Dolled Up for Murder (25 page)

Reporters surged closer, and he paused, letting them get their cameras in place.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I'm Frank Harson, New Hampshire attorney general. I'll make a brief statement, then federal prosecutor Christopher Almonte, standing here beside me, and I will answer your questions. Earlier this morning we issued arrest warrants for Lenny Einsohn and Randall Michaels. The charges include racketeering, securities fraud, investment adviser fraud, mail fraud, wire fraud, money laundering, and perjury, among others. A complete list has been prepared and is being distributed now.” He pointed at the two young men I'd seen working on the sound system. They were making their way down the steps passing out sheets of paper. Ian smiled as he took one. His smile broadened as he read it.

Frank Harson looked into a cable news station's camera for three seconds, his expression earnest and grave. He shifted his gaze without changing his expression to a network camera. One by one, he stared into all the cameras. Even though I knew it was staged to provide each news station with its own content, it didn't feel cynical or manipulative. From everything I'd heard and observed, and confirmed by what Ellis had just told me, Frank Harson was a straight shooter. He was outraged that criminals would victimize citizens while he was the attorney general, and he wanted everyone to know it. I glanced at Ian. He stood with his arms crossed, grinning, enjoying the show.

“Here they are!” someone behind me called.

I swiveled to face the street. Ellis and Griff led Lenny up the steps. Detective Brownley and Officer Meade did the same with Randall. The police officials' expressions were consciously unconscious. Lenny's face was ashen, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief. He looked as if he might faint. Randall looked smaller than he had in my office, maybe because he walked with his rounded shoulders hunched forward and his head bowed. He seemed stunned and mortified and frightened. I glanced at Lenny in time to see Griff's grip on his elbow tighten, not in punishment or fear that he would flee, but in support. Lenny, it seemed, was close to collapse. Randall moved slowly, but he was able to climb the stairs under his own power. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that Ian had started down the steps, his expression menacing.

“Where's the money?” Ian shouted. “Huh, Lenny? Where'd you stash it? Do you know, Randall? Be smart, guys. Trade up and get yourself a plea deal.”

Neither man replied. Neither man reacted, which seemed to heighten Ian's fury.

“You think you can blow me off?” he asked, his hands forming fists. He was closing in on Lenny. “Is that what you think? You're wrong. Dead wrong.”

Ellis's arm shot out, palm up, like a traffic cop signaling a car to stop. “That's close enough,” he said, his words carrying on the soft spring breeze.

“You're going to tell,” Ian said, continuing to close in, ignoring Ellis. “It's just a matter of time. Tell now. Make some news.”

Ellis said something to Griff, then dropped Lenny's arm and stepped in front of Ian, blocking him. Ian stopped short, but from his raised chin and hard-eyed glare, I could tell he wasn't the least bit intimidated. Griff hustled Lenny up the remaining stairs toward the massive iron doors. Just before the two men disappeared from view, Ian leaned around Ellis to shout out his parting shot.

“Alice kept a diary. Did you know that, loser? She kept a journal of all the details of her life. The cops are going to find it, Lenny. Then your goose will be cooked good. Make a deal now, while there's still a chance. Once they find the diary, they won't need you anymore. You too, Randall. The first one of you to talk wins. Be the first, Randall.”

Reporters fired questions at Ian. “What diary?” and “How do you know about a diary?” and “Why hasn't a diary been found up until now?” and then the overlapping shouts made it impossible to distinguish one question from another. Ian didn't reply to any of them.

Randall cast his eyes around looking for someone, Darleen perhaps, and when he didn't see her, his expression changed from fearful to dejected. He scanned the steps one more time, then looked at me—his eyes aimed at my cheeks.

“Where's Darleen?” he mouthed.

I shrugged and shook my head and turned my hands palms up.

“Why is he looking at you like that?” Wes whispered. “Why did he ask you where his wife is?”

“I have no idea, Wes. I agreed to appraise Alice's dolls for them, to give them a benchmark in case the collection is confiscated to repay her victims, that's all.”

“Out of everyone here, it's you he reached out to.”

“Maybe it's because I'm the only civilian here he knows, the only one who isn't out for blood.”

Ian watched the two men with predatory eyes until they disappeared inside. Ellis said something to Ian I couldn't hear. He shook his head, angry and impatient. Ellis said something else, and again Ian shook his head, then turned and ran down the steps. Ellis watched him until he hit the sidewalk, then continued up the steps.

“If I could have your attention,” Harson said into the microphone.

One reporter, a blond woman wearing more makeup than I used in a year, started after Ian, but at Harson's next words, she stopped to listen, then, with one last glance at the fast-receding quarry, resumed her place close to the podium.

“Let me be clear,” Harson said. “We have not offered either man a plea deal, and we don't expect to offer any. Mr. Almonte and I are confident that our cases are strong. In addition, we are actively pursuing several lines of investigation to locate the missing funds. Various governmental agencies are cooperating in this endeavor. We'll take your questions now.”

“What do you know about Alice Michaels's diary?” Wes shouted.

“Earlier this morning, we received a court order authorizing us to freeze Ms. Michaels's assets, including all of her personal possessions,” Harson replied, “pending authorization to seize them. If there's a diary, we'll find it.”

“Will you pick up Ian Landers for questioning about it?” another reporter called out.

“We'll do everything appropriate in our vigorous pursuit of justice for the victims and to protect the interests of the citizens of the state of New Hampshire.”

“What's the role of the federal government in the investigation?” a TV reporter I recognized from a Boston station asked.

Harson stepped aside so Christopher Almonte could answer. “Once Mr. Harson learned that money and mail had been moved across state lines, that changed the nature of the crime. He correctly called us in. The legal principle is simple: You cannot use the United States banking system or the United States Post Office for illegal activities.”

I didn't hear the next question. I was wrestling with a dilemma. Not a dilemma, an unpleasant reality. If I knew Darleen, the minute she heard that a court order freezing Alice's assets had been issued, she'd run, not walk, to my company demanding Alice's dolls back. Given her propensity for running roughshod over anyone who disagreed with her, I could only imagine the snit fit she might throw.

I sidestepped past the reporters and trotted down the steps. I needed to contact my staff before she got her teeth into them.

*   *   *

“Yes,” Cara said, and from that one word, I could tell she was upset. “Darleen Michaels called about half an hour ago. She's canceled the appraisal and is coming to pick everything up. Sasha is packing the dolls now.”

“Tell Sasha to put everything in the safe. Don't give Darleen anything. If she arrives before me, tell her I'll explain why we can't turn the dolls over to her when I get there.”

“Okay,” Cara said, her anxiety at having to endure Darleen's fury apparent.

“I'll be there in about ten minutes.”

Back at my car, I slipped in my earpiece and called Max Bixby, my lawyer. Max was a rock and an ally. Over the years he'd been an unflappable source of strength and a bottomless fount of knowledge.

“Josie!” he said when his assistant put me through. “What's up with my favorite antiques expert?”

“I'm in a quandry.” I explained how I'd just heard the attorney general say they'd received a court order freezing Alice Michaels's assets and personal possessions. “I'm in possession of some of them, and I just found out that the woman who brought them in for appraisal, Alice's daughter-in-law, called and told us to pack everything up. She wants them back, probably so she can hide them from the Feds. What do I do? I'm in a heck of a position, Max.”

“Not really. It's simple. You call the attorney general's office to report you have some objects relevant to their court order. They'll take it from there.”

“Clients will never trust me again.”

“You have a lot of clients trying to hide things from the law, do you?”

“Good point,” I said.

“Do you want me to call the AG on your behalf?”

“Yes, please. Tell them to send someone right away. I don't want Darleen to have any reason to harass us. Once it's a fait accompli, there'll be no point in her raging around my office.”

“Raging around your office? Sounds like a fun time. I'll call you as soon as I speak to someone.”

I thanked him and spent the rest of the drive planning what I would say to her and hoping she wouldn't be too awful.

*   *   *

To my surprise, there was still a strong media presence at Prescott's. I figured they'd all be on the courthouse steps, but I was wrong. I ignored the questions being shouted at me and drove straight to the front door, stepping inside just in time to hear Darleen demanding to see me, her voice strident.

Fred was standing, his eyes signaling frustration.

Gretchen was seated at her desk, but she wasn't working. She was leaning forward, her elbows on her desk and her chin resting on her hands, absorbing every dramatic detail.

Cara was cowering by the warehouse door.

“Oh, there you are!” Darleen said. “Tell him to get me my dolls. Now.”

“I can't,” I said, closing the door, the chimes' soft tinkling serving to highlight her shrill braying.

“Excuse me?” she said, dripping sarcasm.

“I spoke to my lawyer, and he instructed me not to release any of Alice Michaels's possessions.”

“How dare you? This fight is between us and the government. It's none of your business.”

“I wish that were true, Darleen, but it's not. Obeying court orders is everyone's business.”

“Are you working for the cops now?”

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Her tone implied that working for the cops was one step below selling drugs to school kids.

“Are you suggesting that cooperating with law enforcement is something to be ashamed of?” I asked in a level tone.

“I'm suggesting that a businesswoman should focus on keeping her clients happy, not on doing law enforcement's dirty work.”

“Darleen, I think you ought—” I broke off as the door opened and Christopher Almonte stepped inside.

“Ms. Prescott?” he asked, taking in the office with one sweeping glance.

“Yes,” I said.

“I understand you're in possession of some of Alice Michaels's possessions, specifically a doll collection.”

“That's correct,” I said. I turned to Darleen and smiled, allowing myself that guilty pleasure. “Darleen, this is Federal Prosecutor Almonte. Mr. Almonte, this is Alice Michaels's daughter-in-law, Darleen Michaels. She was just trying to get me to release the objects to her.”

“Really … then my timing is good.” He handed me a court order, then turned to her. “Seems like you and I should have a talk, Ms. Michaels.”

Darleen stormed out. She didn't say a word, but if looks could kill, Christopher Almonte would be very sick, and I'd be dead as a doornail.

I called Max, and he asked me to fax the court order to him for review. While we waited for his callback, I asked if anybody wanted some lemonade.

“There's Cara's gingersnaps, too,” Gretchen said, heading for the minifridge.

We'd barely poured the lemonade before Max called back.

“Give the man what he wants. Get him to sign a detailed receipt. Also, the AG asked me to ask you if you'd consult for them and appraise Alice's household goods.”

“Of course,” I said, flattered to be asked.

“I'll take care of the paperwork. We want to be certain your liability is limited. We can finalize everything tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Max,” I said, glad to be back on solid, familiar ground with Max by my side, not stumbling along Darleen's rocky road.

It was nearly five thirty, and I told everyone to leave, but Gretchen said she was fine to stay and help. She prepared the receipt, and Fred loaded the tub containing the dolls into Mr. Almonte's trunk. After he had gone, I realized I was trembling. I was adept at handling difficult personalities. In a consumer business where megadollar sales and competing agendas were routine, coping with anger, jealousy, and envy were all in a day's work. Darleen was something else altogether. She was mean and spiteful, and I hoped I'd never have to interact with her again.

Upstairs, I sent Wes the scans of the currency as promised, then turned to face my window. I looked out over the forest, into the cerulean sky. I couldn't think of anything I could do to help find Eric's kidnapper, not at this point. The police were gathering facts and reinterviewing Eric, and the media were issuing calls for citizen cooperation.

My thoughts gravitated to Randall. How could a skilled and successful businessman be unable to look a person in the eye? I knew well what it took to oversee a small business—Randall had to be able to take calculated risks while simultaneously creating workflow procedures. He had to be able to sell, make decisions, and lead. The man I'd met, the man I'd witnessed climbing the courthouse steps, possessed none of those qualities. Either someone else was running the business or Randall was different at work than he was at home. Lots of people, I knew, were like that, bringing forth different parts of themselves in different environments. It was possible that Randall was competent at work and a milquetoast the rest of the time.