I went upstairs to change. But as I hung up my suit, safe in the confines of my home, I started to second-guess myself. I could have misinterpreted the situation. What if the wire wasn’t Dale’s? Perhaps it had been left by the former occupant of her office. She hadn’t been in the country that long. Maybe her predecessor had an affinity for shortwave or ham radio, and when Dale inherited the office, she never got around to removing it.
For all I knew, moreover, Dale’s behavior today could have been job related. God knows she was in a high-stress environment. Maybe she was in political trouble. It had been known to happen. Zealous female outstrips boss. But if said boss is a member of the old boys’ network, guess who gets the shaft?
I put on jeans and a turtleneck and went outside to rake leaves. Fouad hadn’t been around for a while, and a thick layer of them covered the grass. They were wet and heavy and speckled with black rot. It felt like moving rocks. I cleared a section of lawn then bagged the debris and dragged the bag into the garage. I’d been working less than half an hour, but I’d worked up a sweat, and my hands tingled. I went back inside. I’d mulch the bulbs later.
Back in the kitchen, Rachel threw open the fridge. Grabbing a can of pop, she snapped off the top and swilled down half the can in one gulp. Then she let out a long, resonant burp.
“Lovely.” A wave of cold air drifted over me. I closed the refrigerator door.
“Ummm.” She took another swig. “By the way,” she said on her way out, “he called while you were outside.”
“Nick?”
She shot me a curious glance. “No. David.”
“Oh.”
She stomped up the stairs.
***
I called David back after dinner, but he didn’t pick up. I left a message, then channel surfed for a while. The late news was full of the terrorist’s trial. Acting as his own attorney, he was raging about the injustice of the American legal system. I turned off the TV.
After checking my e-mail, I started to clean up my desk. I’m fairly casual about housework; with a teenage daughter, you have to be. The only exception is when I feel life slipping out of control. Then I charge through the house like an army of cleaning ladies, straightening, dusting, and scrubbing, as if the imposition of physical order might magically extend to my mind.
I pitched scraps of paper, rubber bands, and candy wrappers into the trash. Then I took everything off the desk and wiped the surface. As I was moving a couple of paperbacks, I noticed a corner of yellow paper inside one. I slid it out of the book. It was the sheet of paper from Dale Reedy’s legal pad. With the imprint of the Four Seasons’ phone number. And Abdul’s suite.
Was there a connection between them? It was possible. Except that a few weeks ago he said he’d never heard of Dale Reedy. Didn’t even know she was a woman. An uneasy sensation hummed my skin.
Chapter Thirty-three
When Dad has to walk any distance, he uses a cane that once belonged to his grandfather. Made of dark, polished oak, it has a knobbed silver handle that resembles a crown. It’s a work of art, with delicate engraved motifs and carvings. He was rubbing it as we parked outside Irv’s clothing store for men.
“We’ll just run in, find a wool overcoat, and come out,” he said impatiently.
“Okay.” I got out and took his arm. “But you might want to consider a down jacket.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Dad, it’s a new century. They have different materials. They’re really comfy. And warm.”
“What’s wrong with a nice, double-breasted camel’s hair?”
“Not a thing. I’m just saying you could try something new.”
He sniffed as we pushed through the door. Irv’s is one of those no-nonsense places that sells menswear at a discount.
“So, how’s Sylvia?”
He thumped his cane on the parquet floor. “Lovely lady, that Sylvia. Makes a mean batch of chicken soup.”
“We’ve moved up to soup, have we?”
“She made Shabbos dinner last week. Brisket just like Barney Teitelman’s mother used to make with lots of onions and gravy.”
I smiled. “Anything else going on you want to tell me?”
“If there is, you won’t hear it from me.”
We moved down aisles filled with men’s clothing. To me all those suits, jackets and slacks are drab—too many pinstripes, grays, and browns—but I soldiered on. A salesman hovered at a discreet distance.
Coats were in the back. I thumbed through a rack and held out a dark green down coat with a zippered lining and hood. “How about something like this?”
He looked over from the rack he was browsing. “What am I, an explorer in the tundra?”
He turned around and pulled out a long brown wool with a reddish orange fleck weave. “How about this?”
“It looks like it was made in the Forties.”
“Exactly.” He took out the hanger, slipped on the coat, and moved to a full-length mirror.“So what’s going on with David?”
I cleared my throat. “Thank you for rescuing me the other day in the car.”
He gazed at me in the glass and buttoned the coat. “You’re having tsuris?”
“We—we have some things to work out.”
“You should work them out quickly. You never know how much time you’re gonna have.”
“Dad, don’t be maudlin.”
“Just being realistic.” He pirouetted in the mirror, then unbuttoned the coat and shrugged out of it. “Okay, let’s see that Alaskan snowsuit.”
I held out the down coat. He tried it on, checked himself out in the mirror, and arched his eyebrows. “Is that why you look like somebody shot your best friend?”
“That’s part of it.”
“What’s the other part?”
I told him about Rachel’s bout with sloe gin.
At first Dad looked concerned. Then his face smoothed out to a knowing look, and, by the time I finished, he was chuckling. “Sloe gin, huh? Reminds me of the time I was fifteen. Barney and I found a bottle of hooch behind the bar at Teitelman’s. Figured it was left over from Prohibition. So we drank it. Boy, were we sorry.”
“But Dad, she’s only thirteen. Two years is a big difference.”
“If she had anywhere near as bad a hangover as I did, she learned an important lesson.”
“Are you’re saying I shouldn’t worry?”
“Tell me something. What were you doing at thirteen, Eleanor?”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
“I rest my case.” He waved a hand. “Don’t worry. Rachel’s a smart cookie. She’ll be all right.”
“Maybe,” I sighed. “But the worst part is that Barry and I can’t talk about it rationally. It was his girlfriend’s daughter Rachel was with. I’ve been thinking I might call the woman. You know, discuss it mother to mother.”
His answer came fast. “Don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“If your husband thinks—”
“My ex-husband.”
“Him, too,” he shot back. “If he thinks you’re sneaking around behind his back, he’ll make your life miserable.”
I didn’t want to admit it, but he was right.
“Promise me, Ellie…”
“All right. You win.”
Nodding, he shrugged out of the down coat. “And now, just so we’re even, so do you.”
I cocked my head.
He patted the down coat, a twinkle in his eye. “Let’s get out of here before I change my mind.”
On the way home, Dad tapped his cane on the floor of the car, humming tunelessly. I smiled. I should start thinking about Thanksgiving. I’d told Dad to invite Sylvia, as well as his buddies Marv and Frank. Rachel would be with us too, and she was planning to invite a classmate who’d just moved here from China. I needed to round up a turkey. Buy sweet potatoes, green beans. I’d make up a Jell-o mold, of course, and pecan pie. And the apple and chestnut stuffing recipe Susan f
ound in a gourmet magazine. We’d probably have way too much food, but we could take the leftovers to the soup kitchen.
I was mentally preparing my grocery list when it occurred to me I didn’t know whether to count on David. A pang went through me. We’d only been together a few months, and our relationship was already fraying. Was I too reckless for him? Or was he too cautious, unable to loosen up? Or was all of this just an excuse to ignore my own demons? I chewed my lip. Analyzing the situation wouldn’t help if he stayed in Philadelphia while I was here. Why couldn’t things go back the way they were? Why couldn’t we rewind the past few weeks?
Rewinding my life made me think of the tape, Dale Reedy, and the wire on her window. I looked over at Dad. He might use a cane to get around, but his mind was still sharp. I’d been reluctant to get him involved: last summer he’d ended up in the hospital because of me. But David and I were hardly talking, and LeJeune was who knows where. Mac and Susan didn’t want to get involved, and I didn’t want to burden Fouad. I didn’t have many options. I needed to talk it through with someone.
I edged out of my lane to pass a Mercedes. “Dad, I need your advice.”
He looked over, still rubbing the knob of the cane.
“I was wrong about something. You remember the lawyer who was killed? Brashares?”
“Santoro’s lawyer?”
“Right. Remember how I thought the mob might be involved?”
His sigh sounded like escaping steam. “Ellie, I thought that was over and done with.”
“I thought it was, too. But a few things have come up. And I can’t—well, I’m starting to worry.” I paused. “It started again at Mac’s studio. I was working late there one night when a fire broke out, and—”
“You were in a fire?”
“I wasn’t hurt,” I added hastily. “At the time, I thought it might be connected to my testimony at the trial.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I guess I need to tell you the whole thing.”
I explained what I learned about Santoro, how that led me to DePalma and Morelli, how the FBI suddenly took an interest in the tape. “They’re trying to identify the source of the RF on the videotape. They think it’s somewhere on the intake cribs.”
He squinted. I had his full attention.
“But now I’m not sure who’s doing what or why.” I told him about Dale Reedy and the wire on her window.
Dad put a hand on his cane and the other on the handle. “You say the fire department hasn’t solved this arson?”
“They don’t have any suspects.”
“But somebody set that fire.”
I nodded.
“And you thought it was the Mafia coming after you—because of something you were supposed to know. That Brashares and the Disapio girl probably also knew.”
I nodded again.
“But now not only the FBI but this oil executive is asking you questions about the same tape. The tape you showed at the Santoro trial.”
I considered telling him about Abdul and his possible connection to Dale Reedy but decided not to. I wasn’t sure how—or even if—they were connected, and the fact that Abdul was in touch with David would just give Dad another reason to worry. “That’s about it.”
I exited the Edens on Old Orchard Road and drove east. Dad looked straight ahead, a frown on his face. The only sound in the car was his cane tapping.
He seemed to become aware of something slowly. “Maybe you’ve been looking at it the wrong way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe it wasn’t you they were after. Maybe it was the tape.”
“The tape?”
“It sounds like some people don’t want that tape to exist.”
“The woman at Great Lakes Oil?”
“Among others.”
“Because of the RF.”
“Which the FBI is trying to analyze.” He looked over. “Tell me. How many copies of that tape did you make?”
“That’s what Dale Reedy wanted to know.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Actually, not much. We were interrupted by a phone call.” I thought back. “And then I saw the wire on her window.”
He rubbed his chin. “So, how many are there?”
“Let’s see. I made two copies before I testified. One of which I took with me to Brashares’ office the first time. Then there was the original Beta that we played at the trial. There was also the master dub that we made for the files—in case we never got the original back. That’s the one that was destroyed in the fire.” I stopped at a light. “Brashares may have copied the copy for the prosecution, but then again, he was so cheap he might have just lent them the original.”
“If the prosecution wanted a copy, they would have paid for it.”
“Okay. So, I’m not sure what Brashares did.”
“Too bad you can’t ask him.” He cleared his throat. “So, as far as you know, we’re talking about four tapes.”
“Yes.”
He laid the cane down and ticked them off on his fingers. “You gave Brashares the original and one copy.”
I nodded.
“And there was another one in the studio that was burned.”
“Right.”
“What about the fourth?” He squeezed his pinkie.
I didn’t answer. It had been in my bag until I gave it to the Feds. But nobody, except Dad now, knew I didn’t have it.
Chapter Thirty-four
There were two calls on my machine when I got home. The first was a terse message from LeJeune. He’d be out of town for a few days but would be in touch when he got back. That was it. No mention about getting my call. Nothing about looking into Dale Reedy or Great Lakes Oil.
The second was from Abdul, who was back in Chicago. “I am sorry I did not reach you,” he said on the tape. “Please call me back.” He reeled off the number of the Four Seasons.
As if I didn’t know.
I deleted the message.
A bone-chilling rain mixed with sleet pounded the area that night. The weather people congratulated themselves on accurately predicting the first snow of the season. Never mind that they’d predicted the same thing a few days ago, and nothing materialized. It’s as if they can’t wait to proclaim that winter has, in fact, arrived in Chicago. It must be written into their contracts. I turned up the heat and threw extra quilts on the beds.
Dad wanted me to let Dale Reedy know that I had given the fourth tape to the FBI. I wasn’t so sure. Given her odd behavior the other day, that seemed like the wrong kind of signal to send. If she thought I was onto something she didn’t want known, telling her that I had surrendered the tape wasn’t going to convince her I was suddenly not a threat.
But that left me not knowing what to do—or whom to trust. I punched in LeJeune’s number again. I knew he wouldn’t be there, but maybe he’d call me back. “Hey, Nick. It’s Ellie. I know you’re out of town, but I really need to talk to you… Give a call, okay?”
As I hung up, I heard a grunt from the hall. Rachel stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. “You’re dumping David, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“You’re dumping David for Nick.”
“Are you crazy? Of course not.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re lying.”
“Rachel, what’s gotten into you?”
“You know something? Daddy was right.” Angry red patches flared on her cheeks.
“What are you talking about?”
“He said you’re too dysfunctional for a normal relationship. He said you’d probably run through a lot of men.”
I stared at her, slack jawed. “He said what?”
She didn’t answer.
“Rachel, there’s nothing between us. You’ll have to trust me on that. And, as for your father—”
“I saw how he looked at you the night he came over. He asked me a lot of questions, too.”
“Rachel, he’s an FBI agent.
That’s his job.”
“Questions about David and Daddy?”
“Young lady, I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I don’t like it one bit. I think—”
Her face was turning purple. “You get after me for drinking, for breaking the rules. But you’re the real hypocrite. You dump one guy, then go out with another. I wonder who it’ll be tomorrow? You know something? I want to move in with Dad. At least he and Marlene are stable.”
She stomped out of the room.
Chapter Thirty-five
Angry gray clouds scudded across the sky as I pulled into the lot at the supermarket the next day. They matched my mood. I grabbed a cart and headed inside. Rachel’s outburst had been unnerving. Not just because of her emotional swings, which I knew were the result of hormones kicking in. Or even her anger, which was understandable—she’d seen me with David, and then, a short time later, with Nick. She could be legitimately confused.
What was making me crazy was Barry. I thought, after years of hostility, we’d reached a plateau where we could interact with civility if not warmth. But he had blindsided me again, spinning half-truths behind my back. In the past, I could usually work around him. Stop—or at least deflect his blows—before he did any damage. But this time I’d played into his hands. David was gone, LeJeune had appeared. I was his best accessory.
I snatched two bags of chocolate chips off the shelf. I tore one open and shoved a handful in my mouth. As the chocolate slid down my throat, I wasn’t sure whom to blame: Barry or myself.
***
Hank Chenowsky lives in a three-flat in Wrigleyville, not far from the ballpark. It was an older building, and as I climbed to the second floor, a musty smell sifted through the walls. Hank opened the door, a surprised look on his face. I wondered why; I’d called him from the grocery store. He was taking the day off; the editing room wasn’t quite ready. I got my answer when I sniffed the air.
I swore off grass years ago, choosing alcohol instead. It was a Hobson’s choice. I was all for “better living through chemistry,” but I knew weed could lead to lung cancer. Some studies linked it to brain damage. Alcohol could trigger heart attacks and brain damage. Since brain damage was a given, I went with liquor, figuring a heart attack would kill me quicker than cancer. Oh. And booze is legal.
A Picture of Guilt Page 20