Sex and Death: The Movie: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 6)

by J. J. Henderson

  Why are you crying, girl, she asked herself, wiping the stray tears with the back of her hand as she headed home. Was this about Harry, or was it something else? No, there was nothing else but a little work stress, getting these scenes to play, and that was hardly tear-jerking. She just missed Harry. Suddenly certain, she got out her cell and began to punch in his number. She stopped abruptly, one digit to go, realizing that once it was out there, he’d know, even if she hung up at the sound of his voice, or heard his greeting and chose not to leave a message. He’d have her number. She sighed. She wasn’t ready for that just yet.

  That was her problem with him. With men. She always felt like she’d have to give up a little more than she wanted to give up, to fully commit to a relationship. A little more freedom, a little more autonomy, a little more of what made her Lucy Ripken, solo operator, rather than Lucy Ripken, spouse, partner, girlfriend, wife, whatever. Second-in-command, which is where—never mind her individual dynamic—women almost always ended up. She knew this fundamental fear was the reason, right now, she was walking home to a dog instead of a boyfriend or a husband, but it was so ingrained in her she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, let it go. So Harry would have to wait, just a little longer, if indeed, as Paul had so assuredly surmised, he waited at all.

  Dry-eyed, she climbed her 92 stairs, unlocked her several locks and let herself in, greeted the dog, observed the non-blinking message light on her landline, turned on the computer and let it load up while she made a cup of green tea.

  She had nineteen emails and all were spam. She started reading her most recent screenplay notes, then slammed the computer closed, almost hard enough to break something. She said, “Let’s go, pup,” grabbed the leash and a jacket, and headed out. Half an hour later, sitting on a bench in Battery Park staring out at the Statue of Liberty, she dialed Harry’s landline, not sure if she would get him, the Russian, or the machine.

  “Hi, this is Harry. I’m not here or not answering. Leave a message. If you’re trying to reach Katya Zarkovsky, please call 212-434-5611. She no longer lives here.” So she was gone! “Beep,” he added, drily.

  “Hey Harry guess who. I’m sitting in Battery Park looking out to sea and thinking about you. Thought I’d call. Not sure why but I think I’d like to see you. I heard your marriage was not going so good and I guess your message confirms that. Sorry but that’s the way it goes, as you yourself might say. As for me, well, I’m OK, but I’m calling because I’m in the middle of a project and guess what, there’s a corpse, and I thought you might be interested in, you know, hearing all about it. If you’re in town give me a call, if you’re not in town give me a call anyways. I…love you as always, as I have since Jamaica, Harry. See ya.” She slammed it closed, relieved while regretting every word, especially the L word, then checked the time. “Yo pup, let’s go, I got a meeting.” Claud roused himself from his grassy slumbers, and off they headed up the east bank of the Hudson River.

  An hour later, dressed for success, she walked into a clubby seventeenth-floor office in an anonymous lower midtown Fifth Avenue office tower, and a receptionist steered her to the conference room. She had arrived three minutes past three and everybody was already in the room, two crews seated facing each other across a rectangular conference table about six by fifteen feet. Nobody was smiling, so Lucy kept a straight face as she was introduced, as Screenwriter and Associate Producer Lucy Ripken, to Albert Campbell Wadsworth, father and husband, Rebecca Temple Wadsworth, mother and wife, Bryce Chandler, lead counsel, Rand Allston, associate counsel, and Cecilia Morgan, Chandler’s assistant. The Wadsworths were perfectly well-groomed, tastefully well-dressed, expertly well-preserved, and unmistakably well-monied suburban folk in their fifties. Their attorneys, one fifty, the other thirty, appeared to have arrived by limousine from the same side of uptown, and the assistant looked like a runway model, modeling her laptop. Aside from the assistant, who smelled of available sex, the entire Greenwich crew simply reeked of arrogance, gazing across the richly wooded expanse of the conference table at the trio of downtown scruffniks: shave-headed Paul, Carole looking like Debbie Harry in her prime only younger and better, especially in that tight black t-shirt, and Rob Weiss, Paul’s attorney, a scrawny, rumpled guy with an evident dandruff problem and six rings lined up top to bottom along the edge of his left ear. After nodding or murmuring subdued greetings to everybody, Lucy sat down next to him. And then they were four.

  Lucy was a woman who liked her drama with a dose of cruel comedy on occasion, and right at that moment, as she pulled her chair up to the table, even though she knew she was a heartless bitch for being so cold, she couldn’t wait to see how the Christopher Wadsworth home movie would play to this crowd. His immediate family, mom and dad, lord and lady of the manor. The ones at whom he’d waved, according to Carole.

  A woman seated at the end of the table identified herself as Linda Harris, a neutral paralegal agreed upon by both parties to handle binding arbitration if possible or necessary. “Now that everybody is in attendance I’ll start this meeting with stipulations,” Harris said in a New Jersey nasal squawk, with a look at Lucy. “We are all in agreement that the Wadsworths make their presentation first, followed by Mr. Wittgenstein’s refutation or counter-argument. Taking turns, each side will then present further evidence and/or argument to buttress their position. When both sides agree that everything deemed necessary or allowable as evidence or argument has been presented, I will attempt to come up with a judgment.

  “Counsel for both sides, may I have your attention, please. This document,” she went on, holding up a stapled stack of pages, “States what I just said with myriad elaborations and contingencies, and has been signed off on by both sides. Nothing has changed herein since we worked up the language. Does either party wish to re-open this for discussion?”

  “Nothing here,” said Bryce Chandler. “We’d like to proceed.”

  “Agreed,” said Rob Weiss. “Let’s rock n’ roll.” Bryce Chandler visibly winced at Weiss’s choice of words.

  “It is our position,” Chandler began, “That we have agreed to this arbitration as a means of avoiding what will be, for Mr. Wittgenstein, a long and financially distressing legal battle which we are absolutely certain he will regret undertaking, at the end of the day, for his position is simply untenable. The facts are fairly straightforward. The recently deceased Mr. Christopher Wadsworth possessed—according to his own most recent bank statement and all relevant bank records—in a checking account, bank account number 115783-002, Avenue of the Americas branch of the Downtown Manhattan Bank, the sum of two million, eight hundred twenty six thousand, six hundred seven dollars as recently as November 4th. On November 9th, Mr. Wadsworth visited the bank with Mr. Paul Wittgenstein, and during a brief meeting with the vice president of operations, Miss Wendy Fein, Mr. Wadsworth added Mr. Wittgenstein’s name to the account and ordered new checks to be delivered ASAP, with both of their names on the account records and on the checks. The account was reconfigured to allow either of the gentlemen to write checks without countersignatures from the other party. Miss Fein, who is by mutual consent not in attendance today, previously recalled that Mr. Wittgenstein explained to her that he was making a movie and tired of waiting for Wadsworth to give him the money he needed.

  “This event was followed, just two days later, on November 11th, by Mr. Wadsworth’s tragic death under circumstances which can only be described as suspicious. We use that word not frivolously but in light of the fact that on November 10th, a sum of five hundred thousand dollars was withdrawn from the account. The teller who completed this transaction has moved from New York, and all copies of the withdrawal slip and relevant paperwork have disappeared. Thus we have no way of knowing if, as Mr. Wittgenstein claims, Mr. Wadsworth withdrew the money, or if on the other hand, Mr. Wittgenstein himself withdrew the money.”

  “Mr. Wittgenstein points to the arrest of a man named Mark Kristalli in connection with Christopher Wadsworth’s death, and further clai
ms that Mr. Wadsworth owed this gentleman a large sum of money, to wit, three hundred and twenty thousand dollars. This, according to Mr. Wittgenstein, explains the withdrawal, and Mr. Wadsworth’ tragic death: Christopher Wadsworth needed the money to pay Kristalli for a gambling debt. Kristalli went to collect the money, Wadsworth refused to pay for some reason which nobody can fathom since he theoretically withdrew the money for this purpose, and so Kristalli, in a rage, strangled Wadsworth, then found the money and took it. All of it, including the one hundred eighty thousand dollars above and beyond that which was owed to him—why, one might ask, did Christopher Wadsworth take out all this extra money? Subsequently, Kristalli was arrested and has been charged with murder and robbery, but he claims that he has been framed and that he has no idea where the money is, and furthermore, he claims that,” he paused, and gave Carole the benefit of his long, even, unblinking gaze, “the one person who knows where the money is, is, in fact, Carole Wainwright, whose real name is Carolina Belinskowicz, for she was at Mr. Wadsworth’s house on the night he died.

  “We have no reason to disbelieve the charges of murder that have been filed against Mr. Kristalli, for he is known to be a violent man with a criminal record that includes several arrests for assault. He has also admitted freely that he was at Christopher Wadsworth’s residence on the night Mr. Wadsworth died, though he denies having anything to do with the death. Regardless of that, we do not believe that he has the money. Nor do we believe that Mr. Wadsworth withdrew the money.

  “It is our contention that Mr. Wadsworth had agreed to let Mr. Wittgenstein access this account in good faith. For whatever reasons, Mr. Wadsworth did believe in Mr. Wittgenstein and his movie. But then Wittgenstein immediately abused that good faith by withdrawing half a million dollars which he claimed he was going to use for his so-called film but which in reality he intended to keep for himself, since he has demanding ex-wives and children in private schools and other financial obligations, and has admitted to being chronically short of funds. With the movie failing and his personal life in shambles, Wittgenstein saw an opportunity to grab a large sum of money and did so. When Christopher Wadsworth confronted him about it, Wittgenstein claimed the money was for the movie—but it didn’t make sense to take that much cash out at once, not for a movie. All he had to do was write checks, since he had access to the account. But he wanted cash. Why?

  “Then he instructed his friend who is also presently his employee, the actress Carole Wainwright, also known as Carolina Belinskowicz, to take Mr. Wadsworth out on the town for an evening—they visited several rather sordid establishments, as far as we can tell, at Belinskowicz’s urging—and arranged for him to meet Mark Kristalli, who ended up at Wadsworth’s residence late that night. And there, tragically, in a stoned, drunken rage or stupor Kristalli strangled Wadsworth, which is exactly what Wittgenstein hoped might occur, since he already had enough of Christopher Wadsworth’s money to deal with the various financial problems he was confronting, even if Christopher’s family, upon learning of his untimely death, did the legally correct and entirely appropriate thing and had the remaining funds in the account frozen.

  “That brings us up to date, more or less. We are willing, at this time, to let the conspiracy to commit murder charges which we have considered urging the authorities to file against Mr. Wittgenstein and Ms. Belinskowicz go unfiled, on the condition that Mr. Wittgenstein return the five hundred thousand dollars to the account, which is now under the control of the Wadsworth family, whose members are responsible for the execution of the estate of Christopher Wadsworth, who left no will upon his tragic death at the age of 29 years.

  “We are further willing to forgo any and all other possible legal remedies, civil lawsuits, and such, under the same condition: that the money—five hundred thousand dollars—is returned to the account under control of the family, within 72 hours.” He stopped, then turned to his clients. “Albert? Rebecca? Is there anything else? Anything you’d like to add?” Teary-eyed, she shook her head, as did her stoic husband.

  “Would you like to see my movie?” Paul blurted out, seething.

  “What?” said Chandler, perturbed that the boy had spoken out of turn. “What are you talking about?”

  “Be cool, Paul,” Lucy said softly. “This isn’t the time for…”

  “You sit there talking up this…this…this fantasy about what happened, and I thought you might want to know what this is really about. It is all about this film I’ve been making. That’s what Christopher was doing with his money. He was producing my film! Don’t you even care to know what it is…”

  “Young man,” Chandler said, “This is not the time or place to be…promoting your…little project. No doubt you’ve…”

  “Please, Mr. Wittgenstein,” Harris said. “Mr. Chandler is right. This is not the appropriate forum to discuss the…validity…of your project.”

  “That’s fine,” said Rob Weiss, holding Paul’s arm gently. “Paul’s…Mr. Wittgenstein is a committed artist, you have to understand this, and what we are dealing with here is his art, which is his life. There is simply no need to disrespect it,” he said, looking coolly at Bryce Chandler. “However, to get back to the matter at hand: I happen to believe—to know—that Mr. Chandler’s version of where the money is, and how it got there, is, as Mr. Wittgenstein said, a fantasy. I can promise you that it will be very simple to refute what he’s said in all the important details. But first,” he said, “I need a brief private conference with my client.” He stood. “Paul, let’s…”

  “I want Lucy there, too,” Paul said. “And Carole. Everybody.”

  “Mr. Chandler?” said Harris. “Are you willing to let them confer privately?”

  “Five minutes,” said Chandler, glancing at his watch.

  They trooped out into the hall. “What do you want to do, Paul?” Weiss asked him. “Try to finesse this or just throw the video at them?”

  “Hey, did you or did you not already warn them that we had extremely hard evidence?” Paul said.

  “I did. They did not—well, I’m not sure Bryce Chandler was exactly comfortable with it, but the clients said no. They obviously want to play hardball. Frankly I think they’re incapable of conceiving that this whole deal could go any way but theirs. They’re from that side of town. So here’s what I propose,” Weiss said.

  Five minutes later they trooped back into the conference room, and sat.

  “Here is our counter-offer,” said Rob Weiss. “Here and now, in this room, you watch a rough cut of Paul’s film—the one that your son was producing and financing. At the end of this rough cut, if you’re agreed that there really is a film here and it is one worth completing, we request the following: Mr. Wittgenstein estimates that he need two weeks to complete the film, so we ask for that two week time period before any legal action is initiated. At the end of two weeks, Paul, who is acquainted with some of the same people that this Kristalli fellow is associated with, and his team will do everything in their power to track down the missing money, and if they are able to locate it—they agree to an even split—two hundred and fifty thousand will be returned to your account, and the balance will remain with Paul so that he can use it to pay off the personal debts he will incur during the next two weeks as he completes the movie. We feel that this is completely fair, since your son did voluntarily add Paul’s name to the account, with the express intention of financing the completion of this film.

  “The upside, of course, is that your son’s legacy will be realized—he will forever be recognized as the producer of Paul Wittgenstein’s first feature film—and you will receive half of the missing money.”

  “But you’re stealing a quarter of a million dollars that doesn’t belong to you,” Mrs. Wadsworth said, then burst into tears. “That money was Christopher’s. That money is ours! It shouldn’t be used to film some silly little movie about a bunch of old Jews.”

  “What? What did you say?” Paul snapped.

  “She’s just upset,�
� Chandler said. “I’m sure she didn’t…”

  “I heard what she said,” Paul said.

  “So did I,” said Weiss. He looked across the table. “So what’s your response, Mr. Chandler?”

  “Albert?” he said, and waited.

  Wadsworth was looking to his wife for cues. It didn’t take long to get one. “This preposterous “offer” is absurd, and accepting it is absolutely out of the question,” he said. “We can not in good conscience allow our son’s legacy to be bandied about, squandered this way. We do not…”

  “OK, fools,” said Paul. “That’s fine.”

  “What did you say,” Wadsworth snapped. “What did you…”

  “I said OK, fools,” Paul said. After a brief pause he added, “There’s another movie.”

  “What are you talking about?” Wadsworth asked uneasily. Lucy could see him now recalling some distant bit of discussion he’d had with Chandler, somewhere along the way to this moment, and now that bit was coming into focus. Had there been something about a little film?

  The little film was twenty minutes of imagery in digital motion, captured on a disk, a copy of that disk in the hand, at the moment, of Paul Wittgenstein.

  “I’m talking about this,” Paul said, not happily, holding up the disk.

  “What—is that?” Bryce Chandler said.

  “Do you recall, Mr. Chandler,” said Rob Weiss, “a brief discussion we had, wherein I mentioned that we had in our possession evidence relating to this matter? I know you managed to make the bank teller take a long vacation and the deposit slips mysteriously disappear, and you did your little detective work to find out this and that, but you know what, Mr. Chandler, we don’t really give a shit what you’ve got,” he relished spitting out the obscenity. “Because we have this movie, you understand?”