On the way out, Arthur had to use the restroom. Prep school boys’ rooms also had not changed in forty years, except for the amount of graffiti on the walls of the stall. The school had apparently given up removing it, either because it came back too quickly to bother or because the touchy-feely educators these days viewed graffiti removal as stifling free expression.
The content of the graffiti had changed, too. Crude, obscene, sexist, racist, it made the dirty little poems Arthur remembered, the ones that started, “Here I sit . . .” seem quaint. Much was directed at specific people, who Arthur assumed were classmates of the authors.
Flatsy Patsy Wallace needs falsies to break even.
Sue Krenske’s ass is phat.
Didn’t they teach spelling anymore?
Brittany U. gave me a lewinsky.
After a few minutes, Arthur stopped being appalled and started being amused by the rough wit of some of the entries. Then his eyes fell on one above the tissue dispenser.
Amy Winslow bangs like a screen door in a tornado.
Arthur frantically tried to remove the ugly remark with a saliva-coated index finger, rubbing furiously, but he only succeeded in fading it slightly. His worries about Amy’s drug use, whether she graduated on time and her admission to college, were all swept aside by a wave of shock, shame, anger and confusion. By the time he got to his car, he was sweaty and shaking. As he inserted the key into the ignition of his Lexus, Amy spoke for the first time since Arthur had arrived to pick her up.
“They needed a search warrant for the house. Why don’t they need one for my locker? We should get that hunky lawyer of yours to sue this school for everything it’s worth.”
Who was this person sitting next to him? Did he know anything about her at all?
“I TALKED TO the nurse who came on duty before Bonnie Bach,” said Anne Delaney. “She remembers a messenger bringing a package for Lorraine early in the afternoon.”
Karen rotated her chair to face the desk and pulled the cap off a ballpoint pen with her teeth. “Did she remember the name of the messenger service?”
“No, but she remembered the messenger had a uniform with a picture on the shirt. I got out the yellow pages but she didn’t recognize any of the logos in the ads. I called all of the services without ads and had them fax me their logos. She thinks the logo for Mercury Messenger Service is the one she saw on the guy’s shirt.”
“Annie, you are good.” Karen wound a tress of hair around her forefinger contemplatively. Damn! More gray strands than a week earlier—break out the Clairol! “Next step is to call Mercury Messenger Service and ask if they have a record of a delivery to Shoreview Memorial on June 16.”
“They have twelve locations in northeastern Illinois.”
“If you find the right place, I’d like to interview whoever took the order, in person. Put a rush on this. I’d like to get there before the cops do.”
“Might be too late for that,” said Anne. “I called housekeeping to see if we could recover the empty candy box. On Sunday, the police took the contents of the wastebasket and practically everything else in the room that wasn’t nailed down. There was probably something in there with the name of the messenger service.”
After talking to Anne, Karen got herself a cup of decaf and opened her window. The screens were so clogged with cotton-wood fibers she could barely see out. It was an overcast day, and the breeze carried a threat of rain that gave Karen gooseflesh.
The police had cleaned the place out. What might they have?
She called Lopopolo, but he was not in. It was unlikely he would tell her much while the investigation was on, anyway. Then Karen called Lorraine Winslow’s night nurse, Bonnie Bach. She answered on the ninth ring.
“I’m sorry to bother you again. I just have a couple more questions.”
“Uh-huh.”
Karen sensed she was wearing out her welcome. “You remember Mrs. Winslow’s box of Lady Coventry chocolate.”
“I’ll never forget it.”
“Did you happen to notice if there was a card with it?”
“Yes, there was.”
“Do you remember anything about the card?”
“No. It was very plain. I just remember what it said.”
Karen felt her stomach tighten. “What did it say?”
“‘All my love, Arthur.’ It was typed. Love was spelled L-U-V.”
Karen thanked Bonnie and hung up. It had started to rain, so Karen closed the window. Two notions passed through her mind. One was that if the police had that card, it looked very bad for Arthur. The other was that she didn’t see Arthur as the kind of guy who would spell love “L-U-V.”
DUANE BLLLICK PUT down the phone and picked up a container of Vicodin. He downed one without water and worked on his mustache with his tongue. Then he opened a bottle of beer and sat down. This was not going according to plan. His new lawyer, Gary Wickwire, was crooked enough to handle the case, but did he have the balls? Duane had been there before; he could tell when a lawyer was lowering expectations about a settlement. “Think in terms of five figures, not six,” Wickwire had said. Rat fuck. Duane had been thinking seven.
Still, ninety grand wouldn’t be a total disaster. He’d be goddamned if he would take much less. “You have a few weaknesses in your case,” the weasel Wickwire had said. So what? They also had Shari. Everyone would believe Winslow harassed her. Just look at her. Who wouldn’t harass her? Winslow was in the hot seat.
Duane called the hospital. When Shari was at the reception desk, he could always get her right away. Now she had to be paged. She finally got on the line, and Duane told her about the reason for Wickwire’s call.
“A deposition?” said Shari. “I thought you said the claim would be settled without even filing a lawsuit.”
“Wickwire still thinks it will be. He says the whole value of the case is keeping it quiet. But he tells me sometimes they take depositions before a case is filed. It’s a new one on me.”
“I can’t do it. I can’t sit there and say Arthur Winslow demoted me because I stopped having sex with him.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not true.”
“So?”
“He’s going through a terrible time.”
Duane’s temper flared. “What the fuck do you care?”
“Duane, his wife just died.”
“Yeah, I know about that.” Duane paused to finish his beer. His wife was a softy. “Okay sweets, relax. It’s not till next week, I’ll get you ready. And remember . . .”
“What?”
“It’s just a game.”
LORRAINE WLNSLOW’S FUNERAL was not the saddest Karen had ever attended, but it was by far the most impressive. It was held at St. John’s Episcopal Church in Evanston, near the home of Lorraine’s father. No church in Jefferson could have accommodated it. The nave was hung with crepe, and floral arrangements filled the altar and apse, spilling over into the transept. A large contingent of Arthur’s business acquaintances was present, but it was dwarfed by that of Lorraine’s father, Harold Fairfax. It seemed that anyone who was anyone, had been anyone or hoped to be anyone in the Chicago business and financial community had come to pay his respects to the plumbing fixture magnate.
“The guy on the aisle in the fourth row looks familiar,” whispered Jake.
“That’s the lieutenant governor,” replied Karen. “The guy on his left is a congressman. I heard the president of the United States has an envoy here. Because of Lorraine’s father.”
“Sacré bleu. What does the cat do?”
“He makes toilets.”
Jake smiled and said, “God bless America.”
Everyone except the organist went silent when Harold Fairfax was ushered to his place in the front pew. He was a tiny man, wrinkled and frail, with a white mustache that was barely visible against his pale skin. He walked shakily with the aid of a cane. Two men in black suits helped him into his seat.
The service was interminably long
, as was the procession to the cemetery. Lorraine was to be buried in the Fairfax family plot at Rosehill, not the Winslow plot in Jefferson. If Arthur wished someday to lie beside his wife, he would have to jump ship. A dozen black limousines followed the hearse. Karen made Jake wait for all the high-end cars to leave the church parking lot before they got in line with their rust-bedecked Volvo.
The long line of cars, headlamps lit, crawled through city streets, progressed past stately colonial revival homes and descended to a thoroughfare along the shore of Lake Michigan. On a sunny day in the summer the lake could be as blue as the Caribbean, but today it was a hostile gunmetal gray that stretched to the horizon. Karen gazed impassively at the slatey surface of the lake.
“Want to stop and take a dip?” said Jake.
“Uh-uh,” said Karen.
“What’s the scoop, sweetheart? You look as gloomy as the lake.”
“This death thing sucks.”
“Yeah, but if we lived forever, eventually it would get boring.”
“It doesn’t have to be so damn short not to be boring.”
“‘When the moment of death dawns on me, I will abandon all grasping and enter it undisturbed.’”
“That’s some of your Buddhist stuff, isn’t it?”
“Padna Sambhara. Are you thinking about your dad?”
“Uh-huh.”
Jake reached over and took Karen’s hand. They drove in silence for several minutes, then Karen changed the subject.
“I’m worried about Arthur, too. He doesn’t look well. Between Lorraine’s funeral and the cops investigating him and Shari Billick’s harassment claim, I don’t know how he’s holding it together.”
“Harassment claim?” said Jake. “When I saw Arthur and Shari at the Caledonia Club, it didn’t look like she was being harassed. She was flirting like it was an Olympic event and she was going for the gold.”
“She was going for the gold, all right. I hope I don’t have to call you as a witness.”
“You’re stewing about how you’re going to defend him?”
“Starting Monday, Arthur is my client.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
Karen gave Jake a halfhearted smile. Sweet of him to offer, but what could Jake do to help with a criminal defense and a sexual harassment claim?
“I’ve got a gig with the Jimmies tonight,” he said. “They both know Shari Billick. Maybe they know something that would help Arthur.”
A break in the clouds allowed a sunbeam to squeeze through the overcast, and Karen watched a small circle of azure open up on the lake.
AT LORRAINE’S GRAVESITE, the crowd divided into the wealthy, prominent and ambitious clustered around Harold Fairfax, and everybody else. The Fairfax contingent was further segregated into concentric semicircles, with the wealthiest and most prominent in closest proximity to Harold himself. It remained cloudy, and every time thunder rumbled in the distance or a few raindrops fell, umbrellas sprouted like black mushrooms over the inner circle.
The graveside ceremony was protracted, and eventually Jake wandered off to read epitaphs. The minister from St. John’s Episcopal Church omitted no ritual; he even had family members step forward to drop handfuls of soil onto the casket in the open grave. When Arthur stepped forward to take his turn, Karen was shocked at his ashen appearance. He held his hand out and pitched forward onto his knees. Karen initially thought it was a showy display of sentiment or religious fervor. But then a woman in front shrieked and Karen realized Arthur was fainting. If Amy had not jumped out and grabbed the collar of his suit, Arthur would have fallen face first into the grave.
After that, the minister wrapped things up quickly. Arthur kept insisting he was fine, obviously embarrassed. Nevertheless, Dr. Jeffrey Treacher, Lorraine’s neurologist, had Arthur sit on a bench while he checked his pulse and gave him a cursory examination.
Karen and Jake, along with several dozen of Arthur’s acquaintances and relatives, including all of the Fairfaxes, were invited to lunch at Arthur’s after the funeral. Dr. Treacher insisted that Arthur be taken to Shoreview Memorial for an EKG, “just as a precaution.” Arthur promised to join his guests later.
The foyer of Arthur’s lakefront mansion was packed. White-jacketed waiters served heavy hors d’oeuvres and cocktails. Amy mingled with the assembled Fairfaxes and Winslows, showing a lot of vitality, considering the occasion. Harold Fairfax was conspicuously absent.
Karen listened while Matthew Stoker and Jake engaged in a lively discussion of jazz musicians. Matt was more knowledgeable than Karen expected.
“You got any Rahsaan Roland Kirk?” asked Jake.
“Only every album he ever recorded,” said Matt.
“Even Blacknuss?”
“That’s my favorite.”
“You know, he plays the manzello on that one. He recorded that after his stroke.”
“Yeah, he’s amazing. And . . . just a second.” Matt stood on his toes and looked over the heads of the guests toward the front door. Karen, surrounded by people taller than she, could not see anything but bodies. Matt motioned for her to follow him.
Detective Lopopolo was at the front door, looking rumpled and tired. He was accompanied by two uniformed policemen, who looked neat and alert. When Lopopolo saw Matt Stoker, he grinned.
“Where you got Winslow stashed?”
“He’s not here, Detective,” said Matt. “His wife’s funeral was today, and he’s indisposed. What do you want?”
Lopopolo probed the inside of his cheek with the stem of his glasses. “I want you to bring him in to the station house as soon as he’s. . . disposed.”
“What for?”
“For a chitchat. I’ve got a couple of things I want to tell him.” Lopopolo gave his troops a “let’s go” gesture with his head and walked away.
“What do you suppose he wants to tell Arthur?” said Karen.
Matt rubbed the side of his forefinger thoughtfully across his chin, as if bowing a violin. “Oh, probably, ‘you have the right to remain silent. . .’”
CHAPTER
17
Most Saturday nights in the summer Jake performed with a five-piece band named Code Blue at an upscale nightclub in the Loop. On the day of Lorraine Winslow’s funeral, a major bluesfest happened to be under way at Grant Park. The club owner knew better than to compete with the festival, so Jake agreed to play with his trio in Jefferson at the Caledonia Club, getting weeknight money. If Code Blue’s booking agent had not gotten into a shouting match with the bluesfest operator, Jake would have been at Grant Park instead, making festival money.
Worse than the money at the Caledonia Club was the crowd, since all the real blues fans were at the festival. Jake surveyed the baggy pants and high-tops on the youth at the bar and anticipated a night of requests for Stevie Ray Vaughan or, worse yet, Kenny Wayne Shepherd.
Hoping to squeeze some material the band enjoyed playing into the first set, before the alcohol-fueled requests started, Jake and the two Jimmies ran through a Willie Dixon medley, followed by a blues version of “Take Five” in which Jake played a solo that moved through twelve keys. When he finished, Jimmy the bass player laughed heartily and bowed at the waist to Jake.
“Man, that last turnaround you blew was as slick as cum on a gold tooth.” High praise from the bass man. Jake felt obliged to return the compliment.
“You stayed with me through those key changes like a Siamese twin. Let’s break.”
The band played its standard prebreak number and shrugged off the lack of applause. Jake and the Jimmies picked up their complimentary drinks at the bar and sat down at a booth. The jukebox kicked in, playing a Destiny’s Child song. Jake wondered if the bartender was checking proof of age.
“You guys said you both know Shari Billick,” said Jake. “What do you know about her?”
Jimmy the drummer shook his finger at Jake. “You a married man, brother.”
“Yeah, yeah. Seriously.”
“I used to do so
me business with her husband, Duane,” said Jimmy the bass man. Jake knew he meant drug business. “Heinous dude, but he always paid cash. His wife is as sweet as she looks. Duane don’t deserve her.”
“No wonder she steppin’ out on him,” said the drummer.
“Steppin’ out?” said Jake. “All we saw her do was have a couple drinks with . . . some guy.”
The Jimmies looked at each other. “Oh, that ain’t all,” said the drummer.
“Spill,” said Jake.
The bass player leaned forward with his elbows on the table. He reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke. “That night, during the break after the first set, Jimmy and I had a band meeting.” Band meeting was a euphemism for smoking dope in the van. “We see Shari Billick come out of the club . . .”
“Lookin’ fine . . .”
“. . . and she gets in a Durango and pulls out of the lot. We’re just sittin’ there, passin’ a jay, watchin’ her through the windshield. Then that suit she was with comes out and gets in a Lexus.”
“He look like he’s in a big hurry, heh-heh.”
“The Durango goes a block and pulls into the Sleepy Time Motel About ten minutes later, the Lexus shows up and parks next to her.”
“One and one makes two,” said Jimmy the drummer.
Whether it was the high ambient temperature of the air that night or the low median age of the audience, the club reached third-set rowdiness during the second set. A tipsy, scantily clad blonde who insisted on singing a number with the band did a Janis Joplin impression that was creditable until she went up on the lyrics. Somebody knocked a table full of drinks onto the dance floor. Jimmy the drummer got the evil eye from a redneck in a motorcycle jacket. Jake wondered how they’d get through the third set with this crowd. Unlike some of the blue-collar taverns the band played, the Caledonia Club had no bouncers worthy of the title. When the second break rolled around, he decided to get some air.
He wandered up the road to the Sleepy Time Motel, a ten-unit relic from the days before Motel 6 and Super 8. It had a gravel parking lot and a neon “vacancy” sign that buzzed like a cicada. The office, which was attached to a living quarters, had a turquoise Formica counter with a cash register, a ballpoint pen and a stack of brochures on it. Jake looked around for a computer screen and determined that the Sleepy Time had not yet modernized registration. He cogitated for a moment, then picked up the ballpoint pen and a brochure. Holding the brochure above his head, he scribbled until the ballpoint dried out. Then he pressed a button on the counter to signal the desk clerk.
Lawyered to Death Page 14