For the People Chapter 2
On a bench in front of an impressive line of vending machines, Rick hands Kate a container with a lovingly wrapped roast beef hero and two pickle spears. "So, did you get a hold of Sam Oglesby?"
Kate takes a ravenous bite of her sandwich. "Uh-huh. I think things will work out."
"But I would assume that as usual, you can't tell me what things or why until the official documents become publicly available."
"Actually, I can tell you who the defendant will be because the indictment isn't sealed. It's Alfred Baird."
"So a DA finally has the balls to go after the sonofabitch."
"More like enough evidence. But it is an ongoing investigation, so I can't comment further."
"You don't have to. I read Lauren Amell's book. I can connect the dots. Any contacts I can help you with besides Sam? I won't ask why."
"No, actually there are some records you can't access that I'll have to dig through. Oh, but Martha might be able to help."
"Mother? How?"
"Well, I need to know about the club scene in the early 1990s. I was hoping Martha could tell me how predatory men behaved in that environment and whom they would have chosen as targets."
"Mother did sow her share of wild oats back then. Her play is dark tonight, so she may be popping in around dinner time. Even with her own place, instincts from her starving actor days still draw her to a free meal. Better still, if you can make it home in time, I can invite her."
"I'll make it home. I miss you."
"I'm sitting right next to you, Kate."
"You know what I mean. I'm still at the bottom of the totem pole here, so I get all the grunt work. Between that and your research trips, we don't get as much time together."
"True enough," Rick acknowledges. "But from what little you can tell me, it sounds like your star is rising. Perhaps soon you can push some of the load on a new grunt."
Kate crunches a pickle. "Only if I pull off winning this case."
"You will," Rick asserts. "I can feel it."
"The club scene in the early 1990s," Martha considers, blissfully inhaling the aroma of Rick's pasta carbonara.
"Anything went back then. In the seventies the clubs were dictatorships. The owners decided who was in and who wasn't. The velvet ropes might as well have been barbed wire fences. But in the 90s, you could see anyone from RuPaul to Patrick Swayze, rest his soul. If clubgoers were looking for drugs or sex of any kind, they wouldn't have a hard time finding them. It was all very free and open."
"But not very private," Kate assumes.
"More like a huge party. I remember the Palladium. I used to sing … well, never mind. No, not private at all. If someone wanted privacy, they'd have to find it elsewhere."
"But they could spot someone at a club and accompany them elsewhere. How about stores or businesses that stayed open late?"
"Goodness! I'd think a hotel would be more comfortable. And not that many businesses stayed open late downtown. I suppose Bloomfeld's was the exception. I remember someone spilled one of those fruity drinks on me once when I was at Dominoes Down. I think it was a strawberry daiquiri. Whatever it was, it stained. So I popped into Bloomfeld's. It was just down the block. They had this great little metallic. And it was even on sale. And that late I didn't have to wait for a stall in the try-on room to be open. There weren't even any saleswomen guarding the gate. I just sailed right in and then took it to the woman at the one register on the floor to check out. That could have been more convenient, I suppose. But Bloomfeld's really saved my night. I met a director who cast me in his next play. Experimental theater. Woohoo!"
Rick coughs. "Thank you, Mother!"
"Richard, I know you'd love to pretend I never have sex, but if I didn't you wouldn't be here."
Rick jams a fork into his pasta. "Thank you again, Mother, for the biology lesson."
"Um, I picked up dessert on my way back from work," Kate interjects, "cannoli."
"From Finelli's?" Martha asks.
"Yes."
"I knew there was a reason I wanted Richard to marry you." Martha raises her glass. "To good food, good wine, and his better half."
"I will toast to that," Rick agrees.
Gidon Shapiro peers into Kate's small office noting the stacks of banker's boxes. "What's all this?"
"Employment records from Bloomfeld's dating back to the time of Lauren Amell's rape. A woman who was a customer from around then told me that at night there was a saleslady at a central register. I'm trying to determine who that was and see if she remembers witnessing anything pertinent that particular night."
"Almost two decades ago?" Shapiro questions. "That's a hell of a longshot."
"I know," Kate acknowledges. "But I figure if she saw a man on the woman's floor and a woman looking upset, it might have stuck in her memory. She might even have known Lauren on sight if she was a regular shopper there. And people work at Bloomfeld's forever. I've had women wait on me who remember me shopping with my mother."
"Pull a couple of interns in to work on this with you," Shapiro advises. "Good luck."
Kate rises from her desk chair. "Thank you so much for coming in, Ms. Levy. Please have a seat."
The fashionably dressed woman nods and settles into a chair in front of Kate's desk. "I must admit. Ms. Beckett, that I've read your husband's books, all of them. So I'm excited to meet you. I'm also curious. I can't figure out what I can do for the district attorney's office."
"I'm not sure you can do anything. I'd like to ask you some questions to find out," Kate explains.
Ellie Levy sweeps her hand through the air in a move weirdly reminiscent of Martha Rodgers. "Ask away."
"You've worked at Bloomfeld's since January 1990. Did you ever work the night shift?"
"Indeed I did. I loved it. It was the least busy time. There was also only one supervisor in the store that late. So if I wanted to read between customers, no one stopped me."
"I see. Did you ever work the central register on the women's floor?" Kate queries.
"That was the only place to work on that floor during the night shift. So yes, I did."
"Good, then I want you to think. While you were working that register at night, did you ever see men on that floor?"
"Occasionally. Sometimes they'd hold stuff for their wives, or whatever women they trailed after. Or sometimes they'd come rushing up for emergency gifts. I believe they wanted something more convincing than flowers that they hadn't forgotten a birthday or an anniversary."
"Any man particularly stick out in your mind?"
"No, oh, yes, come to think of it. There was one who followed a woman to the changing room. As I said, sometimes they held things. But all that woman had with her was a small clutch, so he wouldn't have had much to hold. And then a few minutes later, I saw her rushing for the escalator. She was pulling on the belt of her dress, one of those coat dresses I think, like she was trying to get it tight. But he wasn't with her. He followed a few minutes later, walking kind of funny."
"Was he limping when he came in?" Kate queries.
"Not that I noticed. And it wasn't the kind of walk that happens when someone has a blister or something. More like when someone knees a guy in the, you know."
"In the groin?"
"Yes, there. I had to do that to a boy at school once when he got the wrong idea about me being a cheerleader. He moved sort of like that for a little while. I remember wondering if that guy tried to do something in the changing room. But if he did, it looked like he might have gotten what he deserved."
"Perhaps not quite yet, Ms. Levy," Kate responds. "But if you'll help me, he will."
