by Michael Kahn
He glanced at me and then looked down at his mug.
In a gentle voice I asked, “What can you tell me?”
“I was in the park that night.”
He said it quietly.
I sipped my iced tea.
“I didn’t know he was dead,” he said. “I didn’t even know it was him.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I was…there is this street…more of a lane…in the park, Forest Park…it’s near the woods—the lane, I mean, and—”
“I know about the lane.”
He nodded, eyes averted.
“Go on,” I said.
“I’d worked late that night, until maybe nine o’clock. I was tense and tired. I decided to stop there on the way home. I’d had a rough day, I was feeling tense, and I, well, I was…”
“I understand.”
He stared at his coffee mug.
“I’m here because of Nick’s sister,” I said. “She loved him. She asked me to look into his death. I understand this is difficult for you, sir. I promise that whatever you tell me I will never repeat. Never. You have my word on that.”
He nodded.
After a moment, he said, “I first noticed the truck when I got out of my car.”
“What truck?”
“A pickup truck. A large one. It was parked directly behind my car. It must have been parked there already when I arrived, because I didn’t notice it pull in behind me. I would have noticed. It was dark by then. It would have had its headlights on. So it was there already. I got out of my car and walked back down the lane past the pickup truck. There was no one in it. When I came back, it was still empty.”
“How long had you been away?”
“Maybe twenty minutes.”
“What happened next?”
“I got back in my car and tried to decide what to do—whether to go home or not. Another pickup truck passed by and pulled into the space right in front of me. As it passed, I saw the words “Moran Renovations” on the side panel. That’s why I paid attention. I know—er, knew—Nick.”
“How?”
“He did our kitchen and a rec room in the basement. I knew him pretty well—or thought I did. I was surprised.”
“Surprised?”
“To see his truck there. I didn’t think Nick was, you know—”
“Right.”
“Anyway, when I saw it was his truck it was like a jolt of adrenalin. I was confused to see him there and didn’t know whether I wanted him to see me or what. I was sitting there trying to get my wits about me when the driver—who I assumed was Nick—turned off the engine and turned off the lights. I could tell there were two people in the cab from the backs of their heads, but that was about all I could tell. It looked like the one on the passenger side was asleep.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It looked like he was resting his head against the window. But it was dark. I couldn’t tell anything for sure. Then the driver’s door opened. I slid down. I didn’t want Nick to see me. But it wasn’t Nick. I had my head low but I could still see.”
“Did you recognize who it was?”
“No. I could just see he was a big man, bigger than Nick. Over six feet—probably six two or six three. He easily weighed more than two hundred pounds. A big man. Bald, I think. Or at least very short hair. It was a dark night. I couldn’t see any features.”
He was staring at me as he spoke, his eyes intense behind the thick lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses.
He shook his head. “I didn’t know what was going on.”
“So the big guy,” I said, “the one who was driving, he got out of the pickup. And then?”
“Right. He walked past my car and got into the other pickup truck, the one behind me. The one that had been empty the whole time I was there. He turned on the engine, pulled out of space, and drove off.”
“What did you do?”
“I did the same. I started my car and drove off.”
“Did you look into Nick’s pickup as you passed?”
“I didn’t pass it. I made a U-turn and drove back the way I came. I didn’t want to go past his truck. I didn’t want Nick to see me.”
“Could you tell whether Nick was the man on the passenger side?
He shook his head. “It was dark. I was anxious to get out of there. I didn’t even try to look.”
“Could you describe the other pickup? The one the big guy got into.”
“It was too dark to tell the color. I’m not real good with pickup truck brands. It was big. I know that much. I’ve looked at pickup models on the Internet, trying to identify it. It might have been a Dodge. But I couldn’t say for sure.”
I nodded, trying to mask my frustration. “Anything else happen after you drove off?”
“That was it.”
“Okay.”
“I did write down the license plate.”
I stared at him. “Whose?”
“The one on the big truck. I saw the license plate when it pulled out in front of me. I’m not sure why, but the number stuck in my head. Maybe because I was so nervous. It was still in my head when I found out about Nick, so I wrote it down. I wrote it down on a sheet of paper.”
“Do you still have that paper?”
He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out an envelope. “I brought it with me. I hope it helps.”
He handed it to me. I put the unopened envelope in my purse.
“Thank you,” I said.
He nodded and took out his wallet. “That’s all I know. Unless you have any more questions, I’m going to leave.”
He placed a five dollar bill near his coffee mug.
“Thank you for doing this,” I said. “I admire your courage.”
He frowned, staring at the empty coffee mug.
“There’s nothing courageous about me, Miss Gold. I’ve come here today in secret because that part of my life is secret.” He shook his head. “This is the act of a coward. A sinner and a coward. I should have gone to the police the very next day. That would have been the right thing to do. But then I would have had to explain why I was there that night, and then my family—my wife, my children, my father—they would have found out about me, about my secret. I took the coward’s way. I am a weak man.”
“Not to me.”
He looked up, his eyes red.
“Not to me,” I repeated. “Today took courage.”
He stood and shook his head. “You are kind, Miss Gold. May God bless you.”
He turned and hurried out of the pub.
I took another sip of tea as I thought over our conversation, over what I’d learned and what it might mean. I took the envelope out of my purse and tore it open. Inside was a folded sheet of bond paper. I unfolded the sheet and placed it flat on the table. Handwritten in blue ink at the top of the page were the words “MO license” followed by a combination of three letters and three numbers.
I took out my cell phone and dialed a number. It was answered on the third ring.
“Detective Tomaso, please. Tell him it’s Rachel Gold.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Nearly a minute passed before he got on the phone.
“Hello, Gorgeous.”
“Hi, Bertie.”
“What’s up?”
“I’m not sure. I have a license plate number, though. Missouri plates.”
“And who do those Missouri plates belong to?”
“I have no idea. I was going to call Miss Cleo, the telephone psychic, but I can’t find her number. Then I was going to visit the Oracle of Delphi, but I can’t find Delphi on Mapquest.”
“It’s down near the Arkansas border. Try Google maps.”
“I was going to do that, but then I thought of the Oracle of Tomaso.”
“You’re clairvoyant.”
“Amazing, eh? If I run these plates today, will you still love me tomorrow?”
“I promise.”
“Last question: if and when you have reason to believe that the owner of these plates is somehow connected to a crime, do you promise to call me instead of doing something stupid on your own?”
“I promise to consider that.”
“Good Lord. Give me the damn number.”
I read it to him, and he read it back to make sure he had it right.
“I’ll have them run it,” he said. “I’ll call you back when I have something.”
“Thanks, Bertie.”
Chapter Fifteen
My secretary buzzed. “Benny’s here.”
I checked my watch. 4:50 p.m.
He’d gone downtown that afternoon for a meeting at the Federal Reserve Bank, which had retained him as a consultant on some trade regulation matter. He’d promised to drop by on his way home.
“It’s happy hour, Darling.”
Benny stood in the doorway. He had a six-pack of Schlafly’s Hefeweizen in one hand and a large white bag in the other. As he stepped into my office the tangy aroma of barbecue filled the air.
“That smells delicious.”
“Smoki O’s finest.”
Smoki O’s is a barbecue joint in the warehouse district on North Broadway, a hole in the wall that Benny stops at every time he’s downtown.
He took a seat over at my small work table, put the six-pack and the bag on the table, and gestured toward the empty seat next to him.
“Dig in.”
I joined him at the table as he lifted two foil-wrapped containers out of the bag.
“What’d you get us?”
“What do you think? Once upon a time, the Rachel Gold I knew could scarf down some real barbecue—back before she turned her home into a pork-free zone. But since we ain’t home, I went whole hog, so to speak.”
“Which parts?”
“Which parts? Come on. We’re talking Smoki O’s. That means we’re talking two parts.”
“Oh, no. Noses again?”
“Not noses, for chrissake. Snoots. And not just any snoots. These are primo snoots. Trust me, if the Rabbis of the Talmud had sampled Smoki O’s snoots, they’d have carved out an exception in the laws of kashruth.”
He unwrapped the foil on the containers and looked up with a smile.
“Plus rib tips, my sweet. Snoots and tips—best combo on the planet outside the bedroom.”
“You wore that outfit to meet with officials of the Federal Reserve?”
He gave me a puzzled frown and then looked down at his clothing. He was wearing baggy cargo pants and a navy blue sweatshirt over a red T-shirt. On the front of the sweatshirt was an official-looking logo that read Department of Redundancy Department. Benny was a Firesign Theater fan.
He shrugged. “Actually, the sweatshirt adds a touch of class to what might have been missing with just the T-shirt.”
“Which one is it?”
He leaned back and pulled the front of the sweatshirt over his ample belly to reveal the slogan on the red T-shirt: I AM THAT MAN FROM NANTUCKET.
I rolled my eyes. “Benny.”
“A line from a beautiful poem. My favorite. Meanwhile, it’s not like I was down there testifying before Congress. And believe me, those clowns lost all speaking privileges today.”
“Oh? What happened?”
“I get on their elevator and guess what’s playing over the goddam speakers?”
I couldn’t help but smile. “What?”
He opened a bottle of beer and handed it to me.
“The 101 Strings,” he said.
“Playing what?
“Brace yourself. AC/DC’s ‘Highway to Hell.’”
He shook his head in disgust.“Can you believe that? A fucking Muzak rendition of ‘Highway to Hell’? On an elevator owned by the federal government?”
“That’s pretty bad,” I conceded.
“Pretty bad? That shit is so wrong in so many ways that all you do is shake your head and say, ‘What the fuck?’”
“Which is what you said to them?”
“For starters. Then I told them the Founding Fathers would be spinning in their graves. I told them if you’re going to play AC/DC on government owned and operated elevators, do it the way Ben Franklin would have: electric guitars and all.”
“I must have missed that history lesson. I had always assumed Ben preferred the unplugged version.”
“Why do you think that crazy dude was out in a thunderstorm with a kite? Old Ben was a heavy metal freak.”
“These rib tips are delicious, Benny.”
“Where’s Jacki? She’s my snoot buddy.”
“She should be back any minute. She had a court hearing out in the county at two-thirty. Afterward, she was going to stop by the Cloverdale City Hall to pick up my Sunshine documents.”
“Oh, yeah. How’s Frankenstein going?”
“I’m taking Rubenstein’s deposition on Friday.”
“Got any decent ammo?”
“Not much. I’m hoping Jacki brings me back something to work with.”
“You better hope she brings back a photo of Rubenstein blowing a council member.”
“As my father would have said, from your lips to God’s ears.”
He scarfed down another snoot and took a big gulp of beer.
“How are things going with your dead guy?” he asked. “The one who was banging my Subaru colleague?”
“That’s what I’ve been working on this afternoon.”
“Turn up anything?”
“I don’t know. I can’t figure it out.”
“What do you have?”
“A license plate and a name.”
“Tell me.”
Without revealing the identity or anything else about my source, I told Benny about the license plate number from the pickup truck and its connection to Nick.
“Cops run the plates for you?”
I nodded.
“And?”
“The truck is registered to Corundum Construction Company.”
“Which is?”
I frowned. “I can’t figure that out.”
Benny crunched on another snoot as he thought it over.
“Makes sense,” he said.
“What makes sense?”
“Your guy did renovations on homes. That means he dealt with others in the construction industry. We can safely assume he wasn’t the only fegala doing renovations. He must have met the other guy on a job site.”
“That was my thought, too. I called Nick’s secretary Linda as soon as I got the license plate information. She told me that Nick never did any work with that company.”
“Maybe they were on same job site doing different things.”
“It’s possible, but Linda did a search of Nick’s records. She came up with nothing that indicated that Corundum Construction had ever been on the same job site with Nick.”
“What kind of work does the company do? New homes? Rehabs? Commercial? Residential?”
“I have no idea. I can’t find any information on them.”
“Who owns them?”
“According to the Missouri Secretary of State, Corundum Construction Company is the d/b/a of one R.S. Corundum.”
‘Who’s that?”
“Beats me. I checked the telephone directory. There’s no listing for Corundum in the business section and there’s no listing for anyone named Corundum in the white pages.”
“Unlisted number?”
“For a construction company? That would be weird. How could people reach them? I did an Inter
net search, too. Nothing.”
“Maybe they’re out of business.”
“Then how do you explain the license plate?”
Benny shrugged. “Hasn’t expired.”
I frowned. “I suppose.”
“You’re saying Moran’s secretary had no information on that company?”
“She’d never heard of them.”
“Maybe your police buddy can help. What’s his name?”
“Tomaso. I can’t go to him on this. At least not yet. He was willing to run the plate for me without any other information, but if I want anything more I’ll have to tell him how I found out about the plate, and I can’t do that.”
He belched and gave me a playful grin. “You got yourself what I’d call a real Corundum conundrum.”
“Try saying that fast five times.”
“Try saying what?” said a familiar voice.
We both turned.
Standing in the doorway—indeed, filling up the doorway—was Jacki Brand, all six feet three inches and 250 pounds of her, dressed in heels, white blouse, and navy skirt.
She sniffed the air. “Barbecue?”
“Snoots and tips,” Benny said. “Grab a chair, Sexy.”
“Maybe a few nibbles,” she said. “I’ve got a dinner date tonight.”
“Freddy?” I asked.
She took a seat and nodded. “Freddy.”
Judge Fred Epstein was Jacki’s latest beau. They were an odd couple, since he was fifteen years older, eight inches shorter, and a hundred pounds lighter than his lady love. He told me it was love at first sight the day Jacki appeared before him in family court on a motion for protective order in a nasty divorce case. Indeed, the only downside to their relationship was that Judge Epstein was one of the better judges for divorce cases. Because Jacki specialized in divorce cases, their relationship meant that she could have him in the bedroom or the courtroom but not both. Except for the one time a case of hers got reassigned to Judge Flinch, she’d never regretted the tradeoff.
Benny gave her a Groucho Marx leer. “Freddy’s in for a treat tonight. You are looking quite voluptuous, Ms. Brand.”
She blushed. “If I didn’t know you better, Benny, I’d think you were flirting.”
“I am flirting. What do you mean ‘know me better’?”
