“Eskill Lander’s.”
Townley’s hands began to shake even more than usual.
“Good grief, Reuben, are you serious? What on earth can the problem be? Do you think Eskill is stealing from the estates he administers?”
“No, no, not that. But I’m not going to say anything more right now. I’d like to, Russ, but I just can’t. And, at this point, it would be unfair to Eskill if I did so.”
Townley sighed deeply as he pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, selected one, and opened his top desk drawer. He pulled out a folder and, with his hands still shaking, found it difficult to open. Once he had done so he looked through the pages inside and finally said, “Here it is. Are you ready?”
Reuben had taken out his pen and a sheet of paper he had put into his inside coat pocket for just this purpose.
“Eskill’s password is RW35 … No, wait a minute. That’s last month’s.” He riffled through more sheets and then said, “Now I have it. This is the current one.”
Reuben hoped that Townley was right; it would not help the cause to be given an outdated password. But the Executive Partner’s extreme nervousness caused him to have a scintilla of doubt that he might be getting the wrong information.
“The current password is XU21014Y.”
Reuben wrote it down carefully and repeated it back for confirmation.
“Russ, I apologize again for putting you in this awkward situation. But all will, I hope, become clear very shortly. And please remember, no mention of this to anybody.”
“I’ve given you my word on that,” Townley replied a bit shortly.
“Thanks very much. I’ll let you get back to your preparations for our powwow. I take it there aren’t going to be any bolts from the blue?”
“I don’t expect any. The only bolt I know of is the one you promise to let loose.”
In recent years, the semiannual meetings of Chase & Ward had been held at the Evergreen Club, near the Flatiron district. It was not especially distinguished or exclusive, and its quarters were thought by some to resemble a Best Western motel, but it had the merit of admitting women members. Thus it was selected over the crustier (and misogynist) Odyssey Club, where meetings had been held for years before the firm elected its first female partners.
Originally, the meeting had been held over dinner, but now, with almost one hundred partners, that had become unwieldy. (Reuben nostalgically remembered that there had been sixteen partners when he joined the firm.) Now the members met in a meeting room set up auditorium style. There was no dinner, but drinks were served afterward. (Drinks had not been served beforehand for several years; at least since one particular partner’s tongue was loosened by even one drink, to the detriment of efficiently disposing of the business at hand.)
Reuben arrived and sat off to the side, between two other retired colleagues, Kevin Rawley and Joel Patterson. He had glad-handed his way in, introducing himself to those that he did not know—many, but by no means all, from the recently opened offices in Los Angeles and London.
The firm’s department heads, including Eskill Lander, took seats in the front facing the audience. Russell Townley, as the Executive Partner, went to the lectern and started the meeting promptly at five minutes after five.
Townley began with a brisk review of Chase & Ward’s financial position, which he pronounced “as good as it has ever been.” There was no surprise here, as the partners received weekly reports detailing bills sent out; bills paid and amounts still outstanding; and office expenses. Nonetheless, it was comforting to hear Townley’s assessment. There was an almost visible glow of satisfaction within the room. Reuben noted the contented smiles of his fellow retirees; their retirement payments, geared to firm income, would be secure for at least another year.
Then the Executive Partner asked each of the department heads to report on “manpower needs.” There were no surprises here, either, as the head of the corporate group said there was no immediate need for more partners. But he reviewed the prospects of three associates—two positively (“partnership material”) and one negatively (“just not up to our standards”). The tax chief agreed that there was no present need, but said there was a “true star” coming up in the ranks.
Craig Haskins, the head of litigation, said more hands were needed—many more, in his view.
“We are nearing a crisis where we’re simply going to have to turn down good business, and good business from some of our most loyal clients,” Haskins told his colleagues. “And we’ve got the manpower to turn things around.” He reviewed not one or three associates, but six, all of whom he described with encomiums ranging from “absolutely brilliant” to “truly outstanding.” Other litigators chimed in to add their praise of the papabile. At times, it sounded like an election for new members of the Politburo.
The assessment by Haskins and his henchmen produced some knowing glances and eye rolling within the audience. The head of litigation was always predicting doom and utter collapse unless the litigation empire was expanded, and expanded with the luminous young candidates waiting to be tapped.
“We all look forward to making some selections in the fall,” Townley said when his partner had finished. “However, I think it fair to say that you might do some editing of your army of worthies between now and then.”
“That will be hard, sir, especially since we can use them all. We’ll try, of course. You’ll be hearing more from us.”
“You can bet on that,” Reuben’s neighbor Rawley whispered to him.
Eskill Lander spoke next. Reuben paid strict attention and was pleased to note that Townley did not display any untoward emotion when introducing him.
“Our department is stable,” Lander began. “We’ve added a dozen or so T & E clients in the past six months, most of them with substantial assets. But we still have the same old problem—our clients refuse to die. So you’ll just have to bear with us as we wait to collect the estate fees we know are there and will be ours eventually.”
“Kill! Kill!” came a cry from the audience, which provoked nervous laughter. Eskill looked startled. Too startled? Reuben wondered.
“I hear you,” Eskill said. “But the last time I looked, the measure you suggest was still illegal. As to our present condition, we have enough T & E partners and associates to handle business. That could change, of course, if we have multiple deaths and there’s lots of administrative work to be done, but for now we’re all right.”
“More than all right,” Rawley muttered to Reuben. “What does he need all those people in T & E for?”
Reuben shrugged.
“Is the Courtland estate still the biggest client you have?” Townley asked.
“Yes, that’s correct,” Eskill replied. “Dan Courtland is very fond of our firm. I have the T & E business, and Hank Kramer handles the corporate affairs of Courtland Diversified Foods, inherited from Reuben Frost. Dan’s loyalty is great. I think Hank will tell you that Dan prefers that his company deals with us, independent lawyers, rather than yes-men house lawyers. That translates right through to the bottom line.”
Kramer, sitting elsewhere in the audience, nodded vigorously.
“As you all know,” Eskill continued, “Dan Courtland’s daughter was murdered here in the city at the end of last month. That’s created something of a problem for us. He calls me every day to see what is happening, what’s going on to solve the murder. He does the same to Russ, to Hank, and I’m sure to Reuben. He’s got some fixation that we are detectives and can somehow get to the bottom of the mystery. I keep telling him that the problem’s outside our expertise. He won’t listen. And, of course, it’s hard to make him understand this, given Reuben’s reputation as an amateur detective. And I know Reuben’s involved.”
“Is that wise?” Craig Haskins asked. “If the murder remains unsolved, it sounds like our biggest client may blame us.” As a litigator, he
was jealous of the forays of a corporate lawyer, Reuben, into criminal law matters. Eskill had given him an occasion to needle—if not knife—Reuben.
“I feel the same way, Craig,” Eskill said. “It’s really better if all of us stay out of it.” He looked straight at Reuben as he said this.
Reuben stood up, took a deep breath, and addressed his colleagues. He realized his response would have to include a touch of deception, but he had to explain himself.
“Gentlemen, ladies. I think you know me well enough to understand that the last thing in the world I would do is anything that would embarrass the firm or cast it in a bad light. I never have, and I never will. So let me try to explain. After his daughter’s murder, Dan Courtland, one of my oldest clients and friends, asked me to get involved in solving the crime. Normally, there would be very little I could do. But as it happens, the police detective assigned to the Courtland case is a man I’ve known since Graham Donovan’s murder years ago. So I have been talking with him. To that extent I’m ‘involved.’ That’s what our client wanted, and that’s what I’ve done. My role, if you can even call it that, is strictly passive and I don’t think is likely to offend Dan in any way.” Even if the past actions of one of my partners may possibly do so, Reuben thought but did not say.
“Maybe you can tell us what’s happening, Reuben,” Townley said.
“As far as I know, nothing concrete as yet. The police are exploring some leads, but my best information is that they haven’t reached any conclusion.”
“Well, keep your powder dry, my friend. And keep in mind the reservations that have been expressed here,” Townley instructed him.
“I think you’d agree that I’ve never been anything but discreet and I expect I will continue to be so,” Reuben said, before sitting down. His thoughts were confused. Had he been too disingenuous with his partners? On the other hand, he could not get up and say that Eskill Lander was the leading suspect in the case. Or that he was about to assist in breaking in to his computer. All things considered, he decided that his circumspection had been justified and correct.
“There’s one other unpleasant subject I must bring up,” Townley told the group. “That is the murder of our associate, Edward Joyner. As far as I know, there’s been no break in that case, either. But let me reiterate again the two things I said in the memo I circulated to all of you after his death. First, that each of us should give all cooperation to the police. I realize that this Detective Muldoon that’s been assigned to the case is a rather rough diamond, but please answer any questions he has frankly and truthfully. On the other hand, if there are any inquiries from the press, they are to come to me. No one is authorized to speak to anyone in the media about this. So far, I don’t believe that’s happened, so let’s keep it that way. And on that happy note, unless there’s other new business, I declare the meeting adjourned. Let’s have a drink.”
As he got up to leave, Joel Patterson turned to Reuben and muttered, “My God, what is this world coming to? Two murders that affect us, one way or another. But I guess that’s what you have to expect in an anything-goes Blue State.”
“I think it’s a matter of coincidence, not a collapse of the social order,” Reuben replied. Patterson was a rock-ribbed, diehard conservative of long standing; Reuben, by contrast, was delighted to live in a Blue State and, in fact, hoped that it was bright, Cobalt Blue.
On the way to the room where drinks were served, several colleagues approached Reuben and said they disagreed with the notion that he shouldn’t be involved in the Courtland case. He himself knew that he had to leave as soon as he decently could to meet Luis, so he had a very quick martini and left as unobtrusively as possible. In a way, he was relieved; he didn’t want to be pressed by the others any further—or to have to dissemble at any greater length—about the situation. He especially did not relish confronting, and being polite to, Eskill Lander.
Twenty-Three
The Search
On his way to the rendezvous with Luis, Reuben was filled with apprehension; his whole attention was on the Courtland murder and the impending search of Eskill Lander’s computer. His first fleeting thought was that it was a shame that Luis had found that American Express receipt at Quatorze. He soon came to the self-realization that this was a foolish and deeply flawed view. If Eskill was in fact guilty, he deserved to be apprehended and punished, whatever the consequences to Chase & Ward and to Reuben personally. Covering up was not an option. He was, after all, an officer of the court, bound by his oath as a lawyer to see that justice was done.
Nevertheless, Reuben remained troubled and nervous. He was sure Luis would act properly; the detective had called in midafternoon to say that he had obtained the necessary search warrant from a criminal court justice. And Reuben told him that he had found out the magic password.
“We’re all set,” Luis told him. “Everything’s cool. There’s no problem. I have the search warrant. So I’ll see you at seven o’clock?”
“That’s what we agreed to,” Reuben told him, with notable lack of enthusiasm. With the cocktail hour after the firm meeting taking place, he was sure Eskill would not be around. Still, Reuben was edgy about searching the man’s computer in his absence, without prior notice. True, it would be done under color of a legitimate search warrant, but shouldn’t Luis serve it in the customary way? By personal service to Eskill?
He finally convinced himself that he should defer to Luis and then began ruminating about Dan Courtland. If Eskill were found to be the murderer, and the facts of Reuben’s participation in his exposure came to light, wouldn’t his partners blame him if Dan pulled his legal business from the firm? He almost certainly would do so. Reuben could foresee being ostracized and shunned by the likes of Craig Haskins, ready to blame him as the messenger—or, more properly, the interloper—rather than the real culprit.
Reason again prevailed and Reuben saw his duty. Promptly at eight, the night receptionist rang to announce Luis’s arrival. Reuben went to meet him.
“Can we talk privately for a few minutes?” Luis asked in a low voice the receptionist could not hear.
“Come down to my office,” Reuben replied.
Once seated in the office, door closed, Luis related three “events” that had occurred that day. “It’s been busy,” he remarked.
The first event had been a call from his Suffolk County colleague who confirmed that John Sommers had been at the Almond Restaurant the night of the murder, leaving around nine o’clock.
“So he could have driven back to New York and been the killer,” Reuben said.
“Not very likely. You remember he said he was at the restaurant with a martini and a book? Well, it was several martinis, and both the owner of the restaurant and the taxi driver who took him home told my colleague that he would not have been in any shape to drive back to the city, let alone to strangle Marina.”
“What’s next?”
“Courtland’s alibi checks out. He was at that inn all evening and had dinner there.”
“And Watson was not with him?”
“No. But that’s item number three. I’ve just come from seeing her at that club of hers. She was indeed in town today and agreed, albeit reluctantly, to see me again. I questioned her about April twenty-seventh, and she admitted she had not been candid with me.
“‘I figured anything about Dan and me—we were meeting up that weekend—could only confuse the murder investigation unnecessarily,’ she told me, then apologized for what she had done.
“I continued to press her about her whereabouts that evening. ‘Are you insinuating that I killed Marina?’ she finally said. I didn’t reply, and then she said ‘There’s one little fact you don’t know, Detective. I don’t drive. Never have. Never learned.’ Then to emphasize the point, she took her passport out of her purse, explaining that she has to use it as her photo ID because she has no driver’s license.
“She made a crack about ‘hiring a taxi to dump the body,’ but I got up, thanked her for her time, and left.”
Reuben could barely suppress a smile as he thought of the surprise the novelist had caused.
“You realize what these events mean, don’t you Reuben?” Luis continued.
“I’m not sure I do.”
“Well, unless something turns up on that Facini kid—which seems unlikely—our only remaining suspect is Eskill Lander. So let’s get to his computer.”
The two left Reuben’s office and headed toward Eskill’s.
“You have the, um, search warrant?” Reuben asked in a low voice as they went down the corridor.
“Of course. You want to read it?” He pulled it from his pocket and offered it to Reuben.
“No, no, I trust you,” Reuben said, declining the proffer.
On the way, they encountered George Schoff, the head night stenographer.
“Mr. Frost, what are you doing here at this hour?” Schoff asked jovially. “Don’t you know retired partners have to leave by five thirty?”
Reuben felt like saying “We’re doing a bag job,” but refrained from doing so.
“Just showing my friend Mr. Bautista around our beautiful offices,” he said instead. Mr. Bautista, not Detective Bautista or Officer Bautista.
Schoff seemed satisfied and went on his way.
“Here we are,” Reuben said as he and Luis reached the suite that included Eskill’s office and those of Eskill’s secretary, another partner, and that partner’s secretary. All were absent.
Reuben tried the door of Eskill’s private office. It was unlocked, as he expected. By long custom, Chase & Ward partners left their offices unlocked. The only one in recent memory who insisted on locking up every night, Christopher Pickard, was known jokingly as “Lock-Pick Pickard.” Sensitive papers were, of course, supposed to be secured in files or desks, but otherwise, for no good reason other than tradition—the purpose of which no one could remember—there was an open-door policy as far as partners’ offices were concerned.
Murder.com Page 13
