Flinch Factor, The Page 14

  “I agree. I love this place. But still.”

  He waved his hand dismissively. “I’ve had enough fancy lunches to last two lifetimes. This is far more fun. As I recall, you got your professional start in Chicago. I was hoping that you’d been in the Windy City long enough to learn the joys of the Chicago hot dog.”

  “Are you kidding? I lived there long enough to get in fights over who had the best dogs.”

  “And your favorite?”

  “Wieners Circle.”

  “On North Clark. A fine establishment. But my personal shrine is a bit further north. I went to college at Loyola.”

  I tried to recall the Rogers Park eateries. “Flukys?”

  “Yes. Did you know that the founder of Woofie’s trained at Fluky’s.”

  “Really?”

  “A fine gentlemen named Charlie Eisner. May he rest in peace.” He gestured toward the front counter. “Shall we place our orders?”

  I smiled as I watched the dean of Missouri municipal lawyers and the current chair of the American Bar Association’s Committee on Land Use Planning study the menu on the wall and then order a Big Daddy with extra grilled onions, chili cheese fries and a lemonade. I opted for pure Chicago—a Woofie dog with mustard, neon-green relish, and sport peppers, an order of fries, and a Coke.

  We took our trays of food over to a pair of stools along the side wall counter just beneath framed signed photographs of Bill Cosby and Bob Costas.

  I raised my cup of Coke toward Paul.

  “Bon appetit.”

  He rubbed his hands together in anticipation as he eyed his meal. “Oh, boy.”

  Paul Rogers is so mild-mannered, good-natured and unpretentious that he could pass for the bald older brother of the late Fred Rogers of PBS fame, right down to the cardigan sweater and blue sneakers he favors when, as today, he does not have to appear in court or before one of his boards of alderman or city councils.

  We at our meals with relish—Paul figuratively, me literally.

  “Another lemonade?” I asked.

  “Oh, I am quite full. But thank you, Rachel. That meal was delicious.”

  “You’re a cheap date.”

  “I am afraid that today I am overpriced even at Woofie’s rates.” He sighed. “I do not have much information to report.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I was able to reach most of the aldermen and city council members you found listed on those building permits. I spoke with Clyde Bennett and Elizabeth O’Shea in Glenview Heights. Barry Haven in Brookfield. Jeffrey Kirkland in Asbury Groves. I even spoke with the mayor and the city attorney for Asbury Groves.”

  “And?”

  “Not much. The mayor had never heard of Corundum. Nor had the city attorney. The city officials who had had Corundum do work on their homes were hardly any better.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They had virtually no information on the company.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “I told each of them I was helping a family member select a contractor for an addition to her house. I explained that someone had mentioned that Corundum had done work on their house. Each one told me he or she was pleased with the work and had no complaints, but when I asked how to get in touch with the company, they simply did not know. When I asked them who their company contact had been, they claimed they did not remember. When I asked if they could check their records, they gave me vague answers about having to locate the files and getting back to me if they could find any contact information. No one has gotten back to me.”

  “This is maddening.”

  “And a little fishy. Tell me more about this witness you mentioned.”

  “This is confidential, Paul.”

  “I understand.”

  “A man died of an apparent drug overdose. That’s what the police concluded. His sister doesn’t believe it. She asked me to look into his death. I did some poking around. I found a witness who can connect another man and a pickup truck to the dead man.”

  “Connect in what way?”

  “Just that they were together in the dead man’s truck on the night the man died. The other man left him in the truck and drove off in another pickup truck. I have the license plate of that truck. Turns out it’s registered to Corundum.”

  Paul tugged at his earlobe pensively. “That doesn’t mean that other gentlemen committed any crimes.”

  “True, but it does mean that he was with the dead man shortly before he died. If nothing else, he knows something about the dead man’s last night.”

  “I am so sorry. I wish I could have found you something.”

  “I appreciate your effort.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Keep looking.”

  “How?”

  “I found one pickup truck at a Corundum job site, but it had a different license plate. That suggests there might be another crew out there. I’ll do some more digging for building permits.”

  “Good luck.”

  I smiled. “Thanks.”

  “Speaking of luck, how is that TIF case going with Ruby Productions?”

  I shrugged. “It’s going.”

  “Any settlement prospects?”

  “Not really. My clients don’t want to move.”

  “Even if they were willing to move—” he shook his head “—Ken Rubenstein is one tough cookie.”

  “Actually, Rubenstein claims he wants to settle.”

  “Really?”

  “He’s even offered a nice premium over the appraised value of their homes.”

  Paul leaned back on the stool, his eyebrows raised. “Rachel Gold, I am impressed. I knew you were good, but I had no idea.”

  “You’re too kind, Paul. Any credit here goes to Judge Flinch. I’m guessing they’re willing to pay a premium to avoid a spin on the Judge Flinch Wheel of Fortune.”

  He chuckled. “You are too modest, Rachel. I was involved in the TIF dispute with Ruby Productions in Glenview Heights. That was a hotly contested litigation as well. The City Council approved that TIF by just one vote—four to three.”

  “Which one was that?”

  “Wycliffe Palisades. Several of the neighborhood residents filed a lawsuit to stop the project. I represented the city, so we were on the same side as Rubenstein. I was able to watch him and his lawyer Rob Crane up close in court, and those are two sturdy warriors. They refused to make a settlement overture to the homeowners. I know that for a fact because I tried to mediate the dispute.”

  “How did that case come out?”

  “The homeowners surrendered on the second day of trial. The resulting settlement agreement paid the homeowners exactly one percent over the appraised values of their homes.”

  “That is tough.”

  Paul asked, “What kind of premium has he offered your clients?”

  “Fifteen percent, and he claims he’s willing to go higher.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “My goodness.”

  “I know, Paul. It’s a good offer. But my clients love their neighborhood and love their school system.”

  “They may lose both.” He gave me a sympathetic smile. “The TIF law is a tough one to overcome.”

  “The case is giving me ulcers.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  I stared, my heart racing, unsure of what to do next.

  A black Dodge Ram 2500 was in the driveway. The license plate matched the one my Gay Way witness had written down the night Nick Moran died.

  The pickup truck.

  Parked in the driveway of 359 Dorantes Avenue.

  Now what?

  I’d driven out to Amity, a far western suburb, with expectations so low that it would have been a stretch to call them expectations. Paul Rogers had given me a list of eleven suburban towns whose searchable el
ectronic databases included building permit information. My secretary Dorian spent yesterday afternoon on the phone with a series of reluctant city clerks, one from each of the towns, trying to cajole them into searching their data bases. Six clerks relented, and one of them—from the Town of Amity—turned up two building permits issued to Corundum Construction, both within the past six months.

  When Dorian marched into my office with a big smile and a MapQuest printout of driving directions to the two houses, I had to pretend to share her excitement. Having already been through the drill with the other Corundum building permits, it was hard to be enthusiastic about the prospect of a ninety-minute roundtrip to the edge of the boonies for the opportunity to drive past two houses on which renovations had not yet commenced

  Nevertheless, I rearranged my calendar for the following day and, at three that afternoon, left the office with the MapQuest printout sitting on the passenger seat. I got off Highway 70 somewhere beyond the Missouri River and followed the map along streets and avenues I’d never before driven through a suburban town founded a decade ago on the promise of pastoral vistas for blithe spirits and which had morphed into strip-mall congestion for weary commuters.

  At five minutes to four that afternoon, I drove slowly past the redbrick contemporary ranch house at 525 Chouteau Lane, pausing long enough at the edge of the property line to confirm that the in-ground swimming pool and patio listed on the building permit had not yet been installed. I sighed in exasperation and returned to the driving directions.

  I turned right on Edgewood, left on Mapleleaf, left again on Bonhomme, and then right onto Dorantes. And there—parked in the driveway of 359 Dorantes—was the black Dodge pickup I’d been looking for. I braked to a stop and stared at the truck.

  Then I drove around the block as I tried to figure out what to do next. I eliminated any thought of actually getting out of my car and going around back to the jobsite to see whether the big guy was there—in part because I didn’t know what to say to him if he was there and in part because, well, the concept was a little scary, especially if the big guy was culpable in any of the events leading to Nick Moran’s death.

  As I drove around the block at about ten miles per hour I recalled that my digital camera was in the trunk, where I’d left it after Sam’s last basketball game. I wasn’t exactly sure what I could do with it, but I stopped the car just before the Dorantes intersection, popped the trunk, retrieved the camera, and turned onto Dorantes.

  There were three other pickups, all older models, parked in front of the house. I pulled my car against the curb across the street one house up from No. 359. That gave me a good view of the house and the black pickup in the driveway.

  Okay, Miss Marple, I said to myself, now what?

  I checked my watch. 4:16 p.m.

  I took my camera out of the case and framed a shot of the black pickup in the driveway with the address visible on the mailbox in the foreground. I took the shot. I zoomed in on the back of the pickup, close enough to make the license plate legible. I took the shot.

  I checked my watch. 4:18 p.m.

  I took a shot of each of the other pickups. Because of the angles, the only visible license plate was on the back of the pickup closest to me.

  According to the permit, Corundum was building an enclosed back porch and an elaborate redwood deck. I rolled down the window and heard what sounded vaguely like construction noises.

  At 4:24 p.m., a short, stocky black man in overalls and work boots came around from the back, got in the middle pickup of the three on the street and drove off. I took a photo of him as he opened the driver’s side door and a close-up shot of the back of his truck as he pulled away from the curb.

  At 4:29 p.m., my cell phone rang. I looked at the caller ID. My secretary.

  “Dorian?”

  “Sorry to bother you, Rachel, but that attorney for Ruby Productions—Rob Crane—he’s called twice. He says he needs to talk to you. He says it’s very important.”

  “Is he calling about the depositions?”

  Yesterday I’d served on Crane notices to take the depositions of eight of Ken Rubenstein’s underlings, two a day beginning the following Monday morning. Given Rubenstein’s litigation threat at the end of our last meeting, I had decided to launch the first missiles. I assumed Rob Crane was calling to announce the litigation equivalent of the Normandy Invasion.

  “He didn’t mention depositions. He didn’t mention any reason. He just said he needed to talk to you. He asked me to tell you to call him. He said it’s important.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you need his number?”

  “I’m sure it’s in my BlackBerry.”

  Just then a pair of Hispanic guys came around from the back.

  “Gotta go, Dorian. Thanks.”

  They were heading toward the pickup closest to me. I put down the phone, grabbed my camera, and snapped a hurried shot of one of them climbing into the driver’s side. I took another one, better framed, of the back of the truck as it pulled away.

  I checked my watch. 4:33 p.m.

  I looked up to see a tall, lanky black man in jeans and a t-shirt stride toward the last pickup on the street. He was unhooking a tool belt. I took a photo of him as he slung the tool belt into the bed of the truck, and I took another one of the back of the truck as he pulled away.

  I glanced over at the pickup in the driveway and then toward the back area where all of the other men had emerged. Nothing.

  My cell phone rang. The caller ID showed ROBERT CRANE.

  I looked out toward the truck and back down at the phone—irritated that he’d called me on my cell phone, then recalling that my cell phone number was listed on my letterhead along with the office phone.

  I clicked the Answer button.

  “Yes?”

  “Rachel? Rob Crane.”

  “What is it, Rob?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Not over the phone. In person.”

  “Why in person?”

  “I’ll explain it then.”

  “Is this about the deposition?”

  “I’d rather talk to you in person.”

  “If you have a minor scheduling problem, fine. Otherwise, I’m not budging. You have any other problems with the depositions, file a motion. I’ll see you in court.”

  “Wait.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not calling about the depositions, Rachel.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “I have to tell you in person. You free for a drink after work?

  “No.”

  “How about lunch tomorrow? You’re in the Central West End. I can meet you at Herbie’s.”

  I frowned in disbelief.

  “You want to do this over lunch?”

  “Why not? I think you’re going to like what I have to tell you.”

  I clicked over to the calendar screen on my BlackBerry. I had no lunch plans for tomorrow.

  “I’m out of the office now,” I said. “I’ll have to check my calendar in the morning.”

  “Fair enough. Meanwhile, I’ll have my secretary make reservations for noon. If I don’t hear from you in the morning, I’ll assume we’re on for lunch.”

  A man came out from around the back of the house. He was a white guy in his forties—average height, powerful build, close-trimmed beard, smoking a cigarette. He wore jeans, a short-sleeve Hawaiian-print shirt, construction boots, and a faded St. Louis Blues hat.

  “Rachel?” Crane said.

  “That’s fine, Rob. I’ll call you in the morning if there’s a problem. I have to go.”

  I clicked the disconnect button, set the BlackBerry on the passenger seat and picked up the camera. The guy was already in the pickup by then. I tried zooming in on the truck cab, but the angle w
as bad and the glare off the passenger window distorted what little of his profile was visible.

  He appeared to be talking on a cell phone. I waited, glancing from the pickup toward the rear area of the house, hoping to see some large white bald guy emerge from back there.

  Five minutes passed. No one else joined him. He started the engine and backed out of the driveway. Still not sure what I was doing, I started my engine. I waited until he turned the corner and then pulled away from the curb in the same direction. I stayed a block back as we wended our way out of the subdivision and back toward Highway 70.

  I checked my watch as we approached the highway entrance. 5:20 p.m.

  My mother had her mahjong tonight, which included dinner with her girlfriends as well. That meant I needed to get home to make dinner for Sam and Sarah.

  He had on his left turn signal, which meant he was getting on the highway heading west—the opposite direction that I needed to go. He slowed the pickup to get behind the long line of vehicles in the left lane. As I passed him on the right, I glanced over. The cab was too high to see anything but the top of his hat.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Lunch with Rob Crane.

  Our first meal together since our one date back in high school. That meal—dinner—had also been here, back when it was Café Balaban, although I doubt that Rob Crane remembered that connection when he had his secretary make the lunch reservation. Judging from the reaction of the attractive young hostess at the front desk—“Oh, Mr. Crane, good afternoon to you, sir!”—Rob was a frequent guest.

  Our first meal here, more than two decades ago, had started awkwardly—and, as the night wore on, grew increasingly uncomfortable.

  This one—well, the only word that came to mind was weird.

  Our only interaction since high school had been as increasingly hostile adversaries in the Ruby Productions TIF case. While I’d occasionally fantasized about breaking his neck, I’d never fantasized about breaking bread with him. In light of the depositions of his witnesses that I’d scheduled for next week, which would no doubt trigger notices for the depositions of half of the Brittany Woods neighborhood during the following weeks, I was having trouble figuring out why we were seated in these elegant surroundings—me with an asparagus omelet with Gruyère cheese and a glass of chenin blanc, he with a hanger steak, fries, and a pale ale—talking about the current exhibit at the Contemporary Art Museum.