Cold Steele - and Mrs. Robinson Ch. 02

Matt's story continues. Please read Chapter 1 to understand the characters and flow of the story.

Constructive comments, critiques, and emails are welcome and I appreciate you taking the time for them.

Stick with me, please and enjoy the tale.

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"Okay, I'll go with you," Matt said. Abby had asked him on Monday to accompany her to a charity fund raiser that coming weekend. "But my good suit will have to be enough; I'm not wearing a tux. And you'll owe me for making me get dressed up."

She smiled, hugged me and gave me a kiss that left me breathing hard. "Consider that a down payment on my bill."

Saturday evening at 7 we entered the ball room of The Four Seasons Hotel. The hotel sat one block from the Mississippi shore line, above the flood wall and just north of the Gateway Arch. It was one of the most expensive hotels in St. Louis and probably the nicest. The ball room was a huge room and easily held the two hundred invited guests.

The tables were dressed with white tablecloths, china and expensive center pieces. Along three of the walls free bars were kept busy; they'd better be free with the cost of the tickets, I thought. There was a band stand and a dance floor toward the back of the room. "I bet you couldn't play basketball on that dance floor," I said to Abby. "But maybe you could get in a half court game."

Abby and I found our table; we were sitting with her boss and other people from her company. I got us a drink and looked around. At the head table, where all the big shots who'd given big bucks to the charity sat, I saw Jonathan and Cynthia Robinson. The Mayor, a City Alderman or two and the Police Commissioner were at the same table.

I nudged Abby and sort of pointed with my chin at the high roller table. "That's the Robinsons sitting with the Mayor," I told her. It had been about six weeks since I gave him my report.

"Your recent client?" She asked. And I nodded.

As we ate dinner I said, "You'd think a five star hotel like the Four Seasons would serve something better than this rubber chicken. I've had better food at the street vendors on Euclid Avenue." The dinner surprised me as to how ordinary it was; I thought the food belonged in a two star place at best.

After dinner we circulated greeting and talking to the other people; most of whom I wouldn't be able to point out again if they ran their Mercedes over me. I met more than one boyfriend or husband that looked like they'd rather be in the sports bar down the street. Abby and I approached the small crowd at the head table saying hello to the big wigs. I'd met the Mayor and I knew the Police Commissioner, although not on a first name basis, having been a detective for the St. Louis police at one time.

"I never expected to see you at one of these affairs Mr. Steele." Robinson was showing his typical condescending manner. "After all, it's $1000 a plate."

"Usually I wouldn't come to something like this," I replied. Then I continued, "But I came into an extra $10,000 a couple of months ago and thought what better way to spend part of it by helping a charity."

Robinson stiffened and his face got red, but he recovered quickly. "Cynthia my dear, this is a business associate." He neglected to give her my name.

I did a sort of half bow. "Mrs. Robinson, I'm Matt Steele." Indicating Abby I added, "This is my friend Abigail Stewart."

Cynthia extended her hand to first Abby and then to me. "Have we met before Mr. Steele? You look familiar."

I could see Robinson stiffen again but I let him off the hook. "I don't believe we have Mrs. Robinson." Nodding to both of them I said, "Nice to meet you Mrs. Robinson and good to see you again John. Please excuse us." I knew the "John" part would make the guy mad but he deserved it after his comment to me.

Abby and I walked back to our table. As we sat down I said, "Looks like the Robinsons have made up."

"Don't you believe it," she replied. "That lady is not a happy camper. You can see it in her eyes and the way she holds herself." She motioned back at the Robinsons and said, "Watch."

The small orchestra started to play, Jonathan tried to take Cynthia's hand and lead her to the dance floor. She pulled her hand away, stepped past him, and went to the ladies room.

"See," Abby said.

"Well, that's their problem." I took Abby's hand and leaned in close to her ear and whispered, "I believe there was mention of further payment. Do you want to dance for awhile or get right to it?" She smiled took my hand and led us out of the ball room and up to a suite she'd reserved earlier. My Abby is a take charge kind of gal.

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I was my office on the following Sunday morning going over some paperwork and setting my schedule for the next week; actually I had my feet up on my desk with a cup of Kona coffee in my hand reading the Sunday Post Dispatch. I was leafing through the local section until I found the police blotter for Saturday and Saturday night. It was some I did every two or three days. I liked to follow the reports in spite of not being a detective anymore. Abby had left to attend a brunch for a lady that was retiring from the charity business.

One small paragraph caught my eye and I read it in detail. "Cynthia Robinson, a local resident and wife of mogul Jonathan Robinson, was found dead late Saturday evening. The body was discovered leaning out of the passenger door of her car which was parked beneath the ramp up onto the Eads Bridge.

My feet come off the desk sat up straight and put my coffee cup down. "What the hell was Cynthia doing under the Eads Bridge?" I ask out loud. There was no one in my office so I didn't get an answer. Picking up my phone I call Frank Wends, a St. Louis Police Detective.

He and I had worked together while I was a detective; in fact he was my training officer. He was now the commander of the Detective section of the combined south side precincts.

"What are you doing calling me on a Sunday?" Frank asked.

"Hello to you too Frank. Look I just saw the blotter report on Cynthia Robinson. Anything you can tell me about it?"

"That Mrs. Jonathan Robinson? I haven't even seen the write up on it yet. Hell I didn't know it happened until you just told me."

"Can you give me a call when you do?"

"You know I can't discuss an ongoing investigation with civilians." Frank waited for several seconds and added, "Of course you're not exactly a civilian; not sure what you are but you're not a civilian. What's your interest?"

"I'll let you know when I know more; I promise. Maybe I'm tilting at windmills but something is going on."

"Talk to you tomorrow and don't bother me at home anymore." Frank hung up before I could make a smart ass reply. I picked up my coffee and stared out the window. There were no lovelies walking by as it was Sunday but it was a nice view anyway.

"Why are you staring out the window?" Abby asked as she entered my office. She came over with the coffee pot, poured me another cup and sat on my lap.

"Something's going on with the Robinsons." I handed her the paper and pointed to the report on Cynthia. "First George Hamilton, the guy that was trying to seduce Cynthia, dies in a boating accident and a few weeks later Cynthia is found dead."

"People die all the time," Abby replied. "It's just a coincidence."

"When two people who know each other die, it's a coincidence. When those same people know each other the way Hamilton and Cynthia knew each other, it's more than a coincidence."

"If you're bothered by it call Frank and ask him to look into it.'

"Already did but the blotter report said it was a carjacking gone bad."

"Sad as it is, that happens a lot," Abby said as she got off my lap and leaned against my desk.

"Abby, you know the Robinsons; you know they have big bucks." She nodded and I said, "What was Cynthia doing in a low rent neighborhood like under the Eads Bridge? So unless the police do a full investigation I'm going to look into it...I'm going to look into it even if the police do their job."

"What can you do that the police can't?" She held up her hand before I could answer. "Never mind, I forgot for a second who I was talking to."

I smiled at her and said, "I can find out things the cops can't cause they got rules they have to go by. Me? As the song says, 'I've got friends in low places'...friends that can get information and not worry about rules. At least they can and will if I ask them nice."

********************

My stupid cell phone shocked me awake. The ring tone was like an old fashion alarm clock and very loud. I glanced at the clock beside the bed and saw it was 7 AM. Abby and I had decided that one night of payment for my services at the fund raiser wasn't enough; I hadn't got to sleep until almost 3.

"What?" I screamed into the phone. "This better be money or good news or I might shoot someone."

"Threatening a police officer is a crime," Frank Wends said and chuckled.

"Why are you calling me at the break of dawn Frank?"

"Serves you right for calling me at home on a Sunday. Now do you want the full report on Cynthia Robinson or not?"

I nodded my head and then remembered; I was on the phone. "Yes sir, please sir, if you could find the time sir," and then in a louder voice, "Since you woke me up at an hour only fit for mad dogs and Englishmen."

Frank laughed again. "Okay. Mrs. Robinson was found in her car, sort of; the top half of her body was across the passenger's seat and her legs were still outside. She had been beaten severely and looks like she tried to get back to her car or to her cell phone which was in her purse on the console. The M.E. hasn't finished yet but there is a gunshot wound to the back of her head; at the base of her skull. Looks to be a small caliber weapon, maybe a .22; my guess, that's the cause of death."

"The report states it was a carjacking or mugging gone bad?" I questioned but in a puzzled tone.

"That's what the patrolmen said."

I was quiet for several seconds; almost a half a minute. Then I said, "something's hinky here Frank, something doesn't add up."

"Pray tell me old great and omnipotent detective," he questioned with a sarcastic voice. "Tell me why there is something hinky."

"C'mon Frank, cut the crap. Quit being pissed off at me and listen." I waited a couple of seconds and before he could spout off again I continued. "The report says that it was a mugging or carjacking gone bad. But if that was what happened, why was her purse still there? The report said it was on the console didn't it? For that matter, why was the car still there?

A mugger would have taken the purse...oh and check for her jewelry, a mugger would have taken that too. A carjacker, willing to kill for her car, would have just rolled her out of it and drove it off. And what was she doing on the passenger side?" I paused and added, "This wasn't a theft gone too far, this was a murder plain and simple."

Now it was Frank's turn to be silent for several seconds. "I need to bring this up to the detectives on the case," he said. "I'll be in touch." And he hung up without waiting for my reply.

I stared at the wall for a few minutes and thought about the deaths of Hamilton and now of Cynthia. Even though it was early I called a guy I knew at the main precinct of the St. Louis Police Department. "Hey Ricky, it's Matt Steele. You still do consulting work on the side?"

Ricky Willard was one of, and according to him the best, of the small group of cyber crimes specialists that work for the police. He checked into things people, some of which were really bad, did using computers; all legal and in the public domain if you knew how to access the information. If there was someone better at delving into a person's electronic foot print, I'd never met or even heard of them.

Ricky had been in college and was running a very lucrative sports betting book and came to the attention of the St. Louis Police; apparently one of his clients felt he had been hosed and contacted the cops. The investigation also showed that Ricky was, for a hefty price, changing people's grades in the college's computer records. He was arrested and charged with fraud, gambling, running a gambling ring and a bunch of other crimes.

But just before his trial, Ricky pointed out some flaws in the police department's computers and a plea bargain was struck. Ricky would be put on probation for two years and do six months of community service; the community service would be in the Cyber Crimes Department of the St. Louis Police. That had been three years previous and he was now a paid employee. He sometimes did side jobs, like background checks, getting financial information and other information stored on a computer network somewhere. If it was on a computer, Ricky could find it.

"Hey Mr. Steele. Yeah, I still do side jobs; as long as they're legal you understand." Then Ricky laughed. "What do you need?"

"Meet me for lunch at The Flying Saucer and before you ask, the lunch is on me; I've got a little job for you." Ricky agreed to meet me at 1 PM, just after the lunch crowd rush.

After showering and scraping the whiskers off my face I dressed in what for me the height of fashion. I wore dark brown slacks, a pale blue on blue pin striped shirt with a dark brown knit tie and a tan cashmere sports jacket. After meeting Ricky to see what he could find out on short notice about the Robinsons, I'd decided I might have to pay my condolences to Jonathan Robinson for the loss of his wife.

No matter what Ricky found in his inquires, I wanted to see how Robinson was taking his wife's death and do it early before he had a chance to build up defenses. The coincidence of Hamilton's and Cynthia's death made me think Robinson had something to do with one or both of the killings.

I saw Ricky's beat up old Chevy Impala in the parking lot of The Flying Saucer Draft Emporium and parked next to it. Ricky is the only person that drives a vehicle that looks as ratty as my truck. But just like my truck, under that faded paint, dents, and rust lived the heart of a NACAR racer. Both vehicles had been worked on by the same genius mechanic to be classic "you can't tell a book by its cover" cars.

I drove my truck mostly because it allowed me to blend in when I was working and if need be blow the doors off of cars I had to follow. Not sure why Ricky felt he needed a camouflaged speed racer.

The Flying Saucer was about equal distance between police headquarters and One Met Square so it seemed to be the best place for our meeting. Besides, The Saucer had some of the best burgers in town and over 30 kinds of beer on tap. I wouldn't taste the brew at lunch but since Abby was working late, I thought I might come back and make up for it.

Ricky had a huge burger in front of him and a bottle with the name Big Sky Moose Drool on the label. "I have to get back on time today so I started early. Got the big cheese coming in on an inspection tour." He grinned and said, "Of course the guy hardly knows the difference between a computer monitor and a full work station but we have to put on the show." He pointed at his beer and asked, "Want one; it's an IPA from Canada?"

"No thanks. What I want is for you to look into Jonathan and Cynthia Robinson. I'd like to know as much about them as you can find out; legally of course."

"Of course legally; I'm appalled that you would think I would do otherwise." Ricky grinned. "Now that we've got all that moral crap out of the way, what do you really need to know?"

"I'm not sure exactly. "There have been two deaths that might be connected to Robinson; his wife is one of them. I guess I just want to see if there are any red flags in his life." I hesitated for a few seconds. "I was serious about you not doing anything illegal; I don't want you to go to jail for me over this."

Ricky became more serious. "You know, if it hadn't of been for Rollie and Tully, I probably would have gone to jail. They're good people in my book and you're their friend so that buys you a lot of good will. And I'm not forgetting that scrape you got me out of."

I'd come across Ricky one night in a less than reputable bar; it was when I was working on the Hunter Blaine case. Apparently he and another customer were having a serious disagreement over who had lost the pool game. The other guy pulled a knife on Ricky and things were about to get real interesting. Stepping into the argument, I convinced the other guy that Ricky wasn't worth the trouble. I convinced him by taking the knife away from him and threatening to put it someplace that would make him sitting down very uncomfortable.

Ricky stuffed the last of the burger in his mouth, emptied the beer bottle and stood up. "Back to the salt mines. I'll give you a call no later than tomorrow noon."

"Thanks Ricky," I replied. "I'll send you a check for your work."

"No need, you pay for lunch and we're good." He turned to leave and then returned to the table. "Don't be surprised if you get a call from a number you don't recognize. I might be using an untraceable cell. See ya." Ricky turned and left humming the theme from Star Trek.

Just past 2 PM, after parking my truck in a commercial lot, I entered the One Met Square building and took the elevator to Robinson's office. The same beautiful secretary/receptionist greeted me as I came into the large foyer to the office and my opinion of her intelligence rose as she picked up her phone and said, "Hello Mr. Steele, I'll see if Mr. Robinson is available." We'd had only met for a couple of minutes a couple of months ago and yet she remembered me. Smart lady. Of course I have that effect on a lot of women; they remember me, for good or bad some remember me. She put down the phone and motioned toward the big polished metal door that led to the throne room.

Robinson sat at his desk, looking busy and made me wait for about two minutes before he looked up and said, "Yes? Why are you here?" And with a haughty look continued, "I'm done with you; I have no need of your services again, Steele."

Steele, not Mr. Steele, just Steele pronounced like it left a bad taste in his mouth. My dislike for good old Jonathan increased. The way Robinson had spoken to me and his obvious distain made up my mind on how I wanted to handle this. I sat down in one of the chairs in front of his desk and sought of slouched down. "My condolences on the death of your wife. Oh and on the death of your friend George Hamilton too."

Robinson actually snarled. "Hamilton was no friend of mine and good riddance to him."

I gave him a sarcastic grin and commented, "Interesting that Hamilton was the first one you mentioned; instead of your wife I mean."

"Well of course I'm distraught about Cynthia," Robinson tried to backpedal. "I'm grief stricken but the living must go on."

"Un-huh, just from your actions I'm sure you are." Fixing Robinson with grim stare. "Mr. Robinson, I think you had something to do with your wife's death; fact is I think you were involved in George Hamilton's boating accident as well." I stood and walked to the door. Stopping I turned and added, "I'm gonna look into it Jonathan. If I'm right you're in deep crap; and you're money isn't gonna help you."

Robinson stood and if looks could kill I would have fallen down dead. "You can't prove anything and I'll make your life hell if you come after me. You understand, you cheap gum shoe?"

"Gum shoe? Gum shoe?" I answered. "Nobody has used the term gum shoe since the Maltese Falcon and Sam Spade. You're a little behind the times Jonathan." I tried to slam the door as I left but it had one of those gadgets that closed it slowly; it wasn't very satisfying.