I called Mike, waking him up.
“Key man policies,” I said. “What are they?”
Mike groaned, but he knew the faster I got an answer, the faster he could go back to sleep.
“Logging on,” he muttered. “Searching … Searching … and … here we go. Okay: a company will sometimes take out a Key man, or Key person policy on a corporate executive when his or her death would cause significant financial strain to the business.”
“Interesting,” I said.
“Yeah, I’m guessing like an Oprah, say, or an Ely Broad. Someone irreplaceable. Going back to sleep now, boss.”
I applied my new knowledge to the contract before me. From what Mike said, corporate beneficiaries usually came into play in situations where huge money was at stake, not the relatively minor unclaimed residuals of a retired rocker name of Zimmy Backus. Why was this clause in there, making TFJ amp; Associates the beneficiary? Why would they exclude Zimmy’s surviving family from participating?
I knew the answer, of course. Greed. They wanted the “filthy lucre” for themselves, to borrow a phrase from Dr. Watson. I moved to the phone. Time to check in on Buster’s widow, Beulah. It took about eight rings before a paper-thin voice quavered hello. I introduced myself.
“Who?” she said.
“Tenzing, Mrs. Redman. Tenzing Norbu. I’m a friend of Zimmy Backus.”
“Louder, dear,” she said.
This might take a while.
I raised my voice and upped my enunciation, and soon we were getting along famously. Beulah may have been hard of hearing, but her humor was sharp and her mind lucid.
“Yes, young man. Buster signed the contract. He was a trusting man, my husband. Me, I thought Mr. Florio was slippery as sin. Any man takes that much time with his clothes, got to be compensating for something. Plus, he had a short upper lip. My daddy was a salesman. He taught me, never trust a man with a short upper lip.”
I couldn’t help it. I pressed my fingertip against my upper lip, measuring. It seemed okay. Trouble is, I had no idea what constituted short.
“Do you know the total amount of the royalties Mr. Florio was hoping to recover for your husband?”
“Let’s see. I believe it was somewhere around two hundred thousand dollars. Or so he claimed. Seemed high to me.”
I did a quick calculation.
“So, after Mr. Florio’s cut, Buster would have ended up with maybe a hundred and thirty?”
“If you say so. And Lord knows, we could have used it. We were having some money troubles. Buster thought Mr. Florio had been sent straight from heaven. I was thinking he was more likely from that other place, the one full of brimstone.” Beulah sighed. “Anyway, thank Jesus we got the insurance money. At least now I’m getting by.”
I was pleasantly surprised. “Florio paid out on the life insurance policy?”
“Mr. Florio? Come again?”
I gave her a quick explanation of the Key man clause.
She said, “I don’t know anything about that. I’m talking about the policy Buster had. Fifty thousand dollars. We’ve been paying on it for years. How much was the other one for?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I plan to find out.” I chose my next words with care. “Mrs. Redman, I understand you had your … suspicions about Buster’s death.” I needn’t have worried. Beulah was all too happy to let loose a fresh diatribe, well-rehearsed, against the ageism, racism, and flat stupidity of the medical establishment when it came to the death of an old black man.
“He was doing fine. Then he wilted almost overnight, like a daisy in an empty glass. He was fine, and then he was gone. What’s natural about that, I ask you? I’m sorry. I have to go. I’m getting all worked up.” And she hung up.
I jotted down a recap of our conversation. I mulled over Beulah’s suspicions, which led me back to Barbara’s. I called Mike.
He answered with the forced alertness of a man who’s still dead asleep.
“Where are you with Maxey?” I said.
“What? No good-morning?”
“Good morning,” I said. “Where are you with Maxey?”
“Jesus, Ten. Who died and made you captain of the go-getter’s club?”
I waited. Heard Mike pop a can of caffeine. Got my pen ready.
“So. She’s a strange one. It’s like she fell off the face of the earth for ten years while she was in the cult. I did hunt down a couple of mug shots before she found God, while she was still with Zimmy B. They got busted for possession. Neither did any time for it, though. Things were a little looser then.”
“Find out anything about the cult?”
“Does Humpty Dumpty have balance issues?”
“Who?”
He chuckled. “Brush up on your nursery rhymes, Ten.”
“Oh. Okay.” With an ex-patriot alcoholic for a mother, and a Tibetan monk for a father, my upbringing was pretty lean on traditional bedtime verse. Maybe having Bill’s twins in my life would help fill in the gaps.
“So, the cult’s called Children of Paradise. No relation to the movie. Forty members, give or take. Their slogan is ‘God Will Provide.’ Inventive, no?”
“Okay, so originality is not their strong suit. What else?”
“What else is, they’re camped on land out in the boonies, past Lancaster. They’re like those uncontacted tribes, living in a collection of yurts on a buttload of undeveloped acreage. Which they own, by the way. Jointly. I checked. Forty-two members. Every one of them is on the deed.”
Forty-two, minus one.
“Google Earth doesn’t work up there, but I found a picture of the place in an old Sacramento Bee article. I’ll send you the link. Sorry, I mean, I’ll print it out and fax a copy to you. Or should I use pony express?”
“I’m working on the new computer, Mike. First I have to earn some money.”
“I hear you. So, and this is refreshingly different, Children of Paradise got busted a few years back for stealing electricity from the power lines that connect to a hog farm up the road.”
“God doesn’t provide electricity?”
“Apparently not.”
“Anything else?”
“You’re a greedy little sucker, for a monk. That’s about it for now. I’ll keep looking.”
“Good work, Mike. In the meantime, I need your help with another matter.”
“Ten, I do have an actual job that pays me,” Mike said.
I gave him a moment to remember how he got that job.
“Never mind,” he sighed. “Shoot.”
“Is there any way you can find out how much life insurance money was paid to a company called TFJ and Associates, on behalf of a musician they insured?”
“What’s the musician’s name?”
“I doubt you’ve heard of him. Buster Redman.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Excuse me?”
“Ten, if you’d bothered to join Facebook, you’d know I posted a remix edit of Buster Redman’s ’77 track ‘Tender Is Rough’ just last week. I’ve been sampling the dude for years, along with every other digital deejay I know. He’s like the poor man’s Isaac Hayes, only more badass. So, yes, I will definitely run this down. Which insurance company?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re killing me, man,” he said. “There are like a trillion insurance companies, and most of them are locked up pretty tight. Could be a mother to crack.”
I waited.
“Give me an hour.” Mike sighed. “First I have to break into the Royal Bank of Scotland’s security system. For a metric load of pounds, I might add.”
“In that case, hurry up,” I said. “Bankers are just thieves. I’ve got a killer to catch.”
CHAPTER 10
It was close to dusk when my cell phone buzzed. I was in the garage, polishing the Mustang with an old T-shirt. Tank was hiding underneath the chassis. By now he’d figured out I was on some kind of major sanitizing tear, and he feared for his furry life. Free time was not his friend.