Читать книгу DANCING WITH THE ICE LADY - Ken Salter - Страница 6

I WORK AS A PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR FOR NATE GREEN, A Berkeley divorce attorney and local legend. I do skip-tracing on deadbeat hubbies who fly the coop to establish new, secret lives elsewhere. I also root out hidden assets socked away by hubbies who let their faithful wives support them while they obtain their M.B.A.s or Ph.D.s at U.C., Berkeley, then woo a younger, childless mate on campus; all this in order to dump their unsuspecting wives as they set off merrily on their new careers with a new and often younger woman on their arm.

I was stumped while mulling over a complicated case involving one of Nate’s “Berkeley Girls,” as he refers to his women clients, when the intercom on my phone buzzed abruptly. “Mr. Green wants to see you in his office, pronto,” rasped Saundra. Her strident tone caught me off guard. She’s usually friendly and laid back with me. She’s a very attractive black woman with an hourglass figure, winning smile and a down-home way about her that’s non-threatening to Nate’s predominately white, university-affiliated clients. She’s a pro at establishing rapport with women who are angry and disillusioned to have been summarily used and abandoned by a cheating spouse.

Saundra will usually clue me in to what’s up with the boss. Not today. Something unusual was happening and I’d have to play it by ear. I tried to ease out of my office to avoid Marcie, Nate’s personal secretary and confidante, whose office faces mine on the hallway leading to Nate’s office upstairs. Our offices are in an old Victorian house near the campus which he’d converted into law offices years ago. Marcie’s door was wide open and she threw me a nasty look as I tried to sneak past.

I was apprehensive and curious but knew better than to poke my nose into it with either woman. Marcie’s body language and Saundra’s tone of voice signaled they were on the warpath together about something that involved me. Best stay out of their way. They’d been with Nate for years and I’m low man on the totem pole. They ran the show and let me know it.

I bounded up the stairs two at a time and knocked on Nate’s closed door. Nate grunted, “Come in.”

I eased the door open and stopped cold in my tracks, stunned to see an alluringly dressed, provocatively beautiful black woman seated crossways in front of Nate’s desk. The woman looked me up and down and threw me a wry smile. Nate seemed to take pleasure in my moment of confusion before motioning me to a seat opposite the woman and continuing his stock recitation outlining the terms of his standard fee agreement.

It was not uncommon for Nate to summon me at this stage of his initial meeting with a client, especially if my services as an investigator will be required. It was unusual for him not to introduce me to a new client; today, he interrupted his fee pitch only briefly to wave in my direction and say, “My investigative assistant, Mr. Bean.”

The woman graciously turned to me and said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bean. I’m Gloria Simmons.” She locked her expressive, lustrous dark-brown eyes on mine long enough to send a mind-numbing shiver up my spine. Ping! In submarine warfare games, I was dead. She flashed me a bemused smile before turning her attention back to Nate who’d lost his concentration at the interruption.

Nate resumed his fee spiel designed to soften a client for the hardest part of the initial interview—paying a hefty retainer and signing a fee agreement. Normally, he was smooth at this part of the game. Not today. His hand trembled and his voice croaked like a frog. He was at the point where he makes his pitch for his standard, twenty-five hundred dollar retainer when Mrs. Simmons broke in on his rambling speech. “Do you think five thousand would be enough to get you started on the investigation of my husband’s assets and the troubling doings at his mortuary that I spoke of earlier?”

The interruption left Nate open-mouthed with surprise. We both watched with bated breath as she leaned down from her chair to pick up a large Gucci shoulder bag resting on the carpet. She pulled out a thick manila envelope and tendered it to Nate. I felt my mouth go dry and suddenly realized I was staring brazenly at Mrs. Simmons. I was transfixed by the sight of her delectable, enticing curves straining against the flimsy fastenings of her breezy summer frock. Her flawless skin was silky smooth, the texture of soft, creamy caramel. She reminded me of photos I’ve seen of the tall, African model, Imam, the girlfriend of the singer, David Bowie.

Nate had to stretch awkwardly across his desk to grasp the manila envelope. As Mrs. Simmons resumed her seat, she tugged down the hem of her skimpy dress which had ridden up to the middle of her thighs. My heart skipped a beat as she sat down and crossed her legs. I noticed Nate’s eyes were also transfixed by the rise and fall of her hemline instead of opening the envelope.

“Why don’t you have Mr. Bean count the money while you fill him in on what needs doing. Just put the receipt for the funds in my file for now,” she said, while flashing an exquisite smile my way. I was ready to melt. Fortunately for me, she shifted her attention back to Nate who struggled to get out of his chair to hand me the envelope.

Nate has never been overly graceful; now he looked all thumbs and elbows as he twisted awkwardly to hand me the envelope. I barely managed to intercept the packet before he stumbled prone across his desk and made a total fool of himself. I could now see why Saundra and Marcie were so out of sorts. Nate was smitten with his new client. He was acting like Dustin Hoffman in the presence of Mrs. Robinson.

Gloria Simmons watched this scene play out with a bemused smile. She didn’t waste any time picking up the slack. “Don’t you think you should fill Mr. Bean in on the nature of my problems? I’d like to hear how you plan to get the information we need to proceed.”

While her words were addressed to Nate, it was clear she was used to telling men what to do and how to do it. Nate struggled to regain his composure by hacking into his handkerchief in an effort to clear his throat. “Mrs. Simmons may want to file a petition for divorce or legal separation depending on what information our office can develop with respect to her husband’s business affairs.”

Nate’s lawyer-like tone surprised me. Normally, he spoke in a low-keyed, fatherly manner to his frightened, betrayed and vulnerable “Berkeley Girls.” Then again, Mrs. Simmons was clearly not one of his girls. I was curious why she would choose to hire a frumpy lawyer like Nate instead of a high profile, slick divorce attorney who curried favor with the moneyed and sophisticated crowd in San Francisco and Marin County across the bay.

While Nate struggled to appear lawyer-like to summarize her case and Mrs. Simmons’ attention was focused on him, I appraised our new client on the sly. My eyes registered one captivating feature after another. Her long legs were absolutely stunning; she’d showcased them in the latest sheer French hosiery with little diamond designs. Her stockings hugged her muscled calves and tapered down to perfectly formed ankles which were accentuated by low-heeled pumps with straps at the back.

Mrs. Simmons was not dressed provocatively. Everything she wore was in excellent taste and designed to stimulate the imagination as she moved. Her winsome features were suggested and accented rather than displayed. She was classy, unlike many of Nate’s women clients who came to the office in drab and dowdy outfits or ones designed to reveal more than a healthy glimpse of cleavage and flesh.

Mrs. Simmons was in a class all by herself. She had no need to use artifice to attract interest. She would have had the same mesmerizing effect on Nate and me if she’d been dressed in a sweater and slacks or even a business suit. She exuded a simmering, primitive sexual heat that couldn’t be contained by garments. It was pulling me like a magnet. While I counted the pile of hundred dollar bills, I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. My every glance revealed something new to fire my imagination.

She was well aware of her effect on us; she didn’t flaunt her wares like so many women often feel compelled to do. She had to know that her short, breezy, summer frock with straps that criss-crossed her back and a hem that stopped six inches short of her kneecaps was more enticing than a dress that showed more skin. Dressed as she was, heads were going to turn at forty yards. Dressed in anything more risqué, Gloria Simmons would cause a riot.

I tried to concentrate on Nate’s monologue but only bits and pieces were getting through. I struggled to stop imagining what Mrs. Simmons would look like once those flimsy little back straps were unhooked and allowed to slide slowly down her body.

What I did learn was that Mrs. Simmons had married into one of Oakland’s two large families that controlled the black mortuary business. I don’t know much about the casket-to-graveside trade other than it’s very lucrative. Everyone is going to die eventually, but in Oakland, one of the murder capitals of the West, lots of folks were dying like flies. When you have the regular folks dying on time and then add the kids and young men who were killing each other in gang warfare and turf disputes, business had to be jumping in our local mortuaries.

Nate finally got around to me in his monologue. “I’ll have my assistant run a check on ownership of your husband’s many business interests. Title to the real estate and mortuary business will be on file with Alameda County tax authorities. Other assets may be harder to trace. We’ll try to put a monetary estimate of what the funeral home business is worth, but without access to your husband’s business records at this stage, we can only speculate. Should we proceed with an action for divorce or legal separation, we will be able to compel him to reveal his assets. You’ve indicated your husband is very secretive about his business dealings. Do you think you might access your husband’s tax returns?”

“My husband owns the business with his brother and they don’t use an accountant. They do all their tax filings themselves with the help of bookkeepers they employ in the funeral home.” Mrs. Simmons now raised her eyebrows and gave me a penetrating look as if to say, “How do you plan to pierce the veil of secrecy surrounding my husband’s business affairs?” Ball in my court.

I was surprised initially at the way she’d coolly sized me up when I walked into the room. She didn’t seem to notice or care that I, like she, was a person of color. Usually African-Americans acknowledge each other in subtle, perceptible ways, even in the presence of the Man.

“You must gather your information very discretely, Mr. Bean. My husband must never suspect that he’s being investigated. He and his brother are very tight-lipped about their business. If Jimmy had the slightest suspicion that I might be preparing to divorce him, he’d throw me out of the house and cut me off without a dime.”

I smiled my smile and nodded my understanding. I had a hard time imagining Mrs. Simmons destitute for long. But with five thousand dollars in big bills sitting on my lap, it was no time to play coy.

“Did you ever file a joint tax return with your husband?” I asked.

“No, Jimmy always files a separate tax return. He doesn’t bring any of his work home either. Keys to the business are locked in his briefcase at all times.”

I had to suppress my amusement. If Mrs. Simmons couldn’t get her hands on her husband’s set of keys with all her charms, there was no way in hell I was going to get hold of them or access to his business records either. “Is your separate tax return also prepared by your husband’s business?”

“No, I do it myself. It’s really not complicated. I still have some residual income from my modeling and I do a Schedule “C” for my design income; it hasn’t amounted to much yet, but I’m hoping that will change soon.” She locked her eyes on mine, raised her eyebrows and flashed me a playful smile. I wondered whether this whole little song and divorce dance was calculated to capitalize her new business venture.

“What do you do for money to run the house and pay your bills? Is there a joint checking account?”

“Yes, we have a joint checking account. Jimmy usually puts five or six thousand in it each month so I can pay the charge accounts and our personal bills. The cars, pool service, liquor and entertainment expenses are all paid by the business.”

I nodded my understanding at how they ran their personal affairs. The two brothers were no fools when it came to claiming business expenses. They must have been writing off as much of their personal expenses as they thought they could get away with to stiff the taxman.

“Do the checks to pay house and car expenses come from the mortuary’s business account?” Nate interjected.

“Yes, until just recently,” Mrs. Simmons replied. “Jimmy has always made the deposit, but something at the mortuary changed that. He gave me a sealed envelope to drop in our bank’s night deposit and said it was urgent. Before dropping it in the slot, I opened the envelope to make sure he hadn’t made a mistake in the amount he posted in the checking ledger. He was acting so strangely I was afraid he might have bungled the figure and I didn’t want to overdraw the account.”

“The amount was correct, but I was shocked to see they’d changed banks. The check was drawn on an HSBC Bank in Hong Kong and not our local bank that the business has used for years. With almost all of the mortuary’s business coming from the African-American community, it seemed really odd they’d change from a local, black-owned bank to a Chinese bank abroad. I also found it strange that the check was countersigned by a new bookkeeper named Jennifer Wong.”

I could tell I was going to like working for Mrs. Simmons. She was no fool when it came to sniffing out which way the wind was blowing. What were black funeral home owners doing with a Chinese bookkeeper? She’d have access to confidential information about the business affairs of this very private, secretive, highly profitable family enterprise.

“You mentioned something happened at the mortuary recently which changed your husband’s pattern of deposits. What did you mean?” I asked.

“I learned that there’d been a fracas in the mortuary’s parking lot that shook up Jimmy and his brother. There was some kind of argument and a shooting. Jimmie got a call late at night that I overheard. He thought I was sleeping. They must have asked him what to do with a body because he instructed them to take it inside and stow it in a refrigerated locker until Jimmie could get there.”

“Did Jimmy say to call the police?” I asked.

Mrs. Simmons gave a sardonic laugh. “No, he said just the opposite. Jimmy said not to call the police and to get an employee to fire up the cremation furnace and get everyone in the parking lot out of there pronto.”

Oh boy, things were getting heavier by the minute. I follow the obits in the Oakland Tribune as well as the police blotter. I had no recollection of police responding to a shooting at a funeral home. If Mrs. Simmons’ story was accurate, someone was killed in the parking lot and the body crisped in the cooker. This was not going to be a simple find the hidden assets and negotiate a deal divorce case. I was just about to ask Mrs. Simmons if she’d ever met the new bookkeeper, Jennifer Wong, and knew when she was hired, when Nate’s phone buzzed loudly.

Saundra had strict instructions not to interrupt Nate during an initial client consultation unless Nate specifically asked her to do so. Nate was so flustered that he pushed the wrong button on the phone console. Instead of Nate hearing Saundra in private, we all got to hear her chide Nate.

“Do you realize that Toni Perkins has been waiting over an hour to see you?” There was a harsh edge to her voice. She was loaded for bear. I knew from experience that if either Nate or I got her on the warpath, we were in for a week or more of hell. Surprisingly, Nate kept his cool even though it was getting to the time in the afternoon when he needed a couple of stiff jolts of Chivas Regal to calm his nerves and maintain his blood alcohol level.

Toni is an unhappy camper. She married a Berkeley switch-hitter in order to conceive a child. The plan was to marry, have the kid and divorce in that order. She and the kid’s father, Benny Ross, even drafted a pre-nuptial agreement themselves providing that Toni would get custody of the kid and Benny could walk away from his legal responsibility to pay child support for the next eighteen years.

The problem was that neither Toni nor Benny had thought much about how cute their baby girl was going to be before she arrived or the legality of their pre-nuptial agreement. Now each wanted custody and control. Toni was keeping house with her current lover, Nancy Schwartz, and desperately needed custody of the kid to keep her shaky relationship with Nancy intact. Nancy wanted to adopt the kid as co-parent. She and Toni were fighting because Toni had screwed up the deal with Benny. Benny and his boyfriend also wanted custody of the kid to cement their new partnership. This was not the sort of mess you wanted to deal with after meeting Gloria Simmons.

While we listened to Saundra scold Nate, I remembered that I hadn’t completed my investigation of Toni’s case. It sounded like Toni’s boiler was about to blow and was putting a head of steam in Saundra’s sails.

Nate masked his annoyance and stated, “I’m still tied up and probably will be for some time to come. Please tell Toni I’m sorry to inconvenience her. Tell Toni that R.C. can meet with her now or she can reschedule a meeting with me.”

We heard muffled noises. Saundra must have put her hand over the phone. Nate interjected, “Tell her R.C. is on his way down and will bring her up to date with the problems we’re having getting Benny to go along with the proposed settlement.” Nate hung up without waiting for a reply.

This is how you know you’re on the bottom rung of the ladder. I was the fall guy. Toni probably had her lover sitting downstairs egging Toni on. I could imagine Nancy Schwartz’ advice over the last hour, “Get tough with these guys. You’re payin’ them big money and they’re playin’ footsy with Benny. Maybe we should be suing Nathan Green and R.C. Bean.”

Nate nodded for me to put on my fireman’s hat. As I got up to leave, he put an arm around my shoulder and said, “I’ve promised Mrs. Simmons that you and I will personally handle all aspects of her case. That means you will discuss your findings only with me and not with other members of our staff.” Nate’s tone was conspiratorial and with his face so close to mine he had to register my astonishment. No wonder Saundra and Marcie were as mad as wasps being smoked out of their nest.

Nate continued, “I’m keeping Mrs. Simmons’ file locked in my office safe for safekeeping. I’ll want to see you first thing in the morning to coordinate a very discreet investigation. Mrs. Simmons fears her movements may be watched, so she may need to meet with you privately, perhaps at her house. I’ve given her your home phone number along with my own. She doesn’t want to call either of us at the office or for us to call her from here. Tidy up whatever outstanding work you’re doing on other cases so you can be free to devote your undivided attention to Mrs. Simmons’ investigation. She’ll call you in a day or so to tell you how and when to meet with her. As she stated, she’s very concerned about the strange doings at the mortuary and the shooting she spoke of; she’ll tell you more about her concerns when you meet.”

As I turned to go, Mrs. Simmons glided in a blur of honey-brown legs to meet me at the door. She extended her hand for me to shake and gave me an intimate smile that started my heart fluttering anew. Her touch sent a jolt of pleasure coursing through my hand and up to my brain. If death by electrocution was anything like this, I was ready to be strapped to the chair.

As we slowly unlocked hands, she locked her eyes with mine and whispered, “I’m really looking forward to meeting with you alone, R.C.” She then said in a voice Nate could hear, “Nice to meet you, R.C. I’ll look forward to providing you with any information you think may be useful. I’ll call you just as soon as I can.”

I took my time descending the stairs to meet the angry reception committee waiting to jump me below. Once I unruffled Toni Perkins’ feathers, I’d have to deal with Saundra and Marcie’s anger. There would be hell to pay when they learned Nate ordered my lips zipped tight and I was to stonewall them regarding all aspects of Mrs. Simmons’ case.

To my knowledge, nothing like this had happened before. Nate’s infatuation with his new client was jeopardizing years of loyalty and trust from his close-knit staff. I was also worried about my own feelings and involvement. Gloria Simmons fascinated me. She was beautiful and classy but I was clearly out of her league. The shooting incident at the mortuary was worrisome. I was sure Mrs. Simmons expected me to solve it so she could use it to her advantage. She triggered erotic and dangerous impulses which both excited me and scared me to death. Just like Nate, I felt a nagging sense that I was being sucked into something sinister and over my head.