J
eremy Cullrane was a hard man to track down. When I called the Pollexfen residence to confirm my lunch date with Angelina Pollexfen, Brenda Koehler said that Cullrane wasn’t there and she didn’t know where he could be reached. He wasn’t at the Bayview Club, or at least he didn’t answer the page I requested. He wasn’t at Nicole Coyne’s apartment; an answering machine picked up there. Another machine answered my call to his mail-drop business number. I left messages everywhere, but by the time I quit the agency to keep the lunch date I still hadn’t heard from him.
The restaurant one or the other of the Pollexfens had chosen was called L’Aubergine, a celebrated French bistro just off Union Square. Catered to the wealthy and to dealmakers with unlimited expense accounts—high prices, designer food. Not the kind of place I’d have chosen, but then I was not going to pay for the privilege of eating
there. If I had to pick up the check, it would go straight onto
my
expense account and Barney Rivera had damned well better authorize reimbursement.
Angelina Pollexfen was already there when I walked in at five minutes to twelve, in a cozy little rear booth with a martini in front of her. She wasn’t alone. The man sitting with her wore a three-piece Armani suit and the kind of smooth, ultrawhite smile I distrust on sight. They made a nice pair. She was the blond, willowy type, gray eyes, creamy complexion, fashionably dressed; the diamond wedding ring on her left hand glittered and sparkled and had no doubt drawn envious looks from the other female diners. He was about her age, late thirties, his olive complexion darkened by heavy beard shadow, his black hair sprinkled with gray at the temples.
She gave me her hand, took it away again, and introduced her companion as “Paul DiSantis, our attorney.”
“Do you feel you need an attorney present, Mrs. Pollexfen?”
“It’s nothing like that,” DiSantis said. His handshake was firm without trying to prove anything. “I’m not here in a legal capacity.”
“Paul and I are old friends. We already had plans to have lunch today, so I asked him to join us.” She favored him with a brief, crooked smile as she spoke, got another look at his dental work in return—touching each other with their eyes. Uh-huh, I thought. Friends. Right. All those daylong “shopping” trips.
He made room in the booth, keeping himself between me and Mrs. Pollexfen, and I squeezed in next to him. His
leather-scented cologne was noticable up close, but it didn’t stand a chance against the expensive French perfume that came drifting across the table from Angelina Pollexfen. I decided to breathe through my mouth. By the time the waiter came around, she’d finished her martini and was ready for another: “Double Bombay Sapphire, dirty, up, no olive.” Two doubles before lunch—the lady was a boozer, all right. DiSantis seemed content with his glass of Pellegrino. I settled for black coffee.
Nobody said much by tacit consent until the drinks were served and we’d made our lunch choices. Mrs. Pollexfen knocked back a third of martini number two, licked the residue off her pink mouth, and said to me, point blank, “Well, did my husband accuse me of stealing his precious books? Is that why we’re here?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Really? Then he must have accused my brother Jeremy.”
“Not exactly accused. Strongly implied.”
She said, “Greg is full of shit,” and knocked off another third of the gin and olive juice.
DiSantis laid a hand over one of hers, not being too familiar about it, and said, “Angelina,” in a tone of mild rebuke.
“Well, he is, and you know it. Brimful to the top of his head.”
I revised my estimate of how many doubles she’d had. What was left of the one in front of her was at least her third. No speech slur, but her eyes had a bright little glaze on them. Under the glaze, when she spoke her husband’s name, something much darker shone hard and feral.
“If you feel that way about him,” I said, “why stay married?”
“Why do you think?” She waggled the diamond for emphasis.
DiSantis said her name again, not quite so mildly.
“I’m just being honest,” she said. “Greg doesn’t love me and I don’t love him. All that’s holding us together is his money. What I can get of it, that is.”
I asked, “Prenuptial agreement, Mrs. Pollexfen?”
DiSantis told her she didn’t have to answer that.
“Why shouldn’t I answer it? Yes, there’s a prenup. And yes, that’s why I’m still sharing my husband’s house, if not his bed. If I divorce him, I get a small settlement and nothing else.”
“You know you’re no longer the beneficiary of his insurance policy?”
“Oh, he made a point of telling me when he changed it. He’s written me out of his will, too, except for what I’m entitled to by law if I stay married to him.”
“That could be construed as a motive for a half-million-dollar theft.”
“Construe all you like. I didn’t steal his damn books. Not that I wouldn’t like to steal the whole lot and move to Brazil on the proceeds. That’s all he cares about, his stupid collection.” She drained her glass. “He’s impotent, you know.”
“Angelina.” Sharp warning from DiSantis this time.
She ignored it. “For years now. Not even Viagra does him any good. He couldn’t get it up with a splint for a pair of naked Hollywood starlets.”
“Keep your voice down, for God’s sake.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Paul. You know I don’t like it.”
DiSantis was angry now. I watched him make an effort to hold on to his lawyerly cool. Pretty soon he said to me, “It’s the gin talking.”
“It’s the truth talking,” she said. “And yes, I believe I will have another.”
“I think we’d better order lunch.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be my last. I won’t embarrass you by puking in the soup.”
“It’s yourself you’re embarrassing.”
She signaled to the waiter. The filet of sole and another dirty martini, please. DiSantis ordered one of the specials—in French, no less. The only thing on the menu that appealed to me was a shrimp salad. Excuse me,
salade de crevette.
When the waiter went away, Mrs. Pollexfen said to me, “My husband says you seem to be a very competent detective. Tell me, how do you think the books were stolen?”
“No idea yet. How do
you
think it was done?”
“Oh, that’s simple. Isn’t it simple, Paul?”
DiSantis had no comment.
“Greg took them,” she said, “and hid them someplace.”
“Why would he do that? He doesn’t need the insurance money, does he?”
“Of course not. Money had nothing to do with it. He’s a nasty, manipulative son of a bitch, that’s why.”
One of the women diners at a nearby table directed a
glare our way. Angelina Pollexfen stuck her tongue out in response. “Where’s that damn martini?” she said.
DiSantis had given up on her for the time being. He sat in a silent, tight-lipped sulk. His body language said he’d make her pay for her bitchy and boorish behavior. By withholding his favors, maybe.
Her martini came and she nibbled delicately at this one, to make it last. The glaze on her eyes now was as thick as frozen syrup. “What were we talking about?” she asked me.
“Why you believe your husband hid his own books and filed a false insurance claim.”
“To torment Jeremy and me, that’s why.”
“With false accusations, you mean?”
“Any way he can. He likes to hurt people he despises.”
“You don’t mean physically?”
“Oh, he’s never laid a hand on me. Control, that’s his thing. Hurt people by jerking them around, for his own gratification.”
How much of that was truth and how much an exaggeration fueled by gin and hate I couldn’t tell. “Why does he despise you?”
“Because I don’t give in to him. I fight him every way I can. Don’t I, Paul?”
DiSantis said, “I’m not going to let you drag me into this.”
“Don’t mind Paul,” she said to me. “He doesn’t approve of liquid lunches.”
“Why does your husband despise your brother?”
“Why? Jeremy’s an asshole, for one thing.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it’s the truth.”
“Pretty strong comment about your own brother.”
“He’s a pretty big asshole.”
“Must be a reason you think so.”
“Two good reasons. He’s a loser and a taker.”
“Money, you mean? Bad investments?”
“Well. How did you know about that? Oh, of course, you’re a detective. Detectives find out all sorts of things, don’t they?”
“All sorts. How much of your husband’s money did Jeremy take and lose?”
“That’s not relevant to your investigation,” DiSantis said.
“It is if Cullrane is involved in the theft.” To her I said, “Those bad investments of Jeremy’s.
Was
it your husband’s money he lost?”
“Paul said that’s not relevant. I say it’s none of your business.”
“Let’s assume it was your husband’s money, just for the sake of argument. And that the loss was substantial. Why would he let your brother keep on living in his house? Because of you?”
She smiled at that. “Hardly.”
“Then why? Some kind of leverage on Jeremy’s part?”
“Leverage. Isn’t that a pretty word.”
“I can state it more plainly.”
The smile widened—a sly, knowing smile. Secrets. But she wasn’t going to give me any hints; she stuck her nose in the martini again.
Lunch arrived. The plates might’ve been empty for all the attention any of us paid to them.
I asked her, “Does your brother need money now?”
“Everybody needs money.”
“A large sum. For debts or another investment.”
“I don’t know and I could care less. Why don’t you ask him?” Then, “Jeremy really didn’t steal those books, you know. Any more than I did. I told you who’s responsible.”
“Let’s assume you’re wrong. Why couldn’t Jeremy be guilty?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Greg has the only key to the library and he guards it like the Crown jewels. Nobody but him is allowed in there. Nobody but him knows which books are the most valuable. Nobody but him could have taken them. QED. You know what that means, don’t you?”
I let that pass. “What about you, Mr. DiSantis? That your take on the situation?”
“It does seem obvious,” he said.
“On the surface. Somebody could’ve figured a way to get in when nobody was around. It only takes a few seconds to make a wax impression of a key, for instance.”
“That’s true, I suppose.”
“If I didn’t, and Jeremy didn’t,” she said, “who else is left?”
“Your husband’s secretary.”
“Brenda? My God, Brenda’s so loyal to Greg it’s a wonder she doesn’t prostrate herself at his feet. Or offer to blow him under his desk while he’s dictating, not that she’d be able to, poor thing. Did I tell you he’s impotent?”
“Christ, Angelina!”
She wrinkled her nose at him.
I said, “I’d say she was more interested in your brother than your husband.”
“Jeremy? And Brenda? He doesn’t have much taste in women, but what he does have is better than
that.
”
Like DiSantis, I’d had enough of her. Maybe she was easier to deal with when she was sober, but I wouldn’t have put money on it. I shifted a little so I had a better angle on the lawyer and tried pumping him a little.
“What’s your opinion of Gregory Pollexfen, Mr. DiSantis?”
“He’s a client. What I think of him is irrelevant.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Nine years. Since I joined Wainright and Simmons.”
“And you handle his legal affairs?”
“The firm does.”
“But not you personally.”
“ … For the past three years, yes.”
“Any trouble with him?”
“What do you mean, trouble?”
“Just that. Personal problems, professional difficulties.”
“No.”
“Visit him in his home?”
DiSantis didn’t like this line of questioning. He said, “Are you trying to make me out as a suspect now?”
Angelina Pollexfen laughed.
I said, “Not at all. Asking questions, trying to get at the truth. Doing my job.”
“Well, I’m not going to answer anymore. And I advise Mrs. Pollexfen to follow the same course. Do I make myself clear, Angelina?”
“Oh, perfectly. Clear as crystal.”
“All right. Now suppose we finish our lunch like civilized people.”