Murder.com (3 page)

Five

Eskill Lander

Frost headed directly to his office after leaving the Ladbroke. Given the connection to the wealthy and controversial Dan Courtland, he was sure word of Marina's murder would be spread on the Internet and splashed across the remaining local newspapers; he must warn Eskill Lander, Courtland's personal attorney, of the threatening storm.

Lander, head of the Chase & Ward trust and estates department, tall and straight-backed, looked as if he had rowed with the Yale crew perhaps five years ago rather than the twenty-five it had actually been. He simply did not appear to be forty-seven with his angelic Nordic, not-quite-handsome face.

Reuben had interviewed Lander as a second-year Columbia Law School student when he came to Chase & Ward seeking a job. His record was impeccable—at the top of his class and an editor of the
Law Review.
Before that he had been an honor student at Yale, having gone there on scholarship after leaving a small town in South Dakota.

The one reservation Reuben had at the time was that Eskill was not a very broad-gauged person, despite his excellent education. He seemed totally absorbed in the law, without any evident outside interests. Reuben had been sure that would change once he had left school and began earning a salary that enabled him to explore and enjoy the good life in New York City.

He was wrong. Lander certainly paid attention to his career, becoming a partner in a record six years, but Reuben, who saw him frequently at the partners' common lunch table at the Hexagon Club, had never heard him discuss or even mention a book he'd read, a play he'd seen, or a concert he'd attended. The man was totally preoccupied with his legal practice and his status as a much-admired expert on trust and estate matters.

Lander had a quietly assured manner with clients, but Reuben had always wondered if perhaps his partner was inwardly less self-confident and certain of himself than might appear. Unlike his colleagues, in his office Lander displayed framed diplomas from Yale and Columbia and certificates attesting to his admission to the New York and Federal bars. Plus—and Reuben found this truly odd—another one stating that Lander's biography was included in
Who's Who in America
. Didn't these wall hangings evidence insecurity? A need for tangible confirmation of his status as an important partner of an important law firm?

The widows adored Eskill Lander, and he was also a hit with the old men who often, in an impotent, homoerotic—if completely unacknowledged—way felt attracted to youthful-looking and athletic types like Eskill. To those who knew him less well than Reuben, he projected strength and solidity—and wasn't that what the oldsters wanted in their attorney? In addition to brains, of course, which Lander had in abundance.

Reuben knew also that his partner was somewhat a victim of his own success. By tradition, Chase & Ward only made nominal charges for writing wills and giving advice while a personal client was alive. But after the client's death, the firm received substantial fees for winding up the estate. The only problem with this arrangement was the ever-lengthening life-span of the firm's affluent, well-cared-for T & E clients, the trend helped along by the wonders of modern medicine. The lucrative posthumous fees seemed to be delayed longer and longer. Several times, the partners had debated going to a pay-as-you-go basis for trust and estates work, but each time they had decided to stick with the traditional method of charging.

Reuben was well aware that Daniel Courtland's estate was the largest one under Eskill's care—with the highest expectancy for the firm when he died. After Daniel had decided to bring his personal business to Chase & Ward, he, the billionaire from Indiana, and the bright young lawyer from South Dakota had hit it off instantly, and Courtland's loyalty had never wavered.

While he was discreet about discussing it, Reuben had developed a modest dislike for Eskill's wife, Irene. She had a career as a highly successful investment adviser at the bicoastal firm of Upshaw & Company. Customers were attracted to her—not for her looks but for her tough and wise advice. Making a terrible pun, Reuben had once told Cynthia that the woman gave “shrew investment advice.” She had also helped many charities grow modest funds into substantial endowments, and for this she was referred to in some circles as the “Queen of the 501(c)(3)'s,” the reference being to the Internal Revenue Code section dealing with not-for-profit organizations.

Irene Lander did not suffer fools gladly in the investment world, nor in her social dealings. Reuben found her cold and humorless; there was also, he was sure, an angry resentment just below the surface over the extent to which men dominated the business environment in which she operated.

It was known that Irene was older than her husband, though the other wives at Chase & Ward who cared about such things could not gauge exactly how much older. Never a beauty, her sharp features were nonetheless interesting, at least until a disastrous facelift several months earlier, which it was speculated had been undertaken so that the contrast between her aging looks and the youthful appearance of her husband would be less apparent. Reuben had not seen the result, but his sources told him that her face now lacked any character or distinctiveness and was a bland expanse of tightened, wrinkleless skin.

“Her skin is so tight I don't understand why she doesn't squeak,” Cynthia, who usually refrained from such catty remarks, had said to him after a charity lunch where she had encountered Irene. “She should have had her work done in Brazil.”

Reuben went to Eskill's office rather than inviting the young lawyer to his own spare quarters. He seated himself in a chair under the
Who's Who
certificate, facing Eskill, who was sitting at his desk in shirtsleeves. Frost got down to business immediately.

“Eskill, I have some terrible news to report. News you need to be aware of. Dan Courtland's daughter, Marina, has been murdered.”

“Jesus, Reuben! When and where?”

“I'm not certain about the where—she was found over by the East River but could have been killed any place. When? The police think last Friday.”

Frost went over the details and then asked Lander if he could offer any explanation for the Hallie/Marina confusion.

“Absolutely none, Reuben. You know, I've never met her, though I did meet her half-brother once. What's his name? Facini.”

“Gino Facini, I believe,” Reuben said.

“That's it. Anyway, as I've told you before, Dan insisted on setting up a substantial trust for Marina and this Facini. Both of them are now over twenty-five, so they've received what were the first two installments. The only things left are the residual payments—big ones—after they both reach thirty.”

“And there's a two-thirds/one-third split between them, correct?”

“Yes. … And that's what brought about my only contact with Facini. He came to see me a year or so ago and said he thought that the two-thirds/one-third split was unfair and asked if there was anything that could legally be done about it. The answer, of course, was no. I also told him that he was lucky to be cut in for a third, since many stepparents make no provision at all for their stepchildren. He was furious at me and went away angry.

“As for Marina, as I say, I've never met her. Corresponded with her—we've even been on a ‘Dear Eskill/Dear Marina' basis—but that's the extent of it. No personal contact. Just family business.”

“Dan got along with her, didn't he?”

“I've never heard anything to make me think otherwise. Do you know something I don't?”

“No, no, I was just asking out of curiosity.”

“What can I do?” Lander asked.

“Well, Dan is at the St. Regis, and I'm sure would welcome a call, or a visit. Or maybe you could bring him some veal and spinach.”

“Oh no, Reuben, please.”

Frost had one more question. “Any theories as to who might have done this?”

Lander replied that he did not. Then after hesitating, he added: “I do have one thought. I don't want to implicate anybody, but it could have been her half-brother. I'd always understood from Dan that he had a rather chancy record—dope—and he seemed a bit menacing, shall we say, when he came that time to see me. That property split certainly rankled. In addition, you know that he will get the whole corpus of the trust now that Marina's dead. Unless, of course, he's the murderer, in which case he'd be barred from taking her share.”

“I don't want to think about that. But I'm not going to forget it, either.” Reuben also made a mental note to convey the substance of his conversation with Lander to Bautista.

Six

The Dutch

In accordance with their let's-get-out-more program, Reuben and Cynthia had dinner that evening at a brand-new downtown restaurant called The Dutch. It was like old-home week for them as the chef, Andrew Carmellini, was a defector—after a couple of detours—from another favorite of theirs, Café Boulud, farther uptown.

The new restaurant catered to a younger crowd though, as Reuben pointed out to his wife, “At our age, my dear, almost any restaurant we go to will be catering to a younger crowd.” Nonetheless, they were greeted warmly and seated at a table in the backroom, which was more intimate and less noisy than the busy area up front.

The place was crowded, the eaters plunging enthusiastically into Carmellini's offerings, both traditional and not so traditional. After inquiring from the waiter what
hiramasa
was and finding out that it was yellowtail, Reuben ordered it, while Cynthia settled for
barrio
tripe, made with beer and avocado.

When it arrived, the tripe was attractive, but not to Reuben.

“You hate this stuff, don't you?” she asked.

“I don't know. I've never had tripe in my life and never want to.”

“Open-minded as usual. Don't they serve tripe at that club of yours?”

“Yes, they do, but not of the sort you are talking about—or eating. Tripe used to pretty much describe the Gotham's food, but it's gotten better lately.”

When Carmellini came by, they warmly congratulated him and praised the appetizers they were eating. On his recommendation, Cynthia ordered the rabbit pot pie.

“I've never heard of such a ridiculous dish,” she told him, but nonetheless took his advice.

Reuben hesitated but finally asked for lamb-neck
mole
, convinced by the chef's enthusiasm for the dish.

“Lamb with chocolate sauce will certainly be a new one for me,” he declared. He then toasted the good health of both his wife and Carmellini, raising the glass that sommelier Josh Picard had poured from the bottle of Saint-Estèphe he had recommended, Château Le Peyre 2005.

After Carmellini had moved on to another table, Reuben proposed a second toast. “Wish me and Luis Bautista luck. We'll need it if we're ever going to find Marina Courtland's murderer.”

“Short of suspects?” Cynthia asked.

“Not completely. You heard Dan Courtland talk about John Sommers, Marina's boss at Gramercy House. He's a possibility. Then there's her half-brother, Gino.”

“From what his stepfather said, he sounds like a bad apple.”

“Eskill Lander seems to feel that way, too.”

“Can you locate him?”

“We'll have to see. I think Eskill only has a bank account address.”

“Didn't Daniel say he was a would-be actor, supposedly here in New York? Probably working way, way off Broadway.”

“That's really supposition. Nobody knows.”

“You know, Reuben, my young colleagues at the Foundation are unbelievable networkers. And most of them live downtown. If you get any kind of lead on Facini, I might be able to pursue it with them.”

“Okay, I'll keep that in mind.” Reuben was silent for a few moments and then resumed the conversation. “There's one other thing that I would never tell anyone else.”

“I'm listening.”

“Isn't it just possible that Dan Courtland was the murderer?”

“Darling, that's ridiculous. He's been your friend for years. How can you say such a thing?”

“I know, I know,” Reuben answered defensively. “But I keep recalling the shadow that fell over him when his wife died. I know he was finally cleared, but there were still doubts, as you must remember.”

“Yes, of course I remember. But what on earth would his motive have been?”

“Marina may have been jealous of his new tie-up with Darcy Watson. He hinted as much when we had dinner.”

“I think that's pretty far out.”

“Probably. But she may not have liked the idea of her father getting involved with a mediocre novelist. One must have standards, Cynthia. She also may have been worried that Dan would go gaga and leave the rest of his fortune to Watson.”

“So when Marina objects, her father kills her?”

“Not very likely, I admit, but we have to consider all the possibilities.”

“All right, if you want crazy possibilities, Darcy Watson may have been the murderer. Heaven knows that giantess could have overpowered and strangled Marina.”

“Enough thumb-sucking,” Reuben said. “But here's another question for you: What do you make of the change-of-name business? You really think Marina was concerned that young men would be after her for her money? And go to the length of using an assumed name?”

“I can believe it. People have ways of concealing things, particularly in a courtship merry-go-round. For example, if you were an accountant picking up a girl you wouldn't say ‘I'm an accountant,' you'd say ‘I'm in finance.' Similarly, I know that girls often call themselves ‘actresses,' even though their day job has been waitress for a long time and they've never been onstage. One hundred percent honesty is not necessarily a feature of the mating game.

“And, Reuben, don't forget that your dear friend Daniel Courtland is pretty tight-fisted with money. Yes, he eats at the Four Seasons, but you've always told me he's close with a penny, at least in his business.”

“Or when paying his legal fees.”

“So his daughter came by her suspicions naturally. And she apparently had a bad experience with a gold digger. Gold digger—is that what they call the male variety of the species?”

“‘Adventurer' is the male word, I think.”

The two made their way through the meal and their bottle of wine but, as exemplary citizens, passed up having dessert and coffee.

“Cynthia, it's still one of the regrets of my life that at the age of seventy-eight I've had to give up coffee at night. I just can't sleep if I have an espresso after dinner.”

“Lots of people drink decaf my dear.”

“Lots of people are idiots. I only drink grown-up coffee.”

“Well, at least you haven't given up gumshoeing.”

“I like your choice of words. What I have done, and still do, is assist the police when I can, in those serendipitous circumstances that seem to keep arising. But on this one, I'm not sure I can help. Unlike General Westmoreland—remember him, from a war or two back?—I just can't see light at the end of the tunnel.”

“Neither can I, but it's none of my business.”

They restated their congratulations to Chef Carmellini, both noting that any doubts they had harbored about their unusual entrées had been pleasantly resolved, and left.