Firm Ambitions (13 page)

It was more of a warning than a statement, and it seemed to invite a response. I decided not to make one. We studied each other for a moment. I stood up and put my notes back in my briefcase. “You've been helpful,” I said calmly. “Have a good trip.”

As my stretch limo pulled away for the trip back across the Mississippi, I turned back in time to see Nick and Sally come out of the building. Each wore sunglasses and each had a carry-on flight bag slung over a shoulder. As Nick leaned over to open the trunk of the red Infiniti, Sally patted him on the rump. He looked back at her with a lecherous grin.

I leaned back in my seat, pulled out my legal pad, and tried to sift through what he had told me.

Chapter Thirteen

Mound City Mini-Storage is located beneath one of the flight paths into Lambert-St. Louis International Airport. As I pulled up to the entrance, a TWA 727 in its final approach roared past overhead, flaps down and landing gear deployed. Directly outside my window at eye level was one of those black cardkey security devices mounted on a metal pole. In the center of the device was a slot with the words INSERT MAGNETIC CARD HERE engraved above it. Below it was a call button and a speaker box. I reached out and pushed the call button.

Nothing happened. Staring at the speaker box, I felt as if I was in the drive-thru lane at the ultimate no-frills hamburger joint. I pushed the call button again.

I looked around as I waited. The steel entrance gate was motorized and set on tracks. The entire perimeter of Mound City Mini-Storage was surrounded by heavy-duty chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Inside the fence were three long low aluminum buildings. Each was bright orange and looked like a cross between an army barracks and a forty-car garage. There was a smaller building off to the side and closer to the entrance gate. The sign in front identified it as the main office.

The chain-link fence began to vibrate as another jet approached. This one was a jumbo—an American Airlines 747. The dark shadow of the plane rushed across the orange metal roofs and asphalt driveways of the Mound City Mini-Storage premises. As the jet disappeared over the bunkers surrounding the airport runways, I pushed the call button again.

There was a burst of static. “What is this that you want?” a voice crackled, the words spewed out so quickly that it took a moment for my brain to parse them.

“I need to talk to the manager.”

“Who is this?”

“I'm an attorney. I need to talk to the manager.”

“Whatisthisabout?”

“Pardon?”

“What is this about?”

“I'll explain it when I see the manager.”

“This is the day manager.” The voice had a foreign accent that I couldn't place. “What is this that you want?”

“Let me in and I'll tell you.”

I waited, staring at the speaker box on the cardkey stand. After thirty seconds or so, there was an electronic buzz from near the steel gate, followed by a metallic click. The gate started to slide open. As I drove slowly through the opening, a short, dark-complected man came out of the door of the office. He vigorously waved me over to where he was standing. I pulled my car into the space in front of the office.

He was all smiles as I got out of the car and introduced myself. He had thick horn-rimmed sunglasses, a white short-sleeved shirt, a fat orange tie that was way too short, and wrinkled black slacks. He told me his name, which sounded like Dan or Zan or Van. From his accent and complexion I guessed that he was Pakistani or Indian.

“It's Dan?” I asked.

“No, no.” He shook his head rapidly, still grinning. “Not ‘Dan.' ‘Dan.' You see? It's ‘Dan.' Not ‘Dan,' but ‘Dan.' Yes?”

“Right,” I said without much conviction. Every “Dan” had sounded exactly the same.

“Good, good,” he said, bobbing his head.

Dan-not-Dan was maybe an inch or two shorter than me, which would have put him about five feet five, although it was hard to tell for sure because of the way he nervously bobbed his head and shoulders.

“Is it that you need a space?” he asked as he jammed his left hand in the front pocket of his pants and started fiercely jangling what sounded like $500 in change.

“No, I need to talk to you about someone else's space.”

“Someone else?” he repeated uncertainly, still jangling the change.

“Let's go in your office,” I suggested. “I can explain.”

He squinted at me, his head bobbing, and then said, “Okay, lady.”

I followed him into the office.

As those who regularly do it will attest, nine-tenths of getting access to where you're not supposed to be is to act like you're supposed to have access. I did the nine-tenths part, and Dan-not-Dan's boss added the final tenth by not being available when Dan-not-Dan tried to get him on the telephone. When he hung up, even more jittery than before, I removed my Missouri Bar membership card from my wallet, put on my Joe Friday face, and slid the card across the desk to him. “It's okay,” I told him. “I'm a Missouri attorney.”

He frowned as he studied the card. I waited. His knees were clapping together beneath the desk, the pocket change jangling.

“Okay,” he finally said, handing back the card. “Firm Ambitions it is, yes?”

I nodded gravely.

He turned toward the computer terminal and typed in various sets of instructions, hitting the transmit key after each set. Finally, the screen went blank for a moment, and then three columns of numbers appeared. I leaned forward and squinted:

11346782       02-08       21:08

11346782       02-14       02:12

11346781       02-20       23:12

11346782       02-21       22:56

11346781       02-22       01:43

11246781       03-06       01:17

11246780       03-09       11:46

11246781       03-10       01:08

11246782       03-18       23:41

The numbers filled the screen.

Dan-not-Dan gave a puzzled grunt and pushed the PAGE DOWN key. Another three columns of numbers filled the screen:

11346780       04-02       12:21

11346782       04-04       02:57

11346781       04-12       22:29

11346781       04-16       03:34

11346780       04-19       12:13

11246780       04-22       21:23

11246782       04-25       03:23

11246781       04-25       23:02

11236780       04-30       01:19

Dan-not-Dan gave another puzzled grunt.

“What?” I asked.

He shook his head rapidly. “Very strange this is.”

“What's it mean?”

“Wait,” he said, walking over to a file drawer. He pulled it open and flipped through the folders until he found the one he was looking for. He lifted it out and studied the first page. “Okay,” he mumbled. “So three there are.”

“What are?”

He looked up and squinted toward me. “Three cards. Is not usual this.”

“I'm not following you.”

He walked back to the terminal screen and pointed to the first column of numbers. “Card number,” he said. “This is card number. It is the case with most customers, Miss Gold, that there is one card only. For some it is true that there are two cards, yes. Here this is the case that there are three cards. This is not usual.”

I studied the terminal screen:

11346780       04-02       12:21

11346782       04-04       02:57

11346781       04-12       22:29

11346781       04-16       03:34

11346780       04-19       12:13

11246780       04-22       21:23

11246782       04-25       03:23

11246781       04-25       23:02

11236780       04-30       01:19

“So every time a customer inserts his card into that box at the front gate the computer records this information?”

“You are correct in this.”

“And the column on the left has the cardkey number.”

“You are correct in this.”

“What are the other two columns?”

He pointed to the middle column. “This is for to record the day and the month.” He slid his finger over to the third column. “And this is for to record the time of the insertion.”

I stared at the screen as I nonchalantly removed a yellow legal pad from my briefcase. “Okay. So the bottom row means that someone with card number 11236780 opened the gate at one-nineteen on the morning of April 30.”

He nodded his head rapidly. “You are correct in this.”

I copied down the information on the screen, writing as quickly as I could, just in case Dan-not-Dan decided to turn off the computer.

“This is not routine,” he said. “Very not routine.”

“Pardon?” I was barely paying attention as I scribbled down the columns of numbers.

“The times are not the times that are routine. Not many persons come most of the time late at night.”

I paused to study the terminal screen. He was right. The times recorded were mostly between 10:00 p.m. and 3:00 a.m.

“I'll need to see that storage space,” I said with as official a tone of voice as I could muster.

Dan-not-Dan looked at me with uncertainty.

“Just routine,” I assured him. “Obviously, I won't disturb anything in there.”

“This I do not know,” he said.

I gave him a firm but sympathetic look. “It'll be better if you cooperate.”

He frowned as he thought it over. “Well, this is something that if we do it it is okay if we only do it for a few minutes, yes?”

“You're absolutely right,” I said, standing up. “Let's do it for a few minutes.”

I followed him out to the door to the Firm Ambitions storage space, which was located about halfway down the left side of the center building. Dan-not-Dan used his body to shield my view as he punched in the combination to the electronic lock. There was a click. He reached down, grabbed the handle of the sliding door, and pulled it up.

“Okay, Miss Gold. For just a few minutes, yes?”

“Right.”

“Then please to hurry.”

I stepped inside the storage room, which was roughly the size of a one-car garage. It was nearly empty. On the cement floor in one comer was a Macintosh computer with a cracked screen. Against a side wall were a pair of Bose speakers that looked brand-new. In another corner was a shattered Panasonic VCR that looked as if it had been dropped onto the floor and kicked to the side. On the ground next to the VCR was a baseball card facedown. I kneeled down and turned it over. It was an old Lou Brock card—so old that he was in a Chicago Cubs uniform. The card was hardly in mint condition. It looked like someone had stepped on it—there was a smudge from a footprint across Brock's face, and the edge of the card was bent. I found the copyright information on the back: Topps 1962. The text and statistics on the back confirmed what I had guessed: this was Lou Brock's rookie card. I glanced back at Dan-not-Dan. He had his back to me, his arms crossed, his right foot tapping rapidly. I slipped the baseball card into my briefcase and pulled out my yellow legal pad. I went back to the Macintosh computer and copied down the serial number. I did the same with the Bose speakers and the Panasonic VCR.

“This is most certainly time enough, Miss Gold,” he said to me. “I must tell you that I am completely starting to feel most uncomfortable. Now has come the time that we must go.”

I was kneeling by the VCR when he spoke, the legal pad balanced on my knees. “Sure,” I told him as I stood up.

And that's when I saw it.

“Just a sec,” I said.

On the floor in the corner near the door was a porcelain ballerina without a head. I turned and surveyed the storage space. The head wasn't anywhere inside the storage area. I stared at the broken figurine, my mind racing for the connection. She was in a seated position, slipping on one of her ballet shoes.

“Really, Miss Gold, I must tell you that I am continuing to feel most uncomfortable.”

I smiled at him. “You've been most helpful, Dan.”

“Not ‘Dan,' Miss Gold. ‘Dan.'”

Chapter Fourteen

I got back to the office at five-thirty, just in time to get my phone messages before my secretary left for the day. Along with the usual calls from clients, court clerks, and opposing counsel in various lawsuits, there was a call from Benny Goldberg and one from Charles Kimball. Benny left a message that he would meet me at my house around six-thirty to tell me what he had found. Kimball's message was that Tony's was completely booked by a private party so he had made dinner reservations at Dominic's and would come by the house to pick me up at seven forty-five. His choice in restaurants was impeccable: of the many wonderful restaurants on “the Hill,” as the St. Louis Italian neighborhood is known, Dominic's was my favorite. I was also pleased that he was going to pick me up instead of having me meet him at the restaurant. After all my running around that day, some old-fashioned chivalry sounded just right.

I was feeling kind of grungy, especially after Mound City Mini-Storage. I wanted to get home, shower, and change before Benny got there so that I could give him plenty of time without having to worry about getting ready for Kimball. I sat on the edge of my desk, opened my briefcase, and quickly sorted through my printouts and notes from Firm Ambitions, Nick Kazankis, and Mound City Mini-Storage. There were plenty of things for Benny and me to talk over.

I held up the Lou Brock baseball card and pursed my lips in thought. My brother-in-law would know. He went to a dozen card shows every year. I checked my watch. Five forty-five. He might still be at his West County office, especially with the way he was avoiding my sister. I reached for the phone and dialed his office number.

I glanced at my watch again.
Three minutes
, I said to myself,
and you can still be home by six-fifteen. Plenty of time to shower and change and talk to Benny
.

Richie was still there. His receptionist put me on musical hold, which turned out to be a Muzak version of the Allman Brothers' “Whipping Post”—a truly chilling jolt of cultural dissonance. But then again, what else would I expect from a man who calls himself a “Manilowhead” and claims that his favorite part of the concert is when Barry croons through his repertoire of advertising jingles?

“Rachel?” he said uncertainly.

“Hi, Richie.”

“Good news? Bad news?”

“No news. At least not yet. Got a quick question.”

“Shoot.”

“A baseball-card question.”

“You're breaking my heart.”

“Lou Brock.”

“Okay, what year?”

“1962.”

“His rookie card. I'm dying, Rachel.”

“You had one?”

“A beauty. Mint condition. Worth at least three hundred dollars.”

“How many are out there?”

“In mint condition? Hard to say. Hundreds, probably.”

“Could you recognize yours?”

He paused. “I doubt it. The ones in mint condition all look alike. Why?”

“I found one today.”

“In mint condition?”

“Not by the time I got there. How did you store yours?”

“In a loose-leaf notebook. In one of those clear plastic sheets with pockets. Nine cards per sheet.”

“Could individual cards fall out?”

“Fall out? Well, sure. It happens sometimes.”

“Okay. Thanks, Richie.”

“Rachel?”

“Yeah?”

He lowered his voice. “How do things look?”

“I have some leads, a few ideas. We just have to keep plugging away.” I paused. Although Richie and I never talked about personal matters, I couldn't stop myself. “What about you and Ann?”

“What do you mean?” he said defensively.

“Come on, Richie, you know what I mean.”

He didn't respond.

I could feel my anger flare. “Dammit, Richie, why are you still at your office? Can't you see that Ann needs you? Go home. Be with her, for God's sake. Help her, talk to her, be there so she can talk to you, give her someone to lean on.” I paused, waiting for a response. There was silence on the other end. “God, Richie,” I said, totally exasperated with him, “don't be such a—such a jerk.”

I realized, even as I was struggling for the right words, that whatever I said was not going to make a difference, was not going to change him or his relationship with Ann or her relationship with him. Yelling at him served no purpose other than venting my own disappointment. I had enough problems trying to function simultaneously as Ann's sister and her attorney. I surely wasn't about to become Richie's marriage counselor as well.

“Look, Richie,” I said with a sigh, “I know it's hard on both of you. I promise I'll call as soon as I have something worth reporting.”

Next I dialed Eileen Landau's number. As the phone began to ring I turned in my chair toward the credenza and pulled a fresh legal pad out of the top drawer. I jotted down some quick notes about the Lou Brock rookie card. It didn't sound like a promising lead, but then again, I still didn't know enough to know what was and wasn't promising.

Eileen's answering machine cut in after the fourth ring. I listened to her message, waited for the beep, and said, “Eileen, this is Rachel. I have a question about your Lladro figurine. Is there some way to identify the one that got stolen? A serial number or something? Call when you get a chance.” I gave her my office and home phone numbers and hung up.

“Don't tell me you found her fucking ballerina?” said a male voice.

I spun around, startled.

Tommy Landau was standing in the doorway. He was wearing what looked like a safari outfit, right down to the pith helmet.

“What are you doing here?”

He removed his helmet in an exaggerated show of manners and stepped into my office. “It's time we had a chat about my case, Counselor.” He smiled, and then he belched. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. His face was moist with perspiration. He settled into the chair facing me across the desk and slowly exhaled. As he did, the animation seemed to drain from his face until I felt like I was staring into the torpid eyes of an alligator. It gave me the creeps.

“That's not the way it works, Tommy,” I said, trying to sound more in control than I felt at the moment. “You and I don't ‘chat' about your case. We don't talk period. I'm Eileen's lawyer. You've got your own lawyer. If you have something on your mind, tell your lawyer and have him tell me.”

He tugged at his walrus mustache. “Relax, Counselor. You want to go get a drink?”

“No.”

He nodded slowly, as if he were evaluating my response. “I'm a little hungry. You want to get something to eat?”

“No.”

He studied me with hooded eyes. He seemed to be scowling, although it was hard to tell for sure. The structure of the upper half of his heavy face—thick eyebrows joined at the bridge of his nose—gave him a perpetual frown. “My grandfather was a judge,” he said.

“I know.”

“His father—my great-grandfather—bought him the position,” he continued, as if I hadn't spoken, “although I suppose that's the way it usually works.” He studied the inside of his pith helmet. “A few years ago I went to the law library at St. Louis U. I was curious about him. My grandfather, that is. Hizzoner. I read about fifty of his opinions.” He looked up from his helmet and stared at me. “You ever done that, Counselor?”

“Read your grandfather's opinions?” I answered, meeting his stare.

“Any judge. Read fifty opinions by any one judge?”

“No.”

He snorted with contempt. “Try it sometime. You'll see what's really going on. You'll see that it's all a load of simple-minded, gussied-up bullshit.” He leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. He shook his head and lowered his eyes to my level. “My grandfather spent his career shoving messy, fucked-up, real-life situations into tidy little imaginary cubbyholes. That's exactly what law is all about, isn't it?”

He crossed his beefy arms across his chest. It didn't sound like a real question and I didn't feel like giving him a real answer.

“The whole goddam law thing is a confidence game,” he continued in his monotone. “A fucking fraud. You know what my grandfather's legal opinions reminded me of? That giant in the Greek myth—the dude with all the iron beds.” He belched. “The one who chopped off the feet of his tall victims. Stretched out his short ones. Made sure they all fit into his iron beds after he got through with them. What's his name?”

“Procrustes,” I said, watching him carefully.

“Yeah,” he said with a snap of his fingers. “You get a gold star, Counselor. Procrustes. That's what the law is, too. Forcing a messed-up piece of reality into one of those iron beds and pretending that it was a perfect fit all along. Total bullshit.”

I fought the urge to debate him. Although his eyes were still dead, I could sense his rage.

“That's what you lawyers and judges do for a living, eh?” he said. “You shove real people into imaginary cubbyholes.” He paused and gave me a malicious smile. “Well, now someone's trying to shove your sister into one of those cubbyholes. How's she like it in there?”

“What's your point?” I said irritably. I could feel my anger building.

“My point, Counselor,” he said, his voice a little louder, “is that I don't like my goddam imaginary cubbyhole any more than your sister likes hers.” He pointed a thick forefinger at me. “You don't understand me. You don't understand my marriage. You don't even understand your own goddam client. All you know is your cubbyholes. Well, if Eileen and I have problems, we'll work them out on our own. We don't need a bunch of bloodsucking shysters and dumbshit judges shoving us into cubbyholes.”

“Look, Tommy, talk to your lawyer. If it's marriage counseling you—”

“Fuck marriage counseling!” he roared. “That's just more cubbyholes.” He took a deep breath and put his hands on his knees as he exhaled. He nodded his head slowly. I could almost see his blood pressure dropping. “Eileen isn't thinking straight,” he continued, his voice back to a monotone. “She doesn't want a divorce. Her problem is she doesn't know what she wants. If she ever does decide what she wants, she'll be better off doing it while she's married. I'll take her back. I'll even forgive her for sucking that greaseball's dick. Tell her that. I want you to dismiss the divorce case. You understand?”

“I've had enough.” Now I was thoroughly annoyed. “Go talk to your lawyer.”

He glared at me. “I'm talking to you.”

“I'm not listening. You're going to have to leave now. I have a meeting to get to.”

He was breathing audibly through his nose. He studied me, his eyes no longer dull. “I remember you from high school,” he said.

“What?” I asked, incredulous.

“I remember you from high school.”

“I can't believe this. Leave my office. We'll pretend this meeting never occurred.”

“You were a cheerleader.”

“What?”

“In high school. I told you I remembered.”

“You must be remembering someone else. You went to Country Day. I went to U City. I'm at least five years younger than you.”

“After I got booted out of Mizzou I came back to St. Louis. I started what you might call my own business. I had a few customers in your class. I knew who the great Rachel Gold was.” He smiled a crooked smile. “I even went to your homecoming game against Ladue. I watched you cheer on the side lines. You think I'm shitting you?”

“It's time for you to leave.”

“All the cheerleaders wore gold panties under their black skirts. Gold panties with a black U and C on the butt. At least you did. Right?”

“I'm not interested in this.”

“I am. I remember that great little ass of yours.”

I stood up. “Get out of my office.”

He thrust his jaw toward me. “Lady, my point is that you can act as tough and snooty as you want, but to me you're still just another little prick teaser shaking her tits and ass on the sidelines—a little prick teaser who never even got married, for chrissakes. You a dyke? What the fuck do you know about marriage in the first place?”

I reached for the telephone and punched 911, forcing my self to stare into his eyes as the phone rang. It was answered on the second ring.

“Officer, there's a man named Tommy Landau trespassing in my office and he won't leave. I need help immediately.” I gave him my address.

Tommy stood up, shaking his head. “You're pretty stupid for a Harvard lawyer,” he said as he turned to the door. “I'll just talk directly to Eileen. I'll tell—”

“You keep away from her,” I shouted. “You try to threaten her and I'll make sure they shove you into a goddam cubbyhole with iron bars.”

He paused at the door, his back still to me, and then he walked out.

I immediately dialed Deb Fletcher's number. I checked my watch as it rang. It was twenty after six. Damn. One of the night secretaries answered on the seventh ring. Mr. Fletcher was gone for the night. “Call him at home,” I ordered. “Tell him Tommy Landau tried to threaten me. Tell him he'd better find his client before he ends up in jail.”

Then, just to be safe, I called the Ladue police and told them to send a squad car by Eileen's house. I grabbed my briefcase and headed for the door just in time to greet two squad cars responding to my 911 call.

God, I hate divorce cases.

***

Thanks to Tommy Landau, I set a personal land speed record. In just under twenty minutes I took a shower, put on my perfume, mascara, and blush-on, picked out an outfit, put it on, studied it in the mirror, decided that the neckline was too low and the hemline too high for a business dinner, took it off, returned to the closet, narrowed the choice to two, hesitated, pulled one out, held it at arm's length, frowned, hung it back in the closet, took out the other one and put it on, checked the result in the mirror, nodded, returned to the closet, stared in dismay at my sorry collection of shoes (all is forgiven, Imelda), settled on a pair of silver sandals, found matching pairs of silver bracelets and earrings, grabbed the sandals in one hand and my comb and lipstick in the other, and ran barefoot downstairs.