I supposed that, too, was a wrinkle.
TEN
Benno Barberi’s secretary called just before nine the next morning. I’d been up since five, varnishing wood trim for the third-floor closet and thinking about men dead in the heavy cream. She asked if I could meet with Barberi’s two assis-tants at one o’clock. I said that was convenient. She said fine.
Barberi Holdings, Inc. was headquartered north of Chicago, in a concrete building sunk low, like a bunker, into the rolling close-cut grass alongside the Tri-State Toll Road. The interior was just as hard – concrete walls and a blue quarry tile floor. The receptionist took my name and motioned me to wait on one of the immense, curved white leather sofas. As I sat, my left blazer sleeve grazed the sofa cushion. And stuck. I tugged it free and turned it for a look. A smashed drop of varnish sparkled next to the spot of yellow mustard I’d forgotten to rub off.
I draped my sticky left arm high on the back of the sofa and used my right hand to leaf through a Forbes magazine. The issue featured the 400 wealthiest people on the planet. Their brief biographies were disappointing. None of them had made their fortunes rehabbing architectural oddities.
A young man named Brad came for me after five minutes. He wore a blue suit and had an impeccable haircut. He brought me to a small conference room where another young man, this one named Jason, stood waiting. He also looked to have recently visited Brad’s barber. His blue suit was the identical shade of Brad’s, as was my blazer. But mine, I guessed, was the only one sporting a shiny speck of varnish and the merest blush of yellow mustard.
We sat at the round table and Brad began. ‘We understand Mrs Barberi is interested in the problem we discussed with Mr Barberi the night he died?’
‘She told me her husband took great care to control stress, yet that evening he came home very upset about something. She thinks that triggered his fatal heart attack.’
Jason spoke. ‘Mr Barberi called me at home; I conferenced in Brad. Mr Barberi was worried someone was making a play for equity in the company’s stock.’
‘Isn’t Barberi Holdings a publicly traded company?’ I asked. ‘Can’t anyone buy its stock?’
Jason’s gaze had dropped to the sleeve of my blazer. He’d spotted the varnish, or perhaps the mustard. For a second he seemed to struggle to raise his eyes to focus again on my face. ‘How technical do you want me to be?’
‘A short answer will do.’
‘Yes, BH is a publicly held corporation. Anyone can buy its stock. The night Mr Barberi died, he learned that a company he’d never heard of had acquired an insurance policy on his life. He was afraid the insurance payout would be used to acquire BH stock when he died.’
‘And gain control of the company?’
‘Hardly.’ Jason’s eyes had begun to stray again, down to my sleeve, but he stopped them cold and looked back up. ‘It would take many, many such insurance policies for that. Still, it was an agitation, and he wanted us to look into the matter.’
‘Look into what, exactly?’
‘He wanted us to find out who had taken out the policy.’
‘Even though such an individual could do no damage?’
Jason looked at Brad. Brad shook his head. ‘It’s complicated,’ Jason said.
‘You’re thinking I won’t understand business talk?’ I said, too fast. It was the Rivertown chip that occasionally throbs on my shoulder, reacting to two condescending, over-barbered MBAs. I smiled like I was making a little joke, to cover it.
‘Anyone who acquires stock can have a voice at the annual shareholders’ meeting,’ Jason said. ‘Someone who owns a large block can have a louder voice, and that can be disruptive.’
Brad cleared his throat. ‘It’s pointless, now.’
‘Because Mr Barberi is dead?’
Brad nodded.
‘Mrs Barberi will not be pleased if I come back empty-handed, so I’ll ask again: Did you look into the company that took out the policy on Barberi?’
Jason said, ‘As Brad said, it was pointless. Mr Barberi was dead.’
They both stood up. They were concerned about their own futures, not the king. The king was dead; long live the king. And I was an inconsequential interloper with varnish and mustard on his jacket. They walked me to the lobby, went through the charade of telling me to call anytime with more questions, and breezed me out into the sunshine.
Before getting into the Jeep, I took off my blazer to lay it on the back seat to dry. As I opened the door, I happened to look back at the building. Brad, or perhaps it was Jason, was standing in one of the windows at the side of the lobby, watching me.
Or perhaps it was neither, but another well-barbered MBA, taking an innocent look outside. The place must have been lousy with them.
Then again, that was probably just Rivertown talking.
ELEVEN
There were two messages from Wendell on my cell phone. I returned neither. I hadn’t learned enough to dismiss his suspicions outright, or enough to interest any cop.
I called the Bohemian. ‘Arthur Lamm?’
‘No news might be good news, if he’s simply out in the woods, eating insects. Debbie Goring?’
‘No news is irritating news. She hasn’t called.’ Then, ‘How common is it for a company to insure the life of the CEO of another company?’
‘It’s done sometimes when a shareholder makes a big investment in the CEO’s company. The loss of a chief executive can be catastrophic to the investment, hence the insurance policy.’
‘Is the CEO, whose life is being insured, notified when a policy is taken out on him?’
‘Almost certainly, because medical history and perhaps even an actual physical will be required. Plus, CEOs are always in touch with their big shareholders. They need their support at shareholder meetings. Where are you going with this, Vlodek?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Do you want me to call Debbie Goring again?’
‘No. Give me her address. I’ll stop by.’
Debbie Goring lived in Prospect Park, a few miles east of O’Hare airport. Hers was a beige bi-level in an older mix of ranch houses and other bi-levels.
A green Ford Taurus station wagon with its tailgate up was parked in her driveway. A short, squarish, dark-haired woman in blue Levis and a plain black T-shirt was pulling grocery bags out of the back of the car. The T-shirt wasn’t long enough to cover the death’s head skull tattoo on her lower spine. I parked the Jeep in the street and walked up.
‘Debbie Goring?’ I said.
She straightened up, a grocery bag in each arm, and turned around. Most of her was in her early forties, but the skin around her eyes was deeply wrinkled, as though she’d spent sixty years squinting distrustfully at the world.
‘Unless you’re from the Illinois Lottery, bringing a check for a million dollars, she’s not home.’ Her voice was raspy from too many cigarettes.
‘I’m Dek Elstrom,’ I said. ‘I’m not from the lottery.’
‘No shit,’ she said.
‘An associate of mine, Anton Chernek-’
She cut me off. ‘I’ve gotten Chernek’s messages. I’m not interested in talking to any more insurance bastards.’
‘I’m not an insurance bastard.’
‘What then?’
‘A freelance bastard, with questions about your father’s death. Can I help with the bags?’
She hefted the bags closer to her chest and started to walk towards the front door. Tops of four cereal boxes – two Cheerios, two Cinnamon Toast Crunch – protruded out of the brown bags. Oats and sugar seemed a sensible mix; she must have been a sensible woman. ‘Adios,’ she called over her shoulder.
‘I’m serious about investigating your father’s death.’
She stopped and turned around, hugging the bags. ‘For who?’
‘I can’t tell you, but it’s not for an insurance company.’
She lifted her chin. ‘My father was murdered.’