He brushed my cheek and lightly kissed my hair, my ear, my neck. His hands traveled slowly down my back, my waist, my hips. His tight buttocks moved with mine, and one position led to another.
Next time I woke, it was much later. Now it was light, and I was alone in my bed with the delicious afterglow of our torrid lovemaking. I had slept the sleep of the dead, but now my mind was crystal clear. I felt refreshed, like Moses coming down from the mountain.
"Good morning, beautiful," Mitch said, arriving with a cup of tea, two slices of toast and a wicked smile.
He handed me the cup. "All I could find was some milk, so I put in a splash. Hope that's how you like it."
"The English way-exactly how I like it."
He climbed back into bed, still naked, a Greek God handing me a slice of toast.
"Butter and cinnamon," he pointed to the dark concoction on top. "And I had to hunt like hell in that mess out there to find it."
"You're a witch doctor." I sipped the tea and tasted the cinnamon toast, blinking because I was afraid I was going to wake up.
"I could get used to this," I warned him, munching the last of the toast. His wonderful brown eyes were watching my every move. This morning, it felt as if I'd known him forever but it was only a couple of days.
"So could I," he said, moving closer and kissing me softly. "Mmm, love women who taste like cinnamon," he murmured as the cup slipped from my fingers to the carpet with a soft thud.
"Must be some hang-up from your childhood," I whispered as our arms reached out and our bodies entangled.
Mitch was every girl's dream lover-tender, ardent, demanding, creative, fearless, humorous, considerate, and athletic. He was so much like Scotty that my heart ached even though I was giddily happy. Afterward, in the shower, we laughed together at absolutely nothing, never taking our eyes off one another.
"I'm glad you stayed last night," I said softly.
"Tell me more about what happened to your friend David," he encouraged as he lathered my back.
I told him everything, as if I were writing a client report, leaving out no details. The more we talked, the clearer things became.
"Unfortunately, whoever did it is coming after you now," he said. "Turn around."
"Beth must have known something," I said, turning in the cool water. "And that attorney, too. Now somebody thinks I know something or saw something and wants me out of the way like them."
"DD, you're not going to be safe until the cops get some tangible proof and make an arrest." "
I agree. But the trouble is, I don't know how to get tangible proof."
"Big Bill had a motive for killing David. And Debbie Majors certainly had a motive if those harassment charges are true," Mitch observed.
"But I have trouble seeing her as the one who hit me twice and disabled my car," I said, lathering his back.
"You of all people shouldn't be so sexist." Mitch turned and laughed, his hands straying.
"Whoa. Cut that out." I squirmed out of his grasp and attacked him with the soap.
"Okay, okay. I give up. Hey, maybe Big Bill and Debbie Majors were in it together."
"It would explain a lot if Big Bill got Debbie Majors to bring a false charge against David," I agreed thoughtfully.
When I told him about my impressions of Martin Sweeney and Hal Schultz of the Trust, I admitted I could find no motives for either one of them to have killed David.
"And if Martin Sweeney was the one who hit me on the elevated stairs, somebody would have reported that Ernest Hemingway tried to attack me."
Mitch smiled, stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel and gently dried my back. "From what you've told me," he said, "I'd have to agree. It seems Martin Sweeney will lose a lot of money because of the canceled lecture tour, so what would be his motive? And Hal Schultz and the Trust would be much better off with David and the manuscripts than without them"
"Still, they both might have some reason we don't know yet." I grabbed another towel and dried Mitch's back.
"That feels great," he said. "If you ask me, they both sound like odd ducks. But you find a lot of people in these small fringe groups who are a bit off. To be honest, it's hard to envision academic types like them killing in cold blood."
"Now it's you who's being dogmatic," I challenged, flicking his butt with the towel, thinking back to my own experiences at the university and knowing with dreadful certainty that academics could kill with the best of them. "One thing to remember is that Martin and David were good friends. Maybe Martin knows more than he told me. I'm not sure I believe everything he said. But then why would he claim the find was a fake?"
"Good point," Mitch said. "Unless he had his own plans."
"And then there's Bette Abramawitz," I mused, folding the towel. "She hated David and wanted those manuscripts for the college. I could see her shooting him and knocking me out with glee. But why were Beth Moyers and Mike Ekins killed? And just where does Matt fit into all of this?"
I sighed as Mitch turned around. "There's still too many unanswered questions. I'll have to watch my back."
"I'll watch your back," he leered. "And don't you forget it."
The phone rang, interrupting another interlude.
"Don't answer," Mitch said.
"It might be urgent," I said and picked it up. I didn't want Matt leaving a message on my answer machine asking when I was going to come live with him for Mitch to overhear.
It was Don, calling to find out if I'd done the job yet at Graue Mill. I'd ducked two of his calls already and was feeling a little guilty.
"It's scheduled for tonight," I assured him.
"Talk to a woman named Priscilla when you get there. She's the Mill's Vice-President and can answer any of your questions. And DD, be sure that report's on my desk early tomorrow morning," he warned before ringing off.
As we dressed, Mitch said he knew of Graue Mill. "It's an interesting place. But I wonder how much security you'll have to add to keep the vandals at bay."
"Don't worry, I'll come up with something," I said as I searched unsuccessfully through the litter for my black appointment book. "The industry's got new devices, like infrared photo equipment that might help finger the little shits. Look at this crap. I can't find the damn thing. All I'm doing is making the mess worse."
"Don't worry, your appointment book will turn up once you straighten out stuff. You know," he said, turning serious, "I came here last night to make you see reason about the job you took for Barry. I never figured on..."
"On what? Making me see reason?"
"I never figured on you. Come here," he said, holding me gently. "Look, don't take this wrong, but just what are you doing for Barry?"
I looked up and surveyed his handsome features. "Believe me, I am doing something, even though you might not agree with it. But I do appreciate your help, Mitch. I mean that. I've been rude, and I'm sorry. And I am going to tell you everything, but not right now.
I took out two nickels, a dime, and a quarter from my purse, and asked, "Do you, by chance, have any change?"
"Change?"
"Yeah. Nickels, dimes, quarters kind of thing. They want exact change for the damn bus, and I've only got forty-five cents."
"What bus? Oh, yeah, I forgot about your car. How much do you need? Where are you going, anyway?"
"To Dieter's. My mechanic. He's on Clark Street, north of here."
"C'mon. I'll drop you there."
THIRTY-TWO
LIVING SO CLOSE TO Wrigley Field is part blessing, part curse. Mere proximity to the ballpark cheers me up no end, even though I don't get to every game. My job won't ever make me rich, but I can take the afternoon off when I want, and I don't have any boss to tell me he saw me on TV. In my book, that makes up for a lot of the crap I have to go through.
Traffic, however, is impossible when there's a home game. And today the Pittsburgh Pirates were in town for a double header. I blinked and thought about Scotty. We'd been planning to go to a game and sit
in the bleachers. Planning to cheer, and swear at the umps, and feed each other hot dogs, and exit the park arm in arm, singing the happy songs of too many ballpark beers. But we'd never gotten to, and we never would.
"Like to go to a game sometime?" Mitch asked.
I told him I'd like that very much as he hit the brakes to avoid the noisy fans, many of them shirtless teens, already pouring out of the Cubbie Lounge, spilling into traffic.
We were comfortable with each other, even though less than twenty-four hours earlier, we'd been at odds. I was content as we inched along in the bumper-to-bumper traffic, which didn't thin until we got a couple miles away from Wrigley Field.
Mitch turned on the radio, and as we pulled into Dieter's immaculate garage, the DJ announced that this morning's low temperature of 93 degrees in the shade had broken the record set in 1995.
"See you tonight," he said, as I got out of the car.
"No, I can't. I've already got a..."
"Date?" he asked. "I thought you said you didn't have a boyfriend."
"No. It's not that. I've got a meeting. About the Hemingway stuff." I didn't want to tell him about Matt.
"You don't have to explain." "
I know, but I wanted to."
"What time should I be at your place? Or do you want to come to mine tonight? I'm not leaving you alone until this Hemingway thing is settled, so you might as well agree with good grace. Otherwise I'll have to force myself on you."
"If you come over, we'll have to pick up and clean up. I can't stand the mess."
"I'm game. How about nine o'clock? If you're late, I'll be waiting over at the twins' place"
As Mitch pulled away, I realized I'd be running the check on the micro-video in Barry's office. Oh hell, what was going to happen if Mitch was guilty of pirating the software? I was already in very deep. The motion-activated video had been running intermittently for two nights, and if Mitch was on it, I'd committed a colossal error in going to bed with him. If it turned out to be Herman on the video, Barry would hate me forever. And if nobody was on the video, I didn't have my portable lie detector anymore, so I'd have to start investigating all the banks, and it would get a lot more complicated. I didn't want to admit to Barry that the case was beyond my capabilities. Mitch would undoubtedly have me pilloried for marking time in the investigation and for considering him my number one suspect. And he'd be justified. One way or the other, I had the awful sense that our developing relationship was doomed.
Dieter was busy, as usual, but rushed over and grabbed my arm when I came into the shop. I was fond of Dieter, who was like a brother to me, letting me spend many hours watching him fix cars and drink German beers from his perpetually stocked refrigerator. We always had interesting conversations, and I'd grown to actually kind of like the smell of grease.
Today, he was too upset to offer me a beer.
"Dis battery cable vas cut, DD. Here, look. You see dose marks and how there is no fray. Dis vas no accident." "
I guessed as much," I replied, and told him I was having trouble with a case I was working on.
"You need to quit dat insurance work, DD. You got brains, and you got a body. What do you do it for? And by de vay, who vas dat good-looking guy dropping you off just now in da Jaguar? Sure, it's got good rear-wheel drive and a strong in-line six, but it's nicht a Mercedes. He should buy a nice 420 E dat's made by real craftsmen. Dat would really turn you on, heh?"
I thanked Dieter, paid my bill and explained I had to leave right away for an appointment.
One of his guys pulled the Miata out front for me, helped me put the top down, then held open the door as I slid in.
"Ouch," I said, burning my butt as I sat down. "Ow," I yelled, touching the steering wheel. The interior was stifling. Heat had settled into every nook and cranny. Even the gear shift, usually as cold as Italian marble, felt like it might melt in my hand. We needed a good storm to break this heat wave, but none was forecast.
I drove to Barry's, thinking dreamily of last night and dreading finding out what the mini spy cam had captured.
THIRTY-THREE
You can wipe out your opponents. But if you do it unjustly
you become eligible for being wiped out yourself
-ERNEST HEMINGWAY
HERMAN MARX WAS ON the phone when I arrived. He waived me into Barry's office without even a how-are-you, like he was anxious to get me over with.
Barry was inspecting his phone, checking the high-power debugger device he'd installed to ensure he wasn't being tapped.
"Show time," I said, dumping my purse on the table.
"I expected you earlier," Barry scolded.
I ignored his ill humor and dragged a chair directly under the ceiling tile where I'd secreted the equipment.
"Barry," I questioned him as I climbed onto the chair and reached for the camera, "were any of those phone numbers I gave you not yours?"
"No. They could all be accounted for. No help there at all. "
He put his phone back together and tried to assist me as I fumbled around trying to remove the ceiling tile.
"DD, you really shouldn't wear those high heels if you're gonna do this kind of work."
I kept maneuvering the ceiling tile until it finally shifted, then slid it gently out of the way.
If that thing doesn't have anything incriminating yet," Barry said as he held the chair steady, "I don't want to reinstall it again. It makes me nervous."
"I know," I sympathized as I stretched and tried to grab hold of the tiny device.
"Damn," I swore as my fingers scraped against a hard edge and the nail on my index finger ripped.
I stretched again, this time grabbing the thing. The office door opened and closed, but my head was in the ceiling so I couldn't see what was happening.
"What's going on?" Mitch Sinclair asked, appearing around my legs. "Trying to kill yourself, DD McGil?"
I looked down at him and smiled crookedly. I'd wanted to see him again. And soon. But not just now.
"Well, I personally didn't think last night was all that bad," he said softly.
I lowered the micro-cam and twisted around to look directly at Mitch. His devilish smile, so inviting last night, was equally inviting this morning.
"Hi," I greeted him with a brittle smile and looked to Barry for help. I sure didn't want Mitch around when we viewed this video.
"What's this?" Mitch stared up at the displaced ceiling tile, then at the sprinkler head. I was sure he saw the tiny camera I'd attached, and I could almost see the rapid addition taking place in his cerebral cortex.
"One of those spy cams? Barry, did you know she was doing this?" Mitch demanded.
"Well," Barry waffled, his lips pursed. He glared at me, then at Mitch. "Yes and no." "
I think it's a great idea," Mitch said. "I guess she does know what she's doing, after all."
He reached up and took the tiny camera from me. "Here. Let me help." He steadied me with his other hand as I stepped down from the chair.
"Who are you after? Not Herman?"
I gulped hard, and stayed silent.
Barry looked at me and took pity. He grabbed the camera from Mitch. "Here, let me take that."
I'd regained my balance and was wondering how to get rid of Mitch before we viewed the video.
Barry released the thumbnail drive from the camera and inserted it into one of his computers. "We can feed it right into this monitor."
As Barry pulled up the video, Mitch brushed the dirt off the chair I'd stood on and returned it to the conference table. Then, with a flourish, he offered me a seat.
His brown eyes looked me over as he held the chair. I sat down, and he put his hands on my shoulders and bent down, speaking softly in my ear. "Hi, beautiful. I had an extraordinary time last night. How about you?"
After last night, deep down I was positive that Mitch couldn't be involved. Nonetheless, I didn't want him finding out that he had been targeted as my prime suspect. I was going to have to ask
him to leave. "Look, what we're doing here..."
"Is that in the WMV format for digital?" Mitch asked.
"Yep. Here we go," Barry answered as the video began to play on the monitor, capturing our full attention. The three of us huddled around the monitor, intently watching. The color and clarity were so good I was able to count the number of paper clips in the holder on Barry's desk.
The first mug on the video was instantly recognizable. It was me, snapped the night the camera was installed. The next dozen frames were of Barry and me together, then a few of Barry alone.
"It's motion sensitive. Good thinking," Mitch observed, absorbed in the proceedings.
Barry smiled, seeing himself on the screen. "Look. There I am yesterday morning."
During business hours, Barry never stopped working. People went in and out. I paid particular attention to the fact that neither Mitch nor Herman was ever alone in Barry's office. My innards gave a big sigh of relief. So far, so good.
"This isn't getting us anywhere, DD," Barry lamented. "It's just a waste of time and money. I'm more convinced than ever that the software was passed through one of the banks."
"Security in the banks is too tough, Barry," I explained. "They've had years and lots of resources to develop foolproof security. That's why I'm betting that whatever happened, happened here. At the source."
Barry was downcast. "I don't buy it, DD."
"Let's give her a chance," Mitch said, turning the tables and taking my side. "I think running this video was a good idea."
"What's with the sudden entente cordiale between you two? Not that I'm not glad, but it's kind of sudden, isn't it? Where are those tidal waves of animosity I was getting used to?"
Mitch sidestepped the issue and pointed to the monitor. "Look there." A man and a woman had appeared on the screen. "Who the hell are they?"
Barry stared at the screen. "That's just the cleaning crew."
"I thought you told me nobody else was allowed in your office, Barry," I said. "That's not strictly true, is it?"
"Well, I never thought about it. Besides, it's the cleaning people. Hell, they're like the mailman. They don't even speak English, and you're trying to tell me they have the technical skill to pirate sophisticated software? C'mon."
Hunting for Hemingway Page 18