Flinch Factor, The (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

We drove in silence for awhile.

“There's another big pickup truck out there,” Benny said.

I gave him a curious look. “Out where?”

“Don't know where, but there's one somewhere out there with Corundum license plates.”

“It may not be the only one. I'm going to see if Bertie Tomaso will run the plates on those three pickup trucks. I'm guessing at least one of them has Corundum plates as well.”

“Meanwhile,” Benny said, “we still have that other one out there. That could mean they have another crew on some other site. We find that site and we just might find your big guy.”

“Assuming he is out there,” I said, “it's not going to be easy to find him. Jacki and I have searched the files in twelve city halls to come up those five permits. There are close to a hundred other towns and villages in suburban St. Louis. Each one has its own city hall and its own zoning code and its own building permit requirements and its own building permit files. There's no central data base. That means you need to drive from city hall to city hall. It could take a month to search all those files, and by then the crew we just saw might have moved on to another site.”

“That's all the more reason we need to get in contact with whoever's in charge of Corundum,” Benny said. “Find out who the hell that big guy is. Speaking of which, what's up with that?”

“What's up with what?”

“That redneck out there at the job site. He wouldn't tell us shit about his company. Who's he think he works for? The goddam CIA?

“Speaking of rednecks, Benny, where do you come up that accent? Sounded like you were channeling Merle Haggard out there.”

“I got mad skills, woman. They extend far beyond my legendary prowess in the sack.”

“My hero.”

“Meanwhile, what's up with Corundum? They're not building nuclear weapons for the government, for chrissake. They're building family rooms and fucking patios but we can't find any trace of them. Makes no sense.”

“Maybe they don't market themselves to the public.”

“That's nuts. Their customers
are
the public.”

“Maybe not the whole public. Maybe they're a niche outfit. Maybe they're one of those operations that gets all its work from referrals. Like your root canal last year.”

“Like my root canal? That's a helluva segue. Forgive me if I'm not following your line of reasoning here.”

“Your dentist told you that you needed a root canal, right? He didn't send you off to find your own endodontist. He gave you a referral. Why? Because lots of endodontists don't advertise. They get their patients on referral.”

“Yeah, but guys doing home improvement aren't like guys doing root canals. I think most of them advertise.”

“I bet some work off referrals.”

“From who?”

“Maybe from satisfied customers. Maybe from real estate agents. Maybe from homebuilders. Maybe from places like Home Depot. Look at what goes on in our profession. There are plenty of lawyers in this town—appellate lawyers, tax lawyers, other specialists—who get all their work on referrals from other lawyers.”

“Maybe. But you gotta admit that redneck's behavior made you a little suspicious, eh?

“What makes me even more suspicious is why I can't find them in the phone book. I can understand building your business on referrals, but why have an unlisted number? Even so, we still have to take this one small step at a time. No jumping to conclusions.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because we still have no hard evidence that Nick's death was anything but an accidental overdose. Bertie Tomaso does this stuff for a living, Benny. He took a look at Nick's file and didn't find anything incriminating.”

“Something's not right here.”

“I agree.”

We drove in silence until we reached my office in the Central West End.

“So what next?” Benny asked.

“I have a few things I want to run down.”

“What kind of things?”

“Just some loose ends.”

“But no home visits on your own, right?”

“Right.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

I leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

“Don't forget about dinner tomorrow.”

“You kidding me? Your mom told me she's making stuffed cabbage and kasha. I've got that date circled in red on my calendar. I'm so psyched I may just paint my face and chest and bring along a recording of one of those let's-get-ready-to-rumble chants.”

I smiled. “There's an image.”

“Don't mock me, woman. No act of homage is too much when we're talking about your mom's stuffed cabbage.”

Chapter Twenty-five

“It is a lovely home,” she said.

“It sure did look lovely from the outside,” I said.

“When would you like to see it?”

“I'll have to check my husband's calendar. He travels so much, Ms. Crowe.”

“Please call me Melissa.”

I was on the phone with the real estate agent for the home at 23 Del Ray Avenue in Glenview Heights. That was the home Jacki and I had visited with the For Sale sign on the front lawn. No one had been home that afternoon, but I'd taken one of the information sheets out of the plastic box in front of the sign. The sheet identified Melissa Crowe of Coldwell Banker as the listing agent

I studied the sheet. “I do have some questions, Melissa.”

“Certainly. Fire away.”

I asked her a few innocuous ones about the age of the furnace, the arrangement of the second floor bathrooms, the fixtures in the guest bathroom on the first floor.

She was a good agent. She had detailed answers to each of my questions, usually with a few extra tidbits, such as which of the upstairs bathrooms had been renovated and when and how.

“Let me ask you about the finished basement,” I said. “I read the description twice. It sounds pretty amazing.”

“It is totally fabulous. You have to see it to believe it. There's a movie theater that can seat twenty with a soda dispenser and one of those popcorn poppers like you see in a real theater. There's a workout room you'd swear was a mini-health club. All top-of-the-line Nautilus equipment—an elliptical, a treadmill, a stationary bike, weight machines—plus a flat screen TV and an amazing sound system. If you like to work out, you will totally love that room.”

“When was the basement done?”

“Barely a year ago. Almost all of the equipment is still under warranty.”

“Who did the work?”

“Let me check the file. I'm sure it's in there. This'll take just a minute.”

I could hear the sound of her setting the phone on her desk and rustling of papers.

“Ah, here we are. It says the basement work was done by the Corundum Construction Company.”

“Corundum?”

“That's what it says.”

“I'm not familiar with them. Are you?”

“I think I've heard that name,” she said.

“Do you know anything about them?”

“Actually, no. But that doesn't mean much. In my line of work, you're more familiar with the homebuilders. The remodelers—well, there are lots and lots of them. It's hard to keep track.”

“Is there a warranty on their work?”

Another pause as she looked through the paperwork. “It doesn't say one way or the other—or at least I can't find anything about warranties. But I'm sure they're a reputable company.”

“I could call them myself. Do you have a phone number there?”

“Not in the file.”

“I have a phone book here. Let me see.” My voice trailed off as if I were actually looking through a phone book. “That's odd. There's no listing. Are they local?”

“I'll find their number, Mrs. Charles. Tell me the best way to reach you and I'll call you with the number.”

“I'll have to call you,” I said. “My cell phone is on the fritz. Should I call back later today?”

“How about in the morning? That way I'll be sure to have the information. Everything will be fine. Those O'Sheas were fine, upstanding people.”

“O'Sheas?” I asked. “Who are they?”

I already know the name, of course. The building permit listed the owners of 23 Del Ray Avenue as Walter and Elizabeth O'Shea.

“The sellers,” she said. “Dr. and Mrs. O'Shea. He's a dentist, I believe. Or maybe an orthodontist. Something with teeth. As for Mrs. O'Shea, I don't know if she had a job during the day, but she was a very respectable member of the community.”

“Really? How so?”

”She was on the city council.”

***

My second call that morning was to Paul Rogers.

In his late sixties now, Paul Rogers remains one of the top municipal lawyers in Missouri. A former president of both the Missouri Municipal Lawyers Association and the St. Louis County Municipal League, his roster of clients includes several suburban St. Louis towns. For many of those entities, he serves as City Attorney. I'd become friendly with him a few years back while working on a zoning matter involving a city he represented. Although we'd been on opposite sides, it was virtually impossible to spend time with Paul and not become friendly.

“How is that TIF case coming along, Rachel?”

I had consulted with Paul before filing my Frankenstein lawsuit. He'd counseled me against filing it, warning that I'd be fighting a losing battle and would likely end up with a dismissal order and frustrated clients.

I sighed. “Not so great.”

“Oh, dear. I am sorry to hear that. Who is it before?”

“Judge Flinch.”

“I am surprised your opponents didn't take a change of judge.”

“Actually, they did. That's how we ended up before Flinch.”

“I see. And you elected not to a change, eh?”

“You were the one who told me I had bad facts and bad law.”

He chuckled. “You may have made an astute decision, Rachel. Perhaps under the circumstances the best possible judge for your clients is Howard Flinch.”

“To quote my late father, Paul, from your lips to God's ears.”

Another chuckle.

“But,” I said, “I'm calling you about something different. I'll treat you to lunch if you can help.”

“Lunch with you is treat enough, Rachel. I'm happy to help.”

“I'm trying to find out some information about a contractor. A small company that does home improvements.”

“Which company?”

“Corundum Construction.”

“Corundum? Hmmm. It doesn't ring a bell.”

“I didn't think it would, unless one of your cities had a building permit dispute with them.”

“I do not recall any such disputes. Where are they located?”

“That's the problem,” I said. “I can't find out anything about them. No listings in the phone book or in any other directory. Nevertheless, we found several building permits issued to them, including two in Glenview Heights. You're the City Attorney there, aren't you?”

“I am, but permits tend to get issued as a matter of course by the city's department of public works. They do not contact me unless there is a dispute.”

“That's what I assumed. The reason I'm calling is that I may have found a pattern with the type of people hiring Corundum. At least half—and maybe more—of the houses that Corundum worked on are owned by city officials.”

“Really?”

“Both of the houses in Glenview Heights are owned—or were owned—by city council members.”

“Which council members?”

“Clyde Bennett and Elizabeth O'Shea.”

“That's interesting. And there are others?”

“Yes.”

I gave him the other names and permits we'd found.

I could hear Paul taking notes.

I said, “So one possible reason that Corundum doesn't advertise is because it gets lots of business from referrals from aldermen and other city officials.”

“You would like me to approach one or more of these folks regarding Corundum?”

“If you wouldn't mind.”

“Why are you so interested in this company?”

“I'm investigating a matter for another client. Nothing to do with my TIF case. I have a witness who saw something suspicious involving a man in a vehicle. I ran a trace on the license plate and came up with Corundum Construction. But I can't locate them.”

“Is this an automobile accident case?”

“No. It might be much worse than that, but the less you know about it the better. I'm just trying to find how to contact them.”

“You have me intrigued, Rachel.”

“I'll tell you more at lunch.”

“You have a deal. I shall go find my old fedora, brush up on my Humphrey Bogart impression, and get right on it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Spade.”

“You are quite welcome, Effie.”

Chapter Twenty-six

I pushed the intercom button.

“Yes?”

“You have a visitor,” my secretary said.

“Who is it?”

“Ken Rubenstein.”

I stared at the speakerphone.

“You can let him come back,” I said.

A moment later, Ken Rubenstein appeared in my doorway.

“Good afternoon, Counselor.”

I gazed at him.

He grinned back. He was dressed today in a navy blazer, beige pleated slacks, and crisp blue dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck.

“Where's your lawyer?” I asked.

“Don't know. Haven't talked to him today. But don't fret.”

He stepped toward my desk, reached into his blazer, and removed a folded sheet of paper.

“Here.” He handed it to me. “This should take care of your concerns.”

It was a sheet of stationary with the letterhead of Rob Crane's law firm:

Dear Ms. Gold:

In accordance with Rule 4.2 of the Missouri Rules of Professional Conduct, I hereby consent to direct settlement communications between you and my client, Ruby Productions, Inc., including its Chairman and CEO Kenneth C. Rubenstein.

Sincerely,

Robert Crane

Robert L. Crane II

I looked up from the letter and gestured toward one of the chairs facing my desk. Rubenstein took a seat, tilted back in the chair, crossed his arms and smiled.

“Well?” he said.

“Well what?”

“Where's my settlement demand? I told you I was willing to go above the fifteen percent premium I've already offered your clients. I also told you time was a wasting. You promised to talk to your clients. I assume you have by now.”

“I have.”

He rubbed his goatee with his thumb and forefinger.

“And?” he said.

“Our original demand is still our first choice.”

“That's the one where I walk from the project?”

“Correct.”

“But now you have a second choice, eh?”

I nodded.

“What is it?”

I opened my briefcase, removed an unsealed legal-sized manila envelope, and slid it across the table to him. “It's in there.”

Inside were two sheets of blueprint paper. The first was a copy of the aerial view of his proposed redevelopment plan showing the location of the homes and the various amenities in the proposed Brittany Manors. He flipped to the second page and studied it. He looked up at me with frown.

“What is this?”

“One of my clients has a brother who's an architect. That second drawing is based on his calculations. There are 201 homes in Brittany Woods. You can apparently fit four modest townhouse units onto each of those home plots. That means you can tear down all 201 homes and replace them with townhouses on just one-fourth the space. So instead of paying my clients thirty million dollars, you can use that money to build them new residences.”

“Build them where?”

I pointed at the blueprint. “Right there. Your plans show ninety homes. Under our proposal, you'd still have room for sixty.”

He gave me an incredulous laugh. “That's a settlement proposal? I drop thirty homes from my project and replace them with two hundred little townhouses? On my property?”

“It's
their
property now, Ken. All of it. They're willing to give you three-quarters of it as part of this deal.”

He looked at the blueprint and shook his head. “You call that a compromise?”

“Absolutely. My clients love their neighborhood, their location, and their school system. This is a way they can keep their neighborhood, their location, and their school system while you still make a ton of money.”

His face was flushed. He tossed the plans on my desk and shook his head. “This is a joke. A complete joke.”

“I take that as a no.”

“Take it as hell no.”

“Then this meeting is over. Please leave.”

He stood, his face flushed. “They're fools. They could have made a killing here.”

“They're not looking to make a killing. They're just looking to keep their neighborhood.”

“That's never been an option.”

“Wrong. It's always been an option. And it'll be a reality if we win the lawsuit.”

“Win the lawsuit?” He snorted. “You're as crazy as your clients.”

“We're done here. Good-bye.”

He started toward the door, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

He paused and turned back to me. “You are going to regret this day, lady. You and your knucklehead clients. For the rest of your lives.” He pointed a finger at me. “This is war. World War Three.”

After he left, I gazed at the empty doorway for a long time.