A Cadgers Curse Read online

  PRAISE FOR A CADGER'S CURSE

  "This debut series will appeal to readers who prefer their mysteries soft-boiled and seasoned with a dash of literary sleuthing."

  -Library journal

  2

  zaboor's

  FORTHCOMING FROM DIANE GILBERT MADSEN

  Hunting for Hemingway

  DIANE GILBERT MADSEN

  'Cilb 0

  A DD MCGIL

  LITERATI MYSTERY

  MIDNIGHT INK

  WOODBURY, MINNESOTA

  A Cadger's Curse: A DD McGil Literati Mystery © 2009 by Diane Gilbert Madsen. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Edition First Printing, 2009 Book design and format by Donna Burch Cover design by Lisa Novak Cover illustration © Roland Sarkany / Marlena Agency, Inc. Editing by Connie Hill Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Publications Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data (Pending) ISBN: 978-0-7387-1892-7

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Midnight Ink Llewellyn Publications 2143 Wooddale Drive, Dept. ISBN: 978-0-7387-1892-7 Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 USA www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America

  This book is dedicated to the memory of Alta Crohn Sumner, college roommate, dear friend, and the keeper of The Contract. Thanks for helping me remember and helping me forget the infamous Mr. Bailey.

  Let Kings and courtiers rise and fall,

  This world has many turns,

  But brightly beams, abin them all,

  The Star 0 Robbie Burns.

  "The Star 0 Robbie Burns;" a simple ballad, regularly sung in his memory and which pays great tribute to him, from World Burns Club.

  PROLOGUE

  ROBERT BURNS, REVERED BY current-day Scots and the author of such standards as Auld Lang Syne and A Red Red Rose, was twentyeight when he stood before a window at the Golden Lion Inn in Stirling, Scotland.

  It was October, 1787, forty-one years after the Battle of Culloden, where the exiled Stuart king, Bonnie Prince Charlie, had led an army of Scots in an attempt to reclaim the British Crown from the House of Hanover. The failure of this revolt had resulted in severely repressive measures being taken by the Hanoverians against suspected Stuart supporters, Jacobites, and all Scots. Despite it being deemed treason by the English, Jacobite feelings grew and persisted, hanging like a black cloud over the Hanoverian Throne.

  Burns contemplated the verse scratched into the windowpane:

  retaarf mace «t trCU~ir~r~rlq~t ~;

  4/i~awfr~C~cmEta~tr)1 wca~roa«t~;

  ( u /(1 uotrnm ~ t ear ~Cace fta~t~l

  ~etrla~tre j~Ct~'~t f~ (rt er~a`tr)li

  aC L Clt(ee~, aft f~ e Cart

  `7il~~c~ttce ar~rvef(L~t - re~ttftj ta~t~r ~z~~

  ~~~~✓iur'~~~taart ~ite arc~~nze,

  L. (C(' ru [a~td f[ t /✓t~m~t~i

  ,4/ tot~t race, t~r(rtt?r' (mlti

  7L~)~ /t rta t it ~elt r)ef~le t e i ,,1lt.

  J C~ C

  The verse was Jacobite propaganda. It was treasonous. It was being attributed to Robert Burns.

  ONE

  "THERE'S GOOD AND THERE'S bad," John Wayne drawled laconically in some movie or another. "And you're either doing one or the other." This morning I was definitely doing bad, and I was hoping I wouldn't get caught.

  My hands were sweaty as I pulled the lock-shooter from my purse. I'm not a burglar by trade, though Lord knows why I'm not. There are thirty burglaries committed every second, but only 2 percent of professional burglars ever get caught. Great odds, considering those who do get caught mostly get charged with Misdemeanor Trespass.

  Believe me, breaking and entering is not my usual modus operandi. I usually play it straight, and I knew it was risky for me to be here this morning. I'm an insurance investigator, and I free-lance out of a tiny office in the Loop. My name is DD McGil, and don't ask me what the DD stands for. I'm female, thirty-eight, and, they tell me, not bad to look at. I've been doing interesting investigations ever since I had an awful experience in the academic world a few years ago. Back then I was an Assistant Professor of English, and I wrestled with words and concepts. Now I make my money duking it out in the business world of frauds and fakes. I'm happy to be as far away from the university as I can be, and I clutch at statistics the way an auto mechanic grabs his wrenches.

  I turned to the task, stuck the business end of the shooter into the lock, and pulled the trigger, hoping the damn thing would work. It did, just as promised in the TV commercial. I'd enrolled in the Locksmith Training Class, and this handy gadget had arrived in the mail along with the mid-term test.

  I swung open the front door, entered and looked around. I had to quickly find the location of the alarm box-the one big unknown in my risky excursion today. Alarm companies almost always put the box in the master bedroom closet, so I headed to where I thought the master bedroom would be. I prayed today wouldn't be an exception. I'd already faced one hurdle earlier when a nosy neighbor outside had prevented me from disconnecting the phone line, which would have made my job so much easier.

  I'd guessed right and easily found the master bedroom closet. Voila, the alarm box, just as statistics predicted. And the key was in the lock-again which I'd counted on. Owners almost never remove the key because they're afraid to lose it.

  I unlocked the alarm box door and opened it. There wasn't much time left to find the power switch before the alarm went off. I could have disabled the alarm with some household spray foam, but I didn't want to leave any evidence of my break-in. I pride myself on my business ethics. This lapse was not strictly ethical, but it was necessary. More sweat beaded on my forehead at the thought of what I was doing.

  I bit my lip and refocused, looking for a little slide thing with a red light above it. I spotted it in the lower left-hand corner, flicked it, and thankfully the red light went off. I could now breathe again. I'm only thirty-eight, but I'm getting way too old for this stuff.

  I closed the metal door, locked it and left the key in just as before. With luck, he'd never know anyone had been here. Statistics were, after all, in my favor as the perpetrator. In a burglary, nothing's in the victim's favor. And for once, Mr. Eric Daniels, Head Comptroller of Mooney Investments, was going to be the victim, not the perp. As for today's perp, I couldn't let myself think about that right now.

  My cell phone vibrated, and I damn near peed in my pants. I hesitated, then snatched it from my pocket. "Who is this?" I hissed.

  "DD, why are you whispering?"

  It was Phil Richy, one of the attorneys who gives me work.

  "Not now, Phil."

  "Listen, this is urgent. You ..."

  "I'll call you right back." I hung up and disabled the vibrate option. My nerves were jangled, but I steadied myself by thinking of Mr. Eric Daniels. Mr. helpful, cooperative, efficient Eric Daniels. He'd managed to convince everyone else on the insurance investigation team that he was pure as the driven snow. I didn't agree. Our client, Mooney Investments, Inc. was being robbed blind, and I suspected he was responsible. Unfortunately my opinion wasn't based on any hard evidence. I'd noticed his eyes shifted to the left too often, his hands kept shielding his face, and his smile was as shallow as a fashion model's. My gut told me he was a liar-a very good liar. I had tried to convince a few of the guys on the team to see him the way I did, but all they gave me was a ribbing about "female intu
ition." So while Eric was busy testifying this morning before the Securities and Exchange Commission, I was busy breaking and entering, hoping to find some evidence to back up my intuition.

  I was already frazzled because I'd gotten out of bed way too early to get here before Eric left his house. I'd missed breakfast and my usual morning crossword puzzle. Like the other sixteen million Americans who do crosswords every week, I get testy when I miss. But this morning I couldn't afford any distractions. I had to concentrate on Eric Daniels and nothing else. Mooney Investments was relying on our investigation team, but we'd hit a brick wall. My money was on Eric Daniels, and I was pissed that the rest of the team thought I was hallucinating. I had to find out one way or the other. I didn't like breaking and entering, and I knew if I was caught I would lose my license and worse. But it was my only option.

  I'd parked and studied his house carefully before he left. I could have advised Eric that if he wanted his house burglar-proofed, he should have double-glazed his windows and installed a video camera. Lucky for me he hadn't asked my advice, and I knew I'd be able to get in relatively easily.

  As soon as Eric drove away, I'd called his home phone to be sure no one else was there. There shouldn't have been-according to his file he lived alone-but I couldn't afford to run into the unexpected. It's always the unexpected that trips you up.

  With the alarm safely off, I took another deep breath and surveyed Eric's pad. He certainly had good cover. Most thieves give themselves away by spending the loot, but Eric Daniels drove a plain Honda Accord, and the interior of his house was as nonde script as his car. I pegged him as a double lifer-like the prominent, civic-minded investment banker who embezzles funds then disappears to Vegas and spends it all on showgirls. I had no doubt Eric Daniels had embezzled the funds from Mooney Investment. But he hadn't fled yet to Vegas, and he was living modestly and not spending wildly. So where was he keeping the loot? My mission today, right or wrong, was to look for the answer.

  His lap top computer was on a highboy dresser in the bedroom. Usually he carried it with him everywhere, but I'd counted on him leaving it behind this morning when he testified.

  I turned it on. I had a hunch, and I was hunting for evidence of off-shore accounts.

  Damn. The whole computer was password protected. I couldn't get in. I was afraid this might happen. I'd never guess his password. But I'd come prepared with a Line-based thumb drive, the wouldbe computer hacker's best friend. I inserted it and typed in the system command. It displayed a snapshot of everything running on the machine. Next I invoked the system monitor, looked for the password process and with a few more clicks Microsoft security let me in, just like magic.

  I pulled up Eric's address book and started with "B" for "bank," and was prepared to go next to "C" for "credit" Ha! I didn't have to. Right there under the "Bs" was a listing for Bank of the Cayman Islands. Mr. Daniels might be money-smart, but he lacked imagination.

  I opened his e-mails and sorted by sender. The resident encryption program kicked in, conveniently deciphering all the gibberish into a neat little row of sixteen acknowledgements of deposits, along with the account numbers. A quick perusal showed me they added up to over $4.5 million. Got you, Mr. Daniels!

  I copied down the information, re-sorted the e-mails by date, and shut down the computer before it really had time to warm up.

  I hurried out, glad to be in the clear. John Wayne should have said, "There's good and there's bad, and sometimes you can be doing one while you're doing the other."

  Two

  I DROVE AWAY QUICKLY, anxious to get out of Eric's neighborhood before I called Phil. Even though the B & E had gone well, my forehead was still clammy, and I was breathing rapidly. Statistically speaking, I'm in the prime of life and should be out there having fun, but that wasn't how it felt today. My mother says I should stop dealing in probabilities and deal with reality, but in this job, statistics are my reality. At least today the odds had been in my favor.

  The day was cold and gray-usual weather for Chicago. The traffic was stop and go-also usual for Chicago. The date was Wednesday, December twenty-third, almost Christmas. First of all, I don't trust Wednesdays. And ever since Frank died, damn him, I don't trust Christmas either. My Aunt Elizabeth, the Scottish Dragon as I call her, doesn't see it that way. She adores holidays and insists on flying across the pond to celebrate even the little ones. In fact, I was on my way now to pick her up at O'Hare airport. Auntie's visits always spell trouble. She calls me her favorite niece, but she behaves more like a five-star general than a doting aunt. La Dragon reveres anything Scottish, especially the Bard o' Scotland, Robert Burns. She believes being Scottish is more than a place of origin, it's a state of mind. Her favorite book, next to anything by Robert Burns, is Arthur Herman's How the Scots Invented the Modern World. Right now she's feverishly working to get me married to a bank presidentmust be a Scot of course-so the dirtiest thing I'd have to deal with is money.

  As soon as I paid the toll on 1-294, I pulled over and phoned Phil.

  "What took you so long?" he demanded. "I've been calling and calling but you didn't answer. And what's with the whispering?"

  I wasn't about to let him in on my unorthodox visit to Mr. Eric Daniels. Worst case he'd have had a heart attack, and best case I'd be in for a long lecture on standard ethics of an insurance investigator. Instead I equivocated. "I'll fill you in later. What do you need?"

  "You've got to hustle your buns over to HI-Data Corporation and check out some new employees for me."

  "Okay. First thing Monday."

  "Nix, DD. Right now. This is urgent, like I said. HI-Data wants a full-report on some new employees-three guys and a girl-and they need it by the first of the year. Since HI-Data is Universal Insurance's biggest client, it's axiomatic that what they want is what they get."

  "Axiomatic, huh? This must be important. Why the big rush?"

  "Apparently the new employees can't work with the company's top secret technology until official clearance comes through. HIData's in the middle of some top-secret project. I told them you could do it."

  "Phil, that's only a week away, with Christmas in between."

  "Jingle your bells, DD. Universal Insurance has opened up its pocketbook. There's a big fat bonus in it for you. Just be sure their employment records contain `the truth, the whole truth,' and you know the rest."

  I knew exactly. Employers today, especially those in high tech, do very little investigation of their employees on their own. They pass this task on to the resources of a bonding company, and the bonding company hires some independent investigator, like me, to do a comprehensive check on the employee. This way the employer is safeguarded against the usual liability losses as well as against any fraud an employee might commit-either against the company, against a client, or both-while employed.

  "Phil, I can't do it. It's impossible."

  "What do you mean, impossible?"

  "I'm on my way to O'Hare to pick up my Aunt Elizabeth."

  "But the file's already waiting for you in Personnel. I promised them you'd show up first thing this morning. My reputation's on the line here, DD"

  "Sorry, but I can't leave my aunt sitting at the gate." I didn't bother to explain that La Dragon considers it her due to be greeted with six heralds, two bishops, and twelve men at arms, like the Queen.

  Phil made some noises in his throat that sounded like he was choking. "All right, all right. Get right over to HI-Data. I'll go pick up your aunt myself."

  "Okay. Her name's Elizabeth Foster. She's arriving on British Air at the International terminal." I detailed the flight number and arrival time and assured him he wouldn't have any trouble recognizing her. "She's sixty-three, five foot nine, slim build with hazel eyes and silver-tipped hair." I purposely omitted describing her ruby red lipstick and voice loud enough to summon mastodons to lunch. Phil would notice those things himself.

  "And she'll be dressed to the nines," I added, knowing Auntie would be wearing her flashy
diamonds, even though I'd told her not to and had explained the concept of Risk Management to her at least a hundred times.

  "Wait a second. Is this that eccentric aunt of yours who's always causing trouble?"

  "I'm off to HI-Data. Talk to you later." I hung up before he could say another word. Statistically speaking, I'd gotten the better end of this deal. Briefly I felt sorry for Phil who was about to be pulled into Auntie's force field. Nobody's ever figured out Auntie. She's a study in contradictions that could keep an analyst busy till the next ice age. She's jaunty yet extremely disciplined, shrewd yet unfailingly generous, and once met, never forgotten. Her biggest anomaly is that she tends to live more in the past than the present. To her, a current event is the Hanovers stealing the British crown from the Stuarts in 1714. And she's not shy about sharing her views. In fact, she relentlessly tries to enlist all and sundry in her efforts to restore the Stuart descendants to their rightful place on the throne. And may the heavens defend you if by happenstance you should mention the name Oliver Cromwell. La Dragon turns positively icy and mutters unintelligible things in pidgin Scots about Puritans. All of which and more I'd forgotten to warn Phil about.

  The next exit on 1-294 was Lake Street. I was headed in the wrong direction for HI-Data, so I took the turn off, carefully avoiding the ice on the exit ramp from yesterday's snow.

  Chicago winters are hard on people and on cars, too. I hate this weather, and so does my car, a green two-seater Miata convertible. I'm never sure she's up to coping, but I needn't have worried. She hummed along in third gear, the new Michelin tires rooster-tailing the slush and scattering a clump of sparrows feeding at a roadside ditch. Even though the speed limit was twenty-five, I took the tight curve at forty. Frankly, ever since I read a University of Iowa study about men driving an average of six miles an hour faster than women on freeway ramps, I've been doing my personal best to equalize the differential.