Rough Trade (11 page)

“And now that he’s dead, poor Harald’s out on his ass, 's that it?” he inquired gruffly.

“I’m sure that Mr. Feiss will continue to play a role during this transitional period,” I replied. I knew that in some sense Milwaukee was a very small town, a place where all the power players operated on a first-name basis, which couldn’t help but put me at something of a disadvantage. “Nonetheless, Jeff felt that as the new owner of the Monarchs he needed a fresh perspective.”

“I hope you don’t think me coarse for saying so, but I have to tell you that whichever way you look at it, what Jeffrey Rendell inherited looks like a pile of shit.”

“Meaning the Monarchs’ current financial situation?”

“Meaning that he’s not only going to be the youngest owner of an NFL franchise, but he’s also going to be the one who owns it for the shortest amount of time.”

“That’s what I came to talk to you about.”

“So talk.”

“Considering his father’s sudden and tragic death, I’ve come to ask you to extend the grace period on the loan agreement for an additional sixty days.”

“You don’t want much, do you? Maybe you’d prefer it if I’d just agree to forgive the loan, and while I’m at it, maybe you think I should take you downstairs, open up the vault, and let you guys help yourselves?”

“That’s awfully generous of you to offer, Mr. Wallenberg,” I replied with a smile, “but under the circumstances I think we’d be happy with the additional sixty days.”

“You still haven’t given me a reason why I should give it to you.”

“Because you’re a decent man who wants to make sure that Jeff has time to bury his father. Because you want to do the right thing. Because you don’t want to be always remembered as the banker who drove the Monarchs out of Milwaukee.”

“I’ve known Jeff since he was a little kid. He doesn’t have the balls to move the team.”

“If you don’t give him the extra time, he won’t have a choice,” I replied.

‘
I
’m the one who doesn’t have a choice,” declared Wallenberg, from behind his desk, his voice ripe with self-pity. “Do you have any idea how competitive the banking environment is right now? The big boys are all moving in from New York and Chicago, stealing our customers, opening up branches in the grocery stores. We have to stay lean and mean just to survive.”

“What about a thirty-day extension?”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible either.”

“Even if we agreed to make a good-faith payment? Let’s say a million dollars by Tuesday in exchange for an additional thirty days,” I inquired without the slightest notion of where the Monarchs could come up with that kind of cash.

“This is a bank, Ms. Millholland, not a pawnshop. As far as the Monarchs are concerned, they’ve already proved that they’re a bad credit risk. I suggest you go back to Jeff Rendell and tell him that a deal’s a deal. He has until next Tuesday to come up with the money.”

As I drove back to Chrissy and Jeff’s house I mentally kicked myself for being so stupid. I should have realized what Gus Wallenberg was up to as soon as Harald Feiss told me that the bank had required the revocation of the
in vivo
trust as a condition of the loan. He knew that Beau Rendell was already skating on thin ice, so Wallenberg set UP the loan so that if Beau couldn’t pay it back, the bank Would have a clear shot at the team. Next Tuesday if the Monarchs were still in default, it would be Gus Wallenberg sitting in the owner’s box.

Not only that, but I suspected that the Monarchs’ bankruptcy would invalidate all of their existing contracts, including the ones that locked the team into millions of dollars of payments to injured or nonperforming players. Getting there might be ugly, but in the end Gus Wallenberg would control an NFL football franchise and be able to run it from a position of strength.

I wondered whether Wallenberg saw this as an act of personal betrayal or whether in his version it was all just business. I was willing to bet that no matter what he’d convinced himself of, if it had been a dairy farm instead of a football team that I’d come to talk to him about this morning, First Milwaukee would have already granted the extension.

As soon as I pulled into Chrissy’s driveway, I saw the unmarked Caprice parked in front of the door. Chrissy was waiting for me as well, pacing beneath the porte cochere in a chic black suit and pumps, her agitation making her oblivious to the cold.

“You have to get in there,” she said, grabbing me by the arm and practically dragging me into the house.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Two cops showed up a little while ago. I told them that we were on our way to the funeral home, but they said it would just take a minute. They insisted on speaking to Jeff.”

“Why didn’t you stay with him?” I asked as I followed her quickly through the kitchen.

“They wouldn’t let me,” she replied over her shoulder. “I don’t know what’s going on.” We stopped in front of the door to the living room. “It’s so awful,” she said in a whisper. “They’re acting like he’s some kind of criminal.”

I pushed open the door and stepped inside. “Good morning, officers,” I announced brightly, barging right in, Elliott’s warning about the deaths of the famous not far from my mind. It was the same pair of detectives from the day before. I turned my back on them and spoke directly to Jeff, taking his hand, establishing eye contact to reassure him, willing him to calm down. “Chrissy said that you wanted to have your attorney present to advise you while you gave your statement.” There was no mistaking the look of relief on Jeff’s face. I flashed him a quick wink and then turned back to face the two homicide detectives. “I hope you haven’t gone too far without me,” I said, making myself comfortable on the couch beside my client.

“Mr. Rendell was just telling us about the last time he saw his father,” reported Detective Eiben, less unhappy at the interruption than the fact of my presence.

Jeff looked at me. “And I told them that the last time I saw him he was lying at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to his office.”

“I meant to speak to,” pursued Eiben.

“The morning he died, then. He and I spoke in his office.”

“Just the two of you?” inquired the officer.

“Yes.”

“I’m surprised. We took a look at your father’s appointment calendar for that morning. He was booked solid with appointments. Coach Bennato, a Mr. Wallenberg, Harald Feiss—they were all scheduled to see him. Your name didn’t appear anywhere.”

“Our offices were right next to each other. My father and I talked a dozen times a day. I never made an appointment.”

“Do you recall what time this conversation with your father took place?”

“No. I didn’t notice the time. I was working in my office, and he buzzed to say he wanted to see me.”

“What did the two of you discuss?”

“Team business,” replied Jeff, catching my eye and looking for my approval.

“Anything in particular?”

“Jeff and his father discussed several items of team business,” I cut in.

“I’m afraid we’re going to need Mr. Rendell to be more specific,” said Detective Eiben.

“And I’m afraid that unless you can offer some kind of compelling reason why you need that information, I’m going to have to advise my client to not answer the question. His discussions with his father involved confidential team business.”

“How confidential could it have been if they were screaming at each other at the top of their lungs?” interjected Detective Zellmer, obviously taking the part of the bad cop.

I ignored him and turned to Jeff. “You don’t have to answer that,” I said.

“Who owns the team now that your father is dead?” asked Eiben, changing tack.

“Jeff and his wife Chrissy are now the owners of the Milwaukee Monarchs franchise,” I replied.

“He left it to both of them?” demanded Zellmer, feigning incredulity.

“He left the team to his son,” I answered matter-of-factly. “Wisconsin is a community property state.”

“So I guess it’s safe to say that you’re the person who stood to benefit the most from his death?” inquired Zellmer, looking hard at Jeff.

“Children usually are the ones who benefit financially from a parent’s death,” I pointed out.

From behind his horn rims Jeff’s eyes blazed. There was no doubt that the idea that he had been enriched by his father’s passing, when indeed the opposite was true, galled him.

“So tell me, how would you characterize your last conversation with your father?” urged Zellmer.

“What do you mean?”

“What was the general tone of the conversation? Amicable? Routine? Angry?”

“I’ve already told you that we argued.”

“Did your father raise his voice?”

“My father always raised his voice.”

“And did he on this occasion?”

“Yes.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. I already told you that.”

“And did this argument turn physical at any time?”

“What do you mean by ‘turn physical’?”

“Did you lay your hands on your father at any time during the course of this argument?”

“What kind of question is that?” demanded Jeff, outraged.

“It is actually a very simple question,” replied Zellmer with real menace. “Did you or did you not lay your hands on your father?”

“No. Of course not,” replied Jeff, looking the homicide detective straight in the eye.

“But if you had, it wouldn’t have been the first time you and your father had come to blows,” pointed out Detective Eiben affably. “You had struck him before on other occasions.”

“That is absolutely not true,” protested Jeff.

“Oh, come now, Mr. Rendell. There was even one occasion where it made it into the newspapers as I recall. I believe you punched your father in the face in the parking lot of the stadium after a Steelers game.”

“I was fifteen years old, for chrissake! I was just an immature kid!”

“So how would you characterize your behavior yesterday?” demanded Zellmer.

I rose to my feet. “Unless you have any other questions of substance, I’m afraid I’m going to have to put an end to this interview,” I announced. “My client lost his father under tragic circumstances yesterday. As far as I know, no crime has been committed and he is not a suspect. I can only assume that it is merely force of habit that has caused you to treat him as one.”

Detective Eiben closed his notebook with great ceremony and put it into his pocket before getting to his feet. “Then we’ll just thank you for your cooperation at such a difficult time,” he said flatly.

I could sense Jeff relax now that the interview was over. He led the way to the entrance hall, opened the closet door, and, ever the good host, extracted the coats belonging to the two detectives.

“One last question,” asked Detective Zellmer, as if it were merely an afterthought instead of the whole point of this carefully choreographed interview. “Do you know anything about a key that was lying on your father’s desk the morning he died?”

“A key?” inquired Jeff with a look of such convincing innocence that it completely altered my sense of what he was capable of.

“Yes. A key. It was lying on your father’s desk when the photographer from the death investigation unit came through, but by the time we arrived to bag and tag evidence, it had disappeared.”

“I’m sorry but I can’t help you,” said Jeff. “I don’t know anything about any key.”

CHAPTER 9

Once the door had closed behind the detectives I turned to face Jeff.

“You never told me you went back into your father’s office,” I said, unable to conceal the irritation in my voice.

“I told you that there were things in that box that I wouldn’t want anybody to see,” countered Jeff, defensively.

“And you swear that they have absolutely nothing to do with your father, or the team...

“Absolutely nothing. You have my word.”

“So where did you find the key?”

“On the desk, just like the police said. Dad took it off his ring and put it there when he asked me to go down to the safe-deposit box, but I forgot all about it after we started arguing.”

“So when did you remember it?”

“Afterwards, when the police showed up. I realized that I’d left it there on his desk. I was sitting in my office and I heard Feiss talking to the cops in the hall, so I ducked in there and grabbed it. You’ve got to believe me, Kate, what’s in there has nothing to do with any of this.”

I looked at Jeff, his face exhausted and pleading, and decided for the time being not to push it.

“What did they talk to you about before I showed up?” I asked. “Did they say anything about how your father died?”

“No. When I asked them they said they’re still waiting for the autopsy results, but I spoke to the funeral director this morning. He said that the body was going to be released sometime this afternoon. The funeral is scheduled for Thursday morning.”

Chrissy stuck her head in through the door from the kitchen. “Are they gone yet?” she asked.

“The coast is clear,” I replied, doing my best to make light of it.

“What is the deal with them anyway?” she asked, stepping into the room, her arms folded across her chest indignantly. “I thought they were supposed to be public servants. I swear, I’ve never been treated so rudely in my life!”

“Homicide detectives don’t go to charm school,” I pointed out. “Their job is to shake the tree and see what falls out. I don’t think anybody likes it much.”

“The two of them seemed like they were enjoying themselves,” pointed out Jeff, ruefully.

“They were just trying to get under your skin,” I said. “It’s all an act. They’d sing their questions like opera if they thought it would get you to open up and tell them what they wanted.”

“Speaking of getting what you want, how did it go at the bank?” asked Chrissy.

“They refuse to budge an inch,” I replied. “Gus Wallenberg is determined to be the new owner of the Milwaukee Monarchs. That’s probably been at the back of his mind from the very beginning. The day he okayed the loan I’m sure he figured he was giving Beau the rope to hang himself with. That’s why he insisted that the trust be revoked. He wanted to be sure that the bank was first in line in case the loan went sour.”