This time I did not go to the hospital. Despite their best efforts to convince me that I really should have a doctor look at the bump on my head, I explained as calmly and as firmly as I could that I would just stay right where I was and wait for the police.
A pair of uniformed officers arrived just as they finished shoveling Dagny onto the gurney. They listened attentively as I explained about finding Cecilia Dobson dead in the same way in the same place three days before. I told them about all of the other employees being at St. Bernadette’s Cemetery for the funeral. With a shiver I acknowledged that that was where they’d find Dagny’s family.
When I finished, one of the officers got on the radio while the other began stringing yellow police-line-do-not-cross tape across the doors. I found a folding chair that someone had left in the hallway outside Dagny’s door and sat down on it. At some point I began shaking as if from some terrible cold. The officers who had taken my statement had disappeared, but other people began arriving—a police photographer, a man in overalls carrying heavy-equipment boxes marked cook county crime lab—and from the waiting room came the faint crackle of two-way radios.
I heard Eugene Cavanaugh before I saw him. Bellowing unintelligibly, he charged toward Dagny’s office, oblivious to the scrum of blue uniforms attempting to restrain him. His face was terrible to see—almost disfigured by anguish and disbelief. I saw him and could think only of the little boy who’d lost his mother and his power of speech; his brother and control over his life; and had struggled so hard both times to regain what had been lost.
Finally, the cops managed to turn the tide of his progress and led him back down the hall toward the reception room. For a long time after that I heard him through the thin plastic paneling.
“Oh my God, not Dagny!” he wailed over and over again.
When I met Detective Joe Blades for the first time at the hospital after Cecilia Dobson died, I hadn’t really paid him much attention. But this time I found myself observing him much more closely. Suddenly he was a man from whom I expected a great deal.
At first glance he looked almost too young to be a policeman, and certainly a homicide cop. Tall and thin, he had a reddish-gold beard and a quiet, almost scholarly manner. He pulled up a chair from behind another desk, turned it around, and sat on it so that his hands rested along the top of its back. Without saying a word, he fished for something in the pocket of his tweed jacket and pulled out a Hershey bar.
“You’d better eat this,” he said. His voice was cultured and deliberate.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I know. But it’ll still do you good. You’ve had a shock. In the bad old days I would have given you whiskey.”
I took the candy bar, but would no doubt have preferred the whiskey. My hands were shaking so badly that it took me a few seconds to get the chocolate out of its wrapper. Self-consciously, I ate the whole thing. Even under the most appalling circumstances, I find chocolate impossible to resist.
Blades took off his gold-framed glasses and began to polish them slowly with the fat end of his tie. Without them he looked even younger, a high-school kid who’d somehow managed to produce a beard.
“What happened to your forehead?” he asked. “I should have one of the EMTs come back and have a look at you.”
With trembling hands I reached up and touched my face. Slippery with sweat and blood, the lump in the middle of my forehead was definitely getting bigger. I winced at my own touch.
“Her head hit me....” I stammered in explanation. “She had this seizure... at least I think that’s what it was. Her body arched up and I remember falling backward....”
“Why don’t you just take it from the beginning and tell me what happened here today,” he suggested, pulling a small notebook from the pocket of his jacket.
I tried to begin, but I could not organize my thoughts. Events were jumbled with emotion and my body and my brain were seemingly disconnected. In frustration, I forced myself to imagine that I was standing in one of the big lecture halls in law school, having been called upon to recite the facts of a case. It worked. Focusing on the main points, laying out events in a clear voice, I managed a semicoherent account of what had happened—the story of two apparently healthy women who died suddenly in the same office, one during the funeral of the other. By the time I was finished, Joe Blades looked grim.
I had felt something turn inside of me as well. The sweating had stopped. So had the shaking. The panic, the shock of what had happened, had receded. But in its place was something else, something that gripped me by the entrails and would not let go. Clear and pure, unadulterated by ambiguity, unmitigated by circumstance, what I felt was anger. What I wanted was revenge.
According to Elliott Abelman, the Monadnock Building is the perfect place for a private investigator’s office—halfway between the courthouse and the jail. Nonetheless, the building is a strange landmark. Sixteen stories tall and occupying an entire city block, it was built by John Root in 1891 as the tallest structure ever erected using wall-bearing masonry construction. At its foundation the walls are six feet thick. But less than a dozen years after its completion the technique of steel-frame construction was introduced and the sky was opened up to architects. John Root’s accomplishment had become obsolete.
Like the building, Elliott Abelman defied easy categorization. The son of a Chicago homicide cop, Elliott had broken with tradition. Decorated for valor during the last, ignominious days of the Vietnam War, he chose law school over law enforcement, only to find after a stint in the prosecutor’s office that like his father, he was really an investigator at heart.
The lobby of the Monadnock is long and narrow, a gallery with shops on either side. An iron staircase of ornately wrought metalwork runs up the center of the building like a knobby Victorian spinal column. Consulting the computer screen that serves as the building’s directory, I learned that Abelman & Associates occupied a suite on the second floor. I decided to take the stairs.
It was after hours and the hallways in the upper floors were dark. But the door to Abelman & Associates was made of smoked glass set in an oak frame with the name of the firm lettered onto it, and light shone from within.
The cozy waiting room was deserted, the armchairs unoccupied, the magazines unread, but beyond another door I could hear the clack of keyboards and the ringing of phones.
Someone came up behind me and took my arm. I jumped in fright. I might have shouted, too. Who knows? At that point my nerves were all over the place. I wheeled around and Elliott put his hand gently over my mouth.
“Shhh,” he said, his face illumined by an enormous, wolfish grin. “You’ll frighten the detectives.” He caught sight of the bump on my forehead and turned serious. “Jesus Christ, what’s happened to your face? Did someone hit you? You look like you’ve had a beating.”
I opened up my mouth to explain, but no words came out. His hand stayed near my cheek. He softly brushed a strand of hair off my face, tucking it behind my ear. I felt the heat rush to my face.
“You’d better come into my office,” he advised, putting his arm around my shoulder and ushering me inside. “I’m going to get you an ice pack and a cup of coffee—or maybe you’d prefer something stronger.”
“Yes, please,” I whispered as he guided me into a comfortable chair.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
The internal wall of his office was glass. Beyond it, in a large, open space laid out like a police squad room, only with nicer furniture, were half a dozen people who I supposed were operatives who worked for Elliott. A gray-haired woman was talking on the phone and furiously scribbling notes. A man with a ponytail dressed in the greasy coveralls of a mechanic was reading a file that was spread out on the desk in front of him. Two or three meat-faced men with spreading guts and ex-cop written all over them filled out the assembly.
Elliott returned with two glass tumblers filled with amber liquid over ice. Under his arm was tucked a chemical cold pack. H
e handed me my drink, set his down on the desk, gave the cold pack a twist and a shake, and then handed it to me. I took a long drink and held the icy compress to my forehead.
Dressed in khaki pants and a perfectly starched white button-down shirt, Elliott looked like he’d fit better in my office than his own. About my height, or give him an inch and say six feet, his soft brown hair and warm brown eyes did little to distinguish him from the rest of the briefcase-toting hordes. He was good-looking in an unassuming way—a Winnetka Galahad, nothing more. But I’d seen enough of him to know that he was a man capable of taking people by surprise. He always managed to keep me off balance as well.
“I’m impressed,” I said, wincing as I applied the cold pack to my forehead. “I always imagined you in a tiny office with a bottle of bourbon in your bottom drawer and a cheap but loyal blonde for a secretary.”
“Who says loyalty is cheap?” Elliott countered with a grin. His smiles were a minor phenomenon. Between them and the scotch I was beginning to feel a little bit better. “Now why don’t you tell me what happened to your face. Please tell me that boyfriend of yours did this to you. You know I’d like nothing better than to go over there and teach him a lesson.”
As usual, I let the crack about Stephen Azorini pass. For the second time in as many hours I told my story about what had happened, first to Cecilia Dobson and then to Dagny Cavanaugh. With Elliott I went into even more detail than I’d managed with Detective Blades, explaining how I’d come to take over as counsel for Superior Plating from Daniel Babbage, laying out the particulars of Lydia’s decision to sell her shares, and providing as much information about personality and family history as I could cogently serve up.
By the time I was finished, it was dark outside and I felt nothing but emotionally spent.
“So you obviously don’t think that the two deaths are unrelated,” Elliott concluded.
“Do you?”
“I’m sure it’s mathematically possible,” he offered.
I was in no mood for discussions of mathematical possibility and told him as much.
“I wonder if there might be something wrong in the office, in the room itself—some kind of gas leak maybe?” he speculated.
“I’ve thought of that, too. But wouldn’t something like that have turned up at Cecilia Dobson’s autopsy?”
“It depends on what the pathologist was looking for. The medical examiner’s office can’t test every case for everything. There are thousands of substances that, under the right circumstances, can poison you—aspirin, drain cleaner, table salt, cocaine.... They don’t have the time or the money to check for every one. Instead they test for anything that seems likely based on the physical evidence. From what you’ve told me, it sounds like the cops figured she died of an overdose.”
“At the time it seemed the likeliest explanation. Now of course, I’m not so sure.”
“What if both women were drug users? It would certainly explain what happened. They shared the same shit and met the same end.”
“If you’d met Dagny, you’d realize that’s impossible,” I protested. “She was an intelligent, educated, highly charismatic business executive. I don’t know how else to say it, but Cecilia Dobson was white trash. I don’t think the two women could have had much in common.”
“Maybe they didn’t,” countered Elliott. “But Cecilia worked for Dagny. As her secretary they worked in the same office, handled the same papers, had lunch in the same place. They may not have had much in common, maybe only one thing. But it was that one thing that killed them.”
12
I dragged myself out of bed when my alarm went off at five-thirty. In the bedroom mirror I examined the variable landscape of my face. The bump on my forehead where Dagny’s head had struck mine during her last terrible moments was less swollen, but there were bruises under my eyes that a lack of sleep and a surplus of tears could only partially account for.
I dressed for the office in a hurry, jumping into the first thing that I pulled from my closet. On my way out the door I stopped to stuff some ice cubes into a plastic bag. I figured I’d try holding it up to my face when I stopped at red lights. I didn’t want to take the time to do it at home. I had to get to the hospital before Daniel Babbage woke up. I didn’t want him to learn about Dagny Cavanaugh’s death by reading about it in the newspaper.
At the hospital everything was quiet. The silence of the oncology wing was interrupted only by the intermittent beeping of unseen monitors and the much louder clatter of my high heels on the brightly polished linoleum of the floor.
One look at Daniel and I knew that he had turned onto that last twisted curve on a piece of bad road. He seemed shrunken in his hospital bed and the jaundice of his skin was vivid against the white fabric of his pillowcase. There was the smell of decay in the air that no flowers or antiseptic could completely mask.
I walked quietly into the room, not wanting to disturb him. Daniel’s eyes were open and unfocused, staring blankly in the general direction of the radiator. His pupils were constricted to pinpoints from whatever they were pumping into him for the pain. I pulled a chair up to his bed and took his hand in mine.
“It’s me—Kate,” I said softly. His skin was hot to the touch. Not a good sign. On the tray in front of him was a blue plastic emesis basin and a hospital-issue box of tissues.
“Did you bring the cigars?” he croaked, slowly turning his head toward me.
“No. I’ll bring them by later.”
“You’d better hurry,” he advised, trying for a smile. “There isn’t much time.”
Tears sprang to my eyes. I busied myself by filling his cup with fresh water from a plastic jug and helping him to drink.
“You came to tell me about Dagny, didn’t you?” he rasped, falling back onto his pillow.
“Yes. I didn’t want you to hear about it from a stranger.”
“Eugene came to see me last night. He’s my godson, you know. He told me everything. Do the police know what happened to her yet?” His voice was weak and he spoke very slowly, every word an effort. I had to bend my head close in order to hear him.
“They won’t know until they do the autopsy.”
“How is Jack?”
“I don’t know. I plan to talk to him today. Last night I went to see a private investigator I know. I want Jack to hire him. The police are good, but I don’t want to take any chances. If six months or a year from now Dagny’s death is still an open file—just another unexplained death—Jack won’t be able to live with himself, and frankly, neither will I.”
“Leave it to the police,” Daniel said sharply. “You and Jack will have enough to worry about.”
“Don’t you think that Lydia will let this business about her shares drop? At least for a little while?”
Daniel gripped my hand. “Expect the worst from Lydia,” he counseled. “I guarantee she’ll never let you down.”
I left the hospital with limbs like lead and grief pushing on my chest like a wrestler’s fist. When I got to the office, Cheryl, whom I’d phoned from the car to tell her about what had happened, was especially solicitous, bringing me a king-size bag of M&M’s with my coffee and parrying all of my calls without complaint. Heartened by her kindness, I did what I always do when I feel the earth shift beneath my feet. I crawled into the solid refuge of my work and stayed there until the worst of the tremors passed.
I took the top file off of the stack and dove in. When I finished with that one I moved on to the next—phoning, dictating, delegating. The practice of securities law is not earth-shattering stuff. But I find a certain satisfaction in sorting out the conflicts and confusion of commerce, a kind of harmony in making all of the pieces fit together.
There are days when you just have to hang on to whatever sense of peace comes your way.
At noon Cheryl knocked softly on my door and told me that Jack Cavanaugh had called. He was at his house on Astor Place and wanted to see me. Jack Cavanaugh was my client and we had matters
of importance to discuss. But I had been dreading his summons nevertheless. I spent the entire cab ride wishing I were going somewhere else.
As I climbed the steps to his front door, I could not help taking a backward glance across the street at Dagny’s house. The curtains were all drawn and I felt a fresh stab of compassion for her father, whose windows would forever look out onto his loss. Willing these morbid thoughts from my head, I stepped up and rang the bell.
Peter McCallister, Lydia’s son, came to the door. Awkward in his grief, he accepted my condolences and led me to his grandfather’s study. He told me, in response to my question, that Claire had been under sedation ever since she learned of her mother’s death.
Jack Cavanaugh crossed the room like an old man and took my hand. His pale skin was clawed by grief, his shark’s eyes red-rimmed with tears.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said. The words sounded hollow and inadequate and I felt unprepared for the situation I found myself in. I had neither Daniel’s wisdom nor experience. I had, after all, become a lawyer expressly to avoid dealing with emotions.
“The police were here last night and again this morning,” Jack told me in a beaten voice after we both sat down. “They told me how you found her. But they wouldn’t tell me... they couldn’t tell me...” He struggled for the words. “They didn’t say whether she suffered.”
“She didn’t suffer,” I lied, adding, “It was all over very quickly.”
“The police are asking whether there could be some kind of chemical leak from the plant that killed them both. They’re so stupid. It’s true that there are poisonous compounds used in plating, but they would have to be mixed with acid in order to turn into gas. If that happened, the first person who’d be killed would be the fool who’d done the mixing. But they won’t listen. They’re shutting us down. Philip’s there right now with the health department. It’s a shame. He should be with the family...”
Bitter Business Page 11
