“In what way?”
“Well, the money would have been doled out over the years, you see. The income from the trust. She would never have seen it in a lump sum of cash. Of course, asserting her right now will entail legal fees and delays and whatnot, and perhaps that was what he had in mind. Causing her as much trouble as he possibly could.”
“Why would he have wanted to cause her trouble, Mr. Weber?”
“I have no idea.”
“You didn’t ask him?”
“I’m not a marriage counselor.”
“Was the marriage in trouble?”
“Mr. Newman was a drunk.”
“I know that. But from what I understand, Anne Newman was a devoted and loving wife who—”
“I did not ask Mr. Newman why he wanted to change his will. I simply advised him on the law, and then followed his wishes.”
“When did he make this new will, Mr. Weber?”
“Last month sometime.”
“In July?”
“Yes.”
“Can you let me have the exact date?”
“Certainly,” Weber said, and pressed a toggle on his intercom. “Miss Whelan,” he said, “can you get me the execution date of Jeremiah Newman’s will, please?” He clicked off without waiting for a response.
“Does Louis Kern know he’s about to inherit such a large sum of money?” Carella asked.
“I’m sure he’s been informed.”
“Who informed him?”
“The Trust Department of First Liberal, I would guess. The bank that was named executor of the will.”
“When would that have been?”
“Yesterday. I called them yesterday to inform them of Mr. Newman’s death and to remind them they’d been named as executor.”
“And you believe they, in turn, would have called Louis Kern.”
“That’s my belief. You’re thinking of the movies, Mr. Carella, where everyone sits in a lawyer’s office while a will is being read. In actual practice, that rarely ever happens. The beneficiary is usually informed by letter, or sometimes by telephone. Even in a case such as this, where Mr. Newman instructed that the will be kept confidential until after his death—”
“Was it kept confidential?”
“Of course.”
“Mr. Weber, is someone named Herzog a member of your firm?”
“Yes, he’s one of our senior partners.”
“What’s his first name?”
“Martin.”
“Martin Herzog.”
“Yes.”
“Any relation to Jessica Herzog?”
“She’s his sister.”
“I see.”
“It was Martin who introduced her to Jerry, in fact. Oh, this was many years ago.” Weber suddenly smiled. “Is that a conflict-of-interest look I see on your face, Mr. Carella? There was none, believe me. A man who was a client asked that we prepare a will for him. The fact that he was once married to the sister of one of our firm’s partners had no bearing on either the will’s directives or our determination to see that our client’s needs were served.”
“Uh-huh,” Carella said.
“We have a standing rule here, in fact, that neither the firm itself nor any individual working for the firm may be named as executor of any will we prepare. The rule was designed precisely to avoid even a suggestion of conflict.”
“It’s your belief, then, that Miss Herzog knew nothing at all about this will.”
“That’s my firm belief.”
“You don’t think Mr. Herzog might have mentioned it to his sister.”
“Of course not.”
The buzzer on the intercom sounded. Weber flipped the toggle.
“Yes?” he said.
“I have that execution date, sir,” a woman’s voice said.
“Yes, Miss Whelan?”
“It was the eighteenth of July, sir.”
“Thank you,” Weber said, and clicked off. “The eighteenth of July,” he said to Carella.
“Exactly three weeks before he was found dead in his apartment,” Carella said.
“Yes, it would seem so,” Weber said.
“Well, thank you very much,” Carella said. “I appreciate your time.”
“Not at all,” Weber said, and looked at his watch.
7
When Jessica Herzog opened the door for them at three that afternoon, she did not much resemble a captain in the Israeli Army. Carella thought she looked like a dancer in a thirties backstage movie. Kling thought she looked like an underdressed tennis player. She was wearing very short white shorts that hugged her thighs and called stark attention to her long, magnificently tanned legs. She was also wearing, or almost wearing, a shirred white tube top that emphasized her exuberant breasts; Carella immediately thought of Genero’s lost opportunity. White high-heeled, ankle-strapped sandals added at least two inches to her already substantial height. There was a thin sheen of perspiration on her face and naked shoulders. She apologized, insincerely it seemed to both of them, for her appearance — she had been out on the terrace taking some sun — and then asked them to come in, please.
“Would you care for some iced tea?” she asked. “I have just made a pitcher.”
“Yes, thank you,” Carella said.
“Thanks,” Kling said, and nodded to her as she went out to the kitchen.
The walls of the apartment were hung with paintings Carella automatically assumed were valuable. He knew very little about art, but he had read an article in which the wheelings and dealings of the art world made the price-fixing of the big-business cartels seem like the trading kids did for bubble-gum cards. He had come away with the understanding that even minor artists could be maneuvered into positions of status and wealth by powerful dealers and critics, and he wondered now whether Lawrence Newman, who had left his son two million dollars’ worth of paintings when he’d died, had been the grateful recipient of such manipulation. The room was similarly adorned with pieces of sculpture standing on pedestals or resting on tabletops, some of them representational nude studies in bronze, most of them abstract; Carella guessed the unfathomable ones were the ones worth real money. A large metal mobile hung from the ceiling just inside the sliding glass doors that led to the terrace — Right where someone can bang his head on it, Carella thought.
“Shall we go outside?” Jessica said.
She was carrying a tray upon which were three glasses of iced tea with lemon wedges in them. The deeper brown color of the tea, the floating paler hint of yellow, the white shorts, top, and shoes all seemed designed to complement Jessica’s superb tan, the way the white walls of the apartment itself had been designed to enhance the paintings that hung on them, the pieces of sculpture that floated in the space they enclosed. Floating in the space that enclosed her, Jessica moved fluidly to the sliding glass doors, waited while Kling opened one of them for her, and then led the detectives out onto the terrace, where she put the tray down on a small round table flanked by two lounge chairs.
From up here, the city that spread below them looked almost benign.
“So,” she said, “please, help yourselves. I did not put sugar, did you wish sugar?”
“No, thank you,” Carella said.
“No, thanks,” Kling said.
“It is so hot, truly,” she said, dabbing with a crumpled Kleenex at the cleft above the shirred tube top. “Will you sit down, please? I’ll get another chair.”
She slid open the door, went into the living room again, and returned not a moment later with a straight-backed chair that she placed against the low terrace wall. Neither of the detectives had yet seated themselves.
“Please,” she said, and indicated the lounge chairs.
They both sat.
“So,” she said, “what is it you wish to talk about? You said on the phone that some information had come to light.”