Face Value (7 page)

Chapter Sixteen

“What the hell is a tribute video?”

I let Tommy Flynn answer.

“Your law firm,” Tommy said, “is creating a video in her memory. From what Rachel tells me, folks are going to share their memories in filmed interviews. And not just people in your firm. Her father and her family, including that Arab gal who gave that nice eulogy at the service. Rachel here represents them. Some of those professors at the law school are going to take part, too.”

Tony Manghini shrugged. “I haven't heard shit about this.”

“It's just been approved,” I said. “They're in the process of putting together an announcement.”

Tony looked at me, then at Tommy, and back at me.

“And I am meeting with you two, why?”

I gave him the short version—Stanley's suspicions, the parking garage list of potential “persons of interest.”

Tony listened as he sipped his second longneck Bud Select. It was late in the afternoon—after his quitting time, and just before Tommy's starting time. We were seated in a booth at the Hooters three blocks from the law firm's offices. Tommy Flynn had correctly assumed it was one place downtown where we were unlikely to encounter a lawyer from the firm—or from any firm. The noise and music helped insure that we were unlikely to be overheard, and the waitresses' outfits helped insure that we were unlikely to be noticed.

Tony Manghini's title at Warner & Olsen is Manager of Office Support Services, which puts him in charge of the mailroom, the copy center, office supplies, file maintenance and messenger services—and thus Stanley's and Jerry's boss. He apparently gave everyone under his supervision at least one, and often more, snide nicknames. Poor Jerry, not familiar with the works of Herman Melville, was mortified by one of his, apparently in the belief that Moby Dick referred to a part of his anatomy.

Tommy Flynn was here because of a link with Tony reaching back to Tommy's days on the police force and Tony's days as an instructor of English literature at one of the community colleges—a link Stanley had somehow intuited and that I had confirmed researching the local news archives online. It was a link that ended Tony's teaching career, put him through bankruptcy, and eventually brought him to Warner & Olsen.

Tony Manghini was in his late thirties, average height, somewhere between slender and skinny. He had on a silky black shirt, narrow yellow tie, dark gray dress pants, and expensive Italian shoes. He wore his dark hair slicked back and sported what could best be described as a 1970s porn star mustache.

He gave me a skeptical look. “So the tribute video is what? Just a pretext?”

“Not exactly” I said. “It's going to be real. Lots of folks will be interviewed. Maybe even you. When it's complete, the firm will have a copy, as will Sari's family and the law school. Dick Neeler hopes it'll go viral.”

“Neeler.” Tony shook his head. “What a tool.”

“But,” I said, “the video also is a way to get some of the lawyers at your firm on videotape for Stanley to review. That may lead somewhere, or it may lead nowhere. I'm kind of hoping the latter. But either way, the firm is going to produce the video.”

Tony chuckled and shook his head. “Who's in charge of this crazy operation? Master Blaster?”

“The firm's in charge,” I said.

“Or so they think.”

I shrugged.

“Stanley Plotkin.” Tony shook his head. “That boy's got something seriously wrong with him. You know about the zip codes and the electoral college votes?”

“And the facial-muscle actions.”

“True that. You should see the charts he's got hanging in his cubicle. Human faces with the skin peeled off. Some weird shit.”

Tony leaned back in the booth, took a sip of his beer, set the bottle on the table, and gave me a smile. “Okay, Counselor. Back to my question. Why me?”

I smiled. “Stanley.”

“What does that mean?”

Tommy said, “He figured out our prior connection.”

“How?”

Tommy shrugged. “I don't think he knows the details, like me being the first cop on the scene of the accident or getting called as a witness in the wrongful death case. But he told Rachel here that I should be the one to ask you because the circumstances of our acquaintance—how did he put it?— have given him insight into the origins of your sarcastic façade.”

“Meaning?”

Tommy shrugged. “Meaning that if I were you, you might listen to Rachel.”

Tony frowned and turned to me. “So what do you want?”

I said, “You're in charge of the firm's files. The gatekeeper. You get access to records that others can't, especially electronic records. Some of those records might be relevant here.”

“Which ones?”

“I'm putting together a list.”

He turned toward Tommy.

“Well?” Tony said.

“Well what?”

“Why should I sign on?”

Tommy shrugged. “Why not?”

“Why not?” Tony leaned back in his chair. “Are you shitting me, Tommy? What if one of those four lawyers actually did kill her?”

“Okay.”

“Okay?
Okay
? Don't you understand?” He turned to me. “Lady, you got some big swinging dicks on that list of yours. This could get dangerous.”

“Probably not for you,” I said.

“Probably not?” He turned to Tommy. “As I was saying earlier, what do I need this shit for?”

“Some things aren't easy.”

Tony stared at Tommy. “That's your answer?”

Tommy took a sip of his Coke and set it down. After a moment, he looked up at Tony and shrugged.

“And?” Tony said to him.

“And nothing.”

“You think Stanley read something genuine in that girl's face?”

“He sure read yours and mine.”

Tony was silent.

“A nice young gal died, Tony,” Tommy said. “Maybe someone killed her. We need to figure that out.”

Tony studied his bottle of beer, rotating it slowly in his hands.

“Hey,” Tommy said, “life's messy. Maybe you shouldn't have been dating one of your students back then, but no one thinks you meant for her die. You were drunk, Tony. It was an accident.”

Tony looked up. “So?”

“That's my point.”

“Meaning?”

“What if someone
meant
for Sari to die? Threw her off the damn garage? Murdered the poor gal?” Tommy leaned back and shrugged. “You can't do nothing about a suicide but shake your head and feel bad. Same with a traffic accident death. But murder is different, Tony. You gotta do something about murder.”

“Such as what?”

“Such as catching the killer.”

“Jesus, Tommy.” He turned to me. “This isn't Hollywood, Counselor.”

“I know,” I said. “We don't even know if there is a killer. We're only asking you to help us get access to some documents.”

Tony finished off his beer, set the empty bottle on the table in front of him, and stared at it.

I waited.

He looked up at Tommy, a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “You're crazy. The whole goddam lot of you.”

Tommy grinned and reached across the table. “That's my boy.”

“Fuck you, old man.”

And then Tony turned to me.

“Get me your list, Counselor.”

Chapter Seventeen

The announcement was far more dramatic than the typical interoffice email. With the help of its marketing gurus and the eager nudging of Dick Neeler, the law firm's two name partners participated in the creation of a three-minute video announcing the project.

The video was delivered via email to everyone at the firm, including those in the Kansas City, Memphis, and Tulsa offices. They copied me on the email and attachment, along with Benny and Malikah.

It was an impressive piece of work, opening with a series of still images of Sari Bashir while John Lennon's “Imagine” played in the background. Then it cut to a shot of Donald Warner and Len Olsen, seated side by side on a couch.

Warner went first. After mentioning how much he treasured his opportunity to work with Sari, he urged those who were asked to participate in the creation of the tribute to “treat the request not as a chore but as a special opportunity. Make time in your schedule to share with us your precious memories of Miss Bashir.”

Then came Len Olsen, who started with a brief remembrance of working with Sari on a project and then shifted into full closing-argument mode.

He leaned in toward the camera. “We are truly one firm, a band of brothers and sisters that includes not just lawyers but our secretaries and paralegals and file room clerks and all of the other men and women who make this place so special. Each of you counts, and together you make this law firm count. We thank our partner Dick Neeler for heading up this project, we salute Jerry Klunger, one of our fine young mailroom clerks, who will pitch in with others to help move this wonderful vision closer to reality. We happily acknowledge our friends at Washington University School of Law, who will partner with us in the venture. And finally, and most important, with heavy hearts and with tears in our eyes, we turn toward Sari's family and make this pledge: We will make her memory a blessing to all of us.”

The first three times I watched the video—back to back to back—I was alone in my office. The second and third time I focused on Donald Warner, feeling each time more doubtful about his role as a suspect. Maybe one of the other three had killed her—and I was willing to withhold judgment until the video interviews—but watching Donald Warner on the video made me dubious that Sari's death had been anything other than a suicide.

The fourth and fifth time I watched it that morning, I had company: Stanley, Jerry, and Benny. We'd actually scheduled the meeting in advance to talk about what documents and records to request from Tony Manghini. We met before Stanley and Jerry had to report to work. I cued up the video, which Jerry and Stanley had not yet seen. The first time, Jerry and Stanley watched in silence. Jerry blushed when Len Olsen mentioned his name. The second time took longer because of Stanley's commands to pause and rewind and pause at various points in the speeches of Warner and Olsen.

When we finished that second time, I closed the screen and turned to Stanley, who appeared to be studying the pattern of the throw rug beneath his chair.

“Well?” I said.

Stanley continued to study the rug tiles. “The speeches were ambiguous.”

“How so?” I asked.

Stanley straightened and stared at me. “More than once during each speech the speaker's facial expression conflicted with the veracity of the assertion being made.”

“Such as?” Benny asked.

“Mr. Warner expressed his sorrow at Sari's death, but his facial expression indicated embarrassment, not sorrow. At another point, he stated that he valued the time he worked with her, but his transitory facial expression suggested fear instead.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“There are forty-six facial action units, or AUs,” Stanley said, returning his gaze to the rug. “When Mr. Warner spoke of his time working with Sari, there was a moment—less than a second—when his face activated AUs one, two, four, five, twenty, twenty-four, and twenty-five. Specifically, the inner brow raiser, which is the Frontalis, Pars Medialis, the outer brow raiser, which is the Frontalis, Pars Lateralis—”

“—Whoa, captain,” Benny said, holding up his hands, palms out. “I'll take your word for it. What about Olsen? Same thing?”

“Not precisely. When Mr. Olsen made reference to the long hours and great effort that Ms. Bashir devoted to one of his matters, there was a brief expression of disgust—mostly AU nine, which involves the Levator Labii Superioris and Alaeque Nasi. In short, a facial action expression inconsistent with the sentiment he was purporting to convey with his words.”

“Okay,” I said. “What do you make of those expressions?”

“I make nothing of them, Ms. Gold. I merely take note of them and, in response to your request, bring them to your attention. What makes them noteworthy for me is the inconsistency between the verbal expression and the facial expression. Whether they are noteworthy for you is for you to determine.”

I turned to Benny, my face expressionless—or what I hoped was expressionless.

Benny shrugged. “For you to determine, Ms. Gold.”

Chapter Eighteen

With Stanley's help, I prepared our initial document request for Tony Manghini. It turned out to be a more challenging task than I had expected. That was because the two richest sources of important documents—the ones on the hard drive on Sari's computer and the ones in the files in her office—didn't exist. The hard drive had been wiped clean before her computer was given to another attorney, and there were no paper files in her office because Warner & Olsen, like many of its counterparts, had “gone paperless.” Thus the only documents available would be electronic ones stored on the firm's computer network.

For Sari Bashir, what I requested included her timesheets for the final month of her life, plus all documents she'd prepared and emails she'd saved to the network during her final three months.

For the four attorneys who'd entered the walkway after nine that final evening, I requested the last three months of their Outlook calendar appointments along with copies of their expense reports and long-distance telephone logs for that period. Although I wanted to see their emails as well, Tony explained that was too risky. Unlike Outlook calendar appointments—which were open for all to access because someone trying to schedule a meeting needed to be able to pick a date and time that all invitees could attend—any attempt to access an active email account would trigger a security breach warning to the firm's tech-support crew.

It took Tony a day to gather and print out all the materials, which he placed into a box labeled for delivery to the Husch Blackwell law firm in Clayton. He then added that box—which he'd conspicuously labeled “BOX #6”—to a set of five unnumbered boxes of documents already being delivered to that law firm in connection with a lawsuit. He assigned Jerry Klunger to oversee the delivery process. That afternoon, after calling me, Jerry Klunger stacked the boxes onto a loading cart, took them down the service elevator, loaded the other five boxes into a courier's van, and loaded BOX #6 into the back of my minivan. Later that afternoon, I dropped the box off at Stanley's house.

Two mornings later, Bea Plotkin greeted me at the door and showed me into the den, where Stanley was seated at the card table. There were four stacks of documents on the table and another stack in the box at his feet. He was studying what appeared to be a set of expense reports.

Bea Plotkin said, “Look who's here, Stanley.”

He looked up from the documents, frowned, and looked down again.

“Are you sure I can't get you something to eat, Rachel?” she asked.

“Thanks, Bea, but I'm okay.”

“How about some kamishbroidt? There's always room for kamishbroidt, even if it's not your mother's. I know Sarah makes luscious kamishbroidt.”

I smiled. “Okay. I guess there's always room for your kamishbroidt.”

“With a nice cup of Maxwell House? Good to the last drop, they say. Or would you prefer Sanka?”

“Maxwell House sounds good.”

“With cream and sugar?”

“Just black.”

“Stanley?” she said.

He looked up again from the documents. “While in theory I would like to agree with Ms. Gold, namely, that there is always room for your kamishbroidt, in reality that is not often the case in this household, given the sheer quantity of comestibles you insist that I consume, and that is especially so today in light of the immense breakfast you placed before me—” he paused to check his watch “—just eighty-seven minutes ago. As such, most of that food remains in my stomach and has not yet entered the small intestine. Thus there is not, at present, room in my digestive tract for your kamishbroidt.”

“Maybe later, dear.”

After Mrs. Plotkin left for the kitchen, I said to Stanley. “Find anything helpful?”

Stanley grunted. “There is sufficient data from which to construct certain hypotheses consistent with criminal activity.”

“For all four?”

“To varying degrees, yes. Moreover, I have come across no material that would eliminate any of them.”

I walked over to where he was seated. He was studying the expense reports for one of the attorneys—paging through the three-inch stack, one page at a time.

“I want to review these, too,” I said. “I'll pick up the box this weekend.”

“In addition,” Stanley said, not looking up. “You should ask Mr. Flynn for printouts of the cardkey records for the garage walkway for the two week-period prior to Ms. Bashir's death.”

“You mean the records for people leaving the building after seven at night?”

“Those would be the only records that exist. As you will recall, you do not need to use your cardkey before seven.”

I smiled. “Yes, Stanley. And why do we want those records?”

“Patterns.”

“What kind of patterns?”

Stanley looked up and then back down at the expense report in his hand. “We won't know what kind unless and until we find one.”

“Rachel, dear.”

I turned as Stanley's mom entered the den with a plate of kamishbroidt in one hand and a steaming mug of coffee in the other.