EQMM, January 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Over a tennis match?” Zina asked, arching an eyebrow.

  "It was such a childish display that I realized Jared was never going to grow up. And I was tired of waiting. I wanted out."

  "And now you are,” Zina said. “Will the accident affect your financial settlement?"

  "I have no idea. Money always mattered more to Jared than to me."

  "Money doesn't matter?” Zina echoed.

  "I was buying my freedom, Detective. How much is that worth? Can we wrap this up? I have a class in five minutes."

  "You might want to make other arrangements, Doctor,” Doyle suggested. “Give yourself a break."

  "Working with handicapped kids is a two-way street, Sergeant. It keeps your problems in perspective. The last thing I need is to sit around brooding."

  "You're not exactly brooding, ma'am,” Zina noted. “If you don't mind my saying, you're taking this pretty calmly."

  "I deal with problems every day, Detective. Kids who will never hear music or their mother's voices, kids with abusive parents. Last week I had to tell an eight-year-old her chemotherapy regimen had failed and she probably won't see Christmas. So this is very hard news, but...” Lauren gave a barely perceptible shrug.

  "That would be a lot harder,” Zina conceded, impressed in spite of herself.

  "And yet the sun also rises,” Lauren said firmly. “Every morning, ready or not. Are we done?"

  "Just a few final questions,” Doyle said quickly. “Your husband had a string of traffic citations, mostly for speeding. Was he a reckless driver?"

  "Jared never hit anyone, he had great reflexes. But every trip was Le Mans for him. I hated that car."

  "Was he ever involved in conflicts with other drivers?"

  "Road rage, you mean? His driving often ticked people off, but he seldom stopped to argue. It was more fun to leave them in the dust."

  "Which brings us full circle to question number one,” Doyle said. “Can you think of anybody who might wish to harm your husband?"

  Lauren hesitated a split second. Another hit, Zina thought, though not as strong as the first.

  "No one,” Lauren said carefully. “Jared was a charming guy, as long as you weren't playing tennis or facing him in court. If he was having trouble with clients, his office staff would know more than I do. He's with Lehman and Greene."

  "How about you, ma'am?” Doyle asked. “The Benz is jointly owned, so it's at least possible your husband wasn't the intended victim. Have you had any problems? Threats, a stalker, anything like that?"

  "No."

  "What about your students?” Zina asked. “Your schedule includes mentally challenged students as well as hearing-impaired. Are any of them violent? Maybe overly affectionate? Seems like there's a lot of teacher-student hanky panky in the papers."

  Lauren met Zina's eyes a moment, tapping on the desk with a single fingernail.

  "You two are really good,” she said abruptly. “Usually the male plays the aggressive ‘bad cop,’ while the female plays the sympathetic sister. Reversing the roles is very effective."

  "Thanks, I think,” Zina said. “But you didn't answer the question."

  "As I'm sure you're aware, Detective Redfern, some of my students have behavioral problems that keep them out of mainstream schools. But none of them would have any reason to harm Jared. Or me. Now if you don't mind, I'd like a minute alone before my next class. Please."

  "Of course, ma'am,” Doyle said, rising. “I apologize for the tone of our questions. We're sorry for your loss.” He handed her his card. “If you think of anything, please call, day or night."

  Zina hesitated in the doorway.

  Lauren raised an eyebrow. “Something else, Detective?"

  "That kid you mentioned? What did she say when you told her the cancer had come back?"

  "She ... asked her father if they could celebrate an early Christmas. So she could give her toys to her friends."

  "Good God,” Zina said softly. “How do you handle it? Telling a child a thing like that?"

  "Some days are like triage on the Titanic, Detective,” Lauren admitted, releasing a deep breath. “You protect the children as best you can. And at five o'clock, you go home, pour a stiff brandy, and curl up with a good book."

  "And tomorrow, the sun also rises,” Zina finished. “Every single day. Ready or not."

  * * * *

  In the hallway, Doyle glanced at Zina. “What?"

  "I hate having to tell the wives. The tears, the wailing. Rips your freakin’ heart out."

  "The lady's used to dealing with bad news."

  "She's also pretty good at dodge-ball. She echoed some questions to buy time before she answered. Or didn't answer at all."

  "She's got degrees in psych and special ed. She's probably better at this than we are. Anything else?"

  "Yeah. Her clothes were expensive but not very stylish. She's a good-looking woman, but she dresses like a schoolmarm."

  "She is a schoolmarm, sort of. What are we, the fashion police now?"

  "Nope, we're the damn-straight real po-leece, Sarge. I'm just saying a few things about that lady don't add up. If a toasted husband can't crack your cool, what would it take?"

  "You think she might be involved in her husband's death?"

  "I'll get back to you on that. Who's next?"

  "She said Bannan's office staff would know about any threats."

  "Argh, more lawyers,” Zina groaned. “I'd rather floss with barbed wire."

  * * * *

  The offices of Lehman, Barksdale, and Greene, Attorneys at Law, occupied the top floor of the old Montgomery Ward building in downtown Valhalla. Old Town, it's called now. The historic heart of the village.

  The new big-box stores, Wal-Mart, Home Depot, and the rest, are outside the city limits, sprawling along the Lake Michigan shore like a frontier boomtown, fueled by new money, new people. High-tech émigrés from Detroit or Seattle, flocking to the north country to get away from it all. And bringing most of it with them.

  But Old Town remains much as it was before World War II: brick streets and sidewalks; quaint, globular streetlamps. Nineteenth-century buildings artfully restored to their Victorian roots, cast-iron facades, shop windows sparkling with holiday displays, tinny carols swirling in the wintry air. Christmas in Valhalla.

  Harbor Drive offers a marvelous view of the harbor and the Great Lake, white ice calves drifting in dark water out to the horizon and a hundred miles beyond.

  Few of the locals give it a glance, but the two cops paused a moment, taking it in. They'd both worked the concrete canyons of southern Michigan, Detroit for Doyle, Flint for Zee, before returning home to the north. Beauty shouldn't be taken for granted.

  Totally rehabbed during the recent real-estate push, the offices of Lehman and Greene were top-drawer now, an ultra-modern hive of glass cubicles framed in oak with ecru carpeting. Scandinavian furniture in the reception area, original art on the walls. Doyle badged the receptionist, who buzzed Martin Lehman, Jr., to the front desk. Mid thirties, with fine blond hair worn long, thinning prematurely. Casually dressed. Shirtsleeves and slacks, loafers with no socks. No tie, either. New Age corporate chic.

  "How can I help you, Officer?"

  "It's Sergeant, actually. I understand Jared Bannan works here?"

  "He's one of the partners, yes. He missed a deposition this morning, though. Is there a problem?"

  "Maybe we'd better talk in your office, Mr. Lehman. Wait here, Redfern. I'll call you if we need anything."

  "Hurry up and wait.” Zina sighed, leaning on the reception counter as Doyle and Lehman disappeared down the hallway. “Is there a coffee machine somewhere?"

  "Over in the corner, I'll get—"

  "Don't get up,” Zina said. “You're on the job, I'm just hanging around. Can I get you a cup?"

  "If you wouldn't mind,” the receptionist said.

  "My treat.” Zina winked. “If working girls don't look out for each other, who will?"

  * *
* *

  "Jared dead? Good God,” Lehman said, sinking into the Enterprise chair behind his antique desk. “We played golf last Saturday, I can't—"

  He caught Doyle's look.

  "We flew down to Flint, there's an indoor course there,” Lehman said absently. “It doesn't seem possible. Jared had so much energy.... Had he been drinking?"

  "Did he drink a lot?"

  "Not really. He loved to party, though, and ... look, I'm just trying to make sense of this."

  "Join the club, Mr. Lehman. Your partner was apparently the victim of a hit-and-run that may have been deliberate. What kind of work did Mr. Bannan do here?"

  "Real-estate cases, mostly. He was a fixer. He brokered deals, arranged financing, resolved legal problems. One of the best in the state. We were lucky to land him."

  "But since at least one party's unhappy in most business deals—"

  "You know that I can't discuss Jared's cases with you, Sergeant. Attorney/ client privilege applies."

  "I'm not asking for specifics."

  "Even so, our firm's reputation for discretion—"

  "Listen up, Mr. Lehman! Somebody rammed your buddy's car off the road, into a ravine. Where he freakin’ burned to death. Get the picture?"

  "Good Lord,” Lehman murmured, massaging his eyes with his fingertips.

  "I'm not asking you to violate privilege, but I do need a heads-up about any problem cases or clients that could have triggered this thing."

  "That's not so easy. Jared specialized in difficult cases."

  "Define difficult."

  "Property cases where the parties are in conflict, foreclosures, or the disposal of assets during a divorce. Jared loved confrontations. He'd needle the opposition until they blew, then he'd file a restraining order or sue for damages, generally make their lives miserable until they settled."

  "So he was what? Your hatchet man?"

  "The best I ever saw,” Lehman admitted. “The slogan on his office wall says Refuse to Lose. He rarely did."

  "That kind of attitude might make him a lot of enemies."

  "It also made a lot of money. Real-estate law is a tough game, and Jared's a guy you'd want on your team. Even if down deep, he scared you a little."

  "Were you afraid of him?"

  "I had no reason to be, we were colleagues. But in court or in negotiations, he was a ferocious opponent. No quarter asked or given."

  "I get the picture.” Doyle nodded. “Can you give me a quick rundown of any seriously unhappy customers?"

  "Butch Lockhart would top the list,” Lehman said, bridging his fingertips.

  "The Cadillac dealer? Used to play linebacker for the Lions?"

  "That's Butch. Jared represented Butch's ex-wife, Sunny, in a suit over their divorce settlement. He got their prenuptial agreement voided on a technicality and Sunny wound up with half of everything. Fourteen million for a six-year marriage."

  "Wow. I'm guessing Butch is unhappy?"

  "He threatened, and I quote, to ‘tear Jared's head off and cram it up his ass’ during a deposition. Looked angry enough to do it, too. Naturally, Jared got the blowup on video. Butch's lawyers settled the same day. But there's more. Jared and Sunny Lockhart..."

  "Have been celebrating?"

  "Banging his clients was almost a ritual with Jared,” Lehman sighed. “And Sunny lives in Brookside. Jared may have been coming from her place last night."

  "Is Butch Lockhart aware of their relationship?"

  "I would assume so. Jared and Sunny haven't been subtle about it."

  "Noted. Who else?"

  "He recently brokered a deal for the Ferguson family. The three sons wanted to sell the family farm, the father didn't. Jared managed to get the old man declared incompetent. Mr. Ferguson threatened to kill him in open court, which clinched the case. Personally, I think the old man was dead serious."

  "We'll look into it. Any others?"

  Lehman hesitated, thinking. “Jared had a divorce case slated for final hearings next week. Emil and Rosie Reiser. They own the Lone Pine Boat Works on Point Lucien."

  "What's the problem?"

  "There's some ... friction over the timing of the closing. Emil Reiser bought the boatyard ten years ago, built it up, married a local girl. They're splitting up and cashing out, but their daughter is very ill. Emil wanted to put everything on hold, but Jared has a buyer lined up who won't wait. The wife wants out immediately. Jared promised to make it happen."

  "How?"

  "I'm sorry, but that definitely falls under attorney/client privilege."

  "Are you trying to tell me something, Counselor?"

  "We both know the rules, Sergeant. I've already said more than I should."

  "Fair enough. Lockhart, Ferguson, and Reiser are on the list. Who else?"

  "Those are the top three. I'll scan through Jared's files, and flag any others that seem problematic."

  "What about Bannan's wife? She said they're divorcing. Amicably?"

  "No divorce is amicable, but they're both professional people. The discussions were very chilly, but civil. I'm handling—was handling—the paperwork for them."

  "For both parties?” Doyle asked, surprised. “Isn't that unusual?"

  "The only dispute was the terms of the settlement, and they hammered those out in meetings that I refereed. We wrapped it up last week."

  "To everyone's satisfaction?"

  "Jared was certainly satisfied. Lauren's harder to read. Jared and I have been friends since college. I could tell you the juicy details on every girlfriend he ever had, up to and including Sunny Lockhart. But I can't tell you a thing about his wife. He never talked about her. I do know that a few years ago, they had ... a serious problem."

  "What kind of problem?"

  "That I truly don't know. But Jared had a very successful practice downstate, and we didn't recruit him, he called me up out of the blue. Said he wanted to make a fresh start."

  "Trying to save his marriage?"

  "Jared never took marriage all that seriously."

  "How seriously did his wife take it? Should we be looking at her? Or a boyfriend?"

  "Can't help you there, Sergeant. As I said, I simply don't know the lady well. I was surprised when I met her. She's a handsome woman, but not Jared's type at all. He liked them hot, blond, and bubbly and Lauren's the opposite. Cool, intelligent, and very private. I've seen more of her during the settlement conferences than I did the whole time they ... sweet Jesus."

  "What?"

  "Their settlement isn't finalized.” Lehman frowned. “We ironed out the details but nothing's been signed or witnessed."

  "So? What's the problem?"

  "It's void. All of it, even Jared's new will. As things stand, Lauren's still his wife and sole heir. She gets everything."

  "How much are we talking about?"

  "I really shouldn't—"

  "Just a ballpark figure. Please."

  "Very well. Property and investments would be ... roughly two and a half mil. And Jared had a substantial life-insurance policy. I'd put the total estate in the neighborhood of five million."

  "Nice neighborhood,” Doyle whistled.

  "I'm afraid that's really all I can tell you for the moment,” Lehman said, rising. “I'll fax you the information on any problem clients by the end of business today."

  "I'd appreciate it, Counselor. About Bannan's death being a possible homicide? That stays between us."

  "God. I don't even like to think about it, let alone tell anyone else."

  "Thanks for your time, Mr. Lehman. I'm sorry about your partner."

  "So am I, Sergeant,” Lehman said, shaking his head glumly. “So am I."

  * * * *

  Zina was waiting for Doyle on the sidewalk. “What'd you get?” she asked, falling into step as they headed for the SUV.

  "A lot. Bannon was having an affair with Sunny Lockhart and half of his other clients, his life's been threatened at least twice, recently, and his widow stands to inherit five m
illion. How'd you make out with the receptionist?"

  "Same basic story. Bannan wasn't doing her, but he certainly could have. He was a killer negotiator who loved ticking off the opposition. He also got into a major shouting match with his partner last week."

  "With Lehman? About what?"

  "The receptionist wasn't sure; those flashy glass offices may look wide open but they're soundproof. A couple called Reiser had just left, and Dr. Bannan was waiting in reception. The argument could have been about either of them."

  "Or something else altogether."

  "Whatever it was, she said Bannan and Lehman were shouting loud enough to rattle the glass."

  "Not loud enough, apparently. What else?"

  "Bannan's clients loved him, in every sense of the word, especially the ladies. I'm feeling a little wistful that he never gave me a call."

  "You hate lawyers."

  "Only divorce lawyers. What's next?"

  "One of the threats to Bannan's life came from Butch Lockhart. Let's take the Lockharts separately, before they have time to cross-check their stories. I'll charm Sunny, you dazzle Butch."

  "Can't I just beat it out of him?” Zina said. “The Lions sucked when Lockhart played for ‘em."

  * * * *

  "You're kidding?” Butch Lockhart grinned hugely, not bothering to conceal his delight. “That mouthy sumbitch is dead? For sure?"

  "I'm afraid so,” Zina said, eyeing him curiously. They were in Lockhart's office, a glass cubicle five steps up from the showroom floor, which overlooked a gleaming row of Cadillacs that stretched the length of a football field. Lockhart loomed even larger than in his playing days, fifty pounds heavier now, a behemoth in a tailored silk suit, tinted glasses, tinted dark hair. A smile too perfect to be real.

  "What kind of a car was he driving?” Lockhart asked.

  "A Mercedes roadster."

  "Better and better. A smart-ass yuppie buys it in his Kraut car. If he'd been driving a Caddy, he could've survived the accident."

  "Actually, we don't think it was an accident, Mr. Lockhart. He was clipped by a hit-and-run driver. Would you mind telling me your whereabouts between ten and midnight last night?"

  Lockhart stared at her, blinking, as the question penetrated his bullet skull. “Whoa, wait a minute, Shorty. Why ask me? What the hell, you think I killed him?"