COPS SPIES & PI'S: The Four Novel Box Set

by David Wind

  Spotting a Starbucks, I went in, ordered a tall black, and went to one of the unoccupied tables set amidst a dozen others filled with people working on laptops and sipping frothy concoctions passing for coffee.

  I used my cell phone to call Chris’s private number. He answered on the fourth ring and I asked him about the autopsy.

  “It was a forty-four and the rounds were hollow points. Scotty died within two or three minutes of the first shot. There were just the five shots we counted.”

  I clenched my teeth against the knowledge the last thing Scotty felt was long agonizing minutes of pain. “What else?”

  “Nothing, Gabe. There was nothing else.”

  “What about the prints in the apartment?”

  “So far, we’ve identified Scotty’s, yours, mine and the cleaning woman who came twice a week. There are more prints, and we’re working on them.”

  Chris’s and mine would be there; we played cards twice a month at Scotty’s house. We had started the game when we were sixteen and never stopped, except for the times when I was in the Joint or in the Army or when Chris was working a case.

  “How did you get the cleaning woman’s ID so fast?”

  “She was in the INS computers. ICE gave it to us on the first hit. She has a green card.”

  “Then there’s still nothing.”

  “There may not be anything. It just may be what it seems like,” he said, sounding tired.

  “It wasn’t. I know it, Chris.”

  “When the rest of the prints are identified, and if nothing comes of them, then the case will be classified as a robbery. There’s nothing I can do about it… and, Amigo, you’ll be the only one who can say if it was or it wasn’t.”

  He was right: there was just so much the police could do without evidence. But I could do more. “And I will.” I hung up and used the next fifteen minutes to drink my coffee and think about what had happened since yesterday. There was a lot to sort out, but there was no real trail to anything. Then I rethought Chris’s last words before I’d hung up. Was he giving me permission to investigate? It sounded like it.

  I dumped the cup at ten twenty-five, walked the half block to Gottleib’s office and rode up to the eighth floor. The reception area was modern and light, with white walls, a burgundy carpet and light wood chairs and reception desk.

  I didn’t recognize the receptionist, so I gave her my name and took a seat. Five minutes later Paul Gottleib came out to greet me. Gottleib was in his late-forties, with just a hint of salt sprinkled amongst his dark hair. He had a nice smile and steady brown eyes. He looked more like an accountant than an attorney.

  We shook hands and he ushered me into his private office. It was large and neat and again, not the usual attorney’s office. Most attorneys have case files lying all over the place, amid an air of organized chaos: This office had nothing out of place at all. There was a small seating area with four cushioned chairs set about a round table. The table was about ten feet from his desk, which was a Scandinavian design made out of inlaid Teak. There were two chairs in front of the desk, and the chair behind the desk was tanned leather.

  Gottleib sat in his chair while I took the one across from him. Scotty’s thick manila file folder was the desktop’s sole occupant. “Again, I am very sorry about Scotty’s death. I know how close you two were. I… it makes me sick to think about what happened.”

  His words stirred up my emotions. I had known Paul Gottleib for fifteen years. Paul had clerked for my father when he’d gotten out of law school. My father had put him and Scotty together when Scotty had written his first play. I’d been a part of that first meeting, because Scotty had wanted me there for support. Over the years, Paul, Scotty and I had gotten together many times.

  “Has Scotty ever discussed his will with you?”

  “It wasn’t a topic of our conversations. All I know is Scotty asked me if it was okay to name me executor and then had me sign the Living Will and the POA. I told him he was acting weird—he was too young for a will.”

  Gottleib nodded. “There’s a lot to go over, Gabe. And I think most of it will come as a surprise.”

  I tried to read into his words, but couldn’t, waited while he opened the file, extracted two sets of papers and pushed one across to me. I left it where it lay. “Just tell me.”

  “You should read it.”

  “I’ll read it later. Give me the short version for now.”

  He turned the first page. “As you know, you’re the executor. The will is set up with certain guidelines you’ll have to follow. The estate is valued at twenty-three million dollars, most of which is in stock and real estate investments; this does not take into account the royalties which will be coming in for many years. And Gabe, his investment in the new play is considerable because he wanted to retain complete control.”

  The amount staggered me. I had no idea Scotty had been that successful, yet it felt good to know my friend had done so well. I also knew Gottleib was the one behind Scotty’s investments.

  I refocused on the attorney as he looked down at the will. “As to the bequests—Christopher and Amanda Bolt are to receive a bequest of fifty thousand dollars. A trust fund is to be set up for Anna Bolt, in the amount of fifty thousand dollars, to be given to her upon her twenty-first birthday or her graduation from college, whichever is last.”

  “A bequest of five hundred thousand dollars is made to the Tenth Avenue Universal Church of New York City. In addition, an endowment is to be set up for the Universal Church Theatre Company in the amount of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  “A gift of one million dollars goes to the Dramatists Guild of America; a second gift of one million dollars as an endowment to the Dramatists Guild, to create a special grants fund for aspiring playwrights.”

  The attorney’s voice faded, replaced by the memory that rather than taking loans from my and Chris’s families to get going, Scotty had been able to get a small interest free loan from the Guild which enabled him to complete his first play. Scotty had never forgotten that.

  When I realized the lawyer was still talking, I stopped him and asked him to repeat what he’d just said.

  He scoured my face for several seconds. “Gabriel Storm is to oversee the Director’s Fund selection of candidates to receive the grants,” he reread.

  The statement shook me. Why would he want me to do that? I wasn’t qualified. I took a breath, knowing if that’s what Scotty wanted, I would do my best. “Okay,” I said.

  “There’s more….” Gottlieb gave me a penetrating stare before speaking again. “A donation of one million dollars goes to the Save Them Foundation. And an additional five million dollars is to be invested for future contributions to the Save Them Foundation. Gabriel Storm is to oversee the fund and to take over my position as Chairman of the Board of Directors of Save Them.”

  “Can he do that?”

  Gottlieb nodded without smiling. “It is a private foundation, created by Scotty and primarily funded by Scotty. Yes, as long as the board does not vote to override his decision. And Gabe, I don’t see how that would happen, considering it is a small board of directors, all hand-picked by Scotty, with Samantha Collins, Amanda Bolt, your mother and Mrs. Bolt, and former Senator Jane Byers as the board members. And I know they will follow Scotty’s wishes to the letter.”

  I shrugged; there was nothing else for me to do.

  “The balance of his estate goes to you. You can read it all when you’re ready.”

  His last words took my breath away. Why me, why not Chris?

  “The full listing of all his assets is with the will. You’ll have to go over them. There are a lot of papers to sign. You’ll need to move his investments into your own account.”

  I gave a sharp shake of my head. “No, I’d like to keep it separate. Can you handle it for me?”

  “The will has to go through the surrogate court first. Since there are no living relatives, it won’t take long to process. And, yes, I’ll handle
things if that’s what you want.”

  “It’s what I want.” I had complete trust in Paul Gottlieb.

  “All right. Now, about the arrangements.”

  “I’ve taken care of the funeral home. It’s set for Thursday at eleven.”

  “His will directs he be cremated. You’ll arrange for that as well, and for a… a resting place. He left no instructions for a resting place. My guess is you know what to do.”

  His words pulled up another memory of another time. “I’ll take care of that,” I said. “Is there anything else?”

  “As the executor, you must keep precise records—the usual things.”

  “Paul, right now I don’t have time for the usual things. I need you to handle them while I do something else.”

  His brows knit. “I don’t understand.”

  “Someone killed Scotty. Right now, all I am going to do is find out who it was. I need you to handle everything else. Will you do that?”

  He favored me with a thoughtful stare. “I was under the impression it was a robbery and the police were handling it.”

  I leaned forward, gripping the edge of the desk so hard the tips of my fingers turned white. My anger, since Chris had told me about the weapon, exploded toward Gottlieb. “It wasn’t a robbery. Someone went into Scotty’s apartment and shot him five times. The same someone watched his life flow out of him. It wasn’t the act of a burglar being interrupted; it was an act of murder, purposeful and intentional. Someone went into Scotty’s apartment with one thing in mind, to kill him!”

  The lawyer looked dumbstruck. “Gabe–”

  I waved his reaction away. “Paul, I know what it was, no matter what the police think. And that’s my primary concern right now. I want you to become my attorney of record for all matters concerning Scotty Granger’s estate. Will you do that for me?”

  “Of course I will. I’ll have everything set up for you.”

  “Thanks. Did you get the show’s books?”

  “I have all the financials here.” He pointed to the monitor. “They’re digital now. My copies are updated daily.”

  He adjusted the monitor so I could see it. “This is the investment breakdown: Scotty put in three point five million and owns thirty percent of the show; the next largest investor is Thomas Albright, with one point five million; Lia Thornton invested a million, five investors put up a half million each, and the balance was made up from eleven smaller investors varying from twenty-thousand to three hundred thousand. The total was ten million six hundred thousand dollars.”

  It wasn’t too long ago when a drama could be put on for two or three million and if it was a hit, the investment would be returned a hundred-fold. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Not today. You’ve been out of the production end for a while. It’s barely average for a drama being staged for Broadway. But Gabe, you’re the majority investor in the play now.”

  It took a second for it to sink in. What the hell did I want with the play? Then another thought hit me. Scotty’s will put me in the driver’s seat. If his death had anything to do with the play, I would be right in the middle.

  “How are they doing?”

  “Everything is on schedule. If the play opens on time, and is the success everyone expects, things will be very rosy for the investors—very rosy,” he repeated.

  “And if it doesn’t go as scheduled?”

  He gave me a strange look. “Why wouldn’t it?”

  “I understand Scotty was rewriting scene two, and the Angels weren’t happy about the delay.”

  He gave a thoughtful tug to his earlobe. “A show’s backers are always worried. That’s normal. Everyone is afraid something will screw up the play. I spoke to Scotty on Friday. He said he was just about finished with the rewrite. But if the rewrite isn’t among his things, then they’ll go on with the original, and the original scene isn’t bad at all—Scotty was a perfectionist, which was what was wrong with scene two. He didn’t think it was perfect. Everyone else did.”

  “What happens if the show is delayed,” I persisted. “And what does his death mean?”

  “Rumors will fly because he is dead and they’ll think there is a real problem with the show. Gabe, any show can survive its creator—look at what happened with Rent. The death of the playwright, the producer and even the director and stars are covered in the contracts, with insurance. But should the play be delayed, it will turn into a publicity disaster—an eleven million dollar garbage drain. Unless you make it work, with or without the new scene, you will have a disaster. But then too, I know you won’t allow that.”

  He was right. I was caught in the middle. “No, that won’t happen. How much is the insurance?”

  “A million dollars on Scotty, which we both know isn’t anywhere near enough.”

  He was right again. “I need a copy of the investors’ list.”

  He hit the print button and, as the paper began to churn out of the printer, I stood. “Paul, treat this as if you were still working with Scotty. That’s what he’d want, and that’s what I want.”

  I took the three pages of printouts, turned and extended my hand. “Thank you.”

  His grip was firm and tight, his hand warm. “I’ll get the papers to your office later today. Sign them and send them right back. I’ll see you on Thursday.” Releasing my hand, he said, “Be careful Gabe.”

  "Careful…. Not on your life."

  Chapter 11

  By one o’clock, I was at my desk finishing off a roast beef sandwich and a Tsingtao, a Chinese beer for which I have a fondness. Femalé was sitting across from me: we’d been going over the list of the show’s backers. The people who had real money to lose were Albright and Lia Thornton, two and a half million to be exact.

  “I don’t see Thornton as the shooter. A woman doesn’t put five rounds into someone.”

  Femalé cocked her head to one side. “You should meet the girls I grew up with.”

  “I imagine that’s a good thing.”

  “But,” she said without missing a beat, “Albright looks good for it too.”

  “Why? The man is loaded. Money wouldn’t come into it. A loss would be a good tax break for someone at his income level.”

  Femalé picked up her diet coke and finished it, and then shrugged. “It’s just a feeling. Then who do you have in mind?”

  It was lesson time. “It’s not who—it’s why. We need to know the why. Then we can find who.”

  We sat silently for a few seconds, until my computer offered up a half-hearted beep of an incoming fax. The screen opened to the cover page of a seven-page document from Gina Torrelli, replete with the FBI logo. I hit the print key.

  When the last page was printed, Femalé pulled the sheets, reversed their order and set them on the desk. “Looks like money just came back into play.”

  She sat and stared at me. I looked at the first sheet. It was a print out of Thomas Albright’s FBI file. And it was a beauty.

  Albright was under investigation by the Bureau in conjunction with the SEC. The investigation dealt with insider trading, and reached back to the Wall Street collapse at the millennium. The SEC believed Albright had been given important information about three companies; important enough for him and his clients to escape the losses hitting everyone else.

  The investigation had become bogged down because of the lack of significant proof, which meant there had been no whistle blower or paper trail to follow: reading between the lines told me the Feds would get him one day.

  I handed Femalé the first page and started on the second. This one detailed his current finances, and they were an eye opener. Thomas Albright was in deep trouble and broke, which set off all sorts of alarms in my head. I wondered what he was doing investing in a show.

  I handed Femalé the second page and went on. This one was about Lia Thornton. She was the widow of Jeremy Thornton, who, when he died, had left her one of the wealthiest widows in Manhattan. One item stood out: Jeremy Thornton had been under inve
stigation, at the time of his death, for suspected money laundering. His death had been a suicide and had come after he had been subpoenaed to testify before the Federal Banking Commission.

  The information was a shocker for a man like Thornton. Why would a man in Thornton’s position be involved in money laundering? I continued reading. The banking commission had been investigating Thornton for six months prior to his death, but had not been able to find anything solid, which was the reason for requiring his testimony. After his death, they found there was not enough evidence against the bank itself to move forward with the case.

  The summation was short and concise. Three months after his death, the auditors found proof he had been behind inconsistencies at the bank, and had been using his own money to play with the books—to change the bank’s records for reasons no one would ever learn because Thornton was beyond answering questions. However, the FBI agent on the case believed it was a money laundering operation.

  The commission had closed the investigation after the bank had audited the books and found everything to be on the up and up—it was labeled an ‘accounting’ error. The final notation was a paragraph from the IRS, which stated that all tax filings from both Jeremy and Lia Thornton had been reviewed and found correct.

  The next page was the FBI report on Scotty. Everything was clean and neat. There were no investigations. There was a notation about his sister’s abduction, and the file codes referring to it. The other backers were the usual types. There were a couple of Wall Street brokers, three names from the social register, and the rest were either small investors hoping to make a big return if the play became successful, or people who wanted to be involved in the play for their own ego driven needs.

  I finished the last page, passed it on to Femalé, and tried to think through some of the ramifications. If one of the backers was responsible, all signs pointed to Thomas Albright. But, it didn’t feel right. What would Scotty’s death gain him? If it left the play hanging without the rewritten scene two, it would generate a lot of negative publicity because of the existing rumors. If Albright needed the play to be successful, why kill the golden goose?