Face Value (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

As I headed back down the hallway toward the main reception area, a female voice called, “Miss Gold?”

I turned. An attractive redhead in a gray skirt and white blouse was approaching. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties.

She smiled. “I'm Laura. Mr. Olsen's secretary. He was wondering if you'd have a few minutes to talk after Mr. Warner's interview.”

I glanced at my wristwatch. “Okay.”

“Wonderful. This way, Miss Gold.”

I followed her back around the corner to another corner office. This one had a plaque outside the door that read Len Olsen. Interesting. The plaque outside Donald Warner's office read Mr. Warner.

Laura tapped lightly on the doorjamb. “Mr. Olsen?”

Len Olsen looked up from his computer and smiled at me. “Ah, Rachel. Thanks so much.”

He got to his feet and came around the desk to greet me. This was Friday, and thus casual day at the firm. Olsen had on a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, faded Levis, a khaki braided-cotton belt, and brown Sperry Top-Siders. We shook hands.

“Have a seat.” He gestured toward the L-shaped leather couch in the corner of his office. “Make yourself comfortable. Would you like something to drink. Coffee? Tea? A soda?”

“No, thanks. I'm fine.”

I looked around the office as I took a seat. Len Olsen's office was a contrast to Donald Warner's, beginning with the chrome-and-glass-top desk and a decidedly different set of framed celebrity photographs on the “Me wall.” I saw shots of Len Olsen with Democratic politicos (President Bill Clinton, Missouri Governor Jay Nixon, Missouri Senator Claire McCaskill), sports figures (Ozzie Smith, Kurt Warner, Tony LaRussa)), and media personalities (Len Olsen in mid-interview with Larry King, with Chris Wallace, and with Anderson Cooper).

There was a framed display of Olsen's yellow-and-black Army Ranger badge and a photo of him posed in front of a small Cessna jet at what appeared to be, from the sign in the background, the Valley Park airport in southwest St. Louis County. As I recalled from a recent
St. Louis Magazine
profile of him, Olsen was a pilot, having learned that skill during his military service. The law firm owned the plane, which Olsen used to fly his litigation team to the rural county seats around the Midwest and South where many of his cases were tried.

On his desk were two framed photographs, both featuring Olsen and a beautiful young blonde, presumably his current girlfriend. One shot was taken at a fancy charity ball: Olsen was in a tuxedo, and she was in a formal black gown. In the other photo, they were posed on a white sandy beach, both dressed in what could be called resort wear casual: a blue-and-gold Hawaiian-print short-sleeve shirt and khaki shorts for him, a striking white crochet mini-sundress and sunglasses for her. As I recalled from that magazine profile, in addition to his swanky condominium in midtown, he owned another one in Vail and a beach house in Mozambique, which is where this dazzling beach shot must have been taken.

But the most striking feature of his office was the pair of large framed posters from the 1938 Warner Bros. film,
The Adventures of Robin Hood
. They hung side by side on the opposite wall. One featured a smiling Errol Flynn in a feathered green cap above the banner: The Best-Loved Bandit of All Time! The other featured Flynn and Claude Rains (as Prince John) in a swordfight on a staircase.

According to that magazine profile, many viewed Olsen's love of that movie as both a tribute to an actor to whom he bore a striking resemblance, and a good-natured reference to Olsen's specialty. He'd built a career of taking from the rich and giving to the poor. Specifically, he'd won multi-million-dollar verdicts for farmers, mineworkers, and others against some of the largest corporations in America. He'd used some of that money to help fund the Sherwood Forest Trust, which provided food, clothing, and medical supplies to impoverished families in the Bootheel in southeast Missouri, the rural area where Olsen had grown up.

“Laura, dear,” Olsen said, “you can close the door now.”

He took a seat facing me on the other side of the couch.

“So,” he said, his smile fading, “how was Donald?”

“He did well. There will be two or three nice sound bytes that will make it into the video.”

“Excellent. I'm relieved, Rachel. I don't know whether anyone told you, but Donald was not enthusiastic about this tribute video.”

“So I've heard. He even talked about that during the filming.”

Olsen raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“I don't think it will get into the video, but he did explain his concerns.”

“I suppose we're an odd pair, Donald and I. Republican and Democrat, corporate lawyer and plaintiff's lawyer, glass-half-empty guy and glass-half-full guy.” He shrugged. “Probably what keeps this place hopping, eh?”

I smiled. “Maybe so.”

“So how is the project going?”

“Quite well. There are only a few more interviews of people at this firm and then, as they say, it's a wrap.”

“When am I up?”

“I think you're scheduled for next Tuesday. That's the final day.”

“Good.” He leaned forward, giving me a full dose of those baby blues. “We can't thank you enough, Rachel. This will be a special gift to the family and to our firm.”

Not sure whether he was ending the conversation and getting ready to put the moves on me, I smiled, stood and reached out my hand.

“I'm glad you feel that way, Len. I hope the film will live up to your expectations.”

He stood.

“I'm sure it will, Rachel.”

We shook hands and I left.

Chapter Twenty-six

I sang the last notes of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” then leaned over and kissed Sam on his nose.

“I love you, Smooch,” I said.

He smiled. “I love you, Mommy.”

Sam's smile never failed to brighten my day and remind me of the magic of life. Of course, he also happened to be the cutest little boy on the planet, at least in my totally objective opinion. He had his father's dark features, my curly brown hair and green eyes, and the gentle disposition of his namesake, my dear late father Seymour, whose Hebrew name was Schmul (Samuel).

“I can't wait for tomorrow,” I said.

I was one of the parent volunteers on his school's field trip to the zoo.

His smile broadened. “Me, too.”

I wrinkled my nose. “But no snakes this time, okay?”

“They won't hurt you, Mommy.”

“They give me the creeps. Yuck.”

That made him laugh. “Oh, Mommy.”

I gave him a hug. “Have a good sleep, cutie.”

I stood and scratched Yadi's head, which made his tail flop.

I paused at the bedroom door and blew Sam a kiss. “Good night, Smooch.”

As I came downstairs, I could hear Benny and my mom at the kitchen table in the midst of what sounded, bizarrely enough, like a theological discussion.

“Of course it's crazy,” Benny was saying. “But there's nothing in Mormonism that's any crazier than any other religion, including ours.”

“Ours? That's a shanda, Benny. Why would you say such a thing?”

“Why? Where should I start? How 'bout Noah's Ark? That's certainly credible. Or maybe Lot's wife turning into a block of salt? I'm all for well-seasoned food, Sarah, but that's an even bigger size that you can get at Sam's Club. And Jonah and the whale? Jacques Cousteau is spinning in his grave.”

“Those are allegories. No one believes they really happened.”

“Allegories? Try to sell that to an Orthodox Jew. That stuff is the word of God to him.”

“But an angel named Moroni? Burying gold tablets in upper state New York? That's meshuggah, Benny.”

“Check out the Book of Exodus. Angel Moroni? How about a badass angel zooming around Egypt killing all the first-born kids? And our boy Moses? Turning his rod into a snake and parting the Red Sea? That trick puts David Copperfield to shame.”

“Enough, Rebbe Goldberg,” I said. “Time for dessert. Mom, Benny brought us a box of donuts from your favorite place.”

My mother's eyes widened. “World's Fair Donuts?”

Benny shrugged. “Of course.”

My mother placed her hand over her heart. “God bless you, Benny. Such a mensch.”

I kissed my mother on top of her head. “I'll make us tea.”

Sarah Gold is one of a kind—the most determined and exasperating woman I know. Life trained her well. She came to America from Lithuania at the age of three, having escaped with her mother and baby sister after the Nazis killed her father, the rest of his family, and whatever semblance of religious faith my mother might ever have had. Fate remained cruel. My mother—a woman who reveres books and learning—was forced to drop out of high school and go to work as a waitress when her mother (after whom I'm named) was diagnosed with terminal liver cancer. My grandmother Rachel died six months later, leaving her two daughters, Sarah and Becky, orphans at the ages of seventeen and fifteen. Two years later, my mother married Seymour Gold, a gentle, shy, devoutly Jewish bookkeeper ten years her senior. My sweet father was totally smitten by his beautiful, spirited wife and remained so until his death from a heart attack a decade ago on the morning after Thanksgiving.

She is now the Widow Gold the Elder. I am the Younger.

By the time I poured our tea, Benny was finishing his third donut, a chocolate long john.

“So,” he said, reaching for his fourth, a glazed one, “how's the non-crime investigation going?”

“Slowly.”

“Let's recap. You have three suspects with something to hide, right?”

“Maybe four.”

“What are they hiding?” my mother asked.

Benny said, “First, we have Mr. Nooner, aka Brian Teever.

“Nooner?” my mother said.

“As in shtupping over the lunch hour at a downtown hotel,” Benny said.

My mother shrugged. “I can think of worse things.”

“Please, Mom.”

“Here's worse, Sarah. Shtupping your client's wife over the lunch hour.”

“Oy.”

“Oy is right.”

“Technically,” I said, “she was a client, too.”

I turned to my mom. “Teever was doing their estate plan.”

“And doing David Hudson's wife,” Benny said.

“Who is David Hudson?” my mother asked.

“A big shot in town,” I said. “He's the CEO of Laclede BioChem and sits on a bunch of boards, including the United Way. You don't want to get on the wrong side of David Hudson.”

“Still,” Benny said, “even if we assume that Sari found out about Teever's affair, that doesn't seem like much of motive to kill her. Even if she planned to rat him out.”

“But it would compromise him. He'd have to worry about her husband. And as Stanley pointed out, Teever is vulnerable. He serves on the Missouri Bar's Board of Governors. His oversight duties include enforcement of the Missouri Rules of Professional Conduct, which his affair certainly violates.”

“Nevertheless,” Benny said, “murder?”

My mother said, “You have two other suspects?”

“Stan the Man does,” Benny said. “I've seen the videos. One is a gal who could play defensive end for the Packers and the other is a midget with an attitude.”

My mother frowned and turned to me.

“Two attorneys, Mom. Susan O'Malley and Rob Brenner. She's kind of big, and he's kind of short.”

“And they're suspects?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Persons of interest.”

“And?”

“We don't have much. According to Stanley, who watched the tapes of their interviews, both of them had some prior relationship with Sari. Based on his reading of their faces, he says there was a sexual aspect to each encounter and they both ended badly.”

“So they might be jealous?” my mother said.

“Or spurned.”

“Spurned?” she said. “And that makes them suspects?”

“Maybe.” I shrugged. “The police have a term for it. Crimes of passion. It's at the root of a lot of killings.”

My mother took a sip of her tea and mulled it over. “How do you get more information?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe documents. Stanley figured out a lot from looking at Teever's expense account records. More than I would have”

Benny said, “You said maybe a fourth suspect? Is that Donald Warner?”

I nodded. “I was at his interview today.”

“And?”

“He seemed genuine. He admitted he was initially opposed to the idea of the video and explained why.”

“But?”

“I had Stanley watch the tape, but even I could tell two questions rattled him.”

“Which ones?” my mother asked.

“The first was my idea, the second Stanley's.”

“What was yours?” Benny asked.

“We had Tony Manghini download all of the Word documents Sari created in the past few months. She did a legal memo for Warner about three months ago that was a follow-up to a prior one on campaign finance issues. The prior one focused on Super PACs.”

“What's a Super PAC?” my mother asked.

“A big force in elections these days,” I said. “They're a special type of political committee. One of the big ones is American Crossroads. They spent over a hundred million dollars in the last election. Sari's prior memo went over all the reporting and recordkeeping requirements under the Federal Election Commission regs.”

“And her update?” Benny asked.

“That one focused on 501(c)(4) organizations. According to her memo, they used to be mainly social policy outfits like the Sierra Club or the National Rifle Association. But there are lots of new ones that get involved in election campaigns. Big money, too.”

“What's the difference between the two?” my mother asked.

“The 501(c)(4)s aren't subject to the federal election laws and they don't have to disclose their donors. That's a big deal. They can spend money in an election but no one knows who's funding them.”

“What did her memo cover?” Benny asked.

“They're regulated by the Internal Revenue Service. Section 501(c)(4) is actually a section of the Internal Revenue Code. Thus they have to comply with all the IRS regulations. Sari's memo flagged the key issues there.”

“Does Warner have a 501(c)(4)?” Benny asked.

“Don't know. He claimed Sari's memo was for a client.”

“Who?”

“He said it was confidential, but according to Sari's memo it was for something called Missouri's New Moral Majority.”

“Who are they?”

I shrugged. “No idea. I did one of those business name searches on the Missouri Secretary of State's website. All I came up with were two old non-profits with Moral Majority in their names, but both had forfeited their charters more than twenty years ago.”

Benny said, “So what did Stanley say about Warner's reaction?”

“He said his facial expression showed a mixture of guilt and shame.”

“Really?” Benny raised his eyebrows. “That sounds like Warner has some political connection to that 501(c)(4).”

“Maybe. But guilt and shame? Seems a little extreme.”

“Not if the guy really is Mister Squeaky Clean. He might feel a little guilty if he's hoping to get some future campaign dough out of that outfit.”

“You said Stanley had a question, too,” my mother said.

“He did. An odd one. Donald Warner is a big shot with the St. Louis Symphony. Apparently, Sari loved classical music and went often. Stanley's script had Hanratty ask Warner whether he'd ever run into Sari at the symphony.”

“And?” Benny said.

“The answer was no. But then Stanley had a follow-up question about whether Warner had ever run into Sari after hours anywhere else.”

“And?”

I frowned. “Stanley might be making me facial-action crazy, but Warner hesitated before saying no. Stanley said the emotion he showed was primarily confusion.”

I reached into the donut box and pulled out my favorite World's Fair Donut, a buttermilk cake one.

I saluted Benny. “Thanks.”

He grinned. “I got you two of those.”

I took a bite. “Yum.”

“Meanwhile,” Benny said, “if I may quote Roy Scheider from
Jaws
, you're going to need a bigger boat.”

I took a sip of tea. “Meaning?”

“Meaning no matter how brilliant Stanley is, you're going need someone else in that firm. Someone who can do more than read facial expressions.”

“I agree.”

“And?”

“I'm meeting with her tomorrow.”