Due Diligence (23 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

At three minutes to five, the clerk at the Bureau of Vital Statistics handed me a payment receipt and an envelope containing certified copies of two death certificates.

“When will the other thirteen be ready?” I asked.

“Check back tomorrow morning at eleven. They'll be waiting up here.”

I thanked her, put the receipt and the envelope in my briefcase, and walked out of the building onto Grand Avenue. The rush-hour traffic was in full force. I was meeting up with Flo at nine o'clock, which was four hours away. I turned and walked toward the Fox Theater, reviewing my list of things to do. It was too late to find someone to look through records at Mt. Sinai Hospital, but it could be a good time to make contact with Lee Fowler, the former CFO of Armstrong Bioproducts, who might be getting home from work soon.

By the time I reached the Fox, I had concluded that today's disguise had too many drawbacks. Although I might get past someone looking for Rachel Gold, I was hardly inconspicuous. Blondes may not have more fun, but they sure have more hassles. Especially blondes in miniskirts and pumps, to judge from the wolf whistles, stares, and lewd comments flung my way from passing cars or from bystanders across the street.

The Fox Theater was open. I ducked into the women's room to change. So long as I was lugging around my entire wardrobe, such as it was, I might as well get into something a little less flamboyant. A little less was about as far as I could get. I chose my sister's skintight black jeans and red cotton turtleneck. My footwear selection was limited to the black pumps I had worn during the day or my Nikes. I stuck with the pumps. I paused to look in the mirror, surprised again by the sight of a blond, straight-haired Rachel Gold. The hair was starting to curl in the humidity, but the color and the length were enough to even throw me off.

I hailed a cab in front of the Fox and gave him Lee Fowler's address. I had debated whether to call in advance, but my paranoia was such that it seemed safer, albeit ruder, to show up without warning.

Settling back in the seat, I tore open the envelope containing the two death certificates that the clerk had been able to locate and copy before closing time. The first was for Ruth Abrams. Date of death: August 23, 1994. Residence: Bath Shalom Retirement Home. Under the section CAUSE OF DEATH there were two lines, one for Immediate Cause and the second for Underlying Cause. On Ruth Abrams' death certificate, the Immediate Cause was “Respiratory Failure” but the Underlying Cause apparently wasn't certain. The physician had filled it out as follows:

Diphtheritic Polyneuropathy?

Near the bottom of the form was a space labeled NAME OF ATTENDING PHYSICIAN IF OTHER THAN CERTIFIER. In the space was the name George McMillan.

The second death certificate was for June Bailey. Resident: Labadie Gardens Nursing Home. June had died later that same week. My eyes moved slowly down the form, stopping at the CAUSE OF DEATH section:

Immediate Cause: Respiratory Failure
Underlying Cause: Guillain-Barré syndrome? Porphyria?

I looked down to the final section for the identity of the attending physician. I stared at the name: Peter Todorovich.

I looked out the window as the cab turned onto Kingshighway.

Peter Todorovich
? The 1979 annual report of Armstrong Bioproducts listed a Dr. Peter Todorovich as the Director of Research. How many Dr. Peter Todoroviches could there be in one city? Perhaps Todorovich, like his boss at Armstrong Bioproducts, had maintained his medical practice during the early, lean years of the company. Perhaps Todorovich had been one of the physicians provided by whichever hospital Labadie Gardens had its medical contract with.

One of Flo's assignments was to find where Todorovich was today. That assignment suddenly seemed much more important. I was anxious to hear what she had found.

I looked again at the cause of deaths on the death certificates. The diseases sounded familiar. I opened my briefcase and removed the pages I had photocopied from the medical encyclopedia. I read through them as the cab headed toward the Fowler residence.

Guillain-Barré syndrome (aka Landry-Guillain-Barré syndrome aka Guillain-Barré-Strohl syndrome aka acute idiopathic polyneuritis) was part of a family of diseases of the peripheral nervous system that also included such mouthfuls as porphyric polyneuropathy, diphtheritic polyneuropathy, and acute idiopathic hepatitis with polyneuritis. According to the photocopied materials, the first signs of the diseases are tingling in the ends of the arms and legs, sometimes moving up the entire limbs, sometimes leading to paralysis, sometimes leading to severe circulatory and respiratory problems, sometimes leading to death. The causes of the diseases are unknown and there are no known cures, although most patients fully recover.

***

The Fowler residence was a stately, two-story brick house on Aberdeen, a quiet street just off Skinker. The streetlights were on. I gave the driver some extra money and asked him to wait. My heels clicked along the front walk as I strode toward the front porch. I rang the doorbell, which set off a musical series of chimes inside. I turned back toward the street as I waited. It was the kind of neighborhood where people parked their cars in their garages. There were few cars on the street, and none near the Fowler house except for my cab.

I turned as the door was yanked open by a well-dressed woman in her sixties holding a highball glass containing what looked like a martini with an olive. The force of the opening door jolted her slightly, causing some of the drink to slosh over the top of her glass and onto the terrazzo floor.

“Yes?” she said in a two-pack-a-day rasp, ignoring the splatter at her feet. I could hear a television blaring somewhere in the back.

“Hi,” I said in my friendliest voice. “I'm Elizabeth Bennett. Is Mr. Fowler in?”

She stepped back and gave me the once-over. Her narrow, angular face was tanned and leathery and unusually taut. It was a face that had survived thirty winters in Boca Raton and a truly epic face-lift. Indeed, the skin was so tight that it gave her a look of surprise, quite literally over the results of her plastic surgery.

“Elizabeth, huh?” she snorted. She took a gulp of her drink. “What's he call you? Lizzy? Or maybe Liza? Were you the one he was with last weekend?” Her words were slightly slurred.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” I said politely. “I've never met your husband. He has no idea who I am. I came here to ask him some questions.”

She gave me a dubious look. “Questions?”

“Is he here?”

She thrust her chin forward belligerently. “Questions about what?”

I wasn't prepared for the hostility and distrust. I had to choose my words carefully, sensing that if I told her it involved a “personal matter” she would slam the door in my face. The way she was acting told me that Lee Fowler wasn't home yet. The alcohol was making her angry, but it also might make her talkative if I could get inside before her husband got home.

“I wanted to ask your husband about his years at Armstrong Bioproducts.”

“What do you want to know about?”

“What it was like back in the early days.”

“Why do you want to know that?”

I had three alternative cover stories. I decided which version she would be most likely to respond to. “I'm a freelance writer,” I said. “I'm doing some background work on Douglas Armstrong for
People
magazine. Your husband worked with the senator back then, right?”

She nodded slowly, frowning. “You've never met Lee?”

“Never. I don't know where he works or what he does. I don't know what he looks like. I didn't even know he was married until you opened the door. Were you married to him back then?”

“Yes.”

“Great. So you knew the senator in the early days?”

She smiled. “Oh, yes,” she said with a conspiratorial wink. “I've got some juicy inside stories, too.”

“Wonderful. Would you mind sharing some with me?”

She opened the door wider. “What's your name again?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Well, come on in, Elizabeth.”

Within twenty minutes, it was clear that Donna Fowler had no “inside” information about Douglas Armstrong, Armstrong Bioproducts, or her husband's role back then. But I let her continue to talk and drink, hoping a gem might slip out. None did. I learned that Lee Fowler joined the company in January of 1973 and remained there until Douglas Armstrong resigned to run for the U.S. Senate. Since then, Fowler had held finance positions at Monsanto and Mallinckrodt, and three years ago joined the St. Louis office of an investment banking firm. The firm had a client list from around the world. As a result, Fowler was on the road a lot. In fact, he was returning from out of town tonight.

Her memories of the early days were hazy. She remembered that Douglas Armstrong and Peter Todorovich had gone to Costa Rica. She didn't know what ever happened to Peter, although, she said in a stage whisper with arched eyebrows, “I think he was a queer.” She didn't like Sherman Ross, who was “always lurking around that place.” Her dislike seemed to stem, at least in part, from her husband's belief that Ross had blocked his progress in the company. She was fond of Armstrong's wife Edie, and she started crying when she talked about Edie's death from cancer.

As she regained control of herself, I checked my watch. I'd been listening to her for almost an hour and had learned little of any relevance. Lee Fowler apparently was not the type who talked about his work at home. Donna Fowler had only the vaguest sense of what her husband had done during his years at Armstrong Bioproducts.

“I'm sorry,” she said, wiping her face with a tissue.

“I understand,” I said gently, trying to mask my growing impatience. I had too much yet to do. While her husband might be able to help me, Donna couldn't.

“Have my stories helped?” she asked.

“Very much.” I decided to take a wild stab before leaving. “Donna, did your husband ever tell you about a drug called Primax?”

She looked up with a curious grin. “Primax? Why does everyone all of a sudden want to know about Primax?”

I sat back in surprise. “Who else?”

“There was a man.”

“Who was he?”

She shook her head. “I can't remember his name.”

“Did he call you?”

“No, he came here one afternoon.”

“When?”

“Oh, maybe a month ago.”

“Was he a rabbi?”

She gave me an incredulous look. “A rabbi? Oh, no. But he did have a Jew name.”

“Rosenthal?” I asked, ignoring her crude choice of words. “Bruce Rosenthal?”

She tilted her head, trying to remember. “Maybe that's it.”

“He wanted to know about Primax?”

“Yes. He wasn't a writer like you. He said he was doing some…what did he call it? It was part of some deal.”

“Due diligence?”

She smiled and nodded her head. “Right. Due diligence. That's it. Said he wanted to know about Primax. He also had a list he showed me.”

“This?” I asked as I reached for the Beth Shalom/Labadie Gardens list and handed it to her.

She put on her reading glasses and nodded. “I think that's it. I don't remember these check marks, though.”

“What did he want to know about the list?”

“I can't remember. I told him I'd never seen it before, and I hadn't.”

The phone rang. I waited while Donna went into the kitchen to answer it. The television in the background was too loud to hear all of her side of the conversation. It sounded like her husband. I heard the word Primax a couple times.

So Bruce Rosenthal had visited Donna Fowler
.

Was I now retracing his steps? Was I getting warmer?

Donna came back in with a big smile. “That was Lee,” she said. “His plane just landed. I told him that if he hurried home he could talk to you.” She paused and rolled her eyes. “He said he had to stop off at the office, but that he'd be here in about an hour. Is that too long?”

Stalling, I checked my watch. On the one hand, I wanted to talk to her husband. On the other hand, I wanted to go off somewhere for a while and sort through what I had just learned.

“Tell you what,” I said. “I have to leave now, but I'll try to come back.”

“You sure?” She seemed disappointed.

“I have another appointment, but I should be done in an hour.”

“Where is it at?”

“Well,” I said, my mind going blank.

“Don't worry,” she said. “It's just that Lee seemed like he wanted to talk to you. I thought that if you couldn't stay, he'd know where to reach you.”

“Oh,” I said, a red flag popping up. “Don't worry. He won't need to contact me. I'll be back.”

I said good-bye to her at the front door, relieved to see that the cab was still waiting for me.

Chapter Twenty-five

I decided to hole up for the hour at Blueberry Hill Restaurant and Pub in the University City Loop. As I had hoped, there was a big weeknight crowd of mostly college students jammed into the front area around the bar. I squeezed past the throng near the bar and walked through the restaurant area and back to the dart room. There was a game in progress at every board, and over in the pinball area there were one or two intense players at each machine. The cigarette smoke made my eyes smart. I moved back to the restaurant area and found a secluded table beyond the booths by the window facing the street.

I didn't realize how hungry I was until the waitress arrived. The only thing I'd eaten all day was a bagel and coffee for breakfast. I ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke. As I settled back and peered out the window at the passing sidewalk traffic, the waitress placed a longneck bottle of Bud Light in front of me.

“No,” I explained, “I ordered a Coke.”

“I know, honey. The guys over there sent it.”

I turned to where she gestured and found myself staring at what looked like the front four of the Green Bay Packers. They were squeezed into a booth—four humongous guys with crew cuts and grins. Each was holding a bottle of Bud Light. Simultaneously, all four tilted their bottles in my direction, as if about to propose a toast.

Great
, I groaned.
Just what I need
.

I held my beer toward them with a weak smile. “Thanks, fellas.”

They gave a raucous chorus of cheers and then turned back to their conversation.

“Who are they?” I asked the waitress.

She gave a weary shake of her head. “Damned if I know.”

Ten minutes later, she returned with my food and another complimentary brewsky from the boys. She gestured toward them. “Joe says they're from KU. He says they're on the football squad.”

“They're a long way from home.”

She rolled her eyes. “They tend to wander when you turn off the electric fence.”

I held the bottle up and tilted it toward them in acknowledgment. That triggered another burst of cheers, punctuated with a manic round of high fives and table poundings. It sounded like an entire cattle drive.

I stared out the window as I ate, trying to concentrate on my situation. To return or not to return, that was the question. The fact that Bruce Rosenthal had made contact with Donna Fowler, and probably her husband as well, was both encouraging and creepy. Encouraging because I seemed to be on the right track. Creepy because Bruce had asked about Primax and he had asked about the Beth Shalom/Labadie Gardens list and now he was dead.

And you're seriously considering going back to that house tonight
? I told myself.

But there wasn't any direct evidence linking the Fowlers to Bruce Rosenthal's death. Just coincidence. Sure, he had asked about Primax and the list, and later he was killed. But he had apparently asked the same questions of others, too. Moreover, if Lee Fowler were guilty, why invite me back tonight? Could it be that he was innocent himself but had guilty knowledge that he wanted to get off his chest?

Wishful thinking
, I told myself as I peered out the window and took a sip of my Coke.

That's when he passed in front of the window. The guy with the long red hair.

Choking on the soda, I stood up and pressed my face against the window to watch him. In disbelief, I saw him turn into Blueberry Hill.

Oh, shit
, I groaned silently as I turned away from the window.

I glanced around in dismay.
But you don't look like Rachel
, I reminded myself.

Who are you kidding? Blond hair, and all of a sudden you're someone else
?

Any moment he would drift into the restaurant area and stop to survey the crowd. The dart room was too far. I'd never make it. My eyes stopped at the table of jocks. I moved quickly toward them.

“Guys, can I squeeze in?”

They looked up, momentarily perplexed, and then they all grinned. Two scooted over to make room for me. I scrunched in with my back to the restaurant entrance.

“I need help,” I said in a low voice. They leaned forward. I looked around the table at each of them. “There's a man following me. He just came in the building.” I slid lower in the booth. “He'll be in here any second. He has long red hair, parted in the middle, and he's wearing a black leather jacket. He's already tried to kill me once. I've got to get away from here.”

“Hell, darling,” one of them said gallantly, “I'll take you anywhere you want to go.”

I shook my head. “You'd only get in trouble. All I need is someone to slow him down long enough for me to get away.”

The two guys across the table looked up past me and became still. Their eyes moved slowly to the left.

“Him,” I whispered.

They nodded, still tracking him with their eyes.

After a moment, one said, “He went in the dart room.”

“Who the hell is that sumbitch?”

“I don't know,” I said.

“Well, he just went down the stairs to the dance floor.”

“C'mon, boys,” one of them said as he stood up. He checked his watch. “Time to kick some butt.” He looked down at me with a wink. “You got nothing to worry about, little lady. We're the fucking Jayhawks.”

I watched as three of the four squeezed out of the booth and lumbered toward the stairway—over seven hundred pounds of prime Kansas beef. Two of them were banging their fists into their palms.

The fourth guy waited for me to scoot out of the booth. His neck was larger than my waist. “Come on, ma'am,” he said, glancing longingly toward his companions, who were disappearing down the stairs. “I'll walk you out.” He gently put his hand under my elbow.

In less than a minute I had flagged a cab cruising east on Delmar. I opened the car door and turned to my hulking escort. “Thanks,” I said, holding out my hand.

“No problem.” He awkwardly shook my hand.

As the cab door closed, he turned and charged back into Blueberry Hill. My cab continued east on Delmar, catching every stoplight on the way to Skinker. As we slowed for the light at Skinker, two squad cars with sirens blaring zoomed past us heading in the opposite direction toward Blueberry Hill.

If I live through this
, I told myself as I turned back,
I'm a Jayhawk fan for life
.

“Go slow,” I said to the driver as we turned off Skinker onto Aberdeen. There seemed to be a few more cars parked on the street than before. The Fowler house was two-thirds of the way up the block on the right.

I leaned forward to peer out the front window. “Put on your brights.”

There was a car parked on the left side, two houses before the Fowler house. The high beams from the taxi illuminated the windows of the parked car. There was someone on the driver's side. As we passed the car, I strained to see in the window. Although his features were cloaked in darkness, I recognized the Dr. Dre sweatshirt. It was the black man who had spotted me in Walgreen's and later chased me through the shopping center.

“Go!” I shouted to the driver.

I turned to look back as we zoomed off. The other car pulled away from the curb with the headlights off.

“Oh, no,” I groaned, still watching out the rear window.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

I was surprised by the voice. I hadn't realized the driver was a woman. I moved to the side for a better look. She was a stout woman in her late forties with short black hair and crow's feet around her eyes. She was wearing a white, short-sleeved bowling shirt. There was a wedding ring on her plump left hand.

“Uh, downtown,” I said.

“Where downtown?”

“I don't know. Just head in that direction.”

I checked my watch, my mind racing. It was almost nine o'clock. Flo would be in her room at the Hyatt by now. But I couldn't go directly there. He'd see me go in. I'd be a sitting duck if they knew where I was. They could simply post people round the clock and wait for me to emerge.

The headlights flicked on behind us. It was the same headlight configuration as the car that had followed me last night.
Last night
? It seemed like last year.

I evaluated my position as we got onto Highway 40 at Forest Park. There was only one person in the tail car. My advantage, though slim, was that I had only me to worry about. He had me and his car. That meant that if I suddenly got out of the taxi, he had to get rid of his car
and
follow me. An office building with two entrances might work. But at this time of the night, there was probably only one entrance open. A shopping center? The only one downtown, St. Louis Centre, was probably closed for the night by now. A big hotel? Possibly. But at a hotel he'd have an easier time dumping his car.

“Is there anything at the convention center?” I asked the driver.

She nodded. “Auto show. Tonight's opening night.”

“Perfect. Let's go there.”

“You got it.”

I looked out the rear window. He was right behind us.

“You trying to shake that guy?” the driver asked.

I turned toward her. “I'm trying to get to the Hyatt without him finding out. If I can lose him at the convention center, I might be able to reach the Hyatt without him knowing.”

There was a burst of static over her dispatch radio. I stared at it.

“If you tried to contact someone over that radio,” I asked, “can the signal be picked up by others?”

“Yep.”

“Oh,” I said glumly.

“What do you need?”

“I need to find out the room number of a friend of mine who's staying at the Hyatt, but I can't risk anyone eavesdropping on the conversation.” I had an idea. “Listen, if I went in one entrance at the convention hall and hung around for ten minutes or so, would you have enough time to call the Hyatt from a pay phone and then pick me up at another entrance?”

“Sure.”

“Let's do it.”

***

She stopped at the intersection just east of the main entrance to the convention center.

“I'll meet you there,” she said, pointing at the main entrance. She turned right and headed north down the street toward the side entrance. Three-quarters of the way down the block she started to brake. She looked at me in the mirror. “Ready?”

I nodded. My free hand was on the door handle.

She stopped the taxi. “Go!”

I yanked open the door, ducked out, and sprinted up the stairs toward the side entrance. As I pushed through the revolving door I saw my taxi pull away. The tail car hesitated in the middle of the street.

I ran down the enormous hushed hallway toward the auto show area, passing people heading in and people heading out. My feet and ankles were killing me. There's a reason why joggers don't wear pumps.

I passed an entire squad of high school cheerleaders who were leaving the showroom area laughing and swishing their pom-poms. I turned down another main hallway. Sashaying toward me were three Hooters girls, dressed in knee-high white boots, white fishnet pantyhose, white short-shorts and Hooters tank tops. Off in the distance was the entrance to the auto show. I looked back. The black man wasn't in sight. I continued toward the auto show signs.

As I approached the entrance, I slowed to a walk. My breath was coming in jagged gasps. The large placard in front of the entrance read:

OPENING NIGHT—BY INVITATION ONLY

There were two entrance gates. A severe-looking woman was checking passes at one. A middle-aged man was checking passes at the other. I moved toward the man.

He gave my blond hair and tight jeans an appreciative look. “Do you have your pass, young lady?” he asked with a flirtatious wink.

Perfect
.

I gave him a perky, wide-eyed expression. “I jes' can't believe myself sometimes,” I said with a syrupy twang. “I'm Cheryl Ann, honey. You know, one of them Hooters girls.” I gave him a saucy swing of my hip. “Well, I must have got myself so worked up over the hot cars y'awl have in there that I plumb forgot my boots and little shorts in the changing room.” I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “Have you ever?” I put my hand on his wrist and asked, “Honey, can I jes' scoot myself back there real fast and get my stuff?”

He chuckled. “Why certainly, Cheryl Ann. Go ahead.”

I crinkled my nose at him. “Well, aren't you a sweetie pie? What's your name, darlin'?”

He blushed. “Fred.”

“Well, thank you, Fred. Next time y'awl are down at Union Station, y'awl better come by Hooters and see me, you hear?” I blew him a kiss as 1 wiggled past. “Bye-bye.”

I moved quickly into the huge showroom area. It was filled with hundreds of automobiles, pickup trucks, and vans, grouped by manufacturer. The Dodge section was to my left. Further off in the distance was the BMW section. To my right was a display of dozens of conversion vans.

I needed to figure out which exit from the showroom area would lead me to the main entrance of the convention center. As I stood there in the middle of the showroom, trying to get my bearings, I started to feel exposed, vulnerable—as if I had a bull's eye painted on my back. I opened a side door to one of the conversion vans, stepped inside, and closed it behind me. It was extraordinarily roomy inside. The roof of the van was high enough for me to stand. There were shades on the windows and soft music coming from the stereo speakers. I sat down in the nearest captain's chair and mentally retraced my steps through the building, trying to pinpoint my position. I peered through the blinds toward the BMW section. The exit beyond the BMWs ought to lead to the main entrance.

As I surveyed the crowd through the blinds, the black man in the Dr. Dre sweatshirt passed directly in front of me. My head jerked back, I let the blinds close and crawled toward the front of the van. Crouching low, I watched him through the windshield. He moved toward the center of the showroom. Using the sleeve of his sweatshirt, he wiped the perspiration from his face. There was a bulge under the front of his sweatshirt. He looked to his left, scrutinizing the crowd, and then to his right. The BMW section was to the left. He moved off to the right.