Face Value (3 page)

Chapter Five

It was close to six that night when I arrived at the downtown St. Louis Bread Company. Stanley and Jerry were at a table near the back. I ordered a hot tea and joined them at their table. Jerry was eating the second of his two turkey sandwiches and second bag of chips. He still had a large cinnamon roll on his tray, along with a large soda. Stanley was finishing a bowl of black bean soup. He also had a chocolate brownie and a glass of milk.

Stanley looked up at me, his eyes distorted behind the thick lenses of his black horn-rimmed glasses.

He set down his spoon. “Per your request, Ms. Gold, I have brought said evidence with me.”

“Great. Let me see what you have.”

Stanley's backpack was on the ground between his feet. He reached down, opened the backpack, pulled out a zip-lock plastic bag, and set it on the middle of the table. I stared at the bag. It contained two objects: a small tube of Blistex lip balm and a tan peg-like object about two inches long.

I pointed at the tan object. “What is that?”

“Exactly what it appears to be. The heel from a high heel.”

I looked at the heel and then at the tube of lip balm and then at Stanley.

“This is your evidence?”

“It is, indeed.”

“Evidence of what?”

“Of murder.”

“Where did you find these?”

“On the concrete floor on the eighth level of the parking garage. Four spaces down from Ms. Bashir's reserved space.”

I lifted the plastic bag and studied the contents in the light. “When?”

“The evening after her death. I went there on my break.”

Jerry said, “I didn't know that.”

“That is correct.”

Jerry asked, “Were the police still up there?”

“Of course not. Her car was gone as well. I presume it was towed to a police lot.”

I set the bag down. “What is the connection here with Sari's death?”

“Those items belonged to her.”

“Explain the broken heel.”

“She wore beige heels on the night of her death.”

“And?”

“If she simply jumped off, she would not have broken her heel. Thus we have evidence of a struggle.”

I studied the broken heel and then looked at Stanley. “What if she broke her heel climbing over the ledge?”

“That hypothesis is refuted by the Blistex.”

“Explain.”

“She had a cold sore during her last week.”

“So?”

“Blistex is for cold sores.”

“And?”

“Good grief, Ms. Gold. It's elementary.”

“Then tell me.”

He turned to Jerry. “Learned counsel inquires as to how the victim's Blistex ended up on the floor of the garage. Thoughts?”

Jerry frowned as he mulled it over. “It fell out of her purse?”

Stanley nodded. “You are correct.”

I said, “Explain.”

“Ms. Gold,” Stanley said, exasperation in his voice, “the only reason the item fell out of her purse was because her purse was open at the time. Presumably, she was taking out her car keys.”

“And that's why her Blistex fell out?”

“Egad, Ms. Gold. Visualize. Ms. Bashir is walking to her car, her purse open, she is rummaging around for her keys, she is attacked, she struggles, and in that struggle her heel breaks off and her Blistex falls out of the purse.”

I stared at the Blistex.

Jerry said, “How can you be sure that's her heel?”

“I am.”

Jerry took a long sip of his Coke. “I'm not so sure about that, Stanley.”

“You are not me.”

I said, “Have you mentioned any of this to the police?”

“I have not.”

“Maybe you should.”

Stanley stared at the plastic bag.

Jerry said, “I could go with you. My uncle was a cop.”

“Good idea, Jerry,” I said. “Stanley, you need to talk to the police. You need to show them your evidence, ask them your questions, and hear what they say.”

Stanley picked up the plastic knife and fork. He leaned over the brownie and, with the concentration of a sushi chef, began cutting thin slices onto the plate.

I stood and looked down at Jerry. I gestured toward the front of the restaurant. “Can we talk a moment?”

Jerry seemed flustered but stood and followed me through the tables toward the entrance.

“I have to get home,” I said, my voice low. “I don't know what to make of this. Maybe the police will. Can you take Stanley over to the police station after work? He needs to talk with the detectives who handled the case. Unless their hours have changed, the ones who worked her case should be there tonight, too. Stanley can show them his evidence and ask his questions—or have you ask for him.”

Jerry's eyes widened. “Okay, Miss Gold.”

“If there's really something there, the cops need to know it. And if not, Stanley needs to know it. Let's see what the detectives say. I'll call you tomorrow.”

Chapter Six

“Your eulogy was beautiful,” I said.

Malikah Bashir's eyes watered and she looked down at her lap. “Thank you, Miss Gold.”

I slid the box of paper tissues across the desk toward her. “Here.”

She nodded and took one.

We were in my office the morning after the memorial service. Malikah had called my assistant yesterday afternoon to see if she could come by this morning. She was Sari's first cousin. Their fathers were brothers.

I first met Malikah back when Sari was working for me during her third year of law school. Malikah was then in her senior year at the University of Michigan. She had come to St. Louis to visit her cousin and to interview for graduate school at Washington University, where she was now working on a master's degree in biomedical engineering. She was dark and slender, with shoulder-length black hair. She had on a loose-fitting gray cowl-necked sweater, khaki slacks, and brown penny loafers.

“My Uncle Ameer, Sari's father, asked me to talk to you, Miss Gold. He is very upset. We all are. He has trouble trying to understand his daughter's death. He has tried to talk with the police, with the men who investigated her death, but they have been difficult to talk to.”

“How so?”

She shook her head. “I'm not sure. Maybe they are too busy. He is frustrated. He asked me to come meet with you. To see if he could hire you to talk to the police about his daughter's death, to find out about their investigation, to make sure there is no other explanation.”

“Does he have a reason to doubt their conclusion?”

She shrugged. “I think he just wants someone here who knows the law, who can ask the police questions about Sari's death, who can help him understand what happened. I think he is just looking for some peace of mind.”

I gave her a sad smile. “Understanding what happened may not bring your uncle any peace of mind.”

“He probably knows that.” She sighed, her eyes watering. “I think he feels he needs to do something, and this is the only thing he can think of.”

She wiped her eyes with the tissue.

I leaned back in my chair. The suicide of a loved one is the hardest form of death for a family to accept. Ordinarily, I would have told Malikah to urge her uncle to seek understanding from a religious leader or a grief counselor, and not from a lawyer. But in less than an hour I would be picking up Stanley and Jerry at Stanley's house. The plan was for me to drive them to work while they filled me in on last night's meeting with the police detectives. Maybe I'd have some more information to pass along to Sari's father.

So I told Malikah I would do a little investigating and then talk with her uncle about what I found.

“Oh, Miss Gold, thank you so much. My uncle will be so grateful. He told me to tell you he will mail you a check for your legal fee. Please tell me what that amount will be.”

“There'll be no fee, Malikah. I knew Sari. It would be my honor to help answer your uncle's questions. I'm hoping I will be able to give him some sense of closure, perhaps in a day or two.”

In a day or two
.

Looking back, I can't believe I actually said those words. I suppose I could have instead quoted from my favorite poem by my favorite poet, Seamus Heaney:

History says, Don't hope
On this side of the grave.

Except that passage continues:

But then, once in a lifetime
The longed-for tidal wave
Of justice can rise up,
And hope and history rhyme

So instead I gave her a hug and said good-bye.

Chapter Seven

“Are you shitting me?” Benny said. “You actually sent that whack-job to the cops with a Blistex tube and a broken high heel?”

“He's Stanley Plotkin, Benny. The guy is a genius. Literally. He's convinced she was murdered, and he claims the Blistex and the heel are evidence. I don't understand how his mind works or how those things are evidence of anything. But I'm also not a cop. I told Jerry to take him over to the station after work and talk to the detectives who investigated her death.”

Benny chuckled. “I can't even imagine that scene. Like something out of a Monty Python routine.”

We were having lunch at Whittemore House, the private faculty club at Washington University. I watched as the waitress and an assistant set down his lunch order, which included two sandwiches—crab cake on a bun, chicken salad on rye—plus a bacon-wrapped beef tenderloin and a side of French fries.

One of Benny's perks was a certain number of free meals with a guest each semester.

I raised my eyebrows. “Does all of that count as just one meal?”

“Very funny, Miss Quiche of the Day. Speaking of which, what the hell is that green crap in there? Parsley?”

“Spinach, and it's delicious.”

“Fucking quiche.” He shook his head. “Time to man up, Rachel.”

I glanced around the dining room. With the exception of my lunch mate, the male faculty members of Washington University had apparently read the memo on how to dress like a male faculty member of Washington University. There was plenty of tweed, a fair number with suede elbow patches and, beneath those jackets, an assortment of turtlenecks and white shirts with bow ties. By contrast, Benny's ample girth today was clothed in a New York Rangers hockey jersey, baggy army pants, and red Chuck Taylor AllStar Hi Tops. Topping off that ensemble was a shaggy Jew-fro in need of a trim. If you want to get away with so scruffy a look at Whittemore House, you better reside in the academic stratosphere with Professor Benjamin Goldberg.

Despite his national reputation in the field of antitrust law, he remains my beloved Benny: fat, foul-mouthed, and ferociously loyal. And my best friend in the whole world. We met as junior associates in the Chicago offices of Abbott & Windsor. A few years later, we both escaped that LaSalle Street sweatshop—Benny to teach law at De Paul, me to go solo as Rachel Gold, Attorney at Law. Different reasons brought us to St. Louis. For me, it was a yearning to live closer to my mother after my father died. For Benny, it was an offer he couldn't refuse from the Washington University Law School.

“So,” he said, “did he change their minds?”

I shook my head. “What Stanley viewed as evidence of murder they viewed as evidence of suicide.”

“Such as?”

“Apparently, the two most common crimes in parking garages at night are robbery and rape. Neither happened to Sari. Her credit cards were still in her purse, along with eighty-three dollars in cash, all of which landed near her on the ground below. Her underwear was in place and there were no signs of sexual activity, forced or otherwise. According to the police, that showed she hadn't been killed by someone trying to rob or rape her. I talked to the detectives myself yesterday.”

“What's Stanley say about that?”

“He claims those facts are equally consistent with a homicide motivated by something other than rape or robbery.” I took a bite of my quiche. “There was no suicide note.”

“Really?”

“The police couldn't find one, and they did a thorough search. No note in her apartment, in her office, on her computer, in her email, on her Facebook page, on her body, in her car. Nowhere.”

“Is that significant?”

“Stanley thinks so, but the detectives told me that many people kill themselves without leaving a suicide note.”

“So what about Stanley's evidence?”

“They confirmed that the heel on her left shoe was missing and that Stanley had found the missing heel. They're going to run the prints on the Blistex tube, but they said the results won't change their conclusion.”

“Why not?”

“Their view is that things can fall out of an open purse, especially if she was in the process of climbing over the barrier. If you're about to kill yourself and a tube of lip balm falls out of your purse, why would you even care?”

“What's Stanley say?”

“In his scenario, she's walking to her car and looking in her purse for her keys when she's attacked. The tube falls out during the struggle and rolls under another car.”

Benny shook his head. “I know you say this guy is smart, but does he really think a broken heel and a Blistex tube are proof of murder?”

“He views them as corroborating evidence.”

“Corroborating what?”

“That she wasn't depressed or suicidal.”

“And what's that based on?”

I sighed. “Her face.”

“Her face?”

“Yes.” I smiled. “To quote Stanley, ‘I can assure you, Ms. Gold, that the orbicularis oris never lies.'”

“Who?”

“Not who. What. The orbicularis oris is apparently a facial muscle.”

Benny stared at me. “A what?”

“I'm serious. Stanley is the idiot savant of facial muscles.”

“What the hell is a facial muscle?”

“Normal people can tell whether someone is happy or sad or angry just by looking at their face. People with Stanley's autism problem can't. They can't read other people's emotions and moods. It causes all kinds of problems for them. According to his mom, a few years ago a doctor gave Stanley a chart of facial expressions. It's a chart created specifically for people with his problem. It shows a set of six or so basic facial expressions, and each one is labeled. So there's Happy and Sad and Angry and Scared. The goal is to help people like Stanley recognize the emotional states of people around them.”

“Okay.”

“The chart fascinated Stanley. He started doing research and learned all about FACS, which is an acronym for the Facial Action Coding System.”

“What the hell is that?”

“From what I understand, FACS is a whole field of study. It identifies every muscle in your face and assigns an action code for each possible contraction or relaxation of one or more of those muscles. There are something like two dozen facial muscles and more than a hundred action codes, and hundreds of possible combinations. There's this famous FACS manual. It's more than five hundred pages long, and you can apparently use it to identify every possible emotion and mental state. For example, there are certain action codes for a genuine, involuntary smile, and other action codes for a fake one, like when a photographer tells you to smile.”

“What's the purpose of all that?”

“Apparently, there are lots of purposes. Psychotherapists use the manual when they treat patients. The FBI uses it to train its interrogators so they can spot when someone is lying. Software companies use it to develop facial recognition systems. Even Hollywood uses it in their computer graphic animations to make their cartoon characters seem more realistic. Like the Na'vi in the movie
Avatar
. James Cameron is a big fan of FACS.”

“And Stanley Plotkin uses it?”

I nodded. “He has a copy of the manual and studies it every day. Sometimes for hours, according to his mother.”

“Does it work for him?”

“He's pretty observant, Benny. I'll give you an example. The night before last, Jerry and Stanley met with the two police detectives that handled Sari's death. I met with the same two yesterday. One of them is young and cocky—a red-headed guy named Rob Hendricks. You know the type. Top three buttons of his shirt open, thick gold chain underneath. The other detective—Harry Gibbs—is in his sixties, bald, bags under his eyes, low key, white short-sleeve shirt, and narrow black tie. I spent maybe thirty minutes with them yesterday. Afterward, I asked Stanley what he'd noticed about them. He told me that Hendricks was insecure and struggling with homosexual urges.”

Benny laughed. “No shit?”

“I didn't ask him how he knew that stuff because I was more curious how he had concluded that Gibbs, the older one, was recently divorced and a recovering alcoholic. He told me that his first clue was when Hendricks made some crude joke about marital sex. He said Gibbs responded with a forced, voluntary smile. That indicated tension on the subject of marriage, which caused Stanley to study the ring finger on his left hand, where he detected what he said were superficial tissue scarring and skin color differentiation. He said that the scarring and color differentiation would have been caused by a ring that had been in place for years. From those two facts, he claimed you could infer that Detective Gibbs had been married and that the marriage had ended within the recent past. He said that the scarring and skin color would have been much harder to detect if the marriage had ended, say, five years ago.”

“Jeez.” Benny sat back in his chair. “And the alcoholism?”

“That was more observation than facial action codes. He told me that the whites of Detective Gibbs' eyes were a little yellow, which apparently is a sign of swelling of the liver, which he said is a symptom of alcoholism. That was confirmed, he claimed, by the redness of the detective's nose and cheeks, which were caused by broken capillaries. He said that's another symptom of alcoholism.” I smiled and shrugged. “He's good at it, Benny.”

“Damn, I'd like to meet this dude. Maybe take him along to a singles bar. Help me hone in on optimal targets of conversation.”

“There's a vision.”

“Hey, you're talking to a visionary.”

“I'm telling you, Benny, Stanley's no fool. He's convinced that Sari was murdered.” I shrugged. “I'm kind of leaning toward giving him the benefit of the doubt.”

“Why?”

“He sees things that others don't. I spoke with Sari's father this morning. I didn't tell him about Stanley, but I promised him I'd do a little poking around, make sure there was no reason to doubt the official version of her death.”

“But who would want to kill her?”

“I have no idea.”

“Does Stanley?”

“Actually, he does.”

“Who?”

“Someone in that law firm.”

“No shit. Who?”

I shook my head. “He doesn't know. But he's convinced someone in the law firm killed her.”

“What's the motive?”

“He doesn't know.”

Benny finished off his second sandwich, took a big gulp of his iced tea, and sat back and stared at me. He shook his head.

“What?” I said.

“Listen to yourself. You've got some mailroom kook with a handbook on facial expressions and a tube of Blistex who claims that a confirmed suicide is really a homicide committed by someone in her firm for some unknown reason. You know what that sounds like?”

“Tell me.”

“The start of the worst Nancy Drew mystery of all time.”

I smiled. “I didn't know you were a Nancy Drew fan.”

“Not exactly a fan. My sister had an entire bookshelf of them. I read a few when I got bored.”

“I loved Nancy Drew,” I said. “She was my hero in grade school.”

“I dug her, too. Hot bod.”

“Benny.”

“Speaking of hot bods.”

“Benny.”

“Hey, I'm not the one at this table with the all-world tush. Not to say that mine isn't cute, albeit in need of a little manscaping. So tell me: which was your favorite Nancy Drew story?”

“Hmm.” I leaned back in my chair, trying to remember. “One I really liked was when she goes to Scotland and ends up in that creepy old castle.”

“Ah, yes,
The Clue of the Whistling Bagpipes
. Not a bad tale.”

I stared at him. “I can't believe this, Benny.”

“What?”

“How long have we known each other? Fifteen years? I never knew you read Nancy Drew mysteries.”

“Girl, my hidden talents have charmed women around the globe. You have no idea. I have mad skills. To quote the great Walter Sobchak: ‘You want a toe? I can get you a toe, believe me…Hell, I can get you a toe by three o'clock this afternoon—with nail polish.'”

“What are you talking about?”

He gave me a wink. “And trust me, when I say that this scenario of yours—you and that whacko and his tube of Blistex—when I say that sounds like the start of a bad Nancy Drew mystery, I know what I'm talking about.”

I shrugged. “Don't forget, Benny, those mysteries always ended happily.”

“Don't forget, Rachel, those mysteries were also works of fiction.”