“So you and Steven worked together in higher-risk projects?”
“High-risk great opportunities.”
I’m ready to ask about the scrawled mantel sheet but see pale adhesive marks on the skin of his hands, as if he’s just now pulled off bandages. He did not cut himself piloting stock portfolios.
“Ms. Cutter, I’m probably talking too much about myself.”
“No, we’re remembering Steven. He gave me first aid when I fell on the street the day before his death. He was quite close to my late aunt, Josephine Cutter. He called her Jo. Did you ever meet her?”
“Josephine Cutter? I don’t think so.”
“Steven said he sometimes helped her, gave her a helping hand.”
He doesn’t even blink. Not one facial feature reacts to the term. Nor do his shoulders move, nor fingers.
“I wonder, was my aunt a Corsair client? I’m her heir, you see, and I’m still trying to sort out her financial records.”
“Hey, easy to check.” He hits a phone button. “Ned, see if the name Josephine Cutter appears in our master client file . . . C-u-t-t-e-r.” We wait. Ned replies, no Cutter.
“I suppose that unofficial advice on Steven’s part would violate Corsair company rules.”
“SEC regulations, you mean. A rep would be subject to fine or suspension. The Securities and Exchange Commission is tough and getting tougher.”
“I see.”
“Unless maybe Steve advised your aunt on an informal basis.”
“That’s possible. As I said, he gave her a helping hand.”
Still no visible reaction. “Was your aunt a person of means?”
“She was a high school teacher. Her income was modest.”
“Well, Corsair wouldn’t like it, but nobody’d make a federal case out of a few tips to a little old lady—no offense to your aunt.”
Which tells me Andrew never met Jo, because nobody would call Jo Cutter an LOL.
“Remember, Ms. Cutter, I didn’t see much of Steve here at the office the last couple years. He turned up for family occasions, my stepmother’s birthday, and, of course, at Flint Ridge. You could say it this way—I like the ladies, but Steve decided to swing with the guys. A whole lot follows from that, if you know what I mean. I’m not judging good or bad, just saying there’s a big difference.”
He holds out his hands. “But underneath everything, I have one huge consolation. You probably noticed all these cuts? A nurse scrubbed them with a brush, pure torture. And they got infected, so it’s taken longer. I just took off the gauze and tape this morning.” He holds them up. “There’s something particular I can tell you… if you have the time, I mean… it’s about me and Steve.”
“I’ll make the time.”
He stows the gum in one cheek. “You were busy with Aztec, so I don’t suppose you saw our horse, Diablo? He’s one hell of a horse. Steve and I owned him together, fifty-fifty. It’s the one thing we shared, and Steve paid his half for boarding even though I rode him most of the time. Steve didn’t own a car, so I was usually the one at Flint Ridge.”
“I saw Diablo,” I say.
He hesitates. “So… did you happen to notice his buttocks and shoulders?”
“The lacerations?”
“It’s that obvious. Who am I fooling? You probably got the whole Andrew-and-Steve story too, because my mother loves telling the before and after. I’ll bet she showed you photos and ribbons from when I was seven years old, didn’t she? She probably told you that I was the wild child? I’m used to it, more or less. I’m the one who broke the rules, drove everybody crazy. My poor sister, no wonder she’s anorex—… anyway, with Steve, it’s true, things calmed down.”
He manages a boy-devil smile. “Don’t think Steve and I were choirboys. One summer we caddied and crashed golf carts racing on a fairway at night. We were both fired and spent the rest of that summer fishing. And, of course, riding at Flint Ridge. Looking back, though, without Steve I’d probably be in jail. I mean that, jail.”
“Surely that’s more fear than reality, Mr. Vogler.”
“Drew. Call me Drew.” He pops another nicotine gum, chews hard, looks away. “Can I tell you a secret? The night before he was… the night before he died, I had one chance to come to Steve’s rescue. That’s my consolation.”
“You mean that Monday?”
“Monday night, and I’ve been dodging my mother ever since. At least Diablo’s healing. There’s no infections, so Vicky tells me. She’s a good soldier, keeps things quiet, but she suspects some kind of negligence. As for scarring, we’ll have to wait and see.” He tugs at his tie. “I felt terrible about it, and so did Steve. My first worry was to dress the cuts, and the second—”
“Drew, you’re losing me.”
“Sorry. That Monday was just a horrible night.” He swirls his ice. “Who’d guess that Steve would decide to take Diablo for a night ride? Just a snap decision. He borrowed a car and headed up to Flint Ridge. Mother wasn’t home. He went to the barn, saddled up, thought he knew the trail, but he got lost in the woods. Flint Ridge joins other farms, you see, and there’s trails for miles. Anyway, Steve got caught in brambles, then a barbed-wire fence.”
He shakes his head. “Hell, it could’ve been me. Diablo was nearly out of control when Steve called. It was a good thing he had his phone. I jumped out of bed and raced up there. He’d managed to get the horse back to the barn. It must have been two a.m. by then. I parked down the road and walked in so Mother wouldn’t wake up. We cooled Diablo down and sprayed him with an antibiotic. But we forgot to test his reaction to the spray, that aerosol hiss. It spooked him all over again, and, oh Lord, we had a fight on our hands in the stall that night. Wonder we both weren’t ki—… badly injured.”
He flexes his fingers, winces. “If I have scars, it’s my own fault. But Diablo… no animal deserves to suffer from an owner’s negligence. Steve felt terrible. So did I. So do I at this very minute.” Drew looks me in the eye. “For the first time I can remember, Steve was the one in trouble, and I helped out.”
I search my memory for the image of Steven’s hands, which were unblemished, I’m sure of it. Not a mark on either hand. “But you both must have been injured.” I say this in a neutral tone, testing.
“Steve took a couple kicks in the gut, but he had a heavy jacket and gloves. I made him keep them on. No point both of us getting hurt. You see, Steve planned to tell my mother in person, but he didn’t—hadn’t told her. And a couple days later, he was, I mean, it was… too late.”
He looks desolate. “My mother is a wonderful person and one tough cookie. I have to tell her about all this in person, but I’m going to take the rap, say that I took Diablo out that night. This is for Steve’s memory. Whatever she wants to dish out, I’ll take it. I want somebody to know the real truth. Better a stranger. You’re my dress rehearsal. Here, let me—” He refills my glass as if pouring champagne. “I hope you’re not offended.”
“Not at all.”
“Thank you.” He bites his lip. “So when Dad talked about the memorial service, Ms. Cutter, I knew the one thing to memorialize, the stable and the horses. I’ll do my damnedest to pay tribute. I’ll be honored.”
Drew signals the end of the interview, but I absolutely must find out more about Corsair. Jo’s deal with Steven was off the books, but a third party might be involved. Twenty-five years with a businessman taught me a few tricks.
“Drew, since Corsair employees will attend the service, how about a word on Steven as a coworker? Shouldn’t someone commemorate him as a financial analyst? Who could present that message? Someone on the list here?” I reach for the envelope.
“No, not those names.” He shakes his head. “Best not to stir up old trouble over employee favoritism. I’ll do it. Let me take the usual flak as the founder’s son. I can fold in some tributes to Steve’s work.” His jaws work the gum. “Suppose I say this: Steve was the hub of my operation here at Corsair.”
“Hub? That’s
impressive.”
Drew’s voice becomes low and intense. “A special group of our investors swore by Steve Damelin. If he was high on a company and posted a buy, then our clients made money. Steve wasn’t a celebrity analyst. You never saw him on TV. But in his low-key way, he was a star. We’re reassigning his clients, but Steve’s irreplaceable.
“Forgive me if I sound like a promo video, Ms. Cutter. I don’t want Steve’s memory tarnished by anybody thinking darker thoughts. You’re thinking, ‘What dark thoughts?’ Right? Rivalries. Jealousies. Not every broker here relied on Steve’s work. Some were scared. A few made remarks about Steve seeing daylight through cracks in the wall—”
“What wall?”
“The Chinese wall.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chinese wall.” My palms flare with sweat. “What Chinese wall?”
His smile curls with condescension. “It’s a Wall Street saying. It’s about security precautions.”
“Why Chinese?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s just a term. It’s so nobody can profit from insider information about deals, like mergers or hot new products. The way it works, the investment bankers are kept separate from the traders in a firm. The Chinese wall … in practical terms, it means separate computer servers, paper shredders, even segregated trash pickups. And totally different staff.”
“Makes perfect sense,” I manage to say, though my ears ring with the one word ricocheting inside my head—Chinese, Chinese, Chinese. The Great Wall of my apartment door, if I ever learn what the blood marks mean. Pull yourself together, Reggie. “So you’re saying that Steven’s success as an analyst prompted suspicion that he breached the Chinese wall.”
“Had access to insider information so that traders could recommend stocks almost certain to gain sharply. This would be a felony. People go to prison for insider trading. The NASD monitors us. That’s the National Association of Securities Dealers. They’re our watchdog group. And the rules are tightening. It’s high time. Too many analysts have been working for themselves, not their clients. A few can spoil it for everybody else.”
“So enforcement is increasing.”
“Breach that wall, heavy hitters come after you, district attorneys, the Justice Department. That’s why I don’t want anybody in a church pew to start thinking about shoptalk rumors in the middle of the service for Steve.”
This is my now-or-never moment to show Drew the scrawled sheet from the mantel. I hold back, however, because there’s contradiction in the air. Drew describes two opposing Steven Damelins—the beloved Wise Counselor, and the Envied Hotshot Analyst. He makes no effort to bridge the two but eyes the envelope now going into my purse, the envelope prepared for me. “No need to use a list for somebody to speak about Steve’s work, Ms. Cutter. I’ll do it. I’ll find the way.” We rise, shake hands. He escorts me to the door with the practiced touch of a gentleman.
Which of the names on Andrew Vogler’s list would volunteer information about Steven and the Chinese wall? Whiplashed on a subway seat, I note Justin Arveny of Wakefield, Melanie Bracktip of Medford, Bailey Crissenforker of Somerville… and on down to Zannocki, Roland R., on Beacon Street here in Boston.
Do these Corsair coworkers have bits of information that could be pieced together to help solve Steven’s murder? Would they provide useful information—or merely leap to squeeze the juice of sour grapes? Corsair gossip says that the landlady found Steven’s body, so somebody knows my name.
Is the killer on these mailing labels?
Or am I making too much of office jealousy? Drew Vogler couldn’t have been nicer.
Resist courtesy’s seductions, Reggie. Andrew spoke under pressure, manners don’t guarantee candor, and a coat and tie can camouflage a killer. Face this: it’s possible that I just talked to Steven’s murderer on the seventeenth floor of a Boston office high-rise.
Is everybody but my dog a suspect? Back home, Biscuit jumps to greet me and trots to the fireplace hearth where Leonard Vogler’s applewood is neatly stacked. Vogler yet again. “Biscuit, I ought to make a roaring autumn fire and burn the Vogler wood to ashes.” Odd, the wood makes a soft crackling right now. Biscuit sniffs and paws it. Probably it’s still drying.
“Come on, girl, we’re going for a walk. We’re going to fax a list to Detective Maglia and stop at Tsakis Brothers. You get a cookie, and I’ll get a take-out dinner.” In fact, I’ll get a few minutes with Ari and George, a friendly few minutes of genuine neighborhood warmth.
“You take grapefruits, Mees Reggie. Sweet as honey, fresh today from Texas. And a chicken. We cook the chicken for you. Biscuit, you have extra cookie, yes?”
Yes. Back home by five with the grocery bag, I’m in the foyer fumbling with my key when I notice a small brown-wrapped package. A piece of mail I’ve missed? It’s addressed to me, with no return address. Statue of Liberty stamps march in a line, but I see no cancellation mark. With the groceries put away, I slit the wrapper and find a little bright yellow paperback, The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook. This book’s been everywhere in stores these past few years. It’s now a series. Flip it over. The back cover lists the contents:
* “How to Fend off a Shark”
* “How to Jump from a Moving Car”
* “How to Identify a Bomb”
* “How to Survive If Your Parachute Fails to Open”
A cute novelty book. Fan the pages… there’s no card, just plenty of illustrations. On one page, a man sinks in quicksand. In another, he flees a swarm of killer bees. In a third, an automobile nears a pool of water with live electrical power lines. “How to Escape from a Mountain Lion.” “How to Win a Sword Fight.” “How to Avoid Being Struck by Lightning.”
Who sent it? One of my old Chicago friends dispatching a gag gift? Doubtful. Molly or Jack? No, for a variety of reasons, not my kids. Marty? Forget it, my ex would slap me with a lien, not a book.
Stark?—not a man to throw away money for novelties.
In moments, the list is exhausted. Then I see it, the torn-off notepaper tucked inside. It says “You’re going to need this.” The words are cut out and glued on, a little crooked. There’s no signature and no initials. “You’re going to need this.” I raise it to my nose and sniff. Odorless. Turn it over. Glue has puckered the paper. I flip through the book some more. “How to Escape from a Sinking Car,” “How to Survive Adrift at Sea.”
I’m at sea. My neck is warm, palms damp. A bad joke at the end of a long day, that’s what it is. In bad taste. Cruel.
Unless it’s not a joke. Then what? At my feet, Biscuit looks up and whines. I reach down to scratch her head. The thermostat is at seventy, but I shiver.
You’re going to need
I walk to the windows.
going to need
Outside, a neighbor comes from her car with a stadium cushion and blanket.
need this.
I go room to room, patrol the apartment, clutch the book. Is it a threat to warn or terrorize me? Of course, it’s caught me off guard, rattled me. But whoever sent this “worst-case scenario” doesn’t know whom they’re dealing with. A survivor can use a survival guide. I won’t flinch, I’ll use it. Damn right I will. “How to Survive an Avalanche.” “Survive… in the Line of Gunfire.” I won’t buckle. I’ll read it cover-to-cover on high alert. I’ll be ready. I’ll be waiting.
Chapter Twenty-eight
No joke, Mom. It means corpse or death trap or—get this—pineapple.”
“You’re telling me the blood marks on my… on Steven Damelin’s upstairs door are Chinese characters for—”
“Hawaiian fruit, or else corpse or a death trap, which sounds just right for a murder victim’s door, don’t you think? Tom’s sorry for the delay. He says people disagree about the characters because handwriting can be messy. Think of Jack’s scrawl.”
“He’s not Chinese. We’re not Chi—”
“Mom, are you having a low-watt day? I’ll mail you back the photo. Stay safe. Ja
ck and I worry about you.”
“Molly, tell your brother I got a survival guide yesterday. I can jump from a moving car or wrestle an alligator or outwit a bear. Bye for now.”
Exhale, Reggie. Shield your children from fears for your safety. Shield yourself too. A bloody door and noir gag gift do not constitute bodily harm—yet. Perhaps it’s only a prank. And the car that ran me down, was that a prank? Stark is outside exercising Biscuit, but so far, the handbook-cum-note is my secret. It might have come from that kid, the messenger dispatched by Alex Ribideau. Or any member of the Vogler-Comber clan. Is mother Eleanor in league with son Drew?
Or how about cabbie Charlie Damelin, furious when Steven denied him financing for the Hummer hearse, then newly angry at the nosy Boston landlady? Doubtful, yes, but not out of the question. Surely it couldn’t be Luis Diaz. The handbook’s too cunning. Of course, it could be from an unknown assailant, that four-cylinder cop term for “not a clue.” Maybe it’s somebody Steven picked up, dated briefly and fatally—but not before learning about Helping Hand and the link to the occupant of the lower floor of 27 Barlow Square.
What is, or was, Helping Hand? It’s Steven’s connection to Jo—and to my bloody door. What kind of business? The bright morning sunlight mocks the grinding in my stomach. If only the Survival Handbook taught how to breach or scale a Chinese wall. Or explained how a man can suffer multiple stab wounds and be nailed like upholstery to a hardwood floor—and yet drown.
Or why.
Neither Maglia nor Devaney has notified me of an arrest in the case. Nor hinted at the identity of the prime suspect or suspects. There’s nothing about arrests on TV or in the Globe.
My best strategy is the memorial service. As planner, I can get more names and probe Steven’s other relationships. Trudy Pfaeltz saw him at curbside in the early a.m. with luggage. Where did he go?
“Reverend Welch? This is Reggie Cutter… Fine, thanks. I’m calling to set the date for the service for Steven Damelin.” The minister suggests the Wednesday before Veterans Day weekend. An ecumenical service, we agree.
All in One Piece Page 18
