“Four years ago you got a hostile takeover of Fielding Tool and Die. Castleton bought up a controlling interest in the stock, then liquidated the company, took a tax loss and is using the shell of it for one of his other ventures. Fine on paper. In practice, it put ten thousand employees out of work. That’s just one instance, one of the more recent. If you’re looking for people with a grudge against Milton Castleton, you’d have to rent a football stadium to seat ’em.
“Three years back there was a scandal at Castleton Investments and Securities. Insider trading. Two vice presidents actually indicted. Nothing was proved, and the charges were eventually dropped. Both guys were promptly fired. Frank Heckstein and Alan Carr. Young men in their thirties, aggressive go-getters with a little too much initiative. Still, with the charges dropped, their dismissal has to be a kick in the teeth. I mean, what ever happened to innocent until proven guilty?”
“That doesn’t work with employers. What else?”
“Two years back you got another scandal. Castleton Investments and Securities. A mere matter of a hundred-and-some-odd-grand embezzlement. That time the charges weren’t dropped. The bookkeeper, one Herbert Clay, took the fall and is currently doing five to ten.”
“Anything to that?”
Taylor shook his head. “The guy may be sore, but he’s got no beef coming. He liked to play the ponies, apparently wasn’t too good at it. Typical embezzlement situation. Misappropriation of funds. Hands-on bookkeeper diverts money into his own pocket for gambling-no problem if he wins and can pay it back. Faced with an audit, he plunges, loses, and that’s all she wrote. Anyway the people who would have a beef would be the people who got ripped off, but Castleton made good on it, so that’s that.”
Taylor looked up from his notes. “Now, that’s just scratching the surface. There’s a lot more to get and I’m trying to get it, but I’m telling you, it’s gonna be overwhelming. Castleton was a ruthless businessman. There’s gonna be people he screwed on business deals, people he drove out of business, companies he bought and liquidated like this tool-and-die place, employees he fired and screwed over. A real mess. Anyway, I’m looking into it.
“Castleton retired two years ago, shortly after the embezzlement fiasco. That’s why it’s the last thing I dug up. Anything more recent would be while his son, Stanley Castleton, was in charge. Not that it necessarily makes a difference, but there you are. Anyway, in the last two years there’s been nothing significant enough to hit the papers. But, as I say, we’re still digging.”
Taylor ran his hand over his head. “And that’s just the business side.” He flipped through the notebook. “On the personal side, the guy’s been married four times. Two of the marriages ended in divorce. Two of his wives died.”
“Anything there?”
“Suspicious, you mean?” Taylor shook his head. “One was cancer. The other was a car accident.”
“The car accident sounds promising.”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t. This was over thirty years ago. His third wife. A four-car pileup on the Major Deegan. Three people killed, she was one of them. Now, with a one car-accident you can say, sure, maybe someone tampered with the brakes or something. But a four-car pileup, you gotta figure it’s legit.”
“Yeah, I guess so. What else?”
“The four marriages produced one child. Stanley Castleton, currently running the company. That was with his second wife, Ellen. She’s still alive, by the way, living quite happily on her alimony, thank you very much. She’s ten years younger than Castleton, which makes her sixty-eight.
“The other wife still alive is wife number four.” Taylor grinned. “Betsy Ross, if you can believe that. She’s a lot younger than Castleton. Like forty years. She married him when he was sixty-four, stayed with him for two years and hit him up for a pocketful of change. All of which was spelled out in the prenuptial agreement, by the way. No illusions there. In her case, he didn’t buy, he leased. Anyway, she’s currently residing in California, where she calls herself an actress. She’s not getting any work, but with the terms of her settlement she doesn’t ever have to.
“Aside from the marriages, there were numerous affairs and assignations. All of which, I gather, were to be detailed in the memoirs your client was typing. Whether there’s anything in that, I don’t know.”
“I don’t, either, but it’s an interesting thought. Is that it?”
“That’s it so far. As I said, I’m still digging.”
“All right. What about my client?”
“A big zero. As expected, Kelly Blaine’s not her right name. Not unless she skipped some of the usual things people do, like getting a driver’s license, applying for a social security number or getting born.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, but it’s what we expected. Only hope I see is through the personal contact.”
“Which is happening now?”
Taylor looked at his watch. Shrugged. “Any time now.”
11
Marcie Keller didn’t want to push it. The guy was interested, yeah, but it was a casual interest. Not like he was seriously thinking of picking her up.
Which was strange. Because David Castleton seemed like the playboy type. And if he was, Marcie should have been right up his alley. Blonde, slim, with a fashion model’s face. But in no way cold and distant. Laughing eyes, slightly bored expression-the completely indifferent ploy that usually drove men nuts. Hell, he should have been all over her.
Especially in a place like this. It was a singles bar on Third Avenue. High-class, but definitely a pickup bar. It was early evening and the place was jammed. It would thin out later when people made contacts and wandered off together. But most of them would have a few good drinks first.
David Castleton was on his second. So was Marcie, though she was trying to take it easy. After all, this was business. Marcie had bought the first drink herself. David Castleton had paid for the second.
She’d tailed him here from work, picked him up when he came out of the building on Third Avenue where Castleton Industries held their offices, recognized him from the picture one of Mark Taylor’s men had managed to dig up from the newspaper morgue. Newspaper pictures can be deceiving, but it was a good likeness, and she’d been ninety percent sure it was him. Still, ninety percent wasn’t good enough, and it had been a relief when she’d tailed him to an address on Fifth Avenue, an address that turned out to be that of Milton Castleton’s apartment. Which made it a hundred percent sure thing.
David Castleton had been in there for something over an hour, then come out and walked over to Third Avenue, then down to the bar, which was actually only a few blocks from the office.
They’d been there fifteen to twenty minutes. She’d played it cool, taken it slow. The place had been pretty crowded when they got there, so there was no danger of him spotting her right away, no chance of him seeing she had come in at the same time. David Castleton had pushed his way into the center of the bar and ordered a drink. She’d hung out at the far end and ordered one, too.
She’d waited until he was nearly finished with his drink before making her way down the bar and squeezing in beside him to hold up her empty glass for the bartender. It was the simplest of pickup routines. “Excuse me,” as she jostled his arm, was all she’d had to say.
She’d fed him some bullshit line about being an actress and a model. He’d shown only polite interest. And hadn’t opened up at all about himself. Hadn’t tried to impress her with the Castleton millions. Which would only have been natural for a young stud like him.
Which was annoying. This should have been an easy assignment. Instead it was like pulling teeth.