“Take your time,” Bernice said. “I’ve got the rest of the day.”
Stone opened the first file and found himself staring at a series of financial statements going back over ten years. The most recent was dated a month before, and in toto the statements gave a very good picture of Bernie Finger’s climb from a net worth of four million dollars ten years before to a current net worth of thirty-eight million dollars. The beauty part, Stone thought, was that Bernie was at least fifty percent liquid. He went through the other folders, which contained brokerage account statements; bank statements; and copies of deeds for his Fifth Avenue co-op, the house in the Hamptons, a ski lodge in Telluride and, wonder of wonders, the new penthouse on Park Avenue where he had stashed Marilyn the Masseuse. Stone cleared his throat. “And Bernice, may I ask how you came by these documents?”
“Of course,” she said. “They were in the safe.”
“In the safe, where?”
“In our study-we share it-in our apartment.”
“And you had the combination to the safe?”
“We each have a safe. He didn’t know that I knew he kept the combination taped to the side of a desk drawer.”
“How long have you been married to Bernie, Bernice?”
“Seven years.”
“And were you married before that?”
“No, I was a businesswoman. I founded a cosmetics company, small but growing fast. Bernie made me sell it when we got married. He did the deal for me, and I never thought I got enough for it.”
“Bernice, I’m going to need a copy of your financial statement as well.”
“I don’t own anything separate from Bernie,” she said. “I put all my money into our joint accounts when we got married.”
“And how much did you get for your cosmetics company?”
“Six and a half million dollars.”
“And did you have any other assets in your own name at the time of the marriage?”
“I had a co-op on Park, paid for. Bernie sold both our apartments, and we bought the co-op on Fifth.”
“And how much of the money used for that purchase was yours?”
“Half: two million dollars.”
“And that was seven years ago?”
“Yes.”
Stone referred to the most recent financial statement in the folder. Bernie had valued the apartment at a little over six million dollars. “How big an apartment is it?”
“Six bedrooms, living, dining, library, study, kitchen, butler’s pantry, two maids’ rooms.”
Bernie had seriously undervalued his real estate for some reason, and lying on a financial statement was a felony. “Bernice,” he said, “who recommended me to you as an attorney?”
“Bernie did,” she said.
“What?”
“He talks in his sleep. He was bitching about you, calling you all sorts of names.”
“In his sleep?”
“Yes, that’s what he does when he’s nervous about the opposition. So, I figured, if Bernie is nervous about you, you’re my man.”
“Bernice,” Stone said, “I would be very pleased to represent you in this action.” He explained his fees.