Grave Designs Page 24

  “What can we do?” Cindi asked.

  “First we have to confirm that they stole all the videocassettes,” I said.

  “How?”

  “I’ll have someone check the police inventory from your condo tomorrow.”

  “What’s a police inventory?”

  “A list of everything the police found in your place after the explosion. What else was in the safe?”

  “Some cash. Some jewelry.”

  “The police inventory will tell us what’s missing.”

  “Rachel, I think we’re in over our heads.”

  “A little,” I said. More like standing on the ocean floor. “I’m going to try to get us some help tomorrow. And I think it’s time Cindi Reynolds returned from the dead. At least as far as the police are concerned.”

  “Whatever you say.” Her shoulders were slumped and her head was down.

  “Who knew about the safe and the videocassettes?”

  “Only the ones who asked me if I knew of a place they could store their tapes.”

  ***

  We got into bed at 5:30 a.m. and I set my alarm for 8:30 a.m. My appointment with Ishmael Richardson was at 11:30.

  I thought back to the code in the coffin. The numbers weren’t familiar, but the sequence was. I’d know for sure after I saw Tyrone Henderson in the morning.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  On Monday morning I called Detective Kevin Turelli before I left for my office.

  “You want the police inventory from the Shore Drive Tower explosion?” he asked. “You mind telling me why, Rachel?”

  “I can’t, Kevin. At least not yet.”

  “Well, I’ll see what I can find. I know they’ll have a copy at the Eighteenth District. There might be one down here. And there’s probably a dick from the Bomb and Arson Squad working on it too.”

  “Thanks, Kevin. I’m especially interested in the contents of her wall safe. Also, could you see if you have any records on someone named Anthony Rossino?”

  “Rossino, huh? I’ll do what I can.”

  Mary had a telephone message for me when I walked into my office: Det. Turelli called—he has some info for you.

  I dialed his number. Another detective answered and put me on hold.

  Kevin Turelli and I had met as first-year associates at Abbott & Windsor. We had shared an office—the twenty-four-year-old graduate of Harvard Law School and the forty-four-year-old ex-cop from the West Side of Chicago who had worked his way through night school at John Marshall Law School. We became good friends.

  Kevin had lasted three years at A & W before returning to the Chicago Police Department as a detective under a special fast-track arrangement. He was currently assigned to homicide down at 11th & State—the “smart shop,” as Kevin called it.

  “Detective Turelli here.”

  “Hi, Kevin.”

  “Hi, Rachel. I got the dope.”

  “And?”

  “First, the inventory. I have a copy of it right here. Looks like nothing’s missing. One pearl necklace, one gold choker necklace with a large pear-shaped diamond and matching bracelet, two sets of diamond earrings, one gold Lucien Picard wristwatch, one diamond ring, one ruby ring, and three thousand five hundred dollars in assorted denominations, all paper.”

  Nine hundred dollars a night could add up fast, I thought. “Anything else?”

  “Nope. Now, what’s the deal with this Rossino, Rachel? Is this guy a client of yours?”

  “No. But it’s confidential, Kevin. Did you find anything on him?”

  “Plenty. I pulled his sheet. The guy’s a small-time hood with a string of priors going back to 1972. He served a year in Joliet in 1983. For shy-locking and extortion. The guy’s bad news, Rachel. Bad news. When are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Give me a little more time, Kevin.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said.

  “By the way, Mamma wants to know what you’re doing for Labor Day. She’s having the whole family over for dinner and wants you to come too.” Kevin Turelli was the fourth son of an Irish mother and an Italian father. His mother’s holiday dinners were wonderful polyglot feasts: corned beef, cabbage, pasta, Irish soda bread, homemade spumoni.

  “I’d love to. Tell her I’ll be there.”

  “Okay, kid. Take care.”

  ***

  My first stop at Abbott & Windsor was Tyrone Henderson.

  “Ty, can you get access to the firm’s billing computer?”

  “Baby, I can get access to just about anything these days ‘cept you.”

  “Tyrone,” I said, putting my hands on my hips and shaking my head.

  He rolled his eyes and turned slowly in his swivel chair to face the terminal. “Shee-it,” he sighed as he typed in a code, pushed the Transmit button, and turned back to me. “Next?”

  “Okay.” I pulled out the slip of paper with the code from inside the coffin. “Can you see what this is? Zero zero three two zero dash one nine five three.”

  Tyrone typed in the numbers as I read them off. At corporate law firms, the attorneys charge by the hour. Each day each attorney fills out time sheets indicating what he did for each client matter and how much time he spent doing it. At the end of each billing period the computer sorts out the time billed to each client matter and sends a printout to the billing partner responsible for that client matter.

  Each client at Abbott & Windsor is assigned a five-digit client number. As the client brings in each new matter (i.e., a lawsuit, a corporate deal, a labor arbitration, a tax problem), it is assigned its own four-digit matter number. The handwritten numerical code in the coffin matched the pattern of a typical client matter at the firm: a five-digit client number (00320) and a four-digit matter number (1953).

  “Looks like it’s our old friend again,” said Tyrone, pointing to the screen, which displayed the following:

  NO. 00320-1953

  CLIENT: GRAHAM ANDERSON MARSHALL !!!

  MATTER: MISCELLANEOUS PRESONAL

  “Bingo,” I said.

  “Yep. That dude keeps popping up, don’t he?”

  “Is there any billing record left for that matter?” I asked.

  “If there was any time recorded, it’ll be in there.”

  “Can you see?” I asked.

  “Sure.” Tyrone typed a set of instructions and pushed the Transmit button. The screen went blank for twenty seconds and then the following appeared:

  FIRST TIME CHARGES: 1/29/85

  LAST TIME CHARGED: 10/4/85

  ATTORNEYS: CHARLES, KENT R.

  DODSON, HARLAN B.

  GOLDBERG, BENJAMIN J.

  PEMBERTON, CALVIN S.

  I studied the screen. “So those four worked on the matter,” I said, staring at the Goldberg, Benjamin J.

  “From January 29, 1985, to October 4, 1985.” Tyrone pointed to the four names. “These dudes.”

  “Can you tell what they did?”

  Tyrone typed some more instructions and pushed the Transmit button and then the Print button. “We’ll print out the billing records. It’ll list every entry for every attorney.”

  The printer clicked on, advanced the paper in three quick jumps, and then started printing. It stopped two minutes later. Tyrone reached over and tore off the four-page printout. “Here you go, Rachel.”

  “Thanks, Ty.”

  I sat on the work table and studied the printout. Cal Pemberton had billed a total of 13.2 hours from January 29, 1985, to February 15, 1985. Kent Charles had billed 16.3 hours from May 4, 1985, to June 26, 1985. Benny had billed 17.2 hours during three days in August 1985. Harlan Dodson had billed 6.1 hours over the first four days of October 1985. The descriptions were vague but no more so than most billing descriptions. Kent, Cal, and Harlan had telephone calls and
meetings with various unnamed people and had reviewed documents. Benny had researched and drafted a legal memorandum.

  I stared at the printout. What did Benny know about Canaan that I didn’t? And why?

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “Mr. Richardson can see you now.”

  I stood up. “Thanks,” I said, and walked past the secretary’s desk into the office of Ishmael Richardson.

  Ishmael was seated behind his ornate oak desk jotting something on his calendar as I walked in. He looked up and smiled. “Hello, Rachel. Please have a seat.”

  I did. “I came over to give you my report on the Canaan matter.”

  “Excellent.” He leaned forward and pushed the intercom button on his telephone. “June, hold my calls until Miss Gold leaves.” He leaned back in his high-backed leather chair, rested his elbows on the armrests, and lightly touched his fingertips together beneath his chin. “Tell me what you have found.”

  “For starters, the coffin. It turned up yesterday,” I said.

  “Wonderful.”

  “There was a dog’s skeleton in it,” I continued. “But I’m reasonably certain there wasn’t a dog in the coffin when Graham Marshall buried it.”

  Richardson raised his eyebrows.

  “It’s a long story, Ishmael.” I’d managed to use his first name.

  “Let me hear it.”

  I started by explaining what I had pieced together about Graham Marshall’s Canaan exploits back in 1985. I described Ambrose Springer’s little book, The Lottery of Canaan, and its connection to both Barrett College and Marshall’s ancestor, Benjamin Marshall. I mentioned the missing dictionary with the additional definition of Canaan, explained Helen Marston’s recollections about Marshall’s secret activities back in 1985, and described the four newspaper articles listed in code on the slip of paper filed under Canaan. I went into the significance of the year 1985: it was the three hundredth anniversary of the first Canaan lottery and the thirtieth anniversary of the bizarre deaths of Marshall’s sister and mother. I explained how Marshall had maintained a Canaan data bank in the Bottles & Cans computer and had printed out the contents of the file just before he buried the coffin.

  “Marshall wanted someone to discover what he’d done,” I continued. “He set up that bizarre codicil to force the firm to investigate and possibly exhume the coffin. We did exactly what he hoped we’d do. Except someone beat us to the coffin.”

  Ishmael Richardson stroked his chin.

  I sighed, glancing at the row of three framed Edward Hopper pen and ink sketches on the wall behind his desk. “As for my assignment, it’s basically complete—no matter what was originally ino the coffin, regardless of whether Mr. Marshall actually was running his own Canaan lottery. The trust fund is superfluous. You can still honor the purpose of the codicil, if the family wants t. Just break the trust and purchase the permanent care and maintenance option from the cemetery. It’s a one-time flat fee of a thousand dollars.”

  Richardson finally cleared his throat. “As I am sure you must realize, Rachel, I find this…this Canaan lottery rather difficult to believe. Even if we assume, arguendo, that Graham participated in this criminal scheme, the logistics are rather difficult to envision. He could not possibly have accomplished all of it by himself. How in heaven’s name would Graham Marshall know how to sabotage a plane?” Richardson shook his head. “Frankly, the image of him sneaking around an abandoned warehouse and taping an envelope full of money to the bottom of a filing cabinet is, quite frankly, absurd.”

  “I know,” I said. “I agree. But let’s assume Marshall recruited some henchmen. Assume he set up a one-way communication system, where he could communicate with them but they didn’t know how to contact him, or even who he was. It’s been done before. Remember the Barfield murder?”

  Richardson nodded. He was staring out his window toward the lake. “It would require substantial capital,” he mused. “I suppose that would not pose an insurmountable problem for Graham.” He turned back to me. “Who stole the coffin?”

  “I think it was someone in this firm, Ishmael.”

  “Who?” Richardson leaned forward. “And why?”

  I explained the code in the bottom of the coffin and how it led me back to Abbott & Windsor and the billing records for the Graham Marshall personal matter.

  “I see two possible scenarios,” I continued. “First, one of the four lawyers in those billing records stumbled onto what Mr. Marshall was up to and decided to take over the Canaan network when Marshall dropped his own involvement in it. If Marshall suspected something like that, then that would explain the clue he wrote in the coffin.” I shook my head. “But that scenario has problems. If the guy wanted to use the Canaan system for his own schemes, he would have to wait until Marshall died for fear that Marshall would find out what he was doing. But how could this guy know when Marshall would die?”

  “He had a severe heart problem,” Richardson said.

  “I know,” I said. “His widow told me there was a chance his artificial valve was defective. But even so, he still could have lived another twenty years. By then those Canaan thugs would be long gone.”

  “You said there were two possible scenarios,” Richardson prompted.

  I nodded. “The second one is even creepier. It assumes that Mr. Marshall had an assistant here at the firm. An assistant, or a successor that he was grooming. If so, maybe Marshall started having second thoughts about the guy he selected. Maybe he worried that his successor might try to use the Canaan system for his own schemes. If so, what could Marshall do to stop him? He couldn’t go to the police, since he would end up incriminating himself in the process—assuming he could even convince the police to believe him. Instead, maybe Marshall left the clue in the coffin in the hopes that we’d discover who the successor was and stop him before he did anything else with the lottery.” I thought it over. “Maybe Marshall even included incriminating evidence against that guy in the documents he buried in the coffin.”

  “Dodson?” Richardson mumbled. “Pemberton? Charles? Goldberg?”

  “Those four are the most obvious suspects. Or at least three of them. I can’t believe Benny has anything to do with it.” Because if he did, Joe Oliver’s troubles were nothing compared to Cindi’s and mine.

  Richardson was clearly shaken. “But why steal the coffin?”

  “Not the coffin. Just the documents. Whoever did it must have thought the documents would implicate him. Or maybe he just feared that discovery of the Canaan lottery would ruin whatever he was planning to do with it. He must have found out about the codicil. Once Marshall died, he moved in, dug up the grave, and destroyed what he thought was the only evidence. His mistake was not putting the coffin back the same night, so that when the firm dug it up, it would find only a skeleton.”

  Richardson frowned. “Harlan Dodson learned of the codicil before the grave robbery.”

  “True. And he knew the firm had hired me to investigate,” I said, mulling it over. “Maybe it spooked him into action before he had found a skeleton to put in the coffin.”

  Richardson shook his head. “Harlan Dodson? I can’t believe that. But I can’t believe any of this.” He paused. “Marshall would hardly be the first person to believe that life is a giant lottery. But to take that belief one step further, to decide that because man’s life is ruled by chance…that man can therefore rule chance…”

  We were both silent.

  “Follow your logic,” he finally said. “Say that Marshall had a motive, as bizarre and, frankly, as incredible as it seems. He believed that he had an ancestor from Canaan, Massachusetts. And the year 1985 had a unique significance to him. But what is his successor’s motive?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Greed? Power?” I paused. “What’s going on now seems very different from Marshall’s version of the Canaan lottery,” I said. “There’s nothing random about
the targets or the events anymore.” I paused. “This isn’t a lottery anymore.”

  “Then, what is it?”

  I hesitated. “I assume you know that Mr. Marshall didn’t die in the office.”

  Richardson nodded.

  I told him about the search of my apartment. I explained the attempt to kill Cindi and concluded with the extortion letter and the videotape of Cindi and Joe Oliver. “Someone out there—or someone in here—has seven damaging videotapes and a network of henchmen to carry out years’ worth of extortions.”

  “My God,” Richardson sighed, his shoulders sagging. “And you say the young lady is still alive?”

  I nodded.

  The color had gradually drained from Richardson’s face. He had become an old man before my eyes. I watched Richardson draw circles on his yellow legal pad. Finally, he looked up. “What can we do to stop it?”

  “You and the police have two different pressure points,” I said. “One is the men on the el; the other is the lawyers who show up in the billing printout. I think you need to bring in the police for the first area. Tell them there’s a blackmail scheme involving some prominent lawyers. Tell them it has to be kept confidential. I have the name and address of one of the men on the el. A guy named Rossino. And I can be a pretty good probable-cause witness. Good enough to help the police get an arrest warrant. Maybe the police can get Rossino to talk. If so, he might be able to identify the guy who’s running the lottery. And even if Rossino doesn’t talk, maybe the police can hold him in custody for a while. To give us some time. As for the lawyers on the printout—Dodson, Pemberton, Charles, and, uh, Benny—someone should ask each one what he did for Graham back in 1985. I shouldn’t be the one to talk to them. If one of them really is involved, he’ll get suspicious when I talk to him. Each of them knows I’m working on Graham’s estate.” I paused, formulating the plan. “You need a good low-key excuse to find out what they did. Some misdirection might help too.”