Dead Wrong (Jason Justice Mystery Book 2)

by Ralph Zeta

  “I am,” I said.

  “It just doesn’t make sense.” He pursed his lips, and his hazel eyes shifted from me to Lola and back to me. “And, if you witnessed his murder, why were you allowed to live?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I am determined to find out. Although, as far as the county sheriff is concerned, absent a body, let’s just say he remains skeptical.”

  He considered my words for a moment, then turned to Lola. “Do you believe your sister’s disappearance is connected?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “But it certainly seems that way. She was driving my car when she disappeared. I know my sister better than anyone. We’re very close. She would never go two days without calling me. Never.”

  Daniels rubbed his cleft chin. He seemed to ponder Lola’s words.

  “Jason, mind sharing why you were meeting with Milton? And why the farmhouse? Seems like an odd place to meet.”

  “He insisted on seclusion,” I said.

  “You said you’re a lawyer.

  “I am.”

  “Divorce?”

  I nodded. What was it about me that made it so damned obvious?

  “Did he ever discuss divorce with you?” I inquired.

  “Yes,” he said, and took the long last sip of his drink. “But there were other considerations, that in my view, had to be addressed before he took that step. Namely, I suggested we secure a court order rescinding the guardianship granted to his wife. Anyway, beyond that, I believe Milton felt he had come to a critical juncture in his life. An existential crisis, if you will. He had become all too aware of his own fragility. I think he felt the hands of destiny closing in around him. Naturally, he wanted whatever time he had left to count for something. And most of all, he wanted to live life on his own terms, free of what he called ‘Gabriela’s pernicious influence.’”

  A waiter arrived with our drinks and inquired about menus. We declined. For some reason, I wasn’t hungry, and neither was Lola. Jeffrey ordered another drink. When the waitress had left I turned my attention back to Daniels.

  “Do you feel comfortable sharing some of your discussions with Mr. Lowry?”

  He held my gaze, weighing me. “What’s your interest?”

  “For me, it’s personal,” I said. “I was a witness. And I reported the crime to the police. Lack of evidence makes my story questionable. It also raises questions about my credibility. That makes me a very interested party.”

  Jeffrey Daniels considered that for a moment, then said, “I can appreciate that.”

  “I know we’re asking a lot of you,” Lola said. “But I know Milton wouldn’t object. Maybe with your help, I can find my sister.”

  A waiter arrived with a fresh drink for Daniels. He thanked the waiter. When he was gone, he eyed Lola, then me. “What do you need?”

  “Information,” I said. “I think this may involve the Lowry fortune.”

  “Ah, family fortunes,” Jeffrey said, and started on the fresh whiskey. “The root of so much unintended evil.”

  “I don’t think this case is an exception,” I said.

  “Follow the money; find those responsible?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Tell me about Mrs. Lowry. Any indication she may have taken advantage of her position as custodian of her husband’s assets for her own benefit?”

  “If you mean ‘did Gabriela abuse her position?’ the answer is absolutely. Within months of being released from the hospital, Milton noticed a rather large discrepancy in his personal accounts. He immediately brought the matter to my attention. We made pertinent inquiries and discovered that not only was the discrepancy real, it amounted to a lot of cake. Mrs. Lowry had authorized the transfer of a substantial amount of money from her husband’s accounts to business accounts controlled directly by her or her companies, which she then presumably used for her own benefit.”

  “Milton wasn’t aware of the breach of trust?”

  “No.”

  A waitress stopped by to refill our water glasses. When the waitress left, the old barrister quickly surveyed neighboring tables. Satisfied no one was within earshot, he continued. “As I said, the discovery came to light months after his release from the hospital. And then it took us some time to discover the full extent of the pilfering. She hid her activities well. We had to retain a forensic accounting firm to conduct the audit, and we still aren’t clear on exactly how much is missing. But we are certain the sum will ultimately surpass the billion dollar mark.”

  “Did Mr. Lowry rule out taking legal action?” I asked.

  “Not entirely. We’ve discussed the issue at length.” he said. He paused to sip from his drink. “We consulted a number of law firms in New York and Washington. But in the end, we all agreed: the case would be tough to prosecute, and the outcome would still be a crapshoot. After all, they’re married. And she had the custodial order. It would take a staff of forensic accountants months of work to uncover the necessary evidence to litigate and prevail—that is, assuming the evidence could be found. Gabriela is nothing if not uncommonly smart and deliberate. And she is also obsessively detail oriented. Milton knew it, and I think he had finally come to accept that there was little he could do. So he settled his sights on just freeing himself of the yoke she had him in.”

  “How much trouble was Mrs. Lowry in when she was granted custodianship?”

  “From what I understand, it was serious.” He paused and sipped from his drink. “She was in need of a sizable cash infusion. Milton’s illness provided a handy means of getting it.”

  Lola and I exchanged a look. I was about to ask a question, but she beat me to it.

  “How desperate would you say Mrs. Lowry was?”

  Daniels eyed Lola a moment before responding. “If what you want to know is whether she was desperate enough to have her husband murdered, I can’t say. I don’t know her well. But I’m not willing to rule out it out, either. Desperate times, desperate acts.”

  Another waiter stopped by, and noticing my drink was nearly gone, asked if we would like another round. I ordered a coffee instead and Lola ordered a green tea.

  “Does Gabriela have any partners?” I asked. “Any close associates?”

  “Not that I know. But she used to,” Daniels said. “Her younger sister Norma. They worked together after her father retired. But it didn’t last. After a few years, Norma left the company. That was long ago. Around Nine-Eleven. More recently, Gabriela brought in Norma’s husband. A man by the name of Stephen Kline—lawyer and a CPA.”

  That got my attention.

  “Does he have a son named Henry?”

  “Yes. I believe he works for the State’s Attorney’s Office.”

  Lola placed a hand on my arm. “You know Henry Klein?”

  “Met him this morning.”

  “May I ask how you met Mr. Klein?” Daniels asked.

  “He and Mrs. Lowry showed up in my place.”

  Daniels’s eyes went wide. “Klein’s son came with Gabriela to see you?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled and said, “Henry is Norma’s stepson. But she practically raised that boy. I didn’t realize Henry and Gabriela were on speaking terms.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Norma and her sister had a bitter falling-out. As far as I know, they haven’t spoken in years.”

  “What caused the rift?”

  “Well, money, of course,” Daniels said. “Norma was dependent on the family’s estate for income. Then the economy collapsed. When the income Norma was receiving from the company dried up, naturally, Norma blamed her older sister. It became a personal war between those two. Waves of lawsuits and countersuits followed. Eventually, Gabriela offered a settlement. Apparently, offended by what I understand was a paltry offer, Norma did the unthinkable: she notified the IRS that her sister had secret offshore bank accounts she was using to hide assets specifically to prevent Norma from
claiming her fair share of the family fortune.

  “The battle went nuclear. Gabriela was audited and some assets were frozen. Stephen Klein, who was working with Gabriela at the time, was compelled to testify. He took the stand against Gabriela. Big mistake. Gabriela’s lawyers presented evidence he had helped clients hide assets in offshore accounts specifically with the intent of avoiding taxation. They claimed he was solely responsible for opening and maintaining the unreported foreign accounts and he did so without Gabriela’s knowledge or consent. Then Gabriela’s lawyers went to work on destroying his credibility. They brought up his long struggle with alcohol as well as a string of business failures. Eventually, Gabriela settled with the IRS. But the damage to Klein’s reputation was done. He was fined and jailed. He served less than two years of a ten-year sentence and died less than a year after his release.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said, and made a mental note not to cross Gabriela unless I had all my ducks lined up. “I assume Milton had a will.”

  “Of course. I drafted it.”

  The waiter arrived with my coffee and Lola’s tea. I added a little cream and one packet of fake sugar. Lola poured a few drops of cream and stirred.

  “Who are his beneficiaries?” I asked.

  Daniels smiled, leaned back against his chair and considered me before responding. “I see where you’re headed. Not Gabriela. The terms of the will do not extend to her. There’s an airtight prenuptial in place, although unnecessary given that the bulk of Milton’s assets are held in trusts. Milt had no children or living siblings, so it was pretty straightforward. He did set aside a generous amount to fund a charitable foundation he set up to benefit his father’s, shall we say, unacknowledged progeny?”

  I recalled my conversation with the man at the Tenmile Bend church while waiting for the sheriff to arrive—his mention of a number of children supposedly fathered by Bull Lowry.

  “How many kids?” I asked.

  “I don’t know exactly. And I don’t know if Milton knew. And if he did, he never said. But if what I’ve heard is true, Milton’s father may have produced at least a dozen children. Others put the number higher. Who knows? But Lowrys or not, Bull looked after them. The families have all been receiving regular monthly stipends for decades. And when the old man passed, Milt continued the tradition. The checks never stopped—until Milt became ill, that is. Not long after Gabriela took over Milton’s financial affairs, the checks stopped.”

  “Are the children specifically named in the will?”

  “In general terms only. They are unspecified beneficiaries of a separate trust.”

  “Is what they stand to inherit subject to stipulations or conditions?”

  He nodded. “It’s complicated. But basically, Milton’s will stipulates a specific amount to be set aside to fund a new family trust in perpetuity. And the bulk of his estate—specifically, his lands, farms, buildings, hotels, and other various properties—are to be placed in a perpetual land conservancy to be overseen by the state.”

  “So that rules out Mrs. Lowry as a suspect in Milton’s death,” Lola said.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “I’m afraid Jason is correct, Lola,” Daniels said. “You see, as far as the law is concerned, absent a dead body, legally, Milton is considered ‘missing.’ No body, no death certificate. And that is significant, as far as estate matters are concerned. It will take years and a court order to have Milton declared dead. If, on the other hand, his body is found, well, that changes everything. The provisions of his will take effect, and his assets dispensed as instructed in the will.”

  “Why would anyone kill Milton and hide his body?” Lola asked.

  “Well, if Milton was killed and his body hidden, it’s reasonable to assume the killer benefits from maintaining the illusion that he’s alive.”

  “Know anyone that fits the bill?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  Jeffrey raised an eyebrow. “One person comes to mind.”

  “Gabriela,” I said.

  Daniels smiled in agreement.

  “Why?” Lola asked.

  “Because it doesn’t change the status quo and that means she retains control of Milton’s fortune.”

  “What if Milton and my sister are never found?” Lola hugged herself as if bracing herself for an answer she wasn’t prepared to hear.

  “Well, in Milton’s case, if his body is never found, after a period of five years—especially considering the size of his estate—the federal government will come calling. They would make it a priority to have him declared dead. The estate tax bill alone would likely exceed the two-billion-dollar mark.”

  So far, I had heard nothing that would prompt me to rule out Gabriela as a suspect. And yet, something else kept nudging at me, urging me to keep an open mind, whispering in my ear that all this might be a distraction designed to keep us focused on what someone wanted us to see.

  “Did Milton have enemies?” Lola asked.

  “Not that I know of,” Daniels said. “And if he did, he never mentioned it. Besides—and this may sound biased—Milton wasn’t really the kind of man that could rile someone up enough to make them want to kill him. There was no malice in him. He may have been emotionally immature in some aspects . . .”

  The conversation trailed off as a trio of waiters started moving tables and chairs nearby. Three tables were brought together, chairs rearranged, and place settings moved accordingly. A hostess led a party of eight to the newly arranged table.

  “You mean the women in his life?” I said after the commotion created by the new arrivals had subsided.

  “Yes.” Daniels rolled his eyes. “And God knows there were plenty…” He hesitated and grimaced. He caught himself too late. To Lola, he said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”

  “No need,” Lola fired back. “Despite what you may have heard, Milton and I were only friends. We were never romantically involved.”

  I thought about Daniels’s earlier comments about the elder Klein’s association with Gabriela, his prison sentence, and the animosity between the Benitez sisters. I thought it notable that despite the history of acrimony between them, Norma’s stepson had sat next to Gabriela on my couch. Something about that didn’t seem quite right. After all, she had all but destroyed his father.

  “Suppose Milton Lowry had accused Gabriela of fraud,” I said. “Anyone else that might get dragged along with her?”

  Daniels considered the question for a long and leisurely sip of whiskey. “I can think of only person. But it won’t do you any good.”

  “Stephen Klein?” I said.

  “Exactly,” Daniels said as he brought the white linen napkin to his lips. “He’s dead.”

  Swell.

  Fourteen

  Early the next morning, I eased my car into one of the sheltered slots under the eaves of the five-story stuccoed building where my office is. With its clean, sleek lines, long windows and muted pastel colors, the office building is a more modern take on the pseudo-Art Deco style so prevalent in Miami Beach.

  It was just after seven when I got a call from one of Sheriff Powell’s deputies, requesting an appointment in my office. When I inquired about the nature of the meeting, all the deputy would say was his boss wanted to chat in person. We agreed on a time, and I clicked off.

  The deputy’s call left me wondering. For Powell, a trip to West Palm Beach was a too far to be regarded as routine. And he didn’t strike me as the lets-do-lunch type. Whatever the reason, the visit would be substantive. It occurred to me that it was time for Powell to meet Lola. Meeting Lowry’s supposed girlfriend might go a long way to convince the man there was more going on than met the eye. I called Lola, told her about the meeting, and invited her to join us. She didn’t need persuading.

  I entered my office and found Rene Encantos, my receptionist and doer of all needful things, seated as usual at her desk, ear pressed against the phone. She smiled and put the receiver down and said Sammy Raj was waiting in my office. Rene
, with her olive complexion and lush dark hair that somehow always looks perfect, has an air about her that is best described as sophisticated sensual. She had been blessed with more than her fair dose of exotic beauty—enough that in her younger days, I imagined, she must have garnered plenty of attention. Those looks and the air of easy sophistication about her gave my suite a certain element of credibility that I could not easily afford otherwise. She has managed my front office since the day I moved in.

  My work digs are not what most top-drawer barristers in town would call elegant or chic. Simple and even utilitarian will have to do. The suite consists of three comfortable offices: one for me; one for Consuelo, my law clerk, legal assistant, office manager, and critic at large; and the third, originally designated as a “general-purpose room” and now doubles as a lunch room. I had long ago given up the idea of bringing in a younger lawyer to help me grow the practice and take over the city, so Consuelo turned the space into a lunch area complete with a double-door refrigerator, microwave, espresso/cappuccino maker, flat-screen TV, and dining table with seating for four. A couple of potted palms, a few orchids, and bromeliads in just the right spots, which Consuelo tends daily, add a homey touch. Separating my office from Consuelo’s is a conference room that can accommodate twelve people in relative comfort. No frills and no bravado. What you see is what you get: a lawyer unencumbered by the typical superficial trappings of success and free to focus on the client’s best interest as well as his own.

  I found Sammy Raj seated on the leather couch—a tasteful chestnut brown number with wide armrests, which gobbles up a goodly chunk of my office suite. The couch where Sammy sat is flanked by a pair of leather gooseneck chairs. The centerpiece of this comfy area is the glass-top coffee table, sitting at the center of a gently worn Oriental rug. Across the expanse of hardwood is my rather formidable walnut desk. It has the haggard look of a century-old period piece, erring on the minimalist side with few drawers, its surface tastefully cluttered with neat stacks of files and assorted paperwork. Behind the desk is a matching credenza and set of barrister bookshelves loaded with law books and a few well-chosen mementos. A glossy of my West Point graduation, hats flying, and the corresponding diplomas on display along the long wall add a certain element of character, of single-minded determination, and achievement to my inner sanctum. There are also a few obligatory family photos spread around the office: my dad and me deep-sea fishing, stream fishing in Alaska and Montana, skiing in Chamonix, Deer Valley, Killington, and Snowmass, smiles everywhere—evidence of what a stranger might perceive as a privileged upbringing. A bank of windows across my desk offers a peek-a-boo view east, toward the Atlantic Ocean and the expansive homes watched over by sprawling banyans and the towering palms that rise from the sand spit across the Intracoastal Waterway, known as Palm Beach.