“What’s the speculation?”
“We think Anderson may have been about to deliver the Executor to Panzer. We’d been tailing Anderson for a couple months. We thought all along that Panzer might have been fronting for Tezca.”
“Why?” I asked.
It was Salazar who responded. “Because we believe Mr. Panzer is fronting for someone. Tezca is the most likely choice.”
“Why does Panzer have to be fronting for someone? Couldn’t he be going after it for himself?”
“Not likely,” Salazar said. “Mr. Panzer is a go-between in the art world. A fixer. Although he occasionally buys for his own account, it wouldn’t be logical for him to make this acquisition for his own account.”
“Why not?”
“Because of the substantial risk that Customs would seize it for my client.”
“Your client’s claim to the Executor is not necessarily beyond dispute,” I said to Salazar. “Panzer could challenge Customs in court.”
“He could,” Salazar agreed. “But he’d probably lose.”
“He might win.”
“He might. But it would be a gamble. Panzer has money. He may even be a millionaire. But here, Rachel, the stakes are far too high. I can’t imagine that Mr. Panzer is willing to play courtroom roulette with nine million dollars on the line.”
I leaned back in my chair. “That’s what the Executor sold for?”
“According to Mr. Fingersh,” Salazar said.
I turned to Ferd.
He nodded. “Give or take a million. Believe me, Miss Gold, Panzer don’t have that kind of money. He’d never be able to raise those funds from a legitimate source, like a bank. What kind of security could he pledge? Probably couldn’t raise it from an illegitimate one, either. Hell, the vig on a juice loan like that has to be about eight hundred a month.”
“You think it was Tezca’s money?”
Ferd said, “We’ve been tracking the U.S. bank accounts for Tezca and his various Aztlana entities. Six months ago, back around the time we believe someone bought the Executor on the black market, Tezca and his entities made several international wire transfers totaling just over nine million dollars.”
“Where’d the money go?”
“We traced it as far as an account in the Cayman Islands. We don’t know where from there.”
“If the stakes are too high for Panzer,” I asked, “why is Tezca different?”
Bernie DeWitt snorted. “Nine million? Shit, that’s flash money for Tezca. The dude’s worth double that at least.”
“How?” I asked.
Ferd gestured to the 60 Minutes videocassette on my lap. “It’s on there. His followers turned all their assets over to him. You’re talking millions of dollars. Tezca and his CPAs formed some sort of investment fund.”
“He devised a fairly sophisticated investment strategy,” Salazar explained. “He used the investment fund to finance acquisitions of assets held by debtors in Chapter Eleven bankruptcy cases around the country. It was an innovative approach. Other investment bankers have followed his lead, but Tezca was first. He made a healthy return on his investments.”
“So you think Remy Panzer is fronting for Tezca?”
“We do,” Ferd answered. “Right around the time Tezca disappeared, at least another fifteen million was transferred offshore. We traced those funds as far as Bermuda. Our best guess is that Tezca planned to take the Executor and flee the country. That may still be his plan. For all we know, he’s in St. Louis right now.”
I sat back with a frown. “That doesn’t make much sense.”
“What doesn’t?” Rafe asked.
“Why would he go through all the risk of smuggling it into the country if all he planned to do was take it with him when he left the country?”
“We doubt that that was his plan back when he bought it,” Ferd said. “That was back before all the criminal investigations started heating up. Back then, his plan was probably to just stay put out there in New Mexico. Things have changed for him. I think he’s figured out that sticking around in this country is getting to be hazardous to his freedom. He’s starting to get the idea that it may be only a matter of time before grand juries start returning indictments.”
“And when that happens,” Bernie said, “he’s got to figure that some hardass judge may not be too eager to set bail for a guy who owns seven Lear jets, three of which can reach Mexico on one tank of gas. Shit, if he had any sense, he’d be out of the country already.”
“Why hasn’t he left?” I asked.
“He’s got a problem,” Ferd said. “He’s got nine million dollars of his money tied up in that old Montezuma’s Executor.”
“It’s like that Fucking American Express commercial,” Bernie added. “He don’t want to leave home without it.”
“Exactly,” Ferd said.
I mulled it over. “Why are you telling me all this? What if I am working for Panzer? How do you know I won’t just go back and tell him all this?”
Ferd looked at Salazar. Salazar looked at me. “This was my idea, Rachel. I assume that Panzer tried to hire you yesterday afternoon. Based on what I have heard about you, I didn’t believe you would give him a firm commitment the same day. And even if you did, I hoped we’d be able talk you out of it.”
“What made you think you could talk me out of it?” I asked with a smile.
“Mr. Greenbacks,” Bernie DeWitt interjected. “Ralph here’s got an expense allowance that’d choke a horse.”
I kept my eyes on Rafael Salazar. “You mean, pay me to cooperate?”
“No,” he answered. “Never. I said I hoped we would be able to talk you out of working for Mr. Panzer, not bribe you out of it. El Verdugo is the rightful property of the people of Mexico. It is a tangible link with their heritage, part of their cultural patrimony. Helping my client would be the right thing to do, Rachel.” Although his smile was gentle, there was intensity in his eyes. “My client is willing to compensate you for your time, the same as it would for any attorney, including me.”
“Think it over, Miss Gold,” Ferd added.
“I will,” I said.
“As this thing develops,” Ferd said, “we’d like to stay in close contact with you. Although not directly.”
“Panzer the pansy knows all of us,” Bernie DeWitt said.
Ferd nodded. “In his line of work, he comes in contact with the local Customs agents on a regular basis. He’s a very suspicious man.”
“More like nervous as a queer at a weenie roast,” Bernie chimed in.
Ferd grimaced and shot Bernie a put-a-lid-on-it look. “This would not be a good time for Panzer to see you with one of us,” Ferd said to me. “If you don’t mind, we’d prefer that your primary contact be Ralph here.”
I glanced over at Salazar.
“Okay,” I said.
***
As I waited for the elevator, sorting through my thoughts, close but not quite ready to sign on this Customs mission, I heard my name.
It was Rafael Salazar. “Are you walking back to your office?”
I nodded.
“Could I walk with you? I need to talk to you”—he paused to glance back toward Ferd’s office—“in private.”
We stopped for soft drinks at the outdoor café near Kiener Plaza.
All the way down Market Street I had peppered him with questions about himself. He already knew something about me while I knew nothing about him.
As I quickly discovered, Rafael Salazar had an impressive résumé. Born in the Santa Fe barrio, he was a graduate of Stanford Law School, where he had been notes editor of the law review. After graduation, he fulfilled his ROTC obligations by spending four years in the Air Force, where he served as a criminal defense lawyer in the JAG corps. He learned to fly fighter jets on the weekends. After the Air Force,
he joined the New York City law firm of Sullivan & Cromwell. It was a far way from home for, as he called himself, “a half-breed from Santa Fe.” Too far, in fact. After three years as an associate specializing in international tax and bankruptcy, he returned to Santa Fe to set up his own practice.
The waitress returned with our drink orders, batting her eyelashes at him. He was polite to her, but nothing more. Two tables over, a pair of women in their twenties stared at him. One of them unconsciously bit her lower lip. As we had walked down Market Street, several women had turned to gawk at him. I felt like I was having a drink with a rock star. He was oblivious to it all, or at least pretended to be.
“Do you have a specialty?” I asked when Charo finally left.
He smiled. “My specialty these days is whoever happens to come through the door to my office. House closings, wills, worker’s compensation claims, criminal defense, traffic tickets, domestic relations. It’s a long way from Wall Street.”
“Do you like it, though?”
“Oh, yes. Back at Sullivan & Cromwell I used to work on huge, complex tax and bankruptcy matters that involved so many unique issues that each one could have been the subject of a law review article.” He shook his head ruefully. “A rather boring law review article, that is. Now I have living, breathing clients with real-life problems. I still handle bankruptcy matters, but they’re now filed under Chapter Thirteen.”
“From brain surgeon to country doc, eh?”
“Yes. Exactly. And every once in a while I still get the opportunity to perform some brain surgery. My friends at Sullivan and Cromwell still send me an occasional legal matter in New Mexico, and some of the clients I worked with back at S and C have sought my counsel with legal problems.”
“Such as the Mexican Museum of Anthropology?”
“They have been a good client over the years.”
“How long have you been in St. Louis?” I asked.
“For just a few days this week. I’ve been coming here on and off for at least four months. This is the first time I’ve stayed longer than a few days.”
“Are you getting along with the Customs guys?”
He shrugged.
“Ferd called you Ralph,” I said. “What should I call you?”
“My name is Rafael. My friends call me Rafe.” He pronounced it to rhyme with safe. “Call me Rafe.”
“I will. He’s—well, unique.”
“Ferd or Bernie?”
“Both. Are they any good?”
“I’m certain their abilities and skills are fine. That part doesn’t disturb me. What disturbs me is their priorities. You heard them mention the FBI and the IRS. It’s become a race for them, a game. Each agency wants to catch Tezca. They’re all caught up in some macho interagency rivalry.”
He shook his head in anger. “It reminds me of the street gangs—back in the Santa Fe barrio when I was a kid. I don’t care about Tezca. So long as he doesn’t flee with El Verdugo, I couldn’t care less about him. Customs shouldn’t either. They forget that they are involved here primarily as agents of the Mexican government pursuant to a treaty between the two countries. Ferd and Bernie are obsessed with Tezca. You heard Ferd back there talking about Customs being on the inside track until Stoddard Anderson died. Inside track. They’re so eager to win that race that they’ve blinded themselves to the real problems.”
“Such as who really owns it?”
“Exactly. You can assume that Panzer, or whoever is financing Panzer, will hire the best legal talent money can buy. It could take years to get the ownership issue resolved. Although I believe that my client has the better legal claim, who knows what will happen by the time it reaches the court of appeals? But Ferd and Bernie—they don’t want to hear about that. They’re like the cops who only care about making the bust and don’t worry about making it stick.”
“So you’ll do the worrying for them. That’s reason enough for your client to have you here.”
He sighed. “I worry about it. I worry too much. I am afraid my professional mask keeps slipping off in this case. My mother’s family came from Mexico, Rachel. From the Yucatán, in fact. It is a brutal legacy. Starting with Hernán Cortés, the Europeans—and then the Americans—pillaged and sold off the cultural patrimony of her people—of my people. El Verdugo has become a symbol for me.” He paused and gave me a sardonic smile. “A phallic symbol, eh? Appropriate, perhaps. A symbol of the white man’s rape of Mexico.” He stared in my eyes, his own ablaze. He exhaled slowly through his nose. “I would like to help my mother’s homeland reclaim El Verdugo,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.
“So would I,” I said, surprising myself, the words tumbling out before I realized I had made that decision.
He looked at me with gradually dawning comprehension. “Thank you, Rachel.” He reached for my hand across the table. “Thank you.”
It lasted a moment, and then the spell broke. He withdrew his hand, almost embarrassed.
“I get carried away sometimes,” he said, checking his watch. “You need to get to your office.” He reached for his wallet to pay the bill. “Please go. We will talk later.”
I thanked him for the soft drink and said good-bye. The relentless St. Louis summer sun was already heating up the plaza. I weaved through the umbrella-topped tables and moved toward Broadway. I had reached the fountain across the street from the Old Courthouse when I heard my name shouted.
I turned. It was Rafe, up at the cash register paying the bill. “Can we talk some more later?” he called.
“Sure,” I yelled back over the traffic noise.
“Dinner?”
I nodded happily.
“Tonight?”
I nodded again.
He smiled broadly. “I shall call you later.”
I waved good-bye. When the light changed, I practically skipped across the street.
I felt positively dazzled, the same way I had felt back in my sophomore year of high school when Bobby Hirsh, the varsity quarterback—a senior, no less, with dark blue eyes, dimples to die for, and a mezuzah around his neck—had casually dropped by my locker on his way to class to ask me out on a date for after the game on Saturday. I had leaned against my locker, hugging my notebook against my chest, my heart pounding, as I watched him amble down the hall, averting my eyes as he turned to nod at me before ducking into his classroom.
This time, however, the dazzled feeling lasted only until I reached the elevator bank inside the Boatmen’s Tower. It took me until then to remember.
Melvin Needlebaum.
I had already agreed to go out to dinner with Melvin Needlebaum.
“Oh, shit,” I groaned.
I spun around and ran to the exit, pushing through the revolving door. But by the time the traffic light changed and I dashed across the street, Rafael Salazar was nowhere in sight.
“Oh, shit,” I moaned as I turned back and trudged toward the building.
Things are going just great for you, Rachel. Couldn’t be better. First the National Law Journal turns you into the hanky-panky angel of death, the infamous black widow of litigation—a surefire way to meet guys. Hey, fellas, remember me? You pat hers, I’ll sue yours. And then you join the search for a gold cast of a dead Aztec’s humongous erection. What could be a more normal pursuit for a single woman in her thirties? And now, at last—just when the Cherokee version of Prince Charming happens along—you get to turn him down for an evening with Melvin Needlebaum. Perfect. What girl in her right mind would want to have dinner with Paul Newman when she can dine with Don Knotts? Who would want to spend an evening with Mel Gibson when you could spend it with…Mel Needlebaum?
Chapter Sixteen
I was in a foul mood when I stomped off the elevator into the lobby of Abbott & Windsor.
When I reached my office, my message light was flashing. There was a returned-your-call m
essage from Portia McKenzie, the “live” paralegal in trusts and estates. I tried her line. Busy. I left a message with her secretary and banged down the receiver.
Okay, calm down, I told myself. Tonight’s not the only night. Meanwhile, you’ve got things to do here. Worry about Rafe later.
I checked my watch. It was 10:50 a.m. I was supposed to meet with M. Salvatore Donalli (aka the Missing Link) in forty minutes. After that meeting I was supposed to drop my car off at a body shop on Kingshighway and pick up a loaner car for the weekend.
The upcoming meeting with the Missing Link reminded me of the life insurance matter, which certainly wasn’t going to solve itself. Today was Friday. People might be leaving the city for the weekend. I checked my watch again and reached for the list.
From Stoddard Anderson’s appointment calendar and telephone message slips I had compiled a list of close to forty people to contact. Nancy Winslow had typed up the list of names, along with an address and two telephone numbers (home and office) for each. I had about ten minutes to work the phones before I had to leave for the meeting.
I started with Dr. Jacob Bernstein, the physician Stoddard Anderson had seen during the last week of his life. If there was any witness out there with an opinion about Anderson’s mental condition—especially an opinion that might be admissible at trial—the most likely candidate was Dr. Bernstein. With any luck, he was Stoddard Anderson’s personal physician. With more luck, he was Stoddard Anderson’s psychiatrist. With lots more luck, Dr. Bernstein was to straitjackets what Dr. Scholl was to corn plasters.
“Dermatology Consultants,” the receptionist cheerfully answered.
“Doctor Bernstein, please.”
“I’m afraid the doctor is with a patient. Is this about an appointment?”
“No, I need to talk to him about a former patient. Please have him call Rachel Gold. Tell him I’m an attorney. Tell him I represent Mrs. Stoddard Anderson.” I gave her the phone number at the office and also the number at Ann’s house. “Please tell him it’s important we talk.”
I hung up confused. A zit doctor? Stoddard Anderson was seeing a zit doctor?
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