Due Diligence (6 page)

“What is the other possibility?”

“I'm not sure,” I said. “All I know is that when Bruce Rosenthal came to David Marcus, he was extremely nervous and looking for an attorney. Someone killed him a few days later. When David decided to look into Bruce's death, someone killed him a few days later. If Bruce's death had nothing to do with David's death, then I suppose I'd be willing to accept that those skinheads killed David. But first I've got to satisfy myself that David's death and Bruce's death aren't connected.”

“How are you going to do that?”

I looked at Benny and sighed. “I don't know.”

Chapter Six

Revenge of the nerds comes in two flavors: Ivy League and MIT.

The Ivy League version is downright creepy, as I witnessed one winter weekend during my second year at Harvard Law School. I went down to New Haven to visit a friend, and he took me to a Yale hockey game. Yale was playing the University of Connecticut, and the game was a mismatch. By the middle of the final period, UConn had built up a seven-goal lead. At that point, the Yale fans—a truly ragtag collection of sports geeks—started pointing at the UConn fans on the other side of the ice while chanting in unison:

That's alright, that's okay,
You're going to work for us someday!
That's alright, that's okay,
You're going to work for us someday!

The MIT version, while just as arrogant, is more pocket-protector arrogance. It's more Herbie Mintler, who sat across the aisle from me in high school geometry, his eyes distorted by the thick lenses of his hornrim glasses. Herbie Mintler, whose daily costume included an ill-fitting short-sleeved shirt buttoned to the collar and decorated with black-and-white photographic scenes of New York City and a pair of black slacks belted so high on the waist that when he walked it looked like his hips were fused to his rib cage. Herbie Mintler, who occasionally cleaned his ears with a paperclip during class and wiped the ear wax off on his slacks. Herbie Mintler, who averted his eyes and made an embarrassed grunt whenever I said hello to him in the hallways. Herbie Mintler, who graduated with the highest grade point average in the class, went on to MIT, and returned for our tenth reunion with a stunning brunette on his arm and a personal net worth, according to
Newsweek
magazine, in excess of $120 million (thanks to his ownership of two essential patents in the field of MRI technology).

Revenge of the nerds. Ivy League or MIT? Hiram Sullivan, managing partner of the engineering consulting firm of Smilow & Sullivan, Ltd., seemed a dangerous combination of both. A Ninja Nerd. He was in his early fifties and had the lean, wiry look of a man who swims forty laps every morning at dawn and hasn't eaten dessert in twenty years.

He squinted at me from behind his small wire-rimmed glasses and shook his head. “I've already answered that,” he snapped. He had a cold, high-pitched voice. “The police asked me the very same question. I spent three hours with them. I provided answers to every conceivable question about young Rosenthal. As a matter of fact, I went down to the police station to answer them.”

I tried an acquiescent smile. “That's why I came to your office, Mr. Sullivan. I don't want to inconvenience you, and I certainly don't want three hours of your time, sir.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back from his big desk. “Three hours? You won't get three more minutes of my time, Miss Gold.”

He was bald with a high forehead and visible blue veins at each temple. The veins were bulging at the moment. “I cooperated with the police,” he continued, “because obviously we would like to see young Rosenthal's killer caught. But that is as far as our obligation reaches. I have no valid reason to talk to you. You are not the police, you are not the prosecutor. And—” he paused to squint at me “—you are not actually his lawyer. You conceded as much yourself, Miss Gold. You said he talked about retaining you, but he never did. You have shown me no letter of retention, no power of attorney. Young Rosenthal worked on a variety of important matters for this firm. Many are confidential. I cannot and will not divulge such information to a private individual with no official capacity in the matter. That is precisely what I told that unfortunate rabbi. That is what I am telling you as well. The police have my answers. You will just have to rely upon them to solve the crime. And now it is time for you to leave.”

I tried another question, but that only made him more adamant. He wouldn't even tell me what David Marcus had asked him during their meeting. Frustrated, but not wanting to burn any bridges yet, I ended the meeting on what I hoped was a polite note. “Here's my card, Mr. Sullivan,” I said, sliding it across the desk toward him. “I'm extremely concerned about Bruce Rosenthal's death, especially the possibility that it might be connected to Rabbi Marcus' death. I plan to keep asking people questions until I'm satisfied. Please call me if you have any information you're willing to share.”

He frowned at my business card as if it were a dead mouse, and then leaned forward to press the intercom button on his telephone. “Donna, it's time for you to escort Miss Gold back to the lobby.”

Fifteen seconds later, Donna marched into the room. She stood nearly six feet tall, with close-cropped blond hair framing a severe face. She looked like Central Casting's choice for the dental hygienist at the offices of the Marquis de Sade, DDS. The only accessories missing were the studded breastplate, the thigh-high leather boots, and the ominous coil of dental floss.

On the way down the hallway toward the reception area, Donna the Dominatrix and I passed an empty conference room. I stopped with a flustered expression. “Oh, I just remembered,” I said to her, “I'm supposed to call the court clerk about an oral argument.” I pretended to check my watch nervously. Agitated, I turned toward the conference room. “Would it be okay if I called from here? It'll only take a minute.”

She scowled. “Dial nine for an outside line.”

I thanked her and went into the conference room, closing the door behind me. The telephone was on the credenza against the far wall. I picked up the receiver and dialed Sports Line. As the call went through, I opened the top drawer. As I expected, inside the drawer was a Smilow & Sullivan Office Telephone Directory. It consisted of two pages stapled together. All professionals were listed in one column, all secretaries in another, and all administrative and support staff in two others. It was dated in the upper right corner. As I had hoped, the Smilow & Sullivan directory was just like the telephone directory in the conference room of a typical law firm: it was about one month out of date. Peering down the column of engineers and accountants, I found him under the Rs:

Roberts, Michael E.          (Mary G.)          x243

Rosenthal, Bruce A.          (Karen H.)         x332

Rucker, Carol B.               (Dixie C.)          x213

Karen H. was in the column of secretaries, under the H's:

Harmon, Karen               x432

I heard the door open behind me. “Thank you so much,” I said into the phone as I slid the directory back into the drawer. On the other end of the phone a voice was running through last night's American League box scores. I stared down at the name again:
Harmon, Karen
. “I'll be in the courtroom at two o'clock,” I said into the phone, “and I'll be sure to notify the other counsel.” I hung up and turned toward the door, in the process sliding the drawer closed with my hip.

Donna stood there with her arms crossed, looking as if she'd like to polish my teeth with an industrial sander. I gave her my sweetest smile. “Thanks a bunch,” I said.

She pivoted on her heel, marched me to the main reception area, and left me there. I spotted the visitors' telephone on a low table in the waiting area and waited until Donna was out of sight. Then I turned to the perky blond receptionist. “Would you mind if I used your phone to make a local call?”

“Go right ahead, honey.”

“I'm not sure of the phone number.”

“Here you go.” She handed me the Southwestern Bell White Pages for Greater St. Louis. I flipped through the H's and found three listings for
Harmon, K
—one in Webster Groves, one in north St. Louis, and one in what sounded like an apartment complex way out west in Chesterfield. The third listing sounded the most likely. Pretending to use the listing as a reference, I dialed Sports Line again and engaged in what I hoped sounded like a conversation with a woman named Margi over the rescheduling of a lunch appointment. I hung up and returned the telephone directory to the receptionist.

“By the way,” I said to her with a lively smile, “how's Karen Harmon doing these days?”

“Y'all know Karen?” she answered in a cheerful Southern drawl.

“Sure. Is she still in that apartment in Chesterfield?”

“Sure is. Matter of fact, Karen had me over last summer. Isn't that pool something?”

We talked long enough for me to change the topic from Karen Harmon's swimming pool to summer vacations down at the Lake of the Ozarks, which was the receptionist's favorite spot “in the whole wide world.” My goal was to downplay the Karen Harmon aspect of our discussion so that I could leave without risking her calling Karen to come out to see her friend or asking me to leave a name and message for Karen. It worked. A visitor arrived, the phone started ringing, I left with a wave.

***

The following night at 6:30 I was sitting in my car in the parking area out front of the apartment and town-house complex known as Tuscany Crossing. I'd been there for about forty minutes. I was waiting for the arrival of an emerald green Suzuki Sidekick (Missouri license plate number WGH 570), which Karen Harmon had financed with an automobile loan from Mark Twain Bank (on which she still owed $8,723.87 as of the end of last month). It's spooky how much information you can obtain on anyone with just a computer and a few commonly available data banks. In less than fifteen minutes, I knew the current balance on her Visa, MasterCard, Famous-Barr, Dillard's, and Discover credit card accounts, I knew the monthly rental payment on her apartment, and I knew the names and telephone numbers of the neighbors on either side of her.

But what I couldn't access on the computer was what she knew about Bruce Rosenthal. I just hoped Karen Harmon knew more about what her ex-boss was working on or worried about than Bruce's mother and sister did. Yesterday morning, after leaving the offices of Smilow & Sullivan, I had called Bruce Rosenthal's mother in Columbus to ask if I could meet with her and her daughter later that day. She reluctantly agreed to meet. I caught the noon Southwest Airlines flight to Columbus, rented a car at the airport, and drove out to her small frame house in the suburb of Bexley. Originally, I had considered just talking to them over the phone, but ultimately decided to make the trip. You can often get more out of a witness in person than over the phone.

Not this time though. It was a wasted trip. Thelma Rosenthal did not have a close relationship with her son, and neither did her married daughter, Robin Dahlberg. In fact, Bruce and Robin had not even talked since last Thanksgiving, when Bruce came in for the holiday weekend. That was more than five months ago. Although Bruce dutifully called his mother every Sunday, he talked very little about himself or his work. She had spoken with him briefly on his last Sunday, but the only personal part of the conversation she could remember was asking him whether he was dating any nice girls—a question that (as usual, according to her) made him sullen and even less communicative. Thelma Rosenthal had no recollection whatsoever of any conversation with her son during his last few months about any aspect of his work or anything that might have been disturbing him. I caught the last flight to St. Louis that night, crossed Thelma and Robin off my list, and circled Karen Harmon's name.

At 6:42 p.m., the green Suzuki convertible pulled into the lot and parked one row over from me. I watched as a striking redhead with long wavy hair got out of the car. She was carrying a gym bag, a purse, and clothes on a hanger. She was wearing white Reeboks and a Spandex exercise outfit consisting of a bright turquoise leotard cut high on the hips with a thong back over skintight navy bicycle shorts. Karen Harmon was pretty but not petite. She had large shoulders, large hips, large breasts. I judged her at my height, but twenty pounds heavier.

I got out of my car and walked quickly after her. When we were about ten feet apart, I called, “Karen?”

She turned with a tentative smile. “Yes?”

“I'm Rachel Gold. I was Bruce Rosenthal's attorney. I wonder if I could talk to you for a few minutes about Bruce.”

She looked me over as she pondered the request. Fortunately, I had dressed for a court hearing that day and was wearing a conservative glen plaid suit, gold link necklace, and gold rope-knot earrings.

“Okay,” she said with a congenial shrug. “I hope you don't mind if I eat while we talk. I just came from my aerobics class, and I'm starving.”

Karen's little one-bedroom apartment was just as sunny and friendly as its occupant. There was a brightly colored crocheted afghan on the couch. On her bed was a homemade quilt and three stuffed animals. On the wall over the television was a framed “Ski Utah!” poster. Over the couch was a framed poster of what appeared to be the Mormon Tabernacle in Salt Lake City. Scattered throughout the living room and kitchen and bedroom were about a dozen framed photographs of a pleasant-looking young man with thinning blond hair—on horseback, on a ski slope, sharing a milkshake with Karen, holding hands at the Arch.

The microwave oven dinged. I went into the kitchen, removed her Weight Watchers chicken mirabella from the microwave and placed it on the counter. A moment later Karen came in from the bedroom. She was wearing a robe, having changed out of her exercise clothes.

“Sure you don't want any?” she asked again.

“No, thanks.”

“How about something to drink?” She opened the refrigerator. “Let's see, I have Diet Seven-Up and orange juice and Clearly Canadian.” She turned to me. “I'm having a Diet Seven-Up. How about you?”

I smiled. “Okay. Same thing. Sounds good.”

When we were both seated at the tiny kitchen table, I gestured toward one of framed photos of the blond guy. “Your boyfriend?”

She nodded radiantly. “William,” she said, holding up her left hand to show me the modest diamond engagement ring.