“Thank you, I guess. But we still don’t have a suspect.”
“We have a profile that is getting more clear by the day. Young male, educated, knowledgeable about collections. And apparently lacking in any sort of conscience. Do you know anyone who fits?”
I thought about our staff roster. Eliminating the women and the older men, of which there were few anyway, who was left? Eric, Rich, and Nicholas—all no older than thirty, all educated. Eric’s mild southern accent didn’t necessarily exclude him. But I was reluctant to label any one of them a murderer. Whatever James’s FBI serial killer handbook said, I kept coming back to motive, and none of these three had one, that I could see.
I sensed that James was watching, waiting for an answer. “I’m not ready to point a finger at anyone. Yes, we have some young men on the staff who fit the general description, but it’s pretty vague. I want to think this over before I say anything. Believe me, if I had anything solid I’d tell you.”
“Fair enough,” James said. “Just watch yourself.”
“I will. And we don’t know for sure that it’s someone on my staff. It could just as easily be a board member”—although none of them was young—“or a researcher or a trusted member. There are other people who have that kind of access.”
After some small talk, James walked me back to where I’d parked earlier in the day. I was glad for his company: the outdoor lot was poorly lit, and I wasn’t sure the parking attendant would be any use if there was trouble. Having an FBI agent at my side was reassuring. We’d grabbed a good-night kiss, then James stayed long enough to watch me pull away before heading off for his own car. I drove home in the June dusk, thinking hard about the young males on our staff. I had known Rich the longest, since he’d been working in his grant-funded position for almost two years. In that time I had found him pleasant, responsible, and competent. Eric I had hired quickly out of a desperate need for an assistant, but he had worked out well. He was a sweet southern boy, with a few minor blots on his record, but he’d been an exemplary employee since he had started working for me. For the life of me, I could see no reason why he would want to murder anybody. Nicholas had been with the Society for only a few months, but he had come highly recommended by his former employer, and he had done a great job so far in creating order out of the chaos of not only our collections but also in the massive load of FBI materials, and I was grateful for that. On a personal level, I knew very little about any of them: Nicholas was civil and courteous, but did not go out of his way to cultivate friendships among the staff; Eric seemed to know everyone, and something about his innocent face led a surprising number of them to confide in him, but he had no roots here in Philadelphia. All I really knew about Rich’s personal life was that he was dating another staff member. They all seemed like nice, ordinary young men. How could I suspect any one of them of being a murderer?
I gave myself a mental slap: I had forgotten to call Courtney Gould at Morgan, Hamilton and Fox yesterday, to ask about the Forrest trust. If I requested a meeting, the Society would probably have to pay for it, but we had a legitimate stake in the disposition of the Forrest materials, not to mention the endowment that had come with it, so I had a perfect excuse to talk to her. I put that call on my mental to-do list for the next day.
When I arrived at my office in the morning, Eric was already there. I looked at his open, cheerful face and couldn’t begin to see a serial killer lurking behind it. “Eric, when you think the offices are open, can you call Courtney Gould at Morgan, Hamilton and Fox and set up an appointment for me, as soon as possible?”
“Trouble?” Eric asked anxiously. I could sympathize with his apprehension. I liked some lawyers as individuals, but somehow involving them always seemed to create more problems than it solved, and we ended up paying for it.
“No, this is Society business. She’s the Society’s attorney, and I have a couple of questions for her, that’s all. Tell her it should be a short appointment—I think that firm bills by the minute.”
“Will do,” he said. No more than a half hour later, he called out, “Ms. Gould can see you at eleven—does that work for you?”
“Tell her that’s fine,” I called back. Lucky break—sometimes it took weeks to find a time to get together. I immersed myself in paperwork until it was time to walk over.
Morgan, Hamilton occupied one of those big glass buildings on Market Street, an easy walk from the Society. I arrived on time, conscious of the ticking clock, and was promptly ushered into Courtney Gould’s office. Courtney, a slender woman only a few years older than I am, rose from behind her desk and came around to greet me warmly.
“Nell, it’s been a while. I hope there’s no trouble?”
“You mean like the last few times I’ve talked to you? No, no thefts or fires this time around. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I’m happy to hear it. Please, sit down.” Courtney gestured graciously at the two chairs in front of her desk. “Coffee?”
I sat. “No, I’m fine, and I know you must be busy.” And I didn’t want to spend three figures of the Society’s money drinking a cup of coffee. “I’ll come to the point. I have heard rumors that the Forrest Trust, which I understand your firm also represents, is thinking of liquidating. I don’t know if you remember, but we hold a number of items that they’ve loaned to us, as well as segregated funds to maintain them, and I wondered what our legal standing was if they do go ahead and dissolve.”
“Hmm. I’m not aware of any discussions about that, but then, that’s not my area of expertise. Let me see who’s handling the trust.” She stood up again and went out into the corridor to talk to her legal assistant, returning two minutes later. “That would be Jacob Miller, an associate. He’s coming right over.”
I was pleasantly surprised. “Thanks. Jacob stopped by the Society a few days ago to introduce himself. How long has he been handling the Forrest Trust’s interests? And the Society’s? I didn’t know he was involved with both, but it certainly makes it easier for us.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” Courtney didn’t seem the least surprised by my question. “We hired him last year, right out of law school. I think the Forrest Trust was one of his first responsibilities—it was small and not particularly complex. I asked him to help me out with some of my other clients a couple of months ago. Everything else going well?”
“All things considered, yes.” We chatted a bit about the Society’s next planned exhibition, a small display of early Philadelphia maps, until Jacob Miller arrived.
Seen in this august setting, Jacob looked even younger to me than he had at the Society, barely old enough to have graduated from college, much less have earned a law degree. But this was a fairly prestigious firm, so he must have some solid credentials. On the other hand, I knew that major firms hired scads of eager young associates—then spit out the majority of them after a year or two. It was a cutthroat arena for young lawyers. I wonder how he thought he was going to distinguish himself.
“Hello, Ms. Pratt,” he said. “What can I do for you, Courtney?”
“Come on in. Or since there are three of us, maybe we should move to the small conference room?”
Jacob promptly went out to the hall and retrieved a third chair. “This’ll do for me.” He sat and looked back and forth at us like an eager puppy.
“You already know Nell, I understand. She came to us with a question about the Forrest Trust.”
“Of course. What do you need to know?”
“As you are probably aware,” I began, “the Society has some items that belong to the trust on long-term loan. I’ve heard that the board is thinking of dissolving and divesting itself of its physical collections, and I wondered if we had any standing if that occurs.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
I evaded the question by saying, “There is some overlap between our boards. One of those members, Adeline Harrison, died recently, and that prompted me to look into the matter. I’d rather know where we stood no
w than have to deal with the situation when and if it comes up later.”
“Good thinking. But I have to tell you, the matter has barely gone beyond the preliminary discussion stage.”
“Who have you talked to?”
Jacob looked startled, then wary, at my direct question. “I’m not at liberty to say. More than one member of the trust.”
Courtney interrupted, “Jacob, I think you can tell Nell. I’m sure she’ll be discreet.”
Did I see a flash of something in Jacob’s eyes? Anger? Did he think I was challenging him? “I think Rodney Lippincott and Louisa Babcock brought it up, one or the other—they’re fairly senior members of the board.” He paused for a moment. “That’s rather obscure information for you to have.”
“Not really. I’ve been reading up on Forrest, and his will is published on the web. Besides, since the Society benefits from the terms of his will, however indirectly, I was interested.”
Courtney seemed bewildered by my exchange with Jacob. “You’ve looked at Forrest’s will?”
“I have. It’s short and to the point—and it’s still valid, isn’t it, Jacob?”
“Nobody’s challenged it in the past century,” he agreed. “Look, it’s a restricted trust with maybe a million in total assets. Without looking at the original documents, I’d guess that the holding of the trust—property, artifacts such as yours, and, of course, funds—would be liquidated and pooled, and the trustees would determine how to disburse the proceeds. I could approach them on your behalf if you like. Or if you want me to do some more research, I’ll be happy to get back to you later. How’s that sound?”
“That would be fine, and what you said is what I more or less suspected. Oh, one more question. Who’s the auditor for the trust? I want to make sure our numbers add up, if this dissolution goes forward.”
“A guy named Alvin Washburn. Works out of his home in Bala Cynwyd. Everything’s electronic these days, so he prefers not to have to come into the city. He’s not real mobile since the accident.”
I caught Courtney’s look of annoyance; she was signaling to Jacob that he was saying too much. I was glad, though, since if the auditor was disabled in any way, it was unlikely that he was traveling around poisoning elderly board members. Unless he was faking it. People would generally open the door to someone in a wheelchair, wouldn’t they?
“Nell?” Courtney’s voice broke into my speculations. “Was there anything else you needed?”
I stood up briskly. “Not right now. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Courtney. Jacob, I’d appreciate it if you’d get back to me with more details about the trust, and the status of our agreement with it.”
Jacob had risen politely when I had. “No problem. I’m happy to help. Maybe when I deliver them, you can take me on that tour you promised?”
“I hope so, Jacob. I’ll find my way out, Courtney. I’d say I hope I’ll see you again soon, but since that usually means we’re in trouble, I won’t.”
Courtney laughed. “I understand completely! Bye, Nell.”
CHAPTER 23
Back on Market Street, trying to decide if it was still too early for lunch, I reviewed what I had learned. Jacob had confirmed that the idea of dissolving the Forrest Trust had been floated, but not much had been done to pursue it—or so he said. He was a young man, looking to make his mark at the law firm. How could he handle the trust to place himself in the best possible light? Or if he was on the dark side, had he been dipping into it himself? Perhaps to pay off what must be hefty law school debt? Nell, you’re being ridiculous! You meet a perfectly nice young lawyer, and immediately you start looking at him as a potential criminal?
But still . . . He was the right age and fit the vague definition of the killer. He was certainly in a position to know all there was to know about the Forrest Trust, including the identities and whereabouts of the trustees. I couldn’t say whether he had any direct access to the funds, but I couldn’t rule it out. Maybe he and the crippled accountant were colluding in siphoning money out of the trust. But how would killing any of the trustees help? Jacob had admitted in front of Courtney that at least two trust members had put forward the idea of dissolving the trust. Had she known before today’s meeting? It was out in the open now, in any case, and she would likely be watching when any audit was done, if Jacob worked for her. If he was the killer, what would Jacob do next?
Nell, you’re losing your grip! We had to sort out these murders before I became completely paranoid.
I decided to find a quick sandwich and eat it in my office. I went back to the Society, helped myself to another cup of coffee, then sat down at my desk with my sandwich. Now what? I was frustrated; I hated this waiting, jumping every time the phone rang, expecting to hear that some other person had died because we couldn’t seem to figure out who wanted them dead. At the moment, it looked as though the surviving trustees were safe, either far removed or protected. But there were ways to get at people, even those who thought they’d taken precautions. Still, would killing more of them serve a purpose? Right now the trust was vulnerable because the surviving trustees had to fill the vacancies or risk seizure by the city, at the request of the mayor. But if they were planning to dissolve anyway, did that matter? If the city took over by inserting its own representatives, it wouldn’t change the terms of the trust, would it?
It was the “why” of it all that troubled me. I couldn’t figure out who benefited. If the trust liquidated its assets and had money to give away, where would it go? I’d guess the dispersal would have to be approved by the courts, and I doubted that the trustees would do something frivolous with the cash. Maybe someone at the city thought they could divert those funds to something dear to their hearts—and there was no shortage of worthy projects in the city of Philadelphia—but the trust money was so comparatively small, and the city’s needs were so large . . . It didn’t make sense.
All I was accomplishing sitting here was driving myself crazy. Six possible murders for no apparent reason, and Marty, Shelby, James, and I seemed to be the only people who’d noticed or cared. I had better find something useful to do, and fast. I took a look at my calendar: my next appointment was a meeting at the Water Works later in the week, and I needed to find out what more Nicholas had collected since our last meeting. Voilà, a distraction.
Since I couldn’t sit still any longer, I headed down the hall to find Nicholas. He was at his desk in his cubicle, peering intently at his computer screen. He looked up when I came around the partition to his desk.
“Nicholas, do you have a minute? I want to talk about our presentation at the Water Works this week. You owe me a preliminary report, and we’ve got a meeting scheduled there tomorrow afternoon.”
“I apologize,” he said, contrite. “The research took longer than I expected, but that’s no excuse. I should have let you know.”
Yes, he should have. “Let’s use my office—there’s more room there.”
“Fine.” Nicholas gathered up a couple of folders and followed me down the hall. Once we were seated, I said, “What have you got?”
“As I understood it, Phebe Fleming at the Water Works wanted us to put together historic material that could be reinterpreted in light of current ‘green’ concerns, for benefit of certain corporate interests. What I’ve been looking at is things like the Water Works’ early recognition of potential sources of infection and how they addressed them with the technology available to them at the time.”
“Have you found any examples?”
Luckily I had pressed the right button, and Nicholas was happy to show off the information he had assembled. All I had to do was throw in a reasonably intelligent comment now and then. He had accomplished quite a bit since he’d been handed the assignment, and I could see the potential for an interesting display. As for Nicholas, he was positively animated. Maybe he’d found something historic that actually interested him.
When he finally wrapped up, he looked at me squarely and said, �
��Again, I apologize. I’ll have something on your desk by the end of the day, or tomorrow morning at the latest. I guess I got so caught up in the material that I misjudged my time.”
Strangely enough, that was a good excuse. “I understand, and I’m glad that you found it absorbing. That’s what we hope for around here, but not everyone feels that way about old documents.”
Since he seemed to be in an expansive mood, I decided to press a little further. In fact, he was due for a three-month review, and I did want to hear his opinion about how the work in the processing room was going—without his colleagues overhearing. “So, Nicholas, how’s the job going?”
He looked at me quickly. “Have there been any complaints?”
“No, nothing like that. I’d like to hear your general assessment. Have you mastered what your predecessor developed in the way of cataloging?” Poor Alfred—his heart had been in the right place, but he’d been slow to adapt to the new electronic world.
Nicholas seemed relieved to be on familiar ground now. “Of course. I’ve already transferred all of his material into the new database. I’m afraid he had barely scratched the surface.”
“You didn’t need to start over with the items he had input?”
“No, he handled those adequately. But he was old-school, and there are better ways of doing things now. I’ve now completed his material, and I’d say I’ve finished maybe twenty-five percent of the new material. You wanted me to begin with the FBI trove, correct?”
“Yes, there are strategic reasons for getting a handle on the contents. One, we need to give the FBI a list that’s detailed enough to enable them to compare our listings to reports of missing items. Two, we want to keep them in our debt, so that if anything remains unclaimed we have first crack at keeping it. So getting the information to them sooner rather than later would benefit everyone.” Maybe I was telling him too much, so I was relieved when he nodded in agreement.
Monument to the Dead Page 17
