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“So, who’s going to get Ed Charles’s ill-gotten gains?”
“My secretary.”
“Joan? How did she manage that?”
“Annetta was Joan’s mother’s younger sister: her aunt.”
“How much?”
“Just between you, me, and the bar association, north of a hundred million. A lot more if we can find it.”
“Holy shit!”
“That’s approximately what Joan is going to say. She typed up the will, but I withheld that part from her and typed it myself.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“Because I didn’t want her mooning about, dreaming of how, someday, she would be a rich woman. It would have interfered with her work, and, anyway, who knew it was going to be so soon?”
“What did you mean there’s more, if you can find it?”
“Let’s just say that Ed Charles’s relationship with the Internal Revenue Service was, well, distant. Oh, I’m sure he has an upright accounting firm that, each year, produces a plausible tax return. But there are rumors of an offshore bank account and, locally, an oversized safety-deposit box, crammed with cash.”
“And where did all this cash come from? Was he stealing from his investors?”
“I don’t think Ed had any investors that he didn’t invent out of thin air. A private investment company makes a wonderful money laundry, wouldn’t you think?”
“I would think,” Dino replied.
“I hear that Ed was banking three bookies and taking his vigorish in cash.”
“What are you going to do when the Feds come sniffing around?”
“Absolutely nothing. I don’t have anything to give them. They’ll have heard the rumors I’ve heard, but I’m not in a position to substantiate them. After all, I’ve only been his estate’s attorney for less than a week, and Annetta is no longer in a position to confide in me. The Feds will turn up with a search warrant right quick, and I’m not going to get in their way. My guess is that Ed was clever enough to conceal his assets, but he didn’t do it on my watch or on my advice. I’m clean, and I’m going to remain clean. It’s the Woodman & Weld way.”
“And what are you going to do, if you find some of Ed’s money?”
“What money?” Stone asked. “I don’t know anything about any money.”
THIRTEEN
When Stone got downstairs to his office the following morning, he had to make his own coffee because Joan was nowhere to be found. He checked his watch: she was always on time. “What the hell?”
The phone rang, and since Joan was not there to screen the calls, curiosity required him to answer it. “Stone Barrington.”
“Hey, Stone, it’s Eddie Jr.”
“Why are you calling me, Junior?” Stone asked. “You’re not supposed to.”
“Well, this is a special occasion,” Junior said, “and don’t call me Junior.”
“What do you want?”
“I just woke up and turned on the TV, and it said that my stepmother is dead.”
“I can confirm that bit of news. Where are you, Eddie?”
“In East Hampton. I’ve been here for two days.”
