by Mike Faricy
I nodded.
“I’ll have you locked up and turned over to Manning and his serial rapists if you even think about taking anything out of one of the files.”
“What could I possibly take?”
“I’m not sure, just don’t. Okay? Madeline usually has some damn form to fill out around here,” he said, looking behind the counter. “Here we go. Okay,” he spoke as he filled in the form. “You stay here with those files. When you’re finished you report back to me up at my desk before you leave the building. Clear?”
I nodded.
“I’m not kidding, Dev.”
“I got it.”
Madeline lurched back behind the counter about twenty minutes later. She looked glassy eyed and the alcohol smell seemed stronger.
“Lieutenant LaZelle came down and filled out this form,” I said, handing it to her.
“Oh, isn’t that just the way? I’m gone for two minutes and he breezes in and out.”
“He said I should read the files down here. I guess maybe in one of those cubicles,” I said, trying to get things moving.
She waved a hand dismissively. “Sure, dear, whatever you want.”
I was hoping she was just talking about the files. I handed her a slip of paper with Desi’s and Little Jimmy’s names written on it. “How about I wait in a cubicle for these files?”
“Perfect.” She smiled, then seemed to stagger just a half step while she examined the names I’d written down, then she turned the sheet over to see if I’d written anything on the back side.
I waited in one of the cubicle’s wondering for fifteen minutes if I’d ever see a file or Madeline when all of a sudden she rushed in. “There you go, Sir,” she said, making a grand gesture as she deposited about a foot high stack of files on the desktop where I was seated. “All neat and tidy. Does Sir desire anything else? Anything?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, then making a grand sweeping gesture with her right arm.
“No thanks, Madeline. This will keep me busy for quite a while.”
“Very good. I bid thee farewell and anon, my prince,” she said and then rushed back out of the cubicle.
I started with the smaller set of files first, Little Jimmy Fennell. I could go through all sorts of minute detail, but suffice to say Little Jimmy died of a heart attack, cardiac arrest. He’d apparently climbed up thirty-seven granite steps toward the front doors of the Cathedral where he collapsed. The coroner’s report suggested he was most likely dead by the time he hit the ground, not that far a fall for a fellow who was barely four-foot-three.
The medical examiner’s photos had him laid out with his arms spread as if he was awaiting crucifixion. It was surmised this may have been the prank of some warped individual who happened across Little Jimmy’s still warm body. The image, a version of which ran on the front page of the Sunday paper is what led to all sorts of Da Vinci Code type speculation. Much of which was investigated and none of which seemed to hold the least bit of credence. To date, James Fennell, aka Little Jimmy remained the only known member of the gang who actually robbed the Ninth District Federal Reserve Bank and Little Jimmy wasn’t talking.
I stood up, stretched and looked around. I spotted Madeline with her head down on her desk apparently asleep, which was probably a good thing. Her thermos lay on its side at the foot of her desk. It must have been empty because there didn’t seem to be any trace of a puddle on the floor.
I returned to my seat and began to review the Desi Quinn files.
Chapter Twelve
Desi had told me the truth. She had been an architect for Touchier and Touchier. Her address was listed, at least in the file I was reading, as being in the seven hundred block of Fairmont Avenue in St. Paul. A trendy older section of St. Paul comprised of large three-story Victorian homes.
She’d apparently been a model college student, made the Dean’s List in grad school at Clemson and had been employed at Touchier for three years. She was on track to be made a partner in the next three or four years and by all accounts was an excellent employee. Her employee reviews, all signed by Gaston Driscoll, described her as a credit to herself and to the firm. She had no known prior offenses. Not even so much as a parking ticket.
How she came to steal Driscoll’s access codes and what she did with the funds that she presumably received as a payoff, was never determined. Other than withdrawing the one set of files, there was never any record of her tampering with firm security. There were no bank records showing a large deposit, no evidence of a change in her spending patterns, nothing.
She was on record as having withdrawn the Federal Reserve files from the firm’s vault. Upon closer examination, it was determined that she had used Gaston Driscoll’s access code when withdrawing the Federal Reserve Security files. At the time, Driscoll was conveniently out of town, enjoying an eight-day vacation retreat with his wife. The Driscolls had traveled to Sanibel Island in mid-February, just as they had for the past eleven years.
Desi maintained Driscoll instructed her to deliver the files to an office in Town Square Court while he was out of town. The office was located in the twenty-seven story Bremer Tower. The office suite she delivered the files to, suite 2405, had been vacant for over a year, and in fact remained vacant at least up to and during her trial.
Her story had credence from the standpoint that in order to gain access and remove the Federal Reserve files she needed Driscoll’s security codes. Desi had her own personal code, but her security clearance wasn’t as high as Driscoll’s. Interestingly enough, she followed procedure and signed her name, registering her removal of the Federal Reserve files. She did not obtain a delivery receipt when she supposedly delivered the same files to the non-existent office.
I was beginning to believe Desi’s story. The thing that was really convincing me was that Driscoll just happened to be away on his annual vacation. It could be a coincidence, but then why would Desi sign her own name and insist she had delivered them to an office suite? She wasn’t an idiot. She had to have known that the office suite was a point, a key point that could be verified. She was either completely naïve or…
Desi’s desk calendar was included in the file I was reviewing. There was a one-word notation on February 14, Valentines Day interestingly enough. The notation read ‘Files’. Two days later, on the 16th was the notation ‘Gas’. Then written on the 17th was the notation ‘Call Gas!! 1st thig!’
Was she feeling some sort of pressure by the 17th? Had someone discovered the files were missing? The robbery didn’t occur for almost another two weeks. Dropping the ‘n’ on what I presumed should have been the word ‘thing’…did that suggest she was feeling pressure and possibly making mistakes? Or, was she just busy at that particular moment and writing quickly?
The file indicated Desi was terminated on February 26th. A full five days before the Federal Reserve Bank was even robbed. The reason given for her termination was simply ‘poor performance’ which seemed to run contrary to her three years’ worth of exemplary performance reviews. Up until that time she’d been a model employee, the golden child. What the hell happened?
Her termination had been personally handled by Gaston Driscoll. I noted an individual from the firm’s Human Resources’ department had also been present, a woman named Helen Olsen. I made a note. There were probably a few thousand Olsens in the phone book. If Helen was under fifty years old there was a strong possibility she wouldn’t even be listed in the phone book. I’d have to call her at Touchier and if she was still employed there, try to set up an appointment.
I flipped back a page and looked at the reason for termination, ‘poor performance’. It didn’t seem to add up.
Over the course of the afternoon I continued to wade through the file. At no time did there ever seem to be a major focus on Gaston Driscoll. If Desi looked to be a model employee, Driscoll was a sterling citiz
en. The little that was in the file mentioned he was a wounded Army veteran, highly regarded professionally, as well as socially. He sat on the boards of four separate non-profit organizations, as well as half-a-dozen corporations. Hell, the guy even volunteered monthly at his church to cook and serve food to the needy.
He’d testified in court and a portion of the transcripts had been included in the file. Reading the transcripts Driscoll came across as reluctant to say anything negative about Desi. He’d been at the opposite end of the country when she’d ‘stolen’ the files. In the file transcripts, it was presented that it would not have been a difficult thing for Desi to obtain the files since she was aware Driscoll’s security access code was written on a card in his rolodex.
It would not be a far leap to conclude that Desi waited until lily-white senior partner Gaston Driscoll was out of the office for a week, used his access code and stole the files. Of course that left two million dollar questions. Why would Desi sign her own name? And when confronted, instead of denying the fact, why would Desi not only admit she took the files, but then provide the address of a vacant office suite as the location where she delivered them?
Nowhere in Desi’s case file was there a hint of a sexual relationship between her and Gaston Driscoll. I understood Driscoll not wanting to bring it up, but you’d think Desi would have said something about it in her own defense, maybe mentioned the Ace of Spades tattoo she’d told me about. At least the tattoo was something that could be verified and suggested a more intimate knowledge of the guy than any other casual employee might have.
It was late in the afternoon. I had a few pages of notes and scribbles, some of which I could actually decipher. I replaced everything, closed the files and walked out to Madeline’s desk. She was nowhere to be found. Her thermos was still on the floor next to her desk. There was a container of aspirin with the lid torn off where last I saw her sleeping. I left the stack of files on her desk and took the elevator up to Aaron’s office on the fourth floor.
After asking to see him I waited for another ten minutes before he came out of the secure homicide area.
“You finished down there?” he asked, stating the obvious.
“Yeah, I got about all I can get from your files at this point. And that’s not much.”
He nodded like he understood. “Any conclusions?” he asked.
“Conclusions? No, not really. But maybe some suspicions.”
“Such as?”
“Well, I don’t know. Desi told me she was in a relationship for the better part of a year with Gaston Driscoll. He fires her a few weeks before the Federal Reserve robbery…poor performance or something. Maybe she thought at the time he may have taken up with another woman and she was going to make life difficult for him.”
“There’s no mention of any of that in the case file or the court transcripts. Christ, the guy is Mr. Civic Responsibility,” Aaron said.
“Yeah, I know.”
“She have any proof?”
“She told me he had a tattoo,” I said.
Aaron shook his head. “Hell, you know as well as I do that could just be something she picked up at the water cooler. Even if it’s true, it doesn’t prove anything. I don’t recall any mention of her ever bringing any of this up when she was being interviewed or on trial. You’d think at some point it would have crossed the defense’s mind to at least mention it.”
I nodded my head, agreeing with Aaron. “I didn’t read anything that suggested she brought it up. But she did know about the tattoo.”
“A tattoo…Jesus Christ just about everyone has one. Even if she guessed she’s got about a seventy-five percent chance of being right. And it doesn’t prove a damn thing. Tell you the truth, it sounds like she got the advice of some jailhouse lawyer while she was in for six years stewing about this Driscoll,” Aaron said shaking his head. “No, I don’t like it. I can’t quite see it.”
“I didn’t say he did anything, Aaron, other than to take her to bed.”
“I don’t like that either based on what we know of the guy. Like I said, he’s Mr. Civic Responsibility. I just don’t see it.
“Yeah, I know. Look, thanks…sorry if I pissed you off earlier. I…”
“You didn’t piss me off, you just tried to pull an end run and I don’t like that, that’s all. Still friends?” He laughed.
“Yeah, and I suppose it’s my turn to buy.”
“It will be, but not tonight. I’m jammed. See you later.”
I didn’t feel like going home. I didn’t feel like sitting at The Spot. To be honest, I was feeling kind of down. I phoned Heidi.
“Hello?” she answered with a question, like she was amazed her phone rang.
“Hi, Heidi, you sound like you’re surprised someone would bother to call you.”
“Oh, hi, Dev,” she said. Her tone didn’t hide her disappointment.
“You doing anything tonight?” I had hoped to get together with her, but if she was going to be in one of her downer moods, I would just as soon stay away.
“No, nothing, I guess.”
I was picking up the signs and none of them were good.
“Just thought I’d call and see if you wanted to go to a movie. There’s a new sequel out, Car Chase Four. I’m thinking of going.” Heidi hated guy movies and hated car chases even more.
“Oh, I don’t know. Where is it playing?”
“A little place out in St. Paul Park.” She wasn’t a fan of that side of town.
“Oh.”
“But I’d have to swing by now. The thing starts in about thirty-five minutes.” She hated to be rushed, so I was banking on getting credit for at least asking and she could continue her private session of the blues.
“I think I might just give it a miss,” she said and then let loose with a sigh.
This was where I was supposed to ask was anything wrong. Then, when she said ‘no’ I was supposed to ask three or four more times until she eventually came out with it. Once the cause came to light, I could show up with a favorite takeout dinner and a couple bottles of wine to the tune of about eighty bucks. Then, at the end of the night, she’d tell me it was time to go home because she just wasn’t in the mood. I had a better idea.
Chapter Thirteen
“Hi, what can I get you?”
The bartender, a brunette about forty-five, looked to have been around the block a few times. The music coming from the stage area was just loud enough that she had to raise her voice so I could hear what she said.
“Better give me a Summit Extra Pale,” I half yelled.
She was back with my beer in about two minutes and I slipped her a ten. I was the only guy at the bar. The music was loud, the light was dim and the carpet was a sleazy leopard skin pattern. The other customers were placing their orders with cocktail waitresses half dressed in a sort of black lingerie kind of uniform. Nasty’s patrons, all male, were mostly seated at tables, hunkered down in their own private world. The exception being the guys along the edge of the stage with dollar bills folded in front of them, watching the strippers. The girls would give them that little extra bit of attention, maybe a couple of winks and a smile, then blow them a kiss before they bent down and picked up the cash.
“Anything else?” she asked, sliding four ones across the bar, my change. She seemed a little surprised I hadn’t turned to watch the entertainment.
“Keep the change,” I said, thinking six bucks for an eight-ounce beer, Jesus. “Actually, maybe there is one thing. I’m checking something for a friend, trying to get some information. Maybe you can help me?”
“A friend? Yeah, sure you are, Pal. Look, company policy, we don’t give out the names or phone numbers of the girls. We sure as hell don’t give out addresses and we don’t deliver notes. That just about cover any information you’re looking for?”
I was suddenly thinking I might have been better off bringing dinner over to Heidi.
“No, that’s not what I want…”
“We don’t have pictures or videos of them and we don’t sell their thongs either. And, no, we don’t allow you to photograph on the premises. All the girls here are private contractors. If you can get one of ‘em to talk to you when they come around, whatever you line up is between them and you. Got it?”
“Hey, calm down, will you? I just wanted a beer and some information on a friend of mine who used to work here.”
“Sure you do. If she’s such a good friend, why don’t you just give her a call?” she asked, then crossed her arms, leaned back and glared.
I was usually a polite guy, but I’d just about had it with the attitude.
“Believe me, I’d love to give her a call, love to hear her voice. But see a couple a days ago some asshole put two slugs in her head.”
“You knew Desi?”
“I had breakfast with her that morning. I’m a private investigator and I’m trying to find out whatever I can. She told me she’d just started tending bar here, pulling a couple of weekend shifts. She was busting her ass over at Karla’s Karwash during the week. I thought she was getting everything back together, and then someone shot her,” I said. I took a card out of my pocket and pushed it across the bar.
She took a moment to read my card, turned it over probably to look for a message or to see if she’d won a prize. I wasn’t sure which.
“Okay, ask away,” she yelled just as the music stopped. A couple of heads turned to look at us, but everyone stayed seated. A male voice suddenly came over the sound system.
“That’s one of our favorites, Misty. Give a round of applause to the gorgeous and talented Misty.”
Naked Misty was down on all fours, picking up dollar bills from the stage. She seemed to ignore the two guys applauding. She stood up, collected the red lingerie she’d tossed in the corner and walked off. A thin smattering of applause and a shrill whistle followed her off stage.