The Big Score

by Kilian, Michael;

  “Nope. Said he’d call back.”

  “I’ve been trying to get a hold of that guy all day.” Zany looked at his watch, then began reading the report. The coffee, as usual, was terrible.

  The younger Curland called again just as Zany was about to leave for home. He spoke very slowly and carefully—as drunken drivers often did trying to sound sober.

  “My brother informs me you wish to know where I was Friday night, the night when Miss Langley was—was murdered?”

  “That’s right.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I’m a policeman. This is what we do when people get murdered. She used to work for you. We found a painting on her, a painting in your museum. Apparently a copy. So I’m a little curious.”

  “I resent, sir, the implications of your question.”

  “Why don’t you just answer it, so we can get this over with?”

  “I was at a gambling casino, in Indiana. Poe’s Palace. I have cash receipts to prove it.”

  “You were there all night?”

  Curland paused. “No. Afterward, I came back to Chicago and spent the night with a friend.”

  “What friend?”

  “A ladyfriend.”

  “And who was that?”

  “Sir, you must realize that, I mean, this could be a considerable embarrassment for her, were it to become public.”

  “Mr. Curland, this isn’t very helpful.”

  Curland said nothing. Zany leaned back in his chair, waving a good night to Hejmal and Barbara Vaclav.

  “Wait a moment,” Curland said. “I’ll put her on.”

  Zany waited. He could hear them talking in the background.

  “Hello?” The woman sounded nervous.

  “This is Chief Rawlings of the Grand Pier Police Department. Mr. Curland said you can verify his … where he spent last Friday night.”

  “Yes, yes, I can.”

  “He spent the night with you.”

  A pause. “Yes, yes, he did.”

  “May I have your name, please?”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “Yes.”

  “Christian had absolutely nothing to do with what happened. He couldn’t have been. He was with me.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But I need your name for the record. Otherwise this is kinda pointless.”

  “You promise you won’t reveal it to anyone unless it’s absolutely necessary?”

  “I’m a policeman, not a newspaper reporter. We follow procedures here. In court, if it’s pertinent, your name might be made public. I can’t promise you it wouldn’t. But, look, Mr. Curland isn’t being charged with anything. If what you say is true, there’s nothing to worry about. He’s not a suspect. We don’t have any suspects yet. I just have to check everything and everyone out. Now, please, what is your name?”

  “Very well. It’s Sally Phillips.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Poe had let too much business pile up unattended because of his preoccupations. Concentrating on it, he let several days pass before getting around to his first sailing lesson from Matthias Curland. Mango was still in Indiana, so he had one of his other secretaries schedule the session, for eight A.M. the next morning.

  Poe found Curland there at the appointed hour, on the dock and ready to go. He was dressed in khaki shorts, a navy-blue polo shirt, and boating shoes. Poe wore white trousers, a similar shirt, a pale-blue sport coat, and loafers—clothes he customarily wore aboard his motor yacht.

  “Good morning,” Curland said. He sounded cheerful, but looked a little drawn and haggard, as if he’d been ill.

  “Morning. Where’s the boat?”

  “This is it.”

  Curland was standing in front of a small day sailor tied fore and aft to the dock. It couldn’t have been twenty feet long.

  Poe frowned. “I was expecting something bigger. What the hell is that?”

  “It’s a Rhodes nineteen. Made by the O’Day company. Very reliable. Broad in the beam. A first-rate boat to learn on.”

  “It’s yours?”

  “I rented it.”

  Poe glanced about the harbor area. What would people think, seeing Peter Poe in an overgrown dinghy?

  “Let’s get going then.” Poe went to the edge of the dock and eased himself into the cockpit of the craft. His foot slipped and he landed on the seat with a thud, causing the boat to sway.

  “Next time you might want to try better shoes,” Curland said, undoing the aft line. “Something like mine. Or even tennis shoes. Something with purchase on wet surfaces.”

  “Right,” Poe grumbled. He didn’t like sitting there, being told what to do.

  “You might also want to take off that jacket and stow it in the cuddy.”

  “Cuddy?”

  “That compartment forward. You can stick it in one of the sail bags.”

  “I’ll just keep it on.”

  “We could get some spray. The wind’s more than fifteen knots out there.”

  “All right.”

  “Or are you too cold?”

  “I’m not cold.”

  A storm front had passed through the city the night before but the rain clouds had blown out far across the lake. It was bright and clear in the wake of the line of bad weather, with cool, brisk winds out of the north. Poe could see flicks of whitecaps out beyond the breakwater. He felt unsure, even nervous. He hoped he could keep Curland from seeing that.

  Taking a winch handle from his pocket, Matthias hoisted the mainsail, which immediately commenced snapping and flapping noisily. He had the jib up a moment later. With a quick flip, he freed the bow line from the cleat on the dock, and then clambered back to the helm just as the wind began turning the boat.

  “I’ll take it until we get out of the harbor,” he said, pulling in the mainsail a little, the boat heeling over slightly as a consequence. Poe gripped the rail.

  “It’s kind of rough.”

  “Don’t worry,” Curland said. “We’ll stay inside the outer breakwater today.”

  “Not too close to the harbor.”

  Curland studied him. “You’d rather people didn’t see us?”

  Poe glowered.

  “Don’t worry,” Curland said. “We’re just another boat. No one will notice who’s aboard.”

  They zigzagged through the armada of craft moored in the harbor. Poe was annoyed at having to shift sides with every change of tack, but did as he was told. Curland maneuvered the boat effortlessly, seemingly without giving it any thought, working both mainsail and jib by himself, explaining that the ropes that held the sails were called sheets and that the others were lines. He kept talking throughout, giving Poe the reason for everything he did.

  They passed the inner breakwater at some speed. The water beyond was choppy, causing the bow began to rise and fall sharply, the rocking making Poe feel a little queasy. On the Queen P, you hardly felt the bow pitch, even in rough weather. It had horizontal stabilizers just under the waterline.

  “Maybe this is far enough,” Poe said.

  “I think so. There’s plenty of sailing room. Not many other boats out.”

  Poe wondered if that was because of the weather. Fifteen knots didn’t sound as bad as the water looked. He hoped he didn’t look scared.

  “I want to take the controls, I mean, the tiller,” he said.

  “Not quite yet. First you’re going to have to master the points of sail. We’ll start with a run.”

  He went on from that through a beam reach, close reach, and close haul, pulling the mainsail in closer with each change. The last maneuver brought them into what seemed the face of the wind, though Curland said they were at a forty-five-degree angle to it. The bow plunged and bucked, colliding with the oncoming waves with big slaps of spray. The craft heeled over sharply. Curland let the mainsail out a little, and they came back to a more level attitude.

  “I really don’t need to ease off on the mainsail like that,” he said. “The rail’s not exactly under water. But I think you
’ll be more comfortable.”

  “I don’t want to be more comfortable. I want to learn.”

  “As you wish.”

  After the eleventh run-through, Curland let the boat fall off into a more gentle broad reach, then had Poe change places with him.

  “Take the helm,” Curland said. “You try it.”

  Poe was a quick learner. Though he was a little timid at coming up too close to the wind, he got so he could coordinate the sail and steering without any bungling. Curland was surprised, and pleased.

  “Well played, Mr. Poe.”

  “What?”

  “Well done. You’re doing very nicely.”

  “So now I’m ready to go out myself?”

  “Not quite, but you have an idea what it’s about. Next time we’ll practice some man-overboard drills.”

  “You’re going to throw me overboard?”

  Matthias smiled politely. “We’ll use a lifejacket or something.”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “All right.”

  “I like this.”

  “Good.”

  “How are you doing with that drawing we talked about?”

  “I’m done. They’re in my car.”

  “‘They’?”

  “I did a couple. I came up with two ideas. It’s not a finished presentation, but you’ll see what I have in mind.”

  “Let’s go take a look.”

  Curland took the helm, brought the boat smartly about, and set it on a course for the harbor entrance.

  Poe was surprised to see that Curland’s car was a Rolls-Royce Corniche. He’d expected a nondescript American sedan of the sort so many Chicago Old Money people drove. They never seemed to care about this form of status.

  “Nice car,” he said.

  “It’s my father’s. And it’s very old.” He unlocked the trunk, taking out a large, flat, slightly cracked leather briefcase. He removed the first of the drawings, the one showing the obelisk-like tower.

  “Very interesting,” Poe said finally.

  “It’s just a preliminary sketch,” Curland said. “A rough. But the essential idea is there.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “It has some problems.”

  “I like the sharp point at the top. Like a sword point. It says ‘Don’t fuck with me.’”

  “Well, that’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

  “Sure it is. Because that’s what I had in mind. You understood.”

  Curland looked away.

  “So what’s the problem?” Poe asked.

  “It’s not cost effective. You have too much structure for the inhabitable space. You’d have to charge too much for the apartments.”

  “Why? People would pay any amount to live here. If it’s the world’s tallest building.”

  “On the lakefront, perhaps, but not at Cabrini Green.”

  “Let me worry about that.” Poe pulled out the second drawing, eyeing it with some puzzlement. “What’s this? A sailboat?”

  “It’s supposed to make you think of one. It’s a building. It has the extraordinary height you want, but a lot of ground-level frontage as well—without sacrificing a dramatic profile. The sides would be all glass. Depending on how you situated it, there’d be fantastic effects at sunrise and sunset.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “It looks more complicated, but this design is much more efficient than the other. You’d have a lot of apartments—and office space. The problem here is the length of the base. You’d need more property, a more linear tract. You’d have to expand your Cabrini Green holdings by at least one more block. I made the calculations.”

  “It has that sharp point at the top, too—just like the other.” Poe put the first sketch back on top, studying it some more. “You worked these up just in the last few days?”

  “Yes.”

  “These aren’t old ideas somebody else rejected?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Amazing. I don’t know why you got out of the architecture business.”

  “I’m afraid my ideas cost more money than most developers ever wanted to spend. And you couldn’t put buildings like this up on Michigan Avenue.”

  “I don’t want you worrying about money.”

  Matthias laughed, to himself.

  “I’ll let you know,” Poe said, rolling up the drawings.

  “Do you want me to work up some specifications? I’d need some help from Cudahy, Brown.”

  “I don’t want you to do anything just yet. And I don’t want you talking to Cudahy, Brown. If I decide to go with this, I’d want to announce it with a really big splash.”

  “Mr. Poe. You’re paying me two thousand dollars a week. I should be doing something for it, aside from teaching you how to avoid capsizing.”

  “You’re earning your money, and if I should decide to go with this, you’ll be earning a hell of a lot more.” He looked at his watch. “You want me to hire your friend Sally for my foundation? Handle the charity events? Is that Jake with you?”

  “She’s rather good at that sort of thing, I suppose.”

  “Say no more. Done deal.” Poe hesitated. “There’s something else I need your advice on. You were on the Park District board, weren’t you?”

  “No. I did some design work for them once on the new Lincoln Park yacht basin, but that’s all. My grandfather was on the park board. My father was on the Forest Preserve advisory board.”

  “They’re going to need a new president—with that O’Rourke guy getting killed. I’ve got a little influence downtown. Who do you think I ought to back?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. I’m afraid I don’t have many political opinions.”

  “I just don’t want to see it go to somebody’s bought-and-paid-for hack. I think too much of this city. You know this guy Aaron Cooperman? He’s already a member of the board.”

  “He’s a fine architect. I went to school with him.”

  “He’s a friend of yours?”

  “He used to be a good friend, but I haven’t kept in touch with him much in recent years.”

  “A real liberal, right? Friends of the Parks? Active in Jewish charities? Independent politics? Belongs to Temple Shalom?”

  “As I recall.”

  “And a good guy, right? Straight, honest, can’t be bought? Can’t be influenced?”

  “He’s very much that way. But he’s something of a zealot about some things. Once he gets hooked on a crusade, well, he doesn’t stop to consider both sides of a lot of issues.”

  “You like him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll back him.”

  “Just like that?”

  “I tend to do everything just like that, Matthias. Keep moving. George S. Patton.”

  “I see.”

  “Diandra says she’s having you to lunch tomorrow.”

  “Yes. I meant to mention that. She wanted to see our museum.”

  “Take her to see all the museums. She doesn’t have anybody to do that with.” Another pause. “Maybe you could paint her picture.”

  “Christian’s the one to do that.”

  “No, thanks. I heard about his, er, brushwork. But I’m serious. You could do a nude. Christian says you do great nudes.”

  Matthias flushed.

  “Diandra’s a little skinny,” Poe continued, “but you could do one like, who was that guy, Botticelli?”

  “Sandro Botticelli. The Birth of Venus.”

  “Broad in a seashell. Don’t look so embarrassed. She’s posed like that before. Top model, you know. Think about it. See you tomorrow.”

  Poe strode off briskly to his waiting red limousine, the rolled-up drawings under his arm. He was surprised that Curland had been such an easy buy. In a few weeks, he’d own every molecule of the man. And he really liked the designs—both the goddamn designs. That had surprised him. Curland was damned good. The top. He owed Bitsie Symms one for this guy. Maybe he’d let her become Diandra’s
best friend. She was really panting after that, though Diandra sure wasn’t.

  Poe was smiling as Krasowski opened the limo door for him. After he attended to a couple other items, he might even find himself having a wonderful day.

  Matthias sat in his car without turning on the engine, contemplating the realization that he might soon be in business as an architect again, in a very big way. He had made copies of the drawings he had given Poe, but they were irrelevant. As a composer might carry every note of a work in progress around in his mind, Matthias had memorized virtually every line of his two designs. But they were exterior lines. Unlike a portrait painter, an architect had to provide the bones and sinew that supported the flesh, had to lay out the intricate network of nerves and blood vessels that would make his creation function. The more he could accomplish on his own, the less opportunity he’d give to the mediocrities at Cudahy to distort and diminish and corrupt his concept. He had much to do, presuming Poe said yes.

  He didn’t want to work at home, not with the possibility of Christian coming around to peer over his shoulder, and his father’s office in that dingy old building depressed him. He decided he’d use the office in the family museum. Certainly no one else was. Christian had let the security guards go shortly after Jill had left. There hadn’t been a request for a tour since he’d returned to Chicago. He turned the key in the ignition.

  He pulled the Rolls up behind a rusty and dented sedan that had been stripped of its wheels. If he used this place on a regular basis, he’d either have to get himself a cheap car or rely on taxis. No one was on the street. He decided he could risk leaving the Corniche there for an hour or two on this bright and sunny day.

  The work did not go well. Once settled into the museum’s office, he tried concentrating on the blank page of the sketch pad before him, but his eyes kept drifting to the empty desk that had been Jill Langley’s. She’d left two framed pictures on it. One was a print of a Winslow Homer seacoast scene that had been a favorite of hers. The other was a photograph of the three of them—Jill standing arm in arm with him and Christian on the deck of his boat. They were all smiling.

  He wondered why she had left them there, but the answer occurred to him very quickly. The picture of the three of them was symbolic. By leaving it behind, she was rejecting them.