Trophy Widow (21 page)

We were silent for a while.

“Do you think he could have killed Michael Green?” I asked.

She raised her face and stared at the wall, frowning in thought. Finally, she turned toward me and shrugged. “That thought never crossed my mind before today. I didn't know that Billy even knew Angela Green until you told me. That stuff about the Rohypnol in her blood—that's scary stuff. But kill Michael? I guess anything's possible with Billy. He could be a really scary guy sometimes.”

“Let me ask you about Sebastian Curry.”

“Wow,” she said, shaking her head in wonder. “I can't believe he's dead.”

“Where did you first meet him?”

She colored slightly. “Over at Pinnacle. We did a few scenes together.”

“Anything more?”

“More?” She looked puzzled, and then she shook her head. “Oh, you mean a relationship? Like with Billy? No. Sebastian didn't appeal to me that way. Of course, that wasn't really an issue. I wasn't Sebastian's type.”

“What do you mean?”

“He's gay.

“Really?” I thought back to the final scene of All That Jizz. He'd certainly given a convincingly heterosexual performance there, at least to my inexperienced eyes.

As if reading my mind, Samantha said, “He was the classic reliable performer. Harry put him in gay movies and straight ones. Didn't seem to matter. He could have done a farm animal if they asked.” She smiled. “Sebastian was unique. He could get hard on demand, shoot his wad right on cue, and be ready again in a half hour. Talk about stamina. He'd do three or four scenes in one day—each with a money shot, and each time a regular gusher. Seemed like gallons.” She giggled at the memory. “Harry used to say Sebastian was just a life-support system for a penis.” Her smile faded. “Sebastian and I—we were more coworkers than friends back then. We'd do our scenes and that was that. That may seem weird to you—to have sex with a guy and not even be friends—but that's the way it is in the business. It's nothing like real sex. I mean, can you imagine trying to really make love while you have two cameramen and a lighting guy and sound guy and a director and an assistant director perched around the bed giving you directions?”

“Was Sebastian painting back then?”

“I guess he was, but I didn't learn that until later on.”

“You mean when you began selling his stuff at your gallery?”

“Right.”

“How did that start?”

She leaned back in her chair. “That's a very weird coincidence.”

“What do you mean?”

“Michael brought him to me.”

“Michael Green?”

She nodded. “Michael used to visit me at the gallery. He'd come by for lunch or pick me up at closing time. He told me one day that he had a hot new artist for me. Promised I'd make a lot of money off him. Told me his name was Stefani Currant. I remember that part clearly, because I told Michael I'd never heard of any artist by the name. I didn't know every artist in town, of course, but I'd been in the gallery business for a year by then and thought I knew the good ones. Michael told me this Currant guy was represented by a heavyweight outfit from out of town called Millennium Management Services. I'd never heard of them, either. Michael told me he'd handle the business dealings with Millennium, and that my job was to handle the sales of the paintings.”

“Did that seem strange to you? Having Michael handle the dealings with the agent?”

She shrugged. “A little, I guess. Usually the gallery would have the direct dealings with the agent, including the commission payments. I guess I didn't think much about it at the time, though. It was just talk when Michael first told me. He was a wonderful guy and all, but he knew next to nothing about art.”

“So what happened next?”

“Michael told me the artist was going to drop by the next day with his first paintings. So I'm waiting for some guy named Stefani Currant and in walks Sebastian Curry. I couldn't believe it. In fact, I kind of freaked out. How did Michael know Sebastian? Did Sebastian tell Michael that he knew me? Did he tell him how? But it turned out that the two of them had never even met. Never even spoken on the phone. That's how Michael got his name wrong. Someone else—Millennium, I guess—made all the arrangements.” She paused, frowning. “I guess it was Millennium.”

“What do you mean?”

“Later on I asked Sebastian about Millennium. I'd been selling so many of his paintings and writing so many checks to that outfit that I was really getting curious. I was kind of hoping that maybe they had another artist or two they could send me. But Sebastian was no help at all. He was real vague, said Millennium did most of their management stuff behind the scenes, whatever that meant.”

“Where did you send the commission checks?”

“I didn't. I gave them to Michael. He told me that's how Millennium wanted it handled. I remember asking him once if they were his client.”

“What did he say?”

“He got real vague, too. Said he handled some of their business dealings. Said they were obsessed with confidentiality, which is why they liked to have a lawyer act as intermediary.” She leaned back in her chair and sighed. “I probably should have asked more questions.” She shook her head. “I was so happy about the sales that I ignored the strange stuff.”

“What strange stuff?”

“The Millennium arrangement, for one. That was definitely odd. And then Sebastian's sudden popularity. His work really wasn't all that good. When he first told me his list prices, I thought he was insane. I mean, his numbers were totally out of whack. I assumed that we'd never sell a thing until we started slashing the prices. But then these men started coming in—two or three a month—and snapping them up at list price. That part was strange, but what was even stranger were the guys themselves.”

“How so?”

“They didn't act like normal art lovers. They didn't browse around or look at other paintings or ask questions about the artists or upcoming shows or things like that. They just showed up—or called in—wanting to know if I had anything by Sebastian Curry. Anything. If I did, they'd buy one.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that. No hassling over price. Some of them barely glanced at the paintings before they wrote their checks. Two of the guys who called told me to pick out a good painting, wrap it up, and give it to their driver, who'd have the check with him. It was as if they were buying Chinese take-out instead of a fifteen-thousand-dollar painting.”

“That is bizarre,” I said.

“I'll tell you something else strange. This Sebastian Curry craze was happening only at my gallery. I went to openings at other galleries and occasionally would get together with some of the other owners. I'd ask around, sort of casually, trying to see who was hot. Sebastian definitely was not. He was on no one's radar screen. I knew for a fact that he had paintings at two other galleries. They were similar to the ones I was selling, except they were listed under a thousand dollars.” She shook her head in wonder. “Under a thousand, and meanwhile I'm selling them like hotcakes for fifteen grand. That made no sense.” She paused. “It still doesn't.”

“You say Sebastian never met Michael.”

“Never face to face. At least that's what Sebastian told me.”

“Did Michael ever talk about him?”

She thought it over. “That's another odd thing. At first Michael didn't show any interest in Sebastian. He eventually got his name right, of course, but that was it for a long time. But the last couple of months or so he got real curious about Sebastian. Not so much about his paintings, though. He wanted to know what I thought of Sebastian. In fact, he wanted to know if I thought Sebastian was gay.”

“Really? Why?”

“He never said. I pretended like I didn't know one way or the other. I'd never told Michael about that part of my past. I'd debated telling him early on in our relationship, but I never got up the courage, and after a while there didn't seem any point. So when he started asking personal questions about Sebastian, I got nervous. Michael was a wonderful guy and all, but how was I supposed to tell him the truth? We were engaged by then, for God's sake. What would he do if I told him, ‘Yeah, Michael, I know Sebastian. Matter of fact, I gave him two blow jobs and butt-fucked him with a strap-on.'” She shrugged. “So I told him I didn't know much about him. I told him that I'd never seen him with a girlfriend or a boyfriend. And that part was the truth.”

“Did Michael tell you why he wanted to know if Sebastian was gay?”

“No, and I even remember asking him. I said, ‘Why do you care?' ‘Just curious,' he told me. I thought maybe he was jealous or something. I told him Sebastian had never come on to me.” She leaned back in her chair. “Which brings me to the last strange thing.”

“What?”

“Do you realize that I never sold another one of Sebastian's paintings after Michael died? Not even one. The irony is that when I reopened the gallery after Michael's death I was worried about what I was supposed to do with the Millennium commissions. Where was I supposed to send them? But there was never another commission check.” She frowned. “I really should have asked more questions, but the money kept pouring in. I didn't want to mess anything up. Everything just seemed too good to be true.” She gave me a sad smile. “I guess that was the problem.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Here's the list of buyers,” I said. “Twenty-three in all.”

This was my third meeting with Stanley Brod. We'd first met a few weeks ago to discuss his relationship with Michael Green, for whom he'd served as accountant for nearly twenty years. The second time we met he let me review the 309 Gallery's financial records, which his firm had handled the last year or so at Michael Green's request. We'd determined from those records that over a two-year period ending around the time of Michael Green's death, the gallery had made commission payments totaling $138,000 to Millennium Management Services—the same entity that had received tens of thousands of dollars of fees from Gateway Trust Company for “services” provided to the trust funds established for the young beneficiaries of one of Green's big class-action settlements.

Stanley Brod was in his sixties—a bald fastidious little man with dark gray bushy eyebrows, melancholy eyes, and delicate hands. He had an Old World courtliness about him, from the graceful china demitasse service he used for espresso to the Rembrandt prints framed on the wall to the way he used a white handkerchief as a barrier between his hand and the paper as he wrote with a fountain pen. On his desk were framed photographs of what appeared to be his family—an elegant gray-haired woman that I assumed was his wife, and two earnest young women that I assumed were his daughters.

I took a sip of espresso and watched him study the list of names of the men who'd purchased Sebastian Curry paintings from Samantha's art gallery. All but two of them were also in Michael Green's Rolodex. I'd come here today to find out the reason for that overlap.

He looked up from the list with a pensive expression. “I know some of these gentlemen, Miss Gold, but that knowledge is independent of my work for Mr. Green. Several are passing acquaintances—fellows I see occasionally at my lunch club. One is a client. One is a former client. One lived down the block from me until a year ago.”

“Do you recognize any as clients of Michael Green?”

He looked through the list again. “The names are familiar, but I can't be certain of a professional connection to Mr. Green.”

“Is there a way to check?”

“Perhaps.” He reached for his phone. “Janet, please have Todd see me.”

He replaced the receiver and looked at me. “My firm assisted in the administration of Mr. Green's estate. We copied certain accounting and administrative files from his office computers. Because there are still a few open items pending before the probate court, the information we downloaded should still be in our system.”

There was a rap on the door and a tall young man with a lumpy nose and thinning blond hair poked his head in. “Mr. Brod? You wanted me?”

“Please come in, Todd.”

Todd looked uncomfortable in his ill-fitting blue suit and starched white shirt. Stanley introduced us—Todd had a clammy handshake—and then gave him my list. “Please run these names through the Michael Green data set and bring us any hits.”

After Todd left, Stanley asked, “What do you hope to find?”

“Some explanations.”

“For what?”

“For starters, why did these twenty-three men—none of whom appears to be an art lover—buy those paintings? Second, why did they buy them at prices that were ten to twenty times above market value? The whole operation smells of money laundering.”

He took a sip of his espresso and carefully set the cup back in the saucer. “You believe that Mr. Green was somehow associated with those transactions?”

“I don't know what he was doing, or why, or even how, but I know he was involved.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Michael Green brought Sebastian Curry to Samantha's gallery, even though he didn't know Curry's work or even his name. He was somehow responsible for the sales of the paintings. As long as he was alive, Sebastian Curry's paintings sold like crazy at Samantha's gallery and at grossly inflated prices. When Michael Green died, the sales did, too. That has to be more than coincidence. Finally, Michael Green handled all of the financial arrangements between the gallery and what appeared to be Sebastian Curry's agent, which is some mysterious outfit called Millennium Management Services.”

“Why do you say mysterious?”

“First, because the company doesn't appear to exist—or at least we can't find any record of its existence. Second, because Samantha gave the checks for the agency commissions directly to Green. She made them payable to Millennium, but she gave them to Green. She had no idea what he did with them.” I paused. “You prepared Michael Green's tax returns, right?”

“I did.”

“Did he ever report income from an outfit called Millennium Management Services?”

Stanley pursed his lips pensively. “I would need to review the returns to be certain, but I don't believe he ever reported income from that source.”

“So where did the money go?”

Stanley sat back in his chair and tugged at his earlobe. “I regret to say that I would not even know where to begin to look.”

“I would.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Canceled checks,” I explained. “Samantha gave the commission checks to Michael Green. Presumably, he gave them to a representative of Millennium, who presumably deposited them in a bank account. That tells me there ought to be a paper trail that eventually leads back to the bank records of Samantha's gallery.”

He nodded with approval. “We should have copies of those bank records in storage. They should be easy to locate.”

A rap on the door. It was Todd. He was holding my list of names in his left hand and a sheaf of papers in his right.

“What did you find, Todd?” Stanley asked.

“There were no matches with his client list. But each one of these men showed up as a client contact person for billing purposes.” He was shuffling through the papers. “The client billing addresses are the same as the addresses for these men on his Rolodex.”

“Who are the clients?” I asked.

“Corporations.”

“Can I see?” I asked.

Todd glanced at Stanley, who nodded. “Please give Miss Gold a few samples, Todd, and let me see some as well.” Todd handed me five pages and gave the rest to Stanley.

The first page was the billing information for a Michael Green client known as the Sevens Corporation. The billing address was 7777 Bonhomme Avenue in the St. Louis suburb of Clayton. The suite number sounded familiar. The reason became clear when I saw the client contact: Donald Goddard. Goddard's law firm occupied the same suite as the Sevens Corporation.

The pattern held for the other corporate clients. In each case, the corporate client's bills were being sent to the office address of one of the men on the list.

“What did Michael Green do for these clients?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” Stanley said. “Presumably that information would be in the client files. All that one can determine from these sheets is that these were corporate and real estate matters, not litigation.”

“How can you tell that?” I asked.

“By the way his office coded each client file. I am familiar with his system. Look at the letters that appear right before the client number at the top of the page. L-I-T stands for litigation. C-slash-R-E stands for corporate and real estate.”

I checked the client numbers on my five pages:

C/RE 21563
C/RE 33215
C/RE 35411
C/RE 23287
C/RE 32906

“Where are the files for these matters?” I asked.

“In the warehouse,” Stanley answered.

“I'd like to see them. Along with those canceled checks for the agency commissions. Today, if possible.”

“We can arrange that.” He turned to Todd. “Who handles our dealings with the warehouse?”

“Brian.”

“Ask Brian to check with the warehouse, Todd. Tell him which documents we need. Miss Gold will also want to review the final three years of bank statements for the 309 Gallery. Be sure they include all canceled checks.”

I asked, “Will those legal files show how much he billed each client?”

Stanley turned toward Todd, who had paused at the door. “Do we have the billing records on the computer?”

“We should.”

“After you speak with Brian, please check on the billing records for Miss Gold.”

I waited until Todd left.

“Thank you, Stanley.”

He frowned at his manicured fingernails. “I am doing this more for me than you, Miss Gold. I knew the two of them for years, Michael and Angela.” He paused and gave me a sad smile. “Truth be told, Miss Gold, I preferred Angela. She was a charming woman with a gentle soul. It pained me so to see their marriage fail. The murder was a terrible shock. A dreadful, savage act. But the trial—well, I confess that I never understood the defense. Angela was certainly bitter over the divorce. Who could blame her? But as bitter as she may have been, that woman was incapable of murder.” He paused and sighed. “Or so I tell myself. Perhaps I am wrong, Miss Gold. I have been convinced of certain verities in this life that have proven false. Nevertheless, in my heart I believe that Angela is innocent. If there is something in Michael's files that could help exonerate her, I know that I am not alone in believing that you should have access to those materials. I am quite sure that Mr. Green himself would agree.”

“Thanks, Stanley.”

“As long as you are making the trip to the warehouse today, Miss Gold, can you think of any other records you would like to review?”

“The only other area—and it's probably just a wild-goose hunt—would be any unusual payments or receipts during the last year of his life.”

“Anything in particular?”

“No. But if Angela wasn't the killer, someone went to a lot of trouble to make her look like the killer. Maybe Michael Green had some connection to the legal or business affairs of the killer. I have no idea what kind of connection, but one place to start looking would be any unusual payments or receipts.”

He nodded. “We shall have all such records available for you at the warehouse.”

“Thank you, Stanley.”

A knock on the door. It was Todd again.

“Brian called the warehouse,” he said to Stanley. “They're open today until five. He told them the files we needed to see.” Todd glanced at me. “They'll have all the boxes ready for your review in one hour.”

“Excellent,” Stanley said. “I have one more set of files to add to that list. Tell Brian that Miss Gold would like to see the payables records for Mr. Green's firm for the year before his death.”

“No problem,” Todd said. He held up two sheets of paper. “I checked the billing records on those clients of Mr. Green. Here's the printout.”

He handed them to Stanley Brod, who reviewed them. “Curious,” he said and handed them to me.

I scanned down the information:

Twenty-three clients.

Twenty-three legal bills.

All for exactly the same amount: $25,000.

***

I'd grabbed a take-out sandwich at the St. Louis Bread Company before heading to the warehouse. Now, as I approached the intersection on Page Avenue out near Westport Plaza, I glanced in my rearview mirror. As I did, I asked myself again whether it could be the same Taurus.

I'd definitely been on edge since discovering Sebastian Curry's body. Was it making me paranoid as well?

When I'd gone to visit Stanley Brod that morning, I'd found a parking space on the street near his office. On the way back to my car I'd walked past a beige Ford Taurus parked three spaces in front of mine. The only reason it even registered in my brain was that its engine was idling, presumably so that the occupant could run the air-conditioning. By the time I'd started my car and pulled away from the curb, the Taurus had dropped from my consciousness.

But twenty minutes later, when I came out of the restaurant and headed toward my car, I walked past a beige Taurus parked with its engine running. Another beige Taurus—or the same one? I'd turned my head as I passed. The windows were tinted. By the time I thought to look down at the license plate, my view was blocked by the next parked car. I kept walking.

When I pulled out of my space that time, I drove past the Taurus and began watching for it in my rearview mirror. I purposely took a circuitous route and paced myself to catch a few red lights on the way to the warehouse. No sign of the car at any of the stops. But when I took the exit west off Lindbergh onto Page, I spotted a beige Taurus three cars back.

I had a green light as I approached the intersection. Unsure what to do—they hadn't offered this course in law school—I slowed as I glanced in the rearview mirror and checked the cars in the other lanes. At the last possible moment I made the right turn and pulled over to the shoulder about twenty yards down the road, just in front of the entrance to the small industrial park where the storage facility was located. I looked back to watch the cars pass. The Taurus seemed to hesitate as it entered the intersection, but only momentarily before it continued on its way and passed from view. I couldn't read the receding license plate.

I turned forward, my hands resting on the steering wheel. I sat there for a full five minutes, glancing up at the rearview mirror every few seconds. Finally, I put the car in gear, pulled ahead, and turned into the industrial park.