Trophy Widow

by Michael A. Kahn

  I’d parked my car with a clear line of sight to her late-model Ford Escort, which was in the lot behind the bank. I’d brought a file of pretrial materials to work on while I waited for the bank to close, but I couldn’t concentrate. I wanted to win this case—for my clients, of course, and also because I despised the other side. Although the evidence—at least the relevant evidence—favored my clients, victory can be tricky to define in civil litigation. My clients had paid ten thousand dollars for Big Red. That was a lot of money to them, but chump change to Charlie Blackwell. He was the one with the deep pockets here, and he’d used them to fund Armour’s scorched-earth tactics. As a result, my legal fees would exceed Big Red’s price tag. A true victory meant finding a way to get my clients much more than just a refund.

  But try concentrating on that goal while fighting off ridiculous allegations about homosexual lifestyles and animal husbandry techniques while peering into your rearview mirror for cars that might be tailing you while another client sits in prison for a murder that you’re convinced she didn’t commit but don’t have the evidence to prove it. I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks.

  Employees began emerging from the building shortly after five. Although I’d never seen Milly Eversole, I recognized her the moment she stepped onto the parking lot, shading her eyes from the late-afternoon sunshine. She was a slender woman in her twenties with mousy brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses. Her outfit was bank-teller conservative: white blouse, navy skirt, navy flats. She moved across the lot in a hesitant manner. Pausing at her car door, she scanned the street. I started my car and revved the engine once. Our eyes briefly met, and then she glanced around, as if afraid someone were watching.

  I followed her through town and onto Highway 55, checking the rearview mirror to see if we were being followed. As usual, I had no idea.

  We headed south, took the second exit, drove along country roads, and pulled into a small park overlooking the Mississippi River. Ours were the only two cars in the parking area. I joined her on a wood bench facing the water. Her hands were folded on her lap, her head bowed.

  “Miss Eversole,” I said calmly, “I’m Rachel Gold. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

  She nodded, still looking down at her hands.

  “I represent two women,” I told her. “They own an ostrich ranch. During the time you worked at Blackwell Breeders, they bought a male ostrich. You would have known him as Big Red.”

  She looked up at the sound of the name, and then she turned toward the river with a frown. I tried to gauge her mental state.

  “You remember him?” I asked gently.

  She nodded, still looking toward the river.

  “Did you see any indication that he might have behavioral problems?”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “Was he overly aggressive? Violent?”

  She hesitated, and then shrugged. “Maybe.” She turned to me. “Why?”

  “Let me tell you about the lawsuit.”

  As I did, I could see her interest grow. By the time I finished she was staring at me intently.

  “What did Mr. Blackwell say?” she asked.

  “He refused to refund their money, and then”—I paused—“he sued them.”

  She looked confused. “Why?”

  “He claimed it was their fault.”

  “How?”

  I glanced at the silver cross dangling from her necklace. “My clients are lesbians.”

  She squinted at me from behind her glasses. “I don’t understand.”

  “Charlie Blackwell blames their lifestyle, along with their inexperience in raising ostriches. He claims Big Red was perfectly normal when they took him. I know it sounds ridiculous, Milly, but he claims that at least part of the ostrich’s problems results from exposure to my clients’ sex life.”

  Her cheeks flushed with anger. “He said that?”

  I nodded, heartened by her reaction. “Even worse, he’s suing them for damages. He claims he’s suffering mental anguish over the thought of his ostrich living on their farm.”

  Milly stared at the ground. She was visibly upset, her breathing irregular. Her hands clenched in her lap. I waited.

  She turned to me with a pained look. “He’s a bad man.”

  I nodded. “He is.”

  “So is his lawyer.”

  “Mack Armour?”

  “I hate that man.” There were tears in her eyes. “I hate them both.”

  “How do you know Mack Armour?” I asked, surprised and concerned.

  She looked down at her hands. Her lips were quivering. I waited. A tear trickled down her cheek.

  I reached over and placed my arm around her shoulder. “It’s okay, Milly,” I whispered, pulling her closer to me. “It’s okay.”

  ***

  Benny held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, okay, for chrissake. I’ll do it.”

  I grinned and held up my glass. “Welcome aboard the Big Red Express.”

  Our waitress arrived with a fresh round of drinks—a long-neck Bud for Benny, a pint of Schlafly’s pale ale for me.

  On the drive back from Crystal City I’d called Benny from the car. “Got a new client for you, stud.”

  “You got what?”

  “Meet me tonight at eight-thirty at Blueberry Hill. I’ll fill you in over dinner.”

  “You got what?”

  “Don’t be late, big guy.”

  “Whoa! You got what?”

  “You’re breaking up. Reception’s bad. Talk to you later.”

  “You got—”

  I took a bite of my hamburger and washed it down with a sip of ale.

  “Here’s her phone number.” I slid the piece of paper across the table. Leaning back in the booth, I stretched, trying to work out the stiffness from all the driving. “I told her you’d call her tomorrow morning.”

  Benny frowned at the slip of paper. “Okay, I’m willing to represent Milly at your trial, Rachel, but she’s going to have to understand that I’m supposed to be a professor these days. I can’t take on a lawsuit for her.”

  “I’ll do that part. I just want her to have separate representation at the ostrich trial. Mack the Knife is going to come after her with a machete when she takes the stand. She needs you to protect her in court.”

  Benny popped the rest of his chili dog in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “This gal you found probably has more than just a civil claim here.”

  “I agree”

  “We’re talking criminal, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “And not just against Blackwell.”

  I smiled. “My thought exactly, Professor.”

  “Any idea who’d be best?”

  I nodded. “I think there’s enough for venue in St. Louis County. I went through the list of possibilities on the drive back.”

  “And the winner is?”

  “Martha Hogan.”

  Benny laughed. “Rachel, you are a goddamn genius. If Martha is half as tough as her reputation she’ll tear off his labanzas and nail them to her trophy wall. Do you know her?”

  “I served on a bar committee with her. I’ll tell her to expect a visit from you and Milly.”

  He downed the rest of his beer, flagged the waitress, and ordered another long neck. I asked for a slice of carrot cake and a cup of coffee. After she left, I filled him in on what Jackie had been able to learn about the twenty-three corporations down at the recorder of deeds office.

  “Turns out that each corporation purchased one piece of property—a two- or three-flat—directly from the city of St. Louis. The purchase prices ranged from fifteen to twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  “Sounds like slum property prices,” Benny said.

  “Probably so. All are on the north side of St. Louis. From the co
mputer records, Jacki was able to determine that the city had initially obtained the title to each of the properties through some sort of compulsory process. It wasn’t clear from the information in the index, but I’m guessing condemnations or foreclosures for failure to pay property taxes.”

  “So Michael Green helped create twenty-three new slumlords?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s not clear from the records why it happened, but the city of St. Louis ended up reacquiring the title to each of these properties.”

  Benny frowned. “Huh?”

  “My reaction, too. Jacki did a quick title history on each property. Somehow or other, the city got back each property around eighteen to twenty-four months after the corporation acquired it.”

  “What happened?

  I shrugged. “I’m going to have to go down to the recorder of deeds office myself and try to figure that out.”

  “Did this all happen after Michael Green died?”

  “No. More than half of the transfers occurred while he was alive.”

  Benny leaned back in the booth and shook his head. “The economics of these deals are insane. Each man pays Michael Green twenty-five grand in fees to set up a corporation to buy a slum property from the city for another fifteen to twenty-five grand. When the city takes back the property, each man is out the original twenty-five grand to Michael Green plus the purchase price for the property.”

  “Plus the fifteen thousand for a Sebastian Curry painting,” I added, “assuming that there’s a connection there.”

  “And Green got a piece of that action, too, through what has to be a bogus commission payment to his tax dodge in the Canary Islands.”

  I took a forkful of carrot cake and chewed it in silence.

  Benny frowned. “I’ll tell you who knows exactly what’s going on.”

  “Who?”

  “Those twenty-three men, that’s who.”

  I nodded. “I’m going to confront one tomorrow. See if I can get him to talk.”

  “Which one?”

  “Don Goddard.”

  “Why start with a lawyer? I thought you said he was Mr. Smooth.”

  “That’s his reputation, but he really didn’t seem all that sharp when I met with him. You know the type, Benny—one of those glib guys who thinks that he’s smarter than the rest of us but isn’t. I have to be in Clayton for a breakfast meeting anyway. I thought that afterward I might drop in on Don.”

  “Who are you meeting for breakfast?”

  “Remember that message on Sebastian Curry’s telephone machine from a girl named Gail? She returned my call today. Sebastian’s funeral is tomorrow at ten o’clock. Right after the funeral she leaves town on business. The only time we could meet was for breakfast at eight.” I paused. “Actually, as long as I’m in Clayton I might as well stop in to see Martha Hogan as well.”

  “Hang on, girl. You have a breakfast meeting at eight followed by an encounter with Mr. Smoothie followed by a meeting with Martha Hogan. Aren’t you also supposed to be getting ready for your trial?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Tell me about it. Maggie and Sara are coming in after lunch tomorrow to go over their testimony. I’ll be done with them before dinner. I figure I can have the rest of my case ready by midnight, which ought to leave me just enough time.”

  “For what?”

  “A quick nervous breakdown.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Her name was Gail Harris and she worked in promotions for one of the local FM radio stations—the one with the “classic rock” format. We met for breakfast at the Ritz-Carlton in Clayton. Gail was in her thirties—slightly overweight with high cheekbones, freckles, very curly brown hair, and a cheerful smile. Her first words to me were, “I totally love your hair. Who did your perm?”

  “Mother Nature.”

  “Oh, my God, those big curls. I am so jealous.”

  “You wouldn’t have been back in high school. I hated my hair. I used to sleep with it wrapped around an empty orange juice can and then blow-dry it straight in the morning.” I smiled and touched my hair. “Times change, and they’ll change again.”

  Gail’s outfit had initially struck me as a bit prim for rock radio—dark skirt hemmed at the knee, white blouse, simple gold earrings and matching necklace—but then I remembered that she’d dressed for the funeral.

  The waiter arrived. Gail ordered orange juice and an English muffin, toasted and plain. I ordered coffee, fresh strawberries, and oatmeal.

  Gail told me that she was heading to an industry convention in Las Vegas, where she’d never been before. To prepare, she’d bought a book on gambling tips and had rented the movie Vegas Vacation with Chevy Chase, “which was such a hoot I couldn’t stop laughing—I almost peed in my pants.” She was extra excited because in the movie Chevy Chase had stayed at the Mirage, which is where she was staying.

  The waiter arrived with our breakfasts. After he left, I briefly described my one meeting with Sebastian Curry, mainly to let her know how charming I’d found him.

  “Oh, it’s so sad,” she said, her eyes welling up. “I just adored Sebastian. Everyone did. I can’t imagine who would do this to him. That’s exactly what I told the police.”

  “When did they talk to you?”

  “On Saturday.”

  “Do they have any leads?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How did you and Sebastian become friends?”

  Gail sat back in her chair, chewing on the English muffin as she remembered. “The station did this afternoon drive-time event at King Louie’s about two years ago. Sebastian was a waiter there. You couldn’t miss him—I mean, talk about tall, dark, and handsome. Totally gorgeous. And so sweet—helping us out and all. Afterward, the radio crew was heading over to this bar in Soulard to party and hear some blues. We dragged Sebastian along. I’m telling you, Rachel, by the time the night was over every girl at the bar was ready to take him home. Of course, like every sweet good-looking single guy you meet in this town, he was gay.” She glanced at my left hand. “Right?”

  “Sure seems that way sometimes. So you knew him for about two years?”

  She nodded.

  “Did you know he was also a painter?”

  “Oh, sure. Poor guy wasn’t having much luck. It made you sad because he was so committed to his art.”

  “Did he ever talk to you about his life before you met him?”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Where he grew up, the things he did before he became a waiter?”

  She thought about it. “Not really. He used to say he’d been through some really dark times, but he never talked about them. I remember he once told me his mother was an alcoholic and he never knew who his father was. He said he was raised by his grandmother.”

  “Is she still alive?”

  “No. He said she died of cancer when he was a teenager.” She hesitated. “Why are you so interested in this?”

  “I represent Angela Green.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, wow. The one in jail?”

  I nodded.

  “I like totally respect that woman. I taped that show where Oprah interviewed her in jail.” She paused and frowned. “But what does Sebastian have to do with that?”

  “I think there might be some connection between my client and whoever killed Sebastian Curry.”

  “Really? Oh, God.”

  “I had some questions I wanted to ask him. I actually went over to his loft to talk to him. I was the one who found his body.”

  “Oh, gross. You poor thing. That is so awful.”

  “So I’m trying to find someone he was really close with—maybe a lover or a best friend, someone he might have confided in. Did he have a boyfriend?”

  “He did,
but they broke up about three months ago. His name is Gregory. Gregory Johnson. They were together for maybe a month.” She mulled it over. “They never really seemed all that close, though.”

  “Did he have someone before Gregory?”

  “Yeah.” She paused, trying to remember. “But nothing serious. Nothing that ever lasted more than like a few weeks. Sebastian was one of those bachelor types. He liked to fool around, if you know what I mean. Who could blame him, huh? I mean he was such a total hunk that gay guys were practically throwing themselves at his feet. He never had a real lover during the time I knew him.”

  “How about a best friend?”

  She gave me a sad shrug. “That was probably me, and we weren’t all that close.”

  “Who else might he have confided in?”

  “The best bet would be Reverend Wells.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “His pastor. The one surprising thing about Sebastian was how totally religious he became the last year or so. He went to church every Sunday and always had his Bible handy. He really admired Reverend Wells. Those are the only times he’d ever mention his dark times. He’d tell me that Reverend Wells was helping save his soul. I never met the man, but I understand he’s doing the funeral today.”

  I did a quick mental review of my calendar. There was no way I could squeeze in the funeral. “I’ll try to talk to him later this week.”

  “He might know something,” Gail said.

  I went over some other names with her—Michael Green, Billy Woodward, Samantha Cummings. She’d never met them and had never heard Sebastian mention them.

  Before we parted I told her how important it was to keep our meeting confidential. “Gail, I don’t know who killed Sebastian or why. All I know is that he was rattled by some of the things I mentioned to him during our meeting. I keep thinking that after our meeting he talked to the wrong person about whatever it was that bothered him, and that person arranged to have him killed.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t want anyone else to make that mistake. Don’t mention our meeting to anyone.”

  Her eyes widened. “I totally won’t.”