A Cadgers Curse Read online

  I did a quick turn-around in a truck terminal on Lake Street and merged back on 294, this time heading south. Naturally I had to pay another toll. A few minutes later at Oak Brook, the sign for the Reagan Memorial Tollway entrance appeared. I changed lanes, paid that toll, and headed west to Naperville. This job was already costing me a lot of money and effort.

  No time now to do the usual background check for this client. Instead I grabbed my phone again and hit the speed dial for Tom Joyce. Tom and I have enjoyed a long-standing friendship fueled by our joint curiosity. On top of which we're both competitive. We strive to amuse each other and to top one another, but most importantly, we always watch each other's back. Tom's a well-known antiquarian bookseller, and we'd met in his bookshop when I was a first-year student at the university. He appreciates my flair for statistics and literature, whereas I envy his uncanny ability to deliver facts, figures, and arcane trivia on demand. Fun to us is challenging each other often and unmercifully.

  "Caller ID says this is the fair DD," Tom answered. "'Tis true, tis you?"

  "Dammit, Tom, I hate that caller ID. It takes all the surprise out of life. For once I'd like to disguise my voice and pretend I'm from Barnes and Noble looking to buy your bookstore."

  "I'd never sell to Plebeianism at its finest," he laughed.

  "Tom, I'd make an offer you couldn't refuse"

  "If I did sell, they'd have to take me along with the books. We can't be parted, like Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet and Ophelia, Tristan and Isolde..."

  "Yeah, but doesn't it strike you as odd they all died young?"

  "Stop being so damned literal, DD. The simile was meant to be romantic, not suicidal. Anyway, you can't expect too much of me this early. I'm still in my jammies, having coffee. What's up?"

  "I need a favor. You know how I hate to walk into the jaws of a new client without knowing if it spits fire, has twelve eyes, or eats virgins."

  "I'm not commenting on that."

  "This is serious, Tom. I need you to find out whatever you can about a high-tech company called HI-Data. It's world headquarters is located in Naperville. I'm on the way there now, and I need to know everything A.S.A.P."

  "I thought you were picking up the Aunt from Hell this morning at O'Hare. What happened?"

  "Rush job offer I couldn't refuse. Someone else is fetching her. Lucky me."

  "Oh, so this is another one of those awful jobs from your attorney friend, Phil? Do you have Attorney Insurance, DD? Sometimes I think he likes making your life miserable with some of these crazy jobs. He's..."

  "Tom, could you just do your magic stuff however you do it and get back to me in the next twenty minutes?"

  "Okay. Forget about Phil for the nonce. I'll see what I can do. You'll owe me big for this. Adios."

  I hung up, confident he'd unearth any big issues at HI-Data. Tom's resentment toward Phil dates back to Frank's suicide. Tom believed then and believes now that I'd function better if I were still in academia, doing research and writing books. He never believed I could be happy in insurance investigation. But Phil had saved the day for me in that dark period after Frank's death, and I'll always be grateful to him for that. True, most insurance investigation work is strictly routine, but when there is action, I enjoy it. The only action in academia is back-stabbing, and I'd had enough of that to last me several lifetimes.

  For the rest of the trip, I enjoyed the ride and tried not to think about the Christmas season. Holidays haven't been a lot of fun since Frank died, damn him. It had been different when he was alive. Lots of things had been different.

  I'd been teaching one class in English lit and doing post-grad research at the university, working on a compendium of Restoration materials when I'd met Frank. He was a much-admired Dean at the University of Chicago, as popular with the faculty as with the students. Even Aunt Elizabeth liked him, though she complained I was too young for him and accused me of falling in love with him only because he looked like Sherlock Holmes. Practically every able-bodied female on campus flocked to his lively lectures on the history of the English Civil War. As part of my research on the seventeenth century, I'd enjoyed attending these lectures. He was not just interesting, he was fascinating. The English Civil War and the Restoration period came alive under his spell. I was as taken with him as were the others, and when he asked me to dinner, I was surprised but willing. When we began our affair, I was more than willing. And when he asked me to marry him, I was terrifically happy. Or so I thought. And then ...

  I'm no hermit, but after Frank's suicide, I was so hurt and angry, I couldn't face much of anything. I left the university and began doing insurance investigations work for some attorney friends. True, it's a completely different field than English lit, but that's exactly what I like about it. Anything connected with English lit or the university opens painful wounds. Truthfully, I'm not really back on my feet yet. I'm still paying off the last of Frank's debts, and I'm still not over what happened. Maybe I'll never be. A few months ago, I met a handsome brown-eyed guy named Scotty Stuart. Our romance has been going well, probably because his job keeps him away so much. Right now Scotty was in London, troubleshooting for a conglomerate. He'd asked me to join him there for the holidays, but I like paying my own way and couldn't afford the airfare. I wasn't sure yet how things were going to turn out with Scotty. I only knew that after we met, a tiny kernel of happiness had settled in one corner of my heart that had been so empty for so long, and I wanted to hold onto it.

  In my reverie, I damn near missed my exit. I braked hard, downshifted and exited the Tollway onto a long, winding access road just as the winter sun broke through thinning clouds. The HI-Data building came into view-twelve stories of white exterior with blue windows and a chrome sign, one of the biggest computer science palaces lining the Tollway's high-tech corridor about thirty miles west of the Loop. This is Chicago's version of Silicon Valley. The company's mega-bytes had earned mega-billions, and HI-Data had dumped a ton of it into their facility, including two retention ponds stocked with geese and the de rigueur formless art statue at the main entrance.

  The phone rang as I parked. I hoped it was Tom getting back to me.

  "I found out a few things that may be of interest," Tom said without preamble. "But first, I'm curious, DD. Usually you ask for information on esoterics like the Carolingian minuscule, not on pedestrian topics like technology palaces. You don't even believe in electricity. Just what are you up to over there?"

  "I'm going to be their grammar police"

  "Yeah, sure, for their technical manuals. Seriously, I hope you're not out of your depth on this one."

  "Don't worry. They've got me vetting some new employees. What'd you dig up?"

  "HI-Data is one of those privately owned companies that's grown fast and furiously. Principal owner of record is Jeffrey Fere, rhymes with `dear'. A Ph.D. in Computer Science from MIT, a Diploma in Informatics from the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology, and a knack for industrial utilization of cutting-edge technology. The company's carrying more debt than it should be, but it's also well known for its Research and Development successes, and it's rumored that's where they put all the bucks. It's also rumored that their investment's going to pay off with something really big anytime now."

  "What is it?"

  "It's so top secret, I haven't found out yet."

  "Let me know as soon as you do. Anything else?"

  "Nothing specific. Just watch your step. And be careful about asking too many questions about the `something big.' Industrial espionage is big in CS, and..."

  "CS?"

  He laughed. "Oops. Sometimes I can't help myself from falling into their lingo. CS is Computer Science."

  "Thanks. I should have guessed that. And by the way, exactly what can you tell me about the Carolingian minuscule?"

  "Ha. You never let me off the hook, but luckily I know everything. The short version is that it's a script style of historic writing with round, clear letters where words are separated rather th
an running all together as in early Merovingian script ... it was developed at the Abbey of Corbie and in use from 900 through 1150, then later revived during the Renaissance and has survived today as our lowercase letters."

  "One of these days I'm going to stump you, you know."

  "I doubt it. Au revoir."

  THREE

  I LOCKED THE MiATA and hurried to HI-Data's entrance, fighting the bitter west wind we Chicagoans call the Hawk. The glass doors reflected my jeans, black turtleneck, Bandera leather jacket and low-heeled boots. I was dressed more for sport than for success, but this was a rush job, and I wasn't out to impress anyone.

  The splendor of HI-Data's marble and granite lobby made me feel like a supplicant at Versailles. A gold Christmas tree surrounded by white poinsettias in the center atrium did nothing to add warmth or cheer. There was no building directory. The place was deserted. I hit the button in a recessed bank of elevators, intending to do a random search for Personnel. Nothing happened. I punched it harder, and a loud, shrill alarm echoed off the marble walls.

  "What the hell are you doing?" shouted an overweight security guard bursting out of a nearby stairwell.

  "I'm looking for Personnel," I yelled over the alarm.

  He was holding a mini-computer. He typed something on its keyboard and the alarm shut off in a jolt of silence.

  "You have to sign in. This here's linked to our central computer, and if your name ain't on today's guest list, you gotta leave. No, don't use that." He grabbed my pen. "Use this."

  He handed me an electronic stylus. I'd sat through a demo on this new security system a couple months ago at a classified seminar hosted by the insurance industry. Much of that seminar remains a blur because I was checking out the nice-looking buns of the male instructor. Yes I do believe in electricity, but I'm continually amazed at some of the new developments in the sophisticated paraphernalia that's coming on the market. I heartily recommend these new options to my clients, but silently I wonder where it's all going. We're already light years away from the yin and yang of the seventeenth century and into a new interconnectivity with the forces of the universe.

  DD McGil, I scratched on the opaque swatch. Universal Insurance Co.

  The guard wiped his sweaty brow. "Only ways I missed you is I been checking the stairwells." He scowled at my scrawl. "What's that say? DB?"

  I wasn't about to elaborate and tell him that my real name is Daphne December, hence DD, the result of an unfortunate power struggle between my parents and Aunt Elizabeth, the outcome of which made nobody happy, especially me. After getting tagged with the nickname Daffy, the family formally agreed I was to be known as DD. Only my mother reverts occasionally if she's really piqued. So I just smiled and said, "DD. Two capital Ds."

  His eyes narrowed, but he didn't pursue it further. Instead he said, "Let's see, we got to get some details here about your person. Uh, what color eyes?"

  "Blue."

  "You're ... what, five foot eight?"

  "Five-eight and a half."

  "Okay. And let's see, blonde. Right?"

  I hoped he wasn't going to make any blonde jokes. I get them all the time. In the looks department, I'm used to being typecast as the dumb blonde, and it doesn't bother me-much. My mother's biggest lament is that I inherited all the Mason good looks, but got the McGil temperament. Physically, I guess I do resemble my great-grandmother Mason, who was a tall, slim, easygoing beauty in her day. I've got her blue eyes and good legs, but I'm not what you'd call easy-going. Any canny Buchanan on my father's side would instantly recognize me as one of the clan. I've always had trouble straightening out people over what I do for a living. Especially after Frank died, when no one at the university wanted to publish my historical compendium titled Restoration Scandals. "Too populist," they claimed. They questioned its relevance to the university and scorned it for being too much like a pop culture best-seller. I wasn't about to straighten them out. That's when I left the university, and that why I'm in insurance investigations today.

  I smiled and nodded in agreement, and he handed me the ID smart-card that slid out from the little computer. "Okay, you're on the list. But you're clear only for Personnel on the third floor. I gotta go back on my rounds. Return that card in the slot over there when you leave"

  I remembered from the seminar demonstration that these smartcards look like ordinary credit cards, but carry a heap of information in their micro-electronic circuitry, including my height and the color of my eyes and hair. Even if I didn't return it, it was undoubtedly date-encoded and wouldn't be good after today. Technology is always edging into science fiction, and in the back of my mind I heard George Orwell whisper "Big Brother Is Watching." I shivered, not from the cold.

  The card activated the elevator and the doors sprang open. After a few seconds, they opened again and a clipped, mechanical voice intoned, "Third floor." I stepped into the corridor.

  The guard hadn't given me Personnel's suite number, and none of the offices was marked. I didn't know which way to turn.

  "Left," I said to myself out of habit and flashed the card at the electronic entry panel outside each door. The first two I wandered into were executive offices, but not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Must have all gone home early for an extended holiday weekend.

  The next office had two eyelash windows at the top. I stretched, peeked in, and saw someone hunched over a computer. My entry card worked. As the door opened, I knocked lightly.

  "Excuse me," I said and coughed discreetly.

  Nothing broke his self-absorption. I didn't like being ignored. I walked across the room and tapped him on the shoulder. "I'm trying to find Personnel."

  The man did a slow pirouette in his chair, toppled to one side and hit the floor. The computer keyboard landed on top of him with a hollow thump.

  FOUR

  THE MAN'S FACE WAS bluish-purple, and he wasn't breathing. In the next instant I recognized him. It was Ken Gordon, Frank's half brother. I hadn't seen him in years. I wondered what he was doing here and more to the point why he was dead.

  I looked at him carefully. No wound was evident. His clothing was in perfect condition. He must have had a massive heart attack. He was perhaps more gray around the temples but otherwise looked much as I'd last seen him in Frank's lawyer's office. He and I had had a big blow up, and I'd never forgiven him for refusing to come to Frank's funeral-and for a lot of other things.

  I touched his face. It was cool and hard, like granite. This was the only time I'd seen his eyes look unambitious. I was certain he was dead. I reached for the phone to call the paramedics, mentally calculating the odds of me finding his corpse. The cops could calculate those odds just as easily, and with my past history with Ken and Frank, I had a sickening feeling they'd throw the book at me. My little inner voice told me to drop the phone, put Ken Gordon back into his chair and get the hell out.

  I grabbed the lapels of his expensive suit and pulled him up onto the chair, trying not to think of the phrase "dead weight." I was sweating from both exertion and nerves. At least he wasn't overweight-six foot one and a trim hundred sixty-five with all his clothes on. Just like Frank.

  I retrieved the keyboard and noticed a few melted, discolored keys. Then I spied burnt patches on Ken's fingers, especially near his ring, a family ring just like the one Frank had always worn. Suddenly conscious of a burning odor, I jumped back and bumped into somebody. I froze.

  "Who are you?" a man's voice shouted. "What are you doing here?"

  I turned. The guy I'd collided with was short but trim. He looked to be in his late forties and he wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

  He removed his glasses and gave my casual clothes a long look. "This is a restricted area" He waved the horned rims at me. "I'm in charge, and I didn't authorize any visitors today."

  I knew I must look guilty because I felt guilty. "I was looking for Personnel," I answered as casually as I could.

  "Personnel's nowhere near here. Who let you in?"
>
  Shooing me to one side, he grabbed the back of the swivel chair on which Ken's body was delicately balanced. Gravity did the rest. Ken Gordon swerved off the chair and hit the floor again with a thud.

  "What ... ? Ken?" He put his glasses back on, knelt down and lifted one dead arm. I stood mute.

  "Jesus," he said and looked up at me.

  The burnt flesh odor had expanded, filling the room. I could barely keep my stomach under control. This was no heart attack. I wondered how long this guy had been standing behind me and how much he'd seen. I wondered, too, what I should or shouldn't say about knowing the corpse.

  "You better not touch anything," I cautioned.

  "I'll handle this." He dropped Ken's arm, stood up and grabbed the desk phone, punching in what I suspected was the building's three-digit security code. Then he rapidly entered another series of numbers. He took off the horned rims again and said, "Margaret, Norman here. Get an ambulance to room 322R at once." His eyes flicked over to Ken's purple face, then back to me. "Never mind details, just do as I tell you."

  He banged down the receiver. His expensive gray suit hugged his well-muscled body as he steadfastly stared at me. "You've got some explaining to do. Ken is a partner here, and I'm not going to get my ass in a sling for you. Understand? What's the story? You one of his chippies?"

  So Ken was a partner here at HI-Data. Was I having a fit of subjective memory? Did I forget he worked here? No. I never knew where he worked. He and Frank weren't very close. But I don't like coincidence, and I didn't like the smell of this.

  The strong scent of Norman's aftershave was now competing with the burning odor, and my stomach did another flip.

  I stepped toward him. He took a big step backward and put on his glasses. He was a few inches shorter than me, and I find in general that short men are awful cowards. I explained who I was and showed him the smart card the guard had given me.