Barry Friedman - Dead End, Page 2

  On the building directory they found the listing: Bost, Frankel and Horner, Attorneys-at-Law…Suite 507.

  In the elevator Fiala said, “Is that all he did, work comp?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who’d want to kill a work comp lawyer?”

  Maharos said everybody.

  The receptionist looked from one to the other as they walked into the waiting room. “Can I help you?”

  Maharos flipped open his shield case. “I’m Youngstown PD homicide detective Al Maharos. This is my partner, Frank Fiala. We need to get some information on Mr. Horner.”

  “Let me call Mr. Bost. He’s the senior partner. I think he’s been expecting you. Have a seat.”

  They stood while she talked into the phone. When she hung up she said, “He’ll be right out.”

  Harrison Bost looked to be in his late sixties. Dark-framed glasses, suspended from the earpieces by a black cord, bounced on his chest as he approached the two detectives. He extended his hand and introduced himself.

  “Come into my office.” He shook his head as he led them to a spacious, panel-walled room at the end of the corridor. “I can’t tell you what a shock this is. George Horner was like a son to me. I paid his law school tuition. Such a bright young man. What a waste!” He sat behind a large, polished mahogany desk and waved to a pair of leather-covered easy chairs. “Do you have any idea who killed him?”

  “No,” Maharos said. “We’ve just started the investigation, We’re trying to find out as much as we can.”

  “Have you talked to Sally yet?”

  “The wife?”

  Bost nodded.

  “No, we plan to question her next.”

  Bost said, “You know, she called me last night to see if I knew where George was. I figured he had been working late, he often did. This morning your office called to tell me what had happened. Then I went right over to see Sally. The poor girl was absolutely devastated, of course. The doctor came, gave her a shot to quiet her down.”

  Maharos said, “Yeah. We heard that she had been heavily sedated. That’s why we waited to talk to her.”

  “Can you tell me what you’ve learned so far?”

  “Well, as I said, we’ve just started to investigate. All I can tell you is that Mr. Horner was found shot dead in his car. The car was parked on a dirt road near Portage Lakes, a short way off I-77. Some kids who were hiking in the area saw the body in the car. We just came from the scene.”

  Maharos left it at that. His job was to get information. He wasn’t giving any more than the bare facts, although he knew that technicians from the mobile crime lab had gone over the scene for clues. With the help of the K-9 Corps, they had found what they believed were the killer’s footprints. Casts had been made and sent to the lab to identify the type of footwear and to estimate the size and weight of the wearer. The techs had taken the car in and were dusting it for fingerprints, vacuuming it for fibers.

  Bost said, “Have you any idea when he was killed?”

  “The medical examiner estimates it happened between six and 10 last night.”

  Bost spread his hands. “What would you like me to tell you?”

  “How long had Mr. Horner been with your law firm?”

  “Since he got out of law school—what’s that—six years now? He specialized in workers’ compensation law, you know. One of the best—maybe the best in this part of the state.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  Bost thought for a moment. “Yesterday morning around ten, before he left the office for an arbitration hearing.”

  Fiala took notes in a spiral notebook. In his lap he had a minirecorder to tape the conversation. “That’d be Thursday, May seventh, right?”

  Bost gave him a cold-fish stare. “If that was yesterday’s date, the answer is yes.”

  Fiala glanced at Maharos sidelong, without raising his head from the notebook in which he’d been writing, then slowly looked up at Bost. He spoke softly. “I hope we’re not having no attitude problem here. You do want to help us find whoever killed your partner, don’t you?”

  Bost raised his eyebrows. “What? Why naturally. Of course.”

  “Just wanted to make sure.”

  Bost scratched his chin and a little smile crept into the corners of his mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—. You’ll have to forgive me, officers. This thing has upset me more than I can tell you.”

  Fiala said, “Sure. You were saying“

  “Yes. I saw George yesterday before he went to a hearing.”

  Maharos said, “Did he actually go to the hearing?”

  “Oh, yes. I know he did.”

  Bost explained that an urgent call, concerning another matter, had come in for Horner while he was at the Arbitration Center. His secretary had called Horner out of the hearing to give him the message.

  Maharos said, “Do you know who called?”

  “Oh, I’m sure it had nothing to do with George’s—.” He appeared unable to bring himself to say “death.” Bost stopped for a moment before continuing. “The call came from the office of the Industrial Commission, in Columbus, about another case he’d been handling.”

  After learning of Horner’s death, Bost had spoken to the arbitration referee in an effort to trace the victim’s movements. According to the referee, after the usual preliminaries, the hearing had begun at around eleven, with the participants breaking for lunch at twelve-thirty.

  Maharos asked, “Do you know where Horner had lunch and with whom?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but the attorneys who attend these hearings usually eat at the Oak Tavern, it’s on—.”

  Maharos nodded, “I know the place.”

  “I’m almost certain he ate with the man he represented. It’s his usual practice with an out-of-town client like this one.”

  At one-thirty Horner had returned to the hearing, which had. ended at four o’clock. Then he’d come back to the office to finish some paperwork. “I was busy when he returned and I left the office for the day before he did, so I actually saw George for the last time yesterday morning. I—I just can’t believe I’ll never see him again.” Bost’s voice broke and he shook out a large handkerchief and blew his nose.

  Maharos said, “I know this is hard for you, Mr. Bost, but—.”

  The lawyer waved his hand. “No, no. Don’t mind me. “

  “Who is the last person who had contact with him?”

  “Nancy, I believe. His secretary.”

  The phone on Bost’s desk buzzed. He spoke into it briefly and glanced at his watch. When he hung up, Maharos said, “I’m sure you have many things to do and I don’t want to keep you. But if we stand any chance of finding out who did this, we’ve got to do it before the trail gets cold.”

  Bost waved a hand, “Detective, nothing is more important to me now than helping you find the person who killed George Horner.”

  “Okay. There are a couple of questions I have to ask you, then we’ll call it quits, for now.”

  Bost leaned forward, waiting.

  “There’s another member of your firm, isn’t there?”

  “Yes. Irving Frankel. He’s on vacation in Italy. I’ve tried to reach him, but he’s between cities.”

  “How did he get along with Mr. Horner?”

  “They were very close. Irv is a few years older than George but they were like brothers.”

  “This may sound indelicate, Mr. Bost, but I’ve got to ask. Do you know if Mr. Horner was having—how shall I put it?”

  “Did George have a woman on the side?”

  Maharos nodded.

  “Emphatically no! He and Sally were happily married with four beautiful children. I don’t know a more devoted husband and father.”

  Maharos knew plenty of guys, each a devoted husband and father who’d been making it with some other guy’s devoted wife and mother. He said, “Of course.”

  Fiala said, “Did he have any unhappy customers? Maybe some nut who might have b
een piss— didn’t like the way he represented him?”

  Bost turned his palms up. “Look, in this business the clients are never happy. You get them five thousand, they complain they should have gotten twenty-five. George, like all of us, has had clients saying they were going to sue for malpractice. Few of them actually do. But threats against his life? I don’t know of any. You can check with Nancy, but I’m sure George would have told me if he had gotten even one.”

  Maharos said, “We’d like to look around Mr. Horner’s office.”

  “Certainly. Nancy will help you with anything you’d like to see.” He led them down the hall.

  George Horner’s office stood at the other end of the corridor, close to the waiting room. From the size and location of the office, it was clear that Horner’d been the junior member of the firm. His secretary shared an office, a wallboard-partitioned section in an adjacent room, with two typists.

  Nancy, a petite brunette with a good figure, and in her early thirties, slouched with her elbows on the desk, smoke curling from a cigarette that dangled between two nicotine-stained fingers. The woman was probably quite attractive, Maharos thought, when her eyes weren’t swollen and red. A half-empty Kleenex box stood on a corner of the secretary’s desk. She snuffed out the cigarette in an ashtray overflowing with butts, waved away the smoke that clouded the room, and stood up. She extended her right hand to Maharos when Bost introduced them. He glanced at her other hand, saw no wedding band.

  Bost said, “And now, if you’ll excuse me. If you need me for anything—anything—I’ll be in my office.” He turned to Nancy. “The detectives would like to look around George’s office. Let them do anything and see anything they’d like.”

  Maharos wondered if Nancy also called her boss by his first name. He said,

  “My sympathies, Miss— I’m sorry, I don’t know your last name.”

  She forced a smile. “It’s Mrs. Taylor. Call me Nancy, everyone does.”

  Mrs. plus naked fourth finger left hand. Maharos said, “We’d like the name and address of the client Mr. Horner represented at the arbitration yesterday. We’ll have to question him.”

  Nancy took a file folder from her desktop. “I’ve got it right here.” Fiala copied the information into his notebook.

  “Could we see your boss’s appointment book, please?”

  She handed it to Maharos, he leafed through several pages. The only notation for May 7 read, “Lawton arbitration hearing.” A large X through the rest of the page probably meant that Horner had expected the hearing to last most of the day. The pages for May 5 and 6 listed a few names. Nancy explained that these were office appointments for clients who had been in to discuss their cases. Fiala asked her to photocopy the pages from May 1 to May 8, as well as the papers in the Lawton folder.

  While the secretary ran the copy machine, Fiala followed Maharos into Horner’s small office. A gray steel table-type desk with a single top drawer took up most of the space. Three chairs against the wall faced the desk. A picture frame on the desk held a photograph of a seated, smiling, light-haired woman who appeared to be in her thirties. On one side of her stood two girls, one about eight years old, the other maybe six. On the other side posed a solemn-faced boy who looked to be about four. On her lap the woman held a boy about two years of age.

  A low two-drawer file case sat alongside the desk. Fiala tried the handle, found the case locked.

  Nancy returned while Fiala was trying to yank open the file case. “Mr. Horner kept his personal papers in that cabinet. I don’t have a key.”

  Fiala said, “Mind if we look for it?”

  Nancy shrugged. “Mr. Bost said you could see anything that would be helpful. I guess it’s all right. Certainly he won’t be needing—.” She didn’t finish the sentence and dabbed her eyes with a tissue as she walked back to her office.

  The key lay in the first place Fiala looked: the desk drawer, in the middle of a pile of paper clips. The files held copies of Horner’s will, a trust deed of which he and his wife were grantors, several brokerage statements and a folder of letters. Maharos flipped through the letters, using the end of his ball- point pen to turn them. Several were handwritten, most were typed. He handed the folder to Fiala. “Let’s take these. We’ll look at them later.”

  A loose-leaf calendar lay on the desk, opened to yesterday’s date. The page opposite the date was noted, “Lawton.”

  Maharos leafed through several of the preceding pages. The handwritten notes on each were, for the most part illegible. Many appeared to be doodles. He called to Nancy through the open door. “I’d like to take this calendar and go over it in my office”

  An empty white plastic bag lined the wastebasket next to Horner’s desk. Fiala looked under the bag, found nothing else in the basket. He said, “Good cleaning service they got here.”

  The single desk drawer held, in addition to the assortment of paper clips, a few blank labels and a checkbook. The stubs were made out to people whose names meant nothing to Maharos, but he told Nancy he would take the book along for further examination. Fiala wrote out a receipt for the items they removed.

  Maharos asked Nancy to come into Horner’s office. He leaned back in the chair behind Horner’s desk, beckoned her to sit in one of the chairs opposite. Fiala sat in one of the other chairs, the notebook on his knee.

  Maharos asked, “How long have you been working here, Nancy?”

  “A little over three years.”

  “Have you been Mr. Horner’s secretary all that time?”

  “No.” She gestured with her chin to the two girls who were typing in the adjacent area. “I’d been in the steno pool for about six months. Then, when Mary—Mr. Horner’s secretary at the time—left, I took over.”

  “What time did you last see Mr. Horner?”

  “At about five-fifteen yesterday afternoon. He was sitting right here at his desk reading a file when I popped my head in and said goodnight.”

  “Do you know what file he’d been reading?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think Mr. Lawton’s file.”

  “The arbitration?”

  She nodded.

  “Did he expect someone to come in after you left?”

  “No. He had no appointments scheduled.”

  “Would he have scheduled someone without your knowledge?”

  “I doubt it. He never made appointments himself—at least without notifying me.”

  Maharos said, “Was it usual for him to stay after you left?”

  She nodded. “Mr. Horner was a hard worker, often the last one to leave.”

  Fiala said, “Where did he usually park?”

  Nancy pointed to the parking lot, visible through the window. “That’s the parking lot for the building. He always left his car there.”

  Maharos walked to the window and looked out. More than thirty cars were in the marked spaces. “Did he have a special space?”

  Nancy Taylor walked to the window and pointed to a place at the far left. “That’s the space reserved for his car—when someone else didn’t grab it.”

  “Did that happen often?”

  She smiled. “I can’t tell you how many times he’d walk in here steaming. He’d yell like Papa Bear, ‘Who’s in my space?’”

  “What about yesterday?”

  She thought for a moment. Shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  Maharos nodded to Fiala, watched as he made a note to question the other building occupants. Find out if anyone saw Horner leave. Check if he’d been alone.

  Maharos said, “Was anyone else in the office when you left?”

  She thought for a moment. “No, the other secretaries actually left a few minutes earlier. Mr. Bost had gone home at around four-thirty.”

  Maharos said, “Do you open all your boss’s mail?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you at any time seen anything that might be considered a threatening letter?”

  She shook her head. “No, not life-threate
ning. He’s had several letters from clients who were unhappy about one thing or another.”

  “For example?”

  “Well, two or three wrote that they thought his fee seemed too high for the settlement they received. He wrote back or called each one and explained that the state Industrial Commission prescribes the amount.”

  “Do you remember who they were?”

  “Not off the top of my head. But I can look through the files and get the names for you.”

  “I’d appreciate it. Any other unhappy people?”

  She thought for a few moments. “I recall one man who sounded angry, complaining about the small settlement. He accused Mr. Horner of not pleading his case hard enough. I can get the correspondence out, but I know Mr. Horner got the maximum allowable in that case.”

  “Can you get his file for me?”

  “Yes, but it won’t be much help. The man died. He had black lung disease. I guess even the maximum isn’t enough for something like that.”

  Maharos nodded.

  “Nancy, do you know anything about Mr. Horner’s social life?”

  She slipped a cigarette from a pack she held, lit it and shook her head as she exhaled a cloud of smoke. Uh-oh. She needed time. “Very little. He handled any social calls himself. Mrs. Horner kept their social calendar.”

  “How well do you know Mrs. Horner?”

  “She’d come down here once in a while. I guess four little children kept her pretty busy at home.”

  “Did you and your husband have any social relationship with the Horners?”

  “Ex-husband. No, I never saw the Horners socially.”

  “Or Mr. Horner alone?”

  She frowned. “Mr. Horner was a married man, Detective.”

  “You understand why I have to ask these questions, even though I know they may be embarrassing. The only way we’re going to find out who killed Mr. Horner is to know as much as possible about the man. In a homicide investigation, sometimes people try to hide things from us because the truth may be painful. But sooner or later we find out, and it saves time to know from the start.”