In Death's Shadow

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Hannah, you are out of your ever-loving mind!"

By that remark, I guessed my husband wasn't exactly giving a stamp of approval to my plan.

"She's your daughter, George. Can't you talk some sense into her?"

We were sitting in my father's spacious kitchen around a table strewn with the remains of an excellent five-course Chinese carry-out dinner.

Daddy polished off a dumpling. "I don't know, Paul. It sounds like fun."

"Fun?" Paul jabbed his chopsticks into a container of mushi pork, where they stood up straight and quivered. "It's plain crazy."

Daddy grinned. "I agree with Hannah. I think we need to see what this guy Steele's game is."

Paul's face wore that troubled expression where his eyebrows nearly met. "You really think he's snuffing people for the insurance money?"

"I think somebody is," I said. "Besides," I added. "It's too late. I've already called for an appointment. I'm on at ViatiPro for three-thirty tomorrow afternoon, so if you won't play along…" I pointed to Paul. "… then eenie-meenie-miney-moe, I choose you!" My finger stopped, pointing to my father.

Daddy rotated his shoulders and stretched his neck, preening like a peacock. "Who shall I be, then? A Texas oilman? A wealthy industrialist? The owner of a small, but successful, chain of jewelry stores?" His eyes sparkled. Daddy was just getting warmed up.

"Just come as you are," I suggested with a smile.

"Under what name?"

"Lord, give me strength!" Paul lifted his eyes heavenward. "They're using aliases, now!"

"I always fancied being a Herbert," Daddy mused. "Or a Jerome."

"Cool your jets, Daddy. They have databases these days. They can look you up and know everything about you by close of business today, including your shoe size and brand of deodorant. Sorry, you're just plain old Captain George D. Alexander, U.S. Navy, Retired."

"Cuthbert?" Daddy raised an eyebrow hopefully.

"Behave yourself!" I picked a stray curried rice noodle off his shirt. "If you want to be creative-" I paused to think. "You know that string tie you brought home from Arizona?"

"The one with the silver dollar?"

Paul's eyes widened. "There's more than one?"

I ignored him. "That's the one. Wear that."

Daddy pinched my cheek. "Sho nuff, sweet thang.

I hardly recognized the dashing elder statesman who came to pick me up on Wednesday afternoon. Since retirement, Daddy had taken to favoring chinos and loose pullover sweaters. If he wore shoes at all, they'd be Docksiders or sandals.

This time, though, he'd spent some time cultivating his look. My "date" wore black leather, panel toe low-rise boots, and a light blue shirt with his dark gray, Sunday-go-to-meeting suit. The string tie had been an inspiration, adding a certain je ne sais quoi to his ensemble. His curly gray hair was freshly washed, and with the help, I suspect, of a little gel, combed straight back. If Neelie Gibbs could see Daddy now, she'd forget all that nonsense about separate hotel rooms and jump his bones for sure.

"How do I look?" he asked me.

"I'm speechless."

"Is that good or bad?"

I kissed his cheek. "It's good. Very good."

Daddy spread his arms wide. "I thought I'd hint at old Texas money gone East." He winked. "That's why I left the Stetson at home."

"Thank goodness for small favors."

"Wanna know something, sweetheart?" He grinned. "I haven't had so much fun since I played Bunthorne in high school."

I stopped to think. "Bunthorne?"

"You remember. The effete poet in Gilbert and Sullivan's operetta Patience."

"Oh, right! The Oscar Wilde character." I had to chuckle, picturing my father wearing a velvet smock and a floppy beret and carrying, as Bunthorne did, a limp lily. I hoped this role wouldn't prove more demanding; at least he wouldn't be required to sing.

"So." Daddy took me by the shoulders and held me at arm's length. "What are you supposed to be?"

“Trophy wife," I said.

Indeed, I looked like I'd walked straight out of Talbot's red door, in a beige linen suit with matching hose and high-heeled sandals I'd recently bought for a wedding. I'd accessorized with a Hermes scarf and a bit of gold jewelry, but the piece de resistance was the ring, a two carat cubic zirconium Paul'd once given me as a joke. I'd dug the CZ out of my jewelry box and slipped it on my right hand, hoping Steele wouldn't get close enough to notice that my diamond had come from JC Penney rather than Bailey, Banks and Biddle.

"I like your hair," Daddy said.

"Thanks." My bangs had grown too long, so I'd tamed them by sweeping them to one side and clipping them in place with a rhinestone-encrusted gold butterfly.

Daddy licked an index finger and pressed it into my shoulder. "Ssssssst," he teased. "Hot stuff."

I slapped his hand. "Save it for your other girlfriends," I teased.

As we sped down Route 50 toward the Washington beltway, I switched the car radio off and filled my father in. "I'm not exactly sure what we're looking for," I said, "but I've been sticking my nose into this business long enough that I think I'll know it when I see it.

"At first, I thought Jablonsky was the lowest common denominator," I continued. "But now I think he only serves as a middleman. He simply arranges the sale of the policies-presumably to the highest bidder-and takes a percentage of the sale up front."

Daddy eased his Chrysler out into the fast lane to pass a slow-moving truck. "Was it Deep Throat who advised Woodward-or was it Bernstein?-to 'Follow the money?’”

"Well, exactly," I agreed. "Jablonsky's already been paid, so I can't figure out what he'd have to gain by bumping anybody off."

"What's Steele's role, then? He's next in the food chain, right?"

"Yes, and that's where it gets a little murky. In a basic scenario, Steele-or rather, ViatiPro-would buy a policy at a percentage of its face value, hold on to it until the person died, at which point the insurance company would pay Steele, as beneficiary, the full face value of the policy. If the person dies quickly enough, Steele stands to make a handsome profit."

"And, as you say, have a fine motive for murder if the person doesn't oblige by dying on schedule."

"But that's just it," I complained. "Steele doesn't take any chances. He turns right around and sells the policies he's just bought to investors." I poked my father in the arm with my finger. "I.e., you."

"So the only person with a motive for hastening the death of the-what's the word?-viator, would be the person whose name appears as the beneficiary on the policy."

"Yes."

"And that would be ViatiPro or a ViatiPro investor."

"Right."

"But you'd have to know who the viator was before you could help him pack his bags for a one-way trip to heaven on the gospel train."

"Uh-huh."

Daddy steered the Chrysler onto the exit ramp and eased into the heavy traffic moving west on I-495. "ViatiPro would have the names of the viators on file, of course, but how would I, as an investor, get this kind of personal information? Surely the viators are assured of privacy?"

"One would assume so."

"So, again, if you're not considerate enough to die and make me richer, how do I find out who you are and make it so?"

"That's what I hope we're about to find out."

I'd been spending a lot of time in offices lately, but Steele's was the handsomest of the lot, occupying a suite on the top floor of a glass and steel building overlooking Route 450 and the Washington beltway.

When the elevator doors slid open and deposited us into the lobby at the stroke of three-thirty, we could see, even through the double glass doors to our right, that Steele and his staff went about their business with the hum of commerce tastefully absorbed by plush plum carpeting, dark wood paneling, and handsome, custom-upholstered overstuffed furniture.

The receptionist, a clean-cut young man who looked like be should be selling Bibles door-to-door, buzzed us in. "Mr. Steele's expecting you," be said. "Please have a seat."

I settled comfortably into a leather wingback chair that would have looked quite at home in a men's club. If I worked there, I thought, I'd spend half my time curled up in the furniture, fast asleep.

Daddy picked up a copy of Field & Stream and began leafing through it. I grabbed a National Geographic with a dinosaur on the cover and began reading about islands in the South Pacific.

On the wall behind the receptionist's head the big hand of a bronze Art Deco clock clicked slowly from VI to VII. I coughed.

The receptionist looked up.

I pointed to the clock.

He made a Y with his thumb and little finger and tapped his ear: Steele was on the telephone.

I went back to drooling over pictures of Pacific atolls.

The big hand had clicked onto the IX when the elevator doors slid open and a stocky, balding man erupted from them. When the receptionist buzzed him in, the guy-a symphony in brown with tie ends flapping-straight-armed his way through the glass doors. He brushed past without even looking our way, and loomed over the reception desk like a malevolent mushroom.

"He in?'

"He's on the phone, sir."

"I gotta see him, Matt. Now."

"If you'll just wait a minute, sir." The receptionist picked up the phone and was punching buttons as if his life depended on it. Maybe it did.

"Can't wait" The guy turned and chugged down the hall.

The receptionist leaped up with the telephone still pressed to his ear, his left hand raised as if hailing a cab. "You can't… Please! Wait!"

I peeked around the wing of my armchair in time to see the guy's brown coattails disappear around a corner.

The receptionist sat down with a resigned and audible thud that sent his chair, which must have been on wheels, rolling backward into the wall. "Shit."

"Who was that?" I asked.

He looked up, startled. "Oh, sorry about that. I shouldn't swear in front of the clients."

"That's all right," I said. "It's a technical term. I use it every day."

The young man grinned, relief flooding his face.

"So," I asked again, "who was that impatient son of a gun?"

"Nick Pottorff," he replied. "One of the investors."

My father cleared his throat importantly. "Excuse me, but we're investors, too," he complained.

"I'm sorry, sir, but-" He extended his hands, palms out, and shrugged.

I laid a hand on my father's arm. "That's okay, sweetheart. Pottorff's an impatient jerk. It's not the young man's fault."

I beamed at the receptionist. "Your name is Matt?"

"Matthew," he replied.

"Well, Matthew, my husband has a theory about brown-suited men."

Daddy raised an eyebrow as if trying to remember what, if anything, he had ever said to me about brown-suited men.

“Tell him, sweetheart," I prompted. “Tell him your theory about brown-suited men."

"Brown suit," Daddy said, sounding puzzled.

I nodded.

"Brown socks."

"Uh-huh."

“Tacky tie."

I shook my head to disagree. "Cheap. The Three Stooges on a tie is tacky. Or Christmas elves. Brown and orange triangles are just plain cheap."

"Cheap tie, then," Daddy amended.

"Right."

"And therefore…" Daddy scanned my face, desperate for help.

"Untrustworthy!" I concluded.

Matthew laughed out loud. "You're right," he said. "Pottorff's a royal pain in the ass. If I didn't need this job-" His voice trailed off. "I'm in school. University of Maryland," he explained. He raised a chemistry textbook from where he'd had it concealed under the counter. "Working here usually gives me plenty of time to study."

Daddy had returned his attention to Field & Stream, no doubt thinking I'd lost my mind with the brown-suited man bit. It was a little dopey, I admit. Just my feeble attempt to lighten the situation for a clearly embarrassed Matt.

"I'd like to go back to school," I embroidered dreamily. "Maybe to study fashion design."

Daddy looked up from the magazine and rolled his eyes. "The wife," he said carelessly, "is an expert on fashion. She has charge accounts at Saks, Neiman Marcus… "

I made a fist and punched him, hard, on the arm. "Stop it, George!"

"… Nordstrom, Lord and Taylor." Daddy might have continued the litany of department stores forever, had the telephone not rung.

Matthew answered, then looked up, relief plain in his eyes. "Mr. Steele will see you now."

The young receptionist escorted us down the hallway to a conference room where C. Alexander Steele, CEO, was seated at a round mahogany table. On a nearby credenza, a tray of coffee paraphernalia sat next to a silver bucket brimming with ice. Next to the ice, neatly arranged on a matching tray, was an assortment of bottled fruit juices and colas. There was no sign of the obnoxious Mr. Pottorff.

Steele stood up as we entered and extended a hand. "Captain and Mrs. Alexander. Welcome. Please sit down."

Steele gestured toward a sofa, chair, coffee and end-table grouping that reminded me of a living room, or what a living room might look like if one were married to Donald Trump. Daddy and I perched next to each other on the gold brocade sofa, and Steele settled his elegant, silk-clad buns into an adjoining armchair.

"May I offer you some refreshment?" Steele asked.

Daddy turned to me. "Sweetheart?"

Although my mouth was dry, I shook my head. I was so nervous I knew that if I tried to drink anything I'd probably end up sloshing it all over Steele's beautiful upholstery.

"Nothing for me, either." Daddy reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a piece of paper and laid it on the coffee table. I could see it was a printout from the Internet: Viaticals: The Perfect High Return/Low Risk Investment. For the moment, though, Daddy ignored it.

"I don't want to waste any of your time or mine, Steele, so let's get down to it," Daddy began. "One of my tech stocks went up like a rocket. I've decided to cash in and take my profits. So, I've got close to ninety thousand floating around that I'd like to put to work in something that has potential for a quick turnaround."

Steele nodded. "I hear you."

"I've got a unit trust that's maturing in a year," Daddy continued with easy confidence, although as far as I was concerned, he might as well have been speaking in tongues. "If I can turn that ninety thou around fast, then I'll have a substantial piece of change to work with.

"Viatical investments were new to me," Daddy admitted, "so I did some research." As he tapped the printout, his Naval Academy class ring captured the light from the lamp and flashed it across the ceiling.

I stole a quick glance at Steele and suspected that he noticed the ring, too. If he'd done his homework, he'd have known that Dad was an Academy grad. Couldn't help but add to Dad's Wall Street cred.

"Sounded too good to be true, if you want to know the truth," Daddy added. "This guy I play racquetball with told me he bought a policy that matured in six months. Made a bundle. So, I asked around the club, and your name came up."

Steele was nodding. "Those results are not at all unusual. In fact, you can't lose money in this market. The worst you can do is not make a lot of money."

Steele leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Supposing you buy a one-year, $100,000 life insurance policy for $88,000. If the person dies in the sixth month, you've earned a twenty-four percent annual rate of return! If he lives one year, your rate is about twelve percent. At two years, your rate drops to about six percent, but even if he lives fifty years, you still make money!" He spread his hands. "In comparison to a certificate of deposit earning, say, five percent, or, God help us," he chuckled, "dealing with the inconsistencies of the stock market, viatical settlements are virtually risk-free!

"And there's always the humanitarian aspect to consider." Steele aimed his expensive, laser-bleached smile at me. "Naturally, purchasing a viatical settlement helps you, the client, but this is one purchase you can really feel good about! Your investment helps a terminally ill individual make it through a time of great emotional and financial stress."

I reached out and laid a hand on top of my father's. "That's really important, isn't it, George?"

"Yeah, yeah. Always happy to do my part." Daddy slipped his hand out from under mine. "Look, Steele, getting back to what you were saying. I'm not interested in waiting around for fifty years."

"Of course, I understand, I was just giving you a for instance." Steele uncrossed his legs and stood up, inviting us to join him at a conference table near the window.

As Daddy held my chair, he flashed me a wink. Thank goodness! Clearly he had embraced his role as Wall Street cowboy, but I had begun to wonder whether aliens had landed and taken over his body!

Once we were seated, Steele fanned a handful of slick brochures out on the table in front of us. "We've got quite a few plans here, Captain Alexander. The five-year program has a higher fixed rate of return, of course, but those policies are almost exclusively senior settlements, expected to pay out within sixty months. I'm thinking you'll find our one-year program the one that best meets your needs. These are policies expected to pay out within the next twelve months at a very attractive rate of return."

Steele paused, allowing my father time to review some of the information he'd put before him.

It all sounded pretty dicey to me. Even if your rich uncle Joe is ninety years old and has been smoking cigars since he began sneaking puffs behind the barn at the age of twelve, how could you predict when he'd die? Statistics don't apply to individual cases. You might as well go to Madame Stella and have your palm read.

When I tuned back in again, Daddy was saying, "Okay, Steele, one-year it is. What exactly do I receive for my investment?"

"You become the owner and the irrevocable beneficiary of an existing, investment grade life insurance policy which is presently in force and covering a terminally ill person with a life expectancy of one year or less."

"Okay. Say I decide to invest my ninety thousand. What happens next?"

Steele shuffled through the brochures. "Ah, here it is. It's a common question, so we've prepared a checklist." He slid it across the table. "First," he explained, "your investment is placed in our viatical escrow account at BB and T."

"That sounds reassuring," I said. BB &T was as solid a bank as they come.

Daddy grunted.

"Next," Steele continued, "our viatical provider secures a policy of an appropriate face amount, which meets both medical and insurance underwriting criteria."

I tried to catch my father's eye. There was no doubt in my mind that the "viatical provider" Steele was referring to was none other than our good friend Gilbert Jablonsky. Good God, what did Steele do? Place orders with Jablonsky for life insurance policies as if they were used cars?

"Then what?" Daddy wanted to know.

"Once the insured person has agreed to sell his policy, he receives a purchase agreement in which the insured person and his beneficiaries relinquish all rights to the policy by signing a change of beneficiary form. These documents are forwarded to the insurance company, where the changes are officially recorded. Then, a copy is sent to the viatical escrow agent who reviews it, and if the documentation is in order, the funds are released and the deal is closed."

"How do I know this is a legitimate policy you're selling me?"

Steele's face crumpled. We were questioning his honesty. "All our policies are with insurance companies that are A rated or better by A.M. Best, Standard & Poor's, or an equivalent rating company."

"I see," my father said. "And now, no point beating around the bush. How do I tell when my viator has died?"

"Each viator receives a viator number." Steele pointed to the bottom of the brochure, where an Internet address was printed in large black type. "You log on to that website whenever you like, type in the viator number we give you, and you'll receive an updated status report on that person."

"What do you do, Steele, have somebody call up the viator and ask 'So, how you doing today, Harry? Feeling poorly?'"

"Oh, Daddy! That's disgusting," I cried. Instantly, I could have bitten my tongue off. I flashed a smile at Steele, hoping he hadn't noticed my slip. "Isn't he just awful?

Daddy, smooth as silk, saved my sorry skin. He pinched my cheek, "That's my little girl!"

You've got to give Steele a little credit. He didn't roll his eyes, although I'm sure he wanted to.

Daddy pushed back his chair and stood. "Once the viator dies, how soon will I receive my money?"

"The benefit is paid by the insurance company, of course, so that varies company by company, but we've been averaging six to eight weeks."

That seemed to satisfy my father. "Well, Steele, I think we'll probably be able to do a little business here. Let me get my ducks in a row and get back to you." He pumped Steele's arm up and down vigorously.

"If you have any questions or concerns, please give me a call," Steele added. He reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, took out a silver card case and extracted a business card. "Call me, any time, Captain. That has my cell, as well as my office."

"Thanks, I'll do that," Daddy said. He handed Steele's business card to me and I slipped it into my bag.

"C'mon, sweetheart. Time to go," Daddy added. "We'll be late for the theater."

"The Producers" I said airily. "We've had tickets for simply ages!"

Steele checked his watch. "You'll have plenty of time to get to the Kennedy Center," he said as he ushered us down the hall, then through the glass doors and into the elevator lobby.

"Oh, it's not in D.C.," I chirped. "It's in New York."

If Steele had any response to that remark, it was lost as the elevator doors closed silently in his face.

Once the elevator began its descent, I fell back, exhausted, against the wood paneling. "Captain Alexander, you were terrific," I said. "You really did your homework."

"I was up late bopping around the Internet," Daddy replied. "I didn't want to blow it."

"So, what do you think?" I asked as the elevator disgorged us on the lobby level.

"I think that if we can prove that the Ginger Cove residents on Mrs. Bromley's list did not die of natural causes, our friend Steele has to be in it up to his impeccably groomed eyebrows."

"We need to talk to Dennis," I said, referring to my brother-in-law, the Chesapeake County cop.

With one arm, Daddy held the lobby door open for me and we passed out into the bright June sunshine.

Unexpectedly, Daddy tapped my shoulder. "Look, Hannah. There's your brown-suited man."

"Where?"

Daddy pointed to the far end of the parking lot, where a man who looked a lot like Nick Pottorff was climbing into a BMW. Pottorff started his car, revved the engine a couple of times to show how macho he was, backed out of the parking space, and sped past us, tires squealing. I'd seen that car before. As it flew by, I got a good look at the license plate, too: N4SIR.

I grabbed my father's arm. "That's the same car I saw in Gilbert Jablonsky's lot!" I leaned back against the fender of a blue Volvo. "Oh my God, Daddy! That means there's got to be a connection between Steele and Jablonsky!"

"Ba-da-bing, Ba-da-boom," Daddy said.

"What?"

Haven't you been watching The Sopranos on HBO?"

Of course I had, but I wasn't in the mood for light-hearted banter. "Listen to me! I am positive that car and its license plate were parked next to mine in Jablonsky's parking lot in Glen Burnie just one week ago! How can you not remember a vanity plate like N4SIR?"

"I don't know." Daddy stood straight and tall, hands thrust deep into his pockets, shaking his head. "Isn't that a little obvious, Hannah? Do you think he'd drive around with a plate like that if he really were a mafia enforcer?"

"I don't think the word 'subtle' appears in Nick Pottorff's dictionary," I said.

"In that case, sweetheart, we need to share what we know with Dennis ASAP and see what he advises."

"Are you busy tomorrow night, Daddy?"

"I don't think so. Why?"

"If Connie and Dennis are free, I thought we'd cook out in the backyard."

"Haven't had a good hamburger in a long time," Daddy said. "Count me in."

Daddy held the passenger door of the Chrysler open and I slipped in, ladylike, remembering, just in case anybody was watching, to keep my knees together, slide and swivel.

When Daddy got behind the wheel, he turned the key in the ignition, then leaned back in his seat. "The Producers,” he chuckled. "In New York City?"

"Sorry, Daddy. Steele was so full of shit, I just couldn't help myself."