Death Of A Dream Maker (26 page)

No wonder he was exhausted. T.S. needed a nap just
listening to him. Brody vibrated like a piano wire.

“I'm sorry about Max,” Brody said suddenly. “He was a
good man. I understand you knew him well.”

“Me?” T.S. asked. “Actually, I never met him.”

“Never met him? But I heard you got—”

“Quite so. It's a mystery to me as well.” T.S. leaned
back and scrutinized the executive. He hoped the man could be
trusted. “One day I'll want to take a look at financials, but to be
frank—my head is still swimming from my meeting at Sterling.”

Brody grunted sympathetically. “I know. They never
use one word when five of them will do.”

“I really just wanted to ask you some questions
today. About the Rosenbloom family. And operations here.”

“Worried about the new ownership structure, huh?
Well, I can tell you right now it's going to be a mess.”

T.S. debated whether to tell him that they were
really investigating Max's death. He decided in favor of
discretion. “I don't expect you to compromise your own standing
here by revealing your opinion on some of the other family
members.”

Brody surprised him. “I don't give a tinker's damn
about hiding my opinions of the other family members. They already
know how I feel. In fact, I suspect I'll be shown the other side of
the door any day now. Which is fine with me.” He shrugged. “I'm a
one-man rescue operation. They bring me in when a company is on its
last legs. I breathe life into it, prop it up, give it a second
chance. Usually, the only thanks I ever get is a nice fat bonus and
a pink slip. That's the way it works. That's the way I like it.
Anything else would be boring.”

“In that case,” T.S. said, “what can you tell me
about the Rosenbloom nephews?”

“The nephews? They're worthless. Were. Are. Except
for the niece. The niece is something else.”

“The niece?” Herbert asked. “Karen?”

“Yes. She's a lovely lady and no slouch. She worked
in marketing for a couple years, I understand. We only overlapped
for five months. She left here about six months ago. Don't know
why. Some kind of family dispute. But she knew her stuff. Has an
MBA from Wharton. If anybody was going to take over the family
business, it would have been her. I think Max agreed. He was upset
when she left, but said to let her go. He said he couldn't blame
her.”

“But you don't know why she left?” T.S. asked.

“I can guess. She probably got tired of fighting her
pigheaded brothers when it came to running the company in a prudent
manner. Not that Davy gave a damn about how it was run. He was
always down in Atlantic City gambling or taking a vacation or
wrecking another sports car or taking some woman to Acapulco. His
only contribution to the firm was to spend money like we were the
Federal Reserve. Max let him get away with it. He had a blind spot
about Davy. I can understand. He saw him as a surrogate son, and
I've got kids myself.”

For the first time T.S. noticed the photograph on
Brody's desk. It showed the executive in casual dress, sitting on a
log with a young woman in her late teens who was dressed in a
floral-print smock. She smiled prettily at the camera. The outdoor
setting was obviously a stage set from a photographer's studio. A
young man a few years older than the girl sat on the ground in
front of the log. He was hugging his legs to his chest as if he
were cold. The boy had an odd look in his eyes. He stared at the
photographer suspiciously and his posture was rigid.

“My son and daughter,” Brody explained. “Notice the
absence of a wife. She cleaned me out a long time ago. Lives in
California.”

“Did you like Davy?” T.S. asked.

“Sure, I liked him. Everyone did. You couldn't help
it. He was a piece of work. Funny. Quick. Totally worthless. Used
to crawl around the production floor shooting the girls in the
backside with rubber bands for fun. Had absolutely no sense of
responsibility, so he could afford to devote his energies to making
people laugh. The women especially loved him. He could charm the
warts off a frog. I knew he'd burn fast and burn out. Still, I'm
sorry he was killed. Besides, he wasn't always that way. I
understand he started out promising, brought in a lot of new
accounts. Being charming is the mark of a good salesman. It's just
that he went wrong somewhere. Hard to say why exactly, because I
wasn't here. By the time I met him, he was well on the way to being
worthless. Waste of a good mind, I say.”

“What about his brother, Jake?”

“Jacob?” Brady's mouth became a thin line. He pushed
the plate of pizza away and sat back. “Jake worked hard. I'll give
him that. With Karen gone and his father out of action because of
the stroke, he was going to inherit the business. In practice, if
not on paper. At least that's what he thought. He would never have
succeeded, of course.”

“Why not?” Herbert wanted to know. “Diligence is the
first step toward success.”

“He always has to have things his way,” Brody
explained. “He is incapable of acknowledging that someone else may
have a good—or maybe even better—idea. He seems unable to admit
when he does not know about a subject. In short, his entire ego is
tied up in even the smallest of decisions here. He is also often
rude with the staff. I don't think he could ever command the
loyalty that Max got from them. And he'd need it to keep the firm
together. I understand that Jake is a lot like his father. Angry at
not getting his due. Or, at least, what he perceives to be his
due.”

“Do you know Jake's father at all?” T.S. asked.

Brody shook his head. “No. Abe's stroke was one
reason I was brought in. But he'd been a fixture here as long as
Max.”

“None of this sounds very promising for the company,”
T.S. pointed out.

Brody shrugged. “The insurance is going to help.
There was a pretty hefty key-man policy on Max. Taken out decades
ago, before his age was a factor.”

“How much is hefty?” Herbert wanted to know.

Brody calculated rapidly. “Close to three million, if
you count the violent-death clause that doubled the original
amount. The insurance company just approved the claim not fifteen
minutes ago.”

“Max Rose Fashions will get three million dollars
because Max was murdered?”

“Sure. It will at least ease the cash-flow problem
somewhat. Help replace some of the, ah, missing funds.”

“Missing funds?” T.S. said. “You're talking about the
V.J. Productions incident?”

Brody nodded. “Of course. There is just that one
incident, to the best of my knowledge. I instituted some pretty
tight controls when I came on board. That helped flag the
situation. Of course, I wish I could have prevented it
entirely.”

“Do you know anything more about it?” T.S. asked.

Brody shook his head. “So far, we can tie only Davy
to it. Plus the clerk in Receiving who signed for dummy goods never
received. If you want to talk to him, you'll find him at his local
unemployment office. He's lucky he's not in jail. But Davy coerced
him by threatening to fire him, so I didn't have the heart to
prosecute. Davy authorized the payments to a phony vendor. It
caught up with him when the payments exceeded a one-million ceiling
and the vendor came to my attention. We're still looking into it.
It's taken a month to get this far.”

“What did he do with the money?” T.S. asked.

“Gambled it away, I suspect. We can't find it
anywhere. Neither can the cops.”

“Was the deception discovered before or after Davy's
death?” Herbert asked.

“We suspected something a couple of weeks before but
didn't confront Davy until last week. In fact, he and Max had a
terrific argument about it the day that Max died.”

“Do the police know this?” T.S. asked.

“Certainly. It's a difficult lead to pursue, I would
imagine, since Davy is dead.” Brody hesitated. He was reconsidering
his candor. After all, T.S. Hubbert represented only one of the new
owners. Maybe he should be more circumspect.

“What do you know about Sabrina Rosenbloom?” T.S.
asked quickly, sensing Brody's hesitation.

“Very little. She rarely came around. I don't know
much about her other than that she's a lousy driver. Wrecked her
cars right and left. And that she's a fairly attractive woman.” He
coughed discreetly. “Or, at least she thinks so.”

Translation: Sabrina Rosenbloom had come on to Thomas
Brody. But had he responded?

“You don't find her attractive?” T.S. asked. “I
thought she was extremely pretty,” he added to deflect Brody's
suspicion.

“No. I do not find her attractive at all.”

“Why's that?” Herbert asked.

“She reminds me of my ex-wife.” Brody folded his
hands over his stomach. His face became a placid mask.

“I know this is really out of bounds...” T.S.
began.

“The answer is no,” Brody said.

“No? But I haven't even asked my —”

“You were about to ask me if I thought that Sabrina
Rosenbloom was having an affair with Davy, weren't you?”

“Well, yes. I was,” T.S. admitted. So much for
finesse. “You don't think so?”

“I doubt it very seriously. Not because of any
caution on Sabrina's part. She's unstoppable. But because of Davy.
As irresponsible as he was, and despite the trouble that he caused
for Max—not to mention the money he cost him—Davy loved his uncle.
I don't think he would have betrayed Max in that particular manner.
And don't forget that Davy had his pick of any eligible young woman
in the entire metropolitan New York area. He was handsome,
charming, persuasive, and rich. The bastard.”

“And now dead,” Herbert pointed out. “Those qualities
didn't get him very far.”

“No.” Brody sighed. “I suppose not. But while he
lived he had a hell of a lot more fun than I ever did.” He sat up
straight and tightened his tie. He was ready to get back to work.
“Sure you don't want to go over the financials?” he asked
hopefully. “They're looking pretty good despite everything. I have
a perfect record, you know. In thirty years of rescue operations, I
have never lost a company to Chapter Eleven. Bankruptcy is not in
my vocabulary.”

“No. But thank you anyway,” T.S. said. The men shook
hands and, before Herbert and T.S. were even out the door, Thomas
Brody was back to work.

“Sweet on the niece, Karen,” T.S. remarked as they
made their way back to the lobby.

“Agreed. And he feels the same way about Jake as
everyone else,” Herbert added.

“He didn't say much else that helps us,” T.S. said
ruefully.

“Indeed?” Herbert raised an eyebrow. “I felt an
enormous sense of pride in that man. Thirty years and he has
maintained a spotless record in a cutthroat profession. Perhaps he
wished to maintain it a little while longer.”

T.S. thought it over, nodding. “Three million in cash
does a lot to restore a company's short-term prospects.”

“It does indeed. And perhaps this time around, he was
hoping to stay. Ascend to the top of the company, start his own
family dynasty. With so many owners, and only one of them
interested in hands-on management, it's a possibility.”

“A new family dynasty?” T.S. asked. “As in the son in
the photo on his desk?”

Herbert nodded. “You know, this case makes me glad I
have so few relatives,” he said. “All this talk about sons,
nephews, nieces, wives, in-laws. I believe it's what the Jewish
people call the whole mishpucha.”

“Not bad, Herbert.” T.S. was impressed. “Where'd you
pick that one up?”

“Lillian, of course.”

Of course.

“I never thought I'd say this, but I'm too tired to
eat.” Casey was lounging on Auntie Lil's sofa, idly probing the
cracks between the cushions for lost items. She discovered a hidden
pair of reading glasses, which Auntie Lil retrieved with silent
dignity, a stick of wrapped chewing gum, thirty-six cents in
change, and the latest issue of
True Crimes.
“How can you
read this junk?” Casey asked, settling in to scan the pages
eagerly. Her feet hung off one end of the couch, dangling like
miniature pontoons.

“Make yourself at home, dear,” Auntie Lil said with
only a halfhearted attempt at sarcasm. She knew she had met her
match. “Can I make you a Bloody Mary? You really haven't lived
until you've had one of my Bloody Marys.”

Auntie Lil wasn't kidding. It was spicy enough to
make Casey's overprocessed hair curl. “Not bad,” Casey said,
risking another sip. “It's a little like drinking fire.”

Two Bloody Marys later, both women drifted off into
pleasant naps. They were awakened by the ringing of the telephone
just past nine o'clock.

“Theodore,” Auntie Lil mumbled, fumbling for the
receiver.

“Lillian?” a muted female voice asked.

“Yes? Who is this?” Auntie Lil was instantly
awake.

“It's me,” the voice answered. “Rosalie Benpensata. I
work in accounting at Max Rose Fashions. We used to have coffee
together sometimes.”

Rosalie Benpensata? Auntie Lil thought back. She did
remember a young girl, thin and frightened. But that was a long
time ago  

Oh, yes. She had it. Thirty years ago, Rosalie
Benpensata had been a young girl just out of high school, one who'd
had the misfortune to attract the attention of Abe Rosenbloom. He
had been flirting with her for months, making increasingly bold
suggestions that they go out to lunch or meet for dinner. The girl
had been frightened, not just of Abe but also of his wife, Abby,
and what she might do if she found out. Rosalie had come to Auntie
Lil for advice. Auntie Lil told her to just keep doing her job; she
would take care of the rest. A word to Max was all it took. He'd
spoken to his brother. Abe had hardly looked at the girl after
that.

“I remember you, Rosalie,” Auntie Lil said. “Don't
tell me you still work for Max Rose Fashions?”