Chapter 5
Simon had a plan, awful as it was, to free himself of Paula, but he was stuck with Matilda.
She had worked for him for twelve years and could practice law, or at least his humble version of it, with her eyes closed.
She was very good at what she did, tech-savvy, punctual, a real pro at handling their clients and in dealing with lawyers and judges.
Contrary to the fib he’d told Eleanor Barnett, Matilda was discreet and had never, at least to his knowledge, breached a meaningful confidence.
They tried to avoid each other’s private lives and Simon was saying nothing about his current dust-up at home.
They disagreed and bickered occasionally, but always in private and never pushed things too far.
She was once a flirt who’d struck out repeatedly with men, and now seemed to have given up on romance.
She and Simon never touched each other, not even a little goodbye hug at the end of a long day.
There was no physical attraction, to their relief.
Indeed, they were determined to keep their distance and show not the slightest interest in anything beyond the employer-employee relationship.
In their early years together, Simon had occasionally glanced at her rear end and legs, admiringly, and approved, much the same way he looked at most younger women, but now he tried not to look.
She was only thirty-nine, three years younger than him, and she was gradually adding a few pounds per year.
In the kitchen fridge she kept an assortment of diet drinks, sugar-free smoothies, protein shakes, meals-in-bottles, herbal flushes, the kind of junk advertised on cable.
Evidently, none of it was working, but, of course, Simon only watched with amusement but would never think of commenting.
Tillie, as he called her only in private, arrived each morning promptly at eight, not a minute before, and left each afternoon at five, not a minute after.
Depending on how the day was going, she took a flexible hour for lunch to run errands but never to eat, or so she said.
Simon admired her for establishing boundaries.
She refused to work on weekends, regardless of the urgency, though, truthfully, few of the “open” files on his desk could be considered urgent.
She refused to take calls after hours, even from him.
She was off on all the federal holidays and planned her summer vacations, ten full working days, in January.
To distance himself from her X-ray vision and constant eavesdropping, and also to prepare for the inevitable showdown with Paula, Simon was creating his own secret world.
He was practically living upstairs in The Closet, which he kept locked at all times.
If Tillie knew he spent most nights there, she had yet to mention it.
He assumed, though, that she knew. She was a massive sponge when it came to gossip.
There was a sisterhood amongst the legal secretaries and court clerks in town, and virtually nothing escaped their scrutiny.
He had a post office box in a small town eight miles away and a secret checking account in a small branch bank not far from it.
He had a credit card with a $10,000 limit and a small balance, that Paula knew nothing about.
A year earlier he had purchased an inexpensive laptop and set up an anonymous email address that only a professional could trace. He used it to place bets occasionally.
At the moment he was using it to track Buddy the stockbroker, who’d worked for Appletree in Atlanta.
Netty was correct—Appletree had long since disappeared after having been bought or merged with a regional brokerage firm from Florida, which had then flamed out in bankruptcy and indictments only to be scooped up by a large California discount broker who sold it to a private equity firm in New York who loaded it with debt, almost causing another bankruptcy, before it was sold to a bank in Texas that then sold it to a bank in Atlanta.
After numerous name changes and different addresses, it, whatever it was, was now back home.
There was no sign of anyone named Buddy.
Evidently, he was just one of many casualties of the slick maneuvers perfected by the money runners.
Simon wasted three hours wading through this debris and had nothing to show for it.
Reluctantly, he called Spade, a local character who could always find the money.
Spade’s background was shadier than anyone Simon had ever met.
He was an unindicted felon, an unlicensed operator on all fronts, a Houdini-like character who lived in the shadows.
He had no office, no website, no business cards, no phone number that was available to the public.
If asked by the right people he would say that he was either an investigator or a forensic accountant, but then he studiously avoided the right people.
Spade made his money in big divorce cases where the wife’s lawyers were hot on the trail of hubby’s hidden cash.
He could dig more dirt out of the internet than anyone in the business.
“This better be good,” he growled as if highly irritated.
“And good afternoon to you, Spade,” Simon said. “Sounds like you’re having a great day.”
“Does it really matter to you?”
“Of course it does. I think about you all the time.”
“Lawyers and their lies.”
Simon quickly recalled that every conversation with Spade began and ended with insults.
“Right. Look, I’ll buy you a beer tonight at Chub’s.”
“I can buy my own beer, thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Need to have a chat and as always I can’t do it over the phone. Not worried about mine but I assume yours is bugged by some branch of the government, maybe even a foreign power.”
“Or an ex-wife.”
“Them too. Meet me around ten tonight at Chub’s?”
“If I don’t get busy. Duke’s at Georgia Tech tonight, giving eleven. I see something closer. I’ll take Tech for five.”
Simon chewed on it for a second and said, “That’s a bad bet. Duke’s number two in the country and Tech has a losing record.”
“You trying to tell me something I don’t know?”
“Five hundred, right? Not five grand.”
Spade was a high roller who was known to bet big. Simon’s max was $500 for any game. “Hundred,” he grunted, as if someone really was listening.
“That’s an easy one.”
“Put up or shut up.”
“I’m in. See you at ten and we’ll watch the game.”
Spade was never on time. When he arrived at ten-thirty, Georgia Tech was up by fourteen and Duke couldn’t make a free throw.
Chub’s had no shortage of dark corners where gamblers and crooks held muted conversations as they drank and watched the widescreens in the distance.
Simon had ordered two draft beers, and onion rings for Spade, who was between wives and not eating well.
He sat down and the beers arrived. He took a long gulp, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, “I thought you stayed away from divorces.”
“I always try to but it’s not a divorce. My client is eighty-plus, single, no kids, says she’s got a lot of money. Wants a simple will but things might get complicated.”
“Who gets the money?”
“Not sure. First, I need to make sure she’s got it.”
Spade shrugged as if it would not be a problem. “I’m listening.”
“She claims her departed husband loaded up with a pile of stock in Coke and Wal-Mart. Sixteen mil or so. Hoarded the stock and then died suddenly. He has two sons by a first wife, both trouble, or so she says, and they don’t know about his assets.
No one knows. The old guy was a miser and they lived quietly. ”
“She’s eighty?”
“At least.”
“Is she cute?”
“Don’t even think about it.”
Spade laughed and took another slug of beer. “Keep going.”
“The trail is pretty cold. She says he dealt with a brokerage firm in Atlanta called Appletree. I dug around, found nothing. It merged here and there and disappeared. She doesn’t want me asking questions about her portfolio.”
“I’m sure she gets a monthly statement.”
“I’m sure she does but she ain’t showing it to me. That’s why I’m suspicious. That plus the fact that I’ve never had a client with such assets.”
“Bank?”
“Security Trust, down the street, but just for the small stuff. She draws two thousand a month in Social Security, lives off it. Drives a Lincoln that was built in the last century. House is worth around three hundred thousand max, no mortgage. Claims the old guy hated debt. A Depression boy.”
“I’ve met a few of those. Kinda refreshing, you know?”
The onion rings arrived and Spade dug in. With three minutes to go Duke cut the lead to seven. Chomping away, Spade said, “Duke is Duke. Can’t ever count ’em out.”
“Yeah, but you got eighteen points to play with.” Simon handed over a folded sheet of paper. “Her full name, same for him. Just the basics. Like I said, I didn’t find much. Harry died here about ten years ago, but there’s no record of probate. Kinda strange, don’t you think?”
“Very strange, especially if he had a big estate. Maybe he was still a resident of Georgia. I’ll check him out.”
“And for your labors?”
“Five hundred, cash of course.”
Simon wanted an onion ring but suddenly had a knot in his stomach. Duke hit two straight 3-pointers and Tech’s lead was gone.
Spade said, “So, if the old gal is really loaded, who gets the money?”
“We’re working on that.”
“Just curious.”
Duke was fouling and Tech was making free throws. As his bet slipped away, Simon went to the bar for two more beers. With ten seconds to go, and with Tech up by four, Spade held out an empty hand and said, “Five, please.”
Simon handed him the cash.