Face Value (16 page)

Chapter Thirty-seven

I paused at the bedroom door. “Goodnight, Sam. I love you.”

“I love you, Mommy.”

I blew him a kiss, he blew one back, and I pulled the door halfway shut.

I came down the stairs and stepped into the dining room, where my motley crew had gathered. When I'd gone upstairs with Sam to give him a bath and put him to bed, the “crew” had been just my mother, me, and Benny, who'd joined us for dinner. Now the crew included Stanley Plotkin, Jerry Klunger, Rebecca Hamel, and Malikah Bashir. I'd wanted Stanley and Jerry there because Stanley got the whole thing started, and wherever Stanley went Jerry needed to follow. Rebecca was there because she was the associate at Warner & Olsen who'd been the closest with Sari and thus knew things about her that none of the rest of us knew. Because Rebecca—like most big firm associates—worked late, she was able to give Stanley and Jerry a ride to my house. And finally there was Malikah. She needed to here on behalf of her Uncle Ameer, Sari's father. I wanted to keep Mr. Bashir in the loop, although I was still unsure of what that loop was.

While I'd been upstairs, the crew had been overseen by my mother, who had baked enough rugelach to feed them for a month. Rugelach, and especially my mother's version, was one of Benny's favorites—a cream cheese pastry rolled around currants and toasted walnuts and topped with cinnamon sugar. There were three platters piled with rugelach and a pitcher of iced tea and a pot of hot tea. Benny had opted for a bottle of Schlafly American IPA. He'd brought a six-pack to dinner.

My arrival brought the crowd to seven—an odd number, and thus Stanley stood and stepped back toward the wall. Jerry looked at me with a sheepish smile and shrugged.

I poured myself a cup of hot tea, ate a rugelach, and started in on my status report. As for Structured Resolutions, I explained, everything about the company seemed fishy except for the St. Louis investors, who composed a Who's Who of the city's elite. Among other suspicious elements, Structured Resolutions was an offshore entity with somewhat opaque financials and a Missouri registered agent who was an elderly man with Alzheimer's disease. The financials were “audited” by a nonexistent accounting firm in Pontiac, Michigan, whose resident agent in Michigan was dead and whose registered agent in Missouri had dementia and lived in the same memory care facility as the registered agent for Structured Resolutions.

“But what looks really shady to me,” I said to the group, “apparently doesn't seem to be bother people far savvier than me. As far as I can tell, all of the investors—or at least the ones in Missouri—are high net-worth individuals who are members of either the St. Louis Country Club or Bellerive Country Club. As exclusive as those country clubs may be, Structured Resolutions seems even more exclusive. If you want to invest your money in the company, you need to know an insider who can get you access. As far as we can tell, there are two insiders, and they're both at Warner & Olsen. Brian Teever is the insider at St. Louis Country Club, and Rob Brenner is his counterpart at Bellerive.”

Stanley announced, “This is a Missouri-centered operation.”

“Why do you say that?” Rebecca asked.

“Elementary, Ms. Hamel,” Stanley replied. “Jerry Klunger conducted a fifty-state search of business records this afternoon. There are no registered agents outside of Missouri. As Ms. Gold can confirm, a financial institution with operations inside a state is required to appoint a registered agent in that state. While the appointment may be a mere formality, failure to do so can trigger immediate and unwanted attention from state regulators. Thus the absence of such agents in the other forty-nine states would provide reasonable grounds to conclude that Structured Resolutions is not active in those states.”

Benny tilted his bottle toward Stanley. “Dude's got a point.”

“Good work, Jerry,” I said. “That helps narrows the focus.”

Jerry blushed and lowered his head.

“From what Rebecca has told me,” I said, “and what I learned from Claire Hudson—”

“Who is that?” Malikah asked.

“She and her husband David are clients of the law firm. Actually, she is, or was, having an affair with Brian Teever, who was doing their estate plan. Their investments include millions of dollars in Structured Resolutions. Anyway, we've learned that something about that investment bothered Sari, but when she started making inquiries, she got in trouble with Brian Teever. As I mentioned, we've learned that Teever was the insider at St. Louis Country Club that got the Hudsons into Structured Resolutions.”

“And what does all this mean?” Malikah asked.

I shrugged. “We don't know. That's part of why I wanted to get us all in the same room. One option is to figure out a way to approach Brian Teever or Rob Brenner.”

“Another option,” Stanley announced, “is to approach Beth Dayton.”

I stared at Stanley, who was staring at the philodendron plant in the corner of the living room.

“Who is Beth Dayton?” I asked.

“Jerry,” Stanley commanded.

Jerry cleared his throat. “You mentioned to Stanley that there was a man named Bill Dayton who used to do what Mr. Brenner does now.”

“Right.” I turned to the others. “Bill Dayton was the insider at Bellerive Country Club, but he died a couple years ago in a hunting accident.”

I paused.

“Beth Dayton,” I repeated, turning to Jerry. “She's Bill Dayton's widow?”

Jerry nodded.

“How did you find that out?”

“Stanley told me to do an online search for Mr. Dayton's obituary. It listed Beth Dayton as his widow. Stanley had me do a search for her current residence.”

“And Stanley thinks I should talk to her?” I said.

Jerry shrugged. “I think so.”

I turned to Stanley. “Why?”

“Consider the facts, Ms. Gold,” he said. “Your spouse of thirty-one years is shot and killed in the woods. The shooter is never identified. That is noteworthy. According to the International Hunter Education Association, during the past year one-thousand and fifty-seven people in the United States and Canada were shot during the hunting season. Of that total, one hundred and three expired from their gunshot wounds. The shooter was identified in all but two of those fatalities. The statistics for the prior two years are similar. Thus the unidentified shooter in such a fatality is the outlier. As for Ms. Dayton, that lack of identification results in a lack of closure. I defer to your cognitive, emotive, and deductive abilities as to whether a lack of closure is of significance here.”

Chapter Thirty-eight

There was a knock on the door.

“Come on in,” Benny called. He looked over and gave me a wink.

The door swung open. Rob Brenner stood in the doorway.

“You must be Rob,” Benny said, standing up to greet him.

“I am.”

Brenner stepped into the office, glancing over at me with barely disguised surprise.

Benny came around his desk, hand extended. They shook hands.

“Good to meet you, Professor.”

“Same here. Do you know Rachel Gold?”

I stood. “Hello, Rob.”

We shook hands.

He said, “Good to see you, Rachel.”

Benny gestured toward the two chairs facing his desk. “Have a seat.”

We were in Benny's office at the law school. The meeting, the location, and the cover story were all Benny's idea. My role was as the lawyer for the would-be investor, an unnamed but important donor to the law school who had expressed an interest in investing some of his own money—and his potential ten million-dollar endowment to the law school—in Structured Resolutions.

Brenner listened as Benny explained it all. They were a true study in contrasts. Trim and coiffed, dressed in a gray pinstriped suit, crisp white Oxford shirt, gold monogrammed cufflinks, and red-and-navy striped tie, Rob could have stepped out of a “Dress for Success” piece in
GQ
. Chubby and unshorn, dressed in a yellow-and-brown bowling shirt with Medina Sod on the back, baggy cargo pants, and red Converse Chuck Taylors, Benny could have stepped out of the bowling lane in
The Big Lebowski
.

Benny ended his spiel with an emphasis on the confidential nature of the meeting. No one at the law school other than the dean and the head of development knew about the meeting, and Brenner could not have any contact with them or anyone else at the law school about the subject matter of the meeting.

Brenner frowned when Benny finished. “I don't understand.”

“You don't understand what?” Benny said.

“Why me?”

“Two reasons, Rob. One, you're a graduate of this law school, as was your father, who was, according to our development office, a generous contributor to the annual fund. Thus I assume you have ties to this law school. Correct?”

Brenner nodded, still frowning. “And the other reason?”

“Just as you have ties to this law school, I understand you have ties to Structured Resolutions.”

“What do you mean by ties?”

Benny chuckled. “Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean, Robby. Now our donor is not a member of your country club. He's actually a member of the Laclede Club. A prominent member, I might add. I would hope that his membership in that club wouldn't matter, especially given the opportunity our donor represents for both the law school and your company.”

Benny and I had picked the Laclede Club for two reasons: it was the third of the exclusive country clubs for gentiles and its members included three extremely wealthy graduates of the Washington University School of Law. None were actually practicing attorneys. One was the CEO of a successful corporation, one managed his family's foundation, and the third headed an investment banking firm. Each had a net worth well in excess of $50 million.

“Who is this donor?”

Benny shrugged with his hands out, palms up. “Ah, I'm afraid I can't disclose that.”

“Why not?”

Benny turned to me. “Rachel, would you care to explain?”

I turned to Brenner. “The donor wishes to remain anonymous up until the announcement of the endowment.”

Brenner said, “Doesn't he understand that he's going to have to disclose his identity if he plans on investing his money?”

“He does,” I said. “But just not yet.”

“So what's the next step, Rob?” Benny said.

“The next step?”

“Investing the money,” Benny said. “We're talking tens of millions of dollars.”

“How did he find out about Structured Resolutions?” Brenner asked.

“Apparently,” Benny said, “he knows some other investors. They spoke highly of the company. One of his acquaintances—a member of Bellerive Country Club—told him you were the man to see.”

“Which acquaintance?” Brenner asked.

Benny turned toward me.

“That's confidential,” I said.

Brenner leaned back in his chair and tugged at the skin on his neck as he thought it over.

He turned to me. “So what's the next step?”

I smiled. “You tell me, Rob. You're the one with the inside contacts. I'm just the go-between.”

He nodded, lips pursed. “I'll need a few days.”

“Don't wait too long,” Benny said. “Our donor is anxious to get moving. If he can't do the deal with your outfit, he moves on to Plan B. If that outfit of yours is looking for a big investor, we just brought them Godzilla.”

Brenner nodded again, clearly mulling it over.

“You pull this off,” Benny said, “and you're going to have one grateful law school dean. This is all hush-hush, but I understand there's going to be an opening next fall on the National Council. Deliver here, big guy, and you just might be the right man to fill that opening.”

Benny had played that card well.

Although Brenner tried to keep a poker face, I didn't need Stanley Plotkin to interpret Brenner's reaction to the possibility of a spot on the National Council, which is an advisory board of distinguished Wash U law school alumni. It includes judges, general counsels of Fortune 500 companies, and law firm partners from around the nation. Brenner was one of the most unabashedly ambitious people I knew. To hobnob with fellow members of the National Council had to be one of his fantasies.

“Here,” I said, handing Brenner one of my business cards. “Give me a call. As the professor mentioned, the sooner the better.”

After Brenner left, Benny leaned back in his chair and lifted his feet up onto the desk. “We set the trap. Let's see if that arrogant little weasel takes the bait.”

“Taking the bait.” I sighed and shook my head. “I wish I knew what that meant here.”

“Huh?”

“Benny, I have no idea what's really going on behind the curtain here. I need a plan. This all feels too improvised.”

“That's okay,” Benny said. “Think of yourself as the John Coltrane of this investigation.”

“I'd rather be the Sherlock Holmes.”

“Hey, I'd rather be Eli Manning or Ron Jeremy, but you gotta play the cards you're dealt.”

Chapter Thirty-nine

We met in the living room of Beth Dayton's residence, a two-bedroom condo on the twenty-first floor of The Plaza in Clayton. The view from the floor-to-ceiling picture windows included the Ritz-Carlton in the foreground, the Art Museum atop Art Hill in the middle distance, and the Gateway Arch downtown.

I had called Beth Dayton, Bill's widow, to ask if I could meet with her.
About what?
, she had asked. I'd explained that I had some questions about her late husband's involvement with a certain investment vehicle.

“Structured Resolutions?” she'd asked.

“Actually, yes.”

“Good. How about at my place tomorrow morning at ten? I'll have them send up coffee and Danish.”

And she did.

We were seated across from one another—Beth on the couch, me on the loveseat, and between us an elegant walnut and glass coffee table on which sat a pot of coffee and a plate of sweet rolls.

“What do you know about Structured Resolutions?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Not much. It's some sort of company that people invest their money with—or in. Something to do with annuities, I think.”

“When did your late husband get involved with it?”

“About eight years ago, right after his business went south.”

“South?”

She gave me a sad smile. “Downhill. Into the sewer. Well, almost. He was in the real estate development business. Mostly apartment complexes, some commercial properties. Dayton & Son. He was the son. His father, Ben, founded the company right after World War Two.”

“Is Ben still alive?”

“Oh, no. He died almost twenty years ago.”

Beth Dayton had a sturdy aura. She was in her late sixties, her silver hair cut in a short bob. She had strong features, dark blue eyes, and teeth that seemed unnaturally white. She was wearing a tan collared shirtdress, matching flats, a string of pearls, and pearl earrings. She had on her wedding band and engagement ring.

From a distance, Beth had striking features, but up close you could see the damage from too much sun over too many years, especially on her face and neck—liver spots, wrinkles, discolored skin patches.

I took a sip of coffee and set the cup on the saucer.

“What happened to the business?” I asked.

“Same as what happened to a lot of developers back when the market collapsed.”

“That must have been hard. For both of you.”

“Especially Bill,” she said, her eyes going distant. “He'd been an active member of this community for decades, Rachel. He was proud of his role in so many organizations—the Veiled Prophet Ball, the Boy Scouts, the library, United Way. His business problems threatened all of that. Even worse, he had to lay off employees, including some who'd been with him for decades. And then the bank began foreclosure proceedings on our home.”

She shook her head. “It was a dark time for us—especially Bill.”

“And you say that's when he got involved with Structured Resolutions?”

She nodded.

I said, “How exactly did that happen?”

“His lawyers.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bill's company had used the Warner & Olsen law firm for years. Len Olsen handled a couple lawsuits for him, Donald Warner was the corporate lawyer, and Brian Teever did our trusts and wills. There were others, too. I can't remember all their names. Anyway, when the bank started foreclosure proceedings, Bill brought in the law firm to defend us.”

“Do you remember who?”

She frowned. “Not really. He was closest with Len and Donald, so he would probably have called one of them first.”

“Who actually handled the matter?”

“I recall a big blonde. Tough-looking gal.”

“Susan O'Malley.”

“Susan,” she repeated. “I think that was her name. She worked on the matter with a fellow named Brenner. Rob, I believe. I knew his father, Ken. So did Bill.”

“How?”

“Through the club. We're members of Bellerive. Bill used to play golf with Ken.”

“So one of those lawyers got your husband involved with Structured Resolutions?”

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

She shook her head. “I'm not sure.”

“What did your husband do for Structured Resolutions?”

“Good question.” She gave me a weary smile. “He told me he was like a combination Walmart greeter and doorman at a speakeasy. If people wanted in, they had to go through him.”

“You mean investors?”

“Yes.”

“Did he tell you why they had to go through him?”

“No. Just that they did.”

“What kind of investors?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Did he know them? Or were they just off the street?”

“Oh, he knew them. It was all hush-hush, something about the investment opportunities being exclusive, but I'm pretty sure the only ones he dealt with were members of the club.”

“Bellerive?”

She nodded.

“Did he get paid for that work?”

“He did, and the money helped tide us over. His company went belly up, but we were able to hang on to the house.”

“How much did he get paid?”

“It was usually around thirty thousand dollars a year, but it varied. One year it might be forty, another year twenty-five.”

“He did this for about five years?” I asked.

“Yes, right up until he died.” She paused. “That's when it got interesting.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They delivered what they called his final payment to me a few weeks after the funeral. It was for one-hundred and fifty thousand dollars. A cashier's check.”

“How did they deliver it?”

“Personally. Well, not personally by the company. Personally by one of their lawyers.”

“Which one?”

“Rob Brenner.”

“What did he tell you?”'

“He said that Structured Resolutions thought highly of Bill and wanted to express their sympathies.”

“Did he explain the amount?”

“Nope.”

“Or what it represented?”

“Nope.”

“Did he explain his involvement with the company?”

“Nope. Brenner just said he'd been asked to personally deliver the check along with the company's sympathies.”

Beth stood and walked over to the windows.

“Have you had any contact with Structured Resolutions since then?”

“Nope.”

I sat back in my chair and took a sip of coffee as I thought over what Beth had told me. She was staring out of the window, her arms crossed over her chest.

“One hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” I said.

She nodded, her back to me.

“That's real money,” I said.

She turned, her eyes narrowing. “If I had to guess, I'd say it was blood money.”