“How about on the business side?”
“My father was hardly involved anymore in the day-to-day operations. He was chairman of the board. I run the business.”
“Any pending litigation against your firm?”
“No, nothing.”
“Any disgruntled employees or former employees?”
“Not in recent years. No one that I can think of.”
“How about investors?” asked Ray. “I understand some of the colony residents once had investment accounts with your firm.”
“That is true. In the 90s we had a division that did portfolio management for small investors. Our opening threshold was a million dollars. A few colony residents had accounts with us. They raved about their investment returns, and a number of other people approached my father asking if they could open accounts with us. Not one of them met our threshold, not even close, but Father created a special category for these people with a minimum investment of a hundred thousand. Back then you couldn’t miss in this business, the market was exploding. All of our clients did well, much better than the Dow. And then the dotcom bubble burst. Everyone took a beating, our clients included. People of means tend to take the long view. They know markets are variable and will come back with time. It was the small investors that came unglued, in our case the very people that my father reached out to help. At that point my father decided that these small accounts produced more aggravation than profit. We guided these customers to other firms, or returned their money if they so directed.”
“And everyone was happy with this arrangement?”
“When people lose money, even if it’s money they made in the run-up, not funds they actually invested in the first place, they’re unhappy. For the born bitchers in the group, providing logical explanations is a waste of time. What you need to know, Sheriff, is my father was no Madoff. The only losses our customers ever experienced were due to normal market fluctuations.”
“Is your company currently experiencing any financial problems?”
“Absolutely not. One thing about my father, Sheriff, was his remarkable sense of timing. While he may have been out of the day-to-day operations, he still provided strategic direction to our investment strategy. We were out of stocks before this last market collapse, and we came back in about the time things bottomed out. So we’ve done extremely well. I’ve been in the business for about twenty years, and we’ve never made this kind of money before. My father poured much of his profits into his foundation. He was committed to doing good works the last part of his life.”
“Is there anyone who would profit by your father’s death?”
“No, well, I would. And I guess my stepmother would.” His face reddened, Ray interpreted this as a flash of anger, but Elliot’s tone was unchanged. “We’re hardly starving. Our lives will not be altered by the inheritance. In point of fact, I could retire now and live comfortably for the rest of my life.”
“How about his personal life? Any romantic relationships that might have soured?”
“Sir, my father has had a long, and by all appearances, successful second marriage.”
Ray noted a second flash of anger. He wondered what was motivating it.
Elliott pulled out his cigarette pack again and fumbled with it. “When will we have my father’s body? We want to start organizing the memorial service.”
“Later in the week. I’ll be able to tell you tomorrow. What are your plans?”
“Jill and I are working on that. We’ll probably do something in Chicago. It’s just too difficult to get flights into Traverse City before Labor Day if you have to come commercial. However, Father would have probably liked something up here. He looked on Gull House as the major accomplishment of his life. His will stipulates that his ashes be spread on the shore.” He paused, withdrawing a cigarette from the pack. “Now, Sheriff, if there is nothing else….”
“I will need to talk to you again in the course of the investigation. Oh, and there is one more thing. Could I get a list of the people who are or were once customers of your firm?”
Elliott’s response was slow in coming. “I don’t know what to tell you, Sheriff. I’ll need to ask our legal people, see if we would be violating any securities or privacy laws. I’ll have to get back to you on that.”
Ray watched him go, Elliott stopping briefly and lighting a cigarette as soon as he dropped off the porch onto the sand trail that led away from the building.
25
Hanna Jeffers was waiting for Ray when he returned home in the late afternoon. His boat was already secured to the roof of her Subaru. “I’ve got all you stuff packed.”
Twenty minutes later they were carrying their boats and gear from a parking lot to the Lake Michigan shore. Ray launched first, Hanna Jeffers following him. Once he got beyond the pilings, the remains of a dock left from the lumbering days, he stopped and waited. As she approached he capsized, hanging upside down in the cool water, looking at the sand bottom, the kayak rocking in the gentle chop. Then he moved to the right side of his boat, pushed the paddle out of the water, swept the blade from the bow toward the stern, and gracefully rolled up. After a few breaths, he capsized again, slowly performing the same maneuver.
Hanna glided next to him, rafting her boat against his, bow to stern, leaning on his deck. “Good hang time. I was wondering if I needed to give you the hand of God.”
“Silence, I wanted complete silence.”
“What’s going on?”
“Too many voices. I’m trying to get through the static.”
“If you want to talk about it, I’m happy to listen.”
“Let’s paddle. I need to burn off some energy. That seems to work better than anything.”
“Where to?”
Ray looked out to the Manitous, and then glanced at his watch.
“I’m willing if you are,” said Hanna, observing his actions.
“We have about three hours of light and maybe an hour of afterglow. We would have to haul ass the whole way.”
“So let’s do a gear check. Radios, navigation lights, tow packs, food, and water.”
“All of the above,” answered Ray. “Tell me about the food.”
“You will approve, but we will have to gobble it down. You checked the weather?”
“It is what you see. A modest chop left over from yesterday. The wind will drop away around sunset. We should be coming back on glass. You lead, you set a faster pace than I do.”
Hanna headed into open water and pointed her bow toward the south end of the island. Ray fell in behind, later moving just off her port side. There was little conversation, just the rhythm of body, blade, boat, and waves. Once they neared the shore of the island, they paddled north until they found a sand beach for landing.
Ray sat on the bluff above the beach and looked across the Manitou Passage in softening light. From Sleeping Bear Point the massive dunes stretched south toward Empire, rising again and slowly leveling as they neared Platte Point. The passage was almost devoid of boat traffic, and the wave height had dropped to less than a foot.
“How about some smoked salmon?”
“Sounds promising.”
“On a dark rye with cream cheese and capers.”
“Now you are talking,” said Ray, dropping at her side and accepting the sandwich.
“I know we should be sipping vodka, or at least white wine, but how about some seltzer with a twist of lime.”
“Perfect.”
They ate in silence for many minutes. Finally, Hanna said, “We take this all too much for granted. This view, this amazing water, this tranquility. I have to keep reminding myself of my good fortune in being here rather than at the edge of some killing zone.” She looked over at Ray. “How goes the investigation or are we banning all work-related conversations?”