Face Value (4 page)

Chapter Eight

At ten o'clock that evening, Jerry Klunger and I walked into the main lobby of the Chouteau Tower. Tommy Flynn was seated in his usual spot at the security station in the front lobby. He had just shuffled the cards and was dealing a new game of solitaire when he saw the huge figure of Jerry Klunger approaching.

“Hello there, big guy.”

“Evening, Mr. Flynn.”

Tommy turned to me. “Ma'am.”

I put my hand out. “Mr. Flynn, my name is Rachel Gold.”

We shook.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Gold.”

“Call me Rachel.”

He grinned. “And you can call me Tommy.”

He checked his wristwatch and leaned back to look up at Jerry. “Thought you boys got off at nine.”

“We did, sir. I came back with Miss Gold. We were hoping to have a word with you.”

“With me?” His eyes narrowed. “About what?”

Jerry looked around the empty lobby. “It's about Sari.”

“She was a good gal.” He shook his head sadly. “What about her?”

“Well.” Jerry paused. “Stanley's got some doubts. I guess we all do. Miss Gold knew her, too.”

“Doubts about what?”

Jerry took another glance around the lobby and leaned in closer. In almost a whisper, he said, “About how she died.”

Tommy studied Jerry, who towered over the security desk, and then glanced at me. He checked his watch.

“Time for a smoke break. How ‘bout you two keep me company?”

I followed Jerry and Tommy out of the building. Although our destination was a small plaza with a fountain just a block west of their building, to describe their walk as a stroll would mischaracterize both of their gaits. Tommy Flynn had the stiff, bowlegged stride of an arthritic man in need of two knee replacements. Jerry moved with the lumbering tread that had apparently earned him the nickname Sumo from the law firm's mailroom manager, Tony Manghini.

I was getting too old for these late-night rendezvous, I told myself. Fortunately, I'd been able to get home for dinner and had enough time to give my son Sam a bath, read him a book, and put him to bed before leaving the house to pick up Jerry. The babysitter tonight, as most nights, was my mother, who lives in the remodeled carriage house in back.

When we reached the plaza, Tommy took a seat on a bench facing the Chouteau Tower. Jerry and I sat on the bench opposite Tommy.

Tommy Flynn was the deliberate type, a man you don't try to rush. And since I was here to ask him a favor, I let him take his time. I watched as he lit a Camel cigarette with a brass lighter, inhaled the smoke deeply, held it a moment, and then blew it out in a thin stream that whirled and vanished in the night breeze.

“So,” he said, “tell me about these doubts.”

I glanced at Jerry. I'd explained to Jerry that he should try to take the lead, at least early on, since he was the one who had the relationship with Tommy Flynn.

Jerry said, “Stanley thinks Sari was murdered.”

“What's he base that on?”

“He believes he found some evidence up in the garage, and he believes the police confirmed his evidence.”

“Hold on, Jerry.” Tommy turned to me. “Has anyone talked to the police?”

“Jerry and Stanley two nights ago,” I said. “I followed up yesterday.”

“Who?”

Jerry told him their names.

Tommy frowned. “Don't remember any Hendricks. Probably after my time. I know Harry Gibbs. You say he's a detective now, eh?”

Jerry said, “Yes, sir.”

“
Detective
Harry Gibbs.” Tommy chuckled. “Harry's a good man, but not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer. So fill me in on your meeting, Jerry.”

Jerry told him about the broken-off heel and the tube of Blistex and the information from the police report about Sari's wallet and her underwear and body.

Tommy flicked away the cigarette butt, pulled a new one out of the crumpled pack, and said, “Seems consistent with a suicide.”

He lit the cigarette, exhaled the smoke through his nose in twin streams, and turned to me. “What's Stanley say?”

“He says it proves she was killed by someone who knew her.”

“Who?”

“Someone in the law firm.”

“Who?”

“He doesn't know,” I said. “None of us do. That's why I wanted to talk to you.”

Tommy's eyebrows rose. “You think I know?”

I smiled. “No. But I think you have access to information that might help move this forward and maybe even put Stanley's concerns to rest.”

“Hold on. What else does Stanley have? Beside that heel and the Blistex?”

“He says she wasn't depressed.”

“Really? Did they talk much?”

“No,” I said.

Tommy frowned and took another drag on his cigarette. “Then how does he know she wasn't depressed?”

I gave him the short version of the FACS system.

When I finished, Jerry added, “Stanley has these pictures tacked up on the wall of his cubicle. They're kind of gross. Drawings of people's faces, but with the skin removed and all these arrows with the names of each muscle.”

Tommy scratched his neck and nodded. “I remember those drawings. My last year on the force they had some FBI special agent give us a lecture on that FACS thing. Crazy stuff. Stanley's into that, eh?”

“Yes,” I said, “and it seems to work for him.”

Tommy raised his eyebrows. “How so?”

“You said you know Harry Gibbs?”

“Sure. We go way back.”

“Jerry did all the talking during their meeting with the detectives, which lasted less than an hour. Stanley just observed. When it was over, he'd concluded that Gibbs was a recovering alcoholic who'd been recently divorced.”

Tommy stared at me, lips pursed, and then he nodded. “Harry did have a drinking problem. That's how we met. Department made us both attend AA meetings at headquarters. Heard he got divorced last year. Stanley figured all that out, eh? What did he see in Sari?”

“That she wasn't depressed. She was agitated but not depressed.”

Tommy squinted. “Pretty thin.”

He flicked the cigarette butt away and checked his watch. “Gotta head back.”

Tommy winced as he got to his feet.

As we started back down the sidewalk, he said, “So what's Stanley think I can do for you, Rachel?”

“I understand everyone in the firm parks in the garage. After seven at night, you have to use your keycard to access the walkway to the garage.”

“That's correct.”

“I assume there's a computer record for each night's keycard users, correct?”

“Yep.”

“We'd like to see the records for whoever used their keycard the night she died. Especially between nine and eleven. That's the medical examiner's estimate for the time of death. She was wearing a wristwatch that shattered in the fall. The time on the watch was 10:03, which is probably the time she died.”

“Between nine and eleven? It's probably just going to be people in that law firm. Only lawyers work that late.”

“Correct.”

Tommy stopped and turned toward me with a frown. “You understand these computer records aren't public documents.”

“I do, and I could get a subpoena for them if I had to, but I'd prefer to keep this confidential.”

“And why is that?”

“I knew Sari. Her father asked me to ask some questions about her death. The cops have concluded it was a suicide. Stanley believes otherwise. The cops have closed the matter, and they've pretty much dismissed Stanley's evidence. Was it a suicide? I don't know. I'm just trying to wrap up loose ends. One of those loose ends is the computer records of the cardkey users that night.”

He rubbed his chin.

“You're asking a lot, young lady.”

“I realize I am. Here's my card.

He held my card out toward the streetlight and studied it for a moment. Then he put it in his pants pocket

We started again toward his building, which was less than a block away. As we walked, I thought again about what Stanley had told me to say to Tommy. He hadn't told me why—just what. When we reached the entrance, Tommy turned to me.

“I'll think about your request, Rachel. No promises.”

“I understand, Tommy. One more thing. It's what Stanley asked me to tell you. He told me to tell you that when you think about Sari Bashir you should also think about Mary Liz.”

Tommy stared at me, his gaze growing distant. And then, without a word, he turned and entered the building.

Chapter Nine

We met the following afternoon at Kaldi's Coffee in the DeMun area. Just Tommy Flynn and me. He'd called that morning and left a message with my secretary that he'd be there at four-thirty.

He was at a small table in the back room when I arrived. I got an espresso and joined him. His shift started at six, and he was dressed for work—a nickel-gray long-sleeve shirt with epaulets, pleated-patch pockets with flaps, a security officer patch over the left pocket, black tie, black slacks, and thick-soled black shoes. With his shock of gray hair, bushy eyebrows, round face, and double chin, he reminded me of John Madden, the NFL color commentator and former football coach.

“Here you go,” he said, handing me a two-page document. He had another copy on the table in front of him.

There were three handwritten columns of information. The first column was a list of twenty-nine names in what appeared to be chronological order—sixteen on the first page, thirteen on the second. The second column was titled “Time of Entry.” The third column was labeled “Time of Exit.”

“The walkway from the building to the garage locks at seven,” Tommy said. “You need your cardkey to open that door after seven. Every time you swipe that card, the computer records it. I printed out the card-swipes for that night and put together this document. It shows all the folks who entered the walkway to the garage between seven and midnight that night.”

According to the list, fourteen people entered the walkway to the garage between seven and eight p.m. I recognized the names of some of the lawyers from Warner & Olsen.

“These first fourteen, are they all lawyers, paralegals, and secretaries from Warner & Olsen?”

Tommy looked down at his copy.

“All but Melanie Farmer,” he answered. “She's a young lawyer at Mead and London. Pretty gal with nice stems. Reminds me a little of Cyd Charisse.”

Mead & London was a small personal-injury law firm in the building.

Each of the fourteen who entered the walkway between seven and eight had exited the garage within ten minutes of the time they entered. Same with the two—both lawyers at Warner & Olsen—who entered between eight and nine.

As for the last thirteen names, all listed on the second page of the document, there were entry times but no exit times.

“Why is that?” I asked.

Tommy said, “The gate at the garage exit slides down each night at nine. You don't need your cardkey after that. Instead, the gate is triggered by an electric eye. When a car approaches the exit, it passes the electric eye and the gate slides up. So there's no record for anyone who drives out of the garage after nine.”

“But you still need your cardkey to drive into the garage after nine p.m.?”

“That's right. It's the only way you can get in after nine.”

I studied the list. “So no one entered the garage after nine that evening.”

“No one drove into the garage after nine. Actually, no one drove into the garage after seven. I checked.”

I looked at the first seven entries on the second page—all names of persons who'd entered the walkway from the office to the garage between nine and eleven that night:

“What are the numbers after some of the names?” I asked.

“All lawyers at Warner & Olson have reserved parking spaces. So do some of their administrative staff. Those numbers are the garage floors where their reserved space is located.”

Thus, five of the seven people on the list, including Sari Bashir, were lawyers who parked in reserved parking spaces.

Tommy leaned across the table so that he was looking at the same page I was. “You can tell Stanley to eliminate Sharon and Bernetta from this list. I escort both of those nice ladies to their cars each night, and I always wait there until I see them drive down the exit ramp. Did the same that night.”

The last six names on the list all entered the walkway after eleven that night, the last two were between midnight and one in the morning. All six were associates at Warner & Olsen.

He leaned back in his chair and gestured at the list. “There you have it, Miss Gold. Five lawyers entered the parking garage from the building between nine and ten that night. One of them died.”

I stared at the names.

“So,” he said, “what's your next move?”

I looked up. “I don't know.”

He took a sip of his coffee and set it down on the table.

“I appreciate you meeting me here, ma'am.”

“I appreciate you tracking down those names, Tommy.”

“I've been doing some more thinking about Stanley's theory. It does seem far-fetched, but you can't dismiss it out of hand. He's a strange boy, for sure. A strange and troubled boy, but he's also one observant son of a bitch, pardon my French.”

“He is.”

“He told you to mention Mary Liz to me. Did he tell you who she was?”

“No.”

“I've never told him about Mary Liz. Far as I know, I haven't talked about that poor girl for a long time.”

“Tell me about her.”

“She was the oldest of five McGuire daughters. Our next-door neighbors back then. Known her from the day her parents brought her home from the hospital. There'd been something special about Mary Liz from the get go. Maybe it was because she was the first. Or because she was so damn cute. Or because she'd been born just a month after Muriel's final miscarriage.”

“Muriel was your wife?”

“A fine woman. She passed four years ago.”

Mary Liz had been special, Tommy explained. He'd helped her father coach her soccer team in elementary school, Tommy had taken her fishing a few times over the years, and on Halloween nights when her parents had been too busy with younger sisters in diapers, he'd taken her trick-or-treating in the neighborhood.

“On her prom night,” he said, “me and Muriel came over to take pictures before the kids headed out. I can remember marveling at how that little pigtailed, freckle-faced redhead had grown into such a lovely young woman.”

The last time he saw her was on the morning her family drove her to Iowa to start her freshman year at Beloit. “I gave her a hug just before she got into the station wagon. She told me she'd see me again at Thanksgiving. As they pulled out of the driveway, she poked her head out the car window and said, ‘I call the drumstick, Uncle Tommy.'”

He paused and wiped an eye with the back of his hand. After a moment, he continued.

“Those were her last words to me. Her funeral was closed casket, probably because she'd been dead for nearly two weeks when a pair of hikers came upon her body in the woods two miles from campus. According to the medical examiner, she'd been raped and sodomized before being stabbed to death. The McGuires sold their house the following spring and moved to Wisconsin.” He looked up at me, eyes red. “Never caught her killer.”

I waited.

He shook his head. “Never told Stanley none of that. Never even mentioned her name. I suppose he could have read it about in the papers. It was big news back when it happened. But that was twelve years ago.”

“I read the articles this morning,” I said. “They're in the newspaper's online archives.”

“And?”

“One of the articles mentioned her home address. Do you still live next door to that house?”

He nodded.

I said, “The article on the funeral mentioned that you were one of the pallbearers and that you were a close family friend. It also mentioned that you were a St. Louis police officer.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

He nodded. “If that boy can really read faces, maybe he saw something in mine that caused him to go back and find those articles. Like that stuff he figured out with old Harry Gibbs—the drinking and divorce and all.”

“It's convinced him that Sari was murdered.”

He pursed his lips as he mulled over something.

He gestured toward the list. “That list probably looks a lot like the list from any weeknight. But let's assume it contains four genuine homicide suspects. Persons of interest, we used to call them.”

He took a sip of coffee and set the mug down.

“Let me cut to the chase,” he said. “The police have closed the case. That means Stanley and Jerry can't expect help from them. That's big. They can't
make
anyone talk to them, they can't
make
anyone turn over evidence, and they sure as hell can't arrest anyone.”

He paused to take another sip of his coffee.

“And then,” he said, “there's the matter of the boys themselves. Jerry is a fine young lad with a good heart and good soul, but some of the tasks ahead are above that boy's pay grade. As for Stanley, well, this kind of investigation requires someone who can actually get folks to talk. When it comes to conversing, I think you'd agree that Stanley is not exactly Jay Leno.”

I smiled. “Agreed.”

Tommy said, “I admit those boys have me intrigued. But I don't add much value to any investigation. I'm not just an old fart with bad knees and arthritis, which anyone can see, but as for investigations, keep in mind I spent more than three decades on the force and never made detective grade. Now some of that may have been due to my drinking problems, which I have under control these days, and some of that may have been due to what one of my superiors described on my evaluation form as, quote,
authority issues
, unquote. To which I responded at the time, to his face, ‘Captain, go fuck yourself,' which kind of set me back on the promotion ladder. Excuse my French, Miss—er, Rachel. My point here is that the addition of one retired cop named Tommy Flynn don't exactly transform that investigative crew into the A-Team.”

He leaned back on his chair and gestured with open arms.

“There you have it,” he said.

“Okay.”

Tommy said, “All of which means one thing.”

“What?”

“Them boys need a rabbi.”

“Pardon?”

“Again, I go back to my days on the force. You wanted to get something done, you had to go get yourself an ally higher up. We used to call that fellow a rabbi, though I never figured out the resemblance to a Jewish preacher, but be that as it may, I'm assuming it's the same in a law firm. You got some heavy hitters on this list, and that means that even if them boys come up with a good idea for investigating, they're going to need a rabbi to sell it to the big dogs. You still following me?”

I smiled. “You think I'm the rabbi?”

He shrugged. “Seems to me you could be.”