A Cadgers Curse Read online

  As I opened the door, Cavalier approached, meowing loudly. Mother, Auntie, Glendy and Lucille quickly surrounded me, all talking at once. The words "armed robbery" and "Santa Claus" rang clearly through the clatter.

  I shut the door and dumped my briefcase. "Hold on. One at a time."

  "I was robbed," Auntie asserted.

  Glendy chimed in, "I've never seen Santa wear sunglasses."

  "I've never seen Santa pack a revolver," added Lucille.

  "The cop who came said they were short-handed because of Christmas, so all he could do was file the report," Mother complained. "What kind of investigation is that?"

  "Stop. One story at a time." I pointed. "Mother, you first. From the beginning."

  "Let's see" She put her hands on her hips and looked at the ceiling. "After you left, we had cocktails. Then your Uncle Charles called, and we played another six or seven hands, and then the doorbell rang and..."

  "We played eight hands," Auntie interjected. "You won the first two, Glendy and Lucille each won one, and I won the last four." She smiled broadly.

  Glendy and Lucille both nodded and said in tandem, "Lizzy's right." Like Mother, they were in awe of Auntie's card playing prowess despite her aversion to the Nine of Diamonds.

  "Fine. Eight." I waved my hands in frustration. "Who rang the bell?"

  "Santa Claus," Mother said.

  "Your mother opened the door," Aunt Elizabeth pounced accusingly.

  "I thought it might be the carolers. They've come the last three Christmases," Mother defended herself.

  "This Santa wore sunglasses. And his beard was definitely false," Lucille observed.

  "And he was carrying an anti-personnel weapon," Glendy added.

  "A revolver," Lucille clarified. "Definitely a revolver."

  I noticed the two poinsettia plants that flanked Mother's front door were overturned, and dirt had spilled onto the carpet. I quickly cased the rest of the room for other damage, but none was apparent.

  "Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. A Santa with a gun got in the house? Are you all okay?" I was suddenly chilled at the thought of what could have happened to them.

  "We're okay, but I told you I was robbed," Auntie insisted, throwing her hands in the air.

  "Did you call the cops?" I asked.

  "First we tried to call you," Glendy said.

  "You said you'd be at your office, but when we phoned, there was no answer," Lucille added accusingly.

  Of course. I'd unplugged the phone because of the damn hangup calls. I didn't want them to know about that.

  "Where were you, DD?" Auntie demanded.

  "I was there, but the phone wasn't working. I'll explain later. What did the police say?"

  "That daft policeman who came was all higgledy-piggledy," Auntie said.

  Whenever La Dragon invokes a reduplicated compound, a good auld story is sure to follow. I perceived I wasn't going to be disappointed as Auntie opened a new bottle of Glenlivet and poured out a wee bit for each of us. On this occasion, I approved and took a small swallow to steady my nerves.

  "He said the whole horrible event was a joke. He dinna take us seriously," Auntie reported.

  I imagined the cop confronting these four. I sighed, bit my lip, and commiserated with the cop.

  "He kept insisting we probably knew this Santa," Glendy said.

  Lucille added, "He told us the gun was probably rubber. But we know it wasn't."

  Auntie pursed her lips together into what I call her Dragon pout. "He said he'd file a whatyamacallit report at once, but t'would be a few days afore they could follow up on it."

  "So Phil was right" I took another tiny sip of the Glenlivet. It traversed from my throat to my toes in a burst of liquid heat, giving me the courage to add, "Somebody definitely noticed your jewelry Auntie and followed you from the airport, just like he said."

  "Santa followed you from the airport, Lizzy?" Glendy asked.

  "Don't be daft," Auntie protested. "Anyway, Santa didn't get away with any of my jewelry."

  "What did he take?"

  "Only the big red leather box with the Ormolu casket. When I explained the box and the casket were both empty, that daft policeman laughed. He said that definitely convinced him our socalled `robbery' was a hoax"

  "You mean nothing else was taken? No diamonds?"

  "Hummph," Auntie snorted. "That policeman doesn't seem to realize those boxes alone are worth a boodle of money, not to mention their sentimental value."

  "No diamonds are gone," Mother confirmed. "Everything's accounted for."

  "You should have seen Cavalier." Lucille petted him on the head. "He was so brave."

  "Heroic," Auntie pronounced, petting him fondly.

  "He chased Santa out the door," Glendy explained, smiling at Cavvy.

  "He really was wonderful." Mother offered him a cat treat, fussing over him. "He meowed and darted between Santa's legs, tripping him. I was afraid Santa would shoot him."

  "But Cav slipped under the sofa before Santa had a chance." Glendy chuckled and proffered another treat that Cavvy snatched quicker than I could blink.

  "That's why Santa left without cleaning out the place," Auntie explained.

  "What did Santa say when you let him in?"

  "I can't think," Mother said.

  "Hmm," Auntie mused.

  "I can't remember. Can you Lucille?" Glendy asked.

  Lucille, eyes heavenward, inhaled deeply. "I don't think he said anything. Just kept waving that dang gun in our faces, herding us together like sheep into the closet."

  I faced Auntie. "You realize what this means, don't you? This was no run of the mill robbery. Santa was after one particular thing."

  "The you-know-what that 'twas in the box," Auntie whispered.

  "What's the you-know-what?"' Lucille braced Auntie, demanding an answer.

  "Face it, Auntie," I said. "Somebody knows you have the youknow-what. And that somebody wants it."

  SEVENTEEN

  SATURDAY MORNING DAWNED CRISP and cloudy, a perfect day to curl up in front of a roaring fire and read a good book. For me however, it wasn't going to be a perfect day. I was juggling two jobs, both of which were causing me trouble. In the kind of work I do, a reasonable amount of trouble is routine. But nothing I was involved in today seemed reasonable or routine.

  I squeezed two oranges for a dose of the real thing, fed Cav, and praised him again for being an Uber Cat last night. I quickly perused the Trib's crossword. The theme was "famous quotations," and it looked inviting, but I didn't have the time to work on it today. I needed to get to the office and make phone calls, and confirm or deny a bunch of stuff about the trainees.

  Despite all the demolitions activity going on at Consolidated, the elevator still worked, and I still had electric. As soon as I unlocked my office door, I cleaned and plugged in trusty Mr. Coffee, then began calling. People generally offer you heaps of information over the telephone if you don't treat them like dirt. But it was Saturday and still part of the holiday weekend, so I didn't have much luck connecting with anybody live. I left a dozen messages, then pulled up PeopleFinders. They search over two billion records and cull all the information, so they're not only faster and cheaper than hiring a gaggle of operatives, they're also more likely to dig the dirt. Next I referred to the list I'd compiled yesterday of families, friends, and colleagues of my subjects. The list included everybody I wanted to see one-on-one, including, of course, my subjects themselves in their native habitat. Nothing tells more about a person than where he chooses to lay his head down at night. And because I'm nosy, checking out the environs is always my favorite part of a comprehensive.

  I phoned Tom Joyce, not sure if he'd be at his bookstore today either. Tom is Chicago's antiquarian books guru. In addition to all his appraisals, he makes regular appearances on TV, and he puts in two days a week at the Chicago Rare Book Center. His professional credentials stretch from Lake Forest to Forest Park. He's also a long-standing member of Hugo's
Companions Chicago, a group of Sherlock Holmes aficionados, all of which means he's good at thinking on his feet. I knew I could count on his curiosity to help me in this Robert Burns affair.

  "Happy Holidays," I said cheerily when he answered on the first ring. He must have finished the job at the library yesterday.

  "Good Yule, DD. I've got the wassail bowl here. Why don't you come on over.

  "Are you kidding? I barely made it home last year after one teeny glass of that brew."

  "Don't knock it," he laughed. "It took the Vikings across the waters."

  "And it's your mother's own recipe. I know. You told me all that last year."

  "How's your job going at HI-Data?"

  "Interesting so far. You were right on two counts. One, there's definitely `something big' going on; and two, scientific espionage is alive and well there. One of the trainees I was supposed to vet bailed out. He's on the run. The company suspects he was a spy, but nobody knows what he found out."

  "Where's the Christmas spirit in today's business world?"

  "I'm hoping you have more than your share because today I need another favor."

  "What else is new?"

  "How long you gonna be there?"

  "'Til seven. But I can't promise to be sober."

  "Give it a try. I have something you'll want to see."

  "What? Don't play evil games with my curiosity."

  "It'll give you something to look forward to. I'll be there before seven. Cheers!"

  After hanging up, I fished in my briefcase for the copy of the police complaint Mother and Auntie had filed last night on the home invasion burglary. I found the phone number listed and got connected with the female officer on duty. She rustled papers and put me on hold several times before she located the report. They were, she said, short-handed at the station because of the extended holiday and wouldn't be able to follow up on the report until January 4.

  "That's next year," I protested. "No way. This was an armed robbery."

  "According to this report," she replied curtly, "nothing was taken except two empty boxes. This does not constitute an emergency, Miss McPill." She hung up before I could argue the point further or correct her.

  I printed out the reports from PeopleFinders and set up the computer to phone a few more of the larger data banks and query them about my subjects. As long as there was still electricity, this part of the job was easy. And if my phone was kept busy dialing out for the rest of the day, it might discourage whoever was the nuisance caller. I added the names of George Murray and Jack McSweeney, the partners in Auntie's law firm of Murray and McSweeney, to the list of subjects to be queried. Auntie might be "full o' certainty" that her main squeeze was on the up and up, but I was not.

  I hadn't had any lunch, but it was almost two o'clock and I didn't want to be late for my meeting with Lt. Fernandez. I unearthed some Fig Newtons from a desk drawer, tucked them into my purse, grabbed the file box of HI-Data index cards and hurried out.

  Today was windy as well as cold, and that first breath of frigid air was painful. A sign was posted across the street warning pedestrians to watch for falling ice. I glanced up, thinking of the incident a few years earlier when a passer-by had been killed by icicles falling from a high rise. Statistically speaking, that made me real nervous. In the spirit of caution, I opened the Miata's hood and checked her innards, then squatted down to peer at her undercarriage. After what had happened with my brakes, I was nervous every time I turned the key.

  Chicago Police Headquarters was at 3510 South Michigan. There was bulletproof glass in its main door, and inside was a gauntlet of cameras, biometric scanners and monitors. This place had a lot more security than HI-Data-the benefit of having unlimited taxpayer funds. The only evidence of the Christmas season was a pair of shabby poinsettia plants on either side of the main door.

  Cameras on the ceiling caught every angle as I slid a paper with my request to see Lt. Fernandez into a glass tray and spoke via microphone to a clerk sitting behind more bulletproof glass. She asked if I had any weapons. I told her no. She paged Lt. Fernandez, then told me to step aside.

  In the waiting area, the only place to sit was on a cement bench. The decor was strictly utile, not even a hint of ambiance. There were doors for men's and women's restrooms. On both sides of the corridor were secure window banks with bulletproof Lexan. The two doors on each end were black metal with peepholes. Alongside each door was an X-ray machine. The doors were kept locked, and the clerk had to buzz you in. Fire sprinklers were everywhere and drains were visible around the floor. I suspected they could bring in a big hose and in a couple of minutes get rid of any blood or bodily fluid.

  A side door opened and a vigorous man in plainclothes walked briskly up to me and made eye contact.

  "DD McGil?"

  "Lt. Fernandez? How'd you know it was me?"

  "Here" He handed me a plastic identification card with today's date on it and a full color photo of me. It must have been taken by one of the cameras on the ceiling when I spoke to the clerk. I was impressed.

  He grinned and said, "Clip this to your coat. We have to go through x-ray. Homeland Security paid for all this, but really I don't feel a hell of lot safer than the old days when anyone could just walk in.

  "Really? Why?"

  "Because half the cops are nutcases running around with guns," he whispered with a smile.

  Fernandez was six one or six two, with dark hair, a tan complexion and a five o'clock shadow. He was wearing a light yellow golf shirt, tightly creased tan pants, and a .40 caliber Glock riding high on his right hip. The pants and shirt were kinda tight, forcing me to observe that he was all muscle. He wore his identification clipped on the point of his collar.

  I dropped my purse onto the x-ray's conveyer belt and handed him the paper bag containing the Coke can with Olson's fingerprints.

  He pointed at the conveyer belt. "Put it down there behind your purse and go through the magnetometer"

  I did so without incident and when I was through, Fernandez laid his gun and car keys on the belt and followed suit.

  When we got through the security door, the other end of the conveyer belt wasn't visible. There was a spring door that opened only if the examiner felt that everything passed muster.

  While we waited, he looked me over and said, "Phil says you're all right."

  "He said that about you, too"

  "We were on a few cases together. He was good to do business with. How'd you meet him?"

  "It's a long story," I said. "Maybe I'll know you well enough to tell you some day."

  The door sprung open loudly, and we gathered up our stuff. He took the paper bag.

  "We're going straight to the lab," he said. "I told them to expect us.

  We went down a long series of corridors. I admitted I was completely disoriented.

  "Haven't you been in this new HQ before?" he asked.

  "No. This is the first time. I remember the old headquarters at 11th and State. This place is so much bigger."

  "Yep. It's three hundred thousand square feet of bureaucratic heaven." He waved his arms expansively. "They built it like a minifortress with all the comforts of home. We've got a running track and sauna on three north that rivals any downtown health club. No expense spared. Here's the lab. You'll see what I mean."

  The lab was very Christmasy. Lights in the shape of Santas were strung along one wall, and there was a cute tree with flickering white lights flanked by two Frosty the Snowmen.

  A friendly lab tech whom Fernandez greeted as Genevieve took the paper bag from him and said she'd lift the prints herself. I handed her a paper with all the information on John Olson from HI-Data, including his social security number.

  We wished her good luck and trekked to Fernandez' office. On the way, he explained that he'd fallen out of grace with the brass at HQ, and that's why he was in Cold Case. "It's akin to putting me in the basement. If I was a patrolman, they'd have assigned me somewhere out on Cottage Grove to wri
te parking tickets. But I'm not bitter. I actually like this job. I have access to everything, everybody, every lab, every file, every jot and tittle with this job. And knowledge is power, as someone once said."

  "Sounds like they don't know they've unleashed a monster," I said, and wondered what he'd done and who he'd pissed off.

  On a wall in his office was a map of all the reported crimes in different neighborhoods. Fernandez showed me the little icons they use to categorize the crimes.

  "See those little fists wearing brass knuckles? That's for simple assaults."

  I looked closely and asked him about all the XXXs on the map.

  "Oh, that's for crimes of prostitution. And see the little Zorro masks? They're for larceny."

  In response to some of his questions, I told him about Insurance Investigations 101, but I could see he already knew it all. He related an incident back when he was doing traffic where he told the driver that his answer to one question would determine whether or not he was drunk.

  "And the questions was?" I asked.

  "Whether Mickey Mouse was a cat or a dog."

  We were laughing when his phone rang. He picked it up at once, nodded, and gave me a thumbs up.

  "She's got something," he said, hanging up the phone. "She's shooting the files up here right away."

  "Great" I was again impressed at all the high tech in this place.

  He put his elbows on the desk and cupped his face in his hands. "If we go on a date," he said, "we'd have to talk about something other than crime. Think you could do that?"

  "A date? We're going on a date?"

  "Well, you have to at least buy me lunch for running these prints for you."

  "Technically, Genevieve down in the lab is running the prints. And isn't that a wedding ring you're wearing?"

  "Oh, yeah, but we're separated."

  "Oh, yeah, like every cop in the department is separated."

  "No. I really am."

  There was a rap on his door, it opened, and a uniformed cop dropped two folders on his desk without a word.

  "Thanks, Harvey." Fernandez opened them and started reading.

  After a moment he closed both folders and looked across the desk at me. "This is interesting, Miss McGil. She sent up two folders. The name and the prints don't match up."