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Murder.com
A Reuben Frost Mystery
Haughton Murphy
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
For my brothers, John and Joseph
One
“Not on Your Life!”
“We have to get off our aging backsides and see more people.”
Reuben Frost, sitting at his desk at the law firm of Chase & Ward, sipped his morning coffee and recalled his wife Cynthia’s admonition of the night before. The two of them had been eating dinner—alone—at their New York town house on East Seventieth Street when she remarked that they were spending too many evenings at home.
The reason for the Frosts’ curtailment of their schedule had been that Cynthia had recently developed arthritis in her left ankle. Before that she had been vigorous and active, subject only to the minor annoyances and debilities that both she and her husband could expect in their seventies. But the arthritis was different. For the first time it had made her feel old. And, as a result, she untypically retreated from the busy New York social life she and her husband had always led during four decades of marriage. She had also begun doing more and more of her work as the long-standing director of arts grants at the Brigham Foundation at home, claiming that this was now possible thanks to her laptop.
Ever the understanding spouse, Reuben had gone along with his wife’s desire to slow things down, though he himself felt perfectly capable of coping with a full calendar. So he had been relieved the previous evening when she told him she had concluded that keeping on the go was the only realistic therapy for her and that they should try to resume a brisk schedule. It was the old Cynthia speaking, the dancer who in her performance days had always combated physical discomfort with increased activity.
Reuben himself had long since retired as an active partner of Chase & Ward LLP. Yet as one of the leaders who had seen the law firm grow and mature, he maintained a fatherly, or now perhaps grandfatherly, interest in its affairs. Recognized as one of the most distinguished firms in Manhattan, its lawyers—numbering five hundred at last count (five times the number when Reuben had begun work there)—served many Fortune 500 corporations, and had collective experience in advising clients in almost all fields of industry and finance. Reuben, who had served as the Executive Partner of the firm for several years, modestly did not take credit either for its expansion or sterling reputation, but his wife was aware that he was annoyed when others did.
Although the active practice of law was definitely behind him, Reuben dutifully went to the office every business day. Mostly those days were uncrowded, much to his distress, making him all the more eager for evening activities. Occasionally, though, one of his former colleagues would consult him on a problem, usually of a tricky ethical, rather than a legal, nature. But the knocks were infrequent on the door of his modest office, which contrasted with the grand space he had occupied as the Executive Partner at One Metropolitan Plaza with a view of New York harbor. His only regular visitor was his new, pert, and not very smart secretary, Terry Whalen, who he now shared with two other retired partners in equally modest quarters adjacent to his own. (Originally, these three retirees, along with two others who had since died, were known among the more irreverent associates as “the Five Little Peppers.” That designation no longer applied, and as far as Reuben knew, the young smarties had not come up with a new nickname. Had they asked, he would have suggested “the Three Wise Men.”)
Reuben was grateful that the firm had provided him with civilized, if plain, office space. He shuddered when he thought of the odious circumstances of a friend at a downtown rival who was one of several retired lawyers herded together in a common bull pen, referred to by that firm’s jokesters (and not always kindly) as “the Nursing Home.”
His coffee finished, Reuben decided that there was no time like the present to begin attempts to fill in the social calendar. He buzzed Ms. Whalen and asked her to track down Detective First Class Luis Bautista in the New York City Police Department, assigned to what was clumsily called Detective Borough Manhattan. While waiting, he recalled how Bautista and he had first met at the time of the murder of his partner, Graham Donovan. And how odd circumstances had brought them together in homicide investigations several times since.
Reuben and Cynthia had become close friends with Luis and his wife, Francesca. They had seen the young couple through their courtship and marriage and, more recently, through the birth of twins, Rafaela Cynthia and Manuel Reuben. The children’s middle names had of course been taken from their honorary godparents—the Frosts—who, childless themselves, were delighted with the gesture.
“Thank heaven they’re only two of them,” Francesca had said at the time, relieved that the fertility treatment she had undergone had not produced even more.
“How are the twins?” Reuben asked, once Bautista had been reached.
“Trouble and More Trouble, you mean? They’re fine, Reuben. But two handfuls. Now that they can walk, Manuel goes off in one direction and—bam!—Rafaela takes off in the other. Man, I’m telling you, I may be too old to be the father of twins.”
Reuben asked Luis to repeat what he had just said. “I can barely hear you. We’ve got a bad connection.”
“Sorry, I’m on my cell. I just caught a case and am at the crime scene—over next to FDR Drive.”
“I won’t keep you then. I was just wondering if you and Francesca could have dinner with us—any night this week.”
“That would be great, Reuben, but I have a hunch this job is going to be messy and take some time. Victim’s a girl in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. Looks like she was strangled. Body discovered by an observant runner about two hours ago. Problem is her ID is obviously fake—the kind of bogus driver’s license the kids get and use to go drinking. She’s clearly old enough to drink, so the ID doesn’t make any sense. Hallie Miller, the ‘license’ says.”
“Does she have an address?” Reuben asked.
“Affirmative. It says 220 East 69th Street. I radioed it in and it’s one of those new ugly apartment buildings off Lexington, right near you. Something called the Ladbroke.”
“Oh God, you’re absolutely right. I know it well and it’s truly ugly. Repulsive. It’s the nastiest place in the neighborhood. Makes me sick to my stomach every time I go by it. Built by that TV glamour boy.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Luis, I’m sorry you’re not available. Will you call me when you get free? We want to see you—and the twins.”
“You may regret that, amigo. But, yes, of course, I’ll phone you.”
“Much love to Francesca. And good luck with your case.”
“Sure you don’t want to get involved? For old times’ sake?”
“No, sir. Not on your life! I’m out of the detective business.”
Finished with his duties at the crime scene, Bautista removed his jacket in deference to the unseasonably warm late-April weather. He climbed back into his unmarked black car, stretched out his long legs, and started the engine. Returning to his headquarters on East Twenty-First Street, he thought about the unlikely but warm rapport that had developed between the Bautistas and the Frosts. The two couples were at ease socializing together, often going to the ballet, to which the Bautistas had become devoted, possibly even addicted. Both Luis and Francesca secretly hoped that Rafaela would follow Cynthia’s path as a dancer—and for that matter, they wouldn’t mind if Manuel did as well.
Reuben and Luis had a special relationship based on their joint sleuthing. Despite differences in age and
culture—a young, tall, handsome Latino and an aging, slightly stooped WASP lawyer—they had more than once proved the axiom that two heads are better than one. Luis recalled, with not a little wonder, how their skills and perceptions had meshed so well in the past.
Too bad Reuben isn’t on board for this new case, the detective thought. He guessed that the victim whose body he’d just seen had a sad, banal New York story, repeated far too many times: the bright career girl who arrives in the City and then falls into the killing hands of a predator, often a demented one. Not a likely case for Reuben. And, besides, his “Not on your life!” disclaimer had sounded pretty definite.
Two
Daniel Courtland
Reuben had not made any progress in filling the blanks in his engagement book when Daniel Courtland, an old friend and client, called. After pleasantries, Courtland explained that he was at the Marine Air Terminal at LaGuardia, having just arrived in his private Grumman GIV from Indianapolis, and that it was “urgent” that he see Reuben.
“Can we have dinner?” he asked.
“That would be fine, Dan. I’m free.”
“Good. It’s really important. Six thirty at the Four Seasons.” (Courtland always ate early—“on farmers’ hours” as Cynthia had once put it—and, when in New York, always at the Four Seasons.)
“And could you bring Cynthia?” he added.
The request surprised Reuben. The visitor must have something to discuss other than a legal or business problem if Cynthia was to be included.
“I’ll find out, but let’s assume that she can,” Reuben answered. He nonetheless warned Courtland of his wife’s difficulties with arthritis, in case she did not feel up to going out.
“All right. I’ll see you—let’s hope both of you—at six thirty.”
Courtland Diversified Foods had been one of Reuben’s largest and most lucrative clients when he had been in active practice. A billionaire more than twice over, Courtland had spent a modest inheritance to purchase a chain of midwestern grocery stores in a bankruptcy sale back in 1970. The conglomerate empire that became Courtland Diversified Foods grew and grew after that, largely through shrewd acquisitions by its principal owner: a cannery, at least three enormous Western ranches, a cereal manufacturer, a frozen food maker—even a noodle factory in Brooklyn. At the current market, CDF shares were worth sixty dollars each and Daniel Courtland owned forty million of them, or thirty percent of the total outstanding.
Courtland considered himself the embodiment of the American dream—hard work leading to financial success and power. It had never occurred to him that he might not have made it if he had not received a million-dollar inheritance from his father. No, in his certain view, CDF had prospered through a combination of his own cleverness and the Free Enterprise System—with the capital letters he always seemed to emphasize when discussing it. By “Free Enterprise System” he of course meant a paradise with a minimum of union power, taxes, and government regulation.
Chase & Ward became CDF’s lawyer at the time of the initial public offering of the company’s stock. The corporation, while enormous, had been run largely out of Daniel’s hat; the investment bankers bringing the enterprise to market wanted the business put in good order, and hoped that its owner could be instructed on the basics of good corporate governance. The lawyers at Chase & Ward were expert in such matters, and Reuben had been a Princeton classmate of the banker in charge of the deal, so the business came to him. (This was in the days when the old-boy network still flourished.)
Instructing Courtland in the ways of modern public companies was not easy. “Why can’t I go after price cheaters?” He had protested, for example. (That is, why should the antitrust laws prevent him from fixing retail prices with his wholesalers and retailers?) Reuben had been patient with his pupil and believed, correctly as it turned out, that he would follow good corporate practices even if he was not convinced of their efficacy.
The offering was successful and Courtland retained Chase & Ward, and Reuben, as the lawyers for CDF on a regular basis. He also moved his personal business to the firm, becoming the largest client of Chase & Ward’s principal trust and estates partner, Eskill Lander.
Courtland was some twenty years younger than Reuben, so there was a literal generational divide between them. There had never been a figurative one, however, as they seemed to complement each other nicely, though they were quite different: Reuben was calm, collected, and open; Courtland was instinctive, closed minded about many things, and short tempered. In fact, CDF’s CEO was notorious for his short fuse. Reuben had observed it over the years as, for the most trivial reasons, the billionaire fired loyal subordinates, advertising consultants, and even the bankers that had originally steered him to Frost. He was also abrupt, if not downright rude, to secretaries and staff and, Reuben was forced to admit, his late wife, Gretchen.
Reuben always remained in his client’s good graces, no matter how much he and Dan argued over an issue. Nonetheless, he warned his younger partner, Hank Kramer, when he took over the CDF account at the time of Reuben’s retirement, and Eskill Lander, when he became the man’s T & E lawyer, that their client needed to be handled carefully if they wanted to keep his business.
One reason the two men’s relationship worked was because they scrupulously obeyed the old injunction to avoid discussions of politics or religion. Reuben, despite his eminence in a relatively conservative law firm, unashamedly called himself a liberal; Courtland was a thoroughgoing conservative. He was also a deeply committed fundamentalist whereas Reuben was an Episcopalian, his religion lightly worn.
But while he had certainly known of Courtland’s right-wing bent, Reuben had only recently discovered—through a Google search—how different his own views were from those of his client.
Reuben had long been a Luddite as far as modern technical devices were concerned—still was, with regard to cell phones and BlackBerry smartphones, which he considered to be “enslaving”—but he had become a computer enthusiast once the young information technology specialist at Chase & Ward had taught him the basics.
“My God, it seems to me that a young lawyer could do everything—research, writing, communicating, et cetera—right from his desk without ever getting up,” he had remarked at the time. “Not that that’s necessarily a good thing—paunches and large rears are never attractive—but it certainly could be done.”
Now his email correspondence was quite prodigious, his “address book” long; as an enthusiastic new convert, he had only contempt for his elderly contemporaries who refused to deal with the computer.
Reuben took a special delight in Googling; he found it much more entertaining—and more informative—than any gossip column, though he often shook his head in disbelief as he reminded himself that the verb, to Google, and the system itself, had not even existed a generation earlier.
On one of his idle days at the office he had Googled Daniel Courtland. He was shocked to learn the depth of his old friend’s conservatism: a major supporter of the National Rifle Association and the American Enterprise Institute. Plus a very long list of conservative political candidates to whom he had made donations. And the Daniel S. Courtland Professorship of Ethics and Philosophy at Jerry Falwell’s Liberty University, a benefaction he had never told Reuben about.
Frost was taken aback. However, he saw no reason to change his long-held view that Daniel Courtland, whatever the peculiarities of his personal views, was law-abiding and ran an honest company; there was no reason to dismiss him as a client. The Google search also showed the extent to which Courtland was involved in Indianapolis auto racing. He had mentioned his enthusiastic backing of a driver and supporting team in the Indianapolis 500 many times before, but Reuben, having zero interest in the subject, had not picked up on it. From the search entries, however, it was clear that his client was deeply caught up in the sport and was the sponsor of a major contender in the annual Memorial
Day race.
“Doctors minister to patients who have venereal diseases all the time,” Reuben had remarked, when he conveyed his findings to Cynthia. “So I don’t see why I can’t represent a corporation run by a mossback. And have an ecumenical association with a Red Stater.”
After his Google discoveries, Reuben was even more careful to see that the Frost-Courtland mutual non-aggression pact remained in effect. That pact had enabled their friendship to persist even after Reuben ceased looking after CDF’s affairs. If anything, it had deepened since the death of Courtland’s wife two years earlier.
Cynthia genuinely liked Daniel Courtland, though she was frustrated by her husband’s constraints on discussions of politics when they were together. She was sure the man needed educating and she would have been more than willing to undertake the task if she had she not been forbidden to do so. Nonetheless, she was pleased when Reuben called her to relay the invitation for the evening.
“The Four Seasons, I suppose?”
“Of course. It’s the only restaurant in New York he knows.”
“Well, at least we’re getting out. As I said to you last night—”
“I know, I know. Before Dan called, I did, in fact, make an effort to improve our social life. I called Luis and invited him and Francesca to dinner.”
“And?”
“He’s tied up with a new case that he thinks will keep him out of circulation for a while. A body dumped over by the East River.”
“Nobody we know, I trust.” Cynthia wanted to make sure this was not another instance of Reuben stumbling into a murder investigation.
“No, a young girl named Millard or Miller or something like that. But she was practically a neighbor, living in that awful Ladbroke House on Sixty-Ninth Street.”
“Oh Lord. I went by it just this afternoon and thought again of that stupid developer who called it the ‘Ladbroke,’ probably thinking it was a fancy British name when ‘Ladbroke’ is really the name of the biggest betting operation in England.”
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