Chapter 46

Thursday, January second, in New York City dawned with a celestial brilliance uncommon for that time of year. It was as if the sky were introducing the world to new possibilities on this first business day of the new year. Parrott, driving into the city once more, chose to take it as an omen of good things to come in his interview with the Winthrops.

Once he arrived at Thirty-Three Liberty Street, in the heart of the financial district, he felt a bit less confident. The fortress-like appearance of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York gave a counterpoint to the sunny day. Over a quarter of the world’s gold was reputed to dwell there, but Parrott’s focus was not monetary. It would take more than luck to come away with the treasure he was seeking. On his way to Marshall’s office on the fourteenth floor, he reviewed the questions he had prepared. He knew the interview would be tricky. He wasn’t daunted by people with money anymore, but he had been warned the Winthrops would have legal representation on hand, and he knew of their association with Rodney Ballenger, whose reputation for shrewdness both in and out of the courtroom was famous.

Parrott had timed his arrival for ten o’clock, instead of eleven. He hoped he would get there before all of the players assembled and reviewed their strategy. Even the slightest diversion could be parlayed into an advantage, and with its being three against one, he needed every advantage possible.

“Isn’t the meeting scheduled for eleven?” Winthrop’s young bespectacled assistant asked, glancing at the clock on her desk. The nameplate on the desk said Trudy Cunningham.

“Traffic wasn’t as bad as I expected, Ms. Cunningham,” Parrott muttered.

“Why don’t you have some coffee, make yourself comfortable? I’ll tell Mr. Winthrop you’re here.” She pointed to a well-appointed cupboard filled with fine china. Its wide serving shelf had linen placemats, a crystal vase filled with sunflowers, a bowl of summer fruit, a pot of coffee, cream and sugar, and a plate of pastries.

Parrott took a pass on the food and drink in deference to his jittery stomach. He took the seat closest to the assistant’s desk, hoping to overhear or observe something interesting.

“Detective Parrott is here,” Trudy said into the telephone receiver. “Yes, he knows. He said traffic was light.” She examined a fingernail. “I’ll tell him.” She hung up the phone and thumbed through some papers on her desk.

Parrott checked the knot in his tie and leaned forward, hoping to get a glimpse of the papers Trudy was holding.

After a minute she met Parrott’s gaze and said, “Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop won’t be available to meet with you until eleven, as planned.”

“Quite all right,” Parrott replied. “I have some work to do while I wait.” He pulled a list of questions from his folder and began to look through them. He noticed the curious expression on Trudy’s face, her turn to be nosy.

At ten-thirty the double glass door rolled open, and a tall figure crossed the threshold. Rodney Ballenger made a strong first impression with his long silver-gray mane, Roman nose, impenetrable eyes, and perfect posture. Wearing an Italian suit that matched his hair, he carried an alligator briefcase in one hand, a Burberry coat on the opposite arm. Reading glasses hung from a lanyard around his neck.

Parrott made eye contact with Ballenger, whose pictures in the Times social columns and on the local news had made him a recognizable icon. He looks like a former underwear model. Parrott laughed inside, bemused by his surprising new attitude toward the very rich. Probably has his own problems and insecurities, just like everyone else.

Showing no sign of insecurity, Ballenger strode up to the receptionist and received immediate clearance to enter Winthrop’s inner sanctum, leaving Parrott to reconsider his magnanimous thoughts. It’s really no surprise, he said to himself. Any good lawyer would prepare his clients for a meeting with the police in a murder case. Glad I’m prepared, as well. He reviewed his notes once more then leaned his head back and breathed deeply. He pictured himself as a strong and powerful samurai, perfectly poised to attack.

***

Once admitted to Winthrop’s office, Parrott could hardly contain himself. An aquarium filled with plants and animals, some of which were large-branched corals, adorned one wall. The tank looked clean, the colorful fish active. A few feet away sat a round conference table and four chairs covered in oxblood leather. Marshall and Julia Winthrop sat across from each other, dressed like Fifth Avenue models, with Rod Ballenger between them. “Please have a seat, Detective,” Marshall said, without standing or using Parrott’s name.

Parrott took the seat, made eye contact with each of the participants, and opened his iPad. He cleared his throat. From his football days, he believed in being the first to score.

Before he could utter a syllable, however, Ballenger usurped the floor by introducing himself and saying, “Detective, I’m sure you realize Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop have hired me to represent them in speaking with you today. Before we get started, may I ask whether Mr. or Mrs. Winthrop is a suspect in this investigation?”

Realizing the meeting was not off to the best start, Parrott broke eye contact. “At this point in time, I am not able to exclude them.”

The attorney nodded. “While I am sure you have a list of questions, I have recommended to the Winthrops that they not submit themselves to questioning at this time, unless they are granted full immunity. Unless they are granted said immunity, I have recommended that they invoke their Fifth Amendment rights. However, since the Winthrops don’t want your trip to be wasted, we have met to discuss their perceptions and insights regarding the unfortunate demise of Mr. Preston Phillips, and we have prepared a proffer, which I will read to you at this time.”

All charitable thoughts toward the rich and powerful fled from Parrott’s mind at the thought of being stifled, but outwardly he showed no rancor. “All right, let’s hear the proffer.” He crossed one long leg over the other knee and sat back, adopting the body language of a guest at a barbecue.

Julia and Marshall exchanged edgy glances then gazed at their attorney as if hypnotized.

Ballenger began to read from a formal document. “If the Winthrops were called upon to testify before a court of competent jurisdiction with regard to the death of Mr. Preston Phillips and were duly sworn upon oath, they would state, as follows: Mr. Winthrop has known Mr. Phillips all of Mr. Winthrop’s life, having grown up in the same neighborhood, attended the same schools, and pledged the same fraternity. Mrs. Winthrop first met Mr. Phillips during college when she began dating Mr. Winthrop. Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop are close friends with John E. and Caroline Campbell. The Winthrops met the Campbells during their college years together. The relationship between the Winthrops and the Campbells is both a business and personal relationship. Mr. Winthrop and Mr. Campbell were partners in a gourmet cheese import business from 1975 to 1993.”

Nothing new here, Parrott thought. The attorney’s monotone invited him to zone out, but he steeled himself against doing so. There might be a nugget of information worth having in here.

“In 1972, while Mr. Winthrop was serving in the United States Army, stationed in Viet Nam, his parents were killed in an automobile accident. The terms of their separate wills left their estate, valued at the date of their deaths at two hundred million dollars, in trust for their only child, Mr. Winthrop. The document creating the trust stipulated that Mr. Phillips was to act as the sole trustee of said trust.”

Parrott uncrossed his legs and leaned forward.

“While both Mr. Winthrop and Mr. Phillips held prominent positions in the nation’s financial markets, Mr. Winthrop did not consider himself and Mr. Phillips to be close personal friends, and as such, the Winthrops and Mr. Phillips rarely met on social occasions. The Winthrops would further testify that one such rare occasion was the house party to celebrate John E. Campbell’s birthday at the Campbells’ farm in Pennsylvania, the weekend of December thirteenth through fifteenth. The Winthrops were not aware that Mr. Phillips and his new wife Nicole would be among the guests until Mr. and Mrs. Phillips arrived at the farm.”

Hmmm...if that could be proven, it would eliminate their having premeditated murder by palytoxin. I’m sure that’s what Ballenger is trying to convey. Parrott looked from Marshall to Julia, both of whom wore the looks of cherubs.

“During the weekend of December thirteenth through fifteenth, they had no specific, private conversations with Mr. Phillips. Except for a chance encounter that Julia had with Mr. Phillips on the afternoon of December fourteenth, neither of them was alone with Mr. Phillips at any time during the weekend. When the birthday party on that evening broke up after midnight, Mr. Phillips appeared to be in good health. The next day when Mr. Phillips failed to appear at the informal brunch, Mrs. Campbell went to his room and found him unresponsive. Paramedics and police were called and arrived promptly. After being briefly questioned by the police, Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop were given clearance to leave. They went directly to their home in Rye, New York.” Ballenger folded the document and placed it inside the alligator briefcase.

He’s not even going to give me a copy, Parrott marveled. If these people think they’re going to get away without answering my questions--

Parrott sucked in a pint of air before responding. He chose his words and his tone with care. “I appreciate your proffer, Mr. Ballenger, Mr. Winthrop, Mrs. Winthrop. It certainly opens up some of the necessary conversation in this investigation.” He drew in another breath, arming both lungs and body with the strength he needed in this three-against-one meeting. “It doesn’t, however, suffice. The West Brandywine Police Department is charged with investigating Mr. Phillips’ murder. As lifelong acquaintances and members of the group of party guests at the Campbells’ home, you are subject to questioning. I’ll grant that you have anticipated and answered some of the questions I have, but there are others, and I need your responses, just as those of all of the other party guests.”

Parrott watched the Winthrops as he spoke, looking for body language or facial expressions that would give away the feelings hidden behind the proffer. While Marshall sat still, looking straight ahead, Julia shifted in her seat, just enough to indicate discomfort.

Ballenger noted the nonverbal exchange of information and took over, “If you submit your list of questions, Detective, my clients will review them with me, and perhaps we will provide a supplemental proffer in the next couple of days.”

“With all due respect, this investigation cannot wait another couple of days. There is pressure from high levels to solve the case, and we all know time is of the essence. We can go the subpoena route, or, since we are all here now, we--can--answer--the--questions--today.” Parrott couldn’t hold back the irritation in his voice anymore. He was growing weary of driving back and forth to New York for tiny tidbits of information.

Exuding the essence of self-control, Ballenger looked at his clients before saying, “Why don’t you excuse us for a few minutes, Detective, while I confer with the Winthrops about your request?”

Is it my imagination, or did this self-important creep place undue emphasis on the word, “request”? Parrott reminded himself to show restraint. Little would be gained by getting into a shouting match with these people. He slowly uncrossed his legs and stood, staring at Ballenger the whole time. He would give them their privacy, but he would not retreat like a beaten dog. He had worked too hard and come too far with this case to do that.

***

Ten minutes later, Parrott was invited back into the office, the puffers circling in the aquarium somehow bolstering his confidence. He resumed his place at the table and opened his iPad, as he had earlier.

Ballenger cleared his throat. “My clients have decided to have a look at your questions. We will go over them in private, and we will draft another proffer. Would you be so kind as to leave us with a copy? Give us an hour or so, have lunch here in Manhattan. Come back around one, and we will meet again.”

Luckily, Parrott had made several copies of his questions. Wordlessly, he removed the top copy from the pocket of his notebook and handed it across the table to Ballenger. He nodded to the group and withdrew from the room, dragging his ugly, impatient thoughts with him. He had questions, all right, and after this morning’s shenanigans, he had added a few more. For example, what transpired when Julia and Preston conversed alone on December fourteenth?