About the time Bernie Kahn was confronting the forces of municipal maintenance, Mitch Bernstein and Joe Connors were sliding into plastic chairs in the back of a coffee shop across the street from the Bernstein Building. The shop sold a commercial variety of non-threatening coffee bearing roughly the same relationship to Bernstein’s homebrew as a Shirley Temple bears to a boilermaker. The shop’s pastries also tended to resemble aged versions of its previous morning’s offerings, and it’s chairs required an inspection, and perhaps a quick wipe, before use. Connors had nonetheless insisted on this change of venue for the present discussion.
“You look like hell,” he told his boss when they were seated.
“Thanks,” came the reply. “Who put the oats in the bags under your eyes?”
They had been in harness for many years. An employer-subordinate pairing that featured the usual flashes of prickly long-married couple nattering.
“So why did we have to meet here?” said Bernstein, looking around with distaste. Though the shop had a fairly active earlybird office worker traffic at this hour, none of the other customers seemed particularly interested in the two men seated in one of its rear tables, away from the counter.
“You haven’t been out of the building in days.”
“So?”
“So even a walk across the street is something you needed.”
“Sure,” said Bernstein. “Just the thing to cheer me up.”
He knew Connors was right. In the nearly three days that had passed since the murder, he hadn’t left the buidling once and had only been able to snatch a few hours sleep on a cot in the corner of the security shack. It was a place he called his “going to the mattresses” emergency quarters, originally prepared so he could be on site as needed during market meltdowns or other financial crises. Now it was his home away from home during a company crisis.
Bernstein Financial Broadcasting runs 24/7. It has three shifts. Eight in the morning till four in the afternoon. Four to midnight. Midnight until 8 a.m. And while few if any employees worked a straight eight hour day, and there was a huge amount of shift overlap, most employees did start their workdays at a designated hour.
Since the murder, Mitch Bernstein had made a point of circulating widely and being highly visible at every shift change. He was the coach and counselor helping his people get through this trying period. He was also the boss who would notice if a murder gave anyone the idea they didn’t have to do an honest day’s work.
“All right, Joe. You dragged me out.” He looked down at the tepid beverage in front of him. “You poisoned me. Now tell me you have some good news.”
“Think I do,” said Connors. “Think we know our man. Though we don’t have the hard evidence to prove it. Not yet.”
Bernstein’s expression softened. “Tell me.”
“It was Clay who did most of the leg work getting this information.”
“Giving credit to other people. That speaks well of you, Joe. So who’s our man? If it is a man.”
“It is.” Connors described his get together with Bernie Kahn the night before. About the remark Kahn overheard during his last meeting with Myron Hamish. How that narrowed their field of murder suspects to three male candidates.
Another break in the investigation appeared when Connors arrived at work this morning, before calling Bernstein out for this meeting. Clay Mason came by and reported that his own questioning of company personnel determined that two of the Fab Four were definitely with other employees during the entire half-hour when the murder occurred. And the two whose movements during that period could not be spoken for included Clarisa Thomas, the only female member of the group. Which left them with just one remaining male suspect.
“What an incredibly stupid play,” said Bernstein. “How could this person think this would end up advancing his career? How could he possibly believe he would get away with a murder? In my building?”
The way Bernstein said “my building” made it clear he viewed desecration of property he owned a crime on a par with the murder itself. “And killing that girl in Powelton the very next day. Crazy. Absolutely crazy.”
“Pretty much my conclusion,” said Connors. “The guy’s nuts. Always has been. You’ve been saying that for years, Mitch. That he’d do anything to grab more power inside the company. And with you leaving pretty soon to become mayor...”
Bernstein tensed. “You’re saying I’m responsible for driving him over the edge? Making him kill a couple of my employees?” His face had again taken on that sad and disappointed look. A sure sign of displeasure.
“No. Of course not.” Connors knew it was time to change the subject in a hurry. “I’ve got some thoughts about where to go from here,” he said. “How we can do a lemons to lemonade number.”
“Make it good, Joe.”
“I think you’ll like it. There’s a few details still to work out, of course. That Kahn guy, the one I met with yesterday...”
“Your freelance intellectual friend.”
“Not exactly an genius but malleable enough. Anyway, I’m going to have him do a little Q&A in The Fishbowl with our Fab Four. About an hour from now.”
“The reason?”
Connors explained his thinking. Where he thought this end game was headed. How it could end up making a full pitcher of the hoped-for lemonade.
“Still a few loose ends,” he concluded. “When Kahn is done with the Q&A he’ll report what he’s learned to me. I’ll make a couple of calls. If everything fits together the way I think it will after that, I can give you all the details later this afternoon.
“Like I said, Joe. Make it good. I want this all cleared up by day’s end.. Now, how are we going to handle the parrot business?”
