knew the most about Jack and Edith-was it too convenient?
When further research revealed that three board members from those years also were dead, under interesting circumstances, Morgan had a strong sense he was on to something. Were they all part of a cabal to get Edith’s money? He had to consider the possibility that Jack might have been clearing up the loose ends, eliminating any witnesses he left behind. If he could kill an old lady in cold blood, after all, what was the harm in killing a few more? Jack might be much naughtier than they thought.
First up was Paul Nussman, banged by a car as he bicycled through Manhattan. The collision was so violent that Nussman flew sixty feet before he was impaled on a fire hydrant. A hit-and-run, midday, yet no witnesses, no pictures. The killer was never found.
Bernard Kohlman fell off a ladder and broke his neck as he cleaned the gutter of his Greenwich home. He was sixty-two, a severe acrophobe, arthritic, overweight, lazy, with no history as a handyman. His wife told the police she didn’t even know they owned a ladder.
And Phillip Grossman committed suicide; his body was discovered hanging from the balcony in a gay movie theater. He was a closet homosexual, and though his secret was well-known, he went to great lengths to conceal his lifestyle. A public death in such an incriminating manner and place seemed spectacularly out of character.
Apparently those were not healthy years to be a senior executive or a board member at Primo.
The first living survivor of the firm Morgan decided to track down was Marigold Anders, executive assistant to Terrence Kyle II, the now deceased CEO. Assistants were always a fount of inside dirt; they tended to be gabby, too.
Anders, it turned out, lived on Long Island, in the quaint town of Montauk, as far east as you could travel before you dropped into the ocean. He called and identified himself as a federal officer performing a routine background check on Jack. The standard spiel.
Marigold said yes, of course she remembered Jack. When he invited himself out for an interview that afternoon, she said she had nothing better to do, then hung up. He took that as permission to drop by.
After a long, traffic-choked drive on the LIE, Morgan rolled into her dirt driveway at five in the evening. Marigold lived outside the town in a small clapboard house surrounded by flat potato fields and the occasional picturesque winery. It seemed as far from New York City as she could get, physically and spiritually.
He spent a moment taking in the house as he parked. The outside screamed for a thorough painting, there were missing shingles on the roof, the yard was wildly unkempt, and the car in the driveway was a model so old he didn’t recognize it. With a cracked windshield, missing hubcaps, a patchwork of oxidized paint, the heap should’ve been junked ten years ago. After ringing the bell twice-he doubted it worked-he wound his way around the house to the back.
He found Marigold there, hunched over in a rusted green lounge chair, puffing a cigarette and staring into the distance.
He introduced himself and produced the shiny badge O’Neal had issued him.
“Have a seat,” she said, casually pointing at another rusted wreck about five feet away from her chair.
He eased carefully into the chair-one of the four legs was barely holding on by a thin strip of rusted metal-and studied her a moment. Probably a looker in her day, but age and wrinkles of bitterness had taken a steep toll. Late sixties, he guessed, with the leathery skin and deep rasp of a lifelong smoker. It was a cold late December evening, and she wore a ratty blue overcoat that, like her, was well past its prime.
He yanked out a notebook and assumed a professional demeanor. “You said you used to work with Jack Wiley. Mind if I ask a few questions?”
“You the one who called this morning?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You drove all the way out here, didn’t you?”
Oh, great, Morgan thought. Getting anything out of this sour old prune was going to be worse than a Sunday afternoon with his wife’s church group. But he’d made the long drive and was determined to come back with something.
“How well did you know Jack?” he asked.
“Not very. I was the CEO’s executive assistant. He was just a lowly associate.”
Morgan pretended to read from a list of questions in his notebook. “Did you have a good impression of him?”
“Sure, he was cute.” She waved her cigarette in the air and cackled. “Nice ass, too.”
“Do you believe him to be trustworthy, to possess good qualities and character?”
“Well, I wouldn’t know about that, would I?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Wasn’t like I did any work with him. I was a glorified secretary, for godsakes.”
He made a brief entry in his notebook before he launched another official-sounding question. “How long did your time at Primo overlap?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Marigold sucked a deep cloud of smoke into her lungs as she thought about that a moment. “Two… no, I think, more like three years.”
Morgan decided to edge gently into this. “Did you ever know Jack to get into any trouble with the authorities?”
“You mean cops?”
“Them, or any other legal authorities.”
“If he did, I sure as hell didn’t know about it.”
“Did Jack have any problems at the firm? You worked for the CEO. Anything that came to his attention?”
Marigold frowned at him. “That sort of stuff was always treated real confidential. You know, kept behind closed doors.”
“But did you ever hear about anything? A stray comment from your boss? Watercooler rumor, that sort of thing?”
“Why? He in trouble or something?”
“Not at all, no. Just a background check.” Morgan worked up his most reassuring grin. The old hag was a nosy pain in the ass. “Sorry if I’m wasting your time, ma’am. I’m required to ask these questions.”
“Well, I don’t know nothin’ about any of that.”
“The name Edith Warbinger mean anything to you?”
“Nope. Should it?”
“Jack handled her investments back then. A large account, a mountain of money.”
“I told you, I never heard of her.”
“Okay, you’re doing fine. Can you tell me what happened to your boss?”
“Why?”
“We’re trying to track him down. Can’t seem to locate him anywhere.”
“Are you Feds always this incompetent?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, ain’t like he moved anywhere in a decade,” she said with a dismissive smile. “Check Flushing Cemetery.”
“He’s dead?”
“No, he bought a condo there. ’Course he’s dead, you idiot. Bastard bought it back in ’98.” There was a slight slur to her diction. Morgan was sure she’d been drinking.
“No kidding,” Morgan said, acting surprised. “Heart attack, stroke, what?”
“Plane crash. Too bad, too.”
“Yes, it’s always sad. So young, such a promising life cut short.”
“No, you fool, I was always hoping he’d die slow and agonizing. Maybe catch some exotic disease, some particularly nasty, lingering kind of cancer. Guess he got lucky.”
“You didn’t like him?”
“He was a lousy, rotten crook. Real bastard to work for.” She crushed out a butt on the ground and immediately fired up another.
Morgan pretended to make another small notation in his notebook, casually mentioning, “I’m surprised we missed it. A plane wreck, huh?”
