X - Chapter Thirty One "The Thirty Percent Solution"

 

"The Thirty Percent Solution" 

Chapter Thirty One 

      The ring of his phone was persistent, and out of desperation Special Agent Vince DuBois finally answered it.  

      He heard the voice of Police Detective Rafael Jimenez:  “How long would it take you to get to 99 East 52nd Street, The Grill, in the old Seagram Building?” 

      “Where are you?” DuBois shot back. 

      “In my temp office in the 17th Precinct, on 51st Street,” Jimenez said with a tone of annoyance. “Why you pretentious . . . .”

      “Well, Raf, my answer: I’m in my office, in the Javits Building, in Tribeca, way downtown, but I’ll get there as fast as you do,” DuBois said with a laugh. Then he pulled Agent Warren Owens off a case he had just started and told him he had two minutes to get the black Tahoe to the driveway and ready to depart. 

      Agent Owens slapped the Cherry light onto the vehicle’s roof, and they were off. First, they shot north on FDR Drive, then excited onto 57th Street, and then danced around a few streets, until they pulled up in front of the Seagram Building just three minutes after Jimenez’s arrival. 

      DuBois and Owens, accompanied by one uniformed officer who had waited for their arrival, traversed the wide plaza with its gurgling pond and entered The Grill. Jimenez and two of his detectives were sitting at two tables with the restaurant’s director of operations, its manager, and a middle-aged woman wearing a white jacket and black slacks. She had been helping to prepare the restaurant for the dinner shift. Her name was Ginger Rawson. 

      Jimenez’ lead detective, Wendell Barnes, had been talking with the Grill’s manager. 

      “We might’ve hit pay dirt, or just plain dirt, I don’t know,” Barnes said. “We got some funny coincidences here. So, I’ll tell you guys what the manager told me, and then we’ll talk with Ginger, Ms. Rawson. I wanted to interview her, but she wanted to talk with people with more authority. So, let me start by making a few introductions. Everybody got a seat, right?” 

      Barnes paused for a few seconds. Then he said: “Gentlemen, and of course Ms. Rawson, let me introduce Special Agent Vince DuBois of the FBI. Agent DuBois, and our Captain Jimenez are leading our investigation. And with Agent DuBois is . . .  “

      “Agent Warren Owens, also of the FBI’s New York office,” Owens introduced himself.  

      “Okay, I guess we got a crowd here,” Barnes continued. “So, Ms. Rawson, I just want to make sure. First, I want to thank you for offering to talk with us. Are you happy?”

      Ms. Rawson was just a bit embarrassed, but she spoke forcefully. “Yes, of course, thank you.”  

      “So, we’re talking about Wednesday, May 13th, that’s the night Mr. Merritt was killed,” Barnes said. “And we asked about reservations, reservations for dinner. And guess what? The Grill’s system did, in fact, have a reservation for Mr. Merritt, and for his guest, a Mr. Bucknell.”

      Both Jimenez and DuBois tried to contain their excitement. 

      “So, Mr. Bucknell’s got some explaining to do,” Jimenez said. “Like other employees, he was interviewed on the morning after. And he’s a partner, and he was in for the board meeting, and  . . .  ”

      “Hey, wait you guys,” Barnes said. “That’s half the story. Then, our manager here says,  ‘Wait a second. We got another reservation, also for dinner, but three days later, on the Saturday, but also by someone named Merritt. So, guess what! This reservation was made by a Gloria Merritt, yes, the boss’s wife. And who was her guest? Hold onto your hats! Her guest was a Mr. Bucknell, too. So, looks like Mr. Bucknell has more than a little explaining to do, too.”

      There was complete silence. Everyone was looking around at each other, and no one knew what to say. 

      Barnes stepped up to the challenge. “So, now. Ms. Rawson, Ginger, we want to tell you again how much we appreciate your help, and of course, the same goes for The Grill. But now, let me just leave it to Ms. Rawson to tell us what she thinks is important.”

      All eyes turned toward Ginger. She was just a bit shorter than average height, and carried herself with confidence. Her hair had the definite color of ginger. Her blue eyes had the shine of tears in their corners. She spoke with emotion:

      “I just want to tell you, Mr. Merritt was always a real gentleman.” Ginger held her head high and spoke with conviction. “He was always polite. He always had something pleasant to say. And he respected people. And he never tried to cop a feel, like some low-lifes. Yes, they were here, both of them, Mr. Merritt and his guest, you called him Mr. Bucknell, a young man, tall and blond, and it was on that Wednesday. They had a few drinks at the bar. They seemed serious, important business to talk about, I guess. Sure, they talked a lot, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying, and then they took a table. But I did see they had a bunch of papers, some kind of a thick document, and they were looking at it.” 

      “Now, Ms. Rawson, did Mr. Merritt and his guest leave together?” asked Jimenez. 

      “Yes, I watched them leave. It was around 10:30.”

      The group waited to see if Ginger wanted to add anything. 

      “And Ms. Rawson,” Jimenez said. “When Mr. Merritt and Mr. Bucknell were at the bar, could you hear anything, anything at all they were saying?” 

      “No, I’m sorry. It was a busy night, like we had half New York here, and there was so much noise. I just couldn’t hear what they were saying.” 

      “Thank you,” Jimenez said. “Please go on.”  

      “Now, Mrs. Merritt,” Ginger went on. “Now, we’re talking about the following Saturday. I was shocked. She was sitting with this young man, your Mr. Bucknell, tall and handsome. And they had champagne, I know ‘cause I brought it to their table. It looked like they were celebrating. And Mrs. Merritt, didn’t even bury her husband yet. And the young guy, had his hands all over her! Don’t tell me about it, ‘cause I know the drill. It wasn’t right.” 

      Again, silence. The conclusions seemed clear. But something was missing. DuBois brought his briefcase up from the floor, and moved forward on the table. He pulled a Winshire brochure from his briefcase. 

      “Ms. Rawson, I’d like to ask you one little question,” DuBois began. “This is a publication from Winshire Associates, the company where Mr. Merritt was the president. I’d like to show you something.”

      DuBois opened the brochure to two pages with photos of leading partners from the New York headquarters. 

      “Ms. Rawson, these are some of the men who work at Winshire here in New York,” DuBois continued. “On these two pages, you have sixteen of them. I’ve taken a marker and blanked out their names. Do you see the photo of the man both Mr. and Mrs. Merritt were with on these two pages?”

      Without hesitation, Ginger pointed with her index finger at the photo of Bucknell. “There, that’s him. Both nights.”       

      “Thank you, Ms. Rawson,” DuBois said. “Thank you for helping our investigation.” 

      “But you know, you know something?” Ginger looked thoughtful. “You know, now that I see his picture, there’s something else. Sure, he did what I said. But maybe a few times, when he was with Mrs. Merritt, he looked away from her, and he looked, like dreamy, like maybe a little bit sad.”  

      There were more effusive thanks, along with more handshaking, and the law-enforcement contingent left the restaurant. Once outside on the plaza near the gurgling pond, DuBois and Jimenez expressed their relief. 

      “Holy shit!” Jimenez almost shouted. “This sure does it. This ties it all together. And Vince, nice going! That made it certain, no mistakes. I think that assistant D.A.’s gonna be happy when I call him. Vince, you were right. We pulled this baby outta the fire.” 

       “Raf, that’s teamwork.” DuBois could hardly suppress his smile. “Yes, the pieces are falling into place. But I think we gotta sit down and review . . .  you know, the whole thing.” 

      “Sure, sure,” Jimenez said. “I’ll review whatever you want.”

      “Gentlemen,” interrupted Barnes. “Can I make a suggestion?” 

      “Of course,” came the chorus.

      “Well,” Barnes said, taking his time, “I got someone waiting over at the 17th, he ought to be there now. I don’t wanna say too much, ‘cause I want you to hear it from him. But I’m sure you’re gonna be interested in what he has to say.” 

      It was already past four, and Midtown was entering the period just before the rush hour. Secretaries getting away from their offices early, executives already heading to their favorite watering holes, a smattering of tourists discovering New York City for the first time – they all glanced with mild interest at the law-enforcement contingent moving along 52nd Street. 

      The detectives in dress suits and the one police officer in uniform numbered six, and it was pleasant for them to take a few breaths of fresh air, watch Midtown with all its life, and believe that their investigation was moving toward a conclusion. 

      It was less than ten minutes later that Barnes, Jimenez and his other detective, and DuBois and Owens entered the glass enclosure at the 17th Precinct, which had now become their temporary office. Waiting for them was a man of average height, wearing a dark blue windbreaker and beige trousers. He had a tanned face with sharp features and short-cut black hair graying around the edges. 

      “Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to Hakim Touati,” Barnes said. “It so happens that Mr. Touati is a security guard, at the front desk, at Winshire’s building. And, as an employee of Union Security, Mr. Touati was at his post on May 13th, on the four-to-midnight shift.” 

      Barnes stopped, and then he said, “But shoot, I don’t wanna hog the show. How about we all take a seat and let Mr. Touati tell his own story?” 

      Once everyone was seated, Touati looked at each of the law officers for a few seconds. Then he began to speak. 

      “First of all, Sergeant Barnes told me what you want to talk about. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to say two things first.” Touati spoke with the slightest hint of a foreign accent. “Thank you for the privilege of speaking with you. You see, I came to America from Algeria just about twenty years ago, and America has been good to me. In my culture, you don’t accept a gift without being ready to repay it. You are asking me for help in your investigation, and now I’m paying part of that debt. 

      “The other thing I wanted to say is that Sergeant Barnes asked me to talk about the comings and goings of four people. Of course, I know those people; I’ve been a member of the security staff for eighteen years. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Just to be organized, I made photocopies of two pages of the building’s log.” Touati pulled a white envelope from his windbreaker’s inside pocket and slid it over to Sergeant Barnes. 

      “It’s all very clear. But 21 East 53rd Street has a very advanced and dependable security system,” he continued. “There are data records, that is images, of all of the comings and goings of anyone who enters or exists the building, and they are stored for sixty days. Just to give you an example, Mr. Stauffer, when he entered the building the evening of May 13th, he was looking up at the ceiling to find the security cameras, he was sticking to the wall, or he was dancing around to be undetected. But the cameras capture everything. You can’t cheat the system. The system just keeps recording. And remember one thing: You can get copies of the segments you need from the building’s management.” 

      Barnes opened the envelope, glanced at the two pages of photocopies, and then slid them to Jimenez, who looked at them for a few seconds and then passed them onto DuBois. 

      “So, what would you like me to do?” Touati asked. 

      The law-enforcement officers looked at each other, but they said nothing. 

      “Why don’t we do this?” Touati proposed. “If I could borrow those sheets for just a few minutes, why don’t I give you my impressions about the comings and goings of each person?”

      DuBois handed the two pages back to Touati, who spread the copies out on the table and smoothed them out with his palm. “We can see here that Mr. Merritt and Mr. Bucknell left the building around 7:35 and they returned around 10:40.” Touati spoke in a precise manner. “Just for your information, they looked just a bit tipsy when they came back, must’ve had a few drinks.” 

      “And then,” he continued, “Mrs. Merritt showed up at 11:46, and like a princess, she waltzes through the lobby like it’s her palace, and takes the elevator upstairs, like the others. 

      “And for another surprise,” Touati continued, “just a few minutes before midnight, at exactly 11:57, Mr. Stauffer comes in. And, like I told you before, he was acting strange, trying to trick the security system. 

      “Now, I have to explain something to you. When my shift is done, I usually hang around to brief the next guard, and his name is Elton McFarlane.  

      “So, at 12:13, we see Mrs. Merritt and Mr. Bucknell rush out, and when I say ‘rush out,’ they were fast. But not too fast, ‘cause Elton and I saw she was like helping him, kind of guiding him, and she was holding his right hand with both her hands, and his hand was wrapped up in a scarf or something. And at the same time, her expression, she looked mad, pissed off, and we saw her kind of jab him in the side, not really hard, with her fist, and we heard her say, just a few words, and I think she said something like ‘You said,’ and then I didn’t hear the rest, but then she spoke just a bit louder, and I think it was ‘Why not? Why not?’ And like I said, they really rushed out.  

      “So, now, we still got two of your people upstairs somewhere,” Touati said. “We got Mr. Merritt up there, and we still got Mr. Stauffer up there. At 12:28 here comes Mr. Stauffer, and he made for the front exit so fast, very fast. And Elton and I didn’t miss anything, because he looked terrible. His clothes were wrinkled, his face was red, and his hair was all messed up. And, too, he has a little briefcase, and he was hugging it to his chest.” 

      Touati looked at the men, one at a time, and he asked: “Is this the kind of information you wanted? Do you have any questions? Oh, the photocopies are for you.” And he slid them to the center of the table. 

      “Just one little question,” DuBois said. “Could you hear any one else say anything?” 

      “Well, when Mr. Merritt and Mr. Bucknell came in, they were talking, but I couldn’t really understand what they were saying. But, like I said before, they seemed happy, like in a good mood. And Mrs. Merritt, usually she stops by the desk, and she’s real friendly, and she usually chats with the guard on duty; but not this time. And when Mr. Stauffer came out, he looked confused, mixed up or something, and he sounded like he was jabbering to himself, and we couldn’t understand anything he said. 

      “Did I answer your questions okay?” Touati asked. 

      “Yes, you sure did,” Jimenez said. “But one more thing. I’m guessing you left the building maybe around 12:30, after Stauffer left. But what about Mr. Merritt? Did he, at any point, leave the building? Was there any entry in the log about him leaving the building?”

      Touati’s features suddenly creased into sadness. “No, I’m sorry. There’re no more entries about Mr. Merritt. Nobody knew anything about him, that is, until one of the Winshire employees discovered him in his office the next morning. And there were no other entries of anyone entering the building and going up to the 13th floor.” 

      Silence reigned in the glass enclosure. No one spoke. There was a feeling that air was sucked out of the space. The only sounds were the echoed conversations from outside. 

      “Mr. Touati, thank you for your assistance,” Barnes said. 

      “I can’t say it was a pleasure, but it was my duty.” 

      “But lemme tell you, we might need to talk with you again,” Barnes said. “Could you give us your driver’s license, so we can copy it, and also give us a few telephone numbers, so, if we need to, we could get in touch with you in a hurry?”

      Touati handed his driver’s license over to Sergeant Barnes, and also gave him a few business cards, which had three telephone numbers listed. Then he looked at the five lawmen, one after the other.  

      “Look, you guys, I think we gave Mr. Touati a workout,” Barnes said. “I think he gave us a lot to jawbone about. If you don’t have any urgent questions, and if you don’t mind, I think he has to report for duty.”

      “I’m fine,” Touati said. “But maybe it’d be good to get back.” Barnes gave him his driver’s license back, he was thanked again, and each investigator shook his hand, and he was escorted from the precinct. 

       Jimenez was the first to say what all three investigators were thinking: “Holy shit! I never would’ve dreamed it.”