"Barry, we don't have to look any further. Right there. That's your leak," I pronounced ex cathedra. "I'm positive."
I knew it sounded crazy, but I also knew what I was talking about.
"It's all circumstantial, DD," Barry said, shaking his head.
I took a deep breath. "You can cancel your cleaning contract right now and release your updated software version later today. You're in the clear."
"Burt they didn't do anything out of the ordinary," Barry countered. "How can you make that leap? First you suspect Mitch, and now you suspect the cleaning crew"
"What?" Mitch turned to me. "You suspected me?"
"Jeez, DD, maybe Mitch was right from the start. Maybe it's time I call Gilcrest and Stratton in on this."
"DD," Mitch sputtered, hands on hips, waiting for my answer.
Instead, I pointed to the video. One member of the crew was noodling around the computer way too long. As he bent over it, I could see he'd turned it on and was pulling files up onto the screen. "Look at this, Barry."
"The son of a bee," Barry said, replaying the tape again.
I grabbed Barry's phone and pressed the intercom button. "Herman," I said, "come in here right now, will you?"
Herman came in and immediately noticed the video.
"Herman, what's the phone number for the building's management?"
He rattled the phone number off the top of his head like I knew he would. I'd only known him a short time, but it was evident he liked to show off.
I picked up Barry's phone, punched in the number and waited. The three of them were silent, staring at me.
A bored male voice answered, "Building Maintenance. Rickman speaking."
"Hello, Mr. Rickman. This is Mary Spence calling, secretary to Mr. Post. You know, we're moving into that vacant space in your building next week."
"DD, don't..." Barry said. I shushed him and continued.
"Yes, that's it, Suite 1702. Right. Well, what I called about was that Mr. Post is extremely particular about office cleaning. He's terribly fussy-won't have a stray paper clip on the carpet, you understand. Everything must be in its place. What cleaning company do you have for the building?
"Yes, I see. You've had them for years and no complaints at all. They're all Bosnian immigrants? Well, I don't know. Do they speak any English? What? Oh, really? That's very true. Yes indeed. Well, thank you so much, Mr. Rickman. We'll see you next week." I hung up.
"What the heck was that all about?" Barry asked. "Who's this Mary Spence and Mr. Post you were talking about?"
"Never mind. Sometimes I have to make things up. You're paying me to investigate, so I'm investigating."
"DD, do you speak Bosnian?" Mitch inquired.
"I don't have to speak it."
"Well how in hell do you expect to find out anything from these people when you don't speak their language?" Barry challenged. "I understand there's something like three or four national languages all mixed up with the Serbo-Croatian dialect. It's one of the things they fight about."
"I know. The economy in the Balkans has crashed. All that fighting is the reason that a lot of really bright, well-educated people have fled from Bosnia to the U.S. and have had to take work as janitors," I explained while dialing the number Mr. Rickman had given me.
"Cleaning jobs are sometimes the only ones they can get because of the language barrier. I know it's true in my building."
"DD, you've got a real suspicious mind," Mitch observed. "But Barry, think about it. It could be true. They got no business turning on one of our machines. If these guys are well educated and know what they're doing, they could be the ones sending the software out over the Internet. She makes a good inference that it is probably this computer."
I nodded agreement. "Exactly. That's why nothing registered on your phone bill, Barry. They sent whatever they sent over the Internet, then got rid of any evidence of the communication."
A female voice answered cheerily on the third ring. "Kiss Cleaning, where you kiss your dirt good-bye. May I help you?"
"I sure hope so. My boss wants to have daily office cleaning, and your company's been highly recommended by Mr. Rickman."
"Just one moment, please. I'll connect you with Lew, our general manager."
After a moment, a smooth voice came on the line. "Yallo. What can I do for you?"
"Well, I'm not exactly sure."
"Don't worry about a thing. We can do everything. Just tell me what you need."
"I have a big problem. It's my boss. He's really fussy, so whatever company I hire has to have top-notch people. He's fired the last service, and now my job is on the line. Mr. Rickman over at the Kemmer Building says that your best crew works for him, and he hasn't had any problems."
"Yep. That's our top crew, all right."
"But aren't they all Bosnian?"
"Yes, but the supervisor also speaks fluent English."
"Oh, that's what my boss would want, so they could take directions. Could we have the same crew if we signed a contract with you?"
"Absolutely," Lew said enthusiastically. "The leader of that crew is Chris, our top man. Believe it or not, he was a university professor back in Sarajevo. He's a gem. He's gotten together a whole crew of Croats. They all jabber away at each other, but they work like the devil's after them. And Chris is very talented. Plays the piano like a concertmaster. You'll be satisfied, I guarantee it."
"It certainly sounds like it. You've convinced me. I'll talk to my boss and call you for an appointment to come out next week and give us a quote."
"Anytime," Lew said. "Just give me your name and your company...
I hung up and repeated what Lew had said.
"That doesn't mean anything, DD," Barry said. "He could have been a professor of literature or history."
"Barry, you asked me to solve your problem. You said I was the only one who could. And it looks like I've done it. This guy or one of his crew is into computers, and he's illegal and can't get a good job. Believe me, it happens all the time." "
I think we should consider it, Barry. Maybe she's got something," Mitch interjected.
"I don't know, DD. I think you're jumping the gun," Barry said stubbornly.
"I didn't want to do this, but..." I pulled out the watchdog tracker I'd installed between Barry's keyboard and the computer.
"You put that tracker on my keyboard?" Barry sputtered.
"You wanted proof. This is it. And as for Gilcrest and Stratton, now's the time to put them on it," I added. "They're the plodders who can dot the i's an cross the t's. Have them get this guy's last name, trace him, and put a tail on him. See what they come up with. I'm betting this is where your problem came from and Occam's razor usually applies, that the simplest explanation tends to be the best one." "
I think we should do it, Barry," Mitch said.
"Meantime, fire this cleaning company right now. Have them return your keys before close of business today. Then get your locks changed and put your new software out on the market. In that order." I smiled what I hoped was a Sphinx smile. "Problem solved."
As they came to a decision, I hoped my show of confidence would carry the day and was not misplaced. The keyboard tracker would convince Barry and Herman, and it seemed that Mitch was already on my side.
Barry finally yielded. "Okay, okay," he said. "I know when I'm outnumbered. We'll do what you say, DD, except that we won't release the revised software for a couple of days until we get something back from Gilcrest and Stratton."
I knew I'd won, but I wasn't sure whether I felt satisfied or miffed at this compromise.
THIRTY-FOUR
"You KNOW," MITCH SAID, "I'm getting adjusted to the fact that you may have figured out how that piracy was happening. You're a girl of many surprises"
"I surprise myself a lot, too," I laughed. We kissed good-bye shamelessly in front of Barry's building and reluctantly parted. "See you about nine tonight," he said as he returned to Barry's while I headed for the Beecham Buil
ding, careful to see that I wasn't being followed.
When I got off the elevator on my floor, Douglas, the mailman, was slipping today's bills into the slot in my door.
"Howdy," he greeted me with his usual dour smile.
"Hi, Douglas," I smiled cheerily, never giving up hope that one day he'd chuck his bureaucratic absolutism in favor of a toothy smile and a dirty joke.
"Better check your delivery right away."
"What's up?" Somehow, although I was certain he never actually steamed open my mail and read it, he always knew what was going on. "Good news?"
"You got an official notice from the Internal Revenue Service, Miss McGil. I don't see how that can be good news."
Suddenly I didn't feel very well. "Where the IRS is concerned, you're probably right."
"You better take care of it immediately."
"Thanks, Douglas," I closed my door, assured he wasn't going to slip his chains today.
I riffled through the mail. The IRS envelope stood out from the pack and produced an involuntary chill down my spine. Dumping the rest of the mail along with my purse onto my desk, I ripped open the envelope. The letter, dated yesterday, stated that after repeated attempts to contact me and due to repeated appointments I'd missed, they were forced to deem me in default on my taxes and would be forwarding my case to collections. Huge penalties and interest on what I supposedly owed brought the whole bill to a total that was more than I made in a year. Great. Just what I needed.
Enraged, I picked up the phone, ready for another adventure in agony, and dialed the IRS office. When I got through to Miss Wang, I was sputtering. She surprised me by recognizing my voice. "Oh, Miss McGil," she said, almost friendly. "Yes. He expected your call yesterday." She even got my name right. I was in shock. "Hold on, please," she said.
I waited and I waited. The IRS had no muzak. Instead, I heard a recording on a wheel. "All of our agents are busy. Your concerns are important to us, so please do not hang up until your call can be answered."
I knew God wasn't going to swoop down and fix the IRS just to clear up my little troubles. I realized that the agency had to deal with a lot of problem cases, cases where people did illegal, immoral, and unconscionable things. But why did Mr. Poussant have to be the type of agent who went after the littlest picky things? I might as well have wondered why pigs don't fly.
After what seemed longer than eternity, Miss Wang came back on the line.
"Mr. Poussant will see you tomorrow at ten a.m. sharp. This will be your last appointment. In the event you are not here in person with the documents he requested, your case will be forwarded to collections. Is that understood, Miss McGil?"
I hung up, wondering where she learned to talk like that and trying to convince myself that nothing could go wrong to make me miss this meeting. I'd be there with bells on, even if I had to be carried from a hospital bed.
THIRTY-FIVE
I HANDLED THE REMAINING messages and was halfway out the door when the phone rang. It was Aunt Elizabeth calling from Scotland.
"DD, why did you not call me back? 'Tis verra important. I had a vision."
"I know, Auntie. It was good of you to call. Mother already told me about it."
"'Twas not a good one, Daphne."
I realized it must have been bad because Auntie Dragon only calls me Daphne when she's peeved.
"'Twas to do with stairs and you falling and heavy darkness."
"Don't worry Auntie. It's already happened. Somebody hit me from behind and tried to make me fall down a flight of stairs at the elevated. But I didn't fall. In fact, I'm fine."
"No DD. Harken what I say. 'Tis not yet happened. 'Tis something else. Something worse."
"Auntie, honestly I'm sure it's what already happened. It fit your vision perfectly. And as you see, I'm being very careful."
"DD, attend to me. 'Tis a thing aboot to happen, not a thing already taken place. Mark you, heed my warning. Be sharp on your guard. Would that I were there. A storm is coming for you."
"I'll be fine, Auntie. Really. Love you, darling. And don't worry. How's George doing?" We talked a bit about what was going on with her new husband, George Murray, who was, to my mind, possibly the only person on the face of this earth who could stand up to Auntie Dragon successfully. Before we hung up, she said again, "Mind, watch your back, and be keen on your guard."
I felt somewhat relieved. The last of my Auntie's visions had damn near gotten me killed when I'd been thrown in a closet in the old Consolidated Bank building during demolition. This was obviously much milder and anyway, I'd already survived it.
For a second time, just as I hit the door, the phone rang.
"Hi, DD. Were you able to get to Graue Mill yet?"
"I was just going out the door, Don. You're holding me up, if you must know the truth."
"Sorry. Anne's on my back."
"Tell her not to worry. I agreed to do it, and I'll do it. You'll have everything tonight. Bye."
I hung up and left. I was going to take care of it, but first I had to have something to eat.
There's a small kiosk in the Beecham's lobby, and as I was passing by, Andy, the nice old guy who runs the concession, called me over.
"I saved this specially for you." He held out a giant Hershey bar with almonds. Andy knew my passion for chocolate and had somehow gotten the idea that I liked Hershey's with almonds the best. I don't, but it was too late to tell him.
"Throw in a tuna on white and a can of lemonade, too," I said, pulling some money from my wallet.
"Here you go," he said, putting it all into a brown paper bag along with a napkin. "Thanks. You're a pal." I dumped the money into his open palm with a smile. What I really felt like was a cold beer, but that would have to wait.
Driving west down the Eisenhower Expressway, I hit a bump as I sipped the lemonade and spilled some on my outfit. With all the trouble I was having in traffic, drinking could be a new Olympic event.
Out of the city now, nature replaced concrete, glass, and bricks. Winter this year had been long and rushed rudely into summer, aborting Chicago's spring. What tulips and daffodils there were had come late, then died mid-bloom from the heat. This was one of the hottest months on record.
The weather reporter on the car radio announced that a storm was due sometime tonight or tomorrow to break the heat wave. After I finished half the tuna sandwich, I reached for the Hershey's bar, but it was a melted mess. That cooling storm couldn't come soon enough for me.
The rest of the drive was spent formulating the report I'd make tonight to Matt. Thus far, my news about the manuscripts wasn't good. I wondered if the cops had found the gun that killed David yet. Not that I could call and ask them.
The sun sat low in the sky as I approached the mill. Everything was parked up. Why couldn't my little Miata always find a convenient space like Mitch's Jaguar, I wondered. I had to drive all the way over into the unpaved parking lot across the road from Graue Mill. The gravel crackled as I braked to a halt. This lot, too, was crowded as visitors strolled the pretty grounds.
I took the York Road underpass path. It ran parallel to the huge turning mill wheel. The water turning the wheel came from Salt Creek. I stopped to watch the wheel's hypnotic rhythm that seemed to momentarily suspend time. It mirrored my own thoughts about David's murder, going round and round, never stopping, never resting. Despite the intense heat of the summer afternoon, my flesh went clammy. It wasn't only due to the dank creek water running under the little bridge I was crossing. Aunt Elizabeth's warning flashed through my mind again.
As I climbed the worn stone steps up to ground level, the picturesque old mill came into view. It was a beautiful site with the last bits of sun turning the clouds into gray. Off the beaten path, far enough away from traffic and development to remain pristine, Graue Mill was a treasure of yesteryear. It deserved a first-class security system. Dominated by the big, turning mill wheel, the building was three stories, sturdy brick, and clearly made for work. A lower-level bas
ement with tiny windows housed the huge gears to turn the wheels. Somewhere in that basement historians say slaves were hidden on their way farther north, a dank, dreary stop on the Underground Railway to freedom.
Phil and Don both like to give me jobs where I evaluate and recommend security because, they say, I'm into serious risk management for clients. They're always telling me I've gone overboard when I say that if Stonehenge were located in the United States, it would be stolen overnight. Maybe they're right and I'm wrong. But like the Boy Scouts, I believe in being prepared.
I pulled out a pen and notepad and took notes on the exterior perimeter. Most people don't realize that exterior security is as important, if not more important, than interior systems. Properly securing the outside will discourage your average vandal, burglar, or degenerate, and make him, her, or it look elsewhere for easier pickings. I thought about the fact that my own apartment had been broken into and decided to contact the building owner and suggest a few ways to improve exterior security there too.
The mill's old-fashioned paned windows were all fitted with trip tape, the kind that sets off an alarm if it's broken. But there didn't seem to be any security cameras. That was a mistake. Floodlights were positioned on each of the four sides of the building, angled to illuminate the maximum amount of window and brick during the night. These lights helped to provide some deterrence, but I'd probably recommend one of the new microwave proximity sensors for the exterior in addition to what they already had.
Inside the mill on the first floor, a woman dressed in an authentic 1880s costume was concluding a demonstration on grinding corn. Her name-tag identified her as Priscilla, the one Don said I should see. I approached and introduced myself.
"I'm really busy right now with a tour," she said. "I expected you earlier. You'll have to carry on without me." With that, she dismissed me and shepherded her group into the basement area, cautioning them to be careful.
I started my interior evaluation up on the top floor and would work downward. Much of the mill's extensive collection of antiques and late-nineteenth-century memorabilia was housed up here on the third floor. Authentic displays of a blacksmith shop and an apothecary shop made you feel like a visitor to another time. A small window provided a panoramic view of Salt Creek and the outlying area.
Hunting for Hemingway Page 19