by Ralph Zeta
“Maybe to frame you for his death,” I said.
She turned and glanced away, with a rare look of bafflement.
“Can you think of anyone who might benefit if you were to fall?”
“What do you mean?”
“Say, for example, they had succeeded and you were indicted, anyone that would stand to gain?”
She pondered that for a long moment. “You may not like the answer,” she said. “But, you see, this is a game of inches, Mr. Justice.”
“Jason,” I interrupted her. “Please call me Jason.”
She appraised me with those brooding honey eyes. “I’d rather not,” she said. “First names imply a certain level of intimacy I doubt you and I will ever share.”
Gabriela. The woman had all the charm of a coiled viper.
“My mistake,” I offered with a proper amount of feigned contrition.
“As I was saying,” Gabriela plowed on, ignoring me. “This is a game of inches. Inches are often the difference between success and a crippling setback. There are some who blame me for their failures. And they would be correct. Over the years, I have collected—for lack of a better term—my fair share of enemies. Many, no doubt, would be happy to see me burn in hell.”
“And if you were to fall, does anyone go down with you?”
She thought for a moment before answering. “I can think of only one person.”
“Stephen Klein?”
She nodded.
“What about your sister?”
“My sister? Never! There is no evil in her, and if I go down she gains little from whatever is left after I’m gone.”
“Tell me about your sister.”
She went on to describe the bitter argument that began after her father’s sudden death. Norma, it seemed, blamed his death on the unnecessary stress he was under due to what she perceived as Gabriela’s reckless management of her father’s company. Norma held Gabriela solely responsible for the financial difficulties that obliterated most of the family’s fortune, and for stealing Norma’s rightful share of the inheritance. Norma sued her sister. The case was later settled privately.
The conversation trailed off soon thereafter. It was obvious I had gleamed as much as I could from her. Besides, it was getting late and hunger was itching at me.
As she saw me to the door, she dangled the envelope before me. “Can I count on you to continue looking into Ms. Appel’s and Milton’s disappearance?”
“It may take time,” I said. “And there’s no guarantee I’ll succeed.”
“Your reputation suggests otherwise.”
“It will get expensive.”
“Cost doesn’t bother me, Mr. Justice,” she said as she pushed the envelope against my chest. “Disappointment, on the other hand—that I don’t tolerate so well.”
* * *
I slid into the driver’s seat of my ride, flicked on the courtesy light, and stole a peek at the contents of the envelope. A check for one hundred fifty thousand dollars, payable to me. I allowed myself a brief smile. This meant no more embellishing the truth the next time Sammy complained about the mounting costs of the investigation. I closed the envelope and placed it in the glove box. And for a moment, I wondered exactly what it was I had just agreed to.
On the drive out of Coral Gables, I phoned Sammy and asked him to take a particularly hard look at Norma Klein. Gabriela’s assurance that her sister was incapable of evil deeds, though commendable, wasn’t enough for me. I needed to be sure. I’ve seen just how corrosive feuds over money can become, how they can transform the most loving of siblings into bitter, and sometimes bloodthirsty, enemies.
Sixteen
I spent most of the following day tending to client business. It was early afternoon when Sammy called to tell me that he hadn’t been able to find anything of significance in Norma Klein’s background. By all indications, she was a widow who lived an unremarkable and average life in the suburbs, had little if any outstanding debts and not much else of concern. I ended the call and immediately called Norma Klein. She cheerily answered the call. I identified myself and asked if she had time to see me. Her initial reaction was not surprising. She regarded my request with the disdain of someone answering a telemarketing call.
“Do you work for my sister?” she asked icily.
“I represent someone else, Mrs. Klein,” I replied. “I wanted to talk to you about Milton Lowry.”
“Why? Is Milton all right?” she asked.
“You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what? My sister and I don’t speak,” she said it in a tone dripping with spite.
“Milton is missing,” I said.
“Maybe he’s not missing. Maybe he finally grew tired and went somewhere my sister can’t find him.”
“I wish that were the case, Mrs. Klein,” I said. “But I believe Milton was killed.”
She agreed to see me at once and gave me her home address. I said should arrive around four o’clock and ended the call.
As I left my office, a sudden downpour descended over West Palm. Fat raindrops crashed with increasing violence onto the car’s exterior, the incessant drumming loud enough to obliterate all other sounds in the cockpit. I flicked on the wipers and steered onto the I-95 South onramp. The wipers were no match for the quarter-size raindrops bomblets exploding against the windshield. Visibility deteriorated with every added mile per hour. I eased off the gas and squinted into the gray haze. As I crawled in stop-and-go traffic, I was besieged by one of those what-the-hell-are-you-thinking, Jason? moments. I didn’t know Milton Lowry. I owed him nothing. I had no skin in whatever twisted game of deceit was playing out between Gabriela and Norma. And yet, here I was, plunging head-on onto their private maelstrom, not knowing whether I was being led to the slaughterhouse or the jailhouse and not thrilled about either option.
It took me almost an hour to reach Norma Klein’s house in West Boca Raton, twice as long as it should have. The unrelenting rain and waterlogged streets west of I-95 made me wish I had chosen my tender and its trusty outboard instead of a car. I would have made better time.
The house was a sharp departure from her sister’s elegant Coral Gables estate. Norma’s relatively modest home, in keeping with the others in her subdivision, was an unremarkable but seemingly well-maintained, two-story rectangular structure, of arched windows and straight lines, capped by a white tile roof.
Mercifully, by the time I arrived in Boca, the rain had given way to a light drizzle. I wouldn’t need an umbrella. I jogged to the front door and pressed the door bell button. I heard the faint chime. The front door opened, and I suddenly found myself besieged by three exuberant white and tan fur balls sniffing and panting at my trouser cuffs.
“Oh, please,” said the woman standing before me. “I hope you don’t mind my boys!”
She bore a clear resemblance to Gabriela Lowry. They had the same alabaster skin tone and were about the same height, and shared the same roundish face, thin lips, and dark hair. But while Norma had the same alert eyes the color of burnt honey, they did not convey the same imposing presence as her sister’s. She seemed content in her comfortable suburban environment. And her choice of clothing, unlike Gabriela’s haute everything, was almost emphatically unassuming suburban casual: ripped jeans, dark silk top, thin watch, half-dozen bangles at one wrist, black sandals. A woman seemingly at peace with her lot in life.
“Sorry. They just love to meet new people,” she assured me.
“Not at all,” I said, bending at the knee to pat the eager mutts. Three painfully identical Welsh corgis. I wondered how she told them apart. I couldn’t. “Mrs. Klein?”
“Oh, please. Call me Norma.” She stuck out her hand.
“Jason Justice,” I said. Her skin was soft and cool to the touch. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Anything for Milton,” she said with a dismissive wave of the hand. She called the dogs inside and they dutifully obeyed. “Please come in.”
Norma, with her pant
ing crew in tow, led me to a comfortable sitting area. The furniture was arranged to take advantage of an elaborate water feature at the center of an intimate courtyard, enclosed by lush tropical foliage just beyond a wall of French doors.
After admonishing the dogs to stay by her, she asked if I was interested in a beverage. I declined. She deposited herself between colorful pillows on the couch, slid off her shoes and folded her legs under her.
“I live alone, you see,” she said by way of explaining the height-challenged dogs waiting for her attention at her feet. “Believe me, this is not how I planned my life. But it is what it is, you know? I’m a widow. And my only son lives in Miami. We’re close, but he has his own life now. So what do lonely women like me do? We find companionship wherever we can. And that is what these little angels are. They’re my children now. My close companions. I hope you don’t mind the constant panting while we talk. They follow me everywhere.” A wistful smile. “I’m not so alone anymore.”
“I understand,” I said, with what I hoped was an understanding smile. I wanted her to feel comfortable enough to open up. I was about to tread on what I knew had to be difficult and painful family ground that she may not be so eager to visit with a stranger.
“I sense a fair amount of urgency about you,” she said. “Please sit.” I did. “I know this is no social call. Now, tell me, what happened with Milton?”
“When was the last time you spoke to him?” I asked.
“My gosh. It has to be at least three years.”
Too long. I was likely wasting my time with her. So I got straight to the point. “Were you aware your sister had been granted legal guardianship over Milton’s affairs?”
She cast her eyes down before answering. “I heard.” After a beat of hesitation, she lovingly patted the head of the nearest clone. “It’s been a while since that happened. My husband, rest his soul, was associated with my sister around that time.”
“Did you know about the money?”
She looked confused. “What money?”
“A substantial amount of money was taken from Milton Lowry’s accounts while he was incapacitated. By your sister. I ask because, as I understand, your husband was working with Gabriela at the time. Did the subject ever come up in conversation?”
A flicker of darkness crossed her brow. It got my attention.
After a moment of hesitation, she said, “He told me.”
“Did he mention why your sister did it?”
A little smile. “To save herself. What else?”
“Your husband—he had a successful practice. Why would he abandon that to work with Gabriela?”
“My husband was good at what he did,” she said with a heavy sigh. “He was a lawyer and a CPA. A tax expert. Very sought-after. Clients everywhere. But his passion was real estate. He believed the best way to build wealth is through real property ownership. And I completely agree. He wanted to be a developer. So when Gabriela asked him to join her, it was as if the pearly gates of heaven had opened. Me, I wasn’t so thrilled. Frankly, I hated the idea. But I never said a word. My husband was aware of our history, what Gabriela did to me. But how could I object? It was his dream. But with Gabriela, nothing ever stays the same for long. So, about two years into their partnership, things began to change. As it turns out, my sister was still under investigation by the FBI. They showed up one day here and threatened to indict him if he didn’t cooperate. He had no choice.” She picked up one of the dogs and placed it on her lap and patted him. “After my sister found out Stephen was informing on her, she fired him. And then she refused to pay him what he was owed on several projects he had been involved in. Things went from bad to worse. I won’t go into details, but in the end, my husband was sentenced to jail. He lost his professional licenses and his business. We lost practically everything.
“After my sister settled with the government, my husband took her to court. I warned him not to waste what we had left in a lawsuit he would never win. Gabriela’s nothing if not smart. The case dragged on. We ran out of money. Stephen never recovered. He died a year later.”
Only the dog’s panting punctuated the silence.
“How long was your husband’s association with your sister?” I asked.
“Almost six years,” she said. The words seemed to weigh heavily on her. When she spoke again she cast her gaze at the courtyard, the plants still dripping from the storm. “We had a good life. When we bought this house, we were planning a big remodel.” She cast a long look at the burbling artificial brook beyond the window. “But his legal problems put an end to everything. Somehow, we managed to at least get most of the courtyard done. Stephen loved it. He could sit there for hours. But now he’s gone. I don’t go out there anymore. But enough about me.” She patted her knees and straightened her back “Tell me about Milton. What happened to him?”
I told her.
“He was prepared to divorce Gabriela. That’s why he called you, right?”
“Possibly.”
“Milton is a good man,” Norma said, her voice tinged with sadness or regret. “A man of many flaws, but dishonesty isn’t one of them. I haven’t seen him in some time. But I consider him a friend. I knew my husband helped Gabriela funnel money from Milton’s accounts. That was wrong. I never approved. But Stephen assured me the money would be repaid before anyone noticed. I guess Milton noticed.”
I nodded but remained silent. I wanted to give her the space to talk freely.
“I don’t know how much you know about Milton and my sister. Their marriage was a sham. It wasn’t about love. It was about money—Milton’s money. And I suspect Milton knew it. I’ve never quite understood that kind of arrangement.”
“Your father’s company was facing financial hardship at the time, wasn’t it?”
She nodded. “The company was in trouble. It was right after Nine-Eleven. The real estate market became stagnant. Gabriela, who had taken over the company a few years earlier, had aggressively expanded our development portfolio. We had too much unsold inventory. Our father had warned her many times. But she dismissed his concerns. She knew better. She always does. Or think she does. I thank God every day my father never really knew how close to the brink we all came. He built that company from the ground. My mother right alongside him. At one point, we employed over a thousand people. Within a year of Nine-Eleven, most of the original employees were laid off. So many families destroyed. Gabriela had no right to do what she did. She gambled and someone else paid the price. It almost killed our father. But Milton was God-sent. He saved us. It’s probably the only smart move of Gabriela’s entire career. You’d think she would have learned from her lesson. But not my sister. Two years later, thanks to Milton’s cash infusion, the company was on solid footing again, and Gabriela went back to the old ways, expanding her empire. Land was cheap. No one was buying. So she went on a buying frenzy. Tampa, Jacksonville, Atlanta, New York. DC., Charlotte. But she wasn’t done. She went on a building spree. Condos, houses, and office buildings up and down the coast. Then, when the economy was circling the bowl in 2008 and the planet stopped moving, she found herself in another black hole. It was Nine-Eleven all over again. Only this time, instead of getting better, things got worst. It was a terrible time. Banks weren’t lending. Real estate was toxic. Bankers began calling loans. Naturally, Gabriela couldn’t meet loan demands. She was out of cash. So once again my sister went to Milton for help. Only this time Milton, was in no position to agree to anything.”
“Do you believe your sister intends to make Milton whole?”
A sharp look from her. “Why don’t you ask what you really want to ask?”
“What would that be?”
“Do I believe Gabriela would hurt Milton to avoid repaying the money?”
Norma didn’t miss much. “Would she?”
She seemed to consider her answer carefully. “Anything is possible, I suppose. My sister is ruthless and tenacious. But to be honest, I can’t imagine her doing something that d
espicable. But in the same breath, I have to admit, I can’t think of anyone with a better motive, or in a better position, to get rid of Milton than my sister.”
“What about someone with a grudge against her?”
She studied me for a moment. And I studied her. She had to be in her mid-fifties, but as with her sister, that smooth, gleaming skin devoid of aging lines or blemishes, made her look far younger than her years.
“What you want to know is if there’s anyone else, besides me, that hates Gabriela.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Never mind,” she said, cutting me off. “My apologies. I had no right to make you uncomfortable.” She glowered at me. “Truth is, I should despise her. What she did to me, to my husband, is unforgivable. She almost ruined my son’s life. But I don’t hate her. I don’t have time for hate, Mr. Justice. I’d rather not dwell in the past. I’ve moved beyond all that. But, what I can’t do, is forget. She made our lives miserable. I will never forgive her. Even if she returns what she stole from me and gets on her knees and begs, I won’t. As far as I’m concerned, she doesn’t exist.”
Seventeen
As I threaded my way through heavy traffic northbound on I-95, my cell phone trilled. Sammy. I said hello. Sammy bulldozed over the greeting.
“I think I got somethin’, J.J.”
I got off at the Southern Boulevard ramp and headed east. A few minutes later, I entered Sammy Raj’s spartanly furnished offices in West Palm. In the distance, I could hear the muffled thunder of commercial airliners taking off from nearby Palm Beach International Airport.
“What is it?” I said as I slouched into a chair.
Sammy was at his desk, a large L-shaped oak warhorse that had seen its fair share of use. Several piles of hastily organized files of different colors and other various documents covered most of the wood surface.
“Don’t get too excited, chief. It's just a lead,” Sammy said. “It looks promising but for now it’s just a name. Someone with close ties to Milton Lowry and his wife.”
