I push myself up from the couch.
“Glenda Rawlings, Mr. Tolt’s administrative assistant. If you will come this way.”
I follow her past reception and down the corridor. There is only one large double door at the end of the hall. On the dark mahogany in gold letters is the name “Adam Tolt.” She knocks.
“Come in.” The voice is muted behind the solid wood.
She opens the door and leads the way. I have never met Tolt before. He appears as a gray eminence behind a massive dark desk twenty feet away. God would have such surroundings if he had more money. There are Greek vases lining a continuous shelf on three of the four walls, the other being glass. These are obvious relics of great value in earthen hues. On the wall behind Tolt’s desk is a Matisse, not a copy, an original, in shocking colors, vibrant blues and greens.
The surface of Tolt’s desk reveals swirls of inset bird’s-eye inlaid in a delicate border around an exotic dark polished slab that spent an eon surviving on the floor in some primeval tropical forest. It is swept clear of everything except an ornate silver pen set, a telephone with a zillion buttons, and a large leather blotter. On the blotter is a sheaf of papers to which the man is giving his undivided attention. He doesn’t look up as I enter.
“Glenda, I’m going to need the file on the Masery case. Tell Halston I want to see him before I leave. And call Schafer and tell him I want a briefing on the Electric Stylus matter when I get back on Friday.”
With the point of his fountain pen, he scratches a diagonal line across the page he is reading.
“This memo to Wentworth needs some work.” He flips it at her so it sails and she has to catch it in the air a foot off the surface of his desk.
“I don’t know who did the figures,” he says, “but they don’t add up.” By now he is already looking at the next piece of paper in the stack.
“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it right away.”
He scratches the scrawl of his signature, the point of his pen like a needle over the linen letterhead, lifts the page and repeats the process. He does this four more times in quick succession, his name represented by what looks like two letters, an A with a T through it, followed by an inky squiggle. He affixes this to the paper with the staid majesty of one using sealing wax and the royal signet ring to endorse an imperial commission.
Tolt is a fixture not only in the politics of this state, but on the national scene. As a young man he is reputed to have led a trade delegation to the Orient where, within a year, rumors of bribes to foreign officials began to surface, rumors that blossomed into scandal, and led to the collapse of a government over the purchase of defense equipment. The fact that one of Tolt’s clients was the supplier of this equipment did not seem to tarnish the man. That he could do this, his name never being mentioned in the press or any of the inquiries that followed, coined for him the title, in darker corners and behind his back, the “Stealth Fixer.”
Tolt’s political tracks have the same illusive qualities as a shadow. Shine light on them and they disappear. There are those who suspect that his fingerprints would not even adhere to the smooth leather surface of his own briefcase. Currently he sits on more than a dozen corporate boards, as well as the national committee of one of the two great political parties. Given the moral compass of the country over the past quarter century, one day we will no doubt find him on the Supreme Court or in a presidential cabinet.
He doesn’t look up at me until he is twisting the cap back on his pen.
“And Glenda, hold my calls, and call the airport and make sure the Gulfstream is fueled and ready. I don’t want to wait for the crew again.”
“Yes, sir. Your car is downstairs. The driver’s waiting.”
“Thank you, Glenda.”
She hustles out, the picture of efficiency, and closes the door behind her.
Tolt picks up my business card, which she has placed on the blotter near his right hand, and examines it. He wears glasses under a creased forehead. His face is well tanned, and he seems fit for a man I would guess is in his early sixties. “Mr. Mad-re-ani?”
“Mah-dree-ahnee. The a’s are long,” I tell him.
“Have a seat. I don’t have much time. I have to leave for D.C. on business,” he says.
This makes me want to send a national consumer alert to taxpayers. He looks at his watch. “I was told you wanted to see me. Something having to do with Nick Rush.”
“If it would be more convenient, we could meet when you have a little more time. Perhaps when you get back…”
“No. No.” He would rather get rid of me now.
I take a seat. “I’m here at the request of Mrs. Dana Rush. Nick’s widow. She asked me if I could look into some business matters for her.”
“I see.” He shakes his head solemnly. “Tragic,” he says. “How someone with that much promise could be cut down in his prime.” Tolt makes it sound as if the greatest loss is that Nick’s fingers are no longer plying the billing machine in his office.
“Specifically the question regards insurance on her husband’s life, the firm’s key-man policy.”
“Uh-huh.” Suddenly he’s looking for something, swiveling in his chair. Then he sees it: the attache case on the floor behind him, under his credenza. He wheels around so his back is to me for a second as he reaches for it.
“I don’t usually get involved in these kinds of details,” he says. “Have you talked to Humphreys?” Tolt is back around to face me, the attache case open on his desk in front of him. For an instant, I think maybe he has a copy of the key-man policy in this briefcase. Then I realize he doesn’t. He is just packing up, getting ready to leave.
“Humphreys is your man,” he says. “He’s the firm’s business manager. He handles all that stuff. If you have an insurance claim, you lodge it with him.”
“I talked to Mr. Humphreys yesterday. He’s the one who set up our appointment. He said there was some problem, but he couldn’t discuss it. He said I would have to talk with you.”
“Problem? I don’t know anything about a problem. Who do you say you represent?”
“Mrs. Rush, Dana Rush.”
He looks at me as if the name doesn’t click. “Hang on a second.” He picks up the receiver on the phone, hits one of the hot keys on the bottom, and waits for it to ring.
“Hello, George, this is Adam upstairs.” He swings around in his chair, back to me again. “I have a man up here, name of Paul Mad-ri-ani. Says he talked to you on the phone about the key-man policy on Nick Rush.
“Uh-huh. Uh-huh.
“Well, why wasn’t I told?
“Uh-huh.
“Well, yes, but I should have been told.
“Uh-huh. Really. Is anybody looking into this?
“Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Well that’s fine but what’s…
“Uh-huh. So what’s it look like? Does Jim think we’re going to be in the middle?
“Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Well, keep me posted, OK?” He hangs up, picks up my card again, taking another look at it.
“You’re right. It looks like there could be a problem,” he says.
“What’s that?”
He puts my card down and is back to piling some papers from a desk drawer into the open attache case in front of him.
“The good news is there was a key-man policy out on Nick. The policy was taken out when he joined the firm. The firm paid the premiums and all,” he says. “It’s part of the compensation package for partners. In return for the insurance payout, heirs agree to forego any claim as to an interest in the law firm,” he says. “The key-man policy is a good way to make sure nobody gets hurt.”
“And?”
“The bad news,” says Tolt, “is that the named beneficiary doesn’t seem to be your client.”
“What do you mean?”
“How well did you know Nick?” he asks.
“Pretty well.”
“Then you knew he was married once before.”
I nod.
