Hunting for Hemingway Read online

  Phil finally emerged from the cool station onto the overheated parking lot where I'd been talking to Morgan. The asphalt stuck to my shoes. I stopped, suddenly remembering that ten-thirty appointment I had with the IRS. I looked at my watch. It was now after three.

  "What am I going to do Phil? Poussant'll break me like an egg. Then he'll fry me. Maybe I should get a note from Lt. Fernandez? Or you could write a note for me. How about it?"

  Phil swatted a mosquito on his cheek into a bloody blob. "For God's sake, DD, don't make such a big deal out of it. If I were you, I'd go get that head scan first."

  I handed him a tissue from my purse.

  "Thanks," he said, wiping away the bloody mess and handing it back to me. "You sure you can drive?"

  NINE

  Never confuse movement with action.

  -ERNEST HEMINGWAY

  TODAY WAS TURNING INTO a nightmare. David was dead, I was a

  suspect, and any head scan would have to wait. I looked at the dried blood on my clothes. That would have to wait too until I cleared things up with the IRS.

  I headed south on Lake Shore Drive, taking the quickest route to the IRS office and trying to think of anything but David's bloody corpse. In the middle of fighting the heavy traffic, my cell rang. I hate driving and being on the phone at the same time, but I picked it up in case it was Phil or Matt.

  "Hello," I growled. "This better be good."

  "DD. It's Barry. Barry Harris."

  "How'd you get this number?" Barry runs a successful computer software company, and I'd met him while handling a case some time ago. His company is in competition with the company Scotty works-worked-for, so while I consider him a business acquaintance, I'd never given him this number. "I know you know a lot of stuff, but I'm unpublished."

  "We have our ways, DD. You should know there's no database I can't crack. Anyway, the reason I called is I need you. I've got a red alert here."

  "What's going on?"

  "We just found out that somebody's dumping my hot new software onto the international banking market, and you need to find out who it is. Immediately. Can you get over here right away?"

  "Barry, slow down. I'm driving and you're talking too fast. Actually I'm on my way to a meeting with the IRS."

  I thought I heard him stifle a laugh. I was going to say I couldn't take the case, but then I thought of Scotty. Could this have any connection to Scotty's disappearance? I knew it was far-fetched, but the international banking market might be the thread of a connection, so I changed my mind.

  "All right, I'll be there as soon as I can. And don't ask me about the rest of my day," I added sharply, hanging up so I could concentrate on driving.

  I passed Buckingham Fountain, its cascading water glistening in the sun. At night when they flood it with colored lights, it's even prettier. No wonder out-of-towners still make it a Chicago tourist destination.

  Just past the fountain, I turned into the old Grant Park parking lot under Millennium Park. After adjusting to the sickly greenish light umderground, I nosed into a space marked for compact cars only. The lot is still the cheapest thing going in the inner city, but the repairs they'd finally been making lessened the odds of my finding cement bits in my front seat when I returned. Naturally however, they'd still demand the full parking fee.

  The IRS office was on the nineteenth floor of an older highrise office building in the south end of the Loop. I elbowed my way through the pedestrians, pushed through the revolving door, then jumped into an already full elevator just as the door was closing. No wonder Carl Sandburg called Chicago the "City of the Big Shoulders." Usually it's stimulating, but today it was hard to deal with all that raw energy, especially when people gawked at my bloodstained skirt. Maybe I should have gone home first to change, but it was too late now.

  I hurried down the long gray corridor to the door marked IRS and announced my late arrival to the receptionist, Miss Wang. She looked up, scanning me with spectacular half-closed eyes. Her makeup was so perfect it might have been done on a movie lot, and her stunning figure was set off by a white suit that accented her dark hair and complexion. She seemed not to recognize me, though this was the seventh or eighth time I'd been here. I supposed that to her, all victims looked alike.

  She flicked through a stack of papers on her desk, her long, brightly painted fingernails tapping as she shuffled. "You're very late, Miss McPill." She spoke not to me but to her papers.

  "It's McGil," I corrected. "And I'm late due to unavoidable circumstances." I was reluctant to give any more details because the waiting room was crammed with other audit-ees.

  She glanced at my bloodstained skirt. "Hmmm. Take a seat. I'll see if he can see you."

  The government provides only hard, molded plastic chairs, because God forbid your ass should be comfortable while you waited to be raped and pillaged by your IRS in action.

  My thoughts again turned to David. He'd so wanted to discover those missing Hemingway manuscripts. I wondered where they were and what would happen to them now that he was dead. I'd ask Phil, if he was still speaking to me.

  I flipped through a long-outdated issue of Fortune, hoping to pick up some hidden clue known only to the cognoscenti on amassing wealth. One by one, other victims got called. None of them came back. I hoped they were leaving by another door instead of being stacked up like cordwood.

  An hour and a half later, I was still waiting. I suspected Mr. Poussant of using long waits as another IRS torture tool. When I reminded Miss Wang that I was still waiting, she announced, "Oh, he had to leave."

  "What? When?"

  "You'll have to make another appointment," she said, pulling out her appointment book and x-ing out my name with a red pen.

  I put my hand across the book, preventing her from adding more x's. "Why didn't you tell me when he left? Were you going to make me sit here and wait all day?"

  Miss Wang sighed audibly. She dropped her pen and yanked the appointment book from under my hand.

  "You stood Mr. Poussant up today, Miss McGil," she scolded, as if I'd done it deliberately. "Taxpayers can't just miss appointments. Where would we be if everybody did that?"

  I exited with as much grace as I could muster, brushed a few cement chips off the hood, and paid a twenty buck parking fee.

  The drive back to my apartment was a blur. I stopped to thank Glendy and Lucille for taking care of the cat. When they spotted the bloodstains, they started fussing. I explained I'd had a bad day, and thankfully they silently accepted the understatement.

  Back in my own apartment, Cavvy and I had a long conversation about how much we hated death. Maybe I was hoping Cavvy would be able to keep me from hibernating and drinking too much, like I'd done when Frank died and like I'd been doing since Scotty's disappearance.

  I couldn't face food. Instead, I poured a stiff Wild Turkey from the half empty bottle. One of Hemingway's characters, I couldn't remember which, said opening bottles is what makes drunkards. I'd try to remember that tonight.

  The phone rang. I hesitated, then picked up.

  "What's going on?" Lauren, demanded. "Are you all right? My dad called and told me about David."

  Lauren's father, a Chicago police dispatcher, tells her all the news before the mayor even hears about it.

  There was a lot of background noise on her end. "I can hardly hear you," I shouted. "Where are you?"

  "In Madison, Wisconsin, at the tournament."

  "Is Bob winning?"

  "Never mind about that. Dad said you found the body, and you're the prime suspect. Did you do it?"

  "Dammit, Lauren. Of course I didn't."

  "Then who did?"

  "I don't know."

  "Why didn't you tell me about the sexual harassment case against David? What the hell's going on, DD? From what Dad says, you're in deeper trouble than you think. You better get a lawyer."

  "I don't need a lawyer, and I can't afford..."

  "Don't say another word. Just call Karl Patrick. Bob and I
will pick up the tab," she insisted before she hung up.

  Probably my mother and Aunt Elizabeth would call too the minute they heard the news, even though Auntie was in Scotland. Hopefully that wouldn't be till morning. I didn't want to talk to anyone else so when the phone rang again, I let the machine take messages.

  I stripped and left my clothes in a heap, hoping the good fairy would visit and pick up after me. Standing directly in front of the air conditioner, I let its clean, impersonal air surround me like wind off a Canadian glacier. I could hear my father saying, "Let your wants hurt you a little." I knew he was right, but tonight it felt like my wants could fill a black hole in outer space.

  I fed Cavalier and gave him fresh water. Then I took a cold shower, relathering again and again, thinking, as Hemingway said, "There is no reason why because it is dark you should look at things differently from when it is light. The hell there isn't!"

  I dried off, refilled my Wild Turkey, then plunked naked into bed. The phone rang and rang again. I let the answer machine earn its keep and petted Cavvy until his purring drowned out the sound.

  TEN

  A cat has absolute emotional honesty: human beings, for one reason

  or another, may hide their feelings, but a cat does not.

  -ERNEST HEMINGWAY

  THE FEROCIOUS POUNDING IN my head wouldn't stop. I jolted out of a sound sleep, shaking away a fading dream. The pounding, I realized, was someone beating on my door.

  Cavalier had been rudely awakened too. While I slipped on a robe, he leapt out of bed to investigate the ruckus. My head hurt, and the spinning reminded me of that concussion. Or maybe I'd had one too many Wild Turkeys on an empty stomach. One or the other, as usual I was behind the curve.

  "What the hell's going on out there?" I demanded from my side of the double-locked door.

  "Are you DD McGil?" a deep, male voice asked.

  "Who wants to know?"

  "I work with Barry Harris. My name is Mitch Sinclair, and I need to see you right away. Let me in, will you? It's difficult talking to a door."

  "Got any ID?" I demanded, trying hard to focus. I wasn't inclined to open my door for anyone after what had happened at David's apartment, let alone for someone I didn't know.

  "What?" he sputtered.

  "You heard me. Slip your driver's license under the door."

  I could hear him mutter under his breath, but eventually one plastic coated corner of a license appeared on my side of the door. I reached for it, but Cavalier got there first. His quick paw batted it out of my fingers, and, not even pausing to sniff, he picked it up in his mouth and ran toward his favorite hidey-hole under the sofa.

  "Oh, noon," I yelled, chasing unsteadily after him.

  "What's going on in there? Miss McGil?"

  I fell to my knees, coaxing Cavvy to obey, cursing between clenched teeth when he didn't. Finally I screamed, "Give me that thing, you brat." Of course it was all to no avail. Whenever you think you're in charge, just try ordering a cat to do something. I reached wildly under the couch as a last resort, hoping to grab a handful of his fur.

  "What's happening in there?" The pounding on the door got louder. "I want my license back. Listen, it's hot out here. Let me in.

  Cavalier was the stubbornest cat in the universe. "Okay, you win this round Mister Cat," I hissed, giving up the hunt.

  I steadied myself and headed for the door. There was nothing I could do but let Mr. Mitch Sinclair in. I unlocked and wrenched open the door.

  The man who stood lounging against the opposite wall looked for all intents and purposes like the Prince Charming my mother was always saying will come for me one day. He was over six feet tall and had a handsome, intelligent face. His thick, light brown hair had wispy wings of white at the temples. He had a trim, muscular figure with just the right proportions to make the clothes he was wearing look good.

  Suddenly I was keenly aware that my hair was a mess and the rest of me probably looked like one of the lower life forms. My Aunt Elizabeth, the Scottish Dragon, is always telling me what to do and how to do it. She continually carps that I don't take advantage of my looks. I could hear her lecturing me for the thousandth time: "One day you'll regret it. You were lucky enough to get the Mason good looks, DD McGil. But what good does it do? You waste them, and that's a crying shame."

  Mitch Sinclair's deep brown eyes took a long look at me in my rumpled bathrobe. He stood up straight, shook his head, and walked past me into the apartment, saying, "You sure got a lot of locks on that door."

  I felt myself blush. "I'm security conscious," I said as I latched it behind us.

  "You're close to Wrigley Field. You a Cubs fan?"

  "Avid."

  "Me, too. Lifelong," he said convivially.

  A few years ago, Cosmopolitan did a study on what women look at first in a man. What I noticed from my vantage point was that he knew how to wear a pair of pants to his best advantage. He wore no jewelry except a discreet gold watch with a brown leather band, and I liked the look of his strong hands and wrists. He was cer tainly attractive, but I didn't want to think about that. David had just been murdered. Scotty was missing. I had enough grief to deal with for a long long time.

  "It's hot in here," he said, looking around. "These old buildings are great, but they definitely need central air."

  "So, you wanted to see me about something?" I asked, candidly, still studying the rest of his anatomy against my will.

  "First things first," he said, staring at my dishevelment. "Can I have my driver's license back?"

  "Oh, um, sure. Let's go sit down." I led him into the living room, admiring his broad shoulders and narrow waist, all the while wondering how the hell I was going to get his license out of the blasted cat's mouth.

  As if on queue, His Majesty's head appeared from under the sofa, the elusive driver's license clearly visible jutting out from his sharp front teeth.

  Mitch paused in front of one of my bookshelves. As he scanned titles, I plunked myself down on the sofa directly over the cat.

  "I see you're a history buff. You've got a lot of seventeenthcentury English. Interesting period. A person had to choose and be on one side or the other."

  Unless you were a traitor, I thought as I rummaged under the sofa with my right hand trying to grab the license from Cavvy. I had hopes Mitch Sinclair wouldn't notice.

  Too late. As soon as he sat down, the contrary cat emerged into plain view and then leapt onto the cushion beside Mitch and offered him the abused license. Even from my vantage point, Cavvy's tooth marks were clearly visible on it.

  Mitch took it, clenched his jaw and flipped it over, examining both sides. The silence between us stretched out long enough for Dr. Johnson to write his dictionary. Sighing heavily, he tucked the license securely back into his wallet.

  "Look, I'm sorry about my cat," I said. "We're not used to receiving visitors so late at night."

  At Mitch's perplexed glance, I checked the mantel clock. It was only eight-thirty p.m. Now I was totally embarrassed. "I thought it was after midnight." I sighed. "I've had one hell of a day."

  I noticed him eyeing the open box of Godiva chocolates on my coffee table. "Go ahead," I pointed at the box. "Indulge"

  "Thanks," he said, choosing a champagne truffle. "I haven't had a very good day myself. This'll be dinner."

  "Sometimes I have one for breakfast. My mother says she craved chocolate when she was pregnant with me, so I blame it on her. Want coffee?"

  I came back with two cups of instant Taster's Choice to find Cavalier nestled in Mitch's lap, purring like a racecar engine. Somehow he'd gotten Mitch to tickle him in a favorite spot. They say cats can read a person's essence. I took this as a sign of approval.

  "Thanks, this is good," Mitch said, sipping the coffee. "Anyway, I'm only here because of Barry. I don't like dropping in like this out of nowhere, but you might remember you promised to see him earlier today."

  "Oh no. You're right. I forgot all about it. Sorry." Desp
ite the awkward situation and despite my better judgment, I was having unclean thoughts about Mitch. He smelled good, and I wondered what he'd feel like, taste like.

  "Barry's convinced you're the only one who can handle this urgent job," he continued, bringing me back to reality. "He waited all day, but you never showed." "

  I already said I was sorry."

  "Forget about that. The important thing is to get this settled. I asked a few people about you today."

  Whoa. Wait a minute. Who did he think he was? That's my job. I'm the investigator.

  "I found out quite a lot."

  I hated when somebody knew more about me than I knew about them. Especially on the first date.

  (( " So?

  "So your reputation's good. In fact, very good. But you're a one-man operation. Or I should say one-woman operation." He smiled and cleared his throat.

  "All true, so far," I said, knowing I'd probably have done the same thing in his shoes.

  "Unfortunately, being local means you've never handled anything this big, so I can't understand why Barry thinks you're right for this job," he said bluntly.

  "I'd like you to call Barry right now and tell him you can't do anything for him. Once he realizes that, we can get on with the business of hiring somebody who can."

  I watched him finish the coffee and set down the cup.

  "Excuse me? Let me get this straight. You came to see me because you want me to call Barry and tell him I can't take the job?"

  "Don't think of yourself here. Think of Barry. No offense. As I said, I hear you're good. But I don't believe you're capable of doing this job, Ms. McGil, and there's no telling how long it's going to take for him to realize you won't be able to come through."

  "So you've already decided I can't perform?"

  "I'm sorry, Miss McGil. I'm not trying to insult you. Be realistic. It's just that highly sensitive technology is involved here. Technology far beyond your ken. And because of national security, the Feds have been hot on Barry's tail since the encryption technology started turning up in the international banking market. They're accusing him of being dishonest and illegally dumping the software for big bucks. You can see we can't afford to wait. I want to get the top guys at Gilcrest and Stratton on board immediately to clear this thing up. They have a track record and they know what they're doing."