Key man, p.15
Key Man, page 15
As he emerged from the stairwell, Ron caught a glimpse of Sandy Gains in the lobby waiting for an elevator. Sandy was a salesman’s salesman. He always had a good story, and if he spotted Ron, it would be fifteen minutes in the telling.
Ski was perspiring as if he’d just run five miles. Sam was shuffling papers but unable to concentrate on any of the information he had in his lap. The freeway traffic congealed the instant Ski killed the siren. They were back to bobbing and weaving.
For an instant, Ron felt a twinge of guilt as he slipped back into the stairwell. Sandy was a good guy, and normally Ron enjoyed their little chats. But this was racquetball day. Sandy’s story would have to wait.
Ski turned the squad car off the Long Beach Freeway and onto the Seaside Freeway heading toward the industrial area just east of San Pedro. Looming ahead was a towering pillar of black smoke.
Zebbrouski’s car was still ablaze as they pulled into the Zebron Industries’ parking lot.
Chapter 29
It was a somber gathering at Ted’s that evening. Sam staked out their booth while Ski paced up and down the sidewalk in front of the bar until first Donny, then Kate arrived.
Ski was highly agitated and could hardly sit still. “We’ve gotta warn these guys Sam,” Ski started, about to shake his index finger at Sam for emphasis. This was the first time Ski had ever raised his voice to Sam, and he quickly decided that adding finger pointing wasn’t in order.
“Can’t,” answered Sam in a steely voice that sent a shiver up Ski’s back. “What da ya mean, can’t?” Ski flashed.
“Can’t,” Sam continued, “at least not yet.”
“For Christ sakes, why not?” Ski sputtered.
“Word gets out that we’re on to this guy and we’ll never catch him,” Sam stated matter-of-factly.
“Christ, Sam, these guys’ lives are at stake ... we didn’t do such a great job of catching the bastard today, and he was right in our back yard!” Ski uttered through clenched teeth. “I don’t want to ever, ever, again drive up to some guy’s business, or to his home, for Christ sake, and find he’s just gotten toasted.”
“Look, I know you’re upset,” Sam offered after a minute of silence. “We’re all upset. But we can’t rush out and tip our hand and let this guy know we’re on to him. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
There was a prolonged silence in the booth. Finally, Ski looked directly into Sam’s eyes and said, “Sam, these guys’ lives are at risk. We have to tell them.”
Sam started to speak but was cut off. “If we just sit here and do nothing, and let another one of these guys get blown to bits ... if that happened, if we weren’t legally considered accessories to the murder, I’d consider us morally responsible.”
“I’m not saying we just let these guys go about their daily routines as unsuspecting sitting ducks while we wait for this prick to strike again. All I’m saying is let’s not fly off and blow this thing because we’re upset. We’ve got some time before we have to put everyone on notice,” Sam offered in his best calming voice.
“I’m not following you,” said Kate, joining the conversation.
“Look,” started Sam, “He doesn’t strike every other day. He lets things cool down. That’s what I mean by time.”
Ski observed, “He’s picking up steam. There’s less and less time between attacks. And now he’s hit three times in a row in the same metropolitan area, and he’s never done that before.”
“And?” asked Sam.
“And! What I’m saying is, he’s changing his pattern,” answered Ski.
Donny, feeling the need to participate in the discussion observed, “Maybe he’s getting overconfident. Maybe he’ll make a mistake.”
Ski just shook his head and said, “Maybe he knows we’re on to him, or maybe he just sees the end in sight and wants to wrap things up in a hurry.”
Wanting to end this discussion, Sam jumped back in, “I’m not saying we don’t tell the guys they’re at risk. I’m not saying we don’t tell them soon. All I’m sayin’ is that we’ve got a little time. Let’s take just a little time. Regroup. Come up with a new strategy. Then we can notify everyone who needs to know what’s going on.”
It was agreed that they’d take a couple of days to see if they could come up with any new ideas. They also agreed that more drinks were in order.
II
Kate ended up driving Ski home that evening. It was the first time anyone had seen Ski get really hammered. But after the day he’d had, Ski had made a conscious effort to get really hammered.
Kate would have stayed with Ski that evening. She would have held him tightly to let him know that what had happened that day wasn’t his fault. Let him know things would be OK.
Kat was up for a sleepover as well. Ski’s sensitivity had gotten to Kate. Kat was interested in other things.
But Katherine had watched Ski work his way from beer to rum-and-cokes and finally on to tequila shooters. Katherine knew that such a lethal mixture had a second life and would revisit Ski sometime, probably sooner rather than later, that night. Katherine wasn’t about to clean up what was sure to be a serious mess.
Sam didn’t even wait to hear from Ski the next day before reporting Ski’d be out sick. Ski, who’d spent most of the night crawling between his couch and the toilet, took refuge in his bedroom, where the extra blanket he had thrown over the small window kept the sunlight at bay.
Kate, can of chicken noodle soup in hand, dropped by around 1:00 pm just to make sure Ski was still with the living. Ski saw Kate’s visit as some form of divine intervention and couldn’t stop confessing his sins, vowing repeatedly he’d never drink again.
Based on Kat’s prior experience, Kate realized Ski had yet to completely metabolize all the alcohol he had consumed. So she just gently patted him on the head and forgave him his sins. Kate’s quiet reassurances and the chicken soup combined to put his mind at rest. And Ski finally relaxed into the first real peace he’d enjoyed since realizing they’d arrived too late to save Zebbrouski.
Kate started to tidy up Ski’s apartment when she remembered what she’d likely find in the bathroom. Mother Teresa she wasn’t, so after a superficial sweep of the living room, Kate whispered good-by and headed for the beach. She had her own thinking to do, and the sound of rolling surf always cleared her head.
Chapter 30
Most of the new money, the huge chunks of new money being churned out by a booming economy, was going into extremely conspicuous consumption, investments in venture capital funds, or back into the adolescent businesses that were creating all the new wealth. The little charitable giving coming from the new rich was directed mostly at the liberal causes of the moment. And those causes were valued in direct proportion to the “star” quality of the Hollywood celebrity, or the sports hero, or the fashion icon, who was passionately pushing the message.
Philanthropy was still part of the “old money” circle. But old money was stagnant. And therefore so were the charities and institutions that relied on its kindness.
Consequently, Terrance Newberry’s generous donations to the organizations, foundations, and charitable trusts that offered him a seat on their Boards were seen as a breath of fresh air, a chance to add some new blood, rather than as an effort to buy his way into society. Besides, Terrance always offered sound investment advice. And, while he was generally viewed as dour and unsophisticated, he certainly looked the part of “old money.”
After fading to black back East, Terrance Newberry emerged on the Southern California social scene, the product of extremely successful personal investing.
While the previous Terrance had fit in with the Young Turk crowd, the reinvented Terrance was definitely “old school.” Everything from his Beverly Hills mansion, complete with English butler and assorted other Central Casting staff, to the satin smoking jacket he wore even though he didn’t smoke, to the polo horses he didn’t ride, all shouted “old money.”
Cocaine and scotch had been replaced by the occasional brandy. Sleeping around, or not sleeping at all, had been replaced by a monogamistic relationship featuring dates at the country club, appearances at the opera, and evenings at the theater.
A Bentley was his car of choice, even though any normal male his age, and with his money, would have driven a Ferrari. Dinner at Terrance’s would likely feature Chateaubriand, Welshire pudding, and a heavy, old Bordeaux instead of the California cuisine and fresh Chardonnay his chef preferred.
But no matter what trappings Terrance draped about his persona, society knew his place. Old money is old money. New money is new money.
Terrance could try as hard as he wanted. But the bottom line was that it would take a few generations before Terrance’s lineage would be accepted as “old money.” Until then, Terrance would be tolerated, appreciated for what he’d accomplished financially, and accepted as a source of fresh cash.
But a member of society? No, not that. Terrance might be a financial equal, but not a peer.
Not now. Not ever.
II
It was Kate who first raised Terrance as a suspect in the car bombings. Serendipity played a huge role.
After Donny developed his list of individuals who fit the ‘short sale’ target profile, Kate started helping Ski organize his files on the potential targets. In her spare time, she began researching the private and social lives of some of the higher profile executives who were at risk. As she combed the society pages, she would occasionally come across an article that mentioned her grandfather. Kate started collecting the excerpts, thinking that one day she’d compile them into a scrapbook to help keep her grandfather’s memory alive.
Every time the investigation hit a dead end, Kate’s sense of loss associated with her grandfather’s death would peak. She hadn’t yet forced herself to take the existential step of organizing the clips she had collected on Jonathan and committing them to the cold, fixed format of a scrapbook. But whenever Kate was really down, she would flip through the various newspaper and magazine articles, looking for pictures of her grandfather that would give her comfort.
It was during one of these sessions, after Ron Zebbrouski’s murder, that Kate realized there was one picture in her collection she always avoided. She finally forced herself to confront it.
III
“It was there all along,” Kate explained to Sam and Ski in as animated a delivery as she had mustered in some time. Standing in Sam and Ski’s cubicle, Kate wildly waved the picture she clutched in her right hand. “It was right there under my nose, but I couldn’t bear to look at it,” she continued.
Sam took control: “OK, we’re all ears. But you got to slow down so we can follow you. OK, deep breath. One point at a time. Start at the beginning.”
Kate followed Sam’s advice, took a deep breath, gathered her thoughts, and started. “I’ve been collecting these articles that mention my grandfather. You know, to make a scrapbook or something.” She stopped for a moment, took another deep breath and continued, “Anyway, there was this one picture I couldn’t ever bear to look at.” Another deep breath, “because ... well, because ... it showed my grandfather the way most people will remember him,” Kate paused.
Feeling more like a psychologist than a detective, Ski inquired, “And just how is it that most other people will remember your grandfather?”
“As a bitter, intolerant, old man!” Kate exclaimed. “As a bitter, old man,” she exhaled, slumping over in her chair.
After a moment, Kate straightened her back and continued, “but he really wasn’t like that. That was just the face he put on in public. I think he really thought that it was his right ... in fact I think he thought it was almost his responsibility ... to act rude in public.”
Kate could tell from the blank expressions on both Sam’s and Ski’s faces that they’d missed the point and she’d need to explain further. “It may seem hard to comprehend from the outside, but the really rich have this, like, unwritten code of conduct.”
“Very rich kids are supposed to be insufferable. Very rich boys are expected to be irresponsible. Very rich girls are taught to be proper and, above all else, unattainable. Very rich parents are expected to be unhappy and overburdened by the demands of being rich. Very rich matrons finally get a chance to be generous and are understanding of everyone else’s faults. But very rich old men are supposed to realize that everyone is just waiting for them to die. So they are mean, and cranky, and self-fulfilling. They make everyone want them to just die, so that everyone else can move up a notch in the very rich scheme of things.”
Sam and Ski were speechless, so Kate continued, “Grandpa acted like he was supposed to act in public. He was short-tempered, mean, and condescending. It was his role, and he fulfilled his obligation to play that role.”
“But in private,” Kate explained. “In private, he was just a sweet, frightened, generous, little old man.”
“I want to remember the loving grandfather I knew. Not the mean and demanding patriarch Jonathan Newberry was to the rest of the world.”
Kate handed the picture she had been clutching to Ski and added, “So I couldn’t bear to look at this picture of grandpa that was taken a couple of years ago, because it’s the worst of the “public” Jonathan. The Jonathan I don’t want to remember.”
The newspaper photo was of Jonathan Newberry, in full tuxedo, lashing out at a younger man, also dressed for a night at the opera. Jonathan had clearly just ripped his left arm from the younger man’s grip and looked like he might be about to raise the cane he held in his right hand. Jonathan’s eyes flashed. And while the younger man had started to cower, his expression was clearly that of intense hatred.
The caption under the photo stated, “Head of Newberry clan puts black sheep in his place.”
Ski read the caption out loud. He started to read the article but Kate snatched it back before he could finish the first sentence.
“You don’t need to read it all. I’ll tell you what went on. At least what came down through the family rumor mill,” Kate continued, settling back in her chair.
“Terrance Newberry, at least that’s what he calls himself, is the other man in the photo. He and his relatives have been an embarrassment to the family for years. Actually, generations.”
After catching her breath, Kate continued, “One of the original Newberry Brothers — the brothers who started amassing the Newberry fortune by cornering the market on South American rubber — had two sons. One of the sons was clearly cut from the Newberry cloth and grew up to make the family proud. The other son was not very bright, good looking, or energetic and became an alcoholic ne’er-do-well who was a family embarrassment.
This second son had a wife and children, but like most of the Newberry men of the time, had a mistress on the side. Well, the mistress, like many other mistresses, got pregnant, but unlike other mistresses, didn’t have the problem taken care of.
She disappeared, had the child, and then returned expecting to be embraced by the Newberry family. Well, that just wasn’t going to happen. She took the money the Newberrys offered to get her and her son out of town, and everyone thought that was the end of it.”
Kate stood up and started to pace around the tiny cubicle. “And, while they did disappear, that wasn’t the end of it.”
“Apparently this bastardized offshoot of the Newberry lineage moved up-state and began to fester in the shadow of the Newberry’s growing fame and fortune. They developed their own family folklore that was passed down from generation to generation.
“Over time, the folklore on our side of the family tree transformed us from being the descendants of common merchants who had profited from political connections and slave labor in a far off land into aristocratic members of high society. The folklore on the bastard side of the family transformed them into the victims of an epic social wrong, instead of the descendants of a common sexual indiscretion.”
Still pacing, Kate continued, “All of this simmered until it was time for Terrance’s mother to fit him with the family’s ball and chain. Terrance’s mother accepted that burden with a vengeance.
“She relentlessly pursued her claim to a share of the wealth and status the Newberrys by this time enjoyed. She went so far as to actually sue the family.
“Well, she won the right to use the family name. But the court denied her any monetary damages. And she certainly wasn’t added to the guest list for family outings.”
Kate took her seat and reached for the picture she’d set down on Ski’s desk. “I guess she passed on this insane obsession of being a ‘Newberry’ to Terrance. All of a sudden, Terrance bursts onto the social scene, making noises that he belongs. He’s showing up everywhere, creating these uncomfortable situations for the family.”
“One night he tried to corner Jonathan as he was leaving the opera, demanding that Jonathan stop blocking his attempt to reconcile with the rest of the family. Well, Grandpa put him in his place. Told him that at best he’s the bad seed from some distant memory of a syphilitic old drunk who didn’t deserve to call himself a Newberry.
“I guess Terrance started going on about all the money he’s got and his rightful place in society, and Jonathan cut him down to size, telling him, and everyone else leaving the opera, that his money, no matter where it came from or how much of it he had, didn’t count for shit. Jonathan went on that it was an embarrassment for Terrance to be using the family name, just ’cause some hack judge said he could.’ And that, in Jonathan’s opinion, ‘which still counted for something in this town,’ Terrance Newberry, or ‘whatever his real name was,’ wasn’t fit to curb a Newberry dog.”
“Jesus,” Ski offered, “laid into him pretty good!”
“Apparently that wasn’t the worst of it,” Kate continued looking down at the newspaper article. “Through his public outburst, Jonathan put the rest of the local society crowd on notice that Terrance Newberry was persona-non-grata.
“Terrance had apparently been buying his way into the social scene through generous donations to a multitude of causes. And while the museums, galleries and charities continued to accept his cash and invite him to their public functions, the invitations to sit on Boards, attend private receptions, and be seen at the right places, at the right times, and with the right people, all those trappings of social standing ceased.
