Free Due Diligence by Michael A. Kahn

dated in the upper right corner. As I had hoped, the Smilow & Sullivan directory was just like the telephone directory in the conference room of a typical law firm: it was about one month out of date. Peering down the column of engineers and accountants, I found him under the Rs:
    Roberts, Michael E.          (Mary G.)          x243
    Rosenthal, Bruce A.          (Karen H.)         x332
    Rucker, Carol B.               (Dixie C.)          x213
    Karen H. was in the column of secretaries, under the H’s:
    Harmon, Karen               x432
    I heard the door open behind me. “Thank you so much,” I said into the phone as I slid the directory back into the drawer. On the other end of the phone a voice was running through last night’s American League box scores. I stared down at the name again: Harmon, Karen . “I’ll be in the courtroom at two o’clock,” I said into the phone, “and I’ll be sure to notify the other counsel.” I hung up and turned toward the door, in the process sliding the drawer closed with my hip.
    Donna stood there with her arms crossed, looking as if she’d like to polish my teeth with an industrial sander. I gave her my sweetest smile. “Thanks a bunch,” I said.
    She pivoted on her heel, marched me to the main reception area, and left me there. I spotted the visitors’ telephone on a low table in the waiting area and waited until Donna was out of sight. Then I turned to the perky blond receptionist. “Would you mind if I used your phone to make a local call?”
    â€œGo right ahead, honey.”
    â€œI’m not sure of the phone number.”
    â€œHere you go.” She handed me the Southwestern Bell White Pages for Greater St. Louis. I flipped through the H’s and found three listings for Harmon, K —one in Webster Groves, one in north St. Louis, and one in what sounded like an apartment complex way out west in Chesterfield. The third listing sounded the most likely. Pretending to use the listing as a reference, I dialed Sports Line again and engaged in what I hoped sounded like a conversation with a woman named Margi over the rescheduling of a lunch appointment. I hung up and returned the telephone directory to the receptionist.
    â€œBy the way,” I said to her with a lively smile, “how’s Karen Harmon doing these days?”
    â€œY’all know Karen?” she answered in a cheerful Southern drawl.
    â€œSure. Is she still in that apartment in Chesterfield?”
    â€œSure is. Matter of fact, Karen had me over last summer. Isn’t that pool something?”
    We talked long enough for me to change the topic from Karen Harmon’s swimming pool to summer vacations down at the Lake of the Ozarks, which was the receptionist’s favorite spot “in the whole wide world.” My goal was to downplay the Karen Harmon aspect of our discussion so that I could leave without risking her calling Karen to come out to see her friend or asking me to leave a name and message for Karen. It worked. A visitor arrived, the phone started ringing, I left with a wave.
    ***
    The following night at 6:30 I was sitting in my car in the parking area out front of the apartment and town-house complex known as Tuscany Crossing. I’d been there for about forty minutes. I was waiting for the arrival of an emerald green Suzuki Sidekick (Missouri license plate number WGH 570), which Karen Harmon had financed with an automobile loan from Mark Twain Bank (on which she still owed $8,723.87 as of the end of last month). It’s spooky how much information you can obtain on anyone with just a computer and a few commonly available data banks. In less than fifteen minutes, I knew the current