Grave Designs Page 28

  “You want proof?” Paul asked with a wink. “Look at what I left on your desk.”

  I followed him into my bedroom. He lifted a large envelope off the desk. He had scrawled a brief note to me on the outside.

  “I was down in the microfilm room at the library all afternoon yesterday and all morning today,” he said as he tore open the envelope. “I started with 1985, keying in to the week or so before each of those four newspaper articles.” He shuffled through the glossy photocopies. “Look what I found.”

  He handed me four photocopied pages from the classified section. Circled in red on each page was a Canaan message in the same format I had found—each with the name of an el or subway station, a time (always after midnight) and a day.

  “So they used the same system back then,” I said.

  “Exactly. So then I tried 1986 and 1987. I didn’t have time to check all the newspapers. It’s incredible drudge work just going through one set of microfilm. I stuck with the Sun-Times. I found three—two in 1986 and one in 1987.” He handed them to me.

  I stared at the Canaan messages. They were proof that someone out there had carried on the lottery, or at least used the Canaan communications system, after 1985 but before Marshall died. I looked up at Paul. “Good work,” I said.

  “You better believe it. But here’s the best part.” He pulled a folded page of newsprint out of the envelope. “I tried to call you on Sunday about this one. Look what appeared in last Sunday’s Trib.”

  It was the same Canaan message Benny Goldberg had shown me out at Maggie’s place last Sunday—the message that led to the discovery of the extortion scheme. But that wasn’t what caught my attention. What did was on my desk, right next to where Paul must have placed his envelope before I walked into the apartment. Last night I had sat at my desk trying to think of a drop point for the fake videotape of Ishmael and Cindi. I had sketched out my thoughts on a yellow legal pad. When Paul handed me the page from the Sunday Tribune, I saw those notes. No doubt Paul had seen them too—before I got home.

  Near the top of the first page of the legal pad I had written Canaan. Below that were the words Joe Oliver—how to get Ishmael videotape to extortionist??? The rest of the page, and the two following it, contained random notes, arrows, words underlined or circled, words and phrases crossed out. It was all too easy for someone clever to figure out.

  I looked at Paul, who was smiling proudly. He’d have to have seen those notes.

  “That was just a couple of days ago,” Paul said.

  “Huh?”

  “This message in the paper. Hell, I was half tempted to go down to the Grand Avenue subway station myself to see what happened. I probably would have if I hadn’t had the deadline on that paper I was writing.”

  I nodded, feeling numb. “Yeah. I wonder what happened down there.”

  “How are you doing on your end of the investigation?”

  “I’m basically done,” I said. “The coffin turned up.”

  “No kidding?”

  I shrugged. “There was a skeleton inside. Whoever did it probably bought a skeleton and put it inside. But the law firm was satisfied. They’re going to break the trust and close the investigation.”

  “Just like that?” Paul asked. “They don’t want to find out what’s going on now?”

  I shook my head. “I guess not. Ishmael Richardson decided that enough was enough.”

  “God, lawyers are hopeless. This is great stuff, and all they want to do is get back to their cases.”

  “Me too,” I said. “I’ve had it.”

  “Well, I’m going to keep poking around. I might surprise you, Rachel.”

  I stared at him. “It won’t be the first time,” I said quietly.

  Paul checked his watch. “Listen, I’ve got to run. Another faculty meeting. We’re getting geared up for the fall semester.”

  I followed him to the front door.

  “So I’ll see you tomorrow night,” he said. “Around five.”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  “That function at the aquarium. Remember?”

  “Oh. Right.” Last week, when Paul had spent the night at my apartment—or at least part of the night—in a moment of gratitude for his being there I had asked him to come with me to a cocktail party this Thursday at the Shedd Aquarium.

  “Take care, Rachel.”

  “Bye, Paul.”

  I made myself a salad, walked Ozzie, had a bubble bath, and went to bed early. But it was a long time before I fell asleep.

  Chapter Forty-one

  I was eating lunch with Cindi in her hotel room on Thursday when Kevin called from the airport.

  “He got the videocassette,” Kevin said.

  “When?” I asked, checking the clock on the night-stand. It was 12:45 p.m.

  “Don’t know for sure,” Kevin said. “I sent a policewoman in there ten minutes ago to check that Kotex box in stall number three. The tape was gone.”

  “No suspects, I guess.”

  Kevin laughed. “We got plenty of suspects. There must have been five hundred gals in and out of there since noon, and they all had purses.”

  “What next?” I asked.

  “We wait for him to make a move. See if he’s really gone for the bait. Joe Oliver is supposed to get in touch with me once our mystery man contacts him. We’ll take it from there.” Kevin chuckled. “Ishmael must have a lot of clout at the smart shop. I’d like to know who his rabbi is down there.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I just got a heavy car assigned to me for this operation.”

  “What’s a heavy car?”

  “An unmarked squad car with two coppers trained in special weapons and tactics. Pump-action shotguns, high-powered rifles.”

  “Wow.”

  “Look,” Kevin said, “if this guy goes for the bait, he might try something wild—like knocking off Oliver. And even if he decides to let Oliver live, you know we won’t be able to move in until the last minute. I just hope that jerk Oliver cooperates.”

  “Are you going to keep an eye on him?”

  “You bet. I have a plainclothes cop stationed over at his law firm. And I’ve got his schedule for today and Friday from his secretary. He’s in the office today till five-thirty. Then he’s going to some cocktail reception for a new federal judge over at the Shedd Aquarium. Tomorrow he’s got an oral argument at ten over at the Daley Center, then he’s got a lunch meeting at the Yacht Club, and then he’s got some plaintiffs’ steering committee meeting in his office for the rest of the afternoon. Tomorrow night he’s got reservations for two at Gene and Georgetti’s on North Franklin.”

  “I’ll probably see him tonight,” I said.

  “Where?”

  “At the aquarium,” I said. “Abbott and Windsor is giving the cocktail party. They sent me an invitation. You remember Bill Williams. This is A and W’s big send-off for him.”

  “Well, keep an eye on Oliver tonight, Rachel,” Kevin said. “I doubt he’ll be contacted before the weekend, though. Our mystery man is going to plan his next move carefully. Still, I’ll assign one of the heavy cars to surveillance over at the aquarium. They can follow Oliver home after the party.”

  “I’ll call Joe and tell him the tape was picked up,” I said.

  “Good. Keep your fingers crossed, Rachel.”

  “So he picked up the tape?” Cindi asked when I hung up.

  I told Cindi what had happened, then dialed Joe Oliver’s office number.

  “Mr. Oliver is on a long distance conference call,” his secretary told me. “Can I take a message?”

  “This is Rachel Gold. Tell him that the videocassette was picked up today around noon. He’ll know which one. I’ll be back at my office in an hour if he needs to talk to me.” I gave her the number.

  “So the police are
taking over?” Cindi asked.

  “At last,” I said. “Kevin has got a whole S.W.A.T. team as backup.”

  “When does he think the guy will make his move?” Cindi asked.

  “He doesn’t know. Maybe not until next week. Maybe longer.” I stood up. “I’ve got to get back to my office.”

  Cindi reached into a plastic bag and pulled out her black wig. “I’m going out too. Kevin said I could if I wore this. I’m going to take a walk around Michigan Avenue with a plainclothes cop.”

  “Take care of yourself, Cindi.”

  “You too.”

  We were both jumpy when we parted.

  ***

  Kevin called me with the bad news at 4 p.m. “He didn’t go for the bait.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Oliver got a message delivered to him ten minutes ago.”

  “From who?” I asked in frustration.

  “We don’t know. It was in a plain envelope. Apparently delivered to the mailroom at Oliver’s firm. No one knows who dropped it off.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Short and simple,” Kevin said. “‘You keep your tape, I’ll keep mine. No trades. I’ll be in touch soon.’”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yeah. I guess it’s back to the old drawing board on this one.”

  “Damn,” I said, my spirits sagging.

  “For what it’s worth, I thought you came up with a hell of a plan, Rachel.”

  “What are you going to do now?” I asked dully.

  “Don’t know. Guess there’s not much we can do until the extortionist makes his next move.”

  “But that could be weeks,” I said, fighting my disappointment. “Or even months.”

  “I know. But we don’t have a choice. It’s his move now, not ours. Talk to you later.”

  I sat alone in my office, staring out the window, numb. The trial brief still needed work, and it was due tomorrow. I tried without success to force myself to work on it.

  Mary stuck her head in a little after 5 p.m.

  “Don’t forget that cocktail party at the aquarium, Rachel.”

  “You taking off?”

  “Yep,” Mary said. “I’m meeting Tom over at the bandshell in Grant Park. We’re going to have a picnic and listen to the concert.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I said, trying to pump some enthusiasm into my voice.

  “See you tomorrow,” Mary said.

  After she left I leaned back in my chair. Joe Oliver would be there tonight. Chances were good that Harlan Dodson, Cal Pemberton, and Kent Charles would be there too. Benny wouldn’t. He was down in St. Louis on that deposition.

  There was a rap on my door. It was Paul Mason, looking almost like a lawyer in his khaki suit, blue button-down shirt, and blue rep tie. I’d gotten dressed up for the occasion too.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  I forced a smile. “I guess.”

  Chapter Forty-two

  The Shedd Aquarium is one of my favorite places in Chicago. I had first been there twenty years ago with my father, who had taken me to Chicago for a weekend. Just three weeks ago I had taken Katie and Ben there. While Katie and Ben had watched the sharks, I had stood transfixed before the tank occupied by the moray eels—three green monsters peering out of the caves in the rock formations in their tank. As I watched, one of them had slithered out of its cave. It slid along the glass, a penny-sized gill hole puckering and unpuckering below its puffed neck, wrinkles and creases running down the length of its body. As it moved past, it had turned to me with dull, milky eyes and opened its V-shaped jaws to reveal rows of gray daggers.

  “Here we are, folks,” our cabbie said.

  Paul paid him and we stepped out onto the walkway leading up to the aquarium. It was a beautiful summer evening. To my left, highlighted against a blue sky, was the Chicago skyline.

  The Shedd Aquarium sits on a small hill at the base of a finger of land that juts out between Monroe Harbor and Burnham Harbor. Rows of anchored sailboats swayed in the water on both sides of it. In a city of tallests and longests and biggests, the Shedd Aquarium is, naturally, the world’s largest aquarium. Up close, it looks like a Greek temple. Farther back or from the side, its octagon shape is revealed.

  Paul and I walked up the two flights of marble steps. As I searched in my purse for my invitation, I heard my name being called. I turned to see Benny Goldberg bounding up the steps toward me.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Benny’s face was flushed and he was panting from his jog up the stairs. “Jesus, my heart’s beating like a rabbit.” He looked at Paul. “Hello, Professor.”

  “You said you were going to St. Louis,” I said. “You said you were leaving last night after work.” I did some quick calculating. It was Thursday night. Benny was supposed to leave Wednesday night. The personals message to the video extortionist appeared in the Wednesday afternoon papers—the edition Benny usually bought.

  “They canceled it yesterday afternoon,” he said. “It’s rescheduled for next week, same time.” We were walking up the steps. “Ever been to a party here?” Benny asked.

  “No. You?”

  “Once.”

  “How did the firm pick this place?” I asked.

  “One of the partners is a big wheel over here. On the board of directors or a trustee or something. Harlan Dodson, I think.”

  I paused at the door. “Dodson?” I asked.

  Benny frowned. “Or maybe Kent Charles. I’m not sure. Anyway, we had the firm Christmas party here. It’s kind of a neat place for a party.”

  We handed our engraved invitations to the guard at the door. A few lawyers were chatting in the large high-ceilinged lobby area inside. Two white-coated bartenders were visible through the Doric columns at the far end of the lobby. The bar was set up just to the left of the Coral Reef Exhibit, a ninety-thousand-gallon circular glass-paneled tank in the large rotunda of the building. During the day a diver enters the coral reef tank from above and hand-feeds the sea turtles, sharks, and reef fish while talking to the spectators through a microphone in his diving mask.

  Bill Williams, the guest of honor, was standing to the right of the bar, his back to the Coral Reef Exhibit, shaking hands with well-wishers. He was a lanky, bald-headed man, slightly stooped, with a quick smile and a hearty laugh. He was patting Joe Oliver on the back as Paul and I approached.

  “Thank you, Joe,” he said. “That’s excellent advice.” Williams saw me and grinned. “Hello, Rachel. So glad you could be here.” Joe Oliver nodded at me, unsmiling, and walked away.

  “Congratulations, Judge,” I said, extending my hand.

  He covered it with both of his large hands. “Thank you, Rachel. And please, it’s still Bill for one more week. How have you been, dear?”

  “Can’t complain,” I said. “I’m busy and I have interesting cases.”

  “Wonderful. I sure as heck miss you, Rachel. You did some doggone fine work for my clients. We all miss you.”

  “Thanks.” I introduced him to Paul Mason and watched as the two shook hands and chatted.

  During my early years at Abbott & Windsor I had been one of the only associates willing to work on Bill Williams’s cases. Bill was an old-fashioned lawyer in the best sense of that phrase: good-natured, patient, and generous. Those same qualities had made him easy prey for the Young Turks at A & W, who methodically stole his bigger clients and saw to it that his partner’s share was cut. The more ambitious young associates, with their seismographic ability to detect the most subtle shifts in the firm’s hierarchy, avoided Bill Williams and ducked his assignments. By the time I left A & W, he had been effectively isolated within it; his persistent good cheer only made him seem more pathetic. When a judicial slot on the federal bench opened, the firm had used its po
litical muscle to kill two birds with one stone. The cocktail party was an attempt to send him off with some residue of good feelings about his former partners.

  “I’m looking forward to having you appear before me in court,” Bill Williams said to me.

  “So am I, Bill. So long as you just read my briefs this time. You aren’t allowed to edit them up on the bench.”

  He burst into laughter. Bill Williams was a meticulous editor of briefs. He would edit and rewrite and edit and hone and edit and polish until—and sometimes beyond—the court’s filing deadline. “I promise I won’t touch them,” he said.

  “Just read them and accept them as the gospel truth,” I said with a grin.

  He laughed again, and then someone else caught his eye. “Hello, Bob! How the heck are you?”

  Paul and I walked toward the bar. Benny intercepted us, carrying three drinks. “I got you both a drink,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking mine.

  “Somebody’s gonna try to pick her up in that outfit,” Benny said to Paul.

  “What’s wrong with the outfit?” I asked. I was wearing a crisp cotton off-white oversize shirt-dress cinched at the waist with a wide leather belt.

  “Nothing. You look gorgeous, as usual,” Benny said.

  Kent Charles seemed to appear out of nowhere. “I agree,” he said. “Hello, Rachel. Hi, Paul.” He nodded at Benny. “Hope you enjoy yourself here,” he said to me.

  “You leaving us already?” Paul asked.

  “Have to.” He pulled a ticket out of his shirt pocket. “I have a ticket to a concert up at Ravinia. André Watts is playing Rhapsody in Blue. Then I have to get ready for an oral argument in the Seventh Circuit tomorrow.”

  “You have a minute?” Paul said to Kent. I watched as the two walked out. Kent paused at the door to shake hands with two lawyers from Sidley & Austin who were coming in.