In additional to viatical settlements, ViatiPro offered investment opportunities that included the usual stocks, bonds, mutual funds, REITs, and limited partnerships (whatever the hell they were!), as well as opportunities to invest in a proposed resort out western Maryland way at Deep Creek Lake and in an upscale restaurant in Rockville, just outside of Washington, D.C.
Investment advisers were available to talk with me from 10:00 A.M. to 7:00 P.M. daily, or I could fill out the blanks in their handy online form, click Send, and information would soon be winging my way. No cost, no obligation.
For sure.
I clicked around some more and located a picture of C. Alexander Steele, founder and CEO of ViatiPro. Steele smiled out from the screen with the teeth, hairdo, and guileless blue eyes of a television evangelist. He wore a blue suit, white shirt, and red tie, and looked so patriotic, I felt like saluting.
With my mouse, I circled my pointer around the CEO's face. "C. Alexander Steele," I said to his computerized image. "Look out, because I've got your number."
I picked up my cell phone and dialed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"Hannah, you are out of your ever-loving mind!"
By that remark, I guessed my husband wasn't exactly giving a stamp of approval to my plan.
"She's your daughter, George. Can't you talk some sense into her?"
We were sitting in my father's spacious kitchen around a table strewn with the remains of an excellent five-course Chinese carry-out dinner.
Daddy polished off a dumpling. "I don't know, Paul. It sounds like fun."
"Fun?" Paul jabbed his chopsticks into a container of mushi pork, where they stood up straight and quivered. "It's plain crazy."
Daddy grinned. "I agree with Hannah. I think we need to see what this guy Steele's game is."
Paul's face wore that troubled expression where his eyebrows nearly met. "You really think he's snuffing people for the insurance money?"
"I think somebody is," I said. "Besides," I added. "It's too late. I've already called for an appointment. I'm on at ViatiPro for three-thirty tomorrow afternoon, so if you won't play along…" I pointed to Paul. "… then eenie-meenie-miney-moe, I choose you!" My finger stopped, pointing to my father.
Daddy rotated his shoulders and stretched his neck, preening like a peacock. "Who shall I be, then? A Texas oilman? A wealthy industrialist? The owner of a small, but successful, chain of jewelry stores?" His eyes sparkled. Daddy was just getting warmed up.
"Just come as you are," I suggested with a smile.
"Under what name?"
"Lord, give me strength!" Paul lifted his eyes heavenward. "They're using aliases, now!"
"I always fancied being a Herbert," Daddy mused. "Or a Jerome."
"Cool your jets, Daddy. They have databases these days. They can look you up and know everything about you by close of business today, including your shoe size and brand of deodorant. Sorry, you're just plain old Captain George D. Alexander, U.S. Navy, Retired."
"Cuthbert?" Daddy raised an eyebrow hopefully.
"Behave yourself!" I picked a stray curried rice noodle off his shirt. "If you want to be creative-" I paused to think. "You know that string tie you brought home from Arizona?"
"The one with the silver dollar?"
Paul's eyes widened. "There's more than one?"
I ignored him. "That's the one. Wear that."
Daddy pinched my cheek. "Sho nuff, sweet thang.
I hardly recognized the dashing elder statesman who came to pick me up on Wednesday afternoon. Since retirement, Daddy had taken to favoring chinos and loose pullover sweaters. If he wore shoes at all, they'd be Docksiders or sandals.
This time, though, he'd spent some time cultivating his look. My "date" wore black leather, panel toe low-rise boots, and a light blue shirt with his dark gray, Sunday-go-to-meeting suit. The string tie had been an inspiration, adding a certain je ne sais quoi to his ensemble. His curly gray hair was freshly washed, and with the help, I suspect, of a little gel, combed straight back. If Neelie Gibbs could see Daddy now, she'd forget all that nonsense about separate hotel rooms and jump his bones for sure.
"How do I look?" he asked me.
"I'm speechless."
"Is that good or bad?"
I kissed his cheek. "It's good. Very good."
Daddy spread his arms wide. "I thought I'd hint at old Texas money gone East." He winked. "That's why I left the Stetson at home."
"Thank goodness for small favors."
"Wanna know something, sweetheart?" He grinned. "I haven't had so much fun since I played Bunthorne in high school."
I stopped to think. "Bunthorne?"
"You remember. The effete poet in Gilbert and Sullivan's operetta Patience."
"Oh, right! The Oscar Wilde character." I had to chuckle, picturing my father wearing a velvet smock and a floppy beret and carrying, as Bunthorne did, a limp lily. I hoped this role wouldn't prove more demanding; at least he wouldn't be required to sing.
"So." Daddy took me by the shoulders and held me at arm's length. "What are you supposed to be?"
“Trophy wife," I said.
Indeed, I looked like I'd walked straight out of Talbot's red door, in a beige linen suit with matching hose and high-heeled sandals I'd recently bought for a wedding. I'd accessorized with a Hermes scarf and a bit of gold jewelry, but the piece de resistance was the ring, a two carat cubic zirconium Paul'd once given me as a joke. I'd dug the CZ out of my jewelry box and slipped it on my right hand, hoping Steele wouldn't get close enough to notice that my diamond had come from JC Penney rather than Bailey, Banks and Biddle.
"I like your hair," Daddy said.
"Thanks." My bangs had grown too long, so I'd tamed them by sweeping them to one side and clipping them in place with a rhinestone-encrusted gold butterfly.
Daddy licked an index finger and pressed it into my shoulder. "Ssssssst," he teased. "Hot stuff."
I slapped his hand. "Save it for your other girlfriends," I teased.
As we sped down Route 50 toward the Washington beltway, I switched the car radio off and filled my father in. "I'm not exactly sure what we're looking for," I said, "but I've been sticking my nose into this business long enough that I think I'll know it when I see it.
"At first, I thought Jablonsky was the lowest common denominator," I continued. "But now I think he only serves as a middleman. He simply arranges the sale of the policies-presumably to the highest bidder-and takes a percentage of the sale up front."
Daddy eased his Chrysler out into the fast lane to pass a slow-moving truck. "Was it Deep Throat who advised Woodward-or was it Bernstein?-to 'Follow the money?’”
"Well, exactly," I agreed. "Jablonsky's already been paid, so I can't figure out what he'd have to gain by bumping anybody off."
"What's Steele's role, then? He's next in the food chain, right?"
"Yes, and that's where it gets a little murky. In a basic scenario, Steele-or rather, ViatiPro-would buy a policy at a percentage of its face value, hold on to it until the person died, at which point the insurance company would pay Steele, as beneficiary, the full face value of the policy. If the person dies quickly enough, Steele stands to make a handsome profit."
"And, as you say, have a fine motive for murder if the person doesn't oblige by dying on schedule."
"But that's just it," I complained. "Steele doesn't take any chances. He turns right around and sells the policies he's just bought to investors." I poked my father in the arm with my finger. "I.e., you."
"So the only person with a motive for hastening the death of the-what's the word?-viator, would be the person whose name appears as the beneficiary on the policy."
"Yes."