“Could you make me a copy of this page?” I asked. “It’s a good source of names.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Just take the original. I’ve got too much crap in those filing cabinets. It’s time to get rid of this old junk.”
I put the materials in my briefcase and thanked him for his time and effort.
“Young lady,” he said with a grin as he jammed his unlit cigar back in his mouth, “it was my pleasure. I’ve always been a sucker for a pretty gal with long stems. Those legs of yours remind me of Cyd Charisse, and that’s one hell of a compliment in my book. Good luck.”
I had to smile. He was a character. “Thanks, Harry.”
As I walked out the door he called me. “Hey.”
I turned.
He pointed the cigar at me. “You be careful.”
“I will, Harry.”
***
I drove home from LaSalle Press. I parked in my driveway and walked next door to pick up Ozzie. Julie and Jill, the little twins, came to the door with Ozzie standing between them. I patted Ozzie on the head and kneeled in front of the girls.
“Hi, girls. Big day?”
Julie nodded. “We went to the playground.”
I widened my eyes. “You did? How come you didn’t invite me?” Last Sunday morning I had taken them to the Shaw Park with Ozzie.
Julie giggled. Jill, the shy one, smiled bashfully.
“What else did you guys do?”
“We watched the telephone truck,” Julie said.
“Cool,” I said, turning to Jill. “Where was it?”
Jill put her thumb in her mouth and pointed with her other hand toward my driveway. I looked to where she was pointing and then back at her.
“The telephone truck was in my driveway?” I asked.
Jill nodded.
“All afternoon,” Jill added.
“Where were the telephone workers?”
“We’re not sure,” Julie said. “They went in your backyard and we didn’t see them for a long time. Rachel, if they gave you new phones, could me and Jill have one of the old ones?”
I stood up and stared at my house.
The telephone company? All afternoon?
I went into their house and borrowed the kitchen phone. It took me ten minutes to get through to someone at the phone company with access to the service records.
“Give your address and telephone number again,” she said.
I did.
She came on the line after about a minute. “I’m sorry, Miss Gold, but we have no record of any service call at that address today.”
“What about in the neighborhood? Maybe there was a problem in the outdoor lines?”
“No, ma’am. Nothing in the area.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, ma’am. The last service call in your neighborhood was four weeks ago, and it was two blocks over.”
I slowly hung up the phone and turned toward the breakfast room window. The window had a clear view of my backyard and the back of my house. I stared at my house.
What is going on?
Chapter Twenty
The last cop left my house at 6:50 p.m. His final words to me were, “The little girls could have been mistaken.”
I nodded silently and closed the door behind him. There had been as many as eight police officers in my house, including someone from the bomb squad. They had searched every floor and every room. Nothing was amiss, nothing seemed out of place. The police left one by one, and now there were none.
Just Ozzie and me. He was standing by his dinner bowl when I came back into the kitchen.
“You hungry, Oz?” I said, scratching him on his head.
He wagged his tail in response.
I filled up his bowl with dog chow, patted him on the head and went over to the sink to fill the teapot with water. I put the pot on to boil and slumped into a chair at the kitchen table.
Absently watching Ozzie wolf down his food, I took stock of my situation. It was now apparent that something bad had occurred at Armstrong Bioproducts, probably back in the 1970s, and that one or more persons were determined to keep it secret. Bruce Rosenthal had discovered what that secret was, or had at least stumbled upon a trail that would lead to the secret, and now Bruce was dead. David Marcus was dead. Karen Harmon was dead. And now someone had tried to kill me.
Whoever was responsible for Bruce Rosenthal’s death had also caused his apartment to be searched. Whoever was responsible for David Marcus’ death had probably caused his house to be searched as well. Yesterday, someone had searched my office. Today, from what the twins had observed, someone had searched my house. I glanced over at my briefcase. In there was the Beth Shalom/Labadie Gardens list of names, typed on bond paper. It had been created sometime before 1980 and contained what Harry Beckman referred to as “an indelible fiber fingerprint” identifying it as a product of Armstrong Bioproducts. It was an original document. An original piece of evidence.
Discovered by Bruce, now dead.
Given to David, now dead.
Given to me.
The teapot began to whistle. I filled a mug with boiling water and added a Red Zinger teabag. When the tea was brewed I went back to the table. Ozzie had finished dinner and was lapping up water from the other bowl. When he finished he padded over and sat in front of me. I scratched him behind the ears as I considered my situation, evaluating every option, from relying on the police to fleeing the country. Sunlight seemed the best option. As long as the secret remained secret, those seeking to conceal it had an incentive to silence me. As long as no one else knew that a secret existed, the concealers could eliminate potential exposers by dropping them into trash compactors or rigging automobile accidents or faking hate crimes or, in my case, staging a shopping center abduction and homicide. As long as no one knew about the secret no one would ever make a connection between the killings. But once the secret was exposed, the incentive to silence me would disappear. Indeed, the risk of silencing me would suddenly become too high.
Feeling edgy, I checked my watch and decided to go for a jog. As I changed into my jogging sweats in the bedroom, I realized that I probably had more than enough information to interest a good investigative reporter right now. Flo Shenker was the obvious choice, given the Douglas Armstrong connection. Although I hated the thought of the political damage he might suffer by being associated with a scandal involving his former company, it seemed unavoidable. In fact, it was an added reason to pick Flo. Since she would be the only one working on the story, she would in all likelihood scoop everyone. As a result, her stories would set the tone and define the relevant universe for all subsequent coverage. That was the best Douglas Armstrong could hope for. Flo was brilliant and she was fair. Although the Douglas Armstrong angle was the hook to get her involved, if it turned out that he knew nothing incriminating, Flo would make that clear in the story.
And it was possible he knew nothing. Armstrong had maintained his medical practice during the early years of Armstrong Bioproducts. He could have been busy treating his patients and completely oblivious to whatever shenanigans were going on in the lab or elsewhere. Indeed, he might even be able to work with Flo to help expose the secret. Talk about sunlight, I thought with a smile, imagining a big news story followed by a U.S. senator demanding a full investigation.
Back downstairs in the kitchen, I found Flo’s business card in my purse. I checked my watch. It was close to 8:30 at night in Washington, D.C. Flo had written her home telephone number on the back of her card. I lifted the receiver to dial the number. I paused. The dial tone sounded a little odd. I hung up and lifted the receiver again. The same, slightly off-key dial tone. I dialed the number anyway. It rang several times. There was a metallic clicking sound on the line. The sound continued when her answering machine came on.
I hung up before the be
ep and stared at the phone, confused. I lifted the receiver and got the odd tone again. I studied the receiver, trying to remember suspense movies I had seen. How could you tell if your phone was tapped? I unscrewed the mouthpiece and looked inside. There were different pieces of metal and colored plastic and tiny strands of different colored wires. I couldn’t tell whether anything didn’t belong in there. I replaced the mouthpiece and hung up the phone.
Assume it’s tapped, I told myself.
Okay, so now what?
I sat at the table, trying to formulate a plan. After a while, the outlines of one began to take shape. I went upstairs to my bedroom and found my sunglasses. Back downstairs, I got Ozzie’s leash out of the pantry. The sound brought him into the kitchen. He gave me a curious look, since I rarely put him on a leash.
“You’re sticking with me, pal. I’m getting too paranoid.” I scratched him on the head. “We did this once in Chicago. Remember?”
We got in the car. I glanced in the mirror as I pulled out of the neighborhood in the direction of the nearest Walgreens. “Damn,” I groaned.
There was a car about a hundred feet behind me. I stared hard at the headlight configuration, trying to memorize it.
I took a roundabout, zigzag route to the Walgreens. The headlights remained in my rearview mirror. By the time I pulled into a parking space, I had my plan. I turned to Ozzie.
“Get up here.”
He scrabbled over the seat while I put the sunglasses on my lap. I turned back to look toward the street as I fastened the leash to Ozzie’s collar. I couldn’t spot the headlights, but I was certain he was out there waiting. I wound the end of the leash in my hand to shorten its length. I wanted Ozzie with me at all times, and this was the only way I could take him into the store.
“Okay, Oz. I expect an Academy Award-winning performance.”
We got out of the car and I put on my sunglasses. Using the shortened leash, I held Ozzie to my side in a manner I hoped would make him pass as a seeing-eye dog. We got into the store with no problem. I walked over to the pay phone, careful to act tentative enough to remain in my blind woman role. I dropped in a quarter, dialed Benny’s number, and turned back toward the doors as the phone began to ring. Two teenage girls walked in, giggling and sipping Diet Cokes.
Benny answered on the third ring. “Talk to me.”
“Benny, I need help.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t tell you now. Here’s what I need. Go by my sister’s house. We’re almost the same size. Borrow some clothes for me. Two or three outfits, all completely different styles, okay? Including shoes. And be sure to get some underwear and stuff. All I’ve got on are my running clothes.”
“Rachel, tell me what’s wrong.”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Is that motherfucker after you again?”
“Just listen to me,” I said fiercely. “Put her stuff in something I can carry. Maybe a backpack.”
“Okay.”
“Once you have everything, call a cab. Put the back pack in the trunk of the cab, give him some money, and tell him to go to Town and Country Centre.”
“Why there?”
“Benny, just listen to me. I don’t have time to explain. Tell the cabby to wait right outside the far south entrance.” I checked my watch. “Tell him he has to be there by nine o’clock. Okay?”
“Fine. I’ll have him meet me at your sister’s house.”
A short burly black man in a Dr. Dre sweatshirt came in. He had a thick mustache and a smooth, shaved head. He scowled at me for a moment and then moved on into the store.
I waited until he was out of earshot. “Last thing,” I said to Benny. “Ozzie.”
“What about him?”
“Go to the Famous-Barr at Town and Country tonight after nine. I’m going to leave him in men’s suits.”
“Leave him? How?”
“Just go up there and ask for him. I’m hanging up. Oh, wait. One more thing. Call Flo.”
“Flo?”
“Right. Tell her I’m going to call her tonight at her office.”
“When?”
“Before midnight. Tell her I don’t want to call her at home. Have her go to her office. Okay, I’m hanging up. Benny, you’re a love. Thanks.”
“Wait. Where are you going?”
“I’m not sure.”
“How can I contact you?”
“You can’t. I’ll contact you. It’s better that way. Good-bye, Benny.”
I hung up and tried to scan the store unobtrusively—not an easy task for a blind person. I noted the black man walking toward the checkout line with a liter of Pepsi and a pouch of pipe tobacco.
I found a shopping cart after pretending to grope my way toward it. I moved up and down the aisles slowly, occasionally fumbling against the merchandise, as if trying to feel the items. I had a short but crucial shopping list: a good pair of scissors, one scarf, a hair dryer, a pair of glasses, and two different hair dyes (blond and red, both of the temporary variety—if I had to change hair colors twice, I didn’t want to end up bald in the process). Although I had doubts about being able to find an appropriate pair of glasses, I was able to get everything on the list, including a weak pair of reading glasses that were round enough to pass for regular glasses. I headed for the checkout line.
When I stepped outside into the dark, the sunglasses made me nearly blind. I slid them down on my nose and peered over toward my car. The doors were closed and it looked empty. I approached it cautiously, glancing around the parking lot for the familiar head lights. I didn’t spot them.
“You see anyone?” I asked Ozzie.
He just looked at me and wagged his tail.
I smiled and scratched his head. “You were wonderful, Oz. Definitely best supporting actor material.”
I walked around the car once to make sure no one was hiding anywhere inside or out. I put the shopping bag in the backseat and had Ozzie get up in front with me. I checked my watch. 8:21 p.m. Forty minutes to go.
Starting the car, I realized I needed cash. If I was going to disappear, I couldn’t use credit cards. Too easy to track. There was a branch office of my bank down the block with a drive-thru ATM machine. I pulled up to the machine and withdrew the maximum four hundred dollars. 8:27 p.m. I needed to enter Town & Country no later than 8:45 p.m.
I didn’t spot the headlights until I was on the Inner Belt heading south toward Highway 40. I was in the middle lane, the headlights were one car back in the right lane. They stayed there all the way to the Highway 40 exit, and then took up a position one car back in the middle lane. I took the Town & Country Centre exit, and so did the other car. I entered the huge mall parking lot and drove around to the north side of the Centre. I found a parking spot near the main entrance to Bloomingdale’s. Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I grabbed the shopping bag in my left hand and Ozzie’s leash in my right. I stepped out of my car and looked around. No sign of the headlights, but I was sure he was out there watching. I leaned inside the car and got the sunglasses.
“Okay,” I said to Ozzie as I closed the door and put on the sunglasses. “It’s show time.”
We moved briskly toward the entrance, slowing as we reached the bright lights. I shortened the leash, pulled Ozzie close against me and stepped toward the revolving door into Bloomingdale’s. The clock overhead read 8:47.
Perfect.
We drew stares as we moved through Bloomingdale’s—a confident blind woman striding through the aisles with her extraordinary guide dog. I was tempted to freak out one of the gawkers by pausing to remind her that it was impolite to stare at blind people.
I stepped into the enclosed mall area without turning back. He could be in one of two places: trailing behind me through the mall or sitting in his car waiting for me to return. It didn’t matter which. No one was g
oing to bother me in the open so long as Ozzie was at my side.
At 8:57 I entered Famous-Barr, took the escalator up to the second level and followed the sign to men’s suits. I slowed as I entered the area, noting with grim amusement how a thirtyish male salesman simultaneously stared at me and backed away as I approached. He stepped between two rows of suits as I came down the main aisle.
Too bad, jerko.
When I was even with where he stood, I stopped and spun toward him. “Sir?”
He flinched. “Er, yes?”
“Can you tell me where the ladies’ room is?”
“Sure. Uh…”
I held my hand toward him. “Just point me in the direction.”
He took it gingerly and pointed. “Down there and to the right.”
“Thank you so much.”
“No problem,” he said with a self-congratulatory smile over the minuscule “good deed” he thought he had just performed.
I handed him Ozzie’s leash. “His name is Ozzie. Be a doll and watch him for me.”
“Well,” he stammered as he took the leash, “you know, I—”
I looked down at Ozzie. “Ozzie, stay,” I said in a stern voice. I turned to the salesman with a smile. “Thanks so much.”
I headed off briskly in the direction he had pointed me, the Walgreens bag in one hand while I pretended to use the other hand for guidance. I turned right at the end of the aisle. When I got beyond his line of sight, I started running toward the escalator.
That’s when I spotted him—the guy who had stalked me through the mall yesterday. He was over in the shirt section, dressed in a navy blue sweatshirt, faded jeans, and Reeboks. His red hair was hidden beneath a Detroit Tigers baseball cap. I saw his gaze shift momentarily toward the men’s furnishings section. I looked, too. Standing by a rack of ties was the same burly black man I had seen at the Walgreens.
I took the down escalator two steps at a time, not bothering to look back. The south exit was directly ahead. The clock above the revolving doors showed 9:07 p.m. As I pushed through the doors I had a horrible thought: What if the cab isn’t there?
Due Diligence Page 19
