Flinch Factor, The (20 page)

Chapter Forty-two

I rolled my eyes.

“What?” Benny said

“They actually let you wear that on campus?”

Benny glanced down. He had on a t-shirt that read:
Attention Ladies: I Enjoy Grey's Anatomy.
He looked up with feigned innocence.

“What? A man can't express an opinion?”

“Have you actually watched the show?”

“I tried once.”

“And?”

“I got as far as the second commercial break.”

“You should be ashamed.”

“Hey, there was a Knicks game on. I'm supposed to pass that up for this chick-flick dreck?”

“That's my point.”

He gestured at his t-shirt. “This is just my attempt to assure the distaff side that I'm a sensitive, caring New Age guy.”

“Which you aren't.”

“Now just hold on, woman. I have actually cried while watching television. On more than one occasion, too.”

“Other than while watching a sporting event?”

He paused. “Probably not. But cut me a little slack here. You think the networks are ever going to air a show with anything as heartbreaking as the Giants losing to the Ravens in Super Bowl Thirty-Five? Certainly not on
Grey's Anatomy
, for chrissake.”

“So does it work?”

He winked. “Girls like guys who like
Grey's Anatomy
.”

“You are a total pig.”

“But I'm your pig.”

“If you were my pig, Benny, first thing I'd do is call the vet and get you fixed. By the way, did I hear you correctly? ‘Distaff'?”

He smiled. “To paraphrase the deathless lyrics of the Pussycat Dolls, ‘Don't cha wish your boyfriend had words like me? Don't cha?'”

“Distaff sounds like vintage
Playboy Advisor
to me, Hef.”

“I confess I never read the
Playboy Advisor
in my youth. I was too busy studying the interviews. But back to business. Is this creep really going to show up?”

“He said he would. I offered to meet him at my office but he preferred yours. He thinks a professor's office is a more neutral site. Thanks, by the way.”

“Like I'd let you meet him on your own?”

“I don't think he's dangerous.”

“You don't know that. According to you, at least two people's deaths might be connected to that Corundum outfit. That means it's time to play it safe. To quote Auric Goldfinger: ‘Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action.'”

“Auric Goldfinger?”

“The bad guy in the James Bond movie. So give me some context here. What's the purpose of meeting with—what's his name?”

“Milton Bornstein. He's one of the Cloverdale City Councilmen who voted in favor of the TIF.”

“What do you want from him?”

“The name of someone at Corundum Construction. Someone higher up.”

“Why?”

“To see if we can interest the St. Louis County Prosecutor's Office. Bertie's a city cop. All this suburban stuff is outside his jurisdiction—and his department is focused on Gene Chase anyway. Unless they get lucky, they'll be plodding along for weeks—or even months. And even if they solve that crime, they may not find any connection between that murder and Nick's.”

“Assuming Nick was murdered.”

“Right.”

“A big assumption.”

“Fair enough. But let's assume he was. The next question is, ‘why'? Given what we've found so far, it's probably because of something he knew about Corundum. If so, that means it probably has some connection to this pattern with the TIFs. If we can tie a big name or two with that pattern, we might be able to interest a prosecutor.”

“In Nick's death?”

“Not initially. The hook for the prosecutor is the corruption angle. But if Nick's death is connected to that, then maybe—just maybe—they'll turn up that link.”

Benny scratched his neck as he thought it over. “It's a long shot.”

“It's the only shot I can think of.”

He grinned. “As Immanuel Kant once said, ‘What the fuck?'”

He checked his watch.

“If this turkey of yours actually shows up,” he said, “let me do the talking. I got an idea how to reach this guy.”

Ten minutes later, as Benny was filling me in on an antitrust paper he was presenting at an upcoming conference, there was a knock on the door.

“It's open,” Benny hollered.

Milt Bornstein peered in. He was wearing aviator sunglasses, a khaki trench coat, and a gray herringbone beret pulled low over his eyes. If this was his idea of a disguise, it failed. With his sharp nose, long ears, and high bald forehead, he looked unmistakably like Milt Bornstein in aviator sunglasses, trench coat, and herringbone beret.

“Come on in,” I said.

He glanced from me to Benny and back to me. “Who is this gentleman?”

Benny snorted. “Look at the nameplate on the door, douche bag. This is my office.”

Bornstein looked at me. “I didn't realize Professor Goldberg would be joining us. I thought we would just be using his office.”

“Hey, pal,” Benny said, “when you're in my office you address your remarks to me. Now close the fucking door and sit your ass down.”

Oh, boy
. Benny was on a roll. Nothing to do but sit back and watch.

Bornstein hesitated a moment and then entered the office. He closed the door and took the seat next to me facing Benny's desk.

“Take off those ridiculous shades,” Benny said.

Bornstein removed them and placed them in the inside pocket of his trench coat.

Benny stared at him.

“You disappoint me, Milt.”

Bornstein frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Ms. Gold asked you for a name and gave you a deadline. What did you do? Jackshit. You let that deadline pass. Even worse, you apparently tipped someone off about your meeting with Ms. Gold. What in the hell were you thinking?”

Bornstein sat motionless.

Benny shook his head. “Here's the deal, Numb Nuts. You either make amends right here and right now, or you can bend over and kiss you sorry ass goodbye.”

Bornstein's eyes started blinking.

Benny put his hands together, fingers interlaced, and placed them on the desk in front of him. He leaned forward, eyebrows slightly raised.

“Well?” he said.

“What—” Bornstein stammered “—what are you trying to suggest?”

“I'm not trying to
suggest
anything, Miltie. You know and I know that you have been a bad boy. A very bad boy. You sold your vote on that TIF. You took a bribe in the form of a swimming pool to be built in your own backyard.”

“But there's no pool there.”

“Not yet.”

“There will be no pool.” He crossed his arms over his chest and tried to look smug. “You have nothing.”

“Of course we do, you putz. We have the fucking building permit. And we have your vote in favor of that TIF.”

“That's not enough.”

“Miltie, Miltie, Miltie.” Benny shook his head sadly. “It's way more than enough because you're not the only one. We've got Corundum Construction projects for city officials in several other suburbs where TIFs got approved. And each of those Corundum Construction projects involved corrupt little weasels just like you. And that's your only hope, my friend. Because those projects have already been built. And that makes those aldermen and council members even more attractive targets than you.”

“Targets?”

“For the grand jury and the prosecutor, Milt. That's why we invited you here today. There's going to be an investigation and a grand jury and a blizzard of felony indictments and a big sensational trial with a bunch of nervous city officials sitting in the dock. But first we have to talk with the prosecutor. And that's your chance, Milt—and your choice. Your only chance and your only choice. You can give us your contact name and we can conveniently forget to include you in the list of corrupt city officials we turn over to the prosecutor. Or you can refuse to give us your contact, and we'll be sure to include
your
name at the top of our list. And trust me, pal, that list will be in the prosecutor's hands long before you can scurry back to your contact begging for help. You get my drift?”

Bornstein just sat there, eyes blinking.

Benny unclasped his hands and gestured with his thumb at the
Grey's Anatomy
slogan on his shirt. “You see this?”

Bornstein nodded.

“I happen to like the other
Gray's Anatomy
, too. The textbook by Henry Gray. You familiar with that one?”

Bornstein nodded.

“Fascinating stuff,” Benny said. “Everything you need to know about the human anatomy. I took a look at it this morning, Miltie. With you in mind. And guess what I learned? If you get indicted, that prosecutor and judge are going to shove your bald head so far up your ass that when you fart your lips'll quiver.”

Benny leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Bornstein's hands were clasped on his lap and he was staring at his knees.

“How's that diagnosis sound to you, Miltie? And that's only the beginning. Once you get to prison, you and your asshole are going to have even more adventures. So let's cut to the chase, eh? Either give me the name or get the fuck out of here.”

Benny stood and leaned forward, his fists on the desktop. Bornstein flinched as he looked up at him.

“As you weigh your options, Milt, you need to factor in one more thing. Two men connected to Corundum have already died. You know what that means? If you walk out of here without telling us what you know, you can expect that before too long someone will come knocking on your front door. The dilemma for you is that you won't know who is doing the knocking. It could be an officer of the law standing there with your name on a grand jury subpoena or it could be a hit man standing there with your name on a bullet. So, at the risk of repeating myself, either give me that name or get the fuck out of here.”

Bornstein lowered his head.

“You won't tell them about me?” he said in a hoarse whisper.

Benny gave him a benevolent smile. “Rest assured. Our lips will be sealed.”

Bornstein looked down at his hands, which were now clenched beneath his knees.

Benny glanced over at me and winked.

In a barely audible whisper, Bornstein said, “The lawyer.”

Chapter Forty-three

Ironically enough, the lawyer called the next morning. He reached me on my cell phone as I was driving into the parking garage of the building in Webster Groves where Linda Dobbins now worked She had been Nick Moran's office manager.

“We need to meet,” he said.

“About what?”

“You know what.”

“No, I don't.”

“Quit playing games. This is serious.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My client is furious.”

“Which client?”

“Come on, Rachel.”

I pulled into a parking spot on the first level and turned off the engine.

I said, “What's your client upset about?”

“You.”

“Tell him to chill.”

“Cut it out, Rachel.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This is serious—and it will get a lot more serious if we don't get this resolved as soon as possible. I booked a private dining room at the Noonday Club for lunch today. Just the two of us. I rescheduled two other meetings so that I'd be available. It's important. Can you meet me there?”

“I have some meetings out of the office this morning. I couldn't be there before one.”

“One is fine.”

I got out of the car and locked the door.

“You want to tell me what's so important, Rob?”

“Not over the phone. I'll see you at the club. One o'clock.”

I rode the elevator up four floors to the offices of Salsich & Gerber, a small real estate firm where Linda now worked as a bookkeeper. The receptionist took my name, and a few minutes later Linda came out and took me to a small interior conference room near the back of the office. I'd called her at work yesterday and explained what I was looking for. She'd agreed to search through her records from Nick Moran's company, which consisted of a dozen file boxes and a set of CD-ROMs she kept stored in her basement.

“Any luck?” I asked.

“Not much. I looked through all twelve boxes. They were still pretty well organized. I'd already looked for Corundum for you last time, but I looked again just to be sure. Nothing. And no mention of Ruby Productions either. I checked that list of addresses you gave.”

“And?”

I'd put together a list of addresses by going back through the Corundum building permits in the various cities with TIFs involving Ruby Productions and identifying the other aldermen or council members in each city who'd voted in favor of the TIFs—
i.e.,
the ones who'd had no work on their homes by Corundum. I'd thought that perhaps Nick Moran had done rehab work on one or more of their homes during the relevant time period.

She shook her head. “Nick never did any work at any of those houses. Same with the job files on the CD-ROMs. The only place I found any mention of Ruby Productions was in the email folders.”

“What did you find there?”

“Just four emails. I printed them off for you.”

She handed me a folder. “You know Nick. He just wasn't big on computers.”

“I have to get back to my desk.” She stood. “We're running last month's inventory numbers today. Just call me if you have any questions.”

“Thanks, Linda.”

“I hope you can find out what really happened that night. He was a good man. I miss him.”

After she left, I opened the folder. Inside were four sheets of paper, each a printout of an email message with a header that showed the email had been sent or received from Nick's computer. The most recent of the four was a few weeks before Nick's death. The oldest was four years ago.

All four were from sub-contractors, each notifying Nick when they would be available to work a particular remodeling project. Linda's search had turned them up because each mentioned a prior commitment to a Ruby Productions project for certain dates. For example, one was from a guy named Billy at a company called Mound City Home Audio:

RE: In-Ceiling Speaker Install – 725 Davis Street

Hey, Nick, no can do next Thursday. Sorry, bud. Got a major install for Ruby Productions all week at their Balmoral Castles development in Wildwood. Does the following Monday work for you?

To which Nick had replied: “Monday works.”

The other three emails—two from a glass company regarding a skylight and one from a company that installed outdoor fireplaces—were similar in content and tone.

I drove west to Fenton to see Nick's sister, Susannah Beale. We were meeting at her favorite spot, the local Krispy Kreme store, while her mother-in-law watched her kids. She was waiting when I arrived and gave me a big hug.

“Thank you so much, Rachel, and thank you for coming out here.”

The last time we'd seen each other, she'd been almost six months pregnant with child number three and looked a little frazzled. Today she looked ready to go into labor. I went up to the counter, placed our order, and came back to the table with two glazed donuts and a cola for her, and a cinnamon twist and a coffee for me.

She said, “I know this has been a frustrating case for you.”

I took a sip of coffee. “I've been able to find out a little more about that night, but there are still lots of holes.”

I filled her in on what we'd learned from Gene Chase—namely, that Nick had died somewhere else and been dropped off in the park.

“Gene was connected to that Corundum company,” I said, “and Corundum is connected to Ruby Productions. Ruby Productions might be connected to that list of names and addresses I gave you.”

I'd given Susannah the same list I gave to Linda.

She sighed and shook her head. “I looked through all his papers. I couldn't find any of those names.”

“What kind of papers?”

“Mostly bills, bank account statements, auto insurance policies—that sort of stuff.”

“Anything personal? Letters? A diary?”

Her eyes reddened. “He wasn't that type. Nick had such a hard time reading and writing growing up. They finally tested him in high school and found he had dyslexia. He couldn't read a book—or even a newspaper—but he was amazing with machines and tools. Carpentry, electrical stuff, you name it. He could fix anything. He never had to read instructions, which he probably couldn't have anyway. All he had to do was study the machine, fiddle with it some, and next thing you know it was working again. But that's why there weren't many papers beyond bills and that sort of thing.”

“That's okay. It means I can check that open item off my list. It helps me focus on where to look.”

I took another sip of coffee and watched her eat her second glazed donut. She seemed a little more disheveled than last time, but with two little kids at home and the third about to arrive, she was entitled.

I said, “I located the three women whose names you gave me. I spoke with each.”

“And?”

“You were right. Two of them had a fling with Nick.”

Susannah smiled. “Good for him.”

“The third one is Barbara Weiss. She was married. Still is, though she's separated from her husband. Your brother did work on their house. Think back. I know he mentioned Barbara to you. Did he ever mention her husband? Did he ever talk about the job?”

“Is the man a jerk?”

“Barb thinks so. Why?”

“Nick didn't talk much about his work with me, but he was over for dinner one Sunday night—oh, maybe three months before he died. I asked him how things were going. He said he'd learned a lesson: never do work for a builder. He told me he was doing a rehab at this guy's house and was going crazy. He thought he might actually lose money on the job because of all the re-dos the guy's inspector was demanding. ‘Never again,' he told me.”

“The timing's right. That's when he was working on that house. Do you remember anything else he said?”

She mulled it over. “No.”

I made a note on my legal pad
: Barb Weiss—husband a builder—check out
.

“When you looked through Nick's bills,” I said, “did you see anything from a dentist named Gutterman? Anything about a root canal?”

She gave me a puzzled look. “No. Why?”

“Just another loose end. One of the other women—Brenda—was married to a guy who did root canals.”

“I don't think he had a root canal. If he did, I didn't see a bill for it.”

I made another note:
No root canal—no tie to Gutterman besides rehab.

I set down my pen and gave Susannah a smile. “Barbara Weiss was very fond of your brother.”

“Everyone was.”

Her eyes reddened again. She used the napkin to wipe her nose.

“Nick was wonderful, Rachel. My kids adored him. I brought some pictures today. So you could see that side of Nick.”

She took an unsealed envelope out of her purse and opened it. She handed me a snapshot of a Nick holding a little blond girl in his arms. Nick was smiling toward the camera, and the little girl was smiling at him.

“That's Ashley. That was at her second birthday party. Nick made her a big dollhouse. Made it from scratch.”

She showed me about a dozen photos of Nick, some with Ashley, some with her son Logan, and some with the whole family. It was clear from the faces in the photos that everyone in Susannah's family, including her husband Earl, adored Nick Moran.

I handed her back the pictures.

“I'm getting closer to an answer for you, Susannah. I promise. I'll call you as soon as I know something more.”

“Thank you, Rachel. Thank you so much.”