Rough Trade (8 page)

“I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” I replied, meaning it.

“I need you to keep something,” he said, pulling something from his pocket and thrusting it into my hand. “Don’t tell anyone else you have it,” he whispered quickly, as Chrissy stepped back into the room.

I silently made a fist around the jagged edges of the object. It was a key.

CHAPTER 6

I put the key in my pocket and made my way downstairs, not quite sure what to do next. In the kitchen, Harald Feiss had replaced Coach Bennato at the Scotch bottle, but from the look of desolation on his face I found myself wondering if there was enough alcohol in the world to soften the blow of what he was going through.

What are you doing here?” he asked unpleasantly, spying me over the top of his glass.

“I came as soon as I heard.”

“Business must not be too good if you have to drive all the way to Milwaukee trying to drum up clients.”

“Listen, Harald. You were Beau’s good friend. I’m Chrissy’s. Let’s just leave it at that. Sometimes at a time like this, things get said that people later wish they could take back.”

“So, with your vast experience, you’re lecturing me on behavior?” he demanded sarcastically.

“Harald, take my word for it,” I replied in my most conciliatory tone. “It is not my intention to say anything that would hurt or offend you, especially not today.”

Feiss, apparently mollified, reached for the bottle and refilled his glass. I suspected that he was the same kind of alcoholic as my father, the kind who drank constantly but was seldom drunk.

“Chrissy and I were talking earlier, and she said that you handled all of Beau’s affairs, including his estate planning.”

“Yes, I did.”

“So how did he leave things?”

“Everything goes to Jeff.”

“Absolutely everything?”

“Yes. Everything.”

“Who’s the executor?”

“Jeff.”

I was grateful that it wasn’t Feiss, but I tried not to show it. “So how did he leave it? Is there an
in vivo
trust in effect or any other mechanism that would limit tax liability?”

“Originally there was, but we were forced to dissolve it as a condition of the loan agreement with First Milwaukee. Gus Wallenberg insisted that if he was going to lend Beau the money, the Monarchs’ assets not be sheltered in a trust.”

“You mean he wanted to make sure that the bank had a clean shot at the assets if Beau couldn’t make his payments.”

“You’d have to ask Wallenberg. I don’t know what his thinking was, I only know what’s in the agreement.”

“But you do know what Beau was thinking. You were his closest confidant. He may have kept secrets from Jeff, but he didn’t keep any from you. So what I want to know is what was he planning to do to keep the bank off his back?”

“He was about to sign a deal to move the team into a new stadium in the suburbs.”

“How close was he?”

“The developer was in the process of drawing up the contracts. As soon as they were signed, Beau would have gotten the check.”

“How big a check?”

“Enough to satisfy the bank.”

“I assume the developer would be willing to deal with Jeff”

“The question is will Jeff be willing to deal with them?”

“I’m sure at this point Jeff just wants to keep all of his options open.”

“That’s not what it sounded like this morning.”

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t heard about the scene this morning?”

“Are you talking about Jeff’s behavior when he found out about his father’s death?”

“No. I’m talking about the shouting match he had with Beau just before he died.”

Great, I thought to myself. And the hits just keep right on coming. Out loud I asked, “What did they fight about?”

“The bank, moving the team. Gus Wallenberg was on his way down to the stadium to talk about the financing for the new stadium. Jeff wanted his dad to show Wallenberg L.A.’s offer in order to put pressure on the bank.”

“And did he?”

“By the time Wallenberg showed up, Beau was already at the bottom of the stairs.”

“So do you know whether Jeff got his father to agree to try to negotiate with the bank for more time?”

“You’ll have to ask Jeff, but I can tell you from the way that it sounded, I’m pretty sure they didn’t agree about anything. Where is Jeff, by the way? I haven’t seen him.”

“He’s upstairs, asleep. He took a sleeping pill so I’m sure he’ll be out for a while.”

“Good.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because when he wakes up, he’s going to have to deal with the fact that the very last thing he probably told his father was that he could take his football team and shove it right up his ass.”

* * *

The police showed up while Harald Feiss was standing on the front lawn, bathed in klieg lights, issuing a statement on behalf of the family that no one had authorized—not Jeff, who was still deep in pharmacologically induced slumber, nor Chrissy, who was standing beside me silently: fuming as we watched from an upstairs window. As soon as the police pulled into the driveway, I ran outside to intercept them. Thankfully, the reporters were too busy hanging on Feiss’s every cliché to notice. No one ever accused TV journalists of being newshounds.

Two men with neat ties and shiny shoes got out of a white Caprice, flashed their badges at me, and identified themselves. They were both middle aged, rheumy eyed, and remote. The taller of the two said his name was Eiben. He had a lean, pockmarked face and a brush cut. He spoke with the kind of bland courtesy that’s taught in customer service training courses. The other man’s name was Zellmer. He was older, thicker, and wore his thinning gray hair in a comb-over that was remarkable if only for its ambition. Everything about them said cop.

I led them down the garden path and through the garage into the house so that they wouldn’t bump into anybody. Then I ushered them into the bookless room that Beau Rendell had called his library. It had white shag carpeting, black leather furniture, and a wet bar. All it was missing was a painting of Elvis on black velvet.

“We’re here to speak to Jeffrey Rendell,” said Eiben, looking around and taking it all in.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that’s not possible right now,”

I replied, doing my best to sound apologetic.

“I’m not sure I understand. When we spoke to his attorney at the stadium, he promised to make him available to be interviewed when we came out this afternoon.”

“Unfortunately, he’s been given a sedative on doctor’s orders. He’s sound asleep.”

“Now why would he need a sedative?” inquired Eiben earnestly, as if he really wanted to know.

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask the doctor.”

“I’m asking you.”

“I don’t like to speculate, but maybe it has something to do with the fact that Jeff was very upset by his father’s death.”

“How upset?”

“I don’t know,” I shot back. “How upset would you be if your father had just died?”

“My father died when I was four,” deadpanned Eiben. “He got drunk and fell down a well. When do you think that Mr. Rendell might be available to make a statement?”

“I would think sometime tomorrow.”

“Would you mind explaining to us exactly what your relationship is to the Rendells?”

“I’m a personal friend of Jeff and his wife. I’m also their attorney.”

“So who was this guy Feiss we talked to this morning?”

“He was Beau Rendell’s lawyer and business adviser.”

“That’s a lot of lawyers. I guess it’s the money that attracts you guys—kind of like maggots and old meat.”

“What a delightful metaphor,” I replied in my best imitation of my mother at her most charming. “I hope you don’t mind if I use it sometime.”

“So I take it you knew the Rendells pretty well,” he continued, ignoring my attempt to be irritating.

“I guess you could say that.”

“So how would you characterize the deceased’s relationship with his son?”

“Jeff and his father were very close. They had worked together every day for nearly a decade.”

“Would you say they got along?”

“No better or worse than a lot of fathers and sons.”

“Would you say that Jeff and his father argued a great deal?”

“I’d say that Beau argued with everyone. I’m sure you read the sports pages.”

“You can’t always believe everything you read in the' papers,” observed Zellmer sagely.

“True. Beau was the Monarchs’ owner. His son was the team’s general manager. Owners and general managers disagree all the time about what’s best for the team. Jeff’s personal relationship with his father was a close one.”

“So you wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Jeff Rendell and his father had a violent argument this morning?”

“I told you, Detective. Owners and general managers invariably disagree, often acrimoniously, and especially when a team is doing as badly as the Monarchs are this season. So, to answer your question, no, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least.”

The two detectives exchanged a quick glance, like the shorthand of two people who have been married a long time, and they rose to their feet in unison.

“Well, thank you for your time,” said Eiben, patting his pockets and extracting a business card. “You’ve been very helpful.” He handed it to me. “Please make sure that Jeff Rendell gets in touch with us as soon as he’s able.”

“Of course,” I replied.

“Do you mind if we have a look around on our way out?” asked Eiben.

“Not if you have a search warrant.”

“Well then, I guess we’ll be on our way.”

“Let me show you out,” I said, following them through the kitchen and walking them back out to their car. In the little time we’d been talking, the wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees. I blew on my hands and watched the detectives as they got into their car and drove away. In spite of the cold I stood there long after they’d disappeared from sight.

No pun intended; Milwaukee was a town where the Monarchs were king. For years the Rendells had been among its most prominent citizens. All things considered, I’d expected a lot more bowing and scraping with profuse apologies thrown in for intruding at this terrible time of tragedy. Indeed, the more I thought about it, the more I found the detectives’ hard-nosed and businesslike approach profoundly disturbing.

There are no secrets for the dead, especially the rich. Lawyers and accountants turn their lives inside out like a pair of pants, looking for loose change. As I made my way to Beau’s study I consoled myself with the fact that wherever Beau was, at least he was no longer in a position to object. Not that anyone familiar with Beau’s current balance sheet would have mistaken him for wealthy. Still, Chrissy was so furious at Feiss for presuming to speak for the family that she asked me to have a look through Beau’s papers. At least that way there would be someone who would be able to tell if something turned up missing later.

Beau’s study was a large, masculine room that was part office, part refuge, and part shrine to football. The massive credenza was crowded with power photos, honors, and awards. Autographed footballs sealed in Lucite sarcophagi, trophies, and plaques of every shape and size filled the bookshelves. Signed jerseys of famous Monarchs players were stretched, framed, and displayed on the walls like fine art.

Of course, all these were just token symbols of the much larger prize. When it comes right down to it, an NFL team is the biggest, best, and most testosterone-induced trophy of them all. After all, there are only thirty of them, and together the owners form the most exclusive old boys’ club in the world. This was the place where Beau had come to savor it. Looking around, I suddenly understood the desperation he must have felt at the prospect of having to give it all up.

The room still smelled of his cigars. The soft leather of his chair still bore the impression of his body. On his desk beside the telephone was a roll of blueprints held together with a red rubber band and a pencil that lay exactly where it had left his hand. What had he been thinking, ten days I away from losing it all?

I sat myself down in his chair and unrolled the blue- prints, expecting to see the architect’s drawings for the proposed new stadium in suburban Wauwatosa. Instead, I was surprised to find a set of ambitious renderings for the proposed renovation of the existing Monarchs Stadium downtown. Curious, I laid them flat and examined them one by one.

From what I could tell, it looked like a daring plan, one that called for the existing structure to be almost totally rebuilt and the field to be lowered eight feet. This would make way for a new deck of luxury seating. In addition, the present-day lower deck would be ripped out and replaced with restaurants and restrooms. I loved the concept, but then again, concepts are cheap. I wondered if the city also had a plan for how to pay for it.

I looked in the folder that lay underneath the drawings and found my answer. Inside was what looked like a scribbled term sheet, probably handwritten during the course of a meeting, which outlined a proposal that cobbled together a package of deferred tax credits, income from a naming fee for rechristening the renovated stadium, additional parking revenues, and an 8 percent sin tax on tobacco and alcohol. Quickly adding the numbers in my head, I realized that with a little bit of creative massaging, they might be stretched to cover the deficit with the bank, as well. Unfortunately, there was no way of telling whether what I was looking at represented what Beau had asked for or what the city was offering.

I made a mental note to call the mayor’s office, pleased at the prospect of possibly having another variable to play with. Then with a sigh I turned my attention to the rest of Beau’s desk. A cursory look through the first drawer was enough to tell me that it contained the story of a man pushed to the very edge of ruin. All the files were neatly labeled and arrayed in chronological order. The checkbooks were reconciled to the penny. I found it heartbreaking to see the full scope of the disaster laid out in such an orderly fashion.