Flinch Factor, The (19 page)

Chapter Forty

The week that began in darkness and rain ended in warm weather and glorious sunshine. Being a blue sky junkie, I packed a picnic basket Saturday morning, loaded Sarah and the dog and a Frisbee into the minivan, picked up Sam from religious school, and drove us all over to one my favorite quirky spots, the Compton Hill Reservoir Park. Although Sarah might have opted for an afternoon at the mall and Sam for an afternoon of videogames, some of Yadi's enthusiasm and mine had rubbed off on the kids by the time we'd spread out the picnic blanket on the grass near the fountain pond.

I'd packed everyone's favorites—a peanut-butter-banana-and-honey sandwich and Cheetos for Sam; hummus, toasted bagel chips, sliced granny apple and cheddar cheese wedges for Sarah; Milk-Bone treats for Yadi; turkey and Swiss on rye with pickles and Stadium mustard for me; and my mother's kamishbroit for us all.

We ate our lunch in the shadow of that outlandish structure known as the Compton Hill Water Tower. Having grown up in St. Louis, I had no idea how unusual our three water towers were. A century ago, there were more than five hundred of them around the country. Now there were just seven—and we had three. Like its two counterparts on the north side of the city, the Compton Hill Water Tower had been erected to help equalize water pressure in the fast-growing city of the eighteen-hundreds. It was a huge standpipe—close to 200 feet tall and six feet in diameter.

Toward the end of the nineteenth century, the city fathers decided to camouflage all three standpipes by erecting exotic structures around them. On the north side, the results are the tallest freestanding Corinthian column in the world—nicknamed Old White—and an even taller Victorian version of a Moorish minaret, complete with projecting gargoyles, and balustraded balconies—nicknamed New Red.

But my favorite is the Compton Hill Water Tower. The main portion is a huge tower built of buff-colored brick and terra cotta decorated with carvings of mythical animals and leaf patterns, all capped by a bell-shaped roof. Attached to the main structure is a slightly taller asymmetrical turret of rusticated limestone that reminds me of a minaret from Disney's
Aladdin
. Just beneath the bell-shaped roof of the main tower is an observation deck with a 360-degree vista. Since this was the first Saturday of the month, the water tower was open to the public—which is why I chose it as our picnic spot. A panoramic view of the city awaited anyone with the desire and the energy to climb the 198 steps that spiraled up that standpipe. I definitely had two kids with the desire and the energy.

When we finished our lunch, I gathered up the picnic leftovers, folded up the blanket, and put them into the car with Yadi. I vented the windows and promised Yadi that I'd be back soon. Then the kids and I headed up the stairs to the observation deck. The views were amazing in every direction, although Sam seemed more wowed by the sight of the playground on the far side of the park below the tower than the Arch and the Mississippi River in the distance.

When we got back down, Sarah agreed to take Sam over to the playground for thirty minutes and then meet Yadi and me back at the Naked Truth statue near the water tower for a game of Frisbee. I got Yadi out of the car and walked back over to the statue, which was a larger-than-life bronze figure of a naked woman seated on a stone bench with arms outstretched and holding torches. It caused quite a scandal a century ago when it was, literally, unveiled.

There was a bench nearby facing the statue. I settled down, opened my purse, and pulled out my copy of Willa Cather's
Death Comes for the Archbishop
. I'd been on a Willa Cather kick the past month, having read
My Antonia
,
O Pioneers
and
Song of the Lark
. I'd started
Death
the night before and couldn't wait to get back to it. Yadi lay down in the grass at my feet.

I'd no sooner opened the book and removed the bookmark when someone in my peripheral vision approached the bench.

“Rachel Gold.”

I turned to see Ken Rubenstein. He was dressed more for a day at the office than at the park in a brown v-neck cashmere sweater over a blue-and-brown tattersall dress shirt, gray pleated-front wool slacks, and cordovan loafers.

He gestured toward the bench.

“May I?”

I shrugged. “There's plenty of room.”

He took a seat.

After a moment, he said, “Amazing structure, eh?”

I looked up from my book at the water tower, nodded, and returned to my book.

“Did you know it was a big attraction during the 1904 World's Fair? Thousands of people went up it.”

“I didn't know that,” I said, without looking up.

“Hasn't been in service as a water tower since 1929.”

“Okay.”

“They took it out of service when Stacy Park Reservoir went into service. Not far from where you live.”

I turned to him. “What's not far?”

“Stacy Park. In Olivette. Not far from your home.”

“How do you know where my home is?”

He smiled and shrugged. “Phone book?”

“I'm not listed.”

He raised his eyebrows. “How about that.”

I stared down at my book, no longer able to read the words.

“Were those your kids?”

I looked at him. “What kids?”

“The ones you took up the tower? Sam and Sarah, right?”

I said nothing.

He smiled and gestured toward the sky. “Beautiful day, eh?”

“Are you stalking me?”

“Stalking? Good Lord. That sounds—well, downright unsavory.”

I closed the book and turned to him.

“What do you want?”

He smiled. There was not a trace of warmth in it.

He said, “You have a reputation as someone whose word is good. I wanted to remind you to keep your word.”

“About what?”

“Your certification. The one attached to our settlement agreement. Where you stated that you weren't representing any parties who were challenging one of my company's projects.”

“So?”

“Exactly.”

“I'm not following you,” I said.

“You would appear to be in violation of that statement.”

“Oh, really? How so?”

“I don't know which of my projects you're planning to challenge. At least not yet. But if you persist in your efforts, Counselor, I will have no choice but to turn this over to my lawyer. That is no idle threat. Rob was disappointed, to say the least, that he never got to square off against you in court last time. Apparently, you two have a history. I'm quite sure he'd jump at the chance to do it now, especially if you're the defendant.”

“Hold on. Let's back up. Who do you think I'm representing?”

“I don't know yet.”

“Would you like me to tell you?”

“Please do.”

“No one.”

“Come on, Rachel. I hardly think you're off on some lark on your own.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about Corundum Construction.”

“What about it?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“Actually, Ken, that's a good question for you.”

“Pardon?”

“What is your relationship with Corundum Construction?”

“What makes you think I know anything about Corundum Construction?”

I gazed at him. “Talk to your lawyer.”

“Why should I talk to him?”

“He represents Corundum.”

“So? He represents lots of other clients.”

I shook my head and stood up.“We're done here. I am not representing any party that is seeking to challenge any project of Ruby Productions. Period.”

Yadi scrambled to his feet.

I stared down at Rubenstein. “Have your lawyer call me if you have any further questions. And be sure to tell him that if he tries to sue me over some trumped-up claim of breach of contract, I will haul him in front of the disciplinary commission and I'll seek sanctions against you as well.”

“Whoa. Time out, lady. We got off on the wrong foot today. I didn't come down here to pick a fight with you.”

“I didn't come down here to talk to you. This is Saturday. I'm here with my family. You and I are done. Please get away from me.”

“Come on, Rachel.”

“Get away from me.”

He stood, his face flushed.

“You listen to me,” he said. “This is my livelihood we're talking about.”

“Mine, too.”

“Don't try to fuck with me.”

I stared at him. “And don't try to fuck with me.”

From a distance, Sarah called, “Rachel.”

I turned to see her and Sam approaching.

“Rachel.”

I turned to look at Rubenstein. His face was flushed.

“You have no idea who you're messing with,” he said.

“Neither do you.”

And I walked away.

My Tough Gal façade disappeared almost as soon as Ken Rubenstein did. I was so rattled by our encounter that I gathered the kids and Yadi and drove straight home, glancing in the rear view mirror most of the way. I decided that we would all stay in that night. My mom and I cooked up a feast, we played some games of Uno and Scattergories, popped some popcorn, and watched
The Princess Bride
. I made sure the burglar alarm was set before going to bed.

I woke up Sunday feeling a little better. By Monday morning, my paranoia level had dropped back to normal, and on Tuesday I had turned my focus to drafting a complaint in a brand new copyright infringement lawsuit that had absolutely nothing to do with Nick Moran, Ruby Productions, Corundum Construction Company, or my late and unlamented Frankenstein case.

Gene Chase was the furthest thing from my mind that afternoon when my secretary buzzed to tell me that Detective Roberto Tomaso was on Line 2.

“We got the results,” he said.

“From the autopsy?”

“I promised to call you when they came in.”

“And?”

“Interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“Interesting.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning maybe you ought to drop by.”

“I'm heading over now.”

Chapter Forty-one

“Dr. Phil says drownings are tricky,” Bertie Tomaso said.

Dr. Phil was Philip Edison, the chief medical examiner for St. Louis.

I said, “What's so tricky?”

“Everything—including whether the corpse you fished out of the water actually drowned.”

We were seated in Bertie Tomaso's office. He had Gene Chase's autopsy folder on the desk in front of him.

He looked up at me. “Can you handle morgue shots?”

“Sure.”

“Check this one out.”

He slid an 8 x 10 color photo across the desk top. It was a head shot of Gene Chase.

“My God,” I said.

The face had extensive lacerations and bruises. There was an open wound along one cheekbone and what appeared to be a dent high up on his forehead. The dead man looked as if he'd been attacked by someone wearing brass knuckles or wielding a club.

“What's your conclusion?” he asked.

“Beaten to death.”

“Sure looks that way, eh?”

“He wasn't?”

“Probably not.”

“Look at his head.”

“Exactly. That's one of the tricky aspects of drownings, especially in a moving body of water. Corpses in water lie face down. Always. And always with the head hanging down. Bodies tend to move downstream head first. That means the head becomes a battering ram. And with the head hanging down, the blood congests there, which means you can even have post-mortem bleeding if the head bangs into something sharp enough to break the skin. So it's
possible
someone beat the crap out of him, but it's more likely that he got banged up like that after he was dead.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Or maybe before he was dead.”

“Explain.”

“If his killers knew that a coroner would have a hard time figuring out the timing of those injuries, they could have killed him and tossed him into the water.”

He held up his hands, palms toward me. “Be patient, gorgeous. We're getting there.”

“Proceed.”

“The blood tests confirm he was drunk. The blood alcohol content was almost point two.”

“How drunk is that?”

“Shit-faced, falling-down drunk. And, again, not unusual.”

“What do you mean?”

“A significant portion of male drowning victims are drunk.”

“There must be a good punch line there.”

“Probably. But here's where it starts to get weird. With your typical drowning victim, you expect to find white foam in the nostrils and in the mouth. None here. With your typical drowning victim, you expect to find a significant quantity of water in the lungs. Not so here.”

“No water?”

“Not much, and certainly not as much as you'd expect see if the victim died in a typical drowning.”

“So you're saying he didn't drown?”

“No. Dr. Phil still thinks he drowned.”

“So where's the water?”

“In his stomach.”

“He drowned by drinking water?”

“Sort of. It's called dry drowning. It's a less common way to drown, but it still happens.”

“What is it?”

“Dry drowning involves something called—let me see, where is it—” He skimmed down a page of autopsy notes. “Here we go. It's called a laryngospasm. It's a reflex action in your throat when water enters the windpipe. Your vocal chords clench up and seal off the wind pipe. That prevents water from entering the lungs. We've all experienced it to a certain degree. It can happen to you if your drinking something and it goes down the wrong tube—or you're in the ocean and get blindsided by a wave. You start coughing like crazy and for a moment you can't breathe. It's pure reflex. It'll even happen if you're unconscious. Anyway, because of laryngospasm, in the initial stage of every drowning the first bit of water goes down the other tube and into the stomach. No water and no air enter the lungs in that first stage because the wind pipe is sealed off. In most victims, the laryngospasm relaxes after the victim loses consciousness. When that happens, the water flows into the lungs and causes a wet drowning.”

“But if it doesn't relax?”

“Then the victim essentially suffocates. A dry drowning. Happens about ten percent of all drownings. The seal to the lungs stays shut until after cardiac arrest.”

“And that's what happened here?”

“According to Dr. Phil.”

I studied Bertie. “But there's more, right?”

He smiled. “Correct.”

“What?”

“Dr. Phil had them analyze the contents of his stomach.”

“I thought you said it was water.”

“For the most part. There was a little undigested food.”

“What did the analysis show?”

“The water in his stomach was mostly tap water.”

I frowned. “Tap water?”

“The stuff that comes out of your faucets and garden hose. That same stuff that's in your toilets and your sinks and your bathtubs.”

“I don't understand what that—oh.” I leaned forward. “So he
was
murdered.”

“That's the way it appears.”

“In his house?”

“Don't know that yet. We have a forensic team over there now. We'll see what they come up with.”

I shook my head. “I don't understand, Bertie.”

“Understand what?”

“If they're so smart, why did they drown him in tap water?”

“First of all, because it's a helluva lot easier than dragging him down to the stormwater ditch in the middle of a thunderstorm and trying to shove his head under water. But assuming they're smart, they could still drown him in a tub or sink because the majority of the time it won't matter. In a typical wet drowning case, most of the aspirated water gets absorbed into the blood stream before the victim dies. In fact, according to Dr. Phil, that's part of what kills you. You get some sort of circulatory overload with all that water, and then your blood pressure nosedives and you go into cardiac arrest. Any remaining tap water that's still in your lungs would get diluted by the ordinary water currents in the River Des Peres. It's only in a dry drowning that none of the tap water gets absorbed because it's all sitting down there in your stomach.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, wow.”

“So what's next?”

“We'll see what the forensic team turns up in his house. We'll see if we have any witnesses in his neighborhood. Did he work at that Corundum Construction outfit?”

“No. He told me he worked at warehouse on North Broadway. I can check my notes and call you.”

“Great. We'll talk to folks there, too. Try to identify co-workers and friends, start to fill in the picture of who this guy was and who might want him dead. You get any Corundum names from him?”

“Just one. Rudy Hickman.”

Bertie repeated the name aloud as he wrote into his notebook. He looked up.

“What was Hickman's involvement?”

“He was the guy I talked to on the jobsite. From what Chase told us, it sounded like Hickman was the go-between with Corundum. He gave Chase the release and he gave Chase the cash.”

“You have anything more beside his name?”

“No.”

“We'll locate him and see what he says.”

“Do me a favor, Bertie. Have someone—preferably you—take another look at Nick Moran's file. I know we don't know the full story of the connection between Nick and Chase, but we now know that someone killed Chase and tried to make it look like a routine drowning. Maybe someone killed Nick, too. Maybe there's something in his file that doesn't jibe with a routine overdose.”

Bertie sighed. “Yes, ma'am. Meanwhile, what else can you tell me about this Corundum outfit?”

“I tried to track them down through their building permits. I came up with a bunch of circumstantial evidence out in the suburbs that seemed to indicate they were involved in a scheme to corrupt city officials.”

“Out in the county?”

“Outside your jurisdiction.”

“At least for a corruption claim. Out of curiosity, what kind of circumstantial evidence?”

“Do you know what tax increment financing is?”

“Sure. TIFs. Corporate welfare. Subsidizing your local Wal-mart through sales taxes. Classic zero-sum gain.”

“Exactly.”

“So?”

I explained what I'd found, namely, the pattern of rehab and renovation jobs on the homes of suburban city officials that seemed to correlate with their votes in favor of TIFs involving Ruby Productions.

“Ruby. That's that Rubenstein guy?”

“Right. I think there may be a connection between Ruby and Corundum.”

Bertie laughed. “What an arrogant son of a bitch.”

I gave him a curious look. “Who?”

“Rubenstein. He's a crossword puzzle nut, right?”

“Big time. He enters those national competitions. Why?”

“Corundum. It's a Friday
New York Times
crossword puzzle clue.”

“What is a Friday clue?”

“The
New York Times
crossword puzzle gets harder each day of the week. Monday's a breeze, Thursday's pretty tough, Friday's a bitch, Saturday's almost impossible. Assuming Rubenstein is the guy behind Corundum, it's a Friday clue.”

“A clue for what?”

Bertie gave me a wink and shook his head. “I don't want to spoil the fun.”