16

 

 

All the way back to my apartment, I rolled the brief conversation with Marie Brassart around in my head. On the surface, the trip was a complete waste of time. The only nugget of information I garnered was that she and Henry Brassart didn’t have the closest of marriages. That wasn’t exactly breaking news. Especially if she killed him. And the police affidavit alluded to the same thing.

I knew going was worth it, though. As confusing an image as she presented, it was better for me to have some idea about Marie than none at all. Or one based upon news accounts. It might not help a lot now, but I hoped it would at some point.

Halfway to the apartment, as my mind clicked through my conversation with Marie, I realized where I needed to go next. Funny how the brain works. Or doesn’t, since the answer that came to me should have been obvious from the start.

Once I got home, I tore into the research material again. This time, I focused on Brassart’s business.

What I could piece together was skeletal. He worked for a financial firm called Stoker, Shelley & Bynes in the heart of downtown River City. I jotted the address down on a piece of scrap paper. Before I left the apartment, I took a quick look at myself in the bathroom mirror. That convinced me to shave and change into a collared shirt.

SS&B occupied the seventh floor of the Braimer Building, one of the newest, and tallest, commercial buildings downtown. The River City core was in the midst of a resurgence due to a combination of some new construction and a lot of refurbishment. A university district had been in place on the east end of downtown for several years and now housed satellite classes for all of the regional colleges. Once the students were there, the nearby businesses adjusted to cater to that crowd.

The downtown core benefitted from the investments, but the biggest change was police presence. I’d noticed the change whenever I walked to visit Clell at whatever building he was guarding. More cops downtown, in cars, on bikes, even sometimes on foot. The business people loved it, I’m sure. So did the shoppers. The street kids, panhandlers, quiet drug dealers, and subtle prostitutes didn’t.

I didn’t have a problem with a so-called cleaner downtown, and I didn’t disagree with the mayor’s mission to create a “robust” downtown district. Honestly, my biggest problem with the increased police presence was that I had to see them more often, and that came as an unpleasant reminder of a past I’d been trying to leave behind for over a decade.

The other disadvantage to a busy downtown shopping district became apparent when I had to park three blocks away from the Braimer building. I plugged the meter and trudged to the office, riding up to the seventh floor in the elevator.

The receptionist wore a silky white blouse with a red stone brooch. She looked up at me with practiced pleasantness, smiling a tight, plastic smile. Her headset sat stylishly atop her head. “Welcome to Stoker, Shelley, and Bynes. How may I help you?”

I flashed my driver’s license at her, putting it away as I spoke. “I’m investigating Mr. Brassart’s death. He was employed here, and I need to speak to his manager.”

She blinked at me, her smile never faltering, but her eyes darkened just a little. “Mr. Richards is…I mean, was…please hold on.”

I waited while she dialed and spoke softly into the small microphone. She paused, listening, then spoke again. I was surprised at how softly she spoke and by the fact that I couldn’t hear more than a murmur.

“Your name, sir?” she asked, speaking up.

“Stefan Kopriva.”

She relayed the information, listened again, then nodded. “Mr. Richards will be right out,” she told me, though I could tell she wasn’t happy about that development. I caught another glimpse of myself in the mirrored pillars along the wall behind her. The collared shirt did little to change what was obvious at a glance. I wasn’t the kind of person that normally came through those doors.

The receptionist watched me out of the corner of her eye, while pretending to ignore me and go about her work. I wondered what would happen if some multi-millionaire or recent lottery winner wandered in looking to do some business. Would she sniff out that cash and have a different attitude?

Probably. It seemed like an essential skill in that role.

A couple of minutes passed in silence while I stood waiting. Then a husky man dressed in a sharp suit came into the lobby.

“Mr. Kopriva?”

“Yes.”

He held out his hand. “Thad Richards.”

I shook his hand.

“Why don’t you come back to my office and we’ll talk?”

“That’d be great.”

Richards led me through the doors, down a wide hall past several offices, and finally through a door on the left. His office was large but simple. His desk wasn’t plain but it was far from ornate. When he motioned me to sit in one of the chairs in front of the desk, I noticed it was made of quality leather but no more decorative than the desk he sat behind.

When he’d settled into his chair, a near match for the one I sat in, he gave me a sad look. “I still can’t believe he’s gone. Even after all these months.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

He nodded his thanks, his cheeks flapping slightly with the motion. “I guess I should ask the obvious question,” he said.

“Which is?”

“Who are you?”

“Oh. Yeah, of course. Well, like I told the receptionist, my name is Stefan Kopriva, and I’m investigating Mr. Brassart’s death.”

“But you’re not the police.” His statement had a hint of a question in it.

“No.”

“No? You look like a cop of some kind.”

“I used to be.”

“So is this about the insurance, or…?”

I shook my head. “It’s about the trial. I work for an attorney.”

“Oh…” He nodded as if he understood, then stopped. “Wait a minute. Prosecutor or defense?”

I hesitated. “Well, neither yet. But if he takes the case, it’ll be for the defense.”

“Who are we talking about here?”

“I can’t say just yet.”

Richards pursed his lips. “But I’m guessing you’re going to want me to share information with you.”

“I hope so.”

“Seems like an unfair exchange. Do you have any identification?”

“I have a driver’s license, if you want to see it.”

“Don’t private investigators have licenses?”

“I’m sure they do. I’m not a private investigator. I’m just looking into this for the attorney.”

“The attorney you won’t identify.”

I stifled a sigh. This wasn’t going well. “Yes.”

Thad Richards sat looking at me for a few moments. Then he said, “Why don’t you tell me as much as you can, and I’ll decide if I can help you or not. Sound fair?”

“Fair enough.”

He spread his hands in a go-ahead gesture.

I thought about it for a second. Then I said, “I work for an attorney who has been asked to represent Mrs. Brassart. Before deciding to represent her, he has asked me to look into the case.”

“Why?”

“To help him decide whether to take it or not.”

“If he decides to take it, he’ll be defending Marie?”

“Yes.”

“Is he any good?”

“Yes. Very good.”

Richards thought about that for a second, then gave me a slight smile. “Well, I don’t believe Marie could ever harm Henry. And I think he’d want me to help out if it meant absolving her of that.”

I blinked, surprised. The way things had been going, I’d expected to be walking past the frosty receptionist on my way out the door in about two minutes.

“Well, thanks,” I said.

“What can I do to help?”

I shifted gears into investigative mode. “Let’s start with Mr. Brassart. What kind of work did he do?”

“Henry was a financial adviser.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“He had a number of clients with portfolios through our firm. He managed those portfolios, working closely with the client.”

“Is that the norm?”

“What do you mean?”

I shrugged. “I guess I always pictured people handing their money over to a financial whiz, who did all the investing for them.”

“It may have been like that at one time,” Richards said. “But not anymore.”

“May have been?”

“I’ve only been in the field for the last six years. I manage the people who manage the money, so the way things used to be isn’t something I concern myself with. Honestly, I’m not too concerned with the way things are going to be in the future, either. That’s for the experts to figure out.”

“Like Brassart.”

“Yes, like Henry. My only concern is how they’re performing today, and if the client is happy.”

“Were Henry’s clients happy?” I followed his lead in using Brassart’s first name.

“Very. I mean, he didn’t blow them out of the water by any means, but he always over-performed when compared to the benchmarks. And in a down market, he still made money. That alone made him golden.”

I took the notepad from under my arm and scribbled a few words. Then I asked, “How many clients did he have?”

“About seven major ones, I’d say. Maybe another twenty smaller types.”

“Twenty-seven clients, and not a single one had any reason to be upset with him?”

“No. Like I said, Henry made money. He had a knack.”

I wrote the number twenty-seven, circled it and made a question mark. The odds of all twenty-seven being happy at the same time struck me as long, but I let it go.

“Any recent major deals?”

Richards looked at me quizzically.

“By recent, I mean around the time of his death,” I explained.

He shook his head slightly. “You really don’t get how this works, do you?”

“I…” I stopped, then said, “Is it that obvious?”

He nodded.

“Well, maybe you can explain it to me.”

He drew in a deep breath. “The simplest way to look at it is that it’s about being strategic with money, not tactical. Our financial advisers look for secure, long-term growth with a risk profile that fits the client’s comfort level. It’s about making good decisions that remain good decisions. It’s not about playing the market or being susceptible to the daily rallies or drops that inevitably occur.”

“All right. So no major deals, then?”

“No. We’re not day traders, or short-term speculators.”

I paused, thinking. “How about any enemies?”

Richards let out a small snort. “Henry? Not hardly. He was one of the nicest men you could hope to meet.”

“Rivals?”

“No. Again, it doesn’t really work that way in this sector of business. We don’t poach each other’s clients. And it’s not a zero sum game, either, so competition within the firm is pretty light.”

“Tell me about Henry, then. You said he was a nice man. How do you mean that?”

Richards looked perplexed. “He was just…nice. Friendly. Polite. Didn’t say a bad word about anyone. He worked hard. Maybe a little too hard, but that’s a sin most of us are guilty of, right?”

“What kind of hours did he work?”

“Pretty standard.”

“Which means what?”

“Sixty hours a week, maybe. More or less.”

“And business is good?”

“Better than good. Outstanding.”

“In this economy?” Things had been rough for the last several years, and River City didn’t have a Boeing or a GM to keep things moving along, or to help weather the economic storm.

Richards shrugged. “Like I said, Henry had a knack. He made money, even in tough times.”

“Sounds like he was important around here.”

“He was critical,” Richards agreed.

“Has his loss affected the firm?”

Richards looked mildly shocked. “Of course. We’re more than just a business here. We’re family.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant, has his passing affected your business?”

Richards hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Other advisers have picked up most of Henry’s clients.”

Something in the way he answered pinged at my radar, but I let it go. He was already telling me more than I expected. So I changed directions. “You mentioned that you didn’t think Mrs. Brassart could have hurt Henry. Why do you say that?”

“She seemed like a sweet woman,” Richards replied. “I know Henry loved her. It just doesn’t seem like something she would do.”

“Were you close to the Brassarts?”

“No, not really. Honestly, no one was. Henry was a great guy, but he wasn’t very social once he left the office. He and Marie would come to the two or three official functions we had every year, but outside of that, they kept pretty much to themselves.”

I pressed a little. “Yet you don’t think she did it?”

Richards hesitated again. “Well, maybe it’s more accurate to say that I hope she didn’t do it.” He sighed. “Although, from what I’ve read in the newspaper, it doesn’t look good, does it?”

“No,” I agreed. “It looks pretty damning.”

“All the damage to the car,” Richards said. “And the insurance money.”

“One point five million dollars is a lot of money.”

He gave me a strange look. “It’s a lot more than that.”

I shook my head. “I read the police affidavit. According to that, Henry had a policy for one point five million.”

“Oh, his personal policy. Right.” Richards nodded his head. “But there was a business policy, too.”

“A life insurance policy?”

“Yes. It’s called an ‘Important Man’ policy, although these days, I think they call it ‘Important Person’ or ‘Important Member.’ Anyway, we had one on Henry. There’s one on each of the partners, too.”

“And the purpose is?”

“Quite simply, to insulate the firm against the loss of a key member.”

“So the firm is the beneficiary?”

“Exactly.”

“I’ve never heard of that before.”

“It’s quite common,” Richards assured me.

“How much was the policy for Henry?”

For the first time, Richards gave me a suspicious look. “Well, now we’re getting into information that I don’t feel comfortable sharing with you. Suffice it to say we carry a policy for our most important employees that’s sufficient to offset the loss of their services.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “But what does that have to do with Mrs. Brassart?”

His look of suspicion gave way to mild confusion. Then he shrugged. “As a benefit to our qualified employees, we add a rider to the insurance policy that benefits the spouse or child, or whoever they choose to name as beneficiary. Henry named Marie, of course.”

“Can you tell me how much that rider was?”

He thought about it. Then he said, “I imagine it’ll be public knowledge as soon as the trial starts anyway. The death benefit was five million dollars.”

“Five million?” I repeated, almost involuntarily. I’d heard him fine, but the number surprised me.

He nodded.

I sat there, thinking about it. From what Richards had just told me, Marie Brassart had six and a half million reasons to kill her husband.

“Like I said, it doesn’t look good, does it?” Richards asked.

“No,” I agreed. “It doesn’t.”