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  Harry Hanratty leaned into the picture to shake her hand. Although his back was to the camera, you could almost feel him wince.

  His initial questions led her through the basics—her background, her years at the firm, her area of specialization. And then he moved on to the subject of the interview.

  “I understand that you and Miss Bashir were part of the same entering class your first year here.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You started off in the bankruptcy department?”

  “I did. I’m still there.”

  “Miss Bashir was over in the corporate department?”

  “Yes, although all associates get occasional projects from outside their department.”

  “But you started in different departments, right?”

  “We did.”

  “So let me ask you, Miss O’Malley, how would you describe your relationship with Miss Bashir?”

  During the two-second pause between the question and her response—as Stanley Plotkin would later point out—Susan O’Malley’s facial muscles underwent a combination of actions signifying anger and jealousy, a pair of emotions out of synch with her bland answer, “We got along fine.”

  Later in the interview, according to Stanley, her facial muscles formed the same combination of actions at the end of a series of seemingly innocuous questions, all scripted by Stanley, that culminated as follows:

  “Did you two socialize outside of work?” Hanratty asked.

  “Not really.”

  “What about at firm functions?”

  A puzzled frown. “What do you mean?”

  “For example, at the firm’s annual party last September?”

  Pause.

  “I don’t recall seeing Sari that evening. However, I am sure there were firm functions we both attended.”

  ***

  Rob Brenner was up next. I’d asked Tony Manghini to brief me on several of the attorneys. According to Tony, Brenner was a rising star among the firm’s junior partners. Just thirty-five, he already had a client base that generated annual legal fees in excess of a million dollars, mostly in defense of consumer class-action claims against financial institutions. That was Brenner’s litigation specialty, which probably explained why I’d rarely come across him in my practice. Although we happened to be in one pending class action where we represented different defendants—I was local counsel for a Florida bank whose lead attorney was a law school classmate of mine in a Tampa firm—the case was in its early stages, and I had had little contact with Brenner.

  If you looked up Brenner’s bio on the firm’s website, you’d be struck by the handsome face staring back at you—dark-haired, square-jawed, piercing eyes. If you came across him in the hallway, however, you’d be struck by his height—or, rather, lack thereof. The photograph conjured up a tall leading man. The reality was five seven, according to Manghini, who referred to him, behind his back, as the Little Corporal.

  To describe Brenner as intense was like describing Death Valley as warm. The term didn’t capture the essence of the man. By the time Brenner arrived at the office each morning at seven—Bluetooth earpiece in place, third Starbucks venti black coffee in hand—he’d already done a full circuit on the weight machines, run six miles, made several calls, and sent numerous emails from his iPhone.

  Not surprisingly, the same qualities that made Brenner valuable to the partners made him despised by the junior associates and support staff. If you were unlucky enough to be a young associate assigned to one of Brenner’s cases, you knew that you’d better be in your office and at attention by his seven o’clock arrival. And you also knew that you’d better have your cell phone with you at all times after hours, including on your nightstand, set on vibrate, while you slept. From what Manghini had gleaned in conversations with associates, a typical Brenner assignment would arrive in your email inbox late on a Friday afternoon or early on a Saturday morning, and always with a deadline of Monday morning, even though Brenner might not get around to reviewing it until the end of that week, which is when he would send out the follow-up assignment.

  He was even more demanding and disrespectful with the support staff, Manghini told me. No secretary assigned to him had lasted longer than six months. He’d reduced almost every female staff member to tears at least once, and had so rattled a young copy center clerk over some collating glitches that the poor guy actually wet his pants.

  Thus I was not surprised that Brenner did the video interview with a frown on his face, the Bluetooth device fastened to his ear, and a mechanical pencil in his hand. He tapped the pencil on the desktop throughout the interview, which created enough of a distraction for the viewer that the video was essentially worthless for any use beyond Stanley’s review.

  Brenner’s manner during the interview could charitably be described as brusque. He allowed that Sari Bashir appeared to be a qualified young associate, emphasized that he had no experience working with her and thus no view as to the quality of her legal work.

  “But you did know her, correct?”

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “Correct.”

  Tap, tap.

  “And you were fond of her?”

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “Fond?”

  Tap.

  “How would you describe your relationship with Ms. Bashir?”

  Tap, tap, tap, tap.

  ”Relationship?”

  “Did it change over time?”

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “Did what change over time?”

  Tap.

  “Your relationship with Ms. Bashir?”

  Tap, tap, tap, tap.

  “This interview is over.”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to get you upset, pal.”

  Tap.

  “I am not upset. I am not your pal. I am, however, busy. Please leave.”

  Tap, tap.

  And then he stood and walked off screen.

  “Jesus,” Hanratty said offscreen, “what an asshole. We had ourselves a real pair today, eh, Sam? First that bull dyke and then this little shithead.”

  The screen went blank.

  I copied and emailed the video to Benny before leaving the office. He called me later that night.

  “What the fuck is up with Brenner?” Benny said. “He is one nasty little prick.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Is he married?”

  “Divorced,” I said, “about two years ago, according to court records online.”

  “So what’s the deal? Was he banging her?”

  “Sari?” I said. “They had some sort of relationship. Or maybe just a sexual encounter. According to Stanley, the relationship ended or the encounter occurred about a month before she died. Whatever, it was not pleasant.”

  “She dump him?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “What’s Stanley say?”

  “He says the questions about his relationship with Sari generated angry facial actions.”

  “Well, duh. I could see that.”

  “Me, too—at least sort of.”

  “Hmmm,” Benny said. “You think Plotkin’s skills are rubbing off on me?”

  “I’ll get worried when you start citing electoral college votes.”

  “So when’s the big swinging dick going on?”

  “If you mean Donald Warner, tomorrow at ten.”

  “You going?”

  “I have a front row seat.”

  “Can’t wait to hear about it.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Donald Warner’s video interview was scheduled for 9:30 that morning. I arrived at 9:10 and was escorted to his corner office on the fifteenth floor. His secretary told me that he was in a meeting down on fourteen but would be there by 9:30.

  “Mr. Warner is always on time,
” she said.

  I could hear Hanratty’s raspy voice from down the hall in the break room. He was apparently flirting with two secretaries, who were giggling over something he said.

  Sam Tilden was in Warner’s office setting up the video camera on the tripod. He had it aimed toward Warner’s desk, which was a mahogany George Washington desk with brass handles and stationary boxes on either end.

  I had to smile at the sight of the brown paper bag resting on the corner of the desk. The legendary brown paper bag. It was a part of the Donald Warner lore that the media loved to repeat. Except for the occasional client luncheon, Warner apparently can be found at noon most days seated at his desk with the contents of his brown paper bag neatly arranged before him on a paper napkin: a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich on white bread, a plastic sandwich bag filled with Pepperidge Farm Goldfish crackers, a Red Delicious apple, and a small bottle of apple juice.

  That brown paper bag had become an emblem of the man who seemed the epitome of the conservative Midwest Republican, and thus the subject of much speculation as the next Senatorial election season approached. After the debacle of the last election, where the Missouri Republican candidate self-destructed over an idiotic comment about women, rape, and pregnancy, the GOP was looking for someone with solid conservative credentials and the discipline to stay on message. The pundits agreed that Donald Warner satisfied those criteria. This was not a man to ad lib. Indeed, he relied on detailed handwritten notes for even the most casual of meetings and presentations.

  Mounted above the credenza was a family portrait made-to-order for a political candidate. Seated on the loveseat were Warner and his wife, a plump, attractive brunette in her late fifties. He wore a dark suit and tie, and she wore a sky blue dress and pearls. Standing behind them were their three children. In the middle was Donald, Jr., in his mid-twenties and tall as his father. To his left stood Melissa, in her early twenties, and to his right stood Kelly, in their late teens. Curled up on the rug in front of Warner was Scout, the family’s golden retriever.

  I stood to look at the framed pictures along his office wall, all of which were consistent with his persona. They included photographs of Warner standing beside various state and national Republican figures, including two former Presidents, Senator Roy Blount, and former Senator John Danforth. And there was the mandatory GOP gun shot: a photo of Warner and former Vice-President Dick Cheney, both in hunting gear and holding rifles. There were also photographs of him at various local charitable and community functions, including one, shovel in hand, at the groundbreaking ceremony for the expansion of the St. Louis Art Museum, where he was the president of the Museum’s board of trustees.

  I paused before the photo of Warner and former United States Attorney General John Ashcroft, which appeared to have been taken at the Department of Justice in Washington, D.C. They were both members of Assemblies of God churches—a conservative evangelical denomination that had inspired Benny to ask me yesterday, “Do you know why Donald Warner and his wife won’t have sex standing up?” The answer: “Because someone might think they were dancing.”

  “Good morning.”

  I turned to see Donald Warner enter his office.

  He gave me a pleasant smile. “Hello, Miss Gold.”

  We shook hands. He was taller than I had fully realized—probably about six-foot six.

  I said, “Good to see you, Mr. Warner.”

  “Please,” he said with a chuckle. “Call me Donald.”

  “And you can call me Rachel.”

  “Fair enough.” He turned toward the videographer. “Mr. Tilden, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good to see, young man. Where is our Mr. Hanratty?”

  “Down the hall, sir,” Sam said. “I’ll get him.”

  After Tilden left, Warner gestured toward one of the chairs facing his desk. “Please have a seat, Rachel.”

  I did.

  Warner settled into the highback leather chair behind his desk. His face was long, almost gaunt, with prominent cheekbones and ears. In his black suit, white shirt, and gray-and-black striped tie, he seemed a mix between a well-mannered undertaker and Ichabod Crane.

  “So tell me, Rachel,” he said, “how is our shoot going so far?”

  “We have some beautiful footage from members of your firm.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  His glance rose above my head. “Ah.”

  He stood and came around the desk. “Hello, Harry.”

  They shook hands and exchanged greetings.

  Hanratty turned to videographer. “We all set, Sam?”

  “We are. Here’s the script.”

  “Excellent.” Hanratty flipped through the pages and then looked up at Warner. “Donald, you’re good right where you are. Make your self comfortable. And just let us know—uh, what’s that line from Sunset Boulevard?”

  Warner smiled. “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”

  Hanratty laughed. “You nailed it, Donny. Sam? Let’s roll.”

  “We’re taping,” Sam said.

  Hanratty cleared his throat and shifted into his Voice of God mode.

  “We are speaking with Mr. Donald A. Warner. He is, of course, the Warner of Warner & Olsen and one of the most respected citizens of our fine city. Thank you for speaking with us today, Mr. Warner.”

  Warner gazed into the camera. “It is an honor for me. Miss Sari Bashir was a treasured member of our law firm. I had the great pleasure of working with her.”

  “So I understand. Please tell us about that.”

  Warner glanced down at his notes.

  “Miss Bashir was a member of our mergers-and-acquisition team on an international transaction last year. She handled the due diligence, which in even the best of transactions can be somewhat tedious. Long hours, thousands of documents to review, small print, arcane terms. It was a grueling assignment, but Miss Bashir never complained, never let the tasks overwhelm her, and did a stellar job from start to finish.”

  “That’s a wonderful tribute, Mr. Warner.”

  Warner smiled. “She more than earned it.”

  Hanratty flipped to the next page of the script. I knew what was coming. I tried to keep my face blank as Hanratty resumed.

  “Rumor has it, Mr. Warner, that you were initially opposed to this tribute video.”

  Warner seemed genuinely taken aback by the question. He paused, seeming to gather his thoughts and his words.

  “Sari Bashir’s death,” he said quietly, “was a tragic event for this law firm and for me personally. The loss of a young person is always painful, and a loss by suicide is especially so. I suppose it was through that pain that I first viewed the idea of this tribute. I feared it might be gloomy and morbid.”

  He paused again. With a sad smile, he said, “I was wrong. There is, I have learned, a wise Jewish expression when one speaks of the dead. That expression is, ‘May her memory be a blessing.’ I hope that’s what this tribute video will accomplish.”

  Even Hanratty seemed moved by that answer. Nearly a minute passed before he turned to the next page.

  “We’re almost through. Sam will edit this down and get rid of my segues here. Anyway, back to the script.”

  Pause.

  “In addition to her mergers-and-acquisition work, I understand Ms. Bashir did some work for you on some political issues.”

  Warner seemed puzzled. “Political issues?”

  “Campaign finance regulations, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Warner paused. “Not for me. For a client.”

  Hanratty chuckled. “One of your supporters, I hope.”

  Warner frowned. “Harry, this is a confidential matter. Move on to another topic.” He glanced over at Sam. “You need to edit this out. This is a sensitive area for clients.”

  “Okay,” Sam sai
d.

  He turned to Hanratty. “Anything else?”

  “One last topic. And one of your favorites, I think. I understand you are a big fan of the St. Louis Symphony.”

  Warner smiled. “I am indeed. My wife and I have had season tickets for more than two decades.”

  “Were you aware that Sari Bashir was a big fan of classical music?”

  Warner raised his eyebrows and smiled. “I did not realize that. Lovely.”

  “You may have just answered my next question.”

  “What was that?”

  “I was wondering whether you ever ran into her at one of the concerts.”

  “No, I never did. What a shame.”

  “What about other places?”

  “Pardon?”

  “After hours. Senior partner, junior associate. Did you have a surprise encounter with Sari Bashir outside the office?”

  Warner frowned. After a moment, he said, “Not that I recall.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  As I headed back down the hallway toward the main reception area, a female voice called, “Miss Gold?”

  I turned. An attractive redhead in a gray skirt and white blouse was approaching. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties.

  She smiled. “I’m Laura. Mr. Olsen’s secretary. He was wondering if you’d have a few minutes to talk after Mr. Warner’s interview.”

  I glanced at my wristwatch. “Okay.”

  “Wonderful. This way, Miss Gold.”

  I followed her back around the corner to another corner office. This one had a plaque outside the door that read Len Olsen. Interesting. The plaque outside Donald Warner’s office read Mr. Warner.

  Laura tapped lightly on the doorjamb. “Mr. Olsen?”

  Len Olsen looked up from his computer and smiled at me. “Ah, Rachel. Thanks so much.”

  He got to his feet and came around the desk to greet me. This was Friday, and thus casual day at the firm. Olsen had on a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, faded Levis, a khaki braided-cotton belt, and brown Sperry Top-Siders. We shook hands.