Flinch Factor, The Page 18

  “Both of them?”

  “Yep.”

  “But the third vote?” My mother frowned. “There was no Corundum building permit issued to that one.”

  “Right.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I don’t know. His name is Kirkton. He’s actually the mayor. I had Dorian do a title search on his house. There were no building permits on his house. In fact, he hadn’t had any work done his house that required a permit for the entire eighteen years he’d owned the house. But that Amity stuff got me thinking about whether there might be a similar pattern in any of the other towns where we’d found Corundum building permits. We had a list of seven city officials with permits—two each in three cities and one in the fourth. I asked Dorian to do some research—to figure out whether there’d been a TIF project in that city in the past few years, and if so, the name of the developer and the votes of the city counsel on the motion to approve the TIF.”

  “The evidence is all here,” my mother said, looking toward the documents.

  “All four towns?”

  “All four. And the developer on all four projects was Ruby Productions.”

  “So we’re five for five.” I leaned back in my chair and frowned. “That sure sounds like more than a coincidence. And the seven city officials? Did each vote in favor of their city’s TIF proposal?”

  “They did.” She stood. “Take a look for yourself. I’ll pour tea. I made us some fresh cookies.”

  It didn’t take me long to confirm what my mother had told me. Four cities, four TIFs, all involving Ruby Productions. Four city council approvals, with all seven of the city officials with Corundum Construction building permits voting in favor of the TIFs. But just as in Amity, the city officials with Corundum permits were in the majority but did not constitute the entire majority. In the three cities where we’d identified two city officials each, the vote had been three to two in one of the cities and four to three in the other two. As for the city of Edgewood, where only one city official had a home renovated by Corundum, the vote had been three to two in favor of the TIF.

  My mom poured us each a mug of tea and set down a plate of her oatmeal raisin cookies.

  Another flash of lightning, another crack of thunder. The rain was coming down so hard now that the gutters above the kitchen windows were overflowing. A translucent sheet of water cascaded down the eaves outside the window.

  “So?” my mother said.

  I sighed. “This is not what I wanted.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not an investigative reporter here, Mom. I’m just trying to find out what happened to Nick. That witness from Forest Park helped make the Corundum Construction connection through a license plate number, and since then I’ve just been trying to follow that trail to someone in the company who can tell what, if anything, they know about Nick’s death. This—” a gestured toward the documents “—is entirely different.”

  “But maybe part of the same trail,” my mother said.

  “I don’t see it.”

  “What did Corundum and Nick Moran have in common, Honey? They both did renovations. Maybe Nick had some connection to that Corundum outfit. A friend, maybe. A boyfriend. Someone he did drugs with.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe that big fat guy will give you the answer.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “He was panicky when he left the office yesterday. Freaked out. I was hoping we’d hear from him today. Nothing.”

  “Maybe tomorrow?”

  I shrugged. “With each day it gets less likely.”

  “What then?”

  “If we can’t get him to talk, we have the name of his supervisor. We could try to track him down, see what he knows, but he’s probably the wrong guy. We need to get higher up in the company.”

  “How do you do that?”

  I shrugged. “Since we can’t find any information about the company, we need to find someone who had dealings with the higher ups. Like those city council members.”

  “Who won’t talk to you.”

  I sighed. “Correct.”

  “Which means you need to figure out a way to convince one of them to talk to you. You need to find some…what do you call it?”

  “Leverage?”

  “Exactly. So, how can you get some leverage?”

  The idea arrived in synch with a flash of lightning outside.

  “You’re a genius, Mom.”

  “What?”

  “Leverage.”

  “So?”

  “Cloverdale.”

  “What about it?”

  “The vote on the Brittany Woods TIF. It was four to three. We never searched the Cloverdale City Hall records for Corundum building permits.”

  My mother’s eyes widened. “Oh, my God.”

  “If the pattern holds true in Cloverdale, there should be at least one.”

  “You might be right.”

  “I’ll know tomorrow.”

  “What if you are? What will you do?”

  I smiled. “Use a little leverage.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  In addition to his seat on the Cloverdale city council, Milt Bornstein was a professor of journalism at one of the local community colleges. The information posted on his faculty web page stated that he had office hours every Thursday morning from 10:30 to noon. I drove over to the college after a morning court hearing and arrived about 11:30. His office door was closed. I could hear muffled sounds of conversation inside.

  According to the bumper stickers and other detritus affixed to his office door, Professor Bornstein was a card-carrying member of the ACLU and PETA, a fan of NewYorker cartoonist Roz Chast, a lover of vegans and organic produce, a hater of SUVs and Wal-Mart, a big fan of U2, and a bigger fan of Bono. His door, in short, suggested that its owner could risk great physical harm at a cocktail party if he ran into Benny Goldberg.

  I knew one key fact about Milt Bornstein beyond the contents of his door—a fact that added a touch of irony to his office hours, which followed a class he taught in ethics. I’d learned that fact at the Cloverdale city hall during the two hours I’d spent yesterday afternoon searching the city’s building records. The only building permit issued to Corundum Construction over the past five years was for the construction of an in-ground swimming pool at 1220 Columbia Avenue. The building permit had been issued almost two months to the day before the final vote of the Cloverdale city council in favor of the Brittany Woods TIF project. One of the four yes votes on that motion was also one of the owners of the home at 1220 Columbia Avenue. According to the title records, those owners were Dr. and Mrs. Milton S. Bornstein.

  I took a seat in the chair against the wall next to the closed door. Across the hall was a large window with a southern exposure that looked out on a sight not visible in St. Louis for almost four days: the sun. The rain finally ended sometime last night after midnight. Yadi and I had headed out this morning on our three-mile jog under a welcome blue sky.

  The door to Bornstein’s office opened.

  “Next Friday will be fine,” he was saying from inside.

  An Asian-American woman was backing out of the office, her hand on the door. She had a backpack slung over her right shoulder.

  “Thank you, Professor.”

  A male voice from inside said, “Just email me the outline by Monday.”

  “I will do that, sir. Thank you.”

  “No problema.”

  She nodded at me and then walked quickly down the hallway.

  I stood and moved over to the doorway. Milt Bornstein was seated behind his cluttered desk, jotting something onto a yellow legal pad. I knocked against the door.

  “Come in,” he said without looking up.

  He was stil
l writing as I took the seat facing the desk. He was bent over the legal pad, giving me an unobstructed view of his bald head. He wore a blue chambray shirt rolled up to his elbows and a red and blue striped bowtie. On the wall behind him were three framed posters: Che Guevera in his beret, Bob Marley in his dreadlocks, and the advertising poster for All the President’s Men—the one with the young Dustin Hoffman and Robert Redford in sports coats and loosened ties staring into the distance below the tagline The Most Devastating Detective Story of this Century.

  “Yes?” Bornstein said, raising his head. His eyebrows arched in surprise. “Miss Gold?”

  “Professor.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Are we allowed to do that? I mean, didn’t you sue us?”

  “That case is over. It’s been settled and dismissed.”

  He nodded and scratched his neck. Milt Bornstein was a skinny, fidgety man in his late forties with a high bald forehead, long ears, and big brown eyes. He had a sharp nose, thin lips and an almost scrawny neck.

  He said, “Your clients must be delighted.”

  “They are.”

  He shrugged. “Life marches on, Counselor. We on the city council shall seek other means to grow our city’s future.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “So what is it we need to discuss?”

  “Corundum Construction Company.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Who do you know there?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Who did you deal with?”

  “What makes you think I deal with anyone at…what’s that company name again?”

  “Corundum.”

  He frowned. “Corundum? Who are they?”

  “The company that’s building your pool.”

  “Oh, yes. That Corundum. Yes. Of course. Who did I deal with?”

  “That’s my question.”

  He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin.

  “Tell me, Miss Gold, why is that of any interest to you?”

  “That’s confidential.”

  “Oh, really.” He gave a cold smile. “Then I’m afraid that my contact information is confidential.”

  “Perhaps not for long.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Are they still going to build your pool?”

  “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “The TIF fell through.”

  He leaned forward in his chair and glared at me, his nostrils flared. “What exactly are you trying to imply, Miss Gold?”

  I gazed back. “Come on, Milt. You know exactly what I am implying.”

  “I am deeply offended. This meeting is over.” He stood. “Please get out here.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Go.”

  I gazed up at him. “Sit down.”

  “What?”

  “Sit down, Milt. I’m not done.”

  He stared at me, eyes blinking. After a moment, he took a seat and started strumming his fingernails against the desktop at a staccato pace.

  “This is an absolute outrage,” he said.

  “Relax, Milt. I’m not an investigative reporter.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I’m not here today to expose you and your sordid little deal. I’m not here to dig up dirt.”

  He drummed his fingers as he stared at me.“How am I supposed to know that’s true?”

  “Because I say it is.”

  He snorted. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Frankly, Milt, I don’t care how it makes you feel. I’m looking for some specific information about Corundum Construction Company that you should have. My suggestion is that you talk to me.”

  “Why should I talk to you?”

  “Because what I care about is a lot different than what a cop or an FBI agent will care about. Okay?”

  He was rapping his fingernails against the desktop, his lips pursed, staring at his desktop.

  He looked up and met my gaze. “What is it you care about?”

  “A death.”

  His eyes widened. “Someone was killed?”

  “I didn’t say killed, Milt. Just a death. Maybe it was an accident, maybe it wasn’t.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s not your concern.”

  “I don’t know anything about a death.”

  “I didn’t say you did, Milt.”

  “Then what do you want from me?”

  “Some information about your contractor. For reasons that you understand better than I do, Corundum Construction Company is a secretive organization. It appears to be a shell corporation that has done a careful job of concealing its owners from the public. I’m here for their names. I want to know who you dealt with.”

  “Why?”

  “Because one of those people will have information about that death.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “That’s not your concern, Milt.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t need to understand. All you need to do is give me the names of the people associated with Corundum that you dealt with.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  I shrugged. “To paraphrase Bette Davis in All About Eve, ‘Fasten your seatbelt, Milt, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  I stared at him. “Yes.”

  He lowered his eyes.

  “Well?” I said.

  “I need to think this over.”

  I took out a business card and slid it across the desk toward him. “You have twenty-four hours.”

  “And then what?”

  I stood and gazed down at him.

  “And then this is no longer a private conversation.” I checked my watch. “Noon tomorrow. I’ll look forward to your call.”

  I turned and walked out.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Back in the office that afternoon I returned to my list of sixteen St. Louis law firms with offices in more than one city. The first day I’d tracked down the document ID number in the databases of five of those firms and came up 0 for five. I’d hoped to finish the list yesterday but had only been able to reach lawyers at two more firms, which left nine.

  Next on the list was Beckman & Boyce, a 100-lawyer St. Louis firm with smaller Missouri offices in Kansas City, Jefferson City, and Springfield. I knew several lawyers at the firm, including Rob Crane and his litigation entourage, but considered only one of them—a young trusts-and-estates partner named Roberta Bronson—a friend. We served together on the board of a local arts organization.

  I dialed her number. She answered. After some small talk, I shifted to the point of the call. Since she was a trusts-and-estates partner, I described the mystery document as a power of attorney.

  “No names?” she said.

  “They’ve been redacted. But there is a document ID at the bottom of the page. It looks like a St. Louis document. I’m hoping it’s yours.”

  “Let’s check. What’s the number?”

  I gave it to her.

  I could hear the clicking of her keyboard.

  “A power of attorney?” she asked. “Is that it?”

  “No. It’s some sort of release.”

  “What do you mean ‘some sort’?”

  “The document title is ‘Corundum release.’” Trying to sound nonchalant, I said, “Oh, well.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No problem. I appreciate you looking, Roberta. By the way, does the document profile show the author?”

  “Let’s see. R.L. Crane.”

  “Rob Crane?”

  “Yes, Mr. Crane.�
�

  “What a coincidence. I may have seen that very release in a case I had with him. Does the profile have a Create Date?”

  “Last Wednesday.”

  “What about a client?”

  “That’s odd. It just says Firm Miscellaneous.”

  “It must be another case.”

  “I can open it and—”

  “—No. Don’t do that.”

  “Uh, okay.”

  “Your system probably records every time someone opens a document. I don’t want Crane thinking you’re snooping around in his documents. Thanks again, Roberta.”

  “Sure thing. If you need a power of attorney, I’ll be happy to send you one of mine.”

  “Thanks. If I can’t trace this document down, I may take you up on that offer.”

  I hung up, leaned back in my chair and stared out the window.

  “Jeez,” I said.

  “I’ll say.”

  I turned to see Jacki standing in the doorway.

  “Huh?” I said.

  “You heard already?”

  “Heard what?

  “You are not going to believe this. Go to the Post-Dispatch website.”

  Jacki came around the desk to stand behind me as I typed in the Internet address—www.stltoday.com—and clicked Enter.”

  The page opened.

  “Look at the Top Headlines section,” Jacki said over my shoulder. “Check out what’s new.”

  On the upper right side of the page was a bullet-point column entitled Top Headlines. The first three items were tagged in red as NEW:

  NEW One-car crash kills Hillsboro man

  NEW Court reverses sitter’s conviction in infant’s death

  NEW Body found in River Des Peres drainage ditch

  “Click on the third one,” Jacki said.

  I did. It opened on the following story:

  Police Investigating Body Found

  In River Des Peres Drainage Ditch

  St .Louis Post-Dispatch

  St. Louis, Mo. — Metropolitan Sewer District employees discovered a body this morning in the River Des Peres drainage ditch just south of Forest Park near the entrance to the underground portion of the river. The MSD workers were driving through the area at Macklind and Berthold, where they were checking on pipes in the aftermath of the heavy rainfall. They spotted the male body facedown in the receding storm waters and called the police.