Killer Takes All

CHAPTER 47

Friday, March 18, 2005

3:30 p.m.

Spencer dropped the receiver back onto the cradle and smiled. Kay Noble’s disappearance had convinced a judge to give them a search warrant for Leo’s home, office, vehicles, business and financial records.

He stood, stretched and started toward Tony’s desk. Between the two of them, they’d questioned everyone in the Noble household. Everyone’s answers pretty well mirrored Leo’s-with one exception. Only the housekeeper recalled Kay having a headache.

“Yo, Pasta Man.” His partner sat at his desk, staring at a small logbook. “What’s up?”

Instead of answering, he made a growling noise.

Spencer frowned and indicated the logbook. “What’s that?”

“Points keeper.”

“Excuse me?”

“Weight Watchers. Wife signed me up.” He sighed. “Every food has an assigned point value. You log everything you eat and subtract it from your daily points limit.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“I’ve already used up all my points.”

“For the day and night?”

“Yeah. And some of my weekly flex points.”

“Flex poin-” He bit the question back. “Forget about it. Let’s take a drive.”

“Where?”

“Noble’s. By way of the Criminal Courts Building.”

Tony grinned. “Judge granted a search warrant?”

“Bingo, baby.”

In the end, they picked up the warrant, and since they were downtown, paid a visit to Noble’s lawyer. Winston Coppola was a partner in Smith, Grooms, Macke and Coppola, located in the Place St. Charles building.

They parked in a tow zone-legal spots were few and far between in the Central Business District, and flipped down the visor to display their police ID. As they crossed the sidewalk to the building’s main entrance, the St. Charles Avenue streetcar rumbled past.

They found the law firm on the building’s directory, caught an elevator and headed for the tenth floor.

The pretty young woman at reception smiled when the two men approached her desk. “Spencer Malone, what a surprise.”

He returned the smile, not having a clue who she was. Luckily, he’d noted her name on the desk placard. “Trish? Is that you?”

“It is.”

“Gee, look at you. How long’s it been?”

“Too long. I changed my hair.”

“I see that. I like it.”

“Thanks.” She pouted. “You never called. We had so much fun that night at Shannon’s, I was certain you would.”

Shannon’s. No wonder.

Must have been back in his big drinking days.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he said with what he hoped was just the right note of sincerity. He imagined Tony beside him, rolling his eyes. “I lost your number.”

“I can remedy that.”

She caught his hand and turned it palm up. She wrote the number across his palm, then closed his fingers around it. “Call me.”

Tony cleared his throat. “We’re here to see Winston Coppola. Is he in?”

“Mr. Coppola? Do you have an appointment?”

“This is official business.”

“Oh…I see,” she said, obviously flustered. “I’ll buzz him.”

She did, and a moment later, she replaced the receiver and directed them to the man’s office. As they made their way back, Tony leaned toward him, “Good save, Slick.”

“Thanks.”

“What a knockout. Are you going to call her?”

Truth was, calling the pretty Trish was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment. Well, maybe not the furthest, but the need wasn’t pressing. “I’d be crazy not to. Right?”

Tony didn’t answer, because they had reached the attorney’s office; he was waiting at the door for them. Handsome, well-dressed, impeccably groomed, but with a slightly freaky George Hamilton tan, he appeared to be a smooth operator.

Spencer greeted him. “Detectives Malone and Sciame. We need to ask you a few questions about Kay Noble.”

“Kay?” He frowned. “You have IDs, Detectives?”

After inspecting them, the man ushered them into his office. None of them sat.

Spencer noted the framed diplomas; the photographs on the desk, credenza and walls. One, he saw, depicted the lawyer skiing, another at the beach. No wonder the guy was so brown.

Tony looked around, openly admiring the office. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.”

“You have an interesting name, Mr. Coppola.”

“English mother, Italian father. I’m a bit of a mutt, actually.”

“Any relationship to Francis Ford?”

“Sadly, no. Now, about Noble?”

“She’s missing. We have reason to believe she’s in harm’s way.”

“My God. When-”

“Last night.”

“How can I help?”

“When did you see her last?”

“Early this week.”

“May I ask what the meeting was about?”

“A licensing agreement.”

“How’s business? Their business?”

“Very good.” He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. “I’m sure you understand I can’t share confidential information.”

“Actually, you can. We have a warrant.” Spencer produced the document; the attorney looked it over, then handed it back.

“First off, this document does not release me from attorney-client privilege. It allows you access to Leonardo Noble’s home and vehicle, and financial and business records you might find there.

“Second, as a lawyer, I understand the significance of the warrant and your underlying reasons for obtaining it.” He leaned toward them. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. If something’s happened to Kay, Leo had nothing to do with it.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why?”

“They’re devoted to each other.”

“They divorced, Mr. Coppola.”

“Let go of all your notions about what that means. They’d worked all that out. They are friends. Partners in raising their daughter and in their business ventures.”

“And how is their business?” Spencer asked, repeating his earlier question.

“Very good, actually. Leo and Kay just signed several big licensing agreements.”

“For really big money?” Tony asked.

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

“How big?” Spencer pressed. “Are we talking millions?”

“Yes, millions.”

“Who pays your bill, Mr. Coppola?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your bill, who pays it? Leo or Kay?”

Red stained his cheeks. “That question offends me, Detective.”

“But I’m certain the money doesn’t.”

“Noble’s not just a client, but also a friend. Billable hours have nothing to do with that. Or with how I answered your questions. I’m sorry, but I’m out of time.”

Spencer stuck out his hand. “Thanks for speaking with us. We’ll be in touch.”

Tony handed him a card. “If you think of anything, give us a call.”

The attorney showed them out. Trish sat at her desk but was too busy to do more than look up and smile as they passed. The moment the door of the elevator whooshed shut, Tony looked at Spencer. “Interesting how rich people always claim money’s not important. If it’s not important, why do they work so hard to hang on to it?”

Spencer nodded, recalling how Leo Noble had claimed money didn’t mean that much to him. “I’m thinking that Coppola believes Leo’s the power behind the empire. Did you get that?”

“Yeah, I got that. You think that influenced his answers?”

“Maybe. He’s a lawyer, after all.”

For the most part, cops didn’t think highly of lawyers. Except for prosecutors, like Spencer’s brother Quentin.

The elevator reached the first floor; the doors opened and they stepped off. “You’re married, Pasta Man, give me some perspective.”

“Shoot.”

“I’m a little muddy about this whole ‘they still love and respect each other’ thing. This ‘I owe it all to her, so I’m giving her half’ thing. Let’s say the missus divorces you. How are you going to feel about that?”

They reached the car. Spencer unlocked it and they climbed in. Tony buckled his safety belt and looked at Spencer. “I’ve been married thirty-two years and I don’t get it, either. We love and respect each other, fight and disagree, but we stay together. It’s the fact that we made a commitment to each other that keeps us together, working at it. If she divorced me, I’d be pretty pissed off.”

“And if, after she divorced you, she got half of everything you made-past and future. How would you feel about that? Could you still be friends?”

“It wouldn’t happen, dude.”

“Why not?”

“After you sleep with a woman, you can’t be friends.”

“Neanderthal.”

“And how many of those friends do you have?”

Spencer drew his eyebrows together in thought. Exactly…none.

He glanced at Tony, then pulled away from the curb. “Everybody who knows them is singing the same song. Friends. Employees. Daughter.”

“And you think it’s an act.”

It wasn’t a question; instead of answering, he asked one of his own. “Who stands to gain the most by Kay Noble dying?”

“Leo Noble.”

“Damn right, he does. Call for a couple uniforms to meet us at Leo’s. It’s time for the games to begin.”