Sheer Gall (5 page)

“By the way,” he said, leaning forward with raised eyebrows, “it's looking a little dicier for Neville McBride.”

“Oh?”

“They've got the initial test results on that puddle of semen.”

“His?”

“They can't say for sure, but he's definitely in the running.”

“How so?”

Benny paused to take a big gulp of beer. “To begin with, he has the same blood type as the perpetrator.”

“That narrows it some.”

“There's more. According to my source, the mystery man was firing blanks.”

Firing blanks?
I repeated to myself. It took a moment. “He was sterile?” I asked.

“Technically speaking, yes. There wasn't a single sperm cell in the semen.”

I looked at him with a frown. “Which means?”

“It could mean several things, but the frontrunner is that the killer had had a vasectomy.”

“And Neville McBride has had a vasectomy?”

Benny grinned. “He most certainly did.”

“Brother,” I mumbled. Over the past two days, the lurid details of the murder had faded in my mind. This information jerked them back into appallingly sharp focus.

Benny chuckled. “Sounds to me like old Neville may be headed for an extended stay at the buttfuck motel.”

I gave him a long-suffering stare and sighed. “You actually eat with that mouth?”

Our waiter came over to the booth. “Excuse me,” he said. “Are you Rachel Gold?”

I nodded.

“Your secretary is on the phone. She says it's important.”

I gave Benny a puzzled look as I stood up. The telephone was at the end of the bar. Harry the bartender, a burly man with a full red beard, smiled as I approached.

“Here you go, Rachel,” he said, handing me the phone.

“Thanks, Harry.” I took the phone from him. “Jacki?”

“I'm sorry, Rachel. I have an obnoxious lawyer named Jonathan Wolf on the phone. He says he's representing Neville McBride. I told him you were at lunch but he demanded that I find you and get you on the line. I didn't know what to do.”

“That's okay. Put him through.”

There was a clicking noise on the phone, and then Jacki said, “Go ahead.”

“Hello?” I said.

“Hold for Mr. Wolf,” a woman's voice answered.

After nearly a minute—a long time to wait on hold—he came on the line.

“Rachel?” he snapped.

Classic alpha-dog tactic
, I told myself. Leave your adversary on hold long enough to make her uneasy, and then attack with a snarl. As a final rude touch, be sure to use her first name even though you've never met her before. I shook my head with irritation. Welcome to the Wild and Wacky World of Testosterone.

I paused a beat. “Excuse me?”

“Rachel Gold?” He was on a speakerphone, which made his voice boom.

“Yes?” I answered, keeping my tone civil.

“It's time for us to talk.”

“Actually, Mr. Wolf, it's time for me to eat lunch.”

“That's fine. We'll meet after lunch. I have an opening at three. I'd like you to drop by. It shouldn't take more than an hour.”

I couldn't believe his audacity. It was time to level this playing field.

“Am I on a speakerphone?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Who else is in the room with you?”

There was a pause. “Their identities are not germane,” he said.

“Wrong answer. Either tell who they are or pick up the phone.”

Another pause. “You haven't answered my question. Can we schedule the meeting for three this afternoon?”

“You haven't answered
my
question, mister. Either identify your eavesdroppers or pick up the phone. I'm going to count to five. One. Two. Three. Four. Fi—”

I heard the sound of the receiver being lifted on the other end. “Okay,” he said, his voice slightly less strident coming through the receiver.

“Is there anyone listening on another extension?”

“Of course not,” he said in an offended tone.

“Good. Now you tell me why you think we need to meet.”

“To discuss this preposterous lawsuit you filed against my client.”

“Preposterous?”

I looked over at the bartender, who was listening with a grin as he dried a pint glass. I caught his eye and pointed in disbelief at the telephone. He gave me a sympathetic smile.

“Exactly,” Jonathan Wolf said harshly. “It's nothing but a tissue of lies.”

I shook my head in amazement at the man's sheer gall. “Why in the world would I want to travel to your office to listen to you tell me that my lawsuit is nothing but a tissue of lies?”

“I'll give you three reasons,” he snapped. “First, to avoid a countersuit for abuse of process. Second, to maintain your professional reputation. Third, to protect your law license.”

“Those aren't reasons,” I said, practically shouting. “Those are threats. Don't you try to pull that schoolyard bully routine on me, buster. You should be ashamed. I wouldn't set foot in your office even if you and your disgusting client offered to carry me there in a sedan chair.” I slammed down the receiver and looked over at Harry, my ears burning with anger. “That guy is unbelievable.”

Harry chuckled. “That ole boy's gonna think twice before he tries messing with you again.”

***

Seething, I went straight from lunch to Laclede Trust, where I told them that I'd be delighted to serve as their counsel on Sally's estate. I had no idea how, or even if, I could prove her assault claim against Neville McBride, but I'd be damned if I was going to let his arrogant mouthpiece intimidate me into dropping the lawsuit prematurely. I didn't want to risk any piece of evidence slipping through the cracks, and the best way to minimize that risk was to have complete access to her estate.

I spent more than an hour with the trust officer going over their standard practices and procedures for discharging their duties as personal representative of an estate. We also developed a framework for dealing with certain issues unique to Sally's estate, including safeguards to minimize the potential conflict of interest in my evaluation of whether the estate should pursue Sally's assault claim against Neville McBride.

During the meeting I also learned that Sally had maintained a large safe deposit box at the bank. We scheduled a time for the next morning for them to drill the box open in my presence so that I could examine its contents and take an inventory.

At quarter after four I walked through the front door of my office. My secretary was working at her computer.

“Hi, Jacki,” I said cheerfully, but my cheer faded when I saw the expression on her face. “What is it?”

She shook her head, wide-eyed. “I wasn't sure.”

“What?”

“He insisted on waiting,” she said in a loud whisper.

“What are you talking about?”

“That lawyer.”

“What lawyer?”

“Jonathan Wolf.”

“What about him?”

She jerked her thumb toward my office and silently mouthed the words
In there
.

I glanced at the closed door and back at Jacki. “Jonathan Wolf is in there?”

She nodded. “He waited out here for about a half hour,” she whispered, “but then he had to make a phone call. I told him he could go in your office to make it.” She shrugged helplessly. “I didn't know what to do.”

I stared at the closed door.

Chapter Five

I took a deep breath, got psyched, and opened my office door. Jonathan Wolf was standing by the window with his back to me, a portable phone cradled against his shoulder. He turned at the sound of the door opening and gave me a curt nod of acknowledgment. I saw he was holding a small scheduling calendar in his left hand and a Mont Blanc fountain pen in his right.

“Don't waste any time on that issue, Harvey,” he said as he jotted something in his calendar. “We don't need it for the motion, and it'll just confuse the judge.”

He glanced over at me. I was still in the doorway.

“Should I wait outside?” I whispered.

He shook his head, holding up his thumb and index finger about two inches apart, indicating that the call would be over soon. Then he waved me in, a tad too imperiously for my taste. After all, this was my office, not his. Slightly annoyed, I walked past him to my desk and sat down.

“That's a dead end,” Wolf said curtly. He turned toward the window. “Harvey, read the Eighth Circuit's opinion in
U.S. versus Tatem
.”

Picking up a draft of a motion for summary judgment, I tried to review it, but I couldn't concentrate. I looked up from the motion. Jonathan was standing in side profile by the window. He glanced over for a moment as he listened. Although I had seen his picture in the newspaper several times, I hadn't realized until then that none of the photos were in color. Believe me, I would have remembered those emerald-green eyes had I seen them before.

While this was our first face-to-face meeting, I was familiar with the Jonathan Wolf lore, having read a lengthy profile of him in
St. Louis
magazine and heard Wolf Man stories from two of his former colleagues at the U.S. attorney's office. Jonathan Wolf was born and raised in Brooklyn. Despite his Orthodox Jewish upbringing, he had displayed an early fascination with boxing. From the time he was ten years old, he hung around the neighborhood boxing gym after school and showed enough ability and drive to induce one of the coaches to work with him. From his bar mitzvah on, he fought in every Golden Gloves competition in the area. At the age of seventeen, he won the Brooklyn title and traveled to Madison Square Garden to compete against the title holders from the other four boroughs. He beat them all. The New York press loved him, partly because of the absolute ferocity of his boxing style and partly because of his yarmulke, which he always wore in the ring. Jimmy Breslin tagged him “the Talmudic Tornado.”

After graduating with high honors from Yeshiva University, he spent a year training for a spot as a light heavyweight on the U.S. Olympic boxing team, only to be dropped after breaking his arm when he slipped on icy pavement during his predawn roadwork. He returned to New York and enrolled in law school at NYU, where he met his future wife. After law school, they moved to St. Louis, her hometown, and he took a job in the U.S. attorney's office.

As a prosecutor, Jonathan had been a classic intimidator—a man who seemed less a civil servant than a righteous crusader, who drove himself even harder than he drove his staff, whose bond with the victims and their families seemed almost obsessional, and who earned the nickname Lone Wolf for the long solitary hours he spent preparing his cases. Many a worried defense attorney, driving home along Market Street late at night after a grueling day in trial, had glanced toward a particular window on a particular floor of the U.S. Courthouse and Custom House as he drove past. It was an anxious glance, followed by a groan. No matter what the hour, the light was on.

But five years ago, shortly after his wife died of ovarian cancer, Jonathan Wolf had resigned from the U.S. attorney's office to hang out his shingle as a criminal defense attorney. He had two little daughters, and, according to courtroom pundits, the young widower had decided it was time to provide for their future.

It was an astounding career change. For ten years he had been the Lone Wolf, stalking criminal defendants with ruthless intensity. For ten years he had bored in on hostile witnesses, firing questions at them in that Brooklyn accent, his green eyes radiating chilled heat. And then—
poof
—he was no longer seated in court across from the defendant but at his side. At first it seemed totally implausible—as if Batman had teamed with the Joker. But it was a splendid transformation. Before long, the Lone Wolf had become the Wolf Man, fiery defender of the accused, shrewd tormentor of the accusers. His significant cases since the switch included the startling acquittal of Frankie “the Stud” Studzani on first-degree murder charges and two hung juries in the tax-fraud prosecution of former Missouri congressman Jim Bob Pegram.

The transformation included his courtroom attire as well. Gone were the ill-fitting dark suits, white shirts, scuffed shoes, and bad haircut that seem to be standard issue for assistant U.S. attorneys. No, today, as he stood by my office window browbeating some poor assistant named Harvey, Jonathan Wolf could have stepped out of a
GQ
feature on the successful defense attorney. He was wearing a superbly tailored charcoal chalkstripe double-breasted suit with cuffed and pleated trousers, a crisp blue pinstripe cotton shirt with gold double-knot cufflinks, a bold multistripe silk rep tie, a gold Raymond Weil watch, and cordovan kiltie moc loafers. Although he still wore his dark hair cut short, it was now accompanied by a neat close-trimmed beard. Nevertheless, the most distinctive part of his outfit, and the only holdover from his prosecutor days, was the small embroidered yarmulke he wore on his head.

I studied him as he spoke on the phone. He was in his early forties now, and his black beard was flecked with gray. Close to six feet tall, he still resembled a light heavyweight fighter, right down to the nose that had been broken and never properly reset. Although it scratched him from the pretty-boy category, I had to admit that, despite his insufferable arrogance, there was an alluring masculine aura about Jonathan Wolf. I could well imagine how the younger women on his juries might find themselves wondering, during the slower moments of trial, whether that yarmulke stayed on when everything else came off.

His telephone call was ending. I looked down at the motion papers with feigned concentration.

“That's fine,” he said. “Have it delivered to my house. Be sure to let Rose know where I can reach you tonight. Tell her I'll be back in the office by”—he paused to check his watch—“five-thirty.” He flipped the portable phone shut as he turned toward me. “I'm glad you're here.”

I looked up from the motion papers and met his gaze. “Pardon?”

“Here. At your office.” He slipped the portable phone into the pocket of his suit jacket. “I was out in the County Courts Building on a two-thirty arraignment. It ended early. I decided to stop by on my way back downtown. After all,” he said with a hint of a conciliatory shrug, “if the mountain won't come to Mohammed…”

I smiled reluctantly and gestured toward one of the chairs facing my desk. “Have a seat, Mohammed.”

He did. “I'll be brief. I'm here to discuss your lawsuit.”

I shook my head. “Forget it.”

He nodded. “I understand. But when we spoke earlier, I neglected to tell you the most important reason to dismiss your lawsuit.”

I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. “Save your breath.”

“I understand your misgivings, Rachel.” He paused, as if he were mentally weighing something. “Perhaps I came on a little strong on the phone.”

“A little?” I repeated sarcastically.

His portable phone started ringing. He reached into his pocket, removed the phone, paused for a moment, and then turned it off. He slipped it back into his pocket and looked at me. “My goal wasn't to offend you.”

“I agree. Your goal was to intimidate me.”

“Which I obviously didn't,” he said with a wry smile, a twinkle in his eyes, “and in the process I most certainly did offend you. Forgive me. I'm sure I'm not the first male attorney to underestimate Rachel Gold.” He paused, his face growing solemn. “I didn't come here to try to charm you, Rachel. As you can tell, I'm not a very charming fellow. I came here because I made a mistake. I came here to tell you the most important reason to drop your lawsuit.”

I stared at him, waiting. “Which is?”

He leaned forward. “Which is to keep an innocent man from being framed for a murder he didn't commit.”

I frowned. “I'm not accusing him of murder.”

“Come on,” he said impatiently, sitting back in his chair. “That's the only thing your lawsuit doesn't accuse him of.”

“That's an awfully big only, Jonathan.”

“Rachel,” he said, his green eyes intense, “Neville McBride didn't assault your client.”

I gave him a tolerant smile. “Jonathan, I saw the bruises.”

He studied me for a moment. “You told the police she had a black eye.”

I nodded.

“The right eye, correct?” he said.

I paused. “I think so.”

He shook his head. “Not according to the autopsy. No black eye. Same with the scratches you saw on her neck and chest. Not one scratch on her neck or chest, Rachel.”

I shrugged, growing more irritated. “So maybe they healed.”

“In less than a week?”

“It's possible.” I leaned forward, pointing my finger for emphasis. “Look, Jonathan, I know what I saw with my own eyes. What's your point?”

“It's simple. My client totally denies your allegations. He swears he was nowhere near her house that night. He swears he hadn't seen her for more than a month. He swears that he never, ever assaulted her.”

I raised my eyebrows and gave him a sardonic shrug. “And my client swore that he did.”

“What if she lied?”

I laughed, astounded. “What if
he
lied?”

Jonathan didn't smile. “I believe he's telling the truth.”

“Okay, Jonathan,” I said patiently. “Let's assume for the moment that you're right, which would mean that Sally was the one who lied. What's her motivation?”

“Money, of course. Neville had the money, and this was a good way to get it.”

“Fine,” I said, going along. “Under your scenario, then, who beat her up?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe no one.”

I shook my head. “No way. I saw the injuries. They looked real to me.”

“So does good makeup.” He paused, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “Of course, there are other possibilities. Perhaps the injuries were real but the attacker was someone else.”

“Such as?”

He stood up and moved toward the window. “A current boyfriend?” He turned to face me, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “Maybe after the beating, as she looked at her injuries in the mirror, she suddenly saw a chance to spin straw into gold: she could concoct a fake story around real injuries and use it to extract money out of my client.”

I frowned skeptically. “That's pretty farfetched.”

“I've had circumstances far stranger. I'm certain you have as well.” He paused. “Here's another scenario. What if Sally didn't hire you?”

I gave him a puzzled look. “But she did.”

He nodded, his expression serious. “Did you ever wonder why she decided to hire you?”

“No.”

“You don't handle much personal injury work, right?”

“I've had one or two cases.”

“Did you know her at all before she hired you?”

“No, but I'd heard of her, and apparently she'd heard of me.” I smiled. “Maybe she felt more comfortable with a woman attorney.”

Jonathan nodded pensively. “Perhaps. If so, though, there were several women in the personal injury field she knew far better than you. Perhaps she wanted someone who
didn't
know her.”

He reached into his suit jacket as he approached my desk and removed a 5x7 photograph. “Here,” he said as he handed it to me. “Is that the woman who hired you to sue my client?”

It was a color portrait shot of Sally Wade. I placed it on the desk. “Yep.”

“Are you positive?”

I gazed up at him curiously. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“You met her only once. You told the police that she wore sunglasses during most of the meeting and that her upper lip was swollen. Those are less than optimal conditions for accurate observations.” He sat down and leaned toward the desk to slide the photograph closer to me. “Look at it carefully, Rachel. Take your time.”

I did, and as I studied Sally's face I gradually realized that I couldn't be absolutely certain that I was staring at the same person who had retained me. I was still fairly sure, but I couldn't guarantee it. The problem was that Sally didn't have distinctive features. The hairstyle and hair color looked the same, as I recalled. The eyes in the photo were blue, and that's the color I seemed to remember from the meeting. I couldn't recall the shape of her eyes—just that one of them was swollen and bruised. I couldn't be certain about the shape of her nose, or, for that matter, her lips, or her chin, or her neck.

I looked up from the photo with a frown. “I think it's the same person.”

“What if it's not? What if you were hired by an impostor?”

“Oh, brother.” I shook my head good-naturedly. “Jonathan, you can spin out these alternative realities all day long, but we both know that the most likely story is the one I've alleged in the lawsuit.”

“Unless you believe my client.”

“Well, I don't.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I believe my client.”

“Why didn't she file a police report?”

That was, of course, the very question I'd been asking myself. “I don't know,” I conceded.

“But you told her to file one.”