Stuart Woods - Fresh Disasters

“It’s all in here,” she said. “Everything.”

“May I have a look?” Stone asked.

She unsnapped the briefcase and spun it around. Inside were a number of file folders. “I think you will find this helpful.”

Stone picked up the folders. There were four, and they were a collective two inches thick. “May I take a moment to familiarize myself?” he asked.

“Take your time,” Bernice said. “I’ve got the rest of the day.”

Stone opened the first file and found himself staring at a series of financial statements going back over ten years. The most recent was dated a month before, and in toto the statements gave a very good picture of Bernie Finger’s climb from a net worth of four million dollars ten years before to a current net worth of thirty-eight million dollars. The beauty part, Stone thought, was that Bernie was at least fifty percent liquid. He went through the other folders, which contained brokerage account statements; bank statements; and copies of deeds for his Fifth Avenue co-op, the house in the Hamptons, a ski lodge in Telluride and, wonder of wonders, the new penthouse on Park Avenue where he had stashed Marilyn the Masseuse. Stone cleared his throat. “And Bernice, may I ask how you came by these documents?”

“Of course,” she said. “They were in the safe.”

“In the safe, where?”

“In our study-we share it-in our apartment.”

“And you had the combination to the safe?”

“We each have a safe. He didn’t know that I knew he kept the combination taped to the side of a desk drawer.”

“How long have you been married to Bernie, Bernice?”

“Seven years.”

“And were you married before that?”

“No, I was a businesswoman. I founded a cosmetics company, small but growing fast. Bernie made me sell it when we got married. He did the deal for me, and I never thought I got enough for it.”

“Bernice, I’m going to need a copy of your financial statement as well.”

“I don’t own anything separate from Bernie,” she said. “I put all my money into our joint accounts when we got married.”

“And how much did you get for your cosmetics company?”

“Six and a half million dollars.”

“And did you have any other assets in your own name at the time of the marriage?”

“I had a co-op on Park, paid for. Bernie sold both our apartments, and we bought the co-op on Fifth.”

“And how much of the money used for that purchase was yours?”

“Half: two million dollars.”

“And that was seven years ago?”

“Yes.”

Stone referred to the most recent financial statement in the folder. Bernie had valued the apartment at a little over six million dollars. “How big an apartment is it?”

“Six bedrooms, living, dining, library, study, kitchen, butler’s pantry, two maids’ rooms.”

Bernie had seriously undervalued his real estate for some reason, and lying on a financial statement was a felony. “Bernice,” he said, “who recommended me to you as an attorney?”

“Bernie did,” she said.

“What?”

“He talks in his sleep. He was bitching about you, calling you all sorts of names.”

“In his sleep?”

“Yes, that’s what he does when he’s nervous about the opposition. So, I figured, if Bernie is nervous about you, you’re my man.”

“Bernice,” Stone said, “I would be very pleased to represent you in this action.” He explained his fees.

“Can you take a percentage, instead of a fee?”

“Of course. If you’d prefer it I can do it on a contingency basis.” He certainly could! “I’d need a retainer, to apply against the contingency on the final settlement.”

“How do you think we’ll do in court?”

“Bernice, with a little luck, I don’t think we’ll ever see the inside of a courtroom. I would expect this to settle, and fairly quickly.”

“Stone,” she said, “are you telling me I’ve got Bernie by the balls?”

“Bernice,” he replied, “that’s a very good assessment of your position. And his.”

“Then let’s do it.”

Stone pressed a button on the phone. “Joan, will you please print out a copy of our standard contingency agreement and bring it in, please?”

“Yes, Mr. Barrington,” she replied meekly.

Bernice reached into her handbag, brought out a check and handed it over. “Will this do for a retainer?” she asked.

It was written on her and her husband’s joint checking account and was made out for a hundred thousand dollars. “That’s very generous, Bernice,” he replied, handing it to Joan as she walked in with the agreement. He explained the terms of the contingency agreement, while she nodded along, then she signed the document and Joan took it away to notarize.

Stone turned back to Bernice. “Have you thought about what you want in the way of a settlement?”

“I want the money I got in the sale of my business, the Fifth Avenue apartment, and the house in the Hamptons. He can have Telluride and the love nest on Park Avenue. And I want half of everything else.”

“I don’t think that’s unreasonable,” Stone said.

“And the everything else includes the bank account in the Cayman Islands.”

Stone’s eyebrows went up. “Do you have copies of the statements?”

“They’re in the bank file,” she said. “Oh, and you should know that Bernie didn’t pay taxes on what’s in that account.”

Stone’s heart leapt. “That’s good to know,” he said.

She rose to go, and he walked her to the front door. “I’ll call Bernie and arrange a settlement conference,” he said, shaking her hand and closing the door behind her. He walked back to Joan’s office. “You hotfoot it to the bank and get that check cleared before Bernie finds out she wrote it, and I’ll dictate a complaint as soon as you get back. I want him served first thing tomorrow morning.”

Stone walked into Elaine’s and sat down. Dino was already there with his usual Scotch, and Stone’s Knob Creek arrived immediately.

“You look like you had a good day,” Dino said.

“Why do you say that?” Stone asked, sipping the bourbon.

“Well, you have a smile plastered on your face, and you don’t seem to be able to make it go away.”

“Dino, nothing could make it go away.”

“All right, tell me.”

“Well, first of all, the lovely Celia and I had a very good evening together, which lasted until after breakfast.”

Dino sighed. “I don’t suppose you’ll give me details.”

“A gentleman doesn’t tell.”

“What else?”

“Second, Herbie Fisher has disappeared.”

“That is good news.”

“It gets better: He may be dead.”

“Carmine Dattila?”

“The primary suspect. Herbie hasn’t shown or called Bob Cantor for three days, and his apartment has been ransacked.”

“Didn’t you say that Herbie owes Carmine’s bookie twenty-four grand?”

“And counting.”

“Well, it doesn’t make sense that Carmine would off him; he’ll never get his money that way.”

“Maybe he’s mad enough, what with the lawsuit, that he just wants Herbie to go away. God knows, I can sympathize.”

Dino shook his head. “Guys like Carmine don’t kill money. He would be more likely to get the money, then kill Herbie. Maybe that’s what he’s doing right now, torturing Herbie in a cellar somewhere, trying to get the money out of him.”

“Well, I would certainly not want Herbie or anybody else to be tortured, even if he did bring it on himself by betting with bookies, failing to pay, then suing Carmine.”

“But you don’t mind if Carmine offs him?”

“I’d off him myself, if I thought I could get away with it.”