Blood Type

by Stephen Greenleaf

  The scent in the air—sour and caustic—wasn’t one of mine. The table in the entryway wasn’t quite where it usually was, and the dust on its top was smeared. The door from the foyer to the living room was ajar, although to minimize the burden on the heating unit, I always keep it closed. I had been invaded.

  The first question was whether my caller was still calling. I leaned against the doorjamb and tried to remember whether my gun, which was back in the bedroom a thousand miles away, was loaded. After I remembered it wasn’t, I realized it didn’t matter—for the moment, the only weapons at hand were my ears.

  The refrigerator was humming. Traffic was still laboring to climb Telegraph Hill. The neighbor below me was listening to Marvin Gaye; the neighbor above was watching Nightline. My heart was playing hopscotch, and my body needed more air than I could give it. As far as I could tell, no one was lying in wait.

  I took a step, made a noise without wanting to, waited for a reaction but got none. I reached for the switch and flipped on the lights. Nothing exploded, no one screamed, everything stayed put. Apparently I could leave or stay at my pleasure, so I chose the latter course.

  My first trip through the apartment confirmed that I was its only occupant. My second was a quick inventory to ensure nothing had been stolen. The third established that the game wasn’t to steal, the game was to bring gifts. And what they’d brought was poison: While I’d been rolling around in Walnut Creek, applying a poultice to Ellen’s heartache and a treat to my own libido, someone had been contaminating every comestible I owned.

  The adulterants numbered three. Most prevalent was a white powder that could have been anything from lye to strychnine but smelled more like Comet cleanser: I was supposed to assume it was some sort of nerve agent, I think. It had been liberally sprinkled where it would be most visible—in a jar of spaghetti sauce, over a slice of chocolate cake, on my stash of Oreos and in my bag of French Roast beans.

  The second substance was even more unsettling. A yellowish unguent, a glutinous salve that put me in mind of mustard plaster, had been smeared across a pound of ground beef, ladled onto a loaf of bread, scraped into the open spout of a milk carton, even spread over the trays of ice cubes. As I evaluated it to no avail, the inescapable suggestion was of purulence and contagion.

  Last but not least, a substance that could have been someone’s blood had been added to selected items as a sadistic sauce. Ladled over a hunk of ham, dripped onto a tub of margarine and poured over a pint of Heavenly Hash, the effect was of mayhem and dismemberment, a limitless abandon. Bile burned in my throat as I completed the inventory. If the intent of the enterprise was to give me the creeps, the mission was accomplished.

  My first impulse was to gather up samples to take to Charley Sleet for analysis at the police lab, but then I figured what the hell. They hadn’t meant to harm me, after all—every jar, every can, every bottle, every box that had been both carefully and obviously sabotaged, had one of those little poison warnings stuck on to it, the labels with the skull and crossbones that help parents teach kids what things in the cupboard were dangerous. I wasn’t supposed to die or even get sick, I was just supposed to believe that they could kill me at any time, in ways I would have no way of detecting without the aid of a chemist or a food-taster. As I imagined the Healthways boys reveling in a delicious sense of power as they moved through my apartment, sowing their decals of dread, I decided I believed just that.

  I gathered up my foodstuffs not to test them but to throw them out—they didn’t leave so much as a pristine potato chip to ease the anxiety. As I bagged up the last of the canned goods and emptied out the salt, I wondered how long it would be before I could make myself a sandwich without fearing it would kill me.

  Then I pledged that Richard Sands would pay in some suitable way for the new notch of fear he had cut into my life.

  Then I tried to decide what I had learned that had made me so dangerous.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The next morning I called my client before I left for the office. While I waited for her maid to tell her I was on the line, it occurred to me that the personal and professional relationships that had surfaced during the Crandall case were as unlikely as any in my experience.

  “Mr. Tanner,” she enthused when she came on, panting as though she’d raced to the phone. “I was hoping to hear from you. Have you any news?”

  What she meant was did I have enough on her husband to indict him. “Not really,” I demurred. “What I’m after is information.”

  “I see.” Enthusiasm was replaced by calculation. “I think I’d better call you back. It will take me ten minutes.”

  The line went dead; the woman suspected her husband had tapped her phone.

  In the interim, I placed another call. I remembered only belatedly that it was early to be disturbing someone whose workday ended at 3:00 A.M., but when she answered the phone, Clarissa Crandall didn’t upbraid me; she didn’t even sound annoyed. I hoped she was feeling chipper because her boyfriend was off on a toot to Toronto.

  “How are you getting along?” I asked.

  “I’m fine.” She paused. “Well, not so fine, actually. I miss him. Quite a lot. My skin seems to miss him the most—I feel like I have hives or something.”

  “We’re talking about Tom, I hope.”

  “Of course,” she said stiffly.

  “I’ve had that feeling a few times—overloaded nerve endings. An emotional hangover.”

  “That’s it exactly. I feel … undeservedly decadent. How long do you suppose it will last?”

  “A man I know who just got divorced told me his therapist said it would take him six seasons before he was over it. Death probably takes longer.”

  We were silent again—there was always more silence than communication between Clarissa and me—and when she spoke again, it was only after her emotions were strapped so she could manage them. “Are you learning anything I should know?” she asked, careful not to betray excessive interest.

  “Not about Tom, I’m afraid. I have learned a few things about his brother.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Some violent episodes in his past, for example.”

  “What kind of violence?”

  “It seems to have amounted to attempted murder.”

  Her voice rose. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Who did he try to murder? Surely not Tom.”

  “A woman named Ellen Simmons.”

  “Ellen? My God. Why on earth did he want to kill poor Ellen?”

  I suppressed my irritation at the adjective. “Do you know her?”

  “I know of her—Tom mentioned her quite often over the years, more so once I started seeing Richard. I guess I was supposed to feel about Ellen the way Tom felt about Mr. Sands. Further evidence of our miscommunication.”

  “We’re talking jealousy, I take it.”

  Her laugh was unattractive. “I believe we are. I don’t like to be rude, but why did you call me, Mr. Tanner?”

  I refrained from being rude in return. “Have you” seen or heard from Nicky since Tom died?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  “Because it’s conceivable he’s a threat to your safety.”

  “Why would Nicky want to hurt me?”

  “I’m not sure; he’s not rational, so I don’t pretend to be privy to his thought processes. All I know is, he’s been behaving even more strangely than usual lately. Given the dynamics of his relationship with Tom, it’s possible Tom’s death could have sent him off the deep end. It’s also possible he killed Tom. I advise you to take precautions.”

  “You don’t really think Nicky …”

  “I don’t know what I think. I’m just listing possibilities.”

  “But why would Nicky be a problem for me? I still don’t understand.”

  “Fifteen years ago, Nicky tried to kill the woman in Tom’s life. The reason seems to have had to do with the fact that Tom had just g
one away to war. Now Tom has gone away again, and since you’re the woman in his life at this point, it’s conceivable that—”

  She sighed. “You don’t need to complete the picture. What steps do you think I should take?”

  “Ask Sands to have some of his muscle boys stick close to you for a while.”

  “They’re already so sticky I feel like a refrigerator door.”

  “Your privacy is a subordinate consideration at this point. I’m talking day-and-night protection, at least for a while.”

  “Until what?”

  “Until I learn who killed Tom and why.”

  “Will that really solve anything?” she mused softly. “Especially for poor Nicky?”

  “Maybe not. It probably didn’t even solve anything for Tom.”

  Her laugh was brittle. “I don’t discuss theology anymore, Mr. Tanner; Tom’s obsession with it pretty much wore the subject out for me. ‘Amazing Grace’ is as complex as I need that particular issue to get right now.”

  “You’re ahead of me—I’m still struggling with ‘Jesus Loves Me.’”

  “Tom would have pitied both of us.”

  I didn’t think so, but there didn’t seem any point in saying so. “One last thing,” I said instead. “I’d like you to do some thinking about your friend Mr. Sands.”

  Her tone was as defensive as always whenever his name came up. “What about him?”

  “I’d like you to decide what your feelings for him really are.”

  “What possible business could that be of yours? And why would you suppose I haven’t thought about that for weeks?”

  “I may need you to decide what you’re willing to do to find out what kind of man he is.”

  “Why would I have to do anything?”

  “Because it’s possible Sands is a monster. The scheme he’s come up with to save his companies may be endangering far more people than your husband. I—”

  “Wait a minute. Are you saying Richard killed Tom? Do you know how ridiculous that is?”

  “I’m not saying that,” I interrupted.

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I may need your help to find out what happened to Tom and whether Sands had anything to do with it. I’d like you to think about whether you’ll give me that help if I need it.”

  Her breaths were static in the line. “You sound like something sinister is about to happen.”

  “Something sinister may have already happened. The question is how to put a stop to it.”

  “What would I have to do?”

  “Get Sands away from his henchmen so I can confront him with my suspicions.”

  “When?”

  “When does he get back from Toronto?”

  “Tonight. Late.”

  “How hard would it be to get him alone with you at the club?”

  “Not very.”

  “Check your answering machine this evening. I’ll let you know if it’s on.”

  My thoughts on schemes and plots, I hung up on her next question.

  Deirdre Sands called me back a minute later. “The word around town is that your husband is on the edge financially,” I said. “Is it true?”

  Her voice fell. “This is confidential, isn’t it? I mean, it doesn’t redound to my benefit if Richard loses his shirt. Half of that shirt is mine, after all.”

  “This is just between us.”

  “Then yes. Richard’s in trouble.”

  “How big?”

  “The biggest. Bankruptcy. Maybe worse.”

  “He’s in Toronto trying to line up a loan?”

  “Yes. He gets back tonight.”

  “If he doesn’t get the financing, the house of cards collapses?”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s so. Little gray men in little gray suits are making Richard dance a jig. And he just hates it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before? Why did you imply he’s still flush?”

  She hesitated. “I’m used to people doing my bidding only because of who and what my husband is. I was afraid if you knew he was in trouble you wouldn’t take my case.”

  “Just for the record, that’s nonsense.”

  “It’s nice of you to say so.”

  I enjoyed the warmth of her comment for a moment. “One thing worse than bankruptcy is a criminal indictment. Is your husband under investigation by the U.S. attorney?”

  She inhaled audibly. “What makes you ask that? Do you know something?”

  “Not a thing. But anyone who’s wheeled and dealed as much as your husband has must have violated half-a-hundred statutes along the way. I figure the feds may be honing in. Who’s his lawyer?”

  “Barrett Noland.”

  “Who’s yours?”

  She paused. “What makes you think I’ve seen a lawyer?”

  “You know more divorce law than I do. I figure you’re positioning yourself for a breakup in both the personal and corporate senses. I also figure some of your husband’s tax dodges have included trusts and dummy corporations that list you as a beneficial participant, which could make you a target of the investigation, which should make you scared as hell.”

  The confirmation was in her timbre. “Jake Hattie,” she murmured, which was more than enough to establish my suspicions.

  “Does Jake think you’re in trouble?”

  “Jake says he’ll handle it. I should just make sure there’s enough in the account to cover the checks.”

  Jake’s unbending avarice made me laugh, which made my client mad. I asked another question before she could scold me. “So how’s your husband taking all this?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Is he getting irrational? Behaving oddly?”

  “You mean other than with his little thrush? He’s not certifiable, I don’t think, but he’s definitely paranoid. I’ve started taking steps to make sure I’m not being followed.”

  “Is he doing anything else to keep from going under?”

  “My expenditures are being monitored—anything above five hundred dollars has to be cleared with his secretary. My jewels are being auctioned off—some of them—discreetly, of course, so as not to start a panic. Two of our homes are up for sale.” She sighed despondently. “We’re under siege is what it amounts to. Given your populist inclinations, I imagine you take satisfaction in that.”

  “Not really,” I said truthfully, but only because I never root against a client. “Tell me what you know about Tom Crandall.”

  She repeated the name. “Nothing.”

  “I mean it, Mrs. Sands. I need to know what you know.”

  “I know he was her husband, and I know he’s dead. Period.”

  “Did Sands ever mention him in your presence?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “How about Nick? Nicholas Crandall.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “If you hear from him, or about him, let me know right away.”

  “Why?”

  “Nick is Tom’s brother. He’s been mentally unbalanced for a long time, and he’s probably even more so because of what happened to Tom. Anyone connected to the situation could be in danger.”

  “I’m hardly connected to the Crandalls, Mr. Tanner.”

  “Sure you are—you’re paying the freight for the guy who’s stirring things up, including aspects of the past that won’t stay buried. Does the monitoring of your expenses mean your husband knows you’ve hired me?”

  “No. I’ve squirreled away some money over the years—a slush fund, if you will. Richard knows nothing about it.”

  “So you hope.”

  “So I know. I’m quite canny when I need to be. Is that all, Mr. Tanner? I’m late for a lunch date.”

  “Tell me about Healthways,” I said.

  “What about it?”

  “Does it come up much around the house?”

  “Constantly.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, but Richard is always on the phone
with Lex about it. Lex Chadwick is the Healthways CEO.”

  “You don’t know the gist of what they’re talking about?”

  “Not precisely. They’re hoping Healthways will be the salvation of Sandstone, I do know that.”

  “How’s that going to happen?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “When is it going to happen?”

  “As soon as Food and Drug issues its report.”

  “Report on what? A new drug?”

  “I think so,” she said eagerly. “I think Healthways has discovered something important.”

  THIRTY

  When I got to the office, I found yet another limousine blocking the alley—I was beginning to feel like a rock star until I remembered I didn’t have any money or any fans.

  The visitor cooling his heels in the outer office wasn’t new business—Lex Chadwick had been there before. He hadn’t liked it then, and he didn’t like it now. When I entered the room, he whirled to confront me as though he was afraid I might be armed with something besides insignificance. Things were apparently on edge at the Healthways Corporation.

  A frown puckered his face. “Banker’s hours,” he sneered as I flipped through the mail on the desk. Like a pair of miniature valets, his hands tended his person incessantly, adjusting the tilt of his tie and the angle of his collar, recurling his lapels, patting his pockets to make sure the drape of the ensemble was undisturbed. Natty in imported fabric and an Italian cut, he made me feel like an immigrant in my tweeds and twills.

  When I’d finished with the mail, I gave him a hearty grin. “I drink my juice, I had a checkup three years ago, I take a Centrum every morning, yet Healthways still keeps popping up. What am I doing wrong?”