Reuben introduced himself and Cynthia. Facini understandably seemed puzzled. What were these ancients doing at his performance?
“I should explain that I’m a lawyer,” Reuben said quickly. “My firm, and sometimes I, myself, represent your stepfather. And this is my wife, Cynthia.”
“I see. Pleased to meet you.” He smiled and held out his hand; the change in his demeanor was dramatic. “Thanks for coming,” he added. “Hope you’re not allergic to carrots.”
The trio laughed, and then fell silent. Gino finally broke the silence by suggesting they go next door for a drink. The Frosts accepted and they were soon seated at an outdoor table at the Café Treviso. Gino had an iced latte and the two Frosts had glasses of Merlot, Reuben having discovered that the place had only a wine and beer license, which kept him from the stronger drink he really desired.
“I suppose you’re here about my half sister,” Gino said.
“That’s a fair statement,” Reuben replied.
“Well, I haven’t a clue about what happened. All I know is what I read in the newspapers, as they say.”
“I gather you weren’t close to her.”
“To put it mildly. Haven’t seen her in, oh, at least five years. You probably know all this. After my mother died, I left Indianapolis for good, in part because I wanted to become an actor here, but also in part because my stepfather couldn’t stand me. And I guess in part because I couldn’t stand him.
“The final straw was when my mother killed herself. If that’s what she did.”
“Do you have any doubt about that? That it was suicide?”
“I prefer to think my stepfather killed her. Which he certainly did, indirectly if not directly. He was horrible to her.”
Reuben was not entirely surprised to hear that Daniel had been less than an ideal husband. But he couldn’t let the implication stand that the man had murdered his wife.
“You don’t really think your stepfather killed your mother?” Reuben asked.
“No, I guess not. But I’m convinced he drove her to suicide. Which is just as bad. And which I absolutely do believe. He was always dissatisfied with her, critical of everything she did, the clothes she wore, the money she spent on the household. And he sure let her know it.”
“I’ve always been told that Daniel Courtland never forgave you for not taking his name when you were adopted,” Reuben said, shifting the subject to somewhat less contentious territory.
“That’s right. My name’s Facini, thank you. I was not about to change it, but my mother pressed him to adopt me anyway. He did—but you know about the financial settlement for Marina and me.”
“I do. A trust fund: one third for you, two thirds for her.”
“Correct. I can’t complain. That trust money has kept me alive—more than alive, actually—while I’m trying to break into the theatre. But I can’t forgive him for favoring Marina.
“You know, I talked to a guy at your firm about the legalities of what old Dan had done. He wasn’t any help and I didn’t find him very sympathetic.”
“That was Eskill Lander, I believe.”
“That’s right. Who can forget a name like Eskill?”
“None of that matters now,” Reuben pointed out. “The trust fund is entirely yours.”
“Yeah, I suppose it is. Lucky me!”
Reuben ignored Gino’s rather tasteless bravado. “Even if you weren’t close, do you have any idea who might have killed your half sister?” he asked.
“None. As I say, I wasn’t in touch with her.”
“Does the name Hallie Miller mean anything to you?” Cynthia asked.
“Nope. Should it?”
“Your half sister used that name sometimes,” Reuben explained.
“You’re kidding. Why the hell did she do that?”
“Apparently, so people wouldn’t know she was the Courtland heiress.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Maybe you’ll start using the Miller name, now that you’re the sole beneficiary of the Courtland trust.”
Facini made clear that he did not think this was funny. Cynthia deftly changed the subject to gossip about the downtown theatre scene, but the coffee hour was soon at an end.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Facini,” Reuben said, after paying the check, thinking, with some amusement, that young Facini was now in a better position to pay it than he was. “And here is my card in case anything occurs to you that might help us find Marina’s killer.”
Reuben also took down Facini’s cell phone number.
“Nice to meet you. Ciao,” Facini said as they shook hands and parted. He crossed the street and, to the Frosts’ surprise, unlocked a bright blue Jaguar and drove off.
“A struggling actor,” Cynthia said to her husband.
“Yes. With a very comfortable trust fund,” Reuben answered.
Reuben and Cynthia sat down over drinks once they reached home—a martini this time, not the Café Treviso’s “so-called Merlot,” as Reuben put it.
“Another interesting downtown evening,” Reuben said. “But more important than the artistry, what did you think of Signor Facini?”
“He’s a clever young man,” she responded. “Not that it takes much inventiveness to wear a bedsheet and stick a carrot where it doesn’t belong. But he’s got the skills of an actor.”
“How do you mean?”
“Let me get us something to eat and I’ll tell you. Sandwiches all right?”
“Don’t have much choice, I expect.”
Then, over grilled cheese sandwiches and non-merlot, Cynthia explained herself.
“Start with the proposition that young Mr. Facini is supposed to be difficult, with a chip on his shoulder and a bad temper. At least that’s the way both his stepfather and Eskill Lander describe him. And we saw evidence of that the way he was abusing his lighting man. He was prepared to treat us in the same rude way until he found out who you were. Then it was pretty much charm and sweetness.”
“So? Where does that get us?”
“Probably nowhere, but he was eager to make a good impression.”
“So we wouldn’t think he’d murdered his half-sister in a jealous fit of rage? And driven her in that blue Jaguar out to the edge of the East River?”
“Maybe.”
Eleven
A Surprise
Monday morning, the receptionist at Chase & Ward called to Reuben when he stepped off the elevator and told him that Russell Townley, the firm’s new Executive Partner, wanted to see him “immediately.”
“It’s an awful shock, Mr. Frost,” she said.
“What’s a shock?”
“Young Mr. Joyner’s death.”
“Who?”
“You know, our associate, Mr. Joyner.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“He was found dead in his apartment last night. At least that’s the word going around.”
“How terrible,” Reuben told her as he went off to Townley’s office as ordered, even before his morning coffee. A feeling of dread came over him as he walked down the corridor; if there had been foul play within the Chase & Ward family, the purpose of the Executive Partner’s summons was surely to get him caught up in dealing with it.
He vaguely recalled Joyner—Edward Joyner he believed his name was—from one of the firm’s annual outings for partners and associates. He guessed that he had met the fellow, but he had left no strong impression. If Reuben had the correct person, Joyner was a three- or four-year associate in the corporate department, too young to have been discussed for promotion at a partners’ meeting.
Frost reached Townley’s magnificent corner office—the traditional quarters for the firm’s Executive Partner—and went in without knocking. He was amused, as he had been on previous visits, by the way the office
had been redecorated to Townley’s specifications—staid, proper, and uninteresting furniture and prints of Olde New York on the walls. Perhaps, Reuben thought impishly, to make clear to the world that Townley was of Olde New York stock. Boring was the word that came to Reuben’s mind; the decor was totally unlike the sleek, Italian-modern furniture in his own office when he had been an active partner; the grandfather clock in the corner would never have been found in his quarters.
Townley, a rather small man in his late fifties, wearing a vest despite the balmy spring weather, jumped up from his desk to greet Frost.
“Thank God, you’re here, Reuben,” he said. Since assuming the post of Executive Partner from Charlie Parkes, the previous incumbent, three months earlier, Townley had seemed rather nervous and flighty. Those qualities were abundantly evident now.
“I have some terrible news—”
“I think I’ve already heard it,” Reuben said. “The Chase & Ward jungle drums are already beating.”
“Good grief, I only learned about this Joyner thing thirty minutes ago, when the police called.”
“Russ, you know a secret can’t be kept around here for more than a microsecond. Tell me what you know.”
“A detective named Muldoon called me and said that our associate Joyner had been found stabbed in his apartment. That’s it. No other details. However, he warned me that the police would probably be around to question people here. What do I do, Reuben? You’ve been through this before. Give me a clue.”
“Yes, long ago and as recently as two weeks ago. You recall that Dan Courtland’s daughter was murdered then.”
“I suppose you’re involved in that, you being Courtland’s old buddy.”
“I don’t think ‘buddy’ is precisely the right word, but Courtland’s certainly been a friend. And yes, I’m involved in the investigation of Marina’s death. Peripherally, I hope.”
“You’re the firm’s expert on murder. Vast homicide experience. We’ve got lawyers who know about tax shelters and suck-up mergers and document dumps and every other lawyer thing. But you’re the homicide authority.” He fluttered his hands as he spoke.
“I’d like to think, Russ, that my reputation at Chase & Ward has more to do with substantive matters other than random slaughtering.”
“Of course, Reuben, of course,” he replied, his hands still fluttering.
Reuben, given his long-retired status, had not had a voice in selecting Townley as the new Executive Partner. Partners over seventy-five did not have a vote, like cardinals over the age of eighty who did not have a vote in selecting the pope. He had, however, agreed with the choice, though the man’s nervousness under stress was beginning to give him doubts. (His only other reservation had been Townley’s lack of deference to Reuben and his other retired colleagues. It was paranoid to think so, but he had wondered whether Townley didn’t perhaps wish that the oldsters would disappear—i.e., die—thus easing the burden of payments under the firm’s generous retirement arrangements.)
“All right, all right, let’s just say that your crime experience has been a sideline. What do we do? Help me out!”
Reuben tried to order his thoughts, as he always had over the years when confronted with any firm crisis.
“I take it we don’t know any of the circumstances of this fellow’s death. No idea who the perp—a word I’ve picked up in my ‘vast homicide experience’—might be.”
Townley gave a hollow laugh. “I know nothing other than what I’ve already told you.”
“I assume there’s no reason to think that anyone here at the firm had anything to do with this,” Reuben asked.
“No, thank God. At least not anybody that I’m aware of.”
“Did he leave a wife, a family, what?”
“I’ve got his personnel file here,” Townley answered as he reached for the green manila folder on his desk and opened it.
“As near as I can tell, he has no relatives other than a father in Tucson. He did have a wife, but they had a very messy divorce two years ago. You know about that?”
“No.”
“It was his personal fight, his personal business, but we had to get involved a little bit when the divorce mavens representing his wife tried to garnish his salary here. Eskill Lander—as you know, he’s the closest thing we’ve got to a domestic affairs attorney—had to step in and fight them off.”
Reuben was silently amused. Eskill, as the firm’s preeminent trust and estates lawyer, had dealt with several prominent multimillion-dollar divorces, but always with immaculately clean hands, and never at the pedestrian level of garnisheeing a person’s wages. It must have been quite a confrontation with the “divorce mavens.”
“He’d married his wife before law school. Maybe you met her at one of our social events. Nice girl, as I recall. Foreigner of some sort.”
“Not that I remember.”
“Well, it seems like the classic case: Wife supports husband through law school, then gets dumped when hubby hits the big-time.”
“What else does that file show?”
“Let’s see. Young Joyner was born and grew up in Montgomery, Alabama. Public school there, then the University of Alabama and Tulane Law School. Did well there, which is why he ended up with us. Not exactly a law school on our A-list, but he came here four years ago when, you may recall, we had to reach out for new recruits. That goddamn article.”
Townley was referring to an American Lawyer piece that named Chase & Ward as one of the nation’s top three law office “sweatshops.” It had put a temporary chill on the firm’s recruiting efforts, but with the recent shrinking of legal openings, it was ignored—or never known—by the current crop of job prospects.
“He was assigned to the corporate department, and has not been a particularly distinguished citizen, I gather. I’m trying to get the scoop from Jerry Gilbert, for whom he most recently worked, but Jerry isn’t here yet. One of our late-arrival gang.”
“There is such a gang,” Reuben agreed, having always been a member himself. The point was lost on the punctilious Townley.
“Where did he live? Where was the body found?”
“His address in the office directory is in Tribeca. Probably one of those lofts our overpaid associates can now afford. The file shows a change of address, which would indicate he moved there after his divorce. So much for the background. I go back to my original question: What do we do?”
“First thing, Russ, is get ready for the press. It’s not every day that an associate of what they insist on calling a ‘major white-shoe law firm’ is murdered. Send out a memo that no one is to talk to the press except you.”
“Why me?”
“Because, my friend, you are the Executive Partner.”
“What do I say?
“Stick to the facts. When he was hired, what department he was in. Nothing about who he worked for. Nothing about the clients he did things for. And for God’s sake, nothing about his ability or lack of it. He was an associate here, period. Not a good associate, a bad associate, a promising associate, just an associate. And a junior one at that.”
“And can I count on you to do some sleuthing?” Townley asked.
“You’d better not. You forget how ancient I am, and I’m busy enough holding Dan Courtland’s hand and assisting, as best I can, the police in the investigation of Marina’s death.”
Townley looked disappointed.
“Of course, just as a matter of my own curiosity, I may talk to Eskill Lander and maybe the partner Joyner worked for. Jerry Gilbert, was it?”
“Yes. I’ll be grateful to learn anything you find out. And, Reuben, couldn’t you be our liaison with the police? You know all the people down there.”
“Again, no. I know one detective, who I doubt, from what you say, has anything to do with this case. I have no idea who this Muldoon fellow is. I simply can’t
devote time to this. But I assure you you’ll be the first to know if I find out anything. And please feel free to call me at any point.”
“Thank you—I guess.”
“Just one other thing, Russ. I assume you can’t see any connection between Marina Courtland’s murder and this one?”
“Good Lord, no. What a strange idea!”
After a delayed cup of coffee, Reuben called Bautista to report on the encounter with Gino Facini the night before. The detective told him that there were not any new developments on his end, other than a nasty crack in a tabloid gossip column wondering why Marina’s—the “moneyed Marina’s”—killer had not been tracked down.
“I think we’d better have our own look at Mr. Facini,” he told Reuben. “Where do we find him?”
Reuben gave him the address of the Dockers loft, along with a warning, which mystified Luis, to “watch out for carrots.” Then he told the detective about Edward Joyner’s murder.
“Homicide seems to be spreading over here like Asian flu,” Reuben said. He told Luis that the case had apparently been assigned to a detective named Muldoon. Luis said he was actually in the next office; he’d talk to him and get back.
Within the hour, Bautista called. Joyner’s body had been found in a pool of blood in the living space of his loft apartment, with multiple stab wounds to the chest. No sign of struggle, no sign of robbery or theft, no sign of breaking and entering. No obvious clues; the only theory was that the deed had been done by someone who knew the young lawyer.
“I’ll keep in touch with Muldoon,” Bautista promised.
Reuben paid a call on Eskill Lander once again, explaining that he wanted to inquire about Edward Joyner’s divorce.
“You getting involved in this one, too?” asked Lander, in an exasperated tone that again implied that he thought that Reuben was a meddler. He complied, however, and got up and paced his office as he filled in the details.
“What a mess! Dealing with the divorce bar. Not a pretty bunch. Joyner had his own lawyer, but when his wife’s attorneys wanted to garnish his wages and try to attach his assets under our firm’s 401(k) plan, Charlie Parkes asked me to interfere. Digging into the facts, it seemed quite clear to me that Joyner was in the wrong.”
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