He heaved himself off the couch and up the stairs, going to the small room that had been converted to a studio. After unearthing a sketch pad from the clutter on the drawing table, he flipped through to a clean sheet and picked up a pencil.
A square of emptiness before him, like the sky, like the rest of his life. Steadying his hand, he drew a line. He paused, then drew another.
Drinking coffee, forgetting food, smoking his pipe, trying to push away every thought and memory of Jill, Matthias worked well into the afternoon, but with increasingly desperate frustration. The idea he’d had looked marvelous, but he knew it wouldn’t work. He tried others, with less success, then went back to the original. He got it so it made more sense, but it was far from satisfactory. And nothing he sketched could obscure the vision of death in the photograph, of Jill’s eyes, staring blankly out at him. His lines became mad snarls. He tore out sheet after sheet, each attempt more ruinous than the other. The pad exhausted, he found another and tried again. And again and again.
Finally, after forcing himself to a long moment of absolute stillness, he set the pencil to paper with a gentler, much different stroke. At last he found solace. He began drawing sailboats.
Diandra Poe remained late in bed. She was normally an early riser—a habit from her modeling days, when mornings required so much elaborate preparation—but she wanted to be alone with her thoughts, without having her husband’s break-of-day brainstorms intruded upon them. She had slept as usual in the nude, and lay after waking with the covers thrown back to enjoy the soft warmth of sunshine on her bare skin, examining her memories of the night before at leisure.
She had liked Matthias Curland—as much for his beautiful manners and the respect he had shown for her intelligence as anything. She had no objection to carrying out her husband’s instructions to be nice to the man. Being Peter Poe’s wife was her career now, and this sort of thing was just part of the job.
But he’d left how “nice” up to her interpretation and discretion, and she was intrigued by the prospect. She was very curious as to how and why Peter intended to use this well-bred, sensitive man, whether he had some immediate purpose or wanted Curland just to hold in reserve for one of his infinite number of future schemes. Peter was always thinking months ahead. None of his successes ever came as a surprise to him.
There had to be more to it than the office-apartment tower her husband was planning for his new development. Curland wasn’t an active architect and hadn’t been very successful when he was. The Peter Poe style was to hire the very best—the top. He already had one of the city’s biggest and most prestigious architectual firms on retainer.
Rising finally, Diandra spent a long time in her bath, devoting the time as much to thought as ritual preparation. She dressed casually—for her—a summery lime-green dress with matching low-heeled shoes, just dressy enough should she decide to go shopping on the avenue, one of her several escapes from boredom. Then she went into her own study, which, though half the size of her husband’s, contained considerably more books.
Among them was a copy of the Social Register, which Peter had given her but which she had rarely consulted. There was a listing for a Rudolph Curland in Lake Forest, with the names and addresses of three grown children following: Mrs. Annelise Blucher of Barrington; Matthias Curland of Cannes, France; Christian Curland of Schiller Street in Chicago.
The dark-haired brother had been in the Poes’ penthouse twice, though never for dinner or any formal social occasion. He was extremely handsome, and had flirted with her. She supposed it was out of habit and, in any event, wasn’t much interested. There was a snottiness about him. His glances were as mocking as they were suggestive, implying he knew very well she was not a fashionable lady at all, but merely the daughter of a factory foreman from Dearborn, Michigan, all dressed up like a lady. A factory foreman named Casimir Derwinski.
Diandra had few real friends in Chicago, though she’d been approached by many who wanted to be hers. They were more like Bitsie Symms and Sally Phillips than any of the old-line aristocrats to be found in the Social Register.
If she called Bitsie to ask about Matthias Curland, the woman would tell her everything she thought Diandra wanted to hear, even if she had to make up some of it. And afterward, she’d probably spread a lot of gossip about Diandra’s inquiry. There was no telling how Sally Phillips would react to any questioning about her “beau”—the word she’d used when they’d been alone together after dinner. Probably she’d think Diandra was being predatory—though it should be obvious that the wife of Peter Poe had no more safe chance at infidelity than a wife of Henry VIII.
There were a number of small magazines published in Chicago, among them a failing but very social monthly that covered all the Gold Coast and North Shore parties. Peter had considered buying it, until his lawyer, Bill Yeats, had counseled against it with the warning that people would assume he was going to use it to assist him in social climbing—which was among the least of Peter’s ambitions concerning Chicago.
The editor and chief reporter was a very nice if somewhat prim lady who’d been very pleasant and helpful to Diandra, keeping her company at not a few terrifying social affairs when no one else would approach, offering advice, asking no favors, and, in her reportage, treating the Poes at face value as major if newly arrived celebrities. She’d never once published any untoward gossip about them.
Diandra’s call found her at work on a story about Bitsie’s party. They talked about that for a few minutes until, hesitantly, Diandra got to her real purpose.
“We met a man at the party,” she said. “An architect named Matthias Curland. My husband was quite taken with him. He’s thinking of having him help with a project, but I don’t know anything about him.”
“Matthias Curland? He’s one of the nicest men in town—or used to be, when he lived here. He went off the deep end a little after his divorce, la vie bohème, if you know what I mean. Is he moving back? I thought he’d just come home for his mother’s funeral.”
“I’m not sure. Are they old-time Chicagoans, the Curlands?”
“Well, not so much the Curlands; not on his father’s side. But on his mother’s side, he’s an Albrecht—and they predate the Fields and the Potter Palmers, not to speak of all the farm tool and meat packing families. Very prominent indeed, in the old days. But, well, there are a lot of nice families who happen to be German-American. But the Albrechts were very German, if you know what I mean. They still are. And they have this streak. Not that they’re demented or anything, but they’re a little odd.”
Diandra didn’t want to explore this—not yet. Her husband hadn’t acquired Curland because he was odd.
“But they’re what you’d call Old Money?”
“Not just that. They’ve always been so very civic minded. Albrechts and Curlands have been on just about every important charity board there is. Plus the forest preserves and the Park District and God knows what else. They were going to name a park after Matthias’s grandfather, but he refused to let them do it. I guess he thought they were only honoring his money. He should have been president of the Art Institute. Everyone said that. But he had this thing for German art, and he wouldn’t give them anything from his collection. He kept it all for that little museum of theirs—you know, the Albrecht Collection?”
Diandra pretended she knew.
“He’s part of the establishment, then,” she said. “Matthias. Mr. Curland.”
“Well, he could be. They all could. But … let me put it this way. Their name is still revered by the old families of Chicago, especially in Lake Forest. If they were to become active socially again, they could be right at the top. But, Diandra, they haven’t a penny. All the money’s in that museum, and they can’t touch that. I really don’t know how they’ve been surviving, although there are some stories about Matthias’s brother, Christian. Well, I won’t go into that.”
“Matthias Curland came to Bitsie’s party with someone named Sally Phillips.
”
“Sally’s very nice. Not from a prominent family. I don’t think she even made a debut, though her mother was quite a climber. She has to work, you know. Runs a little boutique. Very nice, but … well, there are a lot of very available women around who could make Matthias much more comfortable. She threw him over for a truly awful man. If they’re seeing each other again … well, I suppose some might say she was crawling back to him. She’s very sweet, and it’s very romantic to think of them together again. But I don’t see how it could work—not unless he comes into some money. She—she likes nice things, if you know what I mean.”
“Well, I was just curious,” Diandra said.
“Can I print it that your husband’s hired him to be his architect?”
Peter wouldn’t like that. He liked to make all such announcements with a grand show.
“Why don’t you just say that they talked about architecture?”
“I’ll do just that. Diandra, are you going to be modeling in the hospital fashion show again?”
“I suppose, though they haven’t asked me yet.”
“Well, I’m sure they will. I’d like to see you more active, Diandra. Socially, I mean. Just remember what I said. Don’t get involved with one of the diseases. Anyone can throw a ball for a disease. In Chicago, it’s the institutions that count.”
Institutions. The Establishment. What Matthias Curland, broke as he might be, thoroughly represented. No wonder Peter was so interested in him. He had enough trouble getting people like that to invite him to their clubs, let alone come to work for him.
But Peter’s principal obsessions were money and political power. Curland didn’t seem to represent that.
Diandra thanked the woman for her advice and information, saying she’d see her at the Gold Coast garden festival, if not before. After hanging up, she sat a moment at her desk, then took out one of her Art Institute note cards, one bearing a landscape by Monet. Her husband would prefer her using his household stationery, embossed with a great crimson “P,” but she hated that.
She addressed him as “Mr. Curland,” though she’d called him Matthias the night before. She wrote to ask if she might visit his museum, and invited him to lunch. At their penthouse. If she asked him to a restaurant, he’d probably insist on paying.
Would Peter like this? She was never sure.
Zany spent much of the day around Chicago’s downtown waterfront, showing his picture of the dead girl to the few boaters and fisherman he found there on this weekday, getting little that was helpful in response. He worked the place for several hours, as more and more boaters showed up—many of them obviously sneaking away early from work. None of them recognized Jill Langley, but one did say he’d seen a girl running along the dock the night of the murder. She’d been wearing shorts and a white blouse.
“She jumped into a sailboat and took off on the motor, without rigging the sails,” the man said. “It seemed funny that she was in such a hurry.”
“Was anyone chasing her?”
“No. Well, a few minutes later this guy came running up. He stood there looking at the empty berth and then went away. He sure seemed in a hurry. Was the boat stolen?”
“So to speak. Did you get a good look at him?”
“No, sir. Too far away. Except he was wearing a white shirt, a dress shirt, and it was unbuttoned. It wasn’t that hot a night.”
“No gunshots or anything?”
“Gunshots? No. Hey, does this have anything to do with … There was a story on the news … Is this the girl who was murdered?”
“Yes.”
“Shit. Murder up in Lincoln Park. Murder here. Makes you afraid to come near the lakefront.”
Zany took the man’s name and address and thanked him, then walked over to the yacht club. The frowning maître d’ in the dining room said he’d not seen anyone like the girl on the premises. Neither had he seen either of the Curland brothers, quietly adding that they were not members.
Using a dockside pay phone, Zany tried reaching Christian Curland again, but without success. Matthias Curland, sounding a little distracted, promised to have his brother call Zany at his hotel.
Sure he would. Zany wondered what Peter Poe might have to say about the interesting dinner party in which the name of a Grand Pier, Michigan, cop’s hotel came up in conversation. He got the number of Poe’s office from information. The woman who answered transferred him to a secretary, who handed him off to another, who told him Poe was out of town in Indiana and wouldn’t return until late.
Zany had a couple of beers in a Rush Street bar, deciding it was time to call it quits for the day. He’d make one last stop: Area Six homicide.
Baldessari was not happy to see him.
“As you might fucking notice,” he said as Zany walked into his office, “we’re up to our ass in whores here. I must have questioned two dozen of them myself.”
The entire squad room was filled with short-skirted women, some of them looking very belligerent.
“The mayor wants an arrest,” Baldessari continued. “I may have to book one of these broads just to say we’re making progress—if we can find one that’s a tall blonde with real good legs. One of the girls said she saw a hooker like that up on Broadway get into a station wagon with O’Rourke’s plates. No one she knew. They came back a few minutes later and picked up the black chippie who got whacked with O’Rourke. For a guy his age, he must have been quite the stud.”
“Can you give me five minutes?” Zany said. “I’m making a little progress in my own case.”
Baldessari looked at his watch. “Okay, Zany. You got ten.” The lieutenant took a sip of coffee and lighted up a Marlboro.
As quickly as possible, Zany told him all he’d learned.
“I’ve got a real itch about this guy Matthias Curland,” he said. “There are just too many connections. He had something going with the Langley girl before he left town. He told me himself that he slept with her. Hell, he did a nude painting of her that he’s got hanging over his dining-room table. That’s an intense relationship. And he seemed scared when I talked to him. Real scared.”
Baldessari stared at him through his cigarette smoke. “He showed you an airline ticket, you said.”
“Yes, he did. But … This is more than I can handle on my own, Frank. You promised me Mulroney and Stacek, but you’ve got them working this Lincoln Park murder. I’d like to go through the gallery records. I’d like to talk to Peter Poe, and to the brother, Christian Curland. But I have no jurisdiction here, and I’ve got to get back to Grand Pier. I was hoping you might be willing …”
Baldessari suddenly leaned forward, his chair giving out a loud squeak. “Zany, do you know how high up I’d have to go to have people like the Curlands or Peter Poe brought in for questioning? Do you know how far they’d kick my ass when I told them that all I was going on was these weird suspicions of yours? I mean, what do you got, Zany? You’ve got shit. You haven’t even established the scene of the crime. You’ve got no murder weapon. You’ve got no witnesses. The only crime we know was committed in Chicago was the girl’s theft of the boat. Did you go over the boat for fingerprints?”
“The State Police did. Outside of this dentist’s who was leasing it, the only match they made was with the girl’s.”
“Zany. I’m beginning to think you’ve spent too much time on the beach. What about the break-in of your room? There’s a crime. Can’t you get burglary to help you with that?”
“Plotnik sent some evidence technicians over. Everything was clean. No witnesses. A real pro. Or pros.”
“Not your architect friend.”
“Like I told you, he was with Poe. Along with Poe’s wife and another woman.”
“You think they all decided to waltz over to your hotel and lift your shit? Just for fun?” He was joking. Zany couldn’t always tell.
“Frank, please.”
“Zany, your ten is up and the clock’s still running. If you could show me evidence that this homic
ide took place somewhere inside the Illinois line, I might get something going on it—after I produce something for City Hall on this O’Rourke case. But the way it is, I barely got time to call my wife. If you want to talk to Poe and the Curland brother, it’s a free country. But I can’t help you on that. Even if I could, I think you’re way up the wrong fucking tree.” He stood up. “Sorry, Zany.”
“Okay, Frank. I understand your situation.”
“You want to sit in while we chat with the rest of these chippies?”
“No, thanks. I’m dealing with a better class of people.”
“They’re all the same, Zany. That’s the first thing you learn.”
Poe owned seven hotels, four of them in Chicago. He was sitting in the lobby of one of the cheapest, reading a sailing magazine, glancing up whenever anyone entered.
The hotel, just north of the Loop, was marginally respectable, patronized by second-rate businessmen, tourists on bargain tours, and the occasional couple in for a quickie. The policy Poe had set for the management was to keep out the cheap whores from off the street, but to let higher-priced call girls work the place if they didn’t make trouble. He’d been sitting in the lobby for less than an hour, and already three such ladies had come through. It was only a little past nine o’clock.
The staff thought he was just checking out the operation, and were unusually courteous and efficient as a consequence. They were paying far more attention to him than to the working girls who came in.
Another swung through the door. She was tall, beautifully built and nicely dressed, though the outfit was likely an inexpensive discount knock-off.
She was blond, or at least wearing a decent wig.
Poe felt lucky. He thought he’d have to spend several nights at this.
He watched her walk. “That one,” he said.
The man next to him put down his newspaper. “Okay. You’re sure she’s a hooker?”
The Big Score Page 16