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his second sandwich, took a big gulp of his iced tea, and sat back and stared at me. He shook his head.
    â€œWhat?” I said.
    â€œListen to yourself. You’ve got some mailroom kook with a handbook on facial expressions and a tube of Blistex who claims that a confirmed suicide is really a homicide committed by someone in her firm for some unknown reason. You know what that sounds like?”
    â€œTell me.”
    â€œThe start of the worst Nancy Drew mystery of all time.”
    I smiled. “I didn’t know you were a Nancy Drew fan.”
    â€œNot exactly a fan. My sister had an entire bookshelf of them. I read a few when I got bored.”
    â€œI loved Nancy Drew,” I said. “She was my hero in grade school.”
    â€œI dug her, too. Hot bod.”
    â€œBenny.”
    â€œSpeaking of hot bods.”
    â€œBenny.”
    â€œHey, I’m not the one at this table with the all-world tush. Not to say that mine isn’t cute, albeit in need of a little manscaping. So tell me: which was your favorite Nancy Drew story?”
    â€œHmm.” I leaned back in my chair, trying to remember. “One I really liked was when she goes to Scotland and ends up in that creepy old castle.”
    â€œAh, yes, The Clue of the Whistling Bagpipes . Not a bad tale.”
    I stared at him. “I can’t believe this, Benny.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHow long have we known each other? Fifteen years? I never knew you read Nancy Drew mysteries.”
    â€œGirl, my hidden talents have charmed women around the globe. You have no idea. I have mad skills. To quote the great Walter Sobchak: ‘You want a toe? I can get you a toe, believe me…Hell, I can get you a toe by three o’clock this afternoon—with nail polish.’”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    He gave me a wink. “And trust me, when I say that this scenario of yours—you and that whacko and his tube of Blistex—when I say that sounds like the start of a bad Nancy Drew mystery, I know what I’m talking about.”
    I shrugged. “Don’t forget, Benny, those mysteries always ended happily.”
    â€œDon’t forget, Rachel, those mysteries were also works of fiction.”

Chapter Eight
    At ten o’clock that evening, Jerry Klunger and I walked into the main lobby of the Chouteau Tower. Tommy Flynn was seated in his usual spot at the security station in the front lobby. He had just shuffled the cards and was dealing a new game of solitaire when he saw the huge figure of Jerry Klunger approaching.
    â€œHello there, big guy.”
    â€œEvening, Mr. Flynn.”
    Tommy turned to me. “Ma’am.”
    I put my hand out. “Mr. Flynn, my name is Rachel Gold.”
    We shook.
    â€œPleased to meet you, Miss Gold.”
    â€œCall me Rachel.”
    He grinned. “And you can call me Tommy.”
    He checked his wristwatch and leaned back to look up at Jerry. “Thought you boys got off at nine.”
    â€œWe did, sir. I came back with Miss Gold. We were hoping to have a word with you.”
    â€œWith me?” His eyes narrowed. “About what?”
    Jerry looked around the empty lobby. “It’s about Sari.”
    â€œShe was a good gal.” He shook his head sadly. “What about her?”
    â€œWell.” Jerry paused. “Stanley’s got some doubts. I guess we all do. Miss Gold knew her, too.”
    â€œDoubts about what?”
    Jerry took another glance around the lobby and leaned in closer. In almost a whisper, he said, “About how she died.”
    Tommy studied Jerry, who towered over the security desk, and then glanced at me. He checked his watch.
    â€œTime for a smoke break. How ‘bout you two keep me company?”
    I followed Jerry and Tommy out of the building. Although our destination was a small plaza with a fountain just a block west of their building, to describe their walk as a stroll would