Flinch Factor, The (10 page)

“So you called Council Member Furman two days before the aldermen meeting?”

“I don't recall.”

“Let's see if I can refresh you memory. Read the message, sir. Read it aloud.”

He lifted the document.

“‘Mister Rubenstein called,'” he read, “'to confirm meeting at four today at St. Louis Club re project.'”

He looked up from the exhibit and stared at me. The vein in his temple was visible.

I said, “Did you meet with Council Member Furman at the St. Louis Club at four o'clock on June thirteenth?”

“I don't recall.”

“Was the project you referred to in your message the TIF project involving my clients' homes.”

“I don't recall.”

“How many times have you met with Council Member Furman?”

“I don't recall.”

“More than once?”

“I don't recall.”

“But according to Exhibit 43, you had at least one meeting with him before your TIF project was presented to the City of Cloverdale, correct?”

“Objection. Asked and answered.”

I turned to Crane. “Asked, Mr. Crane, but not answered.”

“He said he doesn't recall.”

I turned back to the witness. “Is that your answer to this question, too? That you cannot recall whether you had a private meeting with Council Member Furman at the St. Louis Club just two days before your TIF project was presented to the City of Cloverdale?”

A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face as he stared at me.

“I don't recall.”

I checked my notes to make sure that I'd covered all of my topics. I had.

The only thing left on my list was my wild card. I opened my folder of deposition exhibits and stared at Exhibit 44. It was the only document I had not shown to the witness. It was also the only one I had not known whether to even mark as an exhibit. I had no idea what it meant.

I removed it from the folder and placed it face down on the table in front of me. I looked up at Rubenstein, who glanced down at the document and back at me.

“Mr. Rubenstein,” I said, “what can you tell me about the Corundum Construction Company?”

Chapter Seventeen

I turned on the television, loaded the DVD player, and returned to the chair with the remote in my hand.

“Okay, Jacki,” I called out.

The Rubenstein deposition had ended an hour ago. I'd prevailed on the videographer to download a copy of the rough cut onto a DVD before she left.

Jacki Brand came into my office and took the chair next to mine facing the television. She nodded at the screen.

“Roll it,” she said.

I pointed the remote at the DVD player and pressed Play. After a moment, the player began to click and whirr.

I'd drawn my own tentative conclusion, but I needed an expert opinion on Ken Rubenstein's handling of my Corundum questions. Jacki was my expert. During her steelworker years, she—or rather, he—played cards with the boys every Monday and Thursday night. Over time Jack Brand became a poker legend in Granite City, Illinois. His ability to read the tiniest gestures and eye movements of his opponents—the “tells,” in poker lingo—convinced several of the players that he had ESP. They eventually convinced him—or, by then, her—to enter a Texas Hold ‘Em tournament at the Casino Queen on the East St. Louis side of the Mississippi River. Jacki won the tournament. Indeed, she was so good at Texas Hold ‘Em that her poker winning helped pay her law school tuition.

The screen flickered and resolved into a head-on shot of Ken Rubenstein seated at the end of the conference table. No one else was visible in the picture.

“The time is ten a.m.,” the videographer said off screen. “This is the deposition of—”

I pressed the Fast Forward button, and Ken Rubenstein suddenly started twitching and jerking and talking in silent rapid motion.

“It's at the very end of the deposition,” I said to Jacki.

I had come into the deposition with nothing new on Corundum Construction except for an intriguing doodle. Jacki's day of searching building permits at the St. Louis City Hall had turned up zilch. If there really was a Corundum Construction, it had not built a thing in the City of St. Louis during the past decade. But my search through the four boxes of documents produced by the City of Cloverdale had yielded one possible—and unexpected—reference to the mysterious company in the form of a doodle on Council Member Mary O'Conner's copy of the typed agenda for the September city council meeting. There was no agenda item for the Brittany Woods TIF or for any construction project, but there—in the margin of Ms. O'Conner's agenda—was the word Corundum. She had written it in bubble letters and had festooned it with curlicues and arrows and cross-hatches.

I'd come across the document in the fourth box of documents that Jacki had brought back from the Cloverdale City Hall. The first two boxes of documents had yielded nothing of interest. The third had contained that sheaf of telephone messages from Harry Furman, including the one from Rubenstein. Halfway through the final box, trying to pay attention as I leafed through hundreds of pages of financial documents, I came across that agenda with the doodle. I stared at it, and then put it in the pile for possible use at the deposition. There was no reason to connect the doodle to Rubenstein—or, for that matter, to any aspect of the TIF battle. But, I had mused, Ken Rubenstein knew a heckuva lot more about the St. Louis construction industry than I did. Maybe, just maybe, he had heard of Corundum Construction. A pure fishing expedition, of course, but I brought it to the deposition anyway.

I hit the Pause button.

Ken Rosenfeld froze on the screen, a frown on his face. His lawyers were off-screen to the left. I was off-screen to the right.

I turned to Jacki. “Ready?”

She nodded.

I pressed Play.

“Mr. Rubenstein,” my voice said.

“Stop,” Jackie said.

I pressed Stop.

“What's he staring at?” she asked.

Rubenstein was looking down to the right—his left.

“The doodle document,” I said. “I had it face down in front of me.”

“Okay.”

I pressed Play.

“—what can you tell me about Corundum Construction Company?”

He leaned back.

“Who?”

“Corundum Construction Company.”

He chuckled. “Corundum? Why are you asking me that?”

“Just answer the question, Mr. Rubenstein.”

He glanced over at the document in front of me and raised his eyes to mine. He frowned.

“What was the question?”

Off screen, my voice: “Would the court reporter please read the pending question to the witness?”

During the pause, Rubenstein looked toward his attorney with a tight smile.

“Mr. Rubenstein,” the court reporter read in a monotone, “what can you tell me about Corundum Construction Company?”

He shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Do you know of the company?”

“Nope.”

“Have you ever heard of the company, sir? In any context?”

He glanced over at the document in front of me, which was still facedown.

“I don't recall.”

“You don't recall the name Corundum? Is that your testimony?”

He smiled. “Unless you mean the sapphire.”

“What sapphire?”

“Corundum.” He chuckled. “You're talking to a crossword puzzle nut, Ms. Gold. When I hear corundum, I think clue. It's a scientific term for sapphires.”

He glanced over at his attorney with a grin.

“I'm not asking you about sapphires, Mr. Rubenstein. I'm asking you about a construction company named Corundum.”

“Objection,” Crane said. “Asked and answered.”

“Then answer it again,” I said. “Is it your sworn testimony that you have no information or knowledge concerning Corundum Construction Company?”

He stared at me a moment and then leaned back.

“That is my testimony.”

“I have no further questions.”

Rubenstein crossed his arms over his chest and nodded at the camera.

I pressed Pause, and the image froze.

I turned to Jacki.

“Well?” I asked.

“My, my.” She raised her eyebrows. “You struck a nerve.”

“That question about Corundum—it was a shot in the dark. I had nothing on the company. Not even a listing in the phone book. I was just hoping a big developer like Rubenstein might have heard of the company.”

“Oh, he definitely heard of them.”

“You think?”

“I know. Did you see the way he kept eying that document you had face down? You were freaking him out, Rachel. He didn't know what you had there. That's why he started riffing with all that crossword puzzle nonsense.”

“What do you make of it?”

“He was treading water, trying to get you off topic. You told me he was real disciplined for most of the deposition.”

“Definitely. He was careful to just answer my question. He never volunteered a thing.”

“Not there at the end. You had him rattled. He knows something.”

I sighed. “Maybe.”

Jacki gave me a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

“Let me show you the mystery document.”

I leafed through the deposition exhibits and pulled out the final one, the one I kept face down and never showed Rubenstein, the one with the word Corundum doodled on Council Member O'Conner's agenda.

“Look.” I handed it to Jacki. “She didn't write Corundum Construction Company. Just Corundum. For all I know, she was doing a crossword puzzle during the meeting.”

“Maybe she was, but he wasn't. You going to ask her why she wrote it?”

“If the judge lets me, which is doubtful. So far, Flinch has denied all of my requests to depose council members. He claims I'm trying to pollute the sanctity of the legislative process.”

Jacki snorted. “What a moron. Maybe you should file a motion anyway.”

“And argue what? That I need to depose her to find out why she wrote the word Corundum at the bottom of the agenda? I have no basis to connect her or Rubenstein or anyone involved in that TIF with any company named Corundum. But Rubenstein's reaction gives me a new idea for the Nick Moran situation. It certainly seemed to you that Rubenstein recognized Corundum Construction Company, right?”

“Right.”

“Ruby Productions does all of its projects in the suburbs. So maybe Rubenstein ran across them on a job site. Maybe that's how he knows the name.”

“And?”

I smiled. “Building permits. You need them in the suburbs, too.”

“True.”

“I have a hearing out in the county tomorrow. I'll drop by a few town halls before coming back to the office. Maybe I'll get lucky.”

“Might be worth a shot.”

“It's the only lead I have. I owe it to his sister.”

As Jacki stood, I said, “Does he look familiar?”

She looked down at me. “Who?”

I nodded toward the frozen image of Ken Rubenstein on the screen.

She frowned. “You mean does he look like someone else?”

“No. I'd never seen him before today—or at least that's what I thought. But when he was sitting there across from me today, there was something familiar about him. Like I'd seen him before.”

Jacki shrugged. “You said he's a publicity hound. Maybe you saw him on TV or in the paper. Doesn't look familiar to me. I'll see you later.”

I stared at the screen and searched for a connection.

Nothing.

Chapter Eighteen

I turned off the engine and checked my watch.

5:20 p.m.

There was a blue Ford Expedition SUV in the driveway. A good sign.

I glanced over at Benny. “Ready, my darling husband Nick?”

“Absolutely, my darling wife Nora.”

We were seated in my car, which was parked at the curb in front of 22 Dielman Way, a colonial-style red-brick four-bedroom home in Asbury Groves, a suburb of St. Louis.

I smiled at him. “I have to say, you are looking quite dapper in that outfit.”

“And I have to say, I am feeling quite the douche bag in this outfit. All that's missing are a pair of Topsiders and a prep school accent.”

“I think you look cute.”

And he did. He had on a blue button-down dress shirt, khaki slacks, and cordovan loafers. He'd even shaved for me.

Of course, getting him to put on nice clothes was almost as difficult as getting Sam to put on nice clothes. Benny had finally conceded that his standard attire—which was somewhere south of rock band roadie—clashed with our cover story: a married couple trying to decide which contractor to hire to add a family room and deck to our house.

My review of the building permits files at the Asbury Groves town hall yesterday had turned up two permits issued to Corundum Construction Company in Asbury Groves, both about three years ago. One was for the construction of a back porch and deck at 22 Dielman Way, which is where we were parked, and the other was for construction of a swimming pool and deck at 723 Noyes. The owners of 22 Dielman Way, according to the permit file, were Harold and Mary Carswold. The owners of the other home were Jeffrey and Cynthia Kirkland. Unfortunately, the telephone numbers for both were unlisted. Because I didn't feel comfortable asking Bertie Tomaso for another Moran-related favor, I came up with the married-couple-checking-out-contractors pretext.

My plan was to visit the two houses on my own. I would be the married woman with a husband too busy to join her. But when I told Benny my plan, he insisted on joining me.

“You think I'm letting you go there alone? No fucking way, girl. It's a goddam murder investigation.”

“Benny, I'm not visiting a suspect's house. I'm just trying to get a lead on a possible suspect—or just the person who was with Nick Moran that night. We don't know it's a murder. We don't know anything. I'm just looking for some closure.”

“You aren't going there alone. Period. Anyway, your lame-ass story will be a lot more believable if your husband is with you. No guy is going to spend a hundred grand on home improvements without checking out the contractor's work.”

So it was settled. Benny would join me for the two house visits, and then we'd go back to my house, where my mother was cooking up a feast. He also came up with our married names: Nick and Nora Charles. Given his girth, Benny liked the reference to
The Thin Man
.

He opened the passenger door and gave me a wink. “Let's do it.”

***

A woman in her thirties opened the door. In the background were the sounds of a television cartoon—the boings, boinks and accompanying music—at high volume.

“Yes?”

She had the slightly-harried look of a mother with young children.

I gave her a sympathetic smile.

“We're so sorry to bother you, Mrs. Carswold. My name is—”

“—I'm not Mrs. Carswold. They don't live here anymore.”

“Oh. I didn't realize—”

“—they moved about a year ago. We bought their home. I think they moved to Florida. That's what I've heard.”

“I didn't know that.”

“Do you need to contact them?”

“Actually, we were—” I paused and looked toward Benny with a wifely smile.

“We're not here to sell anything,” he said to her in a reassuring voice. “And we're not missionaries. I promise. My wife and I are planning to build an addition to our house. One of the contractors we talked to did your addition. We tried to call to see if it was okay to come over and look at their work, but your number—or, actually, the Carswolds' number—wasn't in the phone book. But we happened to be in the neighborhood anyway, so we thought we'd drop by to see if anyone was home.”

She smiled. “No problem. I'm Joanne Clark. Go around back. I'll meet you there and show you the deck and porch.”

***

Corundum Construction Company did quality work. That was obvious the moment we reached the back. The redwood deck was on three levels and included a hot tub, a wet bar, hanging gardens, and a beautiful dining area. Joanne Clark showed us around the enormous enclosed porch, which featured a ceramic tiled floor, beautiful woodwork, heavy oak beams overhead, and a dramatic stone fireplace. Having been through my own renovation projects, I could tell this one had cost plenty.

“Have you met the contractor?” I asked.

“I don't even know who it was.”

“Does Corundum Construction ring a bell?'

“No.” She gave me a sheepish smile. “I'm sorry.”

“They do nice work,” I said. “Thanks for letting us see it.”

“Oh, my pleasure.”

“I'm sorry we weren't able to call in advance. If they moved to Florida, that explains why their telephone number wasn't listed anymore.”

“Actually, I don't think they were listed even when they lived here. I remember our realtor had to give us their phone number. But you would have had just as much trouble reaching us.”

“You're not listed either?”

“My husband is a doctor. A psychiatrist. Can you imagine the calls we'd get in the middle of the night if he was listed?”

“I understand,” I said. “Was one of the Carswolds a doctor?”

“Worse. He was an alderman. Can you imagine the crazy calls those people must get?”

***

A gray-haired man in his late fifties opened the front door to 723 Noyes. He was stocky but fit, had a thin mustache, and wore a pair of reading glasses perched on this end of his nose. He was holding a section of the newspaper in his hand.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Kirkland?” Benny asked.

The man glanced at me and back at Benny. “Who are you?”

“Nick Charles, sir. And you are Jeffrey Kirkland?”

“I am. What do you want?”

“We would have called, Mr. Kirkland, but your number is unlisted. So we decided to drop by.”

“Why?”

Benny gave him a friendly smile. “Corundum Construction, sir.”

Kirkland's eyes narrowed. “What about them?”

“Your thoughts about their workmanship. What kind of people they were. Mainly, I suppose, whether you feel like you got your money's worth.”

“What are you trying to imply, sir? I paid in full. With my own money.” He looked at me. “Who is this woman?”

“She's my wife Nora, Mr. Kirkland.”

He stared at us. “What's going on here?”

“We don't mean to disturb you, Mr. Kirkland. Nora and I are thinking of doing an addition to our house. One of the contractors we talked to is Corundum Construction. We wanted some references, and you were one of names they gave us. Apparently, they built you a pool and deck.”

“You're dealing with Corundum Construction?”

“Not yet,” Benny said. “We're trying to decide between them and two other companies.”

“Who did you speak with at Corundum?” he asked.

Benny frowned and look at me. “Do you remember the name, Sweetie Poo?”

Sweetie Poo?

But I played along, pretending to try to remember.

“I'm not sure,” I said. “I talked to so many contractors.”

Benny turned to Kirkland. “Who was your contact person?”

The question seemed to catch him off balance. “I don't remember. It's been a long time.”

“Were you happy with their work?”

“Yes. No complaints. I have to go. Good-bye.”

He closed the door. There was the clunk of the deadbolt lock.

Benny turned to me. “What the hell was that all about?”