Chapter Eight
DONNA SANCHEZ ENJOYED HER WORK AT the city morgue. Her friends and family couldn't understand it. "All those dead people. Aren't you creeped out?" Their reactions made Donna smile. A heavyset Puerto Rican woman with fat, sausagelike fingers and a round, doughy face, Donna had grown up in a big noisy family before starting a big noisy family of her own. Outside of work, the sound track to Donna Sanchez's life was screaming children, smashing crockery, beeping car horns, blaring television sets. Donna liked the dead because they were silent. The city morgue on Clarkson Avenue in Brooklyn was white, clean and orderly. It made Donna feel peaceful.
Of course, she still had bad days. Even after eight years, the sight of small children's bodies could make Donna choke up. Some of the accident victims were pretty gruesome, too. And the suicides. The first time Donna saw a "jumper," she had nightmares about the mangled corpse for weeks afterward: bones erupting through the skin, skull collapsed like a rotten melon. Normally, drowning victims were among the easiest to deal with. Immersion in cold, deep water tended to delay decomposition. Donna also noticed that many of the water-dead had a happy, almost beatific look on their faces.
Not today's body, though. The revolting, waxy hulk lying on the slab had no face. The fish had seen to that. All that was left beneath the ravaged stump of a neck was a great, bloated midsection. The left arm and hand were miraculously intact, but the rest of the limbs had gone, snapped off like crab claws. It was, as Donna's friends would have said, creepy.
"Are they really dragging his poor wife in here?" Like everyone else at the morgue, Donna Sanchez knew that the cops believed the body was Lenny Brookstein's. That's why it had been brought back to New York, almost two hundred miles from where it washed up on the Massachusetts coast. "No one should have to see their loved one like this."
Duane Tyler, the technician, sneered. A handsome black kid, fresh out of high school, Duane was a born cynic. "Save your sympathy, Donna. One thing Grace Brookstein ain't is poor. You know what they saying? This son of a bitch ripped off thousands of people. Ordinary people."
"I know that's what they're saying, Duane. It doesn't mean it's true. Besides, so what if he did? It's not his wife's fault."
Duane Tyler shook his head pityingly. "Don't you believe it, girl. You think the wives don't know? Those rich white bitches? They know. They all know."
HARRY BAIN AND GAVIN WILLIAMS WERE in the district attorney's office.
It was common knowledge that Angelo Michele's parents were two of the many New Yorkers facing ruin because of Lenny Brookstein. Angelo was the best legal brain in New York City, but Harry Bain wondered whether, in this case, his judgment might be clouded. The D.A.'s opening words did not reassure him.
"Well, I wanted Brookstein's head on a plate. Looks like I got the next best thing. His torso on a slab."
"It might not be him," said Harry Bain. "His wife's on her way to identify the body. What's left of it. Then we can autopsy."
"Good."
It was the job of the FBI task force to find the missing Quorum money. But it was Angelo Michele's job to prosecute those responsible for the theft. Part of him was pleased they'd found a body. The possibility, however remote, that Lenny Brookstein might have somehow escaped and be living the high life on a private atoll in the South Pacific had been keeping Angelo awake at night for weeks. But another part of him felt robbed. If Lenny Brookstein was dead, he couldn't be punished. Somebody had to be punished.
"Have you got any further with Merrivale or Preston?"
"No." Harry Bain frowned. "Not yet." He had personally interviewed the two senior Quorum execs a total of six times, but was no closer to untangling the mystery of how Lenny Brookstein had managed to spirit away such insane amounts of money. Instinct told him that both men knew more than they were telling. But so far, he couldn't prove it. "Agent Williams has uncovered something interesting, though."
Angelo Michele looked at Gavin Williams. The man gave him the creeps. He was more like a robot than a human being. When he spoke, it was in a monotone, studiously avoiding eye contact.
"It appears that in the week before his death, Leonard Brookstein changed the company structure at Quorum. Effectively, he arbitrarily stripped John Merrivale of his partnership status."
"Damn it." Angelo Michele shook is head.
Harry Bain cocked his head to one side. "That's bad?"
"Sure. If Lenny Brookstein was the only legal partner, it'll be almost impossible to indict, much less prosecute, the other players. Short of seventy billion showing up sewn into Merrivale's suit pants, we're fucked."
"He wasn't the only partner."
"But I thought you said..."
Gavin Williams sighed, like a grade-school teacher explaining something painfully simple to a seven-year-old. "I said, Lenny stripped John of his shares. I didn't say he was the only partner. He didn't keep that equity. He transferred it."
Angelo Michele's heart was racing. "To who, for God's sake?"
Gavin Williams smiled.
"To his wife."
DONNA SANCHEZ SAID GENTLY, "ARE YOU sure you're ready, Mrs. Brookstein?"
Grace nodded. It doesn't matter. This is all a dream, a nightmare. When she pulls back the sheet, I'll wake up.
"We'll do this very quickly. Try to focus on the hand. If you recognize the wedding ring, that's all we need."
Donna pulled back the sheet.
Grace threw back her head and screamed.
JOHN MERRIVALE STARED AT THE DOCUMENTS in front of him, rubbing his eyes with exhaustion.
"There must be some m-m-mistake."
Harry Bain lit another cigarette. The smoke made John Merrivale feel nauseous. "No mistake, John. This is Lenny's signature. And this is Grace's. You don't think we had them checked?"
The documents were legal instructions, changing Quorum's ownership structure. They transferred John's entire equity stake in the fund to Grace. They were dated June 8, the day before the Quorum Ball. Both Lenny and Grace had signed them.
"Face it, John. The Brooksteins ripped you off. They were planning to grab what was left of the money and run."
"No. Lenny wouldn't d-do that. N-n-not to me."
"Read it, John! It's right there in black and white. He did it. They did it, together. Don't you think it's time you stopped protecting them?"
John squeezed his eyes shut tight. It was so hard to think. How long have I been in this room? Three hours? Four? He thought about Grace, alone at the morgue. The police had refused to let him go with her. The poor girl would be terrified.
"Lenny had a l-legal right to restructure the company any way he chose. Quorum was his business."
Harry Bain looked at him in disbelief. "You're saying you don't mind that Lenny Brookstein robbed you blind?"
"I'm saying he didn't rob me."
"But he did. It's right here in black and white."
"He m-must have had his reasons then. Lenny's dead. He's not here to explain, to d-defend his good name."
"His good name?" Harry Bain laughed out loud. "Lenny Brookstein? The man was a crook, John. So was his wife. That much we know. The question is, what don't we know? What are you hiding from us?"