with puppy-like devotion. But I was pretty sure it wasn’t puppy love. I’d have bet my blackjack – if I had one – that Webster was pounding some Wellesley cutlet.
“But will it sell?” Barry said.
“Of course it will sell,” Webster said, dropping his literary persona. “Readers are like sheep. They buy the author’s name, not the novel. With enough money and the right publicity campaign, I could make a bestseller out of my laundry list.”
I glanced quickly at Glenneagle. He did not look happy.
“But Harper is a virtual recluse,” Barry said. “Don’t you need her to do book tours, that sort of thing?”
“Ordinarily, author involvement in a campaign is crucial,” Webster said, with a hint of exasperation. “But in Harper’s case, the air of mystery is potent. I could care less if she ever comes off her bloody island.”
TURTLE DOVE (Alton Rhode Mysteries Book 7) Page 11
