Peter Spiegelman - Death's little helpers

“You know anybody who deals in celebrity cell numbers?” I asked.

“And hello to you too. Somebody have a little too much coffee today?”

“Somebody hasn’t had nearly enough. Surely a fancy outfit like Brill must have a few gray-market contacts for stuff like this.”

“Surely we do. And they’re so useful we don’t waste them on free agents like you.”

“I’m not asking you to waste anything, I just want a number.”

“Whose?”

“Linda Sovitch’s.”

“From TV?”

“Is there another?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Neary said. “I hear you had a nice visit with Dennis Turpin, by the way.”

“It had a certain entertainment value,” I said, “but I’m not sure how useful it was. I did have an interesting chat with Danes’s doorman, though.” I told Neary about it, and he was quiet for a while, thinking.

“Not cops,” he said finally.

“And not Turpin’s people, either- at least, not according to him. And I assume you’d tell me if they were yours.”

“They’re not mine,” he said.

“Then whose are they?”

“I don’t know,” Neary said. “Not without more coffee, anyway. I’ll call if I get a brainstorm, or if I can find Sovitch’s number.”

While I waited, I read through Geoffrey Tyne’s CV, in anticipation of interviewing him that afternoon. As I’d gathered from his name, Tyne was a Brit, though he’d spent much of his twenty-five-year career overseas. His background was in the right ballpark: university, some military service, a stint with a big UK security consulting firm, doing “personal security”- bodyguard- work before graduating to the corporate side of the shop. And then came a succession of jobs abroad, mainly with banks, in capacities of branch or country or regional security director. But he hadn’t stayed at any of the companies longer than a few years, and he’d never managed to secure a top spot. I was wondering why when the phone rang.

It wasn’t Neary. It was Gregory Danes’s lawyer, Toby Kahn, returning my call. He was on a cell phone, on his way to court. His voice was deep and local, and his rushed words were half swallowed by a bad connection.

“You’re who?” he asked, and I explained it to him again.

“I get paid to handle securities cases for Greg, and that’s it,” Kahn said. “I’m not qualified to do family law, and I get no brownie points for mixing it up with his ex-wife or her hired hand- which I guess is what you are. I got to go inside now- sorry I can’t…” His words grew fainter and the static grew louder, and then the line was dead. I put the phone down.

When it rang again, Neary was on the other end. He had no ideas about who else might be looking for Danes, but he did have a telephone number for me.

“It’s supposed to be her supersecret, private, family-and-close-friends-only number, so use it wisely.”

Linda Sovitch’s supersecret, private, family-and-close-friends-only number was answered by her supersecret, private, family-and-close-friends-only personal assistant, a single-minded young man named Brent.

“How the hell did you get this number?” he demanded.

I suppressed the urge to say something about a bathroom wall. “I’m a PI, Brent, I do this kind of thing for a living. And if I can get a little time with Linda to talk about a case, I’ll happily go away.”

“How the hell did you get this number?” We went on like this for a while. Finally, my patience ran dry.

“Just tell her I need to talk about Gregory Danes, okay? It won’t take more than a half hour of her life, and we can do it at a time and place of her choosing.”

“How the hell did you get-”

“Tell her, Brent.” I hung up.

I wasn’t sure when, or if, I’d hear back from Brent- much less from Sovitch- and I had a few hours until my interview with Geoffrey Tyne. I opened my laptop to research the last items on my list of Danes lawsuits. I turned on the television for background noise. It was tuned to BNN, and after twenty minutes of half-bright market commentary, Linda Sovitch came on the screen.

It was a short blurb, no more than fifteen seconds, pitching that night’s segment of Market Minds. Sovitch’s hair hung in a graceful blond bell, framing her face and long neck. Her flawless understated makeup accentuated the blue of her eyes, the curve of her high cheeks, and the fullness of her mouth. She was babbling something about her scheduled guests when my phone rang. It was Brent.

“You know the Manifesto Diner?” I didn’t. “It’s on Eleventh Avenue, between Fifty-third and Fifty-fourth. She’ll meet you there this afternoon at three-thirty- exactly- and you’ll have exactly fifteen minutes.” He hung up. It had been easier than I thought.

I changed channels and went back to my laptop and the lawsuits. I stayed there for about an hour, and then I changed into a navy suit, white shirt, and tie and caught a subway downtown. But my mind was not on the interview with Geoffrey Tyne, or even on my meeting with Linda Sovitch. Instead, I was thinking about the last of the court records that I’d read and about making another trip to Brooklyn later that night.

The offices of Klein amp; Sons are downtown, just off Hanover Square, a short walk from the Exchange, a slightly longer one from the Fed, and a stone’s throw from the two cramped rooms my great-grandfather had leased when he founded the firm one hundred years ago. Though it was early afternoon, the narrow street was already in shadow.

The Klein building is a minor Deco masterpiece, with elaborate chevron designs in green and gold around its base and a tower clad in stylized bronze fronds. The lobby is a vaulted cave of polished black stone, inlaid with gilded zigzags. Being there set my teeth on edge.

I didn’t visit the office much as a kid. I was bored and cranky whenever I went, and I annoyed my uncles and was in turn annoyed by them. My father, I suspect, shared many of my feelings about the place and rarely invited me down. And as an adult, I visited even less. So besides my relatives, there were few people there who recognized me. My name was a different matter.

The guards were deferential and apologetic as they waited for word from above to let me pass. And the pale young man who escorted me through the hushed teak-paneled maze of the seventh floor- the managing partners’ floor- was overawed and tongue-tied. Only the sturdy Hispanic woman who led me through the double doors of the conference room and offered me coffee was unimpressed. I said yes to the coffee, and she left me alone.

It was a long high-ceilinged room, with doors at one end and a white marble fireplace at the other. The walls were mahogany panels below the chair rail and plaster above. The ceiling was heavy with molding. Two brass chandeliers hung gleaming above the mahogany oval of the conference table and were flawlessly reflected in its flawless surface. Sixteen green leather chairs surrounded the table, and a pair of matching leather sofas ran along one wall, beneath four tall windows. Along the opposite wall were the photographs.

They were portraits of individuals and groups, expensively mounted and gilt-framed- Klein amp; Sons partners down through the ages. For the first few decades, it was all blood family: Morton Klein, his younger brother Meyer, and their male offspring. As the firm grew and the Klein daughters married, sons-in-law began to appear in the pictures, and by the forties there were a couple of unrelated partners. By the sixties- Klein being rather ahead of its time- it was possible to spot some nonwhite faces in the crowd and even a few women. And the recent photos were of as diverse a group of executives as one could find anywhere on the Street. But evolution has its limits. Klein progeny and their spouses have always held the topmost spots and a controlling interest in the firm.