by Brad Parks
“That sounds like a problem,” I said.
“Yeah. My guy did some rough math for me that said, based on the square footage of his two biggest buildings, based on when he bought them—and based on the debt service he likely had on them—that unless Vaughn had a roughly eighty-five-percent occupancy rate, he was going to start getting in trouble. Now, ordinarily, that shouldn’t be a problem, because the vacancy rate for Class A office space in Newark generally isn’t much more than ten percent. But I did a little undercover work. Now this, mind you, is another rough estimate. But I walked the stairways and hallways of both buildings and as best I can tell they’re about sixty percent occupied. That means he’s taking a bath on them.”
I took another bite of pizza. “What did he pay for them?”
“McAlister Center went for forty-four million. McAlister Place was seventy-one million.”
“A total of one hundred and fifteen million.”
“Very good, Einstein. Now, again, this is a little bit of guesswork. But, basically, my guy said Vaughn had to come up with about six hundred grand every month just to meet his debt service. And that doesn’t count staff salaries, security, cleaning, things like that. Plus, Vaughn had people working the McAlister Arms site. Even if they were just moving around dirt, that still costs money. My guy made a pretty convincing case that at sixty-percent-occupancy level, Vaughn McAlister was probably losing at least three hundred grand a month, maybe more.”
I whistled, pulled out my phone, and punched up the calculator app. “So we’re potentially talking about four million bucks a year,” I said.
“Yeah,” Tommy said, munching on pizza. “Tells you pretty fast where that cleanup money really went, doesn’t it?”
“Or at least a good portion of it,” I said.
“But that’s not even the worst of his problems,” Tommy said.
“Oh?”
“My guy said that, particularly after the financial crisis, banks are very vigilant these days about something called DSCR—debt service coverage ratio,” Tommy said. “Basically, they want to know that you have enough money coming in from your existing properties before they loan you money for any new ones. And, in this case, he said Vaughn McAlister’s DSCR was probably a disaster. There’s no way any bank would have loaned him money for that project down in the South Ward with those other two buildings hemorrhaging so much money.”
“Unless he had a couple of blue-chip tenants who might have turned his cash flow problem around,” I said, then told Tommy what Vaughn had said about his supposed “big fish” and the rumors about Best Buy.
“But if he didn’t have Best Buy, he was pretty much dead in the water,” Tommy said.
“Yep,” I confirmed. “And sinking fast.”
* * *
Tommy and I batted various theories around for a while, eventually deciding that he would stay on Vaughn McAlister’s finances while I would pursue other angles.
We soon settled into small talk—Tommy was urging me to continue tanning, saying it was the only way to make the orange go away—and we were just about done with our pizza repast when my phone rang.
The number came up “Restricted.” Ordinary people often choose not to answer such calls. Reporters typically answer them on the first ring. An overdeveloped sense of curiosity can be annoying that way.
“Carter Ross.”
“Hi, this is Lisa Denbigh. You were looking to speak with me?” she said in a southern accent that was thick as a Georgia pine forest.
“Yes, hello, Ms. Denbigh. Thanks for getting back to me.”
Tommy tilted his head as soon as I said, “Denbigh.” I had told him all about the former Mrs. McAlister.
“I got your Facebook message yesterday,” she said. “Then I heard from my parents you had called them, too. So I thought you were probably pretty eager to talk.”
“I am. Did you … I assume you heard about Vaughn, yes?”
A brief silence was followed by, “Yes.”
“Sorry for your loss,” I said.
Another silence. Then: “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure how to feel about it. There were times a few years ago when I probably would have killed the cheatin’ son of a bitch myself.”
Now the silence was on my end, mostly because I didn’t know what to say. She quickly filled it with: “I’m sorry. That was … I didn’t mean it like that, I just … We’ve been through a lot, Vaughn and I. And when I saw the article about him being killed, it brought back a lot of memories, some of them good, some of them bad.”
“Tell me about the good first,” I said, just to get her talking.
“Are you doing some kind of obituary or something?” she asked.
“Something like that, yes.”
“Well, Vaughn was … He was like a big, bright comet flashing through the sky. We both ran in a pretty fast crowd but he was still hard to keep up with. Everything was big, bigger, biggest when it came to Vaughn. My friends thought I fell in love with him because of his money, but I really fell in love with him not for what he was but for what he was going to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“Vaughn was a dreamer. But he wasn’t one of those pathetic dreamers whose dreams were never going to come true. You felt like he was the kind of dreamer who was going to work so hard he was going to force things to turn out just the way he said they would. He could … see things in ways that ordinary people couldn’t, but he could also make them happen. He was so focused. He always said he was going to be like Donald Trump, but with good hair.”
“So the money was just a side benefit?” I asked.
“Oh, honey, he never really had money. He just acted like he did, because he knew the only way people would give him money is if they thought he already had lots of it. We had a prenup that protected his share of the company but said I got half of everything else. Well, let me tell you, five years later, half of nothing was still nothing.”
That certainly helped explain the variety of debts she had rung up.
“Had you been in touch with him recently?” I asked.
“Yeah, we probably talked about a week ago, actually.”
“Did you talk to him frequently?”
“I guess we talked from time to time, yeah. Vaughn was the kind of guy who wanted to be friends with everyone, even his ex-wife. I think he kept in touch with everyone he ever met. It used to drive me nuts when I was married to him, because he would talk to old girlfriends. Then I just sort of realized that’s who he was. He couldn’t stand the thought of anyone not liking him. It was sort of sad, I guess. But sort of sweet, too.”
“So you were still fond of him?” I asked, trying to circle around to the question I really wanted to ask.
“Oh, I suppose. Vaughn McAlister was hard not to like. Even when he cheated on me I couldn’t hate him too much. He had a big heart, and if he was guilty of anything, it was following it everywhere it told him to go.”
“Where had it been telling him to go lately?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
Time to spit it out: “Were you two talking about getting back together?”
She didn’t immediately answer my question. She just laughed. It was a real laugh: high and clear and strangely sunny, given the topic of conversation.
“Oh, shoot, honey, where would you get a crazy idea like that?” she asked.
“Someone told me you guys might be rekindling.”
“Who?”
“Can’t say.”
“Let me guess. It was his dad, right? You don’t even have to tell me. I know it was his dad.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Vaughn’s daddy was always sweet on me, bless his heart. He always had this joke that he was going to run off with me. I think he always hoped Vaughn and I would get back together and have a bunch of babies. But, oh goodness, no. That ship has sailed. It sailed three years and three therapists ago. I’m not saying I’ve got much in my life figured out. I’m probably
a bit of a mess, actually. But I can say this: no way were Vaughn and I getting back together. I wouldn’t if he begged me, and I don’t think he was going to be begging me anytime soon.”
“Why not?”
“He and Fenstermonster … sorry, that was my little name for her. He and Marcia were really quite happy together.”
“They weren’t having any trouble?” I asked.
“No, they seemed pretty blissful. In a way, it made me feel a little better about how things ended between Vaughn and I. We weren’t that happy anyway. He probably did me a favor by cheating on me. And at least he cheated on me with a woman he really ended up loving, not some bimbo. I think if anything he was fixing to marry her. Or at least that was how he was talking.”
“So let’s just say, hypothetically speaking, that Barry McAlister said Vaughn and Marcia were having trouble. What would you make out of that?”
“Probably just wishful thinking on Barry’s part,” she said. “He never really liked Fenstermonster that much. Sorry, he never liked Marcia that much. He was just talking out of his ass, if you’ll excuse the expression.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” I said.
“Anyhow, I’m here at the hairdresser and she’s ready for me. Anything else you want to know about Vaughn?”
“That depends. Anything else you want to tell me?”
“Not really,” she said.
I thought the call was going to end there, but then she added, “Except I really do hope he rests in peace.”
We ended the call and I drummed my fingers on the table for a moment. It was becoming apparent that Vaughn McAlister’s problems had gone well beyond a jealous girlfriend—and that the girlfriend in question probably wasn’t even jealous. Weighing my sources objectively, the sober ex-wife with no real skin in the game had more credibility than the drunk father who was too distraught to think straight. I had to face that I had been a little quick to judge Marcia Fenstermacher.
“Well?” Tommy said.
“Well, I think I know what I have to do next.”
“What’s that?”
“Apologize to Marcia Fenstermacher for accusing her of murder.”
“Why?”
“Because, one, I don’t think she did it,” I said. “And, two, she might help us figure out who did.”
* * *
It seemed only right that I make my apology in person, so I packed myself off for another visit to McAlister Place. The security guard appeared to have been recently anesthetized, so I walked right past him and took the stairs to the second floor, where I pulled on the door.
Except the door didn’t yield. I yanked again. Locked. I knocked. Nothing.
Obviously, whoever was currently in charge at McAlister Properties had declared a day of mourning for the boss. Either that, or they all realized there was no point in coming to work at a place that was on the verge of bankruptcy.
That made Florham Park my next obvious place to look for Marcia Fenstermacher. I had the address from when I had dispatched Pigeon there the day before, and I was soon headed in that direction. I was about halfway there, having just merged onto Route 24—not terribly far from the Millburn exit—when my mother, as if imbued with a sixth sense that her son was passing nearby, decided to call me.
And, because I knew she wouldn’t call me during work unless she had a very good reason, I decided to answer.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, honey,” she said. “Do you have a minute?”
It was never just a minute with my mother. But I said, “Yeah, sure.”
“Oh, good. I have great news.”
“What’s that?”
“Uncle Louie’s gout has flared up.”
“Why is that great news?”
“Because Aunt Linda says he’s not going to the wedding.”
“And…?”
“He was sitting at your table!” she said, triumphantly.
“Yeah, still not getting why that’s something to celebrate.”
“Sorry, honey. I forget that you haven’t spent as much time with the seating chart as I have. If Uncle Louie doesn’t go, that means there’s room at your table. You, Tina, and your new girlfriend can sit together!”
“Oh that’s … that’s just … super,” I said. Then, to dull the pain of that news, I head-butted the steering wheel. Twice. The second one was hard enough to make the horn blow. It made me feel a little better. But only just.
“What’s that?” my mother asked. “Was someone honking at you? Are you driving?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“You’re using a hands-free device, right?”
“Yes, Mom,” I lied. My Bluetooth had been broken for three months.
“I don’t want you getting a ticket. Plus, it’s not safe. You know your cousin Jennifer got a ticket for that not long ago.”
“I know, Mom. I was there when she told you about it, remember?”
“I just want you to be safe. Anyhow, one more thing. Do you have another minute?”
“Yes, Mom.” I said, knowing her sense of time probably hadn’t improved.
“Your father wants you to say a few words at the rehearsal dinner on Friday night.”
“Why?”
“Well, you know the father of the groom is going to say something on behalf of his family and you know how your father feels about public speaking. So he was hoping you could say something on behalf of our family. You’re really very good at that sort of thing. I’d ask your brother but he treats everything like it’s a courtroom and it starts sounding like an argument. Do you think you could come up with something?”
“Okay, sure.”
“It has to be something nice,”
“Yes, Mom.”
“And thoughtful.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Maybe you could quote Auden or something?”
W. H. Auden was Mom’s favorite poet. I’m not sure he ever wrote a word about love that didn’t make it sound like one of life’s most tortured exercises. Also, in Auden’s world, it usually involved two dudes. But I said, “Okay. Auden. How about ‘Funeral Blues’?”
“Carter Morgan Ross, don’t you dare!”
Yes, my middle name is Morgan. It’s a family name. And, yes, I know I shouldn’t have given my mother such a hard time. It was my small bit of revenge for her giving me three last names.
“I’m kidding, Mom,” I said.
“Okay. Okay. And you’re going to be here at four thirty on Friday, right?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“So we can leave at four forty-five.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“And get to the rehearsal dinner at five, when it starts.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“And you won’t be late.”
“Mom, you’re talking to your son who named his cat Deadline. When am I ever late?”
“I know. I know. I just want everything to go smoothly. You know how your father hates to be late for things.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Okay. Remember: four thirty!” she said one more time. Then, feeling like I had sustained enough henpecking for one conversation, I hung up.
I completed my drive to Florham Park, to a neighborhood that was an even mix between modern McMansions and future teardowns. McAlister’s was, naturally, one of the former—a boxy, beige thing that only went to prove that $1.2 million doesn’t necessarily buy you good taste.
Before long, I was knocking on the door, ready to duck when Marcia Fenstermacher answered it and tried to kick my teeth in. Instead, the door was opened by an older woman who immediately answered the question as to where Marcia had gotten her round face.
“Hello,” she said in a not-unfriendly way. “Can I help you?”
I introduced myself and told her I was hoping for an audience with Marcia. She told me her name was Sandy and that Marcia had just gone to the store for a second. But I could wait for her if I liked. I informed her I liked.
She invited me into a large kitch
en and pointed me to a seat at the island in the middle. The kitchen opened into a great room, where the gawky preteenage boy I had seen in the picture frame on Marcia’s desk was sitting in the corner, typing furiously on a desktop computer.
“That’s Trevor,” Sandy said. “He’s our burgeoning computer genius. Trevor, this is Mr. Ross. Please say hello.”
The kid mumbled something that may have sounded like “hello.” He was freckled and flat-topped and I found myself wondering who my son—or daughter, or whatever the speck in Tina’s womb would eventually turn into—would end up looking like. It stood to reason the kid would be tall and dark haired. I wondered if the hair would be curly like Tina’s or—
“He’s on that thing constantly,” Sandy said, interrupting my inner monologue. “I really don’t understand what he’s doing.”
“I’m just coding,” Trevor said sullenly, like he was tired of explaining himself.
“As I said,” Sandy said, “I really don’t understand what he’s doing.”
“Yeah, can’t say as I do, either.”
Trevor tore himself away from the screen for a brief moment to size me up in a way that suggested he couldn’t figure out why his grandmother let a six-foot-one moron into the house.
“Well, at least he’ll never lack for employment,” I said, then added, “I wish I could say the same for newspaper reporters.”
“Well, I just hope he—” Sandy started. But she was interrupted by two things. First was Trevor saying, “Hi, Mom.” Second was Trevor’s mommy giving me a scalding glance and demanding, “What do you want?”
* * *
Sandy and Trevor froze. This man who had waltzed into the house had seemed friendly, but Mom was obviously pissed off at him. So they were no longer sure what to make of me. Marcia was still fixing me with a face that belonged in the Nasty Glare Hall of Fame
