the process.
I found Tyler Financial Services on the lobby directory and took the elegant brass-and-rosewood elevator to the second floor. I could have found stairs, I suppose, but no one of stature would use them in this building. There was a lot of brick, and a lot of pickled oak, and a lot of hanging plants, and in Tyler’s front office one crisp female secretary with a British accent. To her left a half dozen people were working in front of computer screens. To her right was a large office with an etched glass door. A discreet sign on the door said simply BRINK. I gave her my card and smiled her the smile that made me look just like Tom Cruise only bigger. She smiled back, though not very warmly. She seemed to sense that I wasn’t a client. She checked her appointments, saw that I had one, and took me to the office door that said BRINK. She had a surprising amount of hip sway for one so crisp.
Brink Tyler was in full uniform: striped shirt, wide yellow suspenders, polka-dot bow tie. He looked to be maybe fifty, with a fresh haircut and a good tan. His hair was smooth.
“Brink Tyler,” he said and put out his hand.
We shook firmly and I sat down. Behind Tyler was a huge picture window that overlooked the harbor, where the port of Boston activity was close by and frequent.
“You were Nathan Smith’s broker,” I said.
“What a shame. Yes, I was. And a personal friend as well.”
“How was he doing?” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“How was his economic life?”
“Fine,” Tyler said. “Excellent. Nathan was a member of a very old and successful family in this city.”
“That’s great, isn’t it? Did he have a lot of money?”
“For God’s sake, man, he owned a bank.”
“Wow,” I said. “Could I get a look at his monthly statements?”
“Oh, no. I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“I represent his wife,” I said.
“No, we’d really need her permission to show you that. She should have them. They went out only last week.”
“She contends that she knows nothing, and only you, Brink Tyler, can answer my questions.”
“My hands are tied,” Tyler said.
“Call her,” I said.
“Call her?”
“Yes. Ask her permission to give me the statements.”
Brink wasn’t thrilled with that. He sat back and thought about it. I sat back and waited. The blue stripes in his white shirt were wide. Tyler’s cuff links were, or appeared to be, solid gold with a small design that I couldn’t make out. Elegant.
“Well,” he said. “I guess I could do that.”
“Good for you,” I said.
He picked up his phone and punched up a number without looking it up. He waited, talked briefly with Mary Smith, nodded several times, probably for my benefit, and hung up.
“No,” he said.
“She won’t authorize the statements?”
“No.”
“She say why not?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t ask?” I said.
“It’s her right,” Tyler said. “She doesn’t have to explain.”
“How nice for her,” I said. “You have any thoughts on who would want to kill Nathan?”
“I thought Mary did it.”
“Because?”
“Because according to the paper the cops say she did it.”
“And you believe it?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“She seem the type?” I said.
“Oh hell. I didn’t know them like that. It was mostly a business friendship.”
“So you think she murdered her husband, but you still need her permission to give me access to something as innocuous as his monthly statements?”
“I have a fiduciary responsibility here. I can’t betray it. If I did, and word got around, who would trust me?”
“You’re a stockbroker,” I said. “You think people trust you now?”
“I don’t think we have anything else to talk about,” Tyler said.
“We do, Brink,” I said. “But I’m willing to let it wait.”
He didn’t say anything. I got up and let myself out and, encouraged by her hip sway when she’d ushered me in, smiled my killer smile at the secretary. She smiled back at
I found Tyler Financial Services on the lobby directory and took the elegant brass-and-rosewood elevator to the second floor. I could have found stairs, I suppose, but no one of stature would use them in this building. There was a lot of brick, and a lot of pickled oak, and a lot of hanging plants, and in Tyler’s front office one crisp female secretary with a British accent. To her left a half dozen people were working in front of computer screens. To her right was a large office with an etched glass door. A discreet sign on the door said simply BRINK. I gave her my card and smiled her the smile that made me look just like Tom Cruise only bigger. She smiled back, though not very warmly. She seemed to sense that I wasn’t a client. She checked her appointments, saw that I had one, and took me to the office door that said BRINK. She had a surprising amount of hip sway for one so crisp.
Brink Tyler was in full uniform: striped shirt, wide yellow suspenders, polka-dot bow tie. He looked to be maybe fifty, with a fresh haircut and a good tan. His hair was smooth.
“Brink Tyler,” he said and put out his hand.
We shook firmly and I sat down. Behind Tyler was a huge picture window that overlooked the harbor, where the port of Boston activity was close by and frequent.
“You were Nathan Smith’s broker,” I said.
“What a shame. Yes, I was. And a personal friend as well.”
“How was he doing?” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“How was his economic life?”
“Fine,” Tyler said. “Excellent. Nathan was a member of a very old and successful family in this city.”
“That’s great, isn’t it? Did he have a lot of money?”
“For God’s sake, man, he owned a bank.”
“Wow,” I said. “Could I get a look at his monthly statements?”
“Oh, no. I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“I represent his wife,” I said.
“No, we’d really need her permission to show you that. She should have them. They went out only last week.”
“She contends that she knows nothing, and only you, Brink Tyler, can answer my questions.”
“My hands are tied,” Tyler said.
“Call her,” I said.
“Call her?”
“Yes. Ask her permission to give me the statements.”
Brink wasn’t thrilled with that. He sat back and thought about it. I sat back and waited. The blue stripes in his white shirt were wide. Tyler’s cuff links were, or appeared to be, solid gold with a small design that I couldn’t make out. Elegant.
“Well,” he said. “I guess I could do that.”
“Good for you,” I said.
He picked up his phone and punched up a number without looking it up. He waited, talked briefly with Mary Smith, nodded several times, probably for my benefit, and hung up.
“No,” he said.
“She won’t authorize the statements?”
“No.”
“She say why not?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t ask?” I said.
“It’s her right,” Tyler said. “She doesn’t have to explain.”
“How nice for her,” I said. “You have any thoughts on who would want to kill Nathan?”
“I thought Mary did it.”
“Because?”
“Because according to the paper the cops say she did it.”
“And you believe it?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“She seem the type?” I said.
“Oh hell. I didn’t know them like that. It was mostly a business friendship.”
“So you think she murdered her husband, but you still need her permission to give me access to something as innocuous as his monthly statements?”
“I have a fiduciary responsibility here. I can’t betray it. If I did, and word got around, who would trust me?”
“You’re a stockbroker,” I said. “You think people trust you now?”
“I don’t think we have anything else to talk about,” Tyler said.
“We do, Brink,” I said. “But I’m willing to let it wait.”
He didn’t say anything. I got up and let myself out and, encouraged by her hip sway when she’d ushered me in, smiled my killer smile at the secretary. She smiled back at
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