Killer, Come Hither

by Louis Begley

  He invited me once again to lunch at his club and greeted me with a big smile saying, Look, Ma! No crutches. He’d walked to the club from the office, he went on to tell me, the hip behaving just fine, and suggested that we climb the two flights of stairs to the dining room and leave the elevator to the geriatric set. In fact, he’d had an idea. After lunch, we’d trot over to the law firm together. His office was on the same floor as Hobson’s, his in the northeastern corner and Hobson’s in the northwestern. We’d have a cup of coffee, and he’d make sure that Hobson was au courant. It would be fun to fire a shot across his bow. Was I game?

  I said that naturally I’d be delighted.

  Excellent, excellent, he returned, and set about writing out our lunch order.

  As soon as he had finished, I laid out the problem. I wanted to see Abner Brown at his office or in whatever other setting Simon considered advisable, and I wanted him to be alone. No lawyers or PR types or other advisers present. What was the best way to avoid a brush-off?

  What’s the purpose of your visit? Simon asked. That’s the first question Brown or whoever you get through to will ask.

  My answer would be that I need to understand what happened to Harry, I replied. I’d go on to say that he had been in excellent health, and had no problems or serious worries of any sort other than the disappointment he must have felt when you, Abner Brown, asked that after all those years of working together he have no further involvement in your or your companies’ affairs. Based on your long knowledge of Harry, was that a sufficient reason for him to hang himself? I also want to know, I’d say to him, whether it is true, as William Hobson claims, that you dismissed Harry because you’d come to the conclusion that he had become demented. There are some other related issues I’d like to discuss. And that’s pretty much all I’d want to tell him on the telephone, I continued, if you think I should call him, or in a letter if you think I should write. I think I need to keep a card or two up my sleeve.

  Such as what? Simon asked.

  For instance, the way Hobson’s acolyte Minot pulled a fast one to get himself appointed preliminary executor—if that’s the correct term—and disregarding the codicil that named me executor, went through Harry’s safe at home and at the bank and rifled through his papers at home and in Sag Harbor, and the way that all of Harry’s personal papers at the firm have disappeared, shredded. I’d like to ask Brown whether that was done at his behest and, if it was, for what reason.

  I wasn’t aware of this—I don’t know what else to call it—hanky-panky, Simon said very slowly. And what is being done about the administration of Harry’s estate? Is Minot handling it? Presumably he had Harry’s will in the firm bank vault.

  After I explained that it was Moses Cohen, Simon told me that I had done the right thing. Minot’s conduct struck him as unprofessional. Then, after a pause, he said, Let’s eat our salad. I’m deeply upset by this story, not only on your and Harry’s account but also because it reflects so badly on the law firm where I have spent my entire professional life and to which I’m devoted. As you can imagine, I’m not going to pretend that this hasn’t happened or that I don’t know about it. Now do eat your lunch.

  We ate in gloomy silence.

  When we finished, Simon said, Your plan is good. I don’t think I can improve it. When we get to the office, I’ll give you Abner Brown’s direct office number. Access to it is strictly restricted by his people, and I’ve only had it since the time he made his successful push to buy a seat on the museum’s board of directors. The chairman and I were deputized to negotiate with him, and we did squeeze out the largest sum any donor has contributed in the museum’s history. Were we right to take his money if it meant putting his name on a wing and his person on our board? Neither the chairman nor I is completely sure of that. Anyway, your call will certainly be answered, possibly by him personally. Or if not by him then by someone who will get the message to him right away. If it’s one of his assistants, stick to the line that you are Harry Dana’s nephew and need urgently to speak to him. The reason? Your reasons are of a nature that you do not feel free to discuss with anyone other than Mr. Brown himself.

  Simon’s plan to have my visit to his office at the firm be the first skirmish in the war with Will Hobson miscarried. The enemy was in Texas, expected to return the next day.

  At least we know that, said Simon. Don’t call Brown before Hobson has cleared out of Houston. I’m going to learn more about the sordid behavior you’ve described and take appropriate action. Here is the magic telephone number. You’ve got my home and cell numbers?

  I nodded.

  All right. Good luck to you, and let’s keep each other posted.

  —

  On my way home from Simon’s office I stopped at a Third Avenue RadioShack with the intention of buying a burner to use when I made my call to Abner Brown’s office. As I waited for a salesman to help me, I decided against the purchase. There was a greater chance, it seemed to me on reflection, of Brown deciding not to answer if he saw a number and no name when his phone rang than if he saw my name. I would derive no advantage from masking my identity.

  Kerry and I had an early dinner that evening at her place, and got up correspondingly early. She was catching a shuttle for Boston. I remained in the apartment, put away the breakfast dishes, and made the bed. Eight o’clock in New York City. Seven in Houston. I’d read somewhere that Brown was one of those five-in-the-morning-at-the-office freaks. If the report was true, it wasn’t impossible that he was there alone, and would handle his own calls. Unless, of course, he didn’t answer and let the caller leave a message. I dialed the number, using my regular cell phone. There was a longer than usual pause, and then two, three, four rings and I heard a man’s voice say: Brown here. What the hell do you want? He spoke with an ever so slight Texas accent that I was ready to bet a thousand dollars was affected. The son of a bitch had been to Groton, Princeton, and the Harvard Business School. The family ranch was adjacent to the King Ranch, and I was willing to believe that he’d spent parts of summer vacations there, playing cowboy. But the family also had a spread in Maine. It would be a miracle if whatever Southern intonation he had when he moved on from grade school had not disappeared, only to be replaced with this phony lilt that went with his lizard-skin boots and whatever other rich Texan oilman and rancher paraphernalia he sported.

  I want to see you about my uncle Harry, I answered.

  What the fuck for? was the retort. He’s dead. No use beating a dead horse.

  Why he died, and how, aren’t dead issues. I have questions about them that only you can answer, and I need to have them answered.

  Then write me a letter.

  No, I replied, there are things you know and things I know that can only be discussed face-to-face. I’m ready to come to Houston, and I don’t need more than two hours of your time. And I want to see you alone.

  Give me your number, he said. My secretary will call you and give you the date.

  With that he hung up.

  This is the soft-landing brush-off, I said to myself. Don’t call me, my secretary will call you. I’ll never hear from the bastard and will have to think of some other way to blast my way in. Perhaps Simon will have an idea. But I was wrong. At nine-fifteen my cell phone rang. Brown Enterprises. Aha! His secretary came in at eight. Accent like pecan pie.

  Captain Dana? she inquired, simpering.

  Speaking.

  This is Mr. Abner Brown’s assistant Eileen, Captain. Mr. Brown will be glad to receive you next Wednesday at two p.m. at his office in the Brown Tower. Do you have the address? If you let me have your email, I’ll send it to you together with all other directions.

  I thanked her and gave her my email address, whereupon she asked whether I would like to send her my flight information, in which case it would be a pleasure to have me picked up at the airport. She’d also be glad to make the hotel reservation.

  You’re too kind, I said, thinking that perhaps it was better to keep my
itinerary to myself even though Brown Enterprises surely had ways to get at that sort of information. That won’t be necessary. I don’t know how long I’ll stay, and I’m pretty good at dealing with Mr. Hertz and Mr. Avis.

  All right, she replied, it would have been a pleasure, Captain, I’m sure. If you change your mind, just let me know. May I add one word for myself? I’m so very sorry, everybody here at Brown is so sorry about your uncle Mr. Dana. Such a lovely gentleman!

  —

  That gave me a week to take an important precaution. Stuff happens. It was fair to assume that from the moment I left Abner Brown’s office no company in full possession of the facts would write a policy on my life. It was my duty, therefore, to make sure that, if the Voice or another Brown minion got me before I got them, the Rosetta stone to Brown’s misdeeds must find its way into Kerry’s and Scott’s hands. How much Simon Lathrop should be told, and when, seemed to me to be separate issues that could be dealt with later. I didn’t think the Rosetta stone should remain in the safe at my apartment. Presumably Jeanette wouldn’t stand on legalistic ceremony with Kerry, and would allow her access to the safe if something happened to me without waiting for her to qualify as my executor—the memory of Minot’s maneuvers was fresh in my mind—but there was no telling what other factors could block that simple solution, such as the police sealing the apartment. Perhaps that wasn’t something that was likely to happen. I didn’t know, and didn’t want to take the time to find out. The best solution that occurred to me was to rent a safe-deposit box at the Madison and Eightieth branch of my bank, with Kerry, Scott, and me having access to it, and place Harry’s sheets in it. I decided against making copies. Where would I hide them, and for what purpose?

  Scott was coming to the city on Thursday night, staying with his mother. I would invite him and Kerry to lunch at the apartment on Friday, and we’d go over to the bank afterward so they could sign in as persons with access to the box. Would I tell them the nature of the document we were putting in the box? My inclination was not to do so. They would realize that by pursuing my plan I would put my life in danger and—Kerry especially—would try hard to talk me out of it, arguing that if the Rosetta stone worked we should immediately proceed against Brown as the principal villain without taking grave and unnecessary risks. I recognized the force of that line of reasoning but so far as I was concerned it broke down when it came to the Voice. Whatever we had on Brown might well be sufficient, after lengthy trials and appeals, to send him up the river, but would it, even in combination with the iPhone and Harry’s letter, identify and get the Voice? The risk that it wouldn’t was big, and it was the one risk I would not take. On the other hand, Kerry and Scott were too intelligent and too concerned about me to agree to become joint custodians of a document without knowing its nature. I decided on a compromise. I’d tell them I thought I had found Harry’s indictment of Brown and his business and that I wanted their solemn promise not to read it or remove it from the bank except with my permission or if something happened that took me out of the picture. Until the last moment I wasn’t sure that they’d agree. In the end they did, and I was left feeling relatively comfortable that they’d keep their word.

  To go back to that afternoon, however, I found a message from Kerry when I checked my emails. Her meeting was on the right track. She thought she’d catch the seven o’clock shuttle back. Could we have a dinner plus a sleepover? A wave of such happiness overcame me that I let out a whoop.

  Come directly to Fifth Avenue, I answered. Dinner and even better will be waiting.

  Then I called Simon and reported that I had wangled an appointment. He wanted to hear all about it, and I gave him an account with the expletives intact.

  I’d like to be there with you next week, he told me, and not particularly as a fly on the wall. I’d like to be there as Harry’s oldest and closest friend. But it may be best that you speak to him alone. But I haven’t been inactive either. A group of us seniors have met and we’ve come to the conclusion that the circumstances of Harry’s forced retirement from the firm were not in accordance with the firm’s governance or traditions. Hobson had acted against the firm’s interest. We intend to give him an opportunity to present his case. Unless he mounts a surprisingly strong defense he’ll be asked to step down as chairman. Perhaps he’ll be asked to leave the firm. I don’t suppose I need to ask you, Jack, to hold this in strictest confidence—from everyone, including Kerry. The younger partners haven’t been brought in.

  Of course, I said, but I too have a request. Please do nothing until I return from Houston. And please stop your group from doing anything as well. Abner Brown would doubtless learn of any steps taken with regard to Hobson. Perhaps Hobson would tell him, to seek his support. I would really hate it if my visit to Brown were thrown off the track by what was going on at the firm.

  A point well taken, Simon replied. You have my promise.

  That done, I met with Martin the bodyguard at a Starbucks, told him over a latte when Kerry was getting back from Boston, and went on to say that in my opinion she’d be at increased risk beginning next Wednesday.

  I’m going to do something aggressive with regard to the man I think was the employer of the thug who murdered my uncle. I’m going to tell him, I said, that I know my uncle had been murdered, that I have proof of it, and that I have a very clear idea it was he who’d sent the killer. Lastly, I’ll say I’m going to go ahead with all sorts of revelations unless he sends the killer to get rid of me. Sends him to me so I can kill him.

  Gutsy thing to do, Martin replied shaking his head, I’m not sure I’d recommend it, but that’s your call. If you’re right about the employer and the whole setup, the young lady will for sure be in greater danger. I’ll take appropriate precautions. One suggestion: please ask her to stay out of the subway. If she’s going anywhere other than from her apartment to her office and back, please ask her to call this car service.

  He handed me a card. Printed on it was the name Safe and Sound Limousines followed by a cell-phone number.

  This isn’t a car service, Martin continued. It’s my partner, Lee, another retired special agent who will drive her and relieve me as needed. And please ask her to order in, instead of going shopping, and pay in advance by credit card, tip included. That way she can tell the delivery man, unless she knows him, to leave the order outside the door. I know she’ll object, but you can say it’s just for a few days. She does know what you’re up to, doesn’t she? She’ll understand this is good advice.

  —

  There was a small cube of a room off the lobby at the Brown Tower where you passed security before taking the direct elevator to Abner Brown’s office. It reminded me of the room that served the same purpose at our embassy in Kabul. A body scanner booth, shelves divided into pigeonholes for storing equipment such as cell phones you weren’t allowed to take inside, three blond young men indistinguishable from one another in Brown Security overalls who looked as though they’d been to Iraq and made it home. I’d left my cell phone in my overnight bag in a locker at the airport, having foreseen the need to check it before going up to see Brown, and having no desire to have its contents inspected. After the scanner there was an expert pat down. Not for a weapon, because any such thing would have been picked up by the scanner, but—I hadn’t a doubt—for a wire.

  What’s this? one of the trio asked, fishing out of my coat pocket the CD case.

  A CD case with a CD in it, I answered.

  All right, leave it here. You can pick it up on your way out.

  Won’t work, I said, it’s a CD I’m bringing for your boss.

  One of his colleagues took the case from him, removed the CD, and passed it through what I assumed was some sort of explosives detector, said, It’s OK, put the CD back in the box, and shoved it toward me. I replaced it in my pocket.

  Good to go, he said into his walkie-talkie, and pushed a button that opened the elevator door.

  Eileen, even more honey sweet than on the telep
hone, greeted me in the anteroom in which the elevator deposited me, and said Abner would see me right away. Would I like a cup of coffee or another beverage?

  Coffee, I said, if you please, no milk and no sugar.

  All right, she cooed and spoke into a gold-colored receiver, Captain Dana’s here for you, Abner.

  A growling noise replied. She smiled and told me to follow her.

  —

  I’d Googled him and found a variety of images—taken from the sites of the Metropolitan Museum and the hospitals and public library in New York City on the boards of which he sat—and was prepared for the pudgy bland face, the domed bald pate, and the rimless glasses. His small stature surprised me when he rose behind his desk and waved to a chair across from him. He didn’t hold out his hand for me to shake. I sat down and said, Thank you for receiving me.

  A pointless visit, so let’s make it short, he answered.

  I would have liked him to go on in this vein, but he was interrupted by a ping that announced the arrival of Eileen and a waiter carrying a tall glass of iced tea, which he set in front of Brown, and my coffee. I glanced at the door through which they—and previously Eileen and I—had entered, and noticed that it was padded. Probably a good idea, I said to myself, giving Brown’s outbursts and language, and perhaps there were other reasons as well.

  You said you had reasons, Brown continued. Let’s hear them.

  I recited the speech I’d rehearsed for Simon Lathrop.

  You’re wasting my time, Brown replied. I don’t know why the fuck Harry Dana hanged himself. It’s a stupid-ass idea to ask me. As for me telling Hobson that Harry was demented, that’s pure bullshit.