A Cadgers Curse Read online

  "He was sitting there when I came in. That's all I know." I didn't mention the burns on Ken's fingers or the fact that I knew him.

  "By the way," I asked innocently, "what's a chippie?"

  Before he could answer, the security guard opened the door.

  The guard looked at me and asked, "What're you doing here? You're supposed to be in Personnel." Then he saw Norman. "What's wrong, Mr. Norman?"

  "That's what's wrong." Norman pointed to the corpse sprawled on the carpet.

  The guard looked at Ken's body, then at me.

  "Get the police," Norman shouted.

  "Yessir, Mr. Norman. Right away."

  As he hurried out, I fervently wished I could follow. Right now, even Aunt Elizabeth would be welcome company.

  "We'll wait here," Norman ordered.

  Ken's corpse gazed unblinkingly up at me. I had hated his guts while he was alive, and I couldn't pretend to be sorry he was dead. I stood there calculating the odds of coincidence and the Laws of Statistics. Maybe I could convince the Naperville cops that I didn't know about Ken working at HI-Data by invoking the Law of Truly Large Numbers. Considering their law enforcement experience, they might be receptive to this particular law that says that the chance of any outrageous thing happening is more likely than unlikely, if you have a large enough sample size. But in my heart, I knew the sample size wasn't large enough, and I knew the cops were going to give me a rough time.

  FIVE

  THINGS DON'T HAPPEN VERY fast in a police station, but they happen inexorably. As soon as the Naperville cops found out I knew the victim, they questioned and re-questioned me about finding the body and anything else they felt like asking. I spent the rest of the day explaining to four different cops with four different ranks that I hadn't seen Ken since Frank died. Through it all, I tried to conceal my true feelings about Ken the Rat.

  Detective Morton shifted position in a chair clearly too small for his athletic frame and said, "Frankly, Miss McGil, something doesn't play here."

  I didn't say anything. I knew what was coming. My stomach was struggling with the grease from a chocolate donut one of the cops had offered me earlier. All in all, I was feeling awful.

  Morton continued. "We know that Ken Gordon personally requested you to do the HI-Data trainee investigations. What we don't know is why."

  Ken Gordon would have been the last person in the world to hire me! We'd parted bitter enemies. He hated my guts as much as I hated his. None of which I was about to tell these cops.

  "If Ken did ask for me on this job, I didn't know about it. I took this job from the law firm that works for HI-Data's insurer."

  "All right then, let's go over your story again. Start with Frank's death."

  It was still difficult for me to talk about that.

  I took a deep breath. "Frank and I were going to be married in two month's time. We were very happy. Things were fine as far as I knew. One evening I arrived at our Lake Shore Drive apartment to find cop cars, an ambulance, and a crowd of people. Somebody had just jumped from a balcony. They said it was Frank."

  Morton picked up the story. "So Frank was diagnosed with prostate cancer, and he told Ken he was worried he'd be impotent? Didn't he know about Viagra?"

  I studied Morton's face and wondered if he was enjoying this.

  "The coroner ruled his death was suicide," I said. It was a struggle to keep the emotion out of my voice.

  "No suicide note?"

  "No note was ever found," I said. The questions of why Frank jumped and why he left no explanation were ones I still wrestled with daily. I would never understand. Statistically, Frank's death didn't fit the numbers. I didn't tell them that, either. The recovery rate for prostate cancer is extremely high, 9 in 10, and Frank knew it. On top of that, 95 percent of the 24,000 men that commit suicide in the United States every year use a gun or poison or hang themselves. They don't jump out of windows. But the investigation into his death turned up no evidence to suggest it was any thing other than suicide, and the bleak reality of that had dumped me into a black hole.

  The detective peered at me across the table. His lips were smiling but his eyes weren't.

  "Help me out here," he said. "Was there some kind of feud between you and Ken about Frank's money?"

  "No. There wasn't any feud about money. I didn't care about the money."

  "But it's true that Ken inherited everything, right? You got nothing?"

  "Frank and I hadn't gotten around to drawing up new wills yet."

  "That sounds like a feud to me. And it sounds like a motive, too. First you don't get any of the money, then you end up paying all of Frank's bills. Tell us, why'd you pay 'em? Legally you didn't have to."

  It was cool in the police station. Detective Morton's shirt was fresh and unwrinkled, but I felt wilted both inside and out. I didn't want to go on, but I took a deep breath and continued.

  "Ken blamed me for Frank's death. He refused to pay any of Frank's debts. He wouldn't come to the funeral." I swallowed, still tasting the bitterness of that day. "He wrote nasty letters about me to the newspapers, the university, credit card companies, God knows who else. Like I told you, Frank had added my name on all his credit cards. We'd run up some bills buying a lot of nice things for the apartment and for the wedding."

  "It says here that Frank paid all his medical bills by credit card," Detective Morton observed. "An established guy like that. Didn't he have insurance?"

  "Frank didn't want the university to find out about the prostate cancer, so he didn't file any claims."

  I paused at the uncomfortable realization I was digging myself in deeper. The cops hadn't understood Frank's desire for privacy then, and they weren't going to understand it any better now. And they didn't seem to believe that I had no idea Ken had asked for me on this job.

  "Go on," Detective Morton urged.

  "Money was never an issue between us. Frank was happy to pay for everything. He'd always had his mother's family money, so it was nothing to him. When his father died a few years ago, Frank inherited a large estate on top of what he already had."

  "Tell me, did Ken have the same mother as Frank or the same father?"

  "Same father. And to answer your next question, yes, they shared their father's inheritance equally."

  "And the last time you saw Ken was in Frank's lawyer's office when he told you he wasn't gonna pay one dime of Frank's debts from the estate?" Morton asked, checking his notes.

  "And his attorney informed me that since my name was jointly on all Frank's credit cards, Ken was fully within his rights not to pay.

  "That would've made me pretty damn mad. I still don't get why you paid 'em off."

  "I wasn't about to have Frank's name involved in lawsuits. Or mine, for that matter."

  "An' you're sure you haven't seen Ken or talked to him since that day?"

  "Positive"

  These Naperville cops acted friendly, but they were tough cookies, like most suburban cops. They felt they were always competing with the big city boys, and they had a reputation of making things even more complicated than the city cops, just to show their muscle. When they finally completed the requisite paperwork, it was after two in the morning. It was clear they still didn't want to, but they had absolutely no evidence against me, and finally had to kick me loose. Too tired to get my car from the parking lot at HI-Data, and despite the pricey fare, I took a cab back to my apartment. When I unlocked the door, my Ragdoll cat, Cavalier, rushed at me and meowed, his way of scolding me for leaving him all day without companionship, as if I'd done it deliberately. Sometimes I don't know what goes on in those little kitty brains.

  My answering machine was full of messages-one from Phil, one from Tom, and four from Auntie ordering me to call immediately. Unable to face anybody or anything, I crawled directly into bed. Sleep came at once, but it was fitful, haunted by visions of Ken's unblinking eyes, and the remains of that chocolate donut the well-meaning cop had offered me and I'd been foolish eno
ugh to eat.

  SIX

  AT SEVEN THE NEXT morning Cavalier and I were both awake but not rested. I fed him while I brewed coffee. He doesn't like it if I eat first, which doesn't bother me because breakfast isn't my favorite meal. I keep forgetting which of the food groups you're supposed to have when. All of which brings on the guilty realization that I don't live right, and it's all my own fault. I enjoyed a cup of Chicory coffee and worked the crossword while I finished the Shrimp Diablo leftover from Ina's restaurant where Tom Joyce and I had had dinner a couple days ago. That seemed like a few years ago.

  Today I chose a beige suit and heels, a contrast to yesterday's jeans. I refused to wear black, but stopped myself from picking red. They say it's healthy to forgive and forget, but Auntie says that doesn't apply to us Scots. I couldn't forgive Ken. Not yet and maybe never. The cops determined he'd been electrocuted. When I left, they weren't sure whether his death was the result of a freak acci dent or foul play. Either way, they were reluctant to stop focusing on me as the prime suspect.

  It was Christmas Eve today. Despite Ken's death, I was going to have to make up for the lost day on the trainee investigations, that is if I was still employed. Before I confirmed that, I had to return Aunt Elizabeth's calls, dread it though I might. I reached for the receiver and the phone rang. I picked it up gingerly, envisioning Auntie on the other end, ready to unleash one of her frontal assaults.

  "What the hell happened at HI-Data yesterday?" Phil asked without preamble.

  "Thanks for asking how I'm doing."

  "Sorry, DD. Knowing you, I just assumed you'd be okay. So, uh, how are you?"

  "I seem to be the subject of a police inquiry, whether it's for murder, accidental death, or witchcraft, I'm not sure. I don't know why they're considering me a suspect. Tell me Phil, can a computer electrocute you?"

  "When are you finally gonna sign up for that course in Applied Electricity? I told you a million times that Universal Insurance would pay for it. You need to keep up with all the advanced electrical spy equipment that's out on the market. And from what the cops say, you're not a suspect. They had to give up that idea when I told them about assigning you to the job yesterday morning. They know you didn't have enough time to rig that computer. But listen, DD. What I'm hearing is that you knew the victim. True?"

  "Yeah. He was Frank's half-brother. The cops said he specially asked for me on this HI-Data job. True?"

  "You were mentioned, yeah."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I didn't think it was important. The contact came through Universal Insurance from HI-Data with a notation requesting you as the contact investigator. In retrospect, I guess maybe I should have said something, but it's not that unusual for clients to ask for you. You do have a reputation, you know. So why did he want you on this?"

  "Phil, I haven't a clue."

  "Where are we with the investigation?"

  "I was just going to ask you the same thing. Do they still want me out there? Some Vice President named Norman really had a burr under his saddle."

  "I already talked to Personnel. The trainees'll be there today, even with the holiday."

  "Good. I haven't even met them yet. I was at the police station until two last night."

  "Well, how soon can you get to HI-Data?"

  "I'll leave right now. I had to go there anyway to pick up my car.

  "So on Dasher, on Vixen, and report back to me right away if there's any more trouble. By the way, did I mention you are forever in my debt?"

  "For what?"

  "For picking up that aunt of yours yesterday. It was a neardeath experience. Getting Attila-the-Scot through customs was like steering a dreadnaught into harbor. That jewelry she was wearing cost more than the gross national product of Scotland. I told her having all that stuff on her person when traveling wasn't riskaverse, but all she did was pooh-pooh me. And she's got some crazy notion that she's got hold of, as she put it, `a wee Robert Burns treasure' Look, I gave her what legal advice I could, and for free. She's determined you'll sort it out. And I'm not even going to mention how she's still pulling for Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Stuarts. My God, DD, she reminds me of you."

  "I knew you'd like her," I declared and hung up.

  I took out my notes from yesterday's breaking and entering at Eric Daniels place. I was about to do something I didn't like because I despise anonymous notes, but there was no other choice. The information I'd gotten at his house would never be admissible as evidence, and I certainly couldn't reveal how I'd gotten it. That would remain forever my secret. However, a staggering number of cases are solved through anonymous tips, and I knew the teamincluding me-would jump fast to investigate. So I block-printed an anonymous note to Mr. Ed Mooney, President of Mooney Investments, telling him about Mr. Eric Daniels and some numbered off-shore accounts. It would be enough for a search warrant. I sealed the envelope with a wet paper towel, put on a pre-sticked stamp, and dumped it into my purse to mail. Then I called Tom Joyce's cell phone. It was too early for him to be at the bookshop.

  "I heard about yesterday," Tom said as soon as he picked up. "Makes you wonder about probability theory and random events."

  "Tell me about it. The odds of writing a New York Times best seller are 220 to 1, and my finding Ken's body is even more unlikely. The cops think so too."

  "Let me know if there's anything you need. I'm doing an appraisal for the Chicago Public Library today, so use my cell. I'll switch it to vibrate mode. I love that. Merry Christmas Eve. Over and out."

  I screwed up my nerve and called my mother. Immediately after saying hello she transferred the phone to Aunt Elizabeth. I took a deep breath, bracing myself.

  "Who was that handsome, canny man who fetched me from the airport yesterday?" the Dragon inquired sweetly. "His automobile was verra big and comfy, not like that little toy convertible model you drive. Is he Scots? And he told me he's an attorney, but of course I did not believe him. As I said to your mother, whatever would a lawyer be doing fetching me in the middle of the day? By the bye, where were you yesterday?"

  "Didn't Phil explain I was called away on urgent business?"

  "What does this Phil really do?"

  "Just what he said. He's a lawyer. And he told me he gave you some free advice about risk management that corresponds exactly to what I've been telling you for years."

  "Never mind about that. There's something much more important. You must hie yourself over here immediately. I've been offered a rare Robert Burns manuscript, and I'm convinced it's the real thing. You must authenticate it for me."

  "There are firms that specialize in document verification, Auntie. Hire one of them."

  "No No. No need for that. This is unique. I have faith in you. You're the investigator. And you're an English major expert, too. After all, you've had experience in this sort of thing." "

  I haven't done anything like this, Auntie. I . . .

  "Nonsense. We must needs keep this in the family. Here's your mother."

  "Aunt Elizabeth, please, I..."

  "DD, this is Mother. Elizabeth feels you should at least take a peek at her find. That's not too much to ask, is it?"

  Because of La Dragon's lifelong passion for anything Robert Burns, I knew a lot about him and his writings through osmosis. "Mother," I responded, "everything Robert Burns wrote was catalogued extensively. Most of it is housed in well-known collections in the National Library of Scotland or the Mitchell Library. Experts would easily be able to authenticate whatever she's got. Believe me, I know some things, but I don't have that kind of training or specialized knowledge. You're putting me in a bad position."

  "You don't understand, DD. Just come and take a look. That's all I ask. Please?"

  I relented finally. She knew I would. "Okay. She's won again. Put her back on the line."

  "Thank you DD," Aunt Elizabeth cooed, dripping sweetness like a Venus flytrap digesting prey.

  "What do you want me to do?" I asked.

  "I can
na tell you over the phone. Come here and see for yourself. You'll be excited, I give you my word on it."

  "You have it with you?"

  No seller would allow a putative buyer, even a putative buyer named Aunt Elizabeth, to take a Burns manuscript from Scotland to America purely "on spec."

  There was a long silence.

  "Auntie? Dammit. You've already bought the whateveritis, haven't you?"

  "Aye, so I did," she declared forcefully. I could visualize her chin jutting at the phone. "'Twas a one-time offer. I could not not take advantage of something so unique."

  Whenever the Scottish Dragon employs the double negative, it's pointless to argue. I asked instead, "What happens when you get proof it's a fake?"

  "That's not possible. You must prove it's genuine. You'll see when you get here."

  I explained I'd be there later than originally planned because I hadn't taken care of all my business yesterday. Naturally she demanded to know why. After I related the day's events, she said, "Everything to do with Frank was a disaster. Your mother and I told you he was too old for you. An' I won't say I'm sorry about Ken. He was a conniver and a turncoat. This job of yours is awful. An' your office is a hovel. You must give it up and get something respectable. No one in our family has ever been in jail." "

  I wasn't exactly in jail, Auntie. I was only at the station for questioning." I hung up, exasperated. When-correction if-Aunt Elizabeth ever dies and ends up in Heaven, she'll tell God what to do. If she ends up in Hell, God help the Devil.

  SEVEN

  I HAILED A CAB and gave directions to HI-Data. Before we hit the expressway, I told him to make a detour to the main downtown Chicago post office. Correction, the new main downtown Chicago post office. I couldn't get used to the city fathers' decision to abandon the former post office, a massive Art Deco structure that straddled Congress Parkway and now sits nearly unused with one small sign directing patrons to the new undistinguished facility facing it across Harrison Street. I dropped the anonymous note into one of the mailboxes at curbside and, as the cab lurched back into traffic, I wished Mr. Eric Daniels a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.