Murder.com by Haughton Murphy Page B

know Daniel Courtland,” Reuben said to Ms. Bretton. “He was a client of mine for many years and is still a client of my old law firm.”
    â€œShould I say lucky you or poor you? I’m sure there’s an immense amount of legal business. But our experience was not too pleasant.”
    â€œWe have always had a tacit agreement—we never discuss politics or religion. I’m reasonably sure our views would be quite divergent.”
    â€œYou’ve been wise. What about his daughter? Was she of the same persuasion as her father?”
    â€œI’m not sure. But I should think not. The people at the publishing house where she worked seemed to think the world of her. I don’t think that would have been true if she went around trumpeting her father’s views.”
    â€œWell, anyway, it doesn’t matter now, does it?”
    â€œSadly, no.”
    Reuben, having finished a quite decent club sandwich (he shuddered to think of the creamed chipped beef and other such fare that used to be available), excused himself and left the Club. The luncheon encounter had left him with two thoughts: Marina Courtland may have used her pseudonym not only to conceal her wealth, but also to prevent being identified with her father’s opinions. And, while he knew that Dan Courtland was volatile, Ms. Bretton’s evidence made it all the more necessary to handle him with care—or at least to handle the investigation of his daughter’s death with care.
    Then, as he reached One Metropolitan Plaza, he began thinking about his upcoming meeting with the Executioner.

Thirteen
    The Executioner
    He may never have heard the epithet himself, but Jerry Gilbert was known among the Chase & Ward associates as “the Executioner.” Legend had it that if a partner felt that an associate should be fired, but didn’t have the courage to do the job himself, he would arrange to have the victim assigned to Gilbert.
    This myth credited the partners with too much efficiency in handling their personnel matters. It did, however, reflect the basic truth that Gilbert was a stern and difficult taskmaster: laconic in explaining assignments, sarcastic when ripping apart written work submitted to him (nearly always returned bleeding with editorial corrections and queries), and stingy with compliments and words of encouragement.
    Those who survived their assignment working for Gilbert felt like combat veterans. In the case of some, the experience developed them into tougher lawyers, but a few left as shell-shocked, nervous wrecks, including the ones “executed.” At age fifty, Gilbert had a long career at the firm ahead of him; associates had hopes of avoiding his rough tutelage only through the luck of the draw, not because of the man’s retirement or early demise.
    Reuben knew of Gilbert’s nickname, but had never been certain how accurate the popular wisdom was. All he knew was that he did not especially like the man—nothing personal and he didn’t deliberately try to avoid him—but Gilbert was pretty stony and humorless, and thus not to Frost’s taste. A good lawyer? Absolutely. A lovable person? No way.
    â€œHow are you, Reuben? Haven’t seen you upstairs at the Hexagon Club recently,” Gilbert said once Frost was comfortably seated on the office’s sofa. The Executioner took a seat in a chair opposite and put his feet up on the coffee table in front of him.
    â€œI don’t go up there as much as I used to. I feel a little bit in the way when I do. All the active partners discussing current business. The last thing they need is an ancient crock like me reminiscing about the good old days.” Or about the day Graham Donovan dropped dead at the firm’s table at the Club , Reuben thought.
    â€œNonsense. You’re always welcome, you know that,” Gilbert said, giving Reuben a narrow, pinched smile—the closest he came to camaraderie. “To what