by Peter Israel
She sat down at the dressing table. Switching on the lights above its three-paneled mirror, she eyed herself in the sudden brightness, glanced up at my reflection, presumably the gun’s as well, then back to herself. She picked up a hairbrush. Pulling her head down, first one side, then the other, she worked it firmly through the dark curls.
“How long has it been going on?” I asked. “Between you and your brother?”
“It,” she repeated, the brush poised in midair. “You can’t even bring yourself to say the word, can you.” She put the brush down and, leaning forward into the mirror, smiled exaggeratedly at herself, frowned, then reached toward a squat porcelain cosmetic jar. “Well, it, for the record, has been going on for as long as I can remember.”
“Then why me?” I asked. “Was all this—from the Christmas party on—just a trap waiting for the mouse?”
“Do you need me to answer that?”
“I do.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Well, as far as Theodore R. Goldmark was concerned, you were handpicked. He knew all about the Stark-Thompson Funds long before you did.”
“And what about you?”
She seemed to hesitate. Still leaning forward, still scrutinizing her face, she dipped her fingers into the porcelain jar and began to massage the skin under her eyes.
“As for me,” she said into the mirror, “I had my own reasons.”
“What reasons?”
“What difference does it make now? We both blew it. Teddy panicked.”
Somehow, although I don’t remember moving, I’d come within reaching distance of her. Only the lower part of her face reflected in the mirror. Her lips, her chin. I could smell the familiar rose-tinged odor of the cream she used.
“And now he’ll go to jail?” I said.
“Oh, I doubt that.”
She’d stopped rubbing. She wiped her fingertips on a linen hand towel and swiveled toward me in her seat. Her cheekbones glistened from the cream, accentuating the crisscrossed circles of white skin around her eyes. Her pupils stared up at me, dark, small.
“Either you’re going to use that, Tommy,” she said with a short nod at the gun, “or you’re not.”
“You don’t believe I will, do you?”
“Whatever,” she said with a stray gesture. “But if you’re not, I’d like you to leave now. I really need to get some sleep.”
No tremor, not the slightest apprehension. Just: I need to get some sleep.
I started to laugh. At last, I thought. That was what I had come for: that summing up of our relationship.
“You mean,” I said, smiling bitterly down at her, “you’re not going to fuck me first, Kitten? One last time? Just for old times’ sake?”
Only then did I see the anger flare, and then Kitty rose up at me in all her faded, furious glory.
EPILOGUE
MEMORANDUM TO FILE (THOMPSON)
CONFIDENTIAL
FROM: DMC
This memorandum is based upon, and reconstructed from, notes taken in the course of the events described.
I was informed of the apparent death of Stark Thompson III on October 28th, 1987. I was, and remain, his attorney of record. It was I who prepared his Will and was named co-executor of his Estate along with his wife, Katherine Goldmark Thompson, a.k.a. Kitty Goldmark. My name is Dwight MacGregor Coombs. I am licensed to practice law in New York State.
Ms. Goldmark, and so I shall refer to her, informed me of the event by telephone. It was a generally unsatisfactory conersation, due, I thought, to her shock at the news. The event had taken place in the early morning hours the day before. A car, rented in her husband’s name in Stamford, Connecticut, had plunged through a construction site on the Tappan Zee Bridge and into the Hudson River. The car had already been recovered by the authorities and contained certain possessions which Ms. Goldmark herself had identified as belonging to her husband. But no body had been found inside.
I had met Ms. Goldmark only once or twice prior. (I had in fact attended their wedding in June 1987.) She had struck me as very self-possessed, and I know she had obtained quite some success in the business world. The woman I spoke to on October 28th, however, hardly resembled her. She contradicted herself several times. On the one hand, she said she was certain, positive, that Stark Thompson wasn’t dead, that it was all a mistake. On the other, she wanted me to press the police to find his body. She wanted to know how long it took for someone presumed dead to be declared legally dead. She questioned me about her husband’s Will. How long would it take to be probated once he was declared legally dead? What about his life insurance? When would the beneficiaries collect? But then again she repeated that he wasn’t dead. She even implied that I knew his whereabouts.
This was not true.
Ms. Goldmark then offered me money if I would represent her interests vis-à-vis the investigating authorities. I declined, at which she ended the conversation promptly by hanging up.
There were two reasons why I declined, although I gave neither.
The first was that I suspected I wouldn’t be a suitable representative for Ms. Goldmark.
The second involved a potential conflict of interest, as follows:
The same day as Stark Thompson’s death or disappearance, I had received the typescript to which this memorandum is appended. It arrived by Express Mail, postmarked White Plains, New York, and the package contained the following letter, which I cite in full:
My dear Mac,
It was good to see you again last week. You seemed in excellent form.
What you may have deduced about my current situation I can only guess, for you were your usual discreet self. The fact is that I am in some difficulty. I cannot begin to explain why, but at the risk of sounding melodramatic, I have reason to fear that I may be in personal danger.
In the event you learn that something of the sort has happened—but only in that event—I ask that you open the enclosed package and read its contents. You will find, at the end of it, a second letter addressed to you. I would prefer that you save the latter until you’ve finished reading, and this not because I’m being deliberately mysterious or obfuscatory, but because I doubt it would make much sense to you otherwise.
And if nothing happens? Well then, just keep it all in some safe place. One never knows!
We may or may not see each other again. The latter would, of course, be a source of very great regret to me.
With kindest personal regards,
Sincerely yours,
The letter was undated, typed, but signed in his own hand: Tommy.
I began reading his account that evening. I did not finish until the weekend following. Perhaps I should only say that my eyesight has deteriorated, but I feel compelled to add that certain revelations shocked me greatly. At times I was obliged to put the pages aside. That this young man, whom I had known since his infancy and had always liked, could have committed such crimes—and for what? For her? Insane acts, I am tempted to call them, and yet he appears to have been in full possession of his faculties.
My God Almighty, I thought when I was done, how little I know my fellow man! Not at all, in fact. Not after all my years of living.
I must continue.
Pursuant to Stark Thompson’s instructions, I then read the second letter, handwritten, which I now cite in full:
My dear Mac,
In haste.
Since you’re reading this, the worst must already have happened.
To business:
In the matter of the Estate of Edgar Sprague. While I doubt sufficient basis exists for opening an investigation into Sprague’s death, please look into your firm’s own files. They contain ample documentation concerning her dealings in Manderling’s stock.
In the matter of Safari, etc. The records of Stark Thompson, P.C., plus the report and testimony of Henry Angeletti, will provide an excellent point of departure in support of my contentions. I would guess that, properly handled, M
r. Angeletti could be persuaded to cooperate, particularly if the Senior Managing Director of Braxton’s goes up for indictment?
In the matter of the death of Robert Thorne. Please inform the appropriate authorities of the following:
1) The Thorne murder weapon is in the tool bin in my garage, wrapped in a pillowcase. This is where I put it after we moved in. I believe it is a #2 iron. It belonged to Thorne. I would bet anything her fingerprints are still on it.
2) Tell them to look under the mattress in Thorne’s bedroom, at the bottom side, for traces of blood. She scrubbed it that night, and then we reversed it. Alas, I did dispose of the sheets and towels.
Finally, in the matter of the demise of Stark Thompson III. I leave this to you, dear Mac, depending on the circumstances.
I do realize, Mac, that none of this is quite your bag. You would much prefer, I imagine, to avoid the ugly situation it is bound to create. Act if you can. If you feel you cannot, then I am appending a list of people, all attorneys known to me and probably to you, to any one of whom you could turn this over. But I have chosen you instead, relying on your skill and discretion to carry out the last wishes of one who remains
Your loyal friend,
(signed) Tommy
I have debated this second letter’s contents at length, particularly the last paragraph. It is not that I have any intention, whatever I might personally wish, of shirking my duties toward a client. Rather I doubt my competence. I have little experience in criminal matters, none whatsoever in homicide. I am also concerned about possible libel charges should I in any way “publish” or “cause to be published” Stark Thompson’s allegations, in his account as in the letter. I have decided finally to proceed, but prudently.
Stark Thompson’s disappearance has aroused a considerable stir in the media, particularly given the police investigation’s inability so far to determine precisely what happened. Despite repeated attempts to drag the bottom of the Hudson River in the area concerned, no body has yet been found. Furthermore, I have learned that there was something strange about the crash itself. Under normal circumstances, I am told, it is extremely unlikely that any vehicle short of a truck or bus would be able to breach or jump the bridge’s retaining wall, even at high speed, so as to plunge into the river. It was only in the temporary area of the construction, where systems of barricades and warning lights and arrows led drivers away from the wall, that a car could in fact plunge through. This, I have learned, has made the investigators somewhat skeptical about accidental cause, though in their minds Thompson could still have been either the victim or even the perpetrator of the event.
According to the testimony of those who knew him (I am simply repeating now what the media have reported), including his wife and brother-in-law, Stark Thompson had been newly and happily married. Only three days before his disappearance, he had visited his two children, who live with his ex-wife. He seemed normal to them. Ms. Goldmark has told interviewers that she last saw him that Sunday night He had been away for the weekend, had arrived home late, they’d gone to bed shortly thereafter, and when she awoke in the morning, he had already left. An early meeting, she had assumed. She had no idea where he had been all day Monday, or Monday night. He hadn’t been to his office. To date, she is the last person known to have seen him.
No mention has been made yet of the financial difficulties he describes in his account.
I myself have been approached by the media for background material on my client and information about his Will. Of course I am reticent about the former and have divulged nothing of the latter’s contents.
I know only one thing which is not common knowledge: Either Stark Thompson lied in his account about the events of that Sunday night, or Ms. Goldmark is lying about them now.
MEMORANDUM TO FILE (THOMPSON)
CONFIDENTIAL
FROM: DMC
SUBJECT: THREE MEETINGS
This memorandum is based upon tape recordings, telephone conversations, notes, and recollections.
After a series of skirmishes, I succeeded in convincing the Suffolk County Sheriff’s Office, notably Detective Robert Hammerson and later his superiors, that I held important information concerning the death in their jurisdiction of one Robert Thorne. A client of mine, whose name and whereabouts I refused to divulge, had furnished me with a full description of how Thorne had been murdered, with suggestions for further investigation. I recommended to Hammerson that the mattress on Thorne’s bed, which allegedly had been scrubbed and turned over during the crime, be re-examined. I also suggested that Thorne’s golf clubs be checked, if they were still on the premises, to ascertain if they comprised a full set.
Apparently these suggestions bore fruit, for I soon found myself threatened with withholding evidence in a police investigation, concealing a material witness, and so forth!
To these tactics I replied that I would not divulge further information without a written guarantee of confidentiality for myself and my client. The Sheriff’s Office refused to give me any such. Finally, to break the impasse and since further action on their part would require both a search warrant and the cooperation of authorities outside their jurisdiction, I agreed to meet one-on-one with a local magistrate to review the situation.
I then visited Judge Regis Fontaine in his chambers, at the county courthouse in Riverhead, Long Island, during which meeting I read aloud to him from the Thompson account and the second Thompson letter, and showed him selected relevant passages.
On the basis of this meeting, a warrant was issued and, despite efforts by Ms. Goldmark’s counsel to oppose it, a search conducted of the Thompson residence by the competent authorities. The alleged murder weapon was discovered as indicated in my client’s letter and impounded by the police for forensic study.
On December 8th, 1987, a subpoena was served on Stark Thompson, P.C., with copy to me, by the Federal District Court in New York, requiring Stark Thompson, P.C., to produce all records and documents pertaining to all transactions involving the securities of certain named U.S. corporations made from the establishment of the firm to the present.
By arrangement, I then received a visit from one Simon Schwartzenberg of the U.S. Attorney’s Office, who informed me that Stark Thompson, P.C., had been named in an ongoing investigation of the investment bank of Braxton’s, and specifically of the conduct and affairs of Theodore R. Goldmark and his immediate staff.
Of course I was generally aware of the so-called Goldmark scandal, that Goldmark had been suspended from his duties at Braxton’s, and so forth, for it had been amply covered in the media. But as I told Schwartzenberg, while I had represented Stark Thompson in certain personal matters including the preparation of his Will, I had no involvement whatsoever with Stark Thompson, P.C. I was therefore of little help to him, and our meeting was brief, if reasonably cordial.
Of course were a similar subpoena served on me, demanding that I produce all such records and documents, it is technically possible that I might have to furnish the Thompson typescript. A neat legal question there. But since Schwartzenberg made no reference to it, neither did I.
On the same day, by coincidence and upon very short notice, I received a visit from Ms. Goldmark herself, accompanied by her attorney, a certain Roy Lanceman of New York, whom I knew by reputation but had never met. I have no taped record of our meeting because Lanceman, upon entering my office, insisted that I refrain from making any, to which I agreed.
I had, I should say, continued to receive telephone calls from Ms. Goldmark. I regarded them as fishing expeditions. Under the pretext of questioning me about her husband’s Estate and Will, she clearly tried to trick me into admitting that he was still alive. By the time of this meeting, however, her calls had all but ceased, possibly because she had herself ascertained that the liabilities in Stark Thompson’s Estate would far exceed the assets.
Roy Lanceman, who is reputed inside the profession to be something of a street fighter, opened our conversation in a pointed, even
aggressive manner. I will try to reconstruct to the best of my ability.
“My client and I have learned,” he began, “that you have in your possession certain documents authored by Kitty’s husband and which may be extremely derogatory in nature toward her. Is this true, Counselor?”
I have ever been suspicious, I admit, of fellow attorneys who address me as “Counselor.” I told Lanceman I felt under no obligation to answer his question, citing the confidentiality of the attorney and client relationship.
“Is that so?” he said. “Come, come, Counselor. I wouldn’t like to have to force your hand. We’d much prefer to deal with this amicably.”
“I’m afraid my answer is the same,” I replied.
This seemed to nettle him no end. Standing, he began to pace and, thumbs in the slit pockets of his vest, proceeded to threaten me substantially as follows:
“Let me spell it out for you, Mr. Coombs. If the documents, as we have reason to believe, contain material which, by revealing her private life, would greatly embarrass my client or are, in addition, of a slanderous nature, accusing her falsely of crimes of which she has no knowledge, then we are dealing with a very serious matter. Your refusal even to acknowledge their existence makes a mockery of good faith among attorneys. We know they exist. And I’m putting you on notice, Counselor, that any attempt to publish them, or cause them to be published in the legal sense, by you or anyone else, will leave us no choice but to pursue to the fullest the remedies of which I’m sure you’re well aware.”
I suspected Lanceman, wrongly perhaps, of grandstanding for his client’s benefit. I said:
“What exactly is it that you want, Mr. Lanceman?”
Up to this point, Ms. Goldmark had left the talking to him. Suddenly, however, she could no longer contain herself. She burst from her chair, brushed aside her attorney’s efforts to intervene, and attacked me in no uncertain, and indeed slanderous, almost physical, terms. Among the appellations, I recall “crook,” “liar,” and, however vulgarly and inappropriately, “cocksucking old fool.” We all knew what was going on, she maintained. I’d joined forces with her husband against her, and I’d done it with my eyes closed to how crazy and malicious he was. Because things had gone wrong in his business life—thanks entirely to his own mistakes, his own stupidity and greed—he was now determined to ruin her. He’d blown it; therefore she was supposed to blow it. And I was helping him! We had even sicced the police onto her, did I think she didn’t know that? Did we really think she was going to spend the rest of her life defending herself against our trumped-up charges?
