Al and Doug wasted no time after their return to Philadelphia to arrange a sit-down with Dick. Both were pleased with the outcome of their foray into northern Pennsylvania. They had had to extend their stay to probe the Vespucci family; Linda’s suicide left open a few other possibilities they needed to explore. But they had gathered enough information in anticipation of Dick’s questions, so they were ready for the intensive debriefing that was Dick’s custom.
They convened in Dick’s office, circling his desk. Dick sat back, tea mug in hand. “All right, boys; let’s have it.”
Dick listened intently to the narrative, interrupting only to ask questions. He raised his eyebrows a few times and saved his most surprised facial expression for Linda’s suicide.
“So that’s why you were a little late getting back.”
“Yes,” Al replied. “After seeing the autopsy report, we hoped somebody would be able to give us more background. We talked to a few other people who knew her.”
“How did that work out?”
“Not so great, boss. She had no family to speak of, and almost no friends, other than Trudy.”
“Were you able to get hold of any other records or legal documents?”
“Sealed tight as a drum. We tried to strong-arm a couple of clerks at the courthouse with a phony story about a federal investigation, but they told us we would need a subpoena just to get in the door. They wouldn’t even tell us what documents were listed.”
“You think Gilbert intentionally hid the cause of death?”
“It makes sense. Linda had a modest life insurance policy. If it got out that she was a suicide, he wouldn’t have gotten a payout.”
“Could Gilbert have persuaded some estate attorney to commit insurance fraud?” Dick asked.
“Who knows what was going on up there? I mean, we couldn’t find a shred and we weren’t going to ask the police how they closed the case. It looks like someone with clout went out of their way to wipe the slate clean.”
“Any idea who might have done that?”
“Not a clue, boss. We couldn’t find anybody who knew her well enough to stick their neck out and risk tampering with evidence. The entire investigation of her death and the autopsy are unavailable. And no one up there seems to be the least concerned about it.”
Dick looked down into his empty coffee cup, lost in thought. Doug and Al knew they needed to be quiet and wait for Dick’s next comment, which hopefully would include his decision about what to do with this miserable case.
“Boys, I think we’re done with this dog. We’ve spent more than enough time and resources on it as a favor to Philip. I’ll talk to him this afternoon and fill him in. Put this one in a file, and we’ll move on.”
“I have to agree with you, Dick,” Doug said. “We hit a wall, and breaking through it is going to take a lot of muscle. My suspicion is that we won’t find much on the other side anyway. She killed herself and her baby. If somebody got really pissed off about Gilbert causing it, we can’t figure who that might be.”
“Good. Then we’re in agreement. You boys take the rest of the day off, and go play golf or something. You earned it.”
Dick decided to call Philip and invite him to lunch. Better to deliver the news in person than to try to explain his dismissal of the case on the phone. Philip was a pain in the ass, but Dick knew he was smart and would have lots of questions that would be easier to answer with some form of alcohol in hand.
And to make sure that his martini would be as cold and as dry as possible, Dick asked Philip to meet him at the Union League. This famous city social club was perched at the top of a flight of circular stairs on Broad Street, a stone’s throw from city hall. It had been one of the last bastions of white male domination in Philadelphia, home to some of the city’ most prominent businessmen, lawyers, and politicians and host site for presidents, starting with Lincoln. Until it was forced to enter the twenty-first century. Under new and “enlightened” leadership, the club decided to admit minorities and women, at least those who were educated and moneyed enough to appreciate the us-versus-them philosophy that was so central to a club that had no real purpose, other than an excuse for a good meal.
Diversification, or a shallow version of it, had allowed people like Dick, who had scoffed at the idea of joining such an anachronous organization, to pursue membership in good conscience, with the excuse that it was a convenient place to meet people and that it was good for business. Dick had even managed to steer the League toward public works and had been honored for his success with the homeless who populated the streets of Center City. Such efforts allowed people as liberal as Philip and Dorothy to break bread there on occasion without a red face. It was just a short ride on the Broad Street subway from NorthBroad Medical Center, Dick was happy to remind Philip, who would have arrived at Dick’s table on time but for an old Union League tradition.
“Where the hell were you, Philip?” Dick asked as Philip made his tardy entrance and sat at the table.
“I was downstairs, arguing with the Neanderthal at the front door.”
“About what?” Dick asked a second before he discerned the answer. “They wouldn’t let you in without a jacket, would they?”
“Precisely,” said Philip. “Who wears suit jackets to work at a hospital anymore?”
“So that abomination you have on is not yours?” Dick said, referring to the ugliest plaid jacket he had ever seen.
“Wouldn’t be caught dead in this piece of crap, Dick. I think they deliberately keep ugly jackets in their closet down there to embarrass outsiders.”
“There’s been a lot of discussion about doing away with the rule, but—”
“There are enough effete snobs to keep it the way it is.”
“All organizations have their good and bad points, Philip.”
Philip sat back and took a deep breath. “OK, Dick. I don’t want to argue with you about the social value of the Union League. Get me a class of Chardonnay, and I’ll complain no more. At least not today.”
“Already ordered and on its way, Philip. Along with my martini. I also ordered you the clam chowder and the chef’s salad. Both real good and highly recommended.”
They spent the next few minutes catching up, focusing mostly on Emily and Erin and their latest high jinks. Dick could never get enough of the girls, who had bonded with him in a way Philip and Dorothy had never anticipated. He greedily accumulated photos that he carried in his wallet and showed to anybody who cared to look. He also framed them to decorate every nook and cranny of his office and apartment. He was a different man when he was with them or talked about them. So when the conversation shifted to the subject matter of the meeting, the Gilbert/Springer case, it was as if a switch in his head had been thrown. Dick’s demeanor and tone changed abruptly.
For the next fifteen minutes, Dick methodically reviewed what he and his team had learned about Gilbert and Springer. Though he had a dossier on the table, he didn’t refer to his notes while he related chronologically and with great detail the story of their relationship, from its inception to their deaths. He then listed the several possible reasons for and the cause of their deaths, first those that related to Tiffany and then to Gilbert. He concluded his presentation with Trudy McMoody’s blockbuster revelation that Gilbert’s wife, Linda, wasn’t taken from him by natural causes, as Gilbert had intimated to Philip, but by her own hand, killing not only herself but also their unborn child.
Philip was thunderstruck. “I had absolutely no idea, Dick. Ray told me nothing about how his wife died.”
“Nobody else knew either. And to tell you the truth, the guys I sent up there would have walked right past it as well, if it hadn’t been for Trudy’s husband having access to information he had no right to see. He essentially committed a felony. So Trudy isn’t in a position to share that information with anyone else. Frankly, I’m surprised she opened up to Doug and Al.”
“This raises a lot of possibilities, doesn’t it, Dick?”
“It does, Philip. Al and Doug explored most of them as best they could. They had to be very careful because they had no business with that seminal piece of information—Linda’s cause of death. But from everything they gathered so far, we have no way to connect her suicide with what happened to Ray and Tiffany.”
Philip reflected as he sipped his wine. “So now what?”
“That’s why we’re here, Philip. As far as I’m concerned, we’re done. But before I close the case file completely, I wanted to make sure you knew the facts and agreed. This is, after all, your case.”
Philip smiled. “It’s not like I paid for your help, Dick. You did this as a personal favor, and I truly appreciate your kindness. Seems to me that I have no right to ask you to persevere, especially since it looks like you hit a dead end.”
Dick was surprised by Philip’s reaction. “I’m glad you’re of that opinion, Philip. I really am. I don’t want to disappoint you, but I don’t have the resources to stay on this case. It would take a major investment of time and money, and the overwhelming likelihood is that we would still draw a blank at the end of it.”
Soup was delivered as Philip continued his musings. Dick sipped his martini while greeting friends and acquaintances who walked by. They finished their salads, having returned to incidental conversation, now centered on Dorothy’s developing plans for the girls’ birthday parties, rapidly approaching.
“Pony rides, amusement park, or swim party,” Dick marveled. “What choices. Those little girls have no idea how lucky they are to have you guys as parents.”
“And you as a doting grandfather, Dick. The girls love you.”
“I really appreciate your reasonableness about this case, Philip,” Dick admitted. “I was afraid you would feel frustrated.”
“I get it, Dick. Like I said, thanks for making the effort.”
Dick smiled, feeling as fulfilled as he had in a while. And he owed a lot of his satisfaction to a man he hadn’t favored for his daughter but one who was possibly changing his stripes. Dick hoped so, because this guy was clearly going to be around for a while.
Philip felt distracted for the rest of his day at NorthBroad. He stumbled through the fellows’ outpatient clinic, letting his young charges make management decisions that he might not have made himself but with which he couldn’t find fault. He was anxious to conclude the day and have a chance to seek Dorothy’s advice about a situation he shouldn’t have cared about as much as he did. Why did Ray Gilbert matter so much to Philip?
As luck would have it, his drive home was complicated. An accident on Roosevelt Boulevard, not an uncommon occurrence, had traffic backed up, so Philip had to bail out onto surface streets. By the time he parked his car and opened the front door in Narberth, the girls were so “hangry” that Dorothy was two glasses of wine ahead of him, her patience stretched to its limit.
“Why are you late, Philip?”
“Traffic.”
“Traffic, huh? I didn’t see anything on the local news about an accident.”
“What can I tell you? I would have texted you, but you know what they say.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Don’t text and drive. Did it occur to you to do an old-fashioned hands-free phone call? As I recall, that car you drive has Bluetooth, does it not?”
“Hmm … does it?”
“Never mind, wise-ass. Go get washed up. Dinner is ready. Actually, it’s way past ready.”
Philip decided to forgo any further bantering. It wasn’t going to change Dorothy’s mood, and he wanted to have a serious conversation with her about the case. He would hold his tongue and wait until the girls were in bed, which they were able to manage close to the usual time. Philip and Dorothy then settled down at the kitchen island with cups of decaf tea, their latest unwinding formula after a long day.
After the exchange of mundane information from the day, Philip jumped in. “Dorothy, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
Dorothy burst into tears. “Finally, Philip,” she said between sobs.
“Why are you crying? I know I should have filled you in before, but it’s not something you should be sad about.”
“Really, Philip? You don’t think our relationship is important?”
Philip was gobsmacked. “What on earth are you talking about?’
“Where were you at lunchtime today?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Your secretary said you had a lunch date but wouldn’t tell me with whom.”
“I did.”
“Why didn’t you answer my call to your cell phone?”
“I was at the Union League and had to turn my phone off.”
“The Union League? Pretty damn fancy. Who did you have lunch with, Philip?”
“Your father.”
“My father? He didn’t tell me about having lunch with you.”
“Does your father report to you about everybody he lunches with?”
“Of course not. But you’re my partner, the father of my children.”
“We didn’t want you to know about it.”
“Know about what, Philip?”
Philip had his opening. Time to come clean. “He and I have been working on the Gilbert case.”
“What do you mean, working on?”
“I prevailed on him to put some time and resources into an investigation to see if we might find out what happened to Ray and Tiffany.”
Dorothy’s expression immediately brightened. “Thank the good Lord!”
“You wanted us to chase the case?”
“I don’t give a damn about the case, Philip. I was convinced you were cheating on me, just like that asshole Ray Gilbert,” Dorothy said, wiping tears from her eyes.
“Cheating on you? Seriously?”
“You’ve been distracted, Philip. And spending more time working or whatever. You’ve left the room to take phone calls and write notes that you have been careful to stick in your pocket. What was I supposed to conclude?”
“That I was having an affair?”
“How was I to know my father was the person you were hanging out with? I was worried that Gilbert fixed you up with one of his cheap girlfriends when you were up there. I wanted to confront you but could never get up the nerve. I kept making lame excuses for your behavior while being scared to death you’d found somebody to replace me.”
“I’m so sorry, Dorothy. If I had known, I would have spilled the beans a long time ago. I should have known better than to try to keep things from you. You’re just too damn perceptive.” Philip rose from his stool to give Dorothy a long, firm hug. Deep breaths and a few moments of silence before Philip held Dorothy by her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “You have to be nuts. Nobody could ever replace you in my life. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Dorothy sniffled a bit and then said, “You might as well tell me what you’ve found out. It would be a shame to use up all of this emotional energy for nothing.”
“That’s where I started,” Philip said, reseating himself at the island. “I wanted to tell you what your father’s guys came up with and then ask you for your opinion about what, if anything, to do next.”
Philip summarized the results of the investigation, emphasizing the most dramatic development—the discovery that Ray Gilbert’s pregnant wife had committed suicide.
“At the end of the day, Doug and Al couldn’t come up with anyone who might have killed Tiffany. And at the same time, they suspected that Ray’s infidelity drove his wife to kill herself, but they couldn’t identify anyone with the motive or the means to do something about it?” Dorothy asked.
“That’s what they reported back. I think your dad pushed them pretty hard and was satisfied there was nothing else to learn.”
“Dad knows his guys and his stuff, so it would be hard to argue with him. But—”
“But your dad was doing this as a favor to me.”
“Right. And pro bono cases are never handled as aggressively as paid cases. It’s just human nature,” Dorothy explained.
“So your question is whether he kept the pedal to the metal.”
“Or let up because he’s a good businessman who knows when to cut his losses.”
“He never really believed in the case in the first place, probably because I was the person who brought it to him.”
“Maybe, but let’s try to keep personal feelings out of this, Philip.”
Philip nodded, relieved that Dorothy had decided to put aside her own anxieties about his behavior and focus on the facts of the case.
“What do you think I should do?” Philip asked.
“There’s very little you can do, Philip. If my father and his people came up dry, it’s unlikely you can do better. And this was a police investigation, so you can’t afford to attract a lot of attention to yourself. Besides, there’s still a very strong possibility that Ray and Tiffany did it to themselves, intentionally or by mistake. They weren’t necessarily murdered.”
“I know Ray, and I just can’t believe he would have been that evil or that stupid.”
Silence, as Philip waited expectantly for the conclusion he hoped Dorothy would reach—on her own.
Finally, “My father usually keeps a master file with notes from the field agents and his edits superimposed.”
“He had a dossier with him at the Union League, but he didn’t open it.”
“I’m not surprised. He’s the master at remembering details, even in a case with so many moving parts.”
“What’s your point?”
“Can you get that file for me? It will have a lot of good information in it.”
“Are you kidding? If I were to tell him his darling daughter needed his right ear, he would rip it off and give it to me.”
“Yes, but you have to be careful. We don’t want to hurt his feelings by implying he didn’t get the job done. He’s meticulous about his work.”
“You’re right. I’ll just tell him you were curious about the case and wanted to read the file.”
“Philip, here’s my offer. Get me the file, and let me review it. My only goal is to look for a hole or a glitch or a wrinkle that my father and his guys may have overlooked. But let’s be clear. The chances of this working are very small.”
“I know.”
“If I come up empty, you agree to accept the suicide theory. And if I do find something, I have absolutely no intention of following up on it myself. You can choose to drop it or to take it back to my father, who can pursue it if he wishes. And that will likely depend on the strength of the evidence.”
“Right. I understand.”
“And you’ll promise me—no, you’ll swear on the souls of your children—that you will under no circumstances get involved with this case yourself. No super sleuth, no caped crusader, no Colombo.”
“OK, I get it.”
“You had better get it, buster, because I mean it. If you screw this one up, I’m out of here with the girls. Period. No discussion. I’m doing this to help you without getting in hot water, and you aren’t going to make a fool out of me. Understand?”
Philip did understand, better than he ever had. His principal emotion at that moment was relief that Dorothy had trusted him enough to accept his explanation of what was clearly aberrant behavior. And that she believed in him and was willing to put some of her precious time into a case that held no interest for her personally but one that had affected Philip so much that he had been willing to enlist the aid of her father, who had never shown Philip the respect he thought he deserved.
Philip cared about what had happened to Ray Gilbert, despite his ridiculous dalliances, and if someone had targeted him for an ugly and premature death, Dorothy was up to the challenge and willing to help—but, as she had made abundantly clear, only to a point. And the consequences of crossing that line would be dire indeed.