Trophy Widow

by Michael A. Kahn

  “Or in his case,” Benny said, “hand over the cash. Sounded like his wife had no idea what he paid, which tells me he didn’t write a check or put it on their credit card.”

  “So where do you go from here?” Ellen asked me.

  I leaned back in my chair and frowned. “I’ve got to find a way to talk to Samantha Cummings. I have an investigator doing a background check on her. He’s coming by tomorrow morning to show me what he’s found. Maybe he’ll have something worth pursuing. I’m also going out to visit Angela again. Tomorrow afternoon. Bring her up to speed on this stuff. Maybe Millennium will ring a bell for her.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  No bells tolled for Angela Green. She knew nothing about Millennium Management Services, had never heard of Sebastian Curry, and had no idea what paintings Samantha Cummings had carried in her gallery.

  We were in the interview room at Chillicothe Correctional Center, and I was bringing Angela up to date on my investigation. I’d driven out there that morning through a steady rain that started falling an hour out of St. Louis and stayed with me the whole way. It was still gray and chilly and gloomy outside, the sky occasionally illuminated by a distant flash of lightning, the rain a steady drum roll on the roof. Inside, it was as cozy as I could make it. I’d brought along a large thermos filled with hot green tea blended with honey and ginseng, two pottery mugs, and a big tin of kamishbroit, which my mother had baked special for Angela. Kamishbroit is a deliciously crunchy Yiddish pastry that’s a cousin to the Italian biscotti—except that my mother’s kamishbroit makes the finest biscotti taste like stale Wonder bread.

  Angela apparently agreed. She was nibbling on her third piece of kamishbroit and sipping her tea as I went through the thick investigative file that Charlie Ross had put together on Samantha Cummings. Most of the stuff was fairly unexceptional—creditor claims against her gallery after it closed down; a speeding violation that a traffic lawyer plea-bargained down to excessive vehicular noise; a garnishment action against her son’s father, Ray Franco, who worked on the minivan line at the Chrysler plant in Fenton.

  The story of Ray and Samantha had briefly occupied the police’s attention after Michael Green’s murder. The two had never married. They’d been living together when she got pregnant, but Ray moved out a few weeks after Trent was born. He married another woman within a year and had since fathered two children with her. Although Samantha eventually got a child-support order against Ray, his poor compliance record filled the court file with garnishments, show cause orders, and the like.

  The police had brought Ray in for questioning during the murder investigation. Oddly enough, he’d briefly been a suspect—odd because Ray seemed to have every financial reason to want Samantha to marry a prosperous man like Green, since maybe she’d finally stop hounding him for child support. In any event, Ray Franco had an airtight alibi. On the night of the murder he’d gone to the Cardinals game with three coworkers from the Chrysler plant. After the game, they’d partied down on Laclede’s Landing until the bars closed and then headed over to a strip club on the east side, where they stayed until five-thirty. They watched the sun rise from the parking lot, drove back across the Mississippi, stopped at a Denny’s in south St. Louis, had a huge breakfast, and then drove to the plant, where they reported for work at seven sharp. In addition to his three pals, each of whom corroborated his story, there were bartenders or waitresses at each stop along the way who remembered the rowdy foursome.

  “Here’s an eerie one,” I said, handing Angela a photocopy of a three-paragraph news clipping from the Post-Dispatch. “This guy committed suicide in front of her town house.”

  “Really? When was this?”

  “About six months after your trial.” I pointed to the top of the page, which showed the date of the article. “The guy’s name was Billy Woodward. He was thirty-three.”

  “A pay phone?” she said when she finished the article. “Was he actually talking to someone when he shot himself?”

  “That’s a really eerie part. Charlie copied the police file. The pay phone across the street was off the hook when the police arrived. The phone company records showed that he was talking to Samantha just before he shot himself.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Samantha confirmed it. Here’s a photocopy of his suicide note.”

  I handed it to her. It read:

  dear sam:

  no more waiting for woody—sayonara.

  “Woody?”

  “Nickname, I guess,” I said. “His last name was Woodward.”

  “Who was this guy?” Angela asked. “How did she know him?”

  I pulled out the police report and turned it so that both of us could see. “She claimed that Billy was an old boyfriend who’d harassed her on and off for years—both before and after Michael Green’s death. He was kind of a creepy, pathetic character. Served four months on a burglary charge when he was twenty. Prison psychiatrist diagnosed him as manic-depressive and put him on medication. Went to a vocational school to become an electrician but dropped out. Held a variety of odd jobs over the years—shoe salesman, bartender, forklift operator. Even acted in a few porno films when he was younger.”

  Angela made a face. “This was a boyfriend of hers?”

  “A long time ago, she claimed. She hadn’t seen him in years. According to the police report, he spent most of his time lifting weights at a local gym and visiting talent agencies in town. He worshiped Arnold Schwarzenegger. He used to tell people at the gym that someday he’d be an action-hero movie star, too—just like Arnold.” I shook my head. “Not likely. His career was going nowhere. For the last six months of his life he was basically unemployed except for a few short gigs as a fashion model.”

  “A fashion model? Was he that good-looking?”

  “Sort of. The police found a few shots of him at his apartment. The kind you’d use for a portfolio, I guess. Charlie made a copy of one.” I flipped through the folder. “Here it is.” I studied it a moment. “Not bad, I guess. What do you think?”

  Angela took the picture. Her eyes widened and she gasped. “Dear God.”

  “What?”

  “That’s—oh, Lord—that’s him.”

  “Who?”

  “John. That’s my John.”

  “John?” I repeated with a frown. And then I made the connection. “Oh. My. God.”

  ***

  On the drive back to St. Louis from Chillicothe, I tried to organize my own thoughts, having left my poor client’s in a shambles.

  That Angela had never until now made the connection between Billy Woodward and her mysterious John was not surprising. She was in prison by the time he’d committed suicide, and the newspaper account had not included his photograph. She hardly seemed a porno fan, and thus wouldn’t have been likely to see him in one of his films before prison, and certainly not after. At least that part made sense.

  But nothing else about Woodward did. Why had he killed himself on Samantha Cummings’s doorstep? Why had he identified himself to Angela as John? Why had he disappeared on the night of the murder and remained incognito until after Angela entered prison? Where had he gone? And why? Why hadn’t he come forward during her trial? Maybe there was some connection to Michael Green’s murder, but I couldn’t even begin to figure out how to connect those dots—or any others, for that matter. From Millennium Management Services to Sebastian Curry’s twenty-three paintings to the suicide of Billy Woodward, there seemed no logical relationship to anything, yet all seemed somehow connected. Even more puzzling was the fact that all roads—including the money trail—seemed to lead to Samantha Cummings, who was the least logical connection of all. Even if she despised her fiancé—and where was the evidence of that?—she nevertheless had every conceivable financial incentive to keep Michael Green alive long enough to say “I do.” His premarital death was an economic disaster for her.

&
nbsp; In the fading light I drove east on Highway 70 and tried to pinpoint my own role in all of this. I’d been retained to defend Angela in Sam Squared. That particular winding road led back to Samantha Cummings, the mother of the plaintiff in Sam Squared. Eventually, I would have the opportunity to take Samantha’s deposition and get answers to at least some of these questions. But I had several questions for Samantha that would draw a vigorous objection from her lawyer on the ground that they were entirely irrelevant to the claims in the case. I needed to find a way to overcome that objection. Better yet, I needed to find some golden nugget of information that would convince the lawyer to let me talk to her privately. The best place to pan for that gold now seemed to be in the life and death of one Billy Woodward.

  By the time I reached my office, I had the beginnings of a Billy Woodward game plan. I was surprised to see Jacki still there—it was after six o’clock.

  “Rachel, where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you on your cell phone.”

  “The battery’s dead. What’s wrong?”

  “Sheila Trumble has called three times. She’s going crazy.”

  “Why?”

  “The health department is closing down the Oasis Shelter. The last time she called she told me they were boarding it up and making all the women and children leave. Sheila is over there now, helping the women pack up their stuff.”

  “The health department?” I repeated. “I can’t believe this. Nate Turner is behind it. I just know it.”

  Jacki handed me a message slip. “Here’s Sheila’s cell phone number.”

  I dialed it, standing at Jacki’s desk.

  “Sheila?”

  “Oh, Rachel, thank heavens it’s you. I can’t believe this. These poor women. What can we do?”

  “I’m coming right over, Sheila.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I slowed as I approached the Oasis Shelter and carefully weaved my car through the obstacle course of TV news vans double-parked at odd angles along the street. The scene in front of the shelter resembled the aftermath of a highly contained natural disaster, as if a tornado had touched down briefly before leaping clear of the county. All was calm on either side of the pair of two-flats, and all was chaos in between. Jumbled belongings—clothes, toiletries, towels, hair dryers—lay in haphazard piles on the lawn. Small children wandered among the piles, barefoot and in diapers; others cried in their mothers’ arms. Some of the mothers were crying, too. Other women were gathered in small groups—confused, angry, peering around warily. First-floor windows were boarded up. Yellow hazard tape crisscrossed the door fronts. Stapled to the front doors of both two-flats were white cardboard signs reading Condemned by Order of Health Department. Arc lights from the TV news crew illuminated the scene, casting jumpy shadows as reporters moved among the crowd, trailing minicam crews behind them.

  “Rachel!”

  I spotted Sheila Trumble off to the side of the front porch of the two-flat on the right. She was huddled with one of the social workers, Rashita Jordan.

  “What is going on here?” I asked when I reached her.

  “The health department.” Sheila shook her head in frustration. “They kicked everyone out and closed us down. They’ve condemned the buildings.”

  “Why?”

  “Rat infestation.”

  “Rats? You’ve got be kidding.”

  “Rats, my ass,” Rashita grumbled. She was a scowling, heavyset black woman. “Bullshit’s what that is.”

  “Were you here when the health department arrived?” I asked her.

  “Oh, yeah,” Rashita said, nodding her head derisively. “Heard ’em banging around down there, claiming they found nests of rats in the basement, rat droppings all over the place. ‘Dangerous infestation,’ they say. ‘Gots to call in vector control ASAP,’ they say.” She snorted in disgust. “Vector control, my ass. Only evidence they found down there is what they brought in themselves.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “’Cause I know rat droppings, that’s why. ’Cause I grew up with rat droppings. ’Cause I been working at this shelter for going on a year now. ’Cause I been in that basement a dozen times, including just last Wednesday. Unless Mayflower moved in a pack of rats yesterday, only rat droppings down there are the ones those deceitful motherfuckers carried in with them.”

  “When did they start kicking people out?” I asked her.

  “About ninety minutes ago.”

  I checked my watch. “After the courts closed. Of course.”

  “They called me at home,” Sheila said. “I drove down here as quickly as I could, but they’d already boarded the place up. Just look.” She gestured helplessly toward the scene on the front lawn. “These poor women.”

  I shook my head angrily. “Turner.”

  “What?”

  “The great Nate the Great. He’s behind this.”

  She nodded distractedly. “We have to find places for these people tonight. I’ve got Sara calling around to motels, but she’s not having much luck. I can put up a few at my house. Oh, this is terrible.”

  I fished my keys out of my purse and worked the house key off the chain. “Here,” I said, handing the key to Sheila. “This is the key to my house. There are two extra bedrooms, a couch, and a sleeping bag in the basement. I can put up at least six—more if they don’t mind sleeping on the floor. My dog’s in the backyard. He’ll bark, but he’s harmless.”

  I turned to Rashita. She had her arms crossed over her chest and was tapping her foot irately.

  “So you know rats?” I asked her.

  She snorted. “Honey, I grew up with rats. I knew some of them better than my cousins.”

  “Then you’re coming with me.”

  “Where we going?”

  “To find a judge.”

  She glanced at her watch and frowned. “Where you going to find a judge at seven-thirty?”

  “At home. Come on.”

  Sheila walked with us to my car. I started the engine and rolled down the window.

  “I’ll call you on your cell phone when we find a judge,” I told her. “Give us about an hour. See if you can delay things here.”

  ***

  The city judges rotated duty call—a different one each night. That meant that the first thing we had to do was find out which judge was on call. I knew from prior experience that the best place to start was the warrant division of the circuit attorney’s office at the Muny Courts, which is what most attorneys called the Municipal Courts Building on Market Street. The folks in the warrant division would definitely have the name and phone number of tonight’s duty judge, since the principal judicial function after hours was the approval of search warrants and arrest warrants.

  As we approached Muny Courts, I recited three names under my breath like a mantra:

  Grady, Ritter, or Williams—Grady, Ritter, or Williams—Grady, Ritter, or Williams.

  There were twenty-one judges in the Circuit Court of the City of St. Louis, and eighteen of them were men. The other three—Joan Grady, Carolyn Ritter, and LaDonna Williams—were my top picks to hear a motion for emergency relief on behalf of a battered-women’s shelter. Judge Williams was number one on the list. Not only was she black but she had handled domestic abuse cases during her years in the circuit attorney’s office. We needed a sympathetic judge tonight.

  Grady, Ritter, or Williams—Grady, Ritter, or Williams—Grady, Ritter, or Williams.

  ***

  The assistant circuit attorney was fat guy in his thirties with thinning hair and a messy brown mustache speckled with food crumbs. He gave me a dubious look as he tugged at the edge of his disgusting mustache. “A civil case? I don’t know.”

  “What don’t you know?” I asked.

  “These judges”—he paused, shaking his head—“they don’t want to be bothere
d by some civil case that can wait until tomorrow.”

  “That may be true, but this happens to be a civil case that can’t wait until tomorrow.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “That’s what you say. How am I supposed to know that’s really so?”

  “What you know or don’t know about my case is irrelevant.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He thrust his chin forward. “Then how am I supposed to decide whether there’s really an emergency?”

  “You’re not. That decision is mine. I’m the lawyer and it’s my client and I’ve decided that it’s an emergency.”

  He stared at me, his jaws clenched.

  Oh, the marvels of testosterone.

  Finally, I said, “Are you going to give me the name and number?”

  “Are you going to tell me why I should?”

  I nodded. “Sure, I’ll tell you why. But first tell me your name.”

  “Dick.”

  “Dick what?”

  “Dick Carple, lady. Now tell me why.”

  “Sure, Dick. My client is the Oasis Shelter. That’s a shelter for battered women. The health department closed them down tonight—kicked all the women and children out. They’re out on the front yard right now—children milling about in the dark, clothes and teddy bears and personal belongings piled on the ground. Right now. And guess who else is out there right now, Dick? Reporters and camera crews from every television station in town.” I put my hands on the countertop separating us and leaned forward. “You want to know why you should give me the name and the phone number of the duty judge, Dick? Because if you don’t, I am going to go right back over to Oasis Shelter and I’m going to stand on the front lawn, and I’m going to hold a press conference. Once I’m sure all those video cameras are running, I am going to announce that the only reason those poor women and children are stranded out there in the darkness is because of a pompous city attorney named Dick Carple who thinks he’s too important to give me the name of the duty judge. And then, Dick, I will tell them exactly where they can find you. Ten minutes later, all those TV reporters with their minicams are going to descend on you like a pack of wolves and you’re going to get to explain why you think you’re so much more important than a bunch of homeless women and children.”