In Death's Shadow (13 page)

Matthew answered, then looked up, relief plain in his eyes. "Mr. Steele will see you now."

The young receptionist escorted us down the hallway to a conference room where C. Alexander Steele, CEO, was seated at a round mahogany table. On a nearby credenza, a tray of coffee paraphernalia sat next to a silver bucket brimming with ice. Next to the ice, neatly arranged on a matching tray, was an assortment of bottled fruit juices and colas. There was no sign of the obnoxious Mr. Pottorff.

Steele stood up as we entered and extended a hand. "Captain and Mrs. Alexander. Welcome. Please sit down."

Steele gestured toward a sofa, chair, coffee and end-table grouping that reminded me of a living room, or what a living room might look like if one were married to Donald Trump. Daddy and I perched next to each other on the gold brocade sofa, and Steele settled his elegant, silk-clad buns into an adjoining armchair.

"May I offer you some refreshment?" Steele asked.

Daddy turned to me. "Sweetheart?"

Although my mouth was dry, I shook my head. I was so nervous I knew that if I tried to drink anything I'd probably end up sloshing it all over Steele's beautiful upholstery.

"Nothing for me, either." Daddy reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a piece of paper and laid it on the coffee table. I could see it was a printout from the Internet:
Viaticals: The Perfect High Return/Low Risk Investment
. For the moment, though, Daddy ignored it.

"I don't want to waste any of your time or mine, Steele, so let's get down to it," Daddy began. "One of my tech stocks went up like a rocket. I've decided to cash in and take my profits. So, I've got close to ninety thousand floating around that I'd like to put to work in something that has potential for a quick turnaround."

Steele nodded. "I hear you."

"I've got a unit trust that's maturing in a year," Daddy continued with easy confidence, although as far as I was concerned, he might as well have been speaking in tongues. "If I can turn that ninety thou around fast, then I'll have a substantial piece of change to work with.

"Viatical investments were new to me," Daddy admitted, "so I did some research." As he tapped the printout, his Naval Academy class ring captured the light from the lamp and flashed it across the ceiling.

I stole a quick glance at Steele and suspected that he noticed the ring, too. If he'd done his homework, he'd have known that Dad was an Academy grad. Couldn't help but add to Dad's Wall Street cred.

"Sounded too good to be true, if you want to know the truth," Daddy added. "This guy I play racquetball with told me he bought a policy that matured in six months. Made a bundle. So, I asked around the club, and your name came up."

Steele was nodding. "Those results are not at all unusual. In fact, you can't
lose
money in this market. The worst you can do is not make
a lot
of money."

Steele leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Supposing you buy a one-year, $100,000 life insurance policy for $88,000. If the person dies in the sixth month, you've earned a twenty-four percent annual rate of return! If he lives one year, your rate is about twelve percent. At two years, your rate drops to about six percent, but even if he lives fifty years, you still make money!" He spread his hands. "In comparison to a certificate of deposit earning, say, five percent, or, God help us," he chuckled, "dealing with the inconsistencies of the stock market, viatical settlements are virtually risk-free!

"And there's always the humanitarian aspect to consider." Steele aimed his expensive, laser-bleached smile at me. "Naturally, purchasing a viatical settlement helps you, the client, but this is one purchase you can really feel good about! Your investment helps a terminally ill individual make it through a time of great emotional and financial stress."

I reached out and laid a hand on top of my father's. "That's
really
important, isn't it, George?"

"Yeah, yeah. Always happy to do my part." Daddy slipped his hand out from under mine. "Look, Steele, getting back to what you were saying. I'm not interested in waiting around for fifty years."

"Of course, I understand, I was just giving you a for instance." Steele uncrossed his legs and stood up, inviting us to join him at a conference table near the window.

As Daddy held my chair, he flashed me a wink. Thank goodness! Clearly he had embraced his role as Wall Street cowboy, but I had begun to wonder whether aliens had landed and taken over his body!

Once we were seated, Steele fanned a handful of slick brochures out on the table in front of us. "We've got quite a few plans here, Captain Alexander. The five-year program has a higher fixed rate of return, of course, but those policies are almost exclusively senior settlements, expected to pay out within sixty months. I'm thinking you'll find our one-year program the one that best meets your needs. These are policies expected to pay out within the next twelve months at a very attractive rate of return."

Steele paused, allowing my father time to review some of the information he'd put before him.

It all sounded pretty dicey to me. Even if your rich uncle Joe is ninety years old and has been smoking cigars since he began sneaking puffs behind the barn at the age of twelve, how could you predict when he'd die? Statistics don't apply to individual cases. You might as well go to Madame Stella and have your palm read.

When I tuned back in again, Daddy was saying, "Okay, Steele, one-year it is. What exactly do I receive for my investment?"

"You become the owner and the irrevocable beneficiary of an existing, investment grade life insurance policy which is presently in force and covering a terminally ill person with a life expectancy of one year or less."

"Okay. Say I decide to invest my ninety thousand. What happens next?"

Steele shuffled through the brochures. "Ah, here it is. It's a common question, so we've prepared a checklist." He slid it across the table. "First," he explained, "your investment is placed in our viatical escrow account at BB and T."

"That sounds reassuring," I said. BB&T was as solid a bank as they come.

Daddy grunted.

"Next," Steele continued, "our viatical provider secures a policy of an appropriate face amount, which meets both medical and insurance underwriting criteria."

I tried to catch my father's eye. There was no doubt in my mind that the "viatical provider" Steele was referring to was none other than our good friend Gilbert Jablonsky. Good God, what did Steele do? Place orders with Jablonsky for life insurance policies as if they were used cars?

"Then what?" Daddy wanted to know.

"Once the insured person has agreed to sell his policy, he receives a purchase agreement in which the insured person and his beneficiaries relinquish all rights to the policy by signing a change of beneficiary form. These documents are forwarded to the insurance company, where the changes are officially recorded. Then, a copy is sent to the viatical escrow agent who reviews it, and if the documentation is in order, the funds are released and the deal is closed."

"How do I know this is a legitimate policy you're selling me?"

Steele's face crumpled. We were questioning his honesty. "All our policies are with insurance companies that are A rated or better by A.M. Best, Standard & Poor's, or an equivalent rating company."

"I see," my father said. "And now, no point beating around the bush. How do I tell when my viator has died?"

"Each viator receives a viator number." Steele pointed to the bottom of the brochure, where an Internet address was printed in large black type. "You log on to that website whenever you like, type in the viator number we give you, and you'll receive an updated status report on that person."

"What do you do, Steele, have somebody call up the viator and ask 'So, how you doing today, Harry? Feeling poorly?'"

"Oh, Daddy! That's disgusting," I cried. Instantly, I could have bitten my tongue off. I flashed a smile at Steele, hoping he hadn't noticed my slip. "Isn't he just
awful
?

Daddy, smooth as silk, saved my sorry skin. He pinched my cheek, "That's my little girl!"

You've got to give Steele a little credit. He didn't roll his eyes, although I'm sure he wanted to.

Daddy pushed back his chair and stood. "Once the viator dies, how soon will I receive my money?"

"The benefit is paid by the insurance company, of course, so that varies company by company, but we've been averaging six to eight weeks."

That seemed to satisfy my father. "Well, Steele, I think we'll probably be able to do a little business here. Let me get my ducks in a row and get back to you." He pumped Steele's arm up and down vigorously.

"If you have any questions or concerns, please give me a call," Steele added. He reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, took out a silver card case and extracted a business card. "Call me, any time, Captain. That has my cell, as well as my office."

"Thanks, I'll do that," Daddy said. He handed Steele's business card to me and I slipped it into my bag.

"C'mon, sweetheart. Time to go," Daddy added. "We'll be late for the theater."

"
The Producers
" I said airily. "We've had tickets for simply
ages!"

Steele checked his watch. "You'll have plenty of time to get to the Kennedy Center," he said as he ushered us down the hall, then through the glass doors and into the elevator lobby.

"Oh, it's not in D.C.," I chirped. "It's in New York."

If Steele had any response to that remark, it was lost as the elevator doors closed silently in his face.

Once the elevator began its descent, I fell back, exhausted, against the wood paneling. "Captain Alexander, you were terrific," I said. "You really did your homework."

"I was up late bopping around the Internet," Daddy replied. "I didn't want to blow it."

"So, what do you think?" I asked as the elevator disgorged us on the lobby level.

"I think that if we can prove that the Ginger Cove residents on Mrs. Bromley's list did not die of natural causes, our friend Steele has to be in it up to his impeccably groomed eyebrows."

"We need to talk to Dennis," I said, referring to my brother-in-law, the Chesapeake County cop.

With one arm, Daddy held the lobby door open for me and we passed out into the bright June sunshine.

Unexpectedly, Daddy tapped my shoulder. "Look, Hannah. There's your brown-suited man."

"Where?"

Daddy pointed to the far end of the parking lot, where a man who looked a lot like Nick Pottorff was climbing into a BMW. Pottorff started his car, revved the engine a couple of times to show how macho he was, backed out of the parking space, and sped past us, tires squealing.
 
I'd seen that car before. As it flew by, I got a good look at the license plate, too:
N
4
SIR
.

I grabbed my father's arm. "That's the same car I saw in Gilbert Jablonsky's lot!" I leaned back against the fender of a blue Volvo. "Oh my God, Daddy! That means there's
got
to be a connection between Steele and Jablonsky!"

"Ba-da-bing, Ba-da-boom," Daddy said.

"What?"

Haven't you been watching
The Sopranos
on HBO?"

Of course I had, but I wasn't in the mood for light-hearted banter. "Listen to me! I am positive that car and its license plate were parked next to mine in Jablonsky's parking lot in Glen Burnie just one week ago! How can you not remember a vanity plate like
N
4
SIR
?"

"I don't know." Daddy stood straight and tall, hands thrust deep into his pockets, shaking his head. "Isn't that a little obvious, Hannah? Do you think he'd drive around with a plate like that if he really were a mafia enforcer?"

"I don't think the word 'subtle' appears in Nick Pottorff's dictionary," I said.

"In that case, sweetheart, we need to share what we know with Dennis ASAP and see what he advises."

"Are you busy tomorrow night, Daddy?"

"I don't think so. Why?"

"If Connie and Dennis are free, I thought we'd cook out in the backyard."

"Haven't had a good hamburger in a long time," Daddy said. "Count me in."

Daddy held the passenger door of the Chrysler open and I slipped in, ladylike, remembering, just in case anybody was watching, to keep my knees together, slide and swivel.

When Daddy got behind the wheel, he turned the key in the ignition, then leaned back in his seat. "
The Producers
,” he chuckled. "In New York City?"

"Sorry, Daddy. Steele was so full of shit, I just couldn't help myself."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I didn't ask for much. Just a casual backyard
cookout, a small, intimate get-together in a friendly, stress-free environment where my brother-in-law could grab a few beers, sprawl in a lawn chair, put his feet up and forget, for a time, the rigors of keeping Chesapeake County a safe place for its citizens to live, work, and play.

I planned to ask Dennis what to do about ViatiPro later. After the burgers with everything on them. After the corn on the cob, drizzled with butter. After the still warm from the oven, deep-dish apple pie. (From the bakery. Fresh.)

A policeman in the family is an asset, I know. One mustn't abuse the privilege. Rule one: Don't ask him to bend the law for you. Rule two: Don't waste his time with trivialities. Rule three: Don't put yourself into situations where he has to ride to the rescue with a platoon of United States Marines.

I've never asked him to bend the law. Never knowingly wasted his time. Two out of three? Not bad.

So, like I said, it was to be a simple backyard cookout, two Rutherfords and two Iveses, plus Daddy, of course. And after Dennis was relaxed, I'd ease into the ViatiPro business, feeling my way.

But no.

I was dicing celery, green pepper, and scallions when Daddy called, asking to bring Cornelia Gibbs. Neelie was Daddy's girlfriend. How could I refuse? I lobbed another potato into the pot and kept on chopping.

Then my sister Ruth popped in bearing a singing bowl. "Something new I'm carrying in the store."

"Thanks, Ruth. I didn't know bowls could sing." I held it in my wet hands. It was about the size of a rice bowl, and heavy.

"It's made from brass and six other metals. You hit it with this wooden striker." She produced a cylindrical mallet from the pocket of her skirt and gave the bowl a whack. "Nice, huh? It clears negativity from the room, especially before you meditate." She narrowed her eyes. "You have been meditating, haven't you?"

The correct answer would have been no. "Whenever I get the chance, Ruth. Whenever I get the chance."

Ruth smiled semi-approvingly, then turned her attention to other things. "What'cha cooking?"

I had to confess. "Potato salad."

"Oh my God, I
love
your potato salad!"

It wasn't my recipe, it was our late mother's, but what could I do? The next thing I knew, Ruth was joining us, too, bringing along her lawyer friend, Maurice Gaylord Hutchinson, Esquire. What a perfect opportunity for "Hutch" (as she affectionately called him) to meet the parental unit. Hutch, an introspective, comfortable, reliable man (the polar opposite of Eric, Ruth's ex), had worked his buns off when some turd stole Ruth's identity and she'd nearly lost both Mother Earth, her new age store on Main Street and her sanity.

When Ruth breezed out the door to fetch Hutch, her long, salt and pepper hair streaming like a banner behind her, I tossed two more potatoes into the pot. I kneaded an egg and a cup of raw oatmeal into the hamburger, hoping it would stretch to serve eight.

And I kept chopping.

Paul came home from work around five, bearing a dozen ears of corn and a Box o' Wine he insisted we try. I sent him out on the patio to shuck the corn while I scraped the chopped vegetables into a bowl and took care of more important things: I opened the wine.

With my thumb, I punched a hole in the cardboard box and wrestled the plastic spout out of the hole, skinning my knuckles in the process.
This is supposed to be easier than a corkscrew? No way.

I found a glass, thrust it under the spout, and pushed the button. Considering the way I'd tortured the spout while trying to extract the darn thing from the box, it was a miracle that it worked. I watched as the dark ruby liquid filled my glass halfway, then I swirled it around, testing its legs. I raised the glass to my lips and took a sip, for medicinal purposes. My skinned knuckles were feeling better already.

The wine was a merlot. Velvety, according to the label. Lush plum flavors, gently spiced, with a soft touch of oak. Who makes these terms up? Paul and I once went to a tasting where the wines were described as "assertive," "barn-yardy," or even "flabby." I took another sip of the merlot. Definitely not flabby.

When the potatoes were done, I drained the pot, doused them with cold water, and left them in the sink to cool. I grabbed another glass, tucked the wine box under my arm, and headed out to the patio to join Paul.

"Corn's shucked," he said. The naked ears were stacked up like a pyramid on the picnic table next to his elbow, and a paper grocery bag of corn silk and husks sat next to his feet.

I handed him the glass. "Have some wine."

Paul served himself from the box. "Thanks, hon."

We sipped in silence for a while.

"Nice of the weather to cooperate."

I nodded. A gentle breeze was discouraging the average, run-of-the-mill mosquito, and I'd lit citronella candles in small, galvanized buckets and placed them around the garden to intimidate any insects with kamikaze tendencies.

"Do you think I'm crazy, Paul?"

A smile spread slowly across my husband's face. "No, not crazy. But I think you have to be prepared, Hannah. All this could turn out to be some sort of weird coincidence."

"I don't think so. Neither does Daddy. And you should have seen Mrs. Bromley, Paul. She's usually so levelheaded. And she was frightened. Truly frightened!" I paused to take another sip of wine. "In fact, she's so jumpy that she's gone away for the weekend. She's hiding out at a B and B in Chestertown."

He squeezed my knee. "The trouble with you, Hannah, is you care too much. I know Valerie's death hit you hard and that you
want
to believe her chemotherapy wasn't responsible . . ."

His words hit me like a bucket of cold water. If my own husband wouldn't believe me . . .
et tu Paul?
I covered his hand with my own. "Let me ask you this, Paul. If I died tomorrow, would you say, 'Oh well, must have been the chemo'?"

Paul blinked, clearly rattled.

"You saw how fit Valerie was," I said. “Trust me, it wasn't the chemo."

"Maybe not. But isn't it possible, just possible, that your concern over Valerie's death has caused your vision to be slightly skewed? You've convinced me that Jablonsky and this Steele fellow are crooks . . . but murderers? Are you sure you aren't blowing things just a bit out of proportion?"

I pressed my palms over my ears. "I'm not listening to you!"

"Okay, let's see what Dennis has to say and go from there. But Hannah?" He pulled one hand off my ear. "At least sit the man down with a beer before you pounce. Promise?"

I leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Promise."

It should have been a wonderful party.

Daddy arrived first, Neelie on his arm. "Good to see you again, Hannah." She kissed both my cheeks, then thrust a bag of designer cheese straws into my free hand.

"Thanks, Neelie," I said. "You look sharp." And she did, in a bright red blouse tucked into crisp white slacks, neatly belted. Her snow-white hair was parted slightly to one side, pulled into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck and finished with a silver barrette.

Daddy beamed. The man was besotted. The last time he'd looked at a woman that way, it'd been Mother.

I took a gulp of wine and swallowed, hoping to dull the ache in my heart. "Paul's manning the bar," I said, gesturing with the bag of cheese straws. "Club soda and lime, straight ahead."

"Is Dennis here yet?" Daddy asked me as Neelie pushed her way through the screen door and went out onto the patio ahead of him.

I shook my head. "Paul made me promise to give Dennis a few minutes before we spoiled his evening. So if I open my mouth too soon, you may have to sit on me." I put Neelie's cheese straws down on the kitchen table.

"Hannah, Hannah," Daddy said. "I think you were three years old the last time I was able to keep you from doing something once you set your mind to it." He started to follow Neelie, then turned back. "I know it was serious business yesterday, sweetheart. Thanks for trusting me to go along."

"Are you kidding? I would have been lost without you. You were terrific! Academy Award material. Now, shoo! Check in with Paul. I'm sure the charcoal needs starting."

Daddy patted my head and left me to my salad dressing.

Using scissors, I cut fresh herbs into a bowl, added a clove of garlic, and smashed them together with a pestle. I scraped the green goo into a bottle, added oil and vinegar, and shook vigorously. I tasted it.
Bleah!
Forgot to put in

the salt. I corrected the seasonings, shook the mixture again, and dumped the dressing on the potato and vegetable mixture, tossing it lightly.

Through the kitchen window, I could see that Ruth and Hutch had arrived via the side gate. Ruth wore lavender harem pants and a loose, Indian-style shirt. In his business suit, Hutch was overdressed. As I watched, Ruth helped him off with his jacket. Smiling, he loosened his tie and drew it slowly out from under his collar.
Take it off, take it off, take it all off
, I chanted silently.
Performing nightly at Chez Ruth's! Heeeeeerre's Hutch!
At least I hoped so. Ruth had been through a long dry spell.

I went out to greet the new arrivals.

"Hutch." I extended my hand. "Nice to see you again."

"Ditto," he said, shaking mine.

"Drink?"

"G and T, if you have it."

I smiled. "I think that could be arranged." I pointed to Paul. "Check with the bartender over there."

"Mind if I smoke?" Hutch patted his pocket. Through the cotton I could see the outline of a pack of Marlboros.

Yes, I minded. I minded a lot. If I had my way, every pack of cigarettes would carry this Surgeon General's warning:
Danger: Smoking killed my mother. Do you want to die, too?

"Just not in the house," I warned, already moving away.

I went looking for Paul, slipped my arm around him, held up my glass. "Barkeep, more wine!" He was happy to oblige.

When Connie and Dennis finally arrived, the corn water had just come to a boil. I clapped a lid on the pot and turned the heat to low. "Hello, hello!" Connie caroled as she made her way down the hallway to the kitchen.

She burst through the door, all smiles. I hugged her tightly. "Connie, I've missed you."

"It's only been three weeks," she said.

"I know. But I missed you all the same."

With one arm still wrapped around Connie's shoulders, I extended my hand to Dennis. "Thanks for coming, Dennis. I'm looking forward to talking with you."

Dennis stared at me. "You okay, Hannah?"

I swiped at my eyes, astonished to find that my eyelashes were wet. "Onions," I lied.

Connie shot me an oh-yeah-sure look. "Hannah, what's wrong?"

My face grew hot. Connie and Dennis began to shimmer, as if they were about to be beamed up to the starship Enterprise. "I'm sorry. It's just that the last time I saw you, at the race, Valerie Stone was still alive."

Connie located the tissues in a box on top of the refrigerator and handed one to me, standing by while I used it to dab at my eyes. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

I flapped a hand in front of my face, waving away my tears. "I'll be fine in a minute."

"Here," Connie said, taking charge. With a sweeping glance, she surveyed the kitchen. "Is the potato salad ready?" When I nodded, she said, "Dennis, you take that out and put it on the table. I'll join you in a minute. Is there wine?" she asked me. I nodded again. "Fix me a glass of wine, too, Dennis, will you?"

I'd left my wineglass on the table. Connie picked it up and handed it to me. "Here. Drink this. You'll feel better."

"Thanks." I took a couple of swallows then looked up at my sister-in-law. "It's not just Valerie," I said. I walked my wineglass over to the window. "Come here. I want you to see something."

When Connie joined me, I pointed out to the garden swing where Daddy and Neelie were sitting side by side. As we watched, Daddy said something and Neelie threw back her head and laughed. He grinned slyly, reached out and took her hand.

"I know nothing can bring my mother back . . . nothing. And I'm happy for my father, I really am. I adore Neelie. But when I see him like that, laughing. Ooooooh," I moaned. "It makes me miss my mother so much!"

Using both hands, I pressed the tissue into my eyes while Connie rubbed my back sympathetically. "I understand, Hannah, believe me. And I'm sure Paul does, too. It's been years since our mother died, but not a day goes by that I don't miss her. Sometimes I think of something I want to tell her and I'll actually pick up the telephone—" She shuddered.

"That's happened to me, too."

Connie stood with me silently by the window for a few more minutes, then took a breath and let it out slowly. "So, madam, what can I do to help?"