Six Murders Too Many (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 1) Page 2

I set my laptop on the conference room table as I walked to the reception area.

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  As I passed Nancy’s desk, she handed me two business cards. I gave her a smile and stuck the cards in my pocket.

  The couple looked up as I approached. “Dr. Wallace? Mr. Simonetti? I’m Chuck McCrary.”

  The man stood and we shook hands. “Please, just ‘Ike’ is fine. And since you’re not my wife’s patient, ‘Lorraine’ will be fine with her too.”

  Wallace looked older than her “official” age. Faint wrinkles marked her forehead and the corners of her eyes. Her makeup was the tiniest bit too perfect, in keeping with her model-thin physique. She was the poster child for the motto You can never be too thin or too rich.

  I thought of a line from Shakespeare. Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look, he thinks too much; such men are dangerous.

  “Lorraine, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said.

  She painted a smile on her lips as she shook my hand. “How do you do?”

  “I’m doing well, thanks. May I take your cup?” My offer merited a slightly friendlier smile. I carried her coffee to my conference room. Ever the considerate host, that’s me.

  I centered the doctor’s cup on a coaster and stood across the table from her and her husband, waiting for Wallace to sit.

  Ike Simonetti glanced absently around the room. “Where’s your desk?”

  “In my office, next door. Most people prefer talking around a table rather than across a desk.”

  Wallace sat and so did I, but Simonetti remained standing. His eyes fixed on the ego wall to my right. A photo of my Special Forces unit in Afghanistan. He was reading the citation for my Bronze Star Medal. For an instant I was transported back to Ghar Mesar in the mountains of Afghanistan. An old scar on my left bicep throbbed when I remembered one team member in particular who hadn’t come back.

  Simonetti studied my PI license, my criminology diploma, and my honorable discharge. Then his gaze turned to the large Atlantic County map on the other wall and he acted as though he intended to memorize it too.

  Mercifully, Wallace broke his trance by clearing her throat. “Dear, perhaps you should tell Chuck why we’ve come.”

  He frowned but sat down. “Did Vicky Ramirez tell you about my situation, Chuck?”

  “A little, but, please, assume I know nothing and start from the beginning.”

  “Okay, I will. I guess you know my father was Sam Simonetti.”

  “Vicky told me.” Every sentient human in the state knew of Sam Simonetti. “I read about your father’s funeral. As I remember, the governor, both U.S. senators, and three congressional representatives attended. And, of course, the mayor. Sam was well-loved in Port City.” It wasn’t hard to remember what I’d read just a few minutes earlier.

  “The politicos didn’t come to his funeral out of love, unless it was their love of his money. I’m cynical enough to think those jackals came to get their faces on the news and their hands in my family’s pockets.”

  Imagine that: a politician wanting to get on the news. “What brings you to see me, Ike?”

  He drew a deep breath. “Lorraine insists that Ramona—my father’s widow—is trying to steal two hundred million from me.”

  “Two hundred million, as in ‘dollars’?”

  Wallace nodded.

  “How does Sam’s widow plan to steal your money?”

  “It’s not my money; it’s Ike’s. Pop’s wife was pregnant when he died. Now she has a three-month-old daughter, Gloria. Ramona claims her child should inherit half of Pop’s estate. But I don’t think Pop was the biological father.”

  I opened my laptop. “Why not?”

  “From the baby’s birth date, we know Ramona got pregnant while Pop was in the hospital.”

  I knew a patient could have sex in a hospital bed. I had happily participated in two such events while recuperating from battle wounds in Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany. Of course I was twenty years old then, not seventy-five like Sam.

  Simonetti looked embarrassed.

  “If Sam isn’t Gloria’s father, you inherit the entire estate?”

  He nodded. “But if Ramona’s daughter gets a share, I get just half.”

  “I read that his estate was worth over a billion dollars.”

  “Dad left a lot of money to charity. After taxes, and the widow’s share of thirty million, the remaining estate is only four hundred million dollars.”

  I’d never heard anyone refer to four hundred million dollars as only. “The widow’s share?”

  Simonetti rose abruptly and paced around the room. “Their prenuptial agreement said if Ramona survived him, Dad would leave her thirty million, with the remainder to be divided among his children.”

  “How many children did your father have?”

  “When he married Ramona, Dad had three—me and two daughters from his previous marriage to Allison Montrose. Dad made his will right after he married Ramona.”

  “So, Allison’s daughters are your half-sisters?”

  “Were. Allison and both daughters died in a house fire six weeks before Dad passed, so he thought I was his only remaining child. He never knew Ramona was pregnant. At least, he never mentioned it.”

  “So if Sam isn’t Gloria’s father, you inherit the four hundred million?”

  “That’s right.”

  It didn’t take a math genius to do the arithmetic. “Hence your ‘theft’ being pegged at two hundred million.”

  Simonetti looked toward his wife. “That’s why we’re here.”

  Chapter 3

  I needed to make an entry on my laptop. “What were your sisters’ names?”

  “Half-sisters,” he replied, an unpleasant edge in his tone.

  His attitude made me appreciate my own sister. We lived fifteen hundred miles apart, but we telephoned or Skyped every couple of weeks and saw each other every Christmas in Texas. Ike’s family proved that even the wealthy have their disappointments.

  Ike interrupted my reverie. “Their names were Danielle and Melinda Simonetti.”

  “Did either one have children?”

  “No. They were both single.”

  “Does Allison step into their shoes as legatee?”

  Simonetti shook his head. “Vicky drew Dad’s will to include only me and my two half-sisters and any heirs of our bodies. Do you know what ‘heirs of our bodies’ means?”

  “I think so. His estate could pass to your children or your half-sisters’ children, but not to Allison. And not to anyone an heir married.” I gestured toward Wallace. “Like Lorraine.”

  “That’s right. Dad made sure that Allison didn’t get any more of his money. Their divorce was expensive, and he was bitter about it. With my half-sisters dead, I stood to get the whole caboodle.”

  “You said Danielle, Melinda, and their mother all died in a house fire?”

  Wallace nodded. “Something about faulty wiring. Allison’s family built the house in the 1920s, when they first hit it rich, but they never updated the wiring.” She lifted her coffee cup, little finger extended, and took an elegant sip.

  “Ike, if you suspect fraud, why not go to the District Attorney?”

  He shook his head. “Not without evidence. If I’m wrong, I don’t want a media feeding frenzy. I can imagine the headline—Millionaire Son Says Billionaire Dad’s Merry Widow Has Illegitimate Heir.” Simonetti shivered. “We can’t get a DNA test anyway because we don’t have Dad’s DNA to compare it to.”

  “They’d compare it to your DNA or your half-sisters’ DNA.”

  “Can’t. I’m adopted and my half-sisters were cremated, both figuratively and literally. Anyway, Vicky says we can’t force a DNA test. The law presumes a baby conceived during marriage is legitimate, absent evidence to the contrary.”

  Wallace took over again. “First you need to find evidence that Ramona cheated. Then, we’ll try to find a DNA sample for Pop and ask a judge to order a DNA test on Gloria.”


  “If your father wasn’t cremated, we could still get a DNA sample.” I waited until he took my meaning.

  Simonetti shivered again. “God, no. Even without a media frenzy, I wouldn’t exhume his body except as a last resort—that’s ghoulish.” He stood and walked to the window, gazed out at Bayfront Boulevard, his back to me.

  I can take a hint. His body language shouted, I’m pissed that you even suggested it. I tried to recover. “We can get DNA from his personal effects like gloves and shoes, but it’s not as legally convincing.”

  He turned to face me. “I’d rather this whole paternity thing didn’t get out because it would embarrass my family.”

  “Of course,” I agreed.

  “If the press gets wind, they’ll jump on it like stink on a skunk. I’d be happy with half the estate, but Lorraine insists that we investigate Gloria’s parentage.” He sat beside her. “My wife’s a good nag.”

  Wallace patted his thigh. “You bet your ass I am.”

  “Understood. Discreet is my middle name.”

  Simonetti pointed at my PI license on the ego wall. “I thought your middle name was Andrew.” He smiled, acting comfortable for the first time since we shook hands.

  “So, how can my discretion and I help you?”

  Simonetti paced the room again. Not as easy as it sounds. My conference room is larger than a walk-in closet—barely. Simonetti could take only a couple of steps before he had to turn around. He stopped at the window. “I want you to know it’s not about the money.”

  I remembered my dad used to say, “Son, if someone tells you it’s not about the money, eleven times out of ten, it’s about the money.”

  Simonetti continued. “I’m not on the Forbes 400 list like Dad was, but I don’t need another two hundred million dollars—it’s the principle of being duped out of our family’s money. Vicky thought you could find out who fathered Gloria.”

  “Perhaps. But do we need to prove the father’s identity? Couldn’t we just show that it’s not Sam?”

  Wallace answered, “Yes. I looked it up. We don’t need to prove who the real father is.”

  “So if I prove Sam isn’t Gloria’s father, what good does that do?”

  She held up two fingers. “One, Ramona’s daughter wouldn’t inherit any of Pop’s estate, and, two, Ramona would violate the fidelity clause and lose everything, including her widow’s share.”

  “Fidelity clause?”

  Simonetti paced again. “Lorraine and I knew Ramona was a gold digger as soon as Dad introduced us, so we insisted that he have a fidelity clause in their prenup. If she cheated, Ramona forfeited any claim to Dad’s assets.”

  “I don’t see a woman sharp enough to hook your father jeopardizing thirty million dollars for a roll in the hay. Unless she was sure she could get away with it.”

  “She’s also smart enough to figure the odds. If it worked, she would control two hundred million dollars for at least eighteen years as Gloria’s guardian,” Simonetti said. “With that kind of access, I’m sure that even Ramona could steal at least half of it. I know I could.”

  “What if your father cheated on her? Any penalties for him?”

  “Dad wouldn’t do that.”

  “I didn’t say he did. I’m just asking whether their agreement had a similar restriction on him. I’d think any attorney for Ramona would insist on a tit-for-tat.”

  “I never read their prenuptial agreement.”

  “I read it,” Wallace said. “There was a comparable restriction.”

  Simonetti raised his eyebrows at her. “You read it?”

  “Sure, why not?” She reached up and patted his arm. “I need to know this stuff so I can nag you better.”

  “Whatever.” Simonetti handed me a flash drive as he sat down. “Vicky gave me a list of documents to get you: prenup agreement, etc. It should all be on there.”

  “I presume I can discuss the case with Vicky?”

  Simonetti sipped his coffee. “Vicky and her father and my personal assistant Tom. I have no secrets from them.”

  I plugged the flash drive into my laptop. “What’s your P.A.’s last name?”

  “Collins.” Simonetti smiled a little.

  I smiled back. “Tom Collins? You gotta like any guy named after a cocktail.”

  Chapter 4

  I called Nancy for more coffee while the flash drive loaded. “Okay,” I said to Simonetti. “I see the file saved as Prenuptial Agreement and another as Last Will and Testament. What’s on the JPEG’s?”

  Simonetti moved to the chair nearest me and pointed at the screen. “That’s a scan of Dad’s death certificate. Then their marriage license and Gloria’s birth certificate. Those files are photos of Ramona and Gloria.”

  I let my eyes glide around the other icons and captions on the screen. “Where’s the autopsy report?”

  Wallace answered. “There wasn’t one. Pop died in a hospital under a doctor’s care. As an ‘attended death,’ a post-mortem wasn’t required. Too bad on the DNA front.”

  “Any idea who the real father is?”

  Wallace said, “I know it’s a cliché, but I’d look at the tennis pro. I saw him and Ramona together at the Wessington Club, and I heard rumors from other women members. He came on to me one time after a tennis lesson.”

  Simonetti stared at his wife. “You never told me that.”

  She waved it off. “It was nothing. And I shot him down. Believe me, it was nothing. He is a great tennis teacher, so I let it slide.”

  Simonetti didn’t look any happier.

  I changed the subject. “Okay, Ike. Before we talk money, I need to know who the real client is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Vicky’s law firm hires me so I can claim attorney-client privilege if necessary, but we both know she doesn’t call the shots. Who do I take my orders from?”

  “Me.” Simonetti patted his chest.

  “Not you and Lorraine both?”

  He patted his wife on her leg. “No, she’s here only to nag me.”

  She smiled that saccharine smile again. A little of her make-up crumbled this time. “You bet your ass I am.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Now let’s talk about my fee and expenses.”

  “Vicky said you’re honest; that’s enough for me.”

  Wallace frowned when Simonetti said that.

  “I appreciate Vicky’s endorsement, but I keep clients happy by making sure that the size of my bill isn’t an unpleasant surprise. I am expensive.” I quoted my daily rate and the retainer I wanted. While waiting for Simonetti to arrive, I had calculated the balances on my credit cards. Funny thing, they totaled the same amount as my retainer. “I fly first class if I travel. I stay at four-star hotels unless the job requires undercover work.” He nodded and I continued, “And that’s before my success fee.”

  “What success fee?”

  “It’s the bonus I earn if I can help you cut Gloria and Ramona from the will.”

  “Ramona? This is about Gloria’s inheritance.”

  “If I prove Ramona cheated, she loses the thirty million she would’ve inherited. So you inherit that plus her daughter’s two hundred million. If I get that total two hundred thirty million for you, what’s my share?”

  “How much do you want?”

  “It’s found money, paid from a recovery you wouldn’t have otherwise. One percent of the extra, plus my rate and expenses.”

  Simonetti crossed his arms. “That’s more than two million dollars.” He squinted his right eye. “There are a lot of detectives in Port City.”

  “Must be hundreds of them.” I decided this wasn’t a good time to tell him that detectives were cops, and that I was a private investigator. Instead, I waited for the counter-offer. There’s always a counter-offer.

  He stared at me. “I’m sure I could find another private detective to do this cheaper.”

  “Probably.” I returned his gaze.

  He looked at my ego wall. “I’ll tell you
what—you prove Gloria is not Dad’s daughter and I will pay you a half-million dollar bonus.”

  I gave myself a mental high-five and a chest bump for good measure. “Ike, let’s make it an even million and I’ll show you a way to make the IRS pay half.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Check with your CPA, but if Vicky hires me on behalf of the estate, my fee is an administration expense. It comes out before your distribution. The IRS pays more than half. Win, win all around.”

  He grinned. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Everybody wants to screw the IRS. “Say the word and I’ll have Vicky draw up an agreement to that effect, so we avoid any misunderstanding.”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. And I’ll have Vicky send me the retainer.”

  “Right.” Simonetti rubbed his hands together. “Now what do you want to know?”

  “Let me review the data on this thumb drive and do some more research. I’ll meet you at your office tomorrow and you can tell me more.”

  “Tomorrow’s no good. How about Saturday?”

  “Okay. That’ll give Vicky time to get our agreement and retainer taken care of.”

  Simonetti fished two business cards from his wallet. “This is my card, and this one is Tom’s. He’ll get anything you need.”

  Chapter 5

  My phone chirped, interrupting my research. Vicky had texted me. You free tonight?

  Vicky didn’t like to text. It was 4:30 p.m. and judges don’t work late on Friday, so she wasn’t in court. Therefore, following the long tradition of Sherlock Holmes, I deduced that she was in a meeting.

  I finished my research and called her twenty minutes later.

  “Hola, Carlos. Thanks for calling.”

  “How was your meeting?”

  “How’d you know I was in a meeting?”

  “Magical powers. Yes, I am free tonight.

  “Good, I’ll buy you dinner.”

  She probably wanted an update on the Simonetti case. “Where shall I meet you?”

  “My condo at 7:30?”

  “I’ll be there.”

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