Desperate Measures

16

Stone, on a hunch, called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“Hi, will you run a name for me?”

“I’m sorry, you seem to have misdialed the number and been connected to our ‘Services Not Available to Civilians Department.’”

“His name is Donald Trask of Greenwich, Connecticut. He also keeps a residence at the Carlyle. He runs a hedge fund.”

Stone could hear the tapping of keys.

“I don’t have time to read or explain this to you, so I’ll e-mail it,” Dino said, then hung up.

Stone waited a couple of minutes, found the e-mail, and printed it.

Donald Tyrone Trask had a record of scrapes, some of them violent, going back to college. He had done ten days in the local jail for beating up another student at a fraternity party, and he had had altercations with denizens of Greenwich, all of whom seemed to be service providers or blue-collar workers. Apparently, Donald Trask dirtied his hands only with those he thought to be his social inferiors, who might be less likely to sue or spread gossip among his peers. There was also a juvenile record, which was sealed, and Stone presumed it contained more of the same.

Stone called Cilla Scott’s cell phone.

“Hey, there.”

“Got a second?”

“Sure.”

“Forgive me for prying, but I have a good reason.”

“Pry away.”

“During your marriage did Donald ever strike or otherwise physically abuse you?”

“You’ve met Donald, haven’t you?” she asked after a pause.

“He called on me this morning. I made assumptions.”

She was silent again. “On a couple of occasions he slapped me around. Once he sent me to the ER.”

“What, if anything, did you do about it.”

“I took a full swing at his jaw with a fireplace poker,” she said. “It never happened again. He didn’t like having his jaw wired shut.”

That’s my girl, Stone thought. “Did you mention this to Herb Fisher?”

“No, because I don’t want him to use it, if this should go to trial.”

“It’s important that you tell him about it. You can discuss later how or if the information should be used.”

“All right, I’ll do that. Or, better yet, it would save me some pain if you told him.”

“All right, and I’m sorry to cause you pain. Tell me, is your knee scooter restaurant-certified?”

“It is a fully certified knee scooter.”

“Then have dinner with me this evening.”

“I have a drinks date, but I’ll meet you after that. Where and when?”

“Patroon, one-sixty East Forty-sixth Street, seven-thirty?”

“Poltroon?”

“No, Patroon. It’s a Dutch title for a landowner. A poltroon is a spineless coward.”

“I’ll try to remember the difference. See you then.”

Stone called Herb.

“Yeah?”

“Cilla Scott asked me to convey to you that Donald Trask has a history of beating her up, sending her to the ER on one occasion. It ended when she broke his jaw with a poker.”

“Good to know,” Herb replied.

“She will want that information used only in extremis, and with her expressed permission.”

“Gotcha.”

“I also caught a glimpse of Donald Trask’s criminal record.”

“Tell me.”

“History of fighting, going back to college, maybe further; his juvie record was sealed.”

“Did he win his fights?”

“I expect so. He chose people he thought were his inferiors, who were not likely to fight back.”

“Good to know.”

“See ya.” Stone hung up.

Herb Fisher hung up; his secretary buzzed him. “Terry Barnes to see you.”

“Send him in,” Herb said, arranging Cilla’s documents in neat piles before him.

Barnes bustled in and tried to inject some bonhomie into the occasion. “Morning, Fisher,” he said. “Good to see you again. How’s the wife?”

Herb rose and shook his hand. “We’ve never met, Mr. Barnes, and I’m unmarried.”

“Oh, ah, my fault. Mistaken identity.” He took a seat. “I’m here in the matter of Trask v. Trask,” he said.

“Actually, it’s Scott v. Trask since Ms. Scott retained her maiden name at marriage.”

“As you say. Only met the lady a few times.”

“Tell me,” Herb said, “are we going to settle this like gentlemen or go to trial?”

“Oh?” Barnes chuckled. “Have you met my client?”

“No.”

“Well, if you had met him you’d know that he’s a rather combative sort, more inclined to fight than to argue.”

“And I understand he has a criminal record to support that position.”

“Oh, that thing back at Cornell, you mean?”

“Before, during, and since,” Herb said. “Your client and old friend is a nasty piece of work. I’d love nothing more than to depose him for a couple of hours, then examine him in court. He could go directly from the courthouse to the Y, where he would be living, subsequent to the ruling in my client’s favor.”

“You sound very confident, Herbert.”

“That’s only because I am confident. Your client, since his marriage to Ms. Scott, has not earned a dime that is not directly attributable to her father, her friends, or his wife’s personal funds. His hedge fund is still in business only because of the record upturn in the market the past few months. He would fare poorly in the matter of New York State law requiring equitable division on property.”

“What are you proposing?” Barnes asked.

Herb slid a single typed sheet of paper across the desk. “I think that, on reflection, you will find this offer to be much more generous than necessary,” he said, “and it will not improve. Your problem is going to be to lead your client to face the reality of his situation. If he does, he can leave the marriage with some money, enough to maintain him in some sort of style. That’s if he closes his hedge fund, of course.”

“Why should he close it? It’s profitable.”

“When the investors learn of the divorce they will depart in droves,” Herb said. “He would save face by just shutting it down.”

Barnes reread the list to gain time. “I’ll speak to him,” he said.

“Remember, there will be no improvement in the offer, nor will there be in his reputation should we go to trial.”

“I’ll speak to him.” Barnes got up and left without shaking hands.