Early Friday morning Rosalyn’s mobile rang during her drive downtown for a probate hearing. Martin wanted her to come to his house immediately. She didn’t have time for this, but in thirty-six years he’d never made such a request. She contacted the judge’s clerk, was granted an emergency postponement, and drove straight to Chickasaw Gardens, which happened to be only a few blocks away.
The entire historic neighborhood had begun as an estate belonging to Clarence Saunders, founder of Piggly Wiggly, the first self-serve grocery store in the country. After losing a battle with Wall Street speculators in 1923, Clarence Saunders had been forced into bankruptcy. His 36,000-square-foot mansion—built of pink Georgia marble and including a pipe organ, ballroom, a shooting gallery, eight bedrooms and baths—had gone up for sale. Known as the Pink Palace, it became the city’s natural history museum. Rosalyn’s grandfather had been one of the developers who’d snapped up the twenty-two-acre property and the man-made lake to create what is now known as Chickasaw Gardens, one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the city.
Two years ago, Martin had purchased a 1940’s Tudor style home. He’d torn out the leaded casement windows, stripped the walls down to the studs, and refurbished the house with a minimalist hand and outrageously expensive finishes. He couldn’t boil an egg, but he’d spent two hundred thousand on the kitchen remodel.
Rosalyn picked up the newspaper at the front door and let herself in. Martin was working on a laptop at his desk in the living area, unshaven and still in his bathrobe. His scruffy appearance alarmed her even more than his call. As a teenager, he’d taken interminable showers and thrown clothes on the floor until he’d found what he wanted to wear. Their cleaning bills had been staggering, but they could never break him of the habit. She’d begun teasing him, calling him Martina and Meticulous Martin. He’d hated it.
While he worked on the laptop, she roamed the expansive living area with its modern furnishings and startling art. A nightmarish abstract by Marcel Eichner hung over the buffet. A digitally hybridized image by Jon Rafman took up half of one wall. A life-sized sculpture of a truncated female torso smeared in black, green, and blue gesso stood in the corner. The twist of the torso’s spine evoked agony. Martin thought the house was tasteful. She thought it was hideous.
The buzzing sound of a blender coming from the kitchen caught her attention. A gorgeous young woman Rosalyn had never seen before came into the room carrying a frothy drink that she placed on the desk next to Martin. He spoke to her quietly in what Rosalyn recognized as Italian, instructing her to bring an espresso for his guest. The young woman left without acknowledging Rosalyn’s presence.
Rosalyn walked over to the brushed steel fireplace with its gas flames, the only thing in the room with warmth. “You didn’t introduce us,” she said to Martin.
“Elena Lucchesi. She does a little cooking and housekeeping. She’s a convenience.”
Elena returned with an espresso for Rosalyn and chocolate biscotti on a china plate. The young woman picked up the newspaper on her return to the kitchen and slipped Martin a smile that was too intimate for the position he’d described. Rosalyn knew he preferred his women to be accessories, not attachments. None of them stayed very long. This one would be out the door soon.
Rosalyn sipped her espresso. “You had me rush over. What’s this about?”
“In a minute, Mother.” One corner of his mouth lifted.
Her son enjoyed occasionally calling the shots.
When he was young, she would come home exhausted from a long day at the law firm. He’d follow her around the house whining and demanding attention until she was emotionally drained. She rationalized yelling at him as a way to toughen him up. Saunders didn’t know what to do with him either, so he never interfered.
Sometimes Martin would flare up by slamming doors and smashing plates. She punished him by locking him out of the house until supper. Once he’d stabbed a butcher knife through a valuable painting left to her by her grandfather, a Childe Hassam portrayal of a shoreline full of blue water and light. She’d taken Martin’s Scottish terrier to the pound as punishment. Later she felt bad about the dog and had given him two hundred dollars. Money was the best apology. What could he have done with words?
He closed his laptop, straightened his robe, and motioned her to a seat on the sofa across from his flat screen TV. He joined her there.
She leaned in. “If this is about business, be careful what you say. That girl may be listening.”
“Elena doesn’t speak much English. Besides, I trust her.”
“My Mexican gardener acts like he can’t speak a word of English, but I’ve heard him on the phone chatting away.”
“I’m not interested in your gardener, Mother.”
“You can never be too sure about someone who works for you.”
“You should take your own advice.” He pointed a remote at the screen. “Balkin Security recorded this at two this morning.”
The video footage showed Robert Highsmith entering the firm’s foyer and taking the stairs to the second floor.
“You’ve given keys and individual alarm codes to your attorneys,” he said.
“Our attorneys work late and come in very early,” she said. “Their codes tell us who’s been in the building and when. We’ve installed hidden cameras in every office. If there’s a problem, we’re protected.”
“I asked Balkin Security to review your after-hours footage. They called me at five this morning. Watch this.”
He clicked the remote. Robert Highsmith entered Caroline’s office and walked directly to her built-in file cabinets. He opened and closed each empty drawer then took a seat at her desk and dropped his head in his hands.
“What’s that jacket he’s wearing?” she asked.
“A Cubs windbreaker. He’s probably been to Chicago.”
She’d never seen Robert Highsmith in anything less than a three-piece suit. Here he looked disheveled and unsteady.
Martin fast-forwarded the recording. “He goes through everything in Caroline’s office then searches her assistant’s desk. He seemed particularly interested in her files.”
“They don’t have any clients in common.”
“I’ve checked the firm’s database,” he said. “Caroline signed out twenty-three sequestered trust files on Monday. Highsmith used his remote access last night to track those files to her office. I think he went there to steal them. Thank God you moved them out.”
“Detective Able wanted access to everything, so I took all of her files to my office instead of to the file room. They’re untraceable. Why would Robert want them?”
He shook his head. “Was there something going on between Highsmith and Caroline?”
“I don’t believe so. You think he was involved in her murder?”
“It’s one possibility.” He ran his hand through his hair, frowning and blinking.
She knew that look. His guilty look. “What aren’t you telling me?”
His features stiffened. “Yes, well. You assigned Highsmith to defend Tarek Merkle in that criminal case. We’ve hit a rough patch.”
Teenager Tarek Merkle had been paralyzed from the waist down after a fall from a hotel balcony due to a loose railing. Rosalyn had administered his trust funded by a settlement of four million dollars. Recently, while driving his handicap-equipped van, Tarek had rear-ended a car and killed the driver.
“Has Highsmith mishandled the case?” she asked.
“It’s taken an unexpected turn. The victim’s husband has four kids to raise. The prosecutor and victim’s attorney have agreed to a favorable plea bargain on the criminal charges as long as a big chunk of cash is included as restitution. Everyone was willing to go along, but they wanted proof the money is available before the prosecutor will recommend the plea bargain to the judge.”
“How much?”
“One million.”
She thought about that. “Last year’s accounting showed over two and a half million in assets. What’s the current balance?”
Martin flushed. “Not enough.”
“Be specific.”
“Seven hundred thousand and change.”
She got a sick feeling in her stomach. “Explain.”
He met her gaze, broke it off. “The apartment next to my place in Rome was about to go on the market. I had to move quickly, but I was short on cash. I transferred the money out of the Merkle trust because I knew other funds would be coming available in a month, six weeks at most.” He tugged at his robe exposing pale skin on the side of his neck. “I learned through an interoffice memo that Highsmith had checked the trust’s balance last Friday. It’s incredibly bad timing.”
She struggled to hold back her anger. “How much money did you take?”
“I borrowed a million eight.”
“You didn’t borrow the money. A first-year accounting student could trace it. Even your sister never made such an obvious blunder.”
“Caroline made mistakes. She got herself murdered.”
“Don’t think you can hide behind her death. We’ve operated with impunity for years because we’re careful, and our clients trust us.” She rose and paced the sterile room surrounded by disturbing art. The implications of what Martin had done struck her hard.
“You’re not fit to run the bank,” she said. “You’re fired.”
He laughed. “Good one, Mom. Aunt Gracie Ella is nuts. Caroline is dead. Dad might as well be. I’m the only one left to cover your tracks.”
She took a breath and let it out slowly. “Has Highsmith contacted you about the money?”
“Not yet. I’ve set up a secondary account for the Merkle trust and backdated it. After I deposit replacement funds, I’ll contact him and say I’m aware of the plea bargain and ask for the amount. When he says one million, I’ll give him the balance of both accounts. The total will match the number he was expecting. I’ll explain that a computer error had overridden the second account. He’ll be so relieved the money is available he won’t question it.”
“What I don’t understand is the connection between the missing money and Highsmith’s search of Caroline’s office,” she said.
“He apparently became suspicious after he saw the balance on Friday. Over the weekend he wrote queries that narrowed his search to those trusts we’ve placed in our sequestered files. He didn’t have a password, so he couldn’t access all the information. On Monday he tried to get his hands on the physical files. Caroline must’ve gotten wind of it, because she pulled all the sequestered files we have on site into her office.”
“This is bad, Martin.”
“I’ve blocked Highsmith’s remote access to the database until we sort this out.” He rubbed his temples. “Balkin Security is arm’s-length. I want boots on the ground to make sure no one enters your office without authorization. I’ve hired the security firm that provides protection for the warehouse where I store my cars.”
“You have to replace the Merkle funds immediately.”
“I don’t have the money. Federal Reserve Regulation O prevents me from borrowing from our bank. I can use the deed on this house as collateral with another bank, but a title search will take at least two days and we’re going into the weekend. I need to talk with Highsmith before then.”
She knew he was waiting for her to bail him out as she’d done since he was a child. She wasn’t feeling that charitable today.
“I had lunch with Pidge Wallace,” she said. “She’s out of the market and sitting on a mountain of cash. Go see her. Take the deed to this house with you. Make up a story about getting a Russian diplomat’s daughter in Rome knocked up. Tell her you need two million immediately to avoid an international incident. She’s bored. She’ll eat up the drama. Tell her you’ll pay her back in two months with interest. If she gets the money into your account an hour after the bank opens, you’ll include one of your fancy cars, maybe that red Corvette convertible.”
Martin stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “Pidge Wallace is an extortionist. She’ll demand twenty percent interest. That’s over a thousand dollars a day. And I’m not about to loan her one of my cars.”
“You’ll give her the car. That’s the penalty for being an ass. Fund the Merkle account so Robert has nothing to squawk about. I’ll call him in and say we’ve changed our minds about the litigation division. We don’t have the heart for expansion now. I’ll write a fat severance check and boot him out the door.”
“No,” Martin said, shaking his head. “I refuse to give that woman one of my cars.”
She walked over to the sofa and slapped him so hard his glasses flew under the cocktail table. When he bent to pick them up, she saw he was naked beneath his robe. That unnerved her even more.
“You listen to me,” she said. “You’ve put the firm at risk. You’ve put me at risk. I expect results not a tantrum.”
He straightened and settled his glasses in place. “This is your fault. All of it.” His gaze never left her face.
What she saw there made her take a step back. She remembered his expression the day he’d stabbed her painting with a butcher knife. He’d meant the knife for her.
She no longer felt safe in this house.
“Marteen, Marteen.” The young woman’s voice carried from the kitchen. She burst into the living room, waving a section of the morning’s newspaper.