Читать книгу Bluff Walk - Charles R. Crawford - Страница 7

1 _____________________

“What have you got for me, John?” Amanda Baker asked.

“At least five million bucks,” I replied with a smile.

“And how much do you want for it?”

“As usual, I’ll let you decide.”

Amanda Baker is one of the best divorce lawyers in Memphis. Thin, blonde and fortyish, her big blue eyes hide the mind of a combat general and the predatory instincts of a hunting lioness. Her clients give her a $20,000 non-refundable retainer up front, and that’s just the beginning. The clients don’t mind, since Amanda usually gets her fee out of the ex-husband in the end. Always the husband, because she doesn’t represent men. She says it would be an issues conflict.

Her other clients are women who can’t afford any lawyer, much less Amanda. Amanda takes their cases for free, and pays for their court and deposition costs out of her own pocket. It’s not unusual for her to be in court on the same day with the wife of a chief executive officer of a prominent business and the wife of an unemployed roofer. With Amanda, it’s full freight or nothing at all.

My name is John McAlister. I’m a private detective. I get paid when I can. On a good day, or a lucky day, I like to think I’m the best PI in the world, never mind Memphis. On a bad day, or an unlucky day, I sometimes feel like I couldn’t detect the Mississippi River, even though it rolls past only a hundred yards from my office window.

Oh, yeah. I used to be a lawyer, too. I made more money then, but I didn’t have nearly as much fun.

Amanda hires me on three or four cases a year. Our fee arrangement was reached some time ago. I get paid reasonable expenses plus what she thinks the result is worth. She passes my fee along to her rich clients, and pays me herself for her pro bono clients. I’m not asked to support her favorite charity.

My latest engagement for Amanda is the case of Jones v. Jones, Shelby County Chancery Court Docket No. 02-25437. Jack Jones III is what is known as a “Pillar of the Community,” a title he earned by giving away large sums of inherited money. Jack’s grandfather made money from huge cotton plantations in Arkansas and Mississippi, where thousands of sharecroppers hoed and picked cotton to enrich the original “Mr. Jack” while sinking further and further into hopeless debt at his company stores.

Mr. Jack died in 1920 at the age of eighty, after stroking out while screaming at hands who weren’t hoeing the weeds out of the cotton to his satisfaction. Legend has it that the sharecroppers on both sides of the river held a celebration that Saturday night like nothing that has been seen since, and black preachers at services the next day called upon their flocks to kneel in thanksgiving for their deliverance. It’s a good story, anyway.

After the old man’s death, Jack Jones, Jr.--“Mr. Little Jack” in Delta parlance--sold most of the farmland. Jack, Jr. had been sent away to the University of Virginia, and was a thirty year old bank officer in Memphis at the time of his father’s death. Everybody figured he would live quietly and well on his inheritance, maybe even keeping his job at the bank, since in Memphis it was important to “do” something even if you didn’t have to.

But Jack, Jr. proved to be a chip off the old block. Through a combination of money, contacts and utter ruthlessness, he built a business empire that included banking, investments and insurance. His businesses not only survived the Great Depression, but thrived on it as they gobbled up failing competitors. He blew his artery in 1968 when he got overexcited at the news of Dr. King’s assassination. His employees’ celebration was more subdued but no less jubilant than the one when his father died. Mr. Jack would have been proud to know that his son was generally conceded to be the meanest son of a bitch in town at the time of his death.

Jack Jones III was not a chip off the old block. Upon his father’s death, Jack had immediately quit his job as a loan officer at the same bank where Mr. Little Jack had started out. With the help of astute lawyers and financial advisers, Jack formed the Jones Foundation to preserve enough of the $50 million he had inherited from his father to insure himself an extremely comfortable life while at the same time very publicly donating large sums to charity. Since the Jones Foundation required only three or four hours of his time a week, Jack spent most of his time working on his handicap at the country club, collecting antiques for his Tudor mansion, and traveling. The speculation that he was homosexual was spurred by nothing more than the fact that he had never married or had a serious relationship with a woman until he was in his early fifties. Despite the rumors regarding his sexual orientation, he was always accompanied by a socially appropriate woman to all society events, and was considered one of the most eligible bachelors in town.

At the age of 52, Jack Jones shocked society by suddenly and unexpectedly marrying his secretary at the Jones Foundation, Betty Jo Talbot. Betty Jo was 30, divorced, and what was known in Jack’s circle as pure white trailer trash. In truth, Betty Jo was a good-hearted country girl who looked a lot like Tanya Tucker. She had not been a debutante, but neither had she always lived off her daddy’s or husband’s money or gotten drunk before two p.m. every day playing bridge at the club.

Betty Jo and Jack had never dated or had any kind of relationship other than employer and employee. Then one week, he took her to lunch twice. The next week, he asked her to marry him. The week after that, they were married at Jack’s home.

On their second anniversary, Jack told her it wasn’t working out, and he wanted a divorce. He offered Betty Jo $250,000 and the Mercedes coupe he had bought for her birthday.

Much to his surprise, Betty Jo told him to stick it up his fat ass. She hadn’t started out as a gold digger, but she knew that she was entitled to a lot more than Jack was offering. Besides, she had been about to tell Jack that she wanted a divorce when he beat her to it. Betty Jo was a healthy, lusty female, and except for two or three times that almost didn’t happen, the marriage could have been annulled for lack of consummation.

Betty Jo moved in with her momma and momma’s fourth husband and made an appointment with Amanda. Jack controlled the money, so Betty Jo didn’t have the retainer. After hearing her new client’s story, Amanda bent the rules on taking a domestic case on a contingency and agreed to represent Betty Jo for one third of the recovery.

The grounds for divorce aren’t as important as they used to be in determining a settlement, but they are still legally relevant in Tennessee. Moreover, an adulterous spouse can get hammered more than may be strictly legal if the case is assigned to a judge who takes that kind of thing seriously. Jones v. Jones was assigned to exactly that kind of judge.

Amanda had a strong suspicion that Jack had married Betty Jo to dispel the rumors that he was gay, and maybe to produce an heir. When it got down to it, though, Jack hadn’t been able to get it up with Betty Jo to pass along the Jones heritage. Amanda had concluded that Jack had planned all along to divorce Betty Jo after a suitable period. He had picked her instead of someone in his own social circle so that word of what marriage to Jack Jones was really like would not get around from an ex-wife who talked to people who mattered. In fact, Amanda heard that Jack was telling his friends that he had married Betty Jo out of physical attraction, but that in the end the differences in their backgrounds were too much for them to sustain a marriage.

Amanda called and told me my job was to provide physical evidence that Jack was gay.

“Good grief,” I said, “it’s the twenty-first century, who cares if Jack’s gay?”

“Obviously, Jack cares, and he cares who knows. And Judge Sanders will care,” Amanda replied.

“What kind of proof?” I asked.

“Pictures. Preferably videos. Sanders will roast Jones if I can prove he’s gay, but he’ll roast me if I go in with unsubstantiated charges. Besides, if I can show visual evidence to Jack’s attorney, we’ll settle and never have to go to trial. Jack can keep his secret for all I care if he’ll do right by Betty Jo.”

“Pictures aren’t easy, Amanda,” I said.

“Hey, that’s why I’m calling you, John. A picture is worth a thousand words, and in this case a lot more money. See what you can do.”

Which is why I found myself driving around Jack’s neighborhood that afternoon. A call to the Jones Foundation had confirmed that Jack was in town but not available until tomorrow to discuss a contribution to the Pets Without People Society. I told Betty Jo’s successor that I would call back.

Jack’s neighborhood was built in the late 1950s at what was then the eastern edge of town on one and two acre lots with houses to match. A private security car drove by me the other way as I cruised past Jack’s estate, but didn’t pay me any particular attention that I could tell.

A circular driveway curved under a canopy of oaks and past beds of azaleas and annuals. The azaleas were long past blooming, but white, pink and grape-colored crape myrtles thrived in patches of August sun. The grass was the deep green that comes only from constant watering and fertilizing. From the cab of my air-conditioned truck, the yard looked like it was inviting you to sit down under its trees and read a book and drink iced tea. Accept the invitation, though, and the heat and humidity would have you sweating buckets in ten minutes.

The house was not as big as you would expect, only six or seven thousand square feet, with an attached four-car garage that was designed to look like a stable. The windows were leaded, and the roof was a light blue slate that blended well with the stucco walls and dark brown Tudor accents. Other than the tall pines that could be seen over the roofline, the backyard was hidden by a ten foot tall field stone wall. It was easy to imagine a pool, poolhouse and more landscaping, with maybe a tennis court thrown in. Betty Jo must have thought she had come a long way when she first saw it.

At ten that night, I parked my white truck by a drainage ditch that bisected Jack’s street three houses down from his yard. The removable utility company logo was affixed to the driver’s door, and a whip antenna completed my vehicle’s disguise. As long as I didn’t leave it there too long, it would not alarm either security or the police. If I had to come back the next night, I would have to arrange a drop off.

I hopped the wire fence around the ditch and dropped into it. As I picked my way down the ditch without a flashlight, clouds of mosquitoes rose from the shallow puddles left by yesterday’s thunderstorm. I had sprayed myself liberally with insect repellent before setting out, but I had to consciously resist the urge to slap the little bloodsuckers as they whined around my head.

A black patch suddenly separated itself from a puddle in front of me, causing me to jump sideways against the concrete ditch wall. The world’s biggest water moccasin turned out to be a raccoon, which churred at me and waddled off down the ditch. My heart rate slowly returned to normal, and I continued down the manmade creek until it reached the utility line that marked the boundary between the backyards on Jack’s street and the next street over.

I slipped off my soft backpack and pulled out cotton gloves and a hat with a roll down mosquito net. Along with my long pants and long-sleeved shirt, I now had head to toe covering that would provide camouflage and protection from bugs and poison ivy, but cost a heavy price in sweat.

I put my backpack on and scaled the head high wall and then the wire fence, and was in the unlit corner of the backyard of the French provincial home three doors down from Jack. There were no people and no dogs, just the soft glow of a television through a downstairs window. I crossed through the shrubs along the fence without incident, and had an equally uneventful trip through the next two yards. Either nobody had a dog, or they had brought them inside out of the heat.

At the boundary of Jack’s place, I discovered that the field stone wall I had seen from the street extended all the way around the sides and back of his yard. I knew I could make a running leap and get my hands on top of the wall, but I also knew that it might have glass shards embedded in the cement on top. I pulled my pack off, leaned my back against the wall, and put my feet against a tree that grew a convenient three feet away. By placing my palms against the wall and alternating pressure on my feet and back, I climbed up the wall far enough to reach backwards over my head and gingerly feel along the top. It was flat and smooth and about a foot wide. Better safe than sorry.

I got back down, retrieved my pack, and levered myself up on to the wall. Both Jack and his neighbor had planted magnolias and pines along the wall, and they provided a perfect screen for my careful stroll down the wall toward the houses.

I walked the wall till it ran flush along the side of the four-car garage, and stopped and reconnoitered. Because of the magnolias, I couldn’t see anything of Jack’s yard except the faint glimmer of lights. I could smell the chlorine of a swimming pool, but I couldn’t tell if it was in his yard or the neighbor’s.

I had a choice of dropping off the wall into the yard, or trying to get above the magnolia screen. I opted for height. One of the pines I had seen from the road grew almost against the wall, and I could see its first thick branch sticking out over the yard some ten feet above my head. I shinnied up the tree, thankful for the long sleeves and gloves on the rough, resinous bark. I stopped about half way up when I had cleared the magnolias and peeked around the trunk, but couldn’t see anyone. I got to the limb and kept going until my feet were even with it, and then twisted around the trunk so I could stand on it. It was not a quiet process, and I could only hope that the hum of air conditioners covered the noise of crumbling bark and my rasping breath.

Another limb grew a convenient distance above the first one, giving me a place to rest my butt. I was twenty feet above the ground, and my first move was to strap the opposite end of the safety belt I was clever enough to wear around the tree trunk. It would be hard to explain to Jack’s gardener the next morning why I was lying under his tree with a broken back.

I then took in the set for the movie I hoped to film. The back yard featured a huge flagstone patio that flowed around a swimming pool and through meticulously groomed flower beds. There were soft electric lights in the plantings and along the edges of the patio, and lights glowed underwater in the pool. The lights didn’t illuminate very far into the heavy night air, and I knew that their effect on someone on the patio would be to make things outside their reach even darker.

The back of the house itself had more leaded windows, including a massive bow window in the kitchen. Upstairs, in the middle of the house and slightly below my perch, a row of six adjacent windows looked out from what I assumed to be the master bedroom. I pulled out my video camera, turned up the magnification, and peered in.

The room looked like a photograph from Architectural Digest. Paintings that appeared to be the real thing hung on the walls, antique furniture was tastefully spaced, and a king size rice bed with the spread turned back at one corner was centered on a carpet that must have cost more than a new Mercedes. I could read the time on the gold clock that stood on the night stand by the bed. I told myself I could afford a room like that if I didn’t spend so much on expensive video equipment, but I’d have a hard time writing it off as a business expense.

I checked the camera on the back yard, took a swig of water to replace some of the fluid I had sweated out, and settled back to wait. It was ten forty five.

I knew there was a big chance I was wasting my time. I had spent days and weeks in similar circumstances before coming up with anything, and sometimes had discovered nothing at all. On the other hand, I didn’t have a lot of choices. I could follow Jack, and might even see him with another man in a public place, but the chances of finding him in a compromising position where I could film him were remote. The best I could hope for would be to see him going into a motel room with someone and coming out later, but that could be explained as some kind of business meeting. I was betting that Jack would feel most at home on his own turf, and I was betting on the strength of the sex urge. Jack’s attorney had surely given him the standard advice to be chaste during the pendency of the divorce proceeding, but Jack would as surely ignore it. Everybody else did. I could only hope he didn’t pull the curtains too soon.

The night was full of the sounds of a Southern city in the summer. Mosquitoes whined around my ears, and crickets chirped in the grass. Traffic noise was muffled by the humid air and the dense vegetation. Air conditioning units started and stopped, and the occasional dog barked.

It had been a long day, and the fatigue helped my brain slip into neutral and make the waiting easier. Even so, by twelve thirty the ache in my ass and the vision of a cold beer were tempting me to call it a night. I checked the time by looking through my videocam at the clock on Jack’s bedside table, and told myself I would wait another fifteen minutes. I waited what I thought was fifteen minutes, and then another estimated five, before I looked at my watch. It was either keeping different time than Jack’s clock, or it had only been ten minutes. I circled my left arm around the tree trunk, and stood up to relieve my back and butt.

While I was reaching my right arm and the camera over my head to stretch, I heard a car pull up to the house and stop. There was the sound of a garage door opening and closing, and then a short period of silence. I eased back on to the limb.

A shaft of light spilled out over the yard as a door on the side of the garage opened. I heard low voices, and Jack Jones himself walked down the softly lighted path toward the pool. My heart rate increased. The prey was in the kill zone, and I aimed my weapon at him.

Jack was wearing a white Brooks Brothers shirt, starched pleated khakis, and an alligator belt with moccasins to match. He still had a full head of gray hair, and a golf course tan. Except for a softness under his chin, his features looked young. I had a very, very good camera.

A much younger man was with Jack, which was not unexpected. His appearance was a bit of a surprise, though. I don’t know what I had expected, but it was not someone who dressed almost exactly like Jack, and who carried himself with the same patrician air.

The young man sat down in a chair, and Jack disappeared inside the pool house. He came back in a couple of minutes with two martini glasses and a pitcher on a tray, which he set down on a small table beside the other man. Jack poured, and he and his friend touched glasses and sipped. I was too hot to enjoy a martini, but I thought Jack probably mixed a good gin and tonic, too. I could hear the sound of their voices and make out a word here and there, but I couldn’t follow their conversation. Halfway through the second drink, though, I noticed Jack’s hand resting on the other man’s thigh. It was more than enough for me, but I knew Amanda would want all she could get. I didn’t have to wait long.

Jack swiveled around in his chair, put his arm around the other man’s shoulders, and gave him a long, lingering kiss. I had never seen two grown men kiss each other on the mouth, much less filmed it from twenty feet up a pine tree at one in the morning. The discomfort I felt from the pine branch under my butt and the heat quickly became nothing compared to what I felt as I looked through the camera.

First on the patio furniture, and then in the pool, Jack proceeded to provide all the evidence anyone could want concerning his sexual orientation. Long before Jack and the other man walked naked through the back door and into the house, I had turned off the camera and was trying to identify constellations through the pine needles.