Dead Certain

by Hartzmark, Gini

  Not surprisingly, Elliott was the first person to grasp the implications of what was happening. While Gerald Packman gaped and the medical staff buzzed, I remained glued to my seat by my own sense of incredulity. But Elliott was already on his feet and at my mother’s side, whispering in her ear as he walked her back to the table for her purse. As he bent his head to hers I saw her nod, her eyes wide with understanding, as he led her firmly by the arm.

  As she bent to get her bag he collected me with his eyes, and I rose and made my way to my father’s side.

  “Come on, we’re going,” I whispered to him urgently. Startled, he did not protest, but drained his glass and heaved himself to his feet.

  We followed behind Elliott, who laid a protective arm across my mother’s shoulders and steered her through the room, firmly but politely moving her through the press of people rising from their chairs to besiege her with questions and congratulations.

  As soon as we’d cleared the door, I led the way, picking up the pace as we ducked down the half flight of stairs '1 past the elevators that led not toward the Walton side of the hotel where the main entrance lay but, like Alice down the rabbit hole, to the now darkened arcade of chichi shops that ran along the Michigan Avenue side past the Cape Cod Room to the seldom used entrance on East Lake Shore Drive.

  Compared to the crush of Walton this was a quiet residential street, an urban backwater with neither shops nor businesses, buffered by a small park and the deeper quiet of the lake. Of course, it was only a matter of time before some enterprising reporter realized that there was more than one way out of the Drake. We fled like the Romanovs, as fast as our evening clothes allowed, along the row of elegant apartments until we reached the haven of the lighted portico at the end of the block.

  “Evenin’, Ms. Millholland,” said Danny the doorman, touching his cap as he swung the big glass door open to admit us. “And a good evenin’ to you, Mr. and Mrs. Millholland,” he continued, his good-natured face splitting with a grin of pleasure at the sight of my parents.

  I breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that in Danny we had a solid ally. Danny’s father had been doorman when my parents lived in the building. When I was a little girl, Danny was a lanky teenager, always willing to carry packages and run errands to pick up pocket money.

  “It’s so nice to see you again,” beamed my mother, as serenely as if she’d just dropped in for a chat. “How’s your family? Is Michael still in the navy?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He’s stationed in the North Sea, off the coast of Scotland. He went back to see my gran’ just this past Christmas. He’ll be so pleased to hear that you asked about him.”

  “And your father and mother? Are they still well?”

  “Yes, ma’am, though now that they’ve retired and moved out to Arizona, we don’t get to see them nearly as much as we’d like.”

  Elliott and I both stood staring at my mother as if she was out of her mind. Without consulting a soul, she’d decided to violate the terms of the confidentiality agreement with HCC by dropping the bombshell of the year in front of a half a dozen reporters. Now, with the press on her tail, she was standing in the lobby of her old building catching up on family gossip with the doorman. I seriously considered strangling her.

  “Well, Danny,” she continued calmly, finally getting to the matter at hand, “we seem to have run into a little trouble with some reporters who are following us. Do you think you could be good enough to call us a taxi without drawing too much attention?”

  “You just leave that to me, ma’am,” he replied, growing half a foot at the thought of being of service in such an emergency. “You just stay right here and out of sight.”

  We waited together in the awkward silence of the lobby, avoiding each other’s gaze. Outside we heard the shrill sound of Danny’s whistle summoning a cab, though we waited until the doorman reported that the coast was clear before hustling my parents out and shoveling them into the cab. At the last minute Elliott thrust his cell phone into my mother’s hand.

  “Don’t answer your regular line at home,” he instructed. “Let your answering machine pick it up, or better yet, let it ring. I guarantee the only people who’ll be calling will be reporters. I’ll give Kate the number, and she’ll call you on this line.”

  My mother, who never did anything I told her without an argument, took the phone. As the cab pulled away from the curb we spotted a group of middle-aged men in raincoats who’d just turned the corner from Michigan Avenue at a labored jog. Elliott grabbed me by the hand and pulled me back into the shadow of the garage entrance to the adjacent apartment and enveloped me in a passionate embrace. Despite the circumstances I felt my body soften against his, the current crisis momentarily forgotten. I don’t know how long we lingered there until finally, reluctantly, he pulled away.

  “Are you sure they’ve gone?” I whispered breathlessly. “Perhaps we should wait a little while longer?”

  “You know very well we both have work to do.”

  “This was going to be the part of the evening when I invited you upstairs to see my new apartment.”

  “At least I got a chance to meet your doorman. I think you should wait in there with him while I go and get the car. I’ve got to get some of my people out to your parents’ house, or they’ll have reporters coming in through the doggie door.”

  I sighed and reached into my evening bag for my cell phone.

  “You know what the funniest part of all of this is?” I asked as he turned to head back toward the Drake. “What?”

  “I think my mother likes you.”

  As Elliott disappeared into the darkness I punched in the number Denise Dempsey had given me. I felt guilty enough about handing her the biggest public relations nightmare of her career without adding to it by having her hear about it on the news. Denise picked up on the first ring. From the noises in the background it sounded like she was at a restaurant. It must have been one nearby, because we agreed to meet at her office in ten minutes.

  I punched the END button and wondered what my mother had been thinking when she decided to go ahead and ruin my life. No doubt she’d claim that her only thought had been to do the right thing, but that was like saying that you’d invited the Ringling Bros, and Barnum & Bailey circus to your cocktail party because you knew they’d be entertaining. It was going to end up being a bigger circus than she could have possibly imagined.

  Elliott dropped me in front of Denise’s building, a glass-and-steel skyscraper nestled in the crook of the Chicago River, and gave me a decidedly unchaste kiss good night.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow from Springfield,” he said.

  I stood on the deserted sidewalk, the thin fabric of my wrap useless in the chill, and found myself blinking back tears of disappointment.

  “Get a grip on yourself, Millholland,” I told myself out loud and grimly made my way inside.

  Mother’s announcement led the eleven o’clock news on all three networks. We watched them simultaneously on the bank of television sets mounted on the wall of the conference room where Denise and I had set up our command center. With videotape unavailable, the networks settled for photos of my parents taken earlier that evening as they’d greeted arriving guests.

  However, there was live footage of Kyle Massius. The president of Prescott Memorial Hospital had apparently decided to give an impromptu press conference in front of the Palm Court fountain. Sweating under the klieg lights, he’d read a hastily prepared and overly shrill press release. In it he’d declared that Astrid Millholland had no authority to refund any of the money that had already been donated to the hospital. The fact that there was live footage of Kyle Massius versus the grainy still of my parents seemed to lend credence to his point of view.

  Mother’s initial reaction to all of this was a tirade of indignation delivered through the squawk box of Denise’s speakerphone. She honestly couldn’t believe why she was being blamed for all of the fuss. After all, it was HCC who was clearly at fault. Denise
did her best to talk her around to a more realistic point of view, eventually getting her to commit to our battle plan. By then Elliott’s people had arrived at my parents’ house and, having chased a reporter from Channel Eight out of the garbage, had secured the property.

  I crossed the bridge of midnight not wrapped in Elliott’s passionate embrace, but at the office of the public relations firm. I didn’t know if Elliott had joined his security chief at my parents’ house, but wherever he was, I hoped he was thinking longingly of me. As the clock struck twelve it occurred to me that all my Cinderella premonitions had come true. The only difference was that instead of my coach turning back into a pumpkin and my dress reverting to rags, I was the one who underwent the transformation—changing from an aspiring princess yearning for romance back into a stressed-out corporate attorney fielding calls from reporters on a headset phone as I paced back and forth along the floor of the conference room, barefoot and in my evening gown.

  CHAPTER 12

  I woke up to a quiet apartment with no sign that Claudia had come home during the night. A check of the answering machine yielded seventeen calls: three from reporters, thirteen hang-ups, and one message from Elliott. While the message from Elliott was worth listening to twice just to savor the longing in his voice, it was the hang-up calls that captured my attention. Not only were there more of them than we’d ever gotten before, but for the first time they’d come while Claudia was at the hospital. It made me wonder whether yesterday had been on her regular call schedule or if she’d agreed to cover for somebody at the last minute.

  In honor of it being Sunday I decided to dress casually— at least for me—blue jeans worn soft as a second skin, an old Ralph Lauren blazer bought back in the days when he still just designed clothes, and a plain white cotton shirt. I had a long day of work ahead of me, and I wanted to at least be comfortable. Besides, I’d already used up too much energy on my hair. After all of Christopher’s teasing and spraying I’d crawled from my bed looking like Frankenstein’s bride. It had taken a stiff brush and a strong arm to get things back to normal.

  Once I was dressed, I called Leo to have him bring me my car. Luckily I managed to catch him before he and Angel left for church, which meant that I was treated to a glimpse of Leo in his Sunday best. When he stepped out of the Jag in his double-breasted suit with a matching fedora hat, it occurred to me that the gangsters in Capone’s day hadn’t dressed much differently—except for the fact that Leo’s entire outfit, from shoes to chapeau, was mustard yellow. As I got behind the wheel I slipped him a twenty for the collection plate.

  “I’ll make sure they say a prayer for you,” he said with a slow grin.

  “Good,” I replied. “Today I’m going to need it.”

  Making my way north, I stopped and had breakfast at the University Club with a sober and repentant Mark Millman. Of the two of them it was Jeff Tannenbaum who looked the worse for the wear and gratefully seized the opportunity of my presence to go home. From the look on his face, I could tell he’d found baby-sitting Millman a less-than-congenial assignment. I didn’t blame him. Making sure the client stayed away from the bottle wasn’t what people went to law school for.

  Upstairs in the dining room only a handful of tables were taken. The University Club was so far from exclusive that it was sometimes referred to snidely as the Ubiquitous Club, which was probably why I liked it. But except for the athletic facilities, on weekends it was pretty much deserted. Only a smattering of the guest rooms were occupied, mostly by members temporarily on the outs with their wives.

  We were ushered to a table by the window that overlooked Buckingham Fountain, which had just recently been turned on for the season. Millman still looked a little green around the gills, a condition I knew was unlikely to be improved by the University Club’s indifferent kitchen. Serves him right, I thought to myself savagely. Cheryl had sent him over some fresh duds—a navy blazer and khaki pants from Brooks Brothers—clothes that if we didn’t manage to make a deal with Icon, I’d end up paying for out of my own pocket. After we ordered, I asked Millman about Delius. I was glad to hear that he and Jeff had gone to Prescott Memorial to look in on him the night before. I’m sure it was just how Jeff had planned on spending his Saturday night.

  “I still can’t believe that of the two of us, it was Bill who had the heart attack,” declared his partner, shaking his head over his coffee cup. “Look at me. I’m forty pounds overweight—at least—eat red meat, drink like a fish, and haven’t seen the inside of a gym in the last ten years except to watch my six-year-old play basketball. So who gets it in the chest? Professor wheat germ of the Nordic Track. Go figure.”

  “So how’s he doing?”

  “They’ve got him hooked up to so much electronic equipment I bet he can pick up the Cubs game without an antenna.”

  “Is he awake? Is he talking at all?”

  “When we were there, all he did was moan,” said Millman. “I don’t think he even knew we were there. But I did talk to one of the doctors, and he told me that his recovery was progressing normally and he’s going to end up being fine.”

  “Did he say when?” I asked, knowing that I must sound callous. The arrival of our eggs, served on chargers of antique silver and predictably cold, delayed his answer.

  “Why? Does it matter?” asked Millman miserably.

  “Gabriel Hurt came to see me Friday night.” I raised my hand up, signaling that he should let me finish. “He’s still interested in making a deal for the input driver, but he wants to sit down face-to-face with Delius.”

  “Shit!” exclaimed Millman under his breath as he slammed his hand on the edge of the table, making the silverware jump. “I can’t believe it!”

  “I’m afraid you can’t swear in this club,” I informed him calmly, helping myself to a sip of my coffee. “Better keep that in mind when I tell you the rest of it. Apparently, Hurt’s also been talking to another group that’s developed a similar product.”

  “Whatever the other guys are willing to give him, we’ll give him double,” he said without a moment’s hesitation. With his partner in the hospital, unable to make the case for maintaining control, all Millman could see were dollar signs.

  “I’m afraid that’s not the issue,” I replied. “Icon’s going to drive a hard bargain no matter what. I’m sure they’ll wring the same concessions out of whomever they decide to go with.”

  “Then what are they interested in?”

  “People.”

  “We’re talking about a computer system,” Millman shot back.

  “Not entirely,” I ventured. “I don’t know the first thing about this other group—”

  “There’s only one other company it could be, and they’re a bunch of snot-nosed kids from Seattle who don’t know their asses from—”

  “Don’t tell me,” I said as I wrote down Elliott’s office phone number for him. “Tell him.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “A private investigator. He has people who will find out everything there is to know about these guys in Seattle. In the meantime I need to know who Delius has working with him on the input driver.”

  “Nobody really, just a bunch of kids. He picks his top students and lets them work on the project in exchange for credit as an independent study.”

  “Is there any student in particular who stands out? Anybody who’s been with him a long time?”

  “There’s this kid Felix, or maybe it’s Fernando, who’s been his research assistant for a couple of years...,” Millman offered uncertainly.

  “Then I need you to find this young man whose name begins with F and tell him that I need to see him right away.”

  I spent the rest of the day holed up at my parents’ house with Denise and her public relations minions planning Mother’s assault against HCC, while security guards patrolled the perimeter and kept the minicams at bay. I had to admit that I found the whole thing interesting. Besides her usual staff, Denise had brought along the public relations e
quivalent of a SWAT team: a video coach, a “content” specialist, and a wraithlike young man dressed from head to toe in black who was in charge of hair and wardrobe.

  Like the theater inherent in the courtroom or at the negotiating table, the battle for public opinion was an effort to influence the point of view of others. However, in this case, the stage was not only much bigger, but the rules were much less clearly defined. Instead of constructing arguments and interpreting precedent, Denise was trying to influence events by creating the appearance of being right. It didn’t take long to figure out that appearance was the operative word.

  While my father retreated to the library with his bottle of gin and whatever sporting event was on television, Denise and the video coach set up operations in the music room. Having never seen my mother so much as take a suggestion from anybody, much less an order, I stood at the ready to smooth ruffled feathers, but to my surprise there weren’t any. Mother was an apt pupil, intelligent and intent on getting it right on the first try. She was also indefatigable, keeping at it until she was polished and perfect on every conceivable issue relating to Prescott Memorial, nonprofit medical care, and the future of charitable institutions in Chicago.

  Of all the people in the room, I was the most impressed.

  The next morning Mother and I were at the courthouse early. The time had come to file our suit against HCC. We were not alone. Callahan Ross employed four full-time docket clerks whose job it was to file documents and keep track of court appearances. The most senior of them, Libbert Pinto, a barrel-chested man with elaborately brilliantined hair, walked ahead of us at a decorous distance. The truth is I was a stranger to the courthouse and didn’t have the first idea of where to go to file a complaint. Indeed, my presence and more importantly that of my mother had less to do with administrative necessity than with the TV cameras waiting for us on the other side of Daley Plaza.