“I was kind of hoping you were free for lunch.”
“Lunch is impossible. I can’t make it,” she answered. She didn’t want to meet him outside the office, and she also wanted some time to get ready for him.
“Or for drinks after work.”
“Thanks, but I’m probably going to be stuck around here until late. Why don’t you come over to the office around three and we can talk then.”
“Fine. I’ll see you then. What’s your address?”
“We’re at Ninety-seven Park Avenue. The twenty-ninth floor.”
“What’s the cross street?”
“Fortieth.”
“See you at three. Bye, now.” And he hung up the phone.
Beth looked at her wristwatch. It wasn’t much past ten. The day was going to be all anticipation and no concentration if she didn’t keep busy. Too much time left for conjecture and assumptions. Why didn’t I just agree to see him for lunch? she berated herself. Because, fundamentally, I’m suspicious of his motives, that’s why. What can I find out from him about the Paramount case? Does he know anything?
She got up from her blue leather swivel chair, went over to her credenza, and unlocked the bottom drawer where she kept her personal possessions. She took out the file on Sloane she’d accumulated and began to review it. Right on top was the insurance printout that had alerted her to Robert Talcourt’s existence.
She also had the printout of a personal financial statement Len had given when he’d used Paramount’s name to buy the sailboat in Guadeloupe. It looked like the local seller down there had taken back a purchase money mortgage for 80 percent of the yacht’s selling price and had then immediately assigned it over to the Royal Bank of Scotland. The bank, however, had preapproved the credit based upon Len’s guaranty. Why had Sloane’s personal guaranty been necessary at all? Paramount’s profitable corporate statement should have been enough. Maybe Frank Epstein could help. She picked up her phone and dialed his intercom number.
“What is it now?” he barked into the intercom.
“Have I caught you at a bad time, Frank?” she asked timidly.
“Oh, sorry, Beth,” he apologized instantly. “I thought it was Estelle again.” His tone improved immediately when he recognized Beth’s voice. Being Max’s stepdaughter helped her get inside the firm’s door, but once there, she had worked long and hard to prove herself. It had not been easy to gain acceptance from the less-privileged eyes that were constantly looking for signs of nepotism.
“The bookkeeper bothering you?”
“Every damn office problem gets dumped in my lap. Being managing partner is eating up all my time. Estelle is afraid to order a paper clip without clearing it with me.”
“Got a second? I need some help.”
“Sure. What’s up?” Frank was always generous with his time. He enjoyed a reputation for accessibility when other attorneys needed advice. In short, a lawyer’s lawyer.
“Suppose an individual wants to buy a boat in the name of a corporation he owns, or at least controls, and the corporation has very substantial assets and a strong financial statement. Why would a bank still insist on a personal guaranty from the individual?”
“Offhand, I can think of a number of reasons. The corporation’s assets may not be liquid enough. It may be cash poor even though it owns a lot of things. Land, for example. It’s not always easy to dispose of. A bank doesn’t want to have to work too hard to collect if there’s a default. It may be hard to foreclose on a boat mortgage if you can’t find the boat.”
“That makes sense.”
“More often, however, the bank may just be concerned that the corporation is acting ultra vires. Buying a boat may not be authorized by its corporate charter or bylaws. The bank wants to be sure it has some individual it can look to in case some minority stockholder or director starts screaming.”
“I see.”
“Other times…,” he said as he warmed up to the subject, “a bank will insist that the loan be made to a corporation because it intends to charge an excessive rate of interest and wants to avoid the usury laws.”
“Right. Because corporations aren’t protected by usury laws.”
“Exactly. Then the bank gets the individual who’s the real party in interest to guarantee the loan so they can indirectly charge him the usurious rate.”
“So they effectively get the individual to waive his protection from usury.”
“You got it. Offshore banks typically do it as a matter of course. Naming the corporation as the borrower is strictly a subterfuge. The individual guarantor is the real party on the hook.”
“Thanks a lot.” She hung up the phone and returned to the file in front of her. Something else in the financial statement had attracted her attention. Paramount Equities was described as a Netherlands Antilles corporation and not as a New York corporation. Possibly just an error. Maybe there was more than one Paramount Equities Corporation, or maybe the New York corporation had simply qualified to do business down in the Netherlands Antilles. If it was a different corporation, who were its owners? Did C. K. Leung own it? This was something that Carmen could start checking out for her this afternoon. She hit the intercom button.
“Yes, Beth,” Carmen answered.
“Could you come in?”
“Beth!” she protested. “It’s lunchtime! You promised.”
“It’ll just take a second,” Beth reassured her.
Carmen’s desk was only eight feet away from Beth’s office. She entered the office with her dark metallic-green trench coat already half on.
“There’s something I want you to do for me.”
“It’s almost twelve and I’m supposed to meet Claudette on the corner. Can’t it wait until I get back?”
“Of course. I want you to speak to Frank Epstein’s secretary and find out the name of the corporate agent he uses for his international searches. Call them up and ask them to make a search for a Paramount Equities Corporation organized down in the Netherlands Antilles. If they find anything, I want copies of the corporate charter, bylaws, and anything else that might be on file.”
“Who do I bill it to?”
“Bill it to Paramount.”
“I thought we closed that file out.”
“We did.”
“Then how can I bill it to them? Estelle will have a heart attack.”
“Bill it to them. I’ll take care of Estelle.”
“What are we doing for Paramount now? I thought they were finished since Mr. Sloane drowned. Did we get a new case from them?”
“On second thought, you’re right. Bill it to me.” (And stop asking so many damn questions.)
“See you after lunch. Do you want the door open or closed?”
“Open, please.”
After Carmen left, Beth made some notes to follow up on and one or two others to speak to Max about when she called him later on. Only during frequent coffee breaks did she allow her thoughts to return to the three p.m. meeting coming up with Bob Talcourt. Resistance leads to persistence. I play league softball with two hundred alpha males and I’m totally relaxed. I work with them in business, I’m fine. Yet when I have the slightest interest in a new guy, it’s a fight to focus on anything else.
She knew this afternoon was going to be more than a business meeting for her, despite what Bob had said over the phone. He was tall, casually assured, smart. He had a strong chin and a cute butt. But first and foremost, he was Sloane’s son.
When Beth completed the affidavits she needed for court the next day, she went to the bathroom and checked her makeup and hair. Then she looked at her watch and straightened up the papers on her desk. She looked at her watch again. It was three thirteen p.m. this time.
“He’s here.” Carmen was finally on the intercom, announcing Bob’s arrival.
“Who’s here?” Beth playing it cool.
“You know…Mr. Talcourt,” she answered, before dropping into a stage whisper. “That’s some tall hombre! Muy hermo
so. Do you want me to bring him in?”
“No, have him wait a minute. I’m finishing up something now….Anyhow, he’s late.”
“Okay. Just say when.”
Fifteen minutes later: “When.”
“Do you want me to bring my book in and take notes?” It was more of a salacious request than a question from her middle-aged legal assistant.
“Carmen! Behave yourself. You’ve got a husband who adores you, and three kids nearly as old as Bob Talcourt.”
“Not for me. For you.”
“Just bring him in, will you.”
“You’re twenty-seven years old,” she admonished Beth. “There’s more to life than this office.”
“Carmen, bring Mr. Talcourt in. Please!” The insistence in her voice got through because the intercom fell quiet and it didn’t take long before Carmen was showing Bob into her office. This time he was wearing a broad smile, jeans, and a tan suede sport jacket with contrasting leather elbow patches over a yellow button-down shirt with a maroon striped tie.
Beth took a few seconds to enjoy the sight before she stood up and walked out from behind her desk to greet him. She looked at him closely, held his smile with her own, and extended her right hand, gripping his hand firmly. As the pause approached pregnant, they broke eye contact. Beth went back behind her desk and sat down in her chair. Bob looked around the office and then sat on the couch across from her desk, crossing his legs casually to reveal the same well-worn pair of leather boots he’d had on up in Providence.
She spoke first. “Can we get you something to drink? Coffee or soda?”
“Your assistant already asked me. I think she’s bringing me in a Coke. By the way…,” he added, “those photographs on your back wall are outstanding. Did you take them?”
“No, my stepfather did. Photography is his hobby.”
“That one with the fog shroud draped over the sailboats in the harbor is pure tranquillity. He’s a good shooter.”
“Thanks. I think so too,” she said, and then continued: “You know, your call surprised me.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t expect to hear from you again.”
“I had to be in New York on real short notice today. I’m up for a job at WKYN and they wanted me to bring in some of my tapes.”
“That’s terrific. Good luck.”
“Thanks, but that’s not why I wanted to see you.”
“What’s up?”
“Remember we were talking about my father’s insurance policy?”
“Sure. You told me you hadn’t made any claim on it.”
“I think maybe I’d like to try.”
“You don’t need a lawyer for that. You just need to send in the policy and a copy of the death certificate.” Then she belatedly recognized the problem. “I see. You don’t have a death certificate.”
“No policy either.”
“I thought you told me you had the policy? How did you know there was one?”
“After you left, I checked what I had found in my father’s condo. It wasn’t a policy, only some premium notices.”
“Proof of death is going to be the big problem. You are going to need an attorney for that.”
“That’s not what the investigator from Metropolitan Life said when he stopped by the day before yesterday.”
“Oh, you already made a claim?” she asked, certain that she had caught him in a lie.
“No.”
“Then how come somebody stopped by?” She was skeptical.
“Come to think of it, I don’t know. Somehow they knew about my father’s accident and wanted to know when I was going to make a claim for the insurance proceeds.”
“Seems a little strange. An insurance company going out of their way to invite a claim.” It would make me suspicious, she thought, watching closely for his reaction.
“I didn’t think much about it at the time. He asked me a lot of questions. Tried to find out what I knew about my father’s death and I told him I didn’t know anything. I really don’t.” It was obvious he saw nothing unusual in the visit.
“What was the man’s name? Did he leave you a card or anything?”
“No, and I didn’t think to ask. Kind of fat with a heavy European accent. I remember he grabbed a powdered sugar doughnut off my desk as he was leaving the studio and managed to get most of it on his charcoal-gray suit.”
“It shouldn’t be hard getting his name from MetLife,” she said, “but you should be careful when unexpected strangers start asking you unexpected questions.”
“I know, I know. The truth is I don’t have the temperament to work my way through this bureaucratic maze. Can you practice law in Rhode Island?” The look she saw him deliver across the desk was an intriguing mixture of little-boy pique and big-boy charm. That’s some interesting combination, she thought.
“Practicing law in Rhode Island isn’t the problem,” she answered. “MetLife has its main offices right here in New York. We can sue them here if we have to.”
“So will you do it for me? You’re the only lawyer I know.”
“Litigation is expensive in New York. It would be cheaper if a Providence firm handled it for you.”
“What does your firm charge?”
“Well, they bill three hundred and sixty-five dollars an hour for my time, but I’m not a partner in the firm. Some senior partners charge over seven hundred.”
“I’d be tapped before I left your office the first day. Is there any way you could take your fee out of the recovery?”
“We don’t generally take cases on a contingency, especially one this small. We’d also need some kind of advance retainer.”
“Well, do I have a case?”
“You’d have to prove the fact of your father’s death, and I’d have to do some research on what’s required. The problem is if we need to go all the way to trial. It’s a big risk for us if we’re handling it on a contingency.”
“And an impossible expense for me if I pay for it on an hourly basis.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, could you check it out with your boss and let me know?”
“Sure, I’ll speak to Clifford about it when I see him tomorrow.”
“Thanks. You know, when we met in Providence, I didn’t want my father’s insurance money. I didn’t know him and figured I didn’t have the right to it.”
“And now?”
“I’ve decided it isn’t a morality issue. If he had nobody besides me, I might as well get the money. Call it compensation for my abandonment. And besides, if I get this job in New York, I can use it to buy myself an apartment.”
“You can’t buy an apartment in New York for three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“I don’t need anything big. And it doesn’t have to be in a fancy neighborhood. Chelsea or Tribeca would be fine.”
“They’re both neat areas, but you’re going to have to look hard to find anything at that price.”
“I’ll worry about it after I get the job. There are a million jocks from out of town all trying for the same gig.”
“Well, I hope you get it.”
“Thanks.”
She smiled, thinking how genuine he seemed. Perfect sitting on a horse or in front of your fireplace. “Well, listen,” she said, looking at her watch, “it’s four fifteen and I have court tomorrow. I’m going to throw you out.”
“I’m sorry. I forgot about the time.”
“It’s just that I have a lot to do. I didn’t mean to sound so abrupt.”
“Don’t be silly. I know you’re busy. But how about a drink later or, even better, how about dinner? I’m staying in the city tonight.”
“No, I’m sorry, really,” she said, her resistance wilting. “And I’m not trying to be coy, but I do have to work late tonight.”
“I’m nothing if not persistent. There’s a new Indian place I want to try. Café Jaipur on Seventy-fourth and Second.”
“I really can’t.” She was weakening. Th
is time her negative response didn’t even convince her.
“Think of it as an attorney-client business dinner. I’ll deduct it as a business expense. When do you figure you’ll be finished here?”
“Probably around eight or eight thirty,” Beth answered, deciding that enough was enough already. It was starting to sound childish. What she really wanted to do was meet this man for dinner. That shouldn’t be so hard for her. It was only a meal.
“Terrific. Suppose I call you here at eight. No commitment, no obligation. If you feel like it, we’ll go out. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said, “I’ll tell you what. Give me a call at seven and I’ll see how I’m doing.”
“Great. Speak to you later.” He got up to leave.
“Hey, before you go, didn’t you say something about finding some papers of your father’s?”
“I left them at the hotel. I’ll bring them to the restaurant.”
“No problem. Here’s my private number,” she said, handing him a business card.
Bob took the card from her and put it in his pocket as he walked out of her office. After he left, Beth started to write, but it was mindless doodling designed to hide the vacant expression on her face. Her conflicting emotions were free to crash headlong into one another, turning the day into a real-life soap opera. What was she doing going out for dinner with Sloane’s son? A rhetorical question if there ever was one. Could he be as innocent as he looked, or was he just a good actor? If Clifford would only let her handle the insurance claim, it would be the perfect opportunity to find out.
Beth couldn’t tell Clifford that the client was Sloane’s son and that the claim involved his life insurance policy. Clifford was not about to let her get involved with an offshoot of the same matter that was probably going to result in a malpractice suit by Leung. She had earned Clifford’s trust and was now about to abuse it big-time by concealing relevant information.
She decided to do some research on insurance law immediately so tomorrow she could sell Clifford on the case. He believed in an hour’s pay for an hour’s work. Contingency litigation had to offer the prospect of a big recovery to justify the risk. Too bad it wasn’t a $1 million policy.
Noble Chase: A Novel Page 8
