McMansion (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

Thanks to Jeff's father and thanks to Defense Attorney Roth, I had wasted my time trying to raise doubt by looking for Billy's enemies. Employed to throw sand in the face of the charging bull, I had caught an eyeful myself. I should have looked for his friends.

First stop, Total Landscape's lawyer, Owen Woodward.

“Stole?” he echoed indignantly. “Stole Mr. Tiller's company? Where did you get that idea?”

“Total Landscape is a Connecticut corporation. Connecticut corporations are required to register their principals with the Secretary of State. It's in the public record. Before you moved to Newbury, Billy Tiller was the sole principal. After you moved to town, you added your name.”

“So what? Mr. Tiller asked me aboard and I came. Between you and me, it was mostly for tax purposes.”

“But a couple of months later you removed Billy's name and replaced it with Caroline Edwards'.”

“Look, Abbott. It's no secret that Mr. Tiller had potential liabilities owing to certain—overzealous—state investigations into his business practices. Ultimately, he would have prevailed, but we made a decision to limit our exposure.”

It was my turn to echo and I did, astonished. “Exposure? Billy was the one exposed. He suddenly owned nothing. What if you and Mrs. Edwards decided to take the company south?”

Woodward smiled. “I suspect that Mr. Edwards would have objected.”

“Was it your idea to put his house in the company name?”

“I think we've had enough conversation on this subject.”

“That left him with absolutely nothing. Not even his own home.”

“Nothing he had his name on, true. That was the idea, for the reasons I stated.”

“Did you pay him?”

Woodward smiled again, but this time like a man on high ground. “Of course we paid him. Had we not, and had the state of Connecticut prevailed and sought monetary restitution, it could have been judged a fraudulent transfer of assets.”

“With what? Based on the house alone that's a ton of money.”

“None of your business.”

“Where did the money go?”

“Where Mr. Tiller put the money would have been between Mr. Tiller and the State of Connecticut. In the unlikely event those investigations went against him.”

“I was told that those investigations were no longer a threat.”

“Then your informant knows something—” He stopped, about to say, I was sure, “Something I don't know.” Instead he amended it to, “something that would have made Mr. Tiller happy, had he not been murdered by the lunatic who confessed the crime.”

“Did he start complaining?”

“Complaining about what?”

“Losing control of his company?”

“Not to me.”

“Or about being forced to rent like a tenant in his dream house.”

“He lived rent free. A perk of his terms of employment.”

“So he was back to being an employee? He must have hated that. That must have really gnawed at him. Is that why he had to be killed?”

“Jesus, Abbott, you are certifiable.”

“No, Billy was certifiable to let you do this to him.”

Woodward picked up his telephone. “If you don't leave I will call the State Police.”

“His name is Trooper Moody. We've known each other forever.”

One friend down. Four to go.

***

For self-preservation, lawyers keep close track of judges' habits, attitudes, and reputation. I could ask my pal Tim Hall about Judge Clarke. Or I could ask prickly old Ira Roth, who had been practicing since Connecticut's penal code was chiseled from stone. I chose Ira.

“What can you tell me about Judge Clarke?”

“Which Judge Clarke?”

“Superior Court. How many Judge Clarkes are there?”

“One judge, two robes. Back in the late nineties he was in family court. Returned to private life. Then came back and ended up in Superior Court. What do you want to know?”

“Does he know how to drive a bulldozer?”

Ira laughed. “For crissake, Ben, let it go.”

“Just dotting i's, Ira. Does Judge Clarke know how to drive a bulldozer?”

“I doubt he ever got his hands dirty. Working, that is. He was a seminary student who switched to law.”

“Ever hear anything about him being bent?”

Ira swiveled a hand in the air. “You've heard the same rumors I have.”

“True?”

“Could be. Or the Land Conservancy mob could be sore losers. Fact is, I've heard of no complaint addressed by the Judicial Review Council. And none has ever gone to an open hearing. Just so you understand what that means, the Judicial Review Council does not fuck around.”

I was half way out the door when I turned back. Ira was already hitting his speed dial. “Wait a minute, Ira. Doesn't Family Court hear divorce cases?”

***

I telephoned Bruce Kimball in his New York office. I was told he was busy. I left my cell number. When he had not called back in a half hour, I called again. And again in fifteen. This time the secretary put me through.

I said, “You told me that you owe me. I'm calling in my marker.”

“Oh yeah?”

“It could get expensive.”

“How much?” he asked coldly.

“You'd know better than me.”

“I don't know what that means.”

I said, “Not on the telephone.”

“Yeah, well, why don't you give me a call next time you're in New York?”

“I'm on the sidewalk in front of the Old Town. The bartender is guarding my beer.” The stained glass and old wood joint on Eighteenth Street, half a block from Joey Girl, hadn't changed since I had worked on the Street. “Shall I come up?”

Kimball said, “I'll come down.”

He walked in so fast his jacket was flying, shot a look around, spotted me down the long bar, and hurried over, saying, “I haven't been in here since I was your age.”

“I haven't been here since I was Jeff's age.”

The bartender ambled over. Kimball ordered a Diet Coke. “Okay,” he asked, “how much?”

“Before we get to that, let me ask you something: What do Bruce Kimball and Billy Tiller have in common?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Beyond you having a son charged with killing him?”

Kimball turned around and started to walk away.

“Sweetheart divorce,” I called after him.

He stopped. Turned around. Came back. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You both had your divorces adjudicated in Connecticut Family Court presided over by Judge Gary Clarke. You both came out of it with a hell of a lot more than your ex-wives.”

“So what?”

“Here are two guys who each bribed the same judge. One of them gets killed. By the other guy's son? It makes no sense.”

“You're right about that.”

“But you both bought your settlements, which means you were both in bed with a crooked judge who might one day be spooked into flipping you.”

“That's a lot of big ifs.”

“Only question is, who gets flipped first.”

“Abbott, you are a raving lunatic.”

“You won't flip anybody, because you aren't in trouble—at least as far as I know. Billy was the one in trouble. Maybe he happened to mention to his bribee—Judge Clarke—gee I'm really in trouble, and the bribee—Judge Clarke—panicked and moaned to you, gee I'm really in trouble because Billy Tiller is in trouble. Then you could see an awful problem coming at you. Billy gets nailed for one of his developer scams. Billy tries to save himself—or reduce his jail time—by naming Judge Clarke, then Judge Clarke tries to save himself—or reduce his jail time—by naming a big shot businessman who got a sweetheart divorce.”

“Statute of limitations.”

“Not for bribing a public official in Connecticut. And let's not forget more recent events involving the rap star with the new career. You call me a raving lunatic. But you never told me that you already knew the judge from his family court days. And you never told me you knew how to operate a bulldozer.”

“I haven't run a machine for twenty-five years.”

“Even if it is not like riding a bicycle, I'm equally drawn to the fact that the gentlemen guarding your party Saturday can't be the only bouncers a man in your business knows—only the most civilized.”

“I don't know what you are talking about.”

“You, more than most people, have access to the kind of bulldozer operator who wouldn't mind killing Billy Tiller for a price.”

“You know what I think?”

“I wish I did.”

“I think you've done your homework. I think you've made some very intriguing connections that appear damaging to me and my reputation. I think you have found an excellent way to jack up your price. How fucking much?”

“I don't know. I never bribed a judge before.”

He looked at me sharply. “Judge? What are you talking about? I thought you want money.”

“I want you to spend your money on getting me access to that crooked judge.”

“Wait a minute. What's all this about me killing Billy Tiller?”

“Did you?”

Kimball rubbed his face. “Everything you insinuate could be true.”

“But?”

“Ask yourself this. Would I let my son—a kid I've already damaged, possibly beyond repair, by escaping his mother to make myself a new life—would I let that child go to prison for me? Don't answer. Think about it.”

“I honestly don't know.”

“Don't answer—Just tell me what the fuck do you want from Judge Clarke?”

I watched Kimball's eyes as I said, “A hour of his time and some honest answers.”

Kimball actually smiled and I had to remind myself that he could turn the charm on and off like a faucet. “Honest answers? From Judge Clarke? That could get expensive.”

“As I warned you it would. Can you do it?”

“Are you saying he has something to do with Jeff's situation?”

“I'm saying I don't believe Jeff. I think he's grandstanding with some warped idea to turn himself into a living soap box for ELF.”

“That would be really stupid.”

“But not surprising.”

“No,” said Kimball. “Not surprising.”

“I need to interview the judge.”

“Why?”

“Because he was connected to Billy Tiller. I've talked to you. I've heard your story. I should talk to him. You're not afraid of what he'll tell me, are you?”

Kimball neither shook his head nor nodded. He just said, “I'll see what I can do.”

“Let me make a suggestion.”

“What?”

“It would be best if he would meet me in his chambers. That way he'll know I've gone through the metal detectors. He'll know that I'm not trying to trap him with a recording wire. You should tell him that. Now that Billy's dead, the judge is probably not afraid to talk. For enough money. Which I imagine he is generally short of.”

“Always,” Kimball said grimly. “I'll get back to you.”

***

“I think I owe you a commission,” I told Caroline Edwards when she answered her telephone.

“I'll take it. But what for?”

“Or at least a finder's fee.”

“I'll take that too, but I still don't know why.”

“If you would have lunch with me at the Drover, I'll explain.”

There was a pause. “Are you inviting Edward, too?”

“No. But the only place more public than lunch at the Drover would be a picnic under the flagpole. Should I ask Edward for permission?”

“I'll get my own permission, thank you very much.”

“One o'clock?”

One o'clock it was. At a window table in the front room. In full view of the foyer, the front desk, the bartender, two harried waitresses, a cabal of mortgage brokers guzzling wine, two under-paid officers of Newbury Savings Bank glowering enviously at them from the next table, numerous Main Street matrons—whose cheeks I stopped to kiss as I walked in in a blazer and tie—and some McMansion moms, whom I didn't know, but smiled back at.

Caroline was late. She rushed in, flustered and apologizing. “I'm so sorry. I couldn't find my other shoe.”

“I beg pardon?”

“It was way in the back of the closet. We don't go out much. I mean Edward goes out, lots, on business, but I'm much happier at home. So I'm really sorry. I'm late.”

“If you sit down, then I'll be able to sit down, too.”

She sat and smoothed the tablecloth with her fingers. If she wasn't married, and if I didn't intend to ask some very rough questions, I would have told her that she looked absolutely lovely. Which she did, despite hair askew and a flushed cheek. She inspected the flowers on the table—roses from the Drover's ancient garden, which Anne Marie was restoring—and that seemed to calm her.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Way too early for me.”

I ordered ice tea for both of us and picked up a menu.

“What's up, Ben? You were way too mysterious on the phone.”

I said, “This is hard. Because I like you very much—I'm not making a pass. I know you're married. But I like you. Connie told me I would.”

“I'm waiting for the but. What is hard?”

“The ‘commission' I ‘owe' you would be on the commission I earned for selling Billy Tiller's house.”

The lady would be tough across the poker table.

“Yes,” she said. “Edward told me you had sold it. Quite remarkable, on the market less than a week.”

“I got lucky. A couple of very nice flakes who had no clue what they wanted fell in love with it.”

“It is a unique house,” said Caroline.

“So is the garden.”

“Not unique, strictly speaking. It's patterned after mine.”

“Yes,” I said. “Though I didn't realize it at first. Only after it was weeded did I see the similarity.”