by Michael Kahn
Muriel set the platter of cookies on the sideboard.
“I don’t understand,” she said, turning toward us. “Seven council members. They needed four votes to get this TIF thing approved. Furman, Reynolds—okay, they were goners from the start. You can count on them to say yes to whatever increases tax revenues. But the other five—I thought no way would any of them go for that TIF. Especially Mary O’Conner and Milt Bornstein. Milt grew up right here in Brittany Woods. Two blocks over. I knew his parents, I knew his whole family. Always voted Democrat. Milt even worked for McCarthy in New Hampshire back in ‘Sixty-eight. How did those Ruby Production goniffs ever convince Milt to go against his old neighbors? It’s a shanda, I tell you. Same with Mary. She didn’t grow up here, but she’s a good liberal. I marched with her in Washington at that Moratorium in 1969. We rode up there together on the bus from St. Louis. She thinks Al Gore walks on water. How can you march on Washington and love Al Gore and vote for this TIF?”
She shook her head in angry frustration. “There has to be a way to stop this. What else can we do, Rachel?”
“Our options are limited,” I said. “I’m taking Ken Rubenstein’s deposition this Friday. The courts don’t give us much leeway in those depositions, but I’m hoping to get something out of him. I’ve also filed a Sunshine request with the City of Cloverdale.”
“What’s a Sunshine request?” Cletus Johnson asked.
“It’s a state law that requires government bodies to turn over copies of all their files on a subject. I served the request on the city clerk last Friday. That means they have to turn over their files tomorrow.”
“Nu?” said Jerry Weiner.
Jerry was in his seventies. He was skinny and completely bald with enormous protruding ears. He sat with his cane upright on the floor between his knees, his hands crossed over the top of the curved cane handle, his chin resting on his hands.
“Jerry?” I said.
“What kind of files are we talking about?”
I shrugged. “Hard to say. The city clerk gathers up all the council members’ documents after each meeting. You have all the usual stuff—agenda, bulletins, you name it. Sometimes the only other stuff in there are doodles. But occasionally something worthwhile ends up in that pile.”
I smiled.“So keep your fingers crossed.”
He held up his hand, fingers crossed. “Aye, aye, Counselor.”
Jerry Weiner was one of my favorites. Although he was frail and hunched over, he was a Brittany Woods legend for his homegrown tomatoes, which he grew in a fenced-in area that took up almost his entire backyard. During the harvest season he kept two wooden bushel baskets on his front porch, which he replenished with fresh-picked tomatoes each day for anyone in the neighborhood to take. I’d had a few, and they were delicious.
“Rachela,” Jerry said with a smile. “I think this is a first.”
“A first what?”
He gave me a wink. “When I was in business, Rachela, I learned one thing. When they told you it wasn’t about the money but the principle, guess what? It was only about the money. Principle, shminciple. Forget about it. But this crew here?” He looked around. “Cletus. Walter. Miguel. Yolanda. I think when these people tell you it isn’t about the money, guess what? It isn’t about the money. This crew here, Rachela, these clients of yours, they got moxie. This is a roomful of mensches. I’m proud to call them neighbors.”
As I say, the case haunts me.
Chapter Twelve
I placed the gray pebble on top of Jonathan’s headstone, right next to the ones that Sarah, Sam, and I had placed there last Sunday when we visited the cemetery. I laid my hand on the granite, which was cold in the morning air, and closed my eyes.
After a moment, I shook my head and said, “Girls are awful, Jonathan. Just awful.”
At the foot of the two graves was a granite memorial bench with WOLF carved on the front. I took a seat and tried to get my thoughts and emotions in order. I’d come home last night from the meeting at Muriel’s house to find Sarah sitting cross-legged on her bed, eyes red, clutching her teddy bear, a John Mayer song on the radio. I sat down next to her, took her hand in mine, and listened to the music with her. Eventually, she told me what happened.
Raising two stepdaughters served as a constant reminder of how hard it is to grow up, especially if you’re a girl. Sarah had once again been caught in what I’d come to call the Toxic Trio. Put three girls together—on an elementary school playground, a high school cafeteria, a Starbucks in the mall—and invariably two of them will gang up to snub the third. Sarah had been the third that day, and it left her devastated. So we hugged and talked and I made her a cup of hot cocoa and tucked her in bed and sang “Puff the Magic Dragon” and told her how much I loved her and kissed her goodnight and turned off her light.
Then I went down the hall to my bedroom and sat alone in the dark for nearly an hour. I’d thought back to my elementary and middle school days, which were the years that I’d been such a determined tomboy. Oh, sure, I loved kickball and soccer, and was lucky enough to be competitive with the boys in both sports. But as I sat there on the edge of the bed in the dark I thought that maybe the whole tomboy thing was a defense mechanism, a way to avoid those awful girl cliques on the playground.
Although Sarah seemed happy again in the morning, I was dealing with my own Toxic Trio by then—my anger over the way her “friends” had hurt her, my frustration over the Frankenstein case, and my yearning for Jonathan. His absence was just a dull ache most days, a piece of my soul that was simply missing, like the missing piece for my father. But this morning I awoke from a dream about Jonathan, and the pain I felt when I realized it was just a dream, that my husband was gone forever, that he would never hug me again or run his fingers through my hair or zip up the back of my dress before a party—well, I felt as if all of the joy had been sucked out of me.
Sam rescued me. He came in the room in his Cardinals pajamas a few minutes later, Yadi trailing behind. He climbed into bed, gave me a kiss, and—paraphrasing my wake-up greeting to him most days—said, “Good morning, Supergirl. Time to rise and shine.”
The cemetery was just a few blocks from Sam’s elementary school. After I dropped him off I decided I needed to spend some time there before heading to the office. I needed to steel myself for the day, for the week.
For some unfathomable reason, spending time at Jonathan’s grave comforted me. I say “unfathomable” because little about the gravesite was comforting, beginning with the side-by-side headstones of my husband and his first wife. The pair of dates etched onto each headstone was solemn evidence of life’s unfairness. Robyn Wolf died at the age of 33 of ovarian cancer, leaving behind two young daughters. Jonathan Wolf died at the age of 44. He’d been determined to get home from a two-week trial in Tulsa in time for our wedding anniversary. Rather then wait for the next commercial flight, which included a change of planes in Kansas City and a one-hour layover that wouldn’t get him home until eleven that night, he’d hitched a ride on his client’s corporate jet, which took off in a thunderstorm and crashed ten miles east in a oilfield, killing all aboard. He was supposed to be home by seven o’clock. I made dinner reservations for eight o’clock. The call came in around midnight.
Jonathan had been an Orthodox Jew. I was raising his daughters and our son in the Jewish tradition, albeit back at my Reform congregation. I still light the candles and say the blessings on Friday night and go to shul to say Kaddish on his yahrzeit and on my father’s yahrzeit. But Jonathan’s death—coupled with his first wife’s death and the tragedies that have befallen some of my friends—have made me wonder whether the only religion that actually makes sense out of life’s nonsense, that reconciles all of the injustices, is the religion of the ancient Greeks. In a world ruled by a mob of unruly, hot-tempered, meddlesome deities, it isn’t surprising that good things happened to bad people and bad things happen
ed to good people. Up on Mount Olympus, shit happens because the gods say so.
The other unsettling aspect of the paired gravesites is their location. To the left was a double headstone for Robyn’s father (who had died two years before Robyn) and her mother (who was still alive), and beyond that double headstone to the left was an entire line of tightly packed gravesites. On the right side of their pair gravesites stood a large memorial for the Schwartz family, several of whom were buried in a row. The result, when I was seated alone on the memorial bench, was an acute sense of solitude. There was no room for me.
Although I don’t typically seek solace from Rebbe Chandler, his wisdom helps me on the subject of burial plots. What did it matter where you lay once you were dead? his protagonist Marlowe muses as he contemplates the final resting place of Rusty Regan. In a dirty sump or in a marble tower on top of a high hill? You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep, you were not bothered by things like that. Oil and water were the same as wind and air to you.
Maybe so, I tell myself. Maybe so.
A few moments later, I stood, kissed the top of Jonathan’s headstone, and headed down the pathway toward my car. As always after visiting his grave, I felt a little better—and almost serene.
The feeling lasted through the drive to my office in the Central West End and up to the moment I stepped into the reception area of Gold & Brand, Attorneys At Law.
“Oh, Rachel,” my assistant said. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“My cell phone battery is dead. What’s up?”
“Barry Graham called. He says it’s important. He needs to talk to you right away.”
“Did he say about what?”
“No. He said to call him as soon as you got in.”
So I did.
“I found you a witness,” Barry said.
“Really?” I leaned forward in my chair and picked up a pen. “Who is it?”
“I can’t say.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s his condition. He made that very clear. He’ll meet with you and he’ll tell you what he saw that night—but only if you agree in advance to keep everything absolutely confidential. That means you can never tell anyone—especially the police—who he is or what he saw.”
“What did he see?”
“I don’t know. He won’t tell me.”
“Do you think he’s legit?”
Barry chuckled. “Most definitely.”
“Okay,” I said, a bit uncertainly.
“Do you agree to his terms?”
Do I have a better option?, I asked myself. I’d been nosing around for two weeks and hadn’t been able to poke a hole—or even a dent—in the official version of Nick’s death.
“I agree.”
“Do you have lunch plans today?”
I glanced at my calendar. “No.”
“Perfect. Let’s meet at Llywelyn’s Pub. One o’clock. Okay?”
“I’ll be there.”
Chapter Thirteen
Barry Graham was in a booth near the front of Llywelyn’s Pub. I gave him a kiss on the cheek and slid in on the opposite side of the table.
“How are you, Counselor?” he asked.
I said, “You’re looking quite handsome today.”
“And you’re looking quite ravishing. As always.”
The waitress had followed me to the table and took my order for an iced tea, which is what Barry was already drinking.
With his silver hair, square jaw, and gray eyes framed in elegantly round tortoise-shell glasses, Barry Graham could have passed for a successful partner in a major law firm, which is what he had once been. Three years ago, and just two years shy of his fiftieth birthday, he gave up his practice to pursue his passion by opening the Graham Gallery on Maryland Avenue in the Central West End. Within those three years, he’d become one of the more influential art dealers in town.
We’d met as opposing counsel in a lawsuit back in his litigator days and had become friends by the time our clients settled the case on the first day of trial. I’ve even represented him in a copyright matter involving an artist. He invites me to his gallery openings, I invite him to our annual client appreciation party, and we try to get together for lunch two or three times a year. Our favorite spot is Llywelyn’s, a Celtic pub within walking distance of our offices. We usually try for a late lunch on a Friday, which gives us an excuse for a pint of Guinness or Newcastle. But this was early in the week—and thus the iced tea.
During the early days after my meeting with Nick Moran’s sister Susannah, I’d asked several gay friends, including Barry, to put the word out in their community to see whether anyone knew anything at all about Nick’s life or death.
“I ordered your lunch already,” he said.
“Oh?” I gave him a curious look. “What am I having?”
“I assumed that by one o’clock you’d be nice and famished.”
I smiled. “The Famous?”
He nodded. “Of course.”
The Famous was Llywelyn’s beloved steak sandwich: a marinated flank steak covered in pepper cheese and fried onions and stuffed in a hearty roll. Although it was delicious, it was also too much to eat in one sitting, at least for me.
“What about you?” I asked.
“Nothing. I’m leaving in two minutes.”
“What do you mean?”
He leaned forward, his voice low. “The waitress will deliver your lunch three booths back on my left. There’s a man in there already. He’s waiting for you.”
I leaned out of the booth but could see nothing. Whoever was in the booth had his back to me.
“He’s the witness?” I asked softly.
Barry nodded.
I leaned back in. “Who is he?”
Barry shook his head. “No names. That’s part of the deal. If you happen to recognize him, pretend you don’t. It’ll only make him more skittish. He’ll tell you what he saw, answer any questions, and then he’ll leave. The deal is that you will never try to contact him again and you will never tell anyone, including the police, what he told you.”
“I understand.”
I took a sip of tea and studied Barry.
“How do you know him?” I asked.
“He’s a client. I’ve sold him several paintings and sculptures.”
“This part of his life—it’s not public?”
Barry nodded.
“Why is he willing to talk with me?”
Barry’s expression softened. “Because he thinks it’s the right thing to do. As corny as it may sound, that’s the type of person he is. He’s a deeply religious man. He thought about it and prayed on it and decided to talk to you.”
He checked his watch. “Your food should be out any minute. You better go join him.”
I reached across the table and squeeze his hand. “Thank you, Barry.”
He smiled and stood. “Good luck, Rachel.”
I watched him leave.
I took a sip of tea as I peered out the window. A moment later Barry Graham came into view crossing the street. I watched him head down the sidewalk and around the corner.
I stood, picked up my glass of iced tea, and stepped out of the booth. Three booths down I could see the back of a bald man’s head. He was wearing a brown suit and sipping a cup of coffee.
I took a deep breath, exhaled, and stepped toward his booth.
Chapter Fourteen
The man in the brown suit looked up. He was in his late forties, slightly overweight.
“Hello,” I said.
He nodded, lowering his eyes.
I slid into the booth across from him. He had thinning brown hair, a pudgy nose, and wire-rimmed glasses. Under his brown suit jacket he was wearing a white dress shirt and a red-and-yellow striped tie.
I s
aid, “I appreciate you meeting with me.”
He took a sip of coffee and set the mug down carefully. He was clearly agitated.
The waitress arrived with my lunch. He didn’t look up as she set it down.
“Anything else, honey?” she asked me.
“No, thanks.”
“More coffee, sir?”
He shook his head, eyes down, and adjusted his tie.
I took a bite of my sandwich and gazed at him.
I recognized him, of course. He was the son of the founder of one of the largest privately held companies in town. He was, as I recalled, the executive vice-president and COO. Two of his brothers were in the business as well, although in less prominent roles. Their father, now in his late seventies, was still the CEO and chairman of the board and still arrived at the office each morning at six-thirty, according to a piece that ran earlier in the year in the Post-Dispatch.
Theirs was a prominent Catholic family—prominent in charities and community affairs, prominent in the Church. When Pope John Paul II visited St. Louis in 1999, the entire family had a special audience with the Holy Father. The family name was on a wing of a local hospital, on a science building at a local university, and on a pavilion at the zoo.
He was married and the father of six. In a profile of him that appeared in the St. Louis Business Journal last year, the reporter wrote about his deep love of soccer. Although he routinely put in seventy to eighty hours of work each week—arriving at seven in the morning, rarely leaving before seven at night, six days a week—he still found time to coach his kids’ soccer teams, often returning to the office after the games. He sat on the boards of the St. Louis Zoo and the Contemporary Art Museum.
