If I Should Die Before I Die (17 page)

“First: accept what they want. You all, I've been given to understand, have long-term employment agreements, with parachutes awarded in the event of a management change. I'm sure your attorneys here could negotiate even more favorable ones for you, which would leave you free to stay or leave under new management. If you were wrong about the Magister women and they succeeded, at the very least your own holdings would appreciate. But if you were right and they failed, which could come about not only from incompetence but from their losing interest, at least you could be there, if you chose, to pick up the pieces. By the way, I think it entirely possible that Margie Magister at least would lose interest.

“Second: sell out now. If you're absolutely convinced they're going to fail, and fail so badly that no rescue operation will save the company, then you should consider getting out now—at a negotiated and presumably advantageous price. The disadvantage is that you could always be wrong and live to regret it.

“Finally: find yourselves a white knight. I'm aware of two things you've said: one, about fifty percent of Magister stock is now held by institutions; two, the stock has, since your father's death, traded in a surprisingly narrow range. Why is this, in the face of continued subpar earnings? I suspect it's because the institutions themselves have been waiting out a takeover attempt and the chance to cash in. But this has yet to happen, and at some point they have to lose patience. After all, they have portfolios to manage, clients to answer to. At some point, if the family situation stays unresolved, they're going to start selling and the stock could go down precipitously, and then the raiders will be out in force, including some you might not want to work for.

“If this last is your choice, though, I suggest you act quietly and quickly. For one thing, I've a feeling your adversary may already have started.”

“What do you mean by that?” Young Bob asked the Counselor in an accusing voice. “Do you know something that's going on?”

“Not at all,” he answered. “But I know Mr. Barger by reputation. And I've met Mrs. Magister.”

Bitter pill time, in sum. The Counselor had more to say, but it all added up to the same message. The Magisters heard it, and clearly they didn't like it. Even McClintock and Rand paled but in their case, I imagine, because they knew the Counselor was right. In other words, Wall Street may not have liked the idea of “a Jewish nurse” and “an avowed lesbian” running a Fortune 500 company, but there wasn't realistically a hell of a lot Wall Street was going to do about it. Or the Magister brothers either.

The meeting started to break up, but the Counselor had one last bit of advice:

“In my judgment, the witchhunt—the ‘mudslinging' as you call it, the digging up of people's private lives—serves no purpose other than to antagonize. Nothing we've learned is going to help you. I doubt anything will. I recommend that you call it off, now.”

They didn't though, and after they'd left, I asked the Counselor what he thought would happen next.

“They'll tell us to keep shoveling,” he predicted.

And so they did.

I briefed the Counselor on my meeting with Walters and Intaglio, on the fact of the latest murder, on the fact that the Task Force had pulled in Carter McCloy. I told him I'd been in McCloy's apartment the night before, that his wife had insisted on going along with me, but that I hadn't seen her since.

He greeted this news with a grunt.

But did he want me there the next morning, for Walters and Intaglio?

Yes, that would be a good idea, since I'd already talked to them.

But what about his wife? They were very insistent that she be there, but I hadn't been able to reach her all day.

I needn't worry about that, he'd see to it.

But did he know the police had had a tail on me, or his wife, or both, since at least the evening before?

That wasn't his business, he said. This was my case, not his.

“But it was you who tipped them off, wasn't it? After I told you what was going on? You asked them to give her protection, didn't you?”

He shook his head.

“That turned out not to be necessary.”

“What do you mean, not to be necessary? You mean they already had somebody on her?”

“I wouldn't know, Phil,” he said with a shrug. “It's not my business.”

I didn't get it then. I didn't get his indifference either.

The Counselor, though, had something else on his mind.

“Is it true, Phil?” he said, looking up at me.

“Is what true?”

He chuckled, shaking his head.

“That stuff about Margie Magister and what's his name? Sally Magister's kid?”

“Vincent Halloran.”

“Vincent Halloran. How old is he?”

“Somewhere in his twenties.”

“Well?” he said, eyebrows lifted. “Are they lovers?”

I wouldn't know
, I started to say,
it's not my business
. Or some such.

“If they are,” I answered instead, “he's not been the only one.”

I had him down for jealousy, and I guess I felt like rubbing it in some. Instead, he threw his head back and guffawed.

“I bet it's true,” he said, relishing the idea. “Let's find out. But can you imagine? Isn't she some kind of woman?”

On that note, I ducked out.

Ms. Shapiro was still in the outer office—she never leaves for the day until the Counselor tells her to—but when I got back downstairs, Roger LeClerc had already closed up shop. Usually he leaves any late messages for me on a small porcelain tray on the corner of his desk, this on the theory, I guess, that it's too far to walk them into my office. I stopped to check. There was only one: Mr. Derr had called. Just then, though, Muffin, the Counselor's Wife's cocker bitch, came flying out of my office and, braking to a halt, threw her head back and let out a prolonged yowl, wagging her tail furiously meanwhile.

And behind her, standing in my office doorway, wearing the same red slicker she'd had on that morning she left, was the Counselor's Wife.

“Hi, Phil,” she said.

“Well,” I answered. “Hi. Are you back? Or just visiting?”

“I'm back,” she said.

“Since when?”

“A little while ago.”

“Does he know?” I said, nodding my head toward the ceiling.

“Yes, he does. But I wanted to talk to you. Can we talk for a minute?”

“Sure,” I said, following her into my office.

My office is a pleasant room, with two windows looking out onto the street. It contains a foldout couch where I've been known to sack out when the pressure's on, some glassed-in mahogany bookcases containing remnants of our law library from before we went in for computers, Lexis and the Firm's other electronic resources, and on the walls some framed English hunting prints which had hung in the Counselor's office until his wife redecorated. I've got a computer terminal and keyboard, plus an old Adler portable electric I still feel more comfortable with, and assorted other items more associated with business than personal.

The Counselor's Wife sat down on the couch. I guessed she'd been waiting for me. There was a hardcover book opened and pages down on one arm of the couch. The cocker bitch followed us in and jumped onto the couch next to her mistress.

She didn't look good, even with one arm along the back of the couch in a relaxed position. She looked worn out, even washed out, like she hadn't slept. Maybe she hadn't. Why she was wearing the red slicker indoors I've no idea.

“Since when did you start smoking again?” she asked.

I looked down, saw that I had a lighted cigarette in my hand. I stared at the thing, not quite believing, then bent over and stubbed it out in my waste basket. Then I found the pack of cigarettes I'd bought earlier in my jacket pocket and tossed it into the waste basket too.

“I haven't,” I said.

“Good,” she answered.

Then silence.

Then:

“Well, I'm back,” she said. “For how long remains to be seen. I did something stupid, maybe I wish I hadn't but never mind. I'd like to apologize to you. Then I'd as soon forget about everything that happened last night. Is that okay?”

“You don't have to apologize,” I said. “But did you know we were followed last night?”

“No. Who by?”

“The police, I think. At least they saw us at McCloy's, and after that.”

“And later? I mean …,” flashing a sudden smile, “after you turned me down?”

“I don't know.”

“God,” she said.

Then nothing.

I wanted to ask her where she'd gone, but I couldn't bring myself to do it.

“I thought it was your husband who'd brought the police in. But he said he didn't. I don't know who did.”

“I think I might,” she said. Then nothing again, only a stiffness in the air.

“Damn,” she said. “Double damn.” Then: “Well, I'll deal with that. I'm only sorry I dragged you into it.”

“That's one thing you don't have to worry about,” I said.

“And I want you to forget about Carter McCloy,” she went on. “He's twenty-six years old, he's going to have to learn to take care of himself.”

This seemed a strange thing for her to say.

“I'm not sure that's going to be possible,” I said. “The police have picked him up now, did you know that? For questioning anyway. Also, there's been another murder.”

“When?”

“Last night, they think.”

“The Pillow Killer?”

“Seems that way.” Then, when she didn't answer: “It's possible he did it. I'm not saying he did, but it's possible. And by the way, two people from the District Attorney's office are coming here tomorrow morning. They want to talk to you and Mr. Camelot. I've told them pretty much everything about your suspicions, also about the note. They'll want to see that. I also had to tell them there isn't anything going on between us.”

“Good,” she said. Her reaction seemed subdued, distracted even. Then, maybe because she read my expression, she said: “Look, Phil. Someday I'm going to want to tell you everything that's happened. But not today. Today, I just want to forget it. It's over. As far as Carter McCloy goes, you use your own best judgment.”

“My own best judgment,” I said, “is that you ought to have round-the-clock protection for the time being.”

By this time we were standing. The Counselor's Wife got up first, followed by Muffin, who jumped on the floor and stretched her front legs, then her rear ones, wagging her tail meanwhile.

“That,” she replied, “I think I've already got. Lucky me.”

She moved forward as though to kiss me, and then she did. On the cheek this time. Without further explanation, and trailing her shoulder bag by the long strap, she crossed the reception area to the small elevator which serves the residential floors. The door slid open almost immediately, and she got in, and Muffin, after turning her head to see if I was coming along, got in too.

CHAPTER

9

I gave Bobby Derr a call before I left the office. He wasn't home. I put a message on his answering machine, telling him where to find me.

Then I went outside, making sure to turn the alarm system back on. It was dark, and the chill in the evening air reminded me that it was time to zip the lining back into my raincoat. The Counselor's Wife had said she already had round-the-clock protection, and, taking her at her word, I canvased the cars on both sides of our street. Unless he was hiding in a trunk, there was nobody on the job. I remember looking back at the building from the far sidewalk and seeing the lights on in the residential floors and figuring that what she'd meant was that her “protection” was on the inside. Mr. and Mrs. Camelot were clearly at home. But what they might have been doing or talking about I've no idea.

I rescued the Fiero from east of Park. It had gotten a ticket, which stood to reason because I'd parked in a No Standing zone and next to a hydrant for good measure. I filed the ticket in the glove compartment, noticing that the pile had become almost big enough to send down to the Firm. One of the advantages of our affiliation was their pipeline into the Parking Violations Bureau. Then I pointed the Fiero west and drove home, stopping at the deli around the corner for a six-pack and some sandwich stuff.

I tried Bobby Derr again when I got home and talked to his tape again. I remember calling Laura Hugger and listening to hers, but I hung up without leaving a message. My own phone rang only once that evening. A fruity voice said: “Hi, I'm Bill, a computer specially programmed to receive your confidential answers to the following questions,” and I waited till I heard Bill's first beep, then told him, in a few carefully chosen words, exactly what I thought about computers doing market research by random dialing.

I ate some, drank some, thought some, and watched the news reports about the latest Pillow killing. The Task Force, they said, was following several leads, but I noticed they omitted any mention of the rough stuff Intaglio had told me about. I got restless, antsy. I wanted to ask Bobby Derr about what happened with the police, also—again—about the night before. I remembered him saying that McCloy had left Melchiorre's alone and that he'd still been asleep when Bobby left the apartment that morning. And, yes, I thought about the Counselor's Wife too and what it was that she hadn't wanted to tell me.

I figured she'd shacked up with somebody last night.

It could have been me. It wasn't.

Probably that was a good thing.

Around eleven, give or take, I went out again, revved up the Fiero and drove across town to Melchiorre's. It had started to rain, one of those cold fall rains that bring traffic into the saloons, and Melchiorre's was doing good business. Not, though, with anybody I recognized.