Flinch Factor, The (7 page)

Chapter Twelve

I placed the gray pebble on top of Jonathan's headstone, right next to the ones that Sarah, Sam, and I had placed there last Sunday when we visited the cemetery. I laid my hand on the granite, which was cold in the morning air, and closed my eyes.

After a moment, I shook my head and said, “Girls are awful, Jonathan. Just awful.”

At the foot of the two graves was a granite memorial bench with WOLF carved on the front. I took a seat and tried to get my thoughts and emotions in order. I'd come home last night from the meeting at Muriel's house to find Sarah sitting cross-legged on her bed, eyes red, clutching her teddy bear, a John Mayer song on the radio. I sat down next to her, took her hand in mine, and listened to the music with her. Eventually, she told me what happened.

Raising two stepdaughters served as a constant reminder of how hard it is to grow up, especially if you're a girl. Sarah had once again been caught in what I'd come to call the Toxic Trio. Put three girls together—on an elementary school playground, a high school cafeteria, a Starbucks in the mall—and invariably two of them will gang up to snub the third. Sarah had been the third that day, and it left her devastated. So we hugged and talked and I made her a cup of hot cocoa and tucked her in bed and sang “Puff the Magic Dragon” and told her how much I loved her and kissed her goodnight and turned off her light.

Then I went down the hall to my bedroom and sat alone in the dark for nearly an hour. I'd thought back to my elementary and middle school days, which were the years that I'd been such a determined tomboy. Oh, sure, I loved kickball and soccer, and was lucky enough to be competitive with the boys in both sports. But as I sat there on the edge of the bed in the dark I thought that maybe the whole tomboy thing was a defense mechanism, a way to avoid those awful girl cliques on the playground.

Although Sarah seemed happy again in the morning, I was dealing with my own Toxic Trio by then—my anger over the way her “friends” had hurt her, my frustration over the Frankenstein case, and my yearning for Jonathan. His absence was just a dull ache most days, a piece of my soul that was simply missing, like the missing piece for my father. But this morning I awoke from a dream about Jonathan, and the pain I felt when I realized it was just a dream, that my husband was gone forever, that he would never hug me again or run his fingers through my hair or zip up the back of my dress before a party—well, I felt as if all of the joy had been sucked out of me.

Sam rescued me. He came in the room in his Cardinals pajamas a few minutes later, Yadi trailing behind. He climbed into bed, gave me a kiss, and—paraphrasing my wake-up greeting to him most days—said, “Good morning, Supergirl. Time to rise and shine.”

The cemetery was just a few blocks from Sam's elementary school. After I dropped him off I decided I needed to spend some time there before heading to the office. I needed to steel myself for the day, for the week.

For some unfathomable reason, spending time at Jonathan's grave comforted me. I say “unfathomable” because little about the gravesite was comforting, beginning with the side-by-side headstones of my husband and his first wife. The pair of dates etched onto each headstone was solemn evidence of life's unfairness. Robyn Wolf died at the age of 33 of ovarian cancer, leaving behind two young daughters. Jonathan Wolf died at the age of 44. He'd been determined to get home from a two-week trial in Tulsa in time for our wedding anniversary. Rather then wait for the next commercial flight, which included a change of planes in Kansas City and a one-hour layover that wouldn't get him home until eleven that night, he'd hitched a ride on his client's corporate jet, which took off in a thunderstorm and crashed ten miles east in a oilfield, killing all aboard. He was supposed to be home by seven o'clock. I made dinner reservations for eight o'clock. The call came in around midnight.

Jonathan had been an Orthodox Jew. I was raising his daughters and our son in the Jewish tradition, albeit back at my Reform congregation. I still light the candles and say the blessings on Friday night and go to
shul
to say Kaddish on his
yahrzeit
and on my father's
yahrzeit
. But Jonathan's death—coupled with his first wife's death and the tragedies that have befallen some of my friends—have made me wonder whether the only religion that actually makes sense out of life's nonsense, that reconciles all of the injustices, is the religion of the ancient Greeks. In a world ruled by a mob of unruly, hot-tempered, meddlesome deities, it isn't surprising that good things happened to bad people and bad things happened to good people. Up on Mount Olympus, shit happens because the gods say so.

The other unsettling aspect of the paired gravesites is their location. To the left was a double headstone for Robyn's father (who had died two years before Robyn) and her mother (who was still alive), and beyond that double headstone to the left was an entire line of tightly packed gravesites. On the right side of their pair gravesites stood a large memorial for the Schwartz family, several of whom were buried in a row. The result, when I was seated alone on the memorial bench, was an acute sense of solitude. There was no room for me.

Although I don't typically seek solace from Rebbe Chandler, his wisdom helps me on the subject of burial plots.
What did it matter where you lay once you were dead?
his protagonist Marlowe muses as he contemplates the final resting place of Rusty Regan.
In a dirty sump or in a marble tower on top of a high hill? You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep, you were not bothered by things like that. Oil and water were the same as wind and air to you.

Maybe so, I tell myself. Maybe so.

A few moments later, I stood, kissed the top of Jonathan's headstone, and headed down the pathway toward my car. As always after visiting his grave, I felt a little better—and almost serene.

The feeling lasted through the drive to my office in the Central West End and up to the moment I stepped into the reception area of Gold & Brand, Attorneys At Law.

“Oh, Rachel,” my assistant said. “I've been trying to reach you.”

“My cell phone battery is dead. What's up?”

“Barry Graham called. He says it's important. He needs to talk to you right away.”

“Did he say about what?”

“No. He said to call him as soon as you got in.”

So I did.

“I found you a witness,” Barry said.

“Really?” I leaned forward in my chair and picked up a pen. “Who is it?”

“I can't say.”

“What do you mean?”

“That's his condition. He made that very clear. He'll meet with you and he'll tell you what he saw that night—but only if you agree in advance to keep everything absolutely confidential. That means you can never tell anyone—especially the police—who he is or what he saw.”

“What did he see?”

“I don't know. He won't tell me.”

“Do you think he's legit?”

Barry chuckled. “Most definitely.”

“Okay,” I said, a bit uncertainly.

“Do you agree to his terms?”

Do I have a better option?
, I asked myself.
I'd been nosing around for two weeks and hadn't been able to poke a hole—or even a dent—in the official version of Nick's death.

“I agree.”

“Do you have lunch plans today?”

I glanced at my calendar. “No.”

“Perfect. Let's meet at Llywelyn's Pub. One o'clock. Okay?”

“I'll be there.”

Chapter Thirteen

Barry Graham was in a booth near the front of Llywelyn's Pub. I gave him a kiss on the cheek and slid in on the opposite side of the table.

“How are you, Counselor?” he asked.

I said, “You're looking quite handsome today.”

“And you're looking quite ravishing. As always.”

The waitress had followed me to the table and took my order for an iced tea, which is what Barry was already drinking.

With his silver hair, square jaw, and gray eyes framed in elegantly round tortoise-shell glasses, Barry Graham could have passed for a successful partner in a major law firm, which is what he had once been. Three years ago, and just two years shy of his fiftieth birthday, he gave up his practice to pursue his passion by opening the Graham Gallery on Maryland Avenue in the Central West End. Within those three years, he'd become one of the more influential art dealers in town.

We'd met as opposing counsel in a lawsuit back in his litigator days and had become friends by the time our clients settled the case on the first day of trial. I've even represented him in a copyright matter involving an artist. He invites me to his gallery openings, I invite him to our annual client appreciation party, and we try to get together for lunch two or three times a year. Our favorite spot is Llywelyn's, a Celtic pub within walking distance of our offices. We usually try for a late lunch on a Friday, which gives us an excuse for a pint of Guinness or Newcastle. But this was early in the week—and thus the iced tea.

During the early days after my meeting with Nick Moran's sister Susannah, I'd asked several gay friends, including Barry, to put the word out in their community to see whether anyone knew anything at all about Nick's life or death.

“I ordered your lunch already,” he said.

“Oh?” I gave him a curious look. “What am I having?”

“I assumed that by one o'clock you'd be nice and famished.”

I smiled. “The Famous?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

The Famous was Llywelyn's beloved steak sandwich: a marinated flank steak covered in pepper cheese and fried onions and stuffed in a hearty roll. Although it was delicious, it was also too much to eat in one sitting, at least for me.

“What about you?” I asked.

“Nothing. I'm leaving in two minutes.”

“What do you mean?”

He leaned forward, his voice low. “The waitress will deliver your lunch three booths back on my left. There's a man in there already. He's waiting for you.”

I leaned out of the booth but could see nothing. Whoever was in the booth had his back to me.

“He's the witness?” I asked softly.

Barry nodded.

I leaned back in. “Who is he?”

Barry shook his head. “No names. That's part of the deal. If you happen to recognize him, pretend you don't. It'll only make him more skittish. He'll tell you what he saw, answer any questions, and then he'll leave. The deal is that you will never try to contact him again and you will never tell anyone, including the police, what he told you.”

“I understand.”

I took a sip of tea and studied Barry.

“How do you know him?” I asked.

“He's a client. I've sold him several paintings and sculptures.”

“This part of his life—it's not public?”

Barry nodded.

“Why is he willing to talk with me?”

Barry's expression softened. “Because he thinks it's the right thing to do. As corny as it may sound, that's the type of person he is. He's a deeply religious man. He thought about it and prayed on it and decided to talk to you.”

He checked his watch. “Your food should be out any minute. You better go join him.”

I reached across the table and squeeze his hand. “Thank you, Barry.”

He smiled and stood. “Good luck, Rachel.”

I watched him leave.

I took a sip of tea as I peered out the window. A moment later Barry Graham came into view crossing the street. I watched him head down the sidewalk and around the corner.

I stood, picked up my glass of iced tea, and stepped out of the booth. Three booths down I could see the back of a bald man's head. He was wearing a brown suit and sipping a cup of coffee.

I took a deep breath, exhaled, and stepped toward his booth.

Chapter Fourteen

The man in the brown suit looked up. He was in his late forties, slightly overweight.

“Hello,” I said.

He nodded, lowering his eyes.

I slid into the booth across from him. He had thinning brown hair, a pudgy nose, and wire-rimmed glasses. Under his brown suit jacket he was wearing a white dress shirt and a red-and-yellow striped tie.

I said, “I appreciate you meeting with me.”

He took a sip of coffee and set the mug down carefully. He was clearly agitated.

The waitress arrived with my lunch. He didn't look up as she set it down.

“Anything else, honey?” she asked me.

“No, thanks.”

“More coffee, sir?”

He shook his head, eyes down, and adjusted his tie.

I took a bite of my sandwich and gazed at him.

I recognized him, of course. He was the son of the founder of one of the largest privately held companies in town. He was, as I recalled, the executive vice-president and COO. Two of his brothers were in the business as well, although in less prominent roles. Their father, now in his late seventies, was still the CEO and chairman of the board and still arrived at the office each morning at six-thirty, according to a piece that ran earlier in the year in the
Post-Dispatch.

Theirs was a prominent Catholic family—prominent in charities and community affairs, prominent in the Church. When Pope John Paul II visited St. Louis in 1999, the entire family had a special audience with the Holy Father. The family name was on a wing of a local hospital, on a science building at a local university, and on a pavilion at the zoo.

He was married and the father of six. In a profile of him that appeared in the
St. Louis Business Journal
last year, the reporter wrote about his deep love of soccer. Although he routinely put in seventy to eighty hours of work each week—arriving at seven in the morning, rarely leaving before seven at night, six days a week—he still found time to coach his kids' soccer teams, often returning to the office after the games. He sat on the boards of the St. Louis Zoo and the Contemporary Art Museum.

He glanced at me and then looked down at his mug.

In a gentle voice I asked, “What can you tell me?”

“I was in the park that night.”

He said it quietly.

I sipped my iced tea.

“I didn't know he was dead,” he said. “I didn't even know it was him.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I was…there is this street…more of a lane…in the park, Forest Park…it's near the woods—the lane, I mean, and—”

“I know about the lane.”

He nodded, eyes averted.

“Go on,” I said.

“I'd worked late that night, until maybe nine o'clock. I was tense and tired. I decided to stop there on the way home. I'd had a rough day, I was feeling tense, and I, well, I was…”

“I understand.”

He stared at his coffee mug.

“I'm here because of Nick's sister,” I said. “She loved him. She asked me to look into his death. I understand this is difficult for you, sir. I promise that whatever you tell me I will never repeat. Never. You have my word on that.”

He nodded.

After a moment, he said, “I first noticed the truck when I got out of my car.”

“What truck?”

“A pickup truck. A large one. It was parked directly behind my car. It must have been parked there already when I arrived, because I didn't notice it pull in behind me. I would have noticed. It was dark by then. It would have had its headlights on. So it was there already. I got out of my car and walked back down the lane past the pickup truck. There was no one in it. When I came back, it was still empty.”

“How long had you been away?”

“Maybe twenty minutes.”

“What happened next?”

“I got back in my car and tried to decide what to do—whether to go home or not. Another pickup truck passed by and pulled into the space right in front of me. As it passed, I saw the words “Moran Renovations” on the side panel. That's why I paid attention. I know—er, knew—Nick.”

“How?”

“He did our kitchen and a rec room in the basement. I knew him pretty well—or thought I did. I was surprised.”

“Surprised?”

“To see his truck there. I didn't think Nick was, you know—”

“Right.”

“Anyway, when I saw it was his truck it was like a jolt of adrenalin. I was confused to see him there and didn't know whether I wanted him to see me or what. I was sitting there trying to get my wits about me when the driver—who I assumed was Nick—turned off the engine and turned off the lights. I could tell there were two people in the cab from the backs of their heads, but that was about all I could tell. It looked like the one on the passenger side was asleep.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It looked like he was resting his head against the window. But it was dark. I couldn't tell anything for sure. Then the driver's door opened. I slid down. I didn't want Nick to see me. But it wasn't Nick. I had my head low but I could still see.”

“Did you recognize who it was?”

“No. I could just see he was a big man, bigger than Nick. Over six feet—probably six two or six three. He easily weighed more than two hundred pounds. A big man. Bald, I think. Or at least very short hair. It was a dark night. I couldn't see any features.”

He was staring at me as he spoke, his eyes intense behind the thick lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses.

He shook his head. “I didn't know what was going on.”

“So the big guy,” I said, “the one who was driving, he got out of the pickup. And then?”

“Right. He walked past my car and got into the other pickup truck, the one behind me. The one that had been empty the whole time I was there. He turned on the engine, pulled out of space, and drove off.”

“What did you do?”

“I did the same. I started my car and drove off.”

“Did you look into Nick's pickup as you passed?”

“I didn't pass it. I made a U-turn and drove back the way I came. I didn't want to go past his truck. I didn't want Nick to see me.”

“Could you tell whether Nick was the man on the passenger side?

He shook his head. “It was dark. I was anxious to get out of there. I didn't even try to look.”

“Could you describe the other pickup? The one the big guy got into.”

“It was too dark to tell the color. I'm not real good with pickup truck brands. It was big. I know that much. I've looked at pickup models on the Internet, trying to identify it. It might have been a Dodge. But I couldn't say for sure.”

I nodded, trying to mask my frustration. “Anything else happen after you drove off?”

“That was it.”

“Okay.”

“I did write down the license plate.”

I stared at him. “Whose?”

“The one on the big truck. I saw the license plate when it pulled out in front of me. I'm not sure why, but the number stuck in my head. Maybe because I was so nervous. It was still in my head when I found out about Nick, so I wrote it down. I wrote it down on a sheet of paper.”

“Do you still have that paper?”

He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out an envelope. “I brought it with me. I hope it helps.”

He handed it to me. I put the unopened envelope in my purse.

“Thank you,” I said.

He nodded and took out his wallet. “That's all I know. Unless you have any more questions, I'm going to leave.”

He placed a five dollar bill near his coffee mug.

“Thank you for doing this,” I said. “I admire your courage.”

He frowned, staring at the empty coffee mug.

“There's nothing courageous about me, Miss Gold. I've come here today in secret because that part of my life is secret.” He shook his head. “This is the act of a coward. A sinner and a coward. I should have gone to the police the very next day. That would have been the right thing to do. But then I would have had to explain why I was there that night, and then my family—my wife, my children, my father—they would have found out about me, about my secret. I took the coward's way. I am a weak man.”

“Not to me.”

He looked up, his eyes red.

“Not to me,” I repeated. “Today took courage.”

He stood and shook his head. “You are kind, Miss Gold. May God bless you.”

He turned and hurried out of the pub.

I took another sip of tea as I thought over our conversation, over what I'd learned and what it might mean. I took the envelope out of my purse and tore it open. Inside was a folded sheet of bond paper. I unfolded the sheet and placed it flat on the table. Handwritten in blue ink at the top of the page were the words “MO license” followed by a combination of three letters and three numbers.

I took out my cell phone and dialed a number. It was answered on the third ring.

“Detective Tomaso, please. Tell him it's Rachel Gold.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Nearly a minute passed before he got on the phone.

“Hello, Gorgeous.”

“Hi, Bertie.”

“What's up?”

“I'm not sure. I have a license plate number, though. Missouri plates.”

“And who do those Missouri plates belong to?”

“I have no idea. I was going to call Miss Cleo, the telephone psychic, but I can't find her number. Then I was going to visit the Oracle of Delphi, but I can't find Delphi on Mapquest.”

“It's down near the Arkansas border. Try Google maps.”

“I was going to do that, but then I thought of the Oracle of Tomaso.”

“Ah, now it becomes clear. You want me to run the plates.”

“You're clairvoyant.”

“Amazing, eh? If I run these plates today, will you still love me tomorrow?”

“I promise.”

“Last question: if and when you have reason to believe that the owner of these plates is somehow connected to a crime, do you promise to call me instead of doing something stupid on your own?”

“I promise to consider that.”

“Good Lord. Give me the damn number.”

I read it to him, and he read it back to make sure he had it right.

“I'll have them run it,” he said. “I'll call you back when I have something.”

“Thanks, Bertie.”