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A Cadgers Curse

Page 9

by Diane Gilbert Madsen


  "Wow. I wasn't sure what to expect. Let me see."

  "This is police property. I can't let you take these with you."

  "But ..."

  "But if you promise to take me to lunch," he laughed, "I'll let you look at them and copy down anything you want."

  "Give me those." I leaned across the desk, but he held them out of my reach. "Okay. Okay. Lunch next week. Now hand them over."

  He did, and I opened them eagerly. The prints from the Coke can belonged to someone named Dan Karton with an address in Plymouth, Massachusetts. I pulled out the photo in the Dan Karton file. No doubt about it. It was John Olson. Online Detective had come out clean on the name of John Olson, and now I knew why. Dan Karton had been busted on a marijuana possession when he was sixteen-a good enough reason to want to change identities.

  Jeff Fere was going to be very interested in this development. I was going to recommend that HI-Data check the employment roster of Steinmetz A.G. and any other competitors to confirm or deny whether Olson came to HI-Data as a spy. I'd also advise them to do an indepth investigation before, not after, an applicant was hired.

  I copied down what I needed, and Fernandez and I shook hands.

  "Remember, I'm looking forward to that lunch," he said. "Don't forget, or I'll tell Phil you got me in trouble."

  EIGHTEEN

  I GAMBLED THAT THE Miata was safe in the police lot with all the cops scurrying hither and yon. Even so, I was nervous starting it up, and let out a deep breath as the motor purred and the heater did its thing.

  I was headed to Joe Tanaka's place on the north side of the Loop. All the trainees had been told that the time frame for the investigation was tight, so I was counting on them being cooperative, even though it was the day after Christmas. My plan was to drop in on Tanaka unannounced. If he was there, great. If not, I'd try again until I caught him. I never make appointments on a comprehensive unless it's with a public institution. No sense giving anybody a chance to straighten up, or say no.

  A few years ago, this north Loop neighborhood had been populated by vacant factories, too old and run down to be costeffectively renovated. A trend to convert the old printing companies into loft apartments had taken over, and now the area was booming again. For once, modern architecture was a good thing.

  The clouds had parted and sun glinted brightly off the remaining snow as I parked in front of Joe's building. I rang his bell twice and waited. He wasn't exactly happy to see me. I walked in under his protests.

  "I was out partying last night." He blinked his casual, bachelor eyes at me. "I lead a very active social life."

  I took my time surveying his apartment. It was on the second floor, but too far inland for a view of the lake. The place was decorated like the inside of a Sharper Image catalog when there used to be a Sharper Image. Along with an overabundance of electronic gadgetry, there was a twenty-speed titanium Peugeot racing bike standing against some expensive weight lifting equipment. His small kitchen looked unused except for a couple of empty beer bottles on the counter, but his living room overflowed with computers. Three were on desks against the wall, and a sleek lap-top was on his coffee table in the center of the room.

  I tried small talk before getting down to fact verification, but Joe was tight-lipped about everything personal. His file gave only the barest facts. Second generation Japanese-American. Mother: deceased; Father: inorganic chemist.

  "Your father, Joe, Sr., lives in Chicago?"

  "Yes, okay, but I don't see much of him anymore. He doesn't think Western," Joe said. "Why do you do this kind of work? You like nosing around other people's lives? With your looks, I don't see it. You should be investigating what's going on at HI-Data."

  "What about HI-Data? You mean something to do with Ken's death?"

  "That old guy? No. But there's rumors of a hostile takeover"

  "Where did you find that out?"

  "I'm just reading between the lines on some stuff I dug off the Web. You know, over one of my international computer link-up networks." Joe pointed at the various machines.

  "Have you got any details?"

  "Details, no. It's just a rumor. I don't know anything more. You told us you're the cracker-jack investigator. You should know all about this already."

  When I asked him if he'd known John Olson before they met at HI-Data, he said, "Why do you ask that? Why not ask about my sex life? That's good news. It's real healthy. You know," he said, moving closer and running his fingers up my arm, "I'm going to be making a lot of money real soon. What about getting it on?"

  I snapped my notebook shut and jammed my pen into my purse and gathered up my stuff to leave.

  "Joe, you just made my job a lot easier. I'm going to abort your bonding investigation and notify HI-Data at once."

  He jumped up and blocked the doorway. "No. You can't do that. I'll lose my job."

  "Then answer my questions-all of them-and I'll reconsider." I sat down again, pulled out my paraphernalia, and clicked my cheap American Insurance ballpoint pen on and off a few times for effect.

  Resignedly, he told me he'd never met John or the other trainees prior to being hired at HI-Data, nor was he familiar with their specific fields of study. He then hustled, if not willingly, at least efficiently about the apartment, collecting copies of his tax returns, lease, and other important papers that I enjoyed asking to see. On the surface, everything seemed to be in order, leading me to conclude that he was a jerk, but lacking evidence to the contrary, no worse. Naturally, I still had all the cross-checks going, which would verify everything I now had. I smiled and thanked him as I left. I pride myself on my professionalism.

  NINETEEN

  THE CLOUDS HAD CLEARED, and the sky was now bright blue. I headed north on the Inner Drive to Marcie Ann's apartment. The sharp winter sun glinted off Lake Michigan's roiling waves-a beautiful sight, but in December, cold enough to kill on contact.

  I rang the bell at Marcie's trendy near-north Lincoln Park apartment, then knocked. No answer. I immediately headed for Ron Rivers' place and would return here tomorrow.

  Ron, his wife, and their baby daughter rented a two-bedroom apartment in a four-plus-one on Wellington and Sheridan. The living room was small, but tidy, and accommodated a playpen and a beautiful seven-branched holiday menorah. Baby Sara plopped against my knees and ran her chubby fingers up and down my legs, apparently fascinated by the feel of pantyhose. Good thing my mother, Aunt Elizabeth, and the twins couldn't see this domestic scene with me in the middle. I'd never hear the end of it.

  Their modest status, Ron explained, was only temporary. They were about to pay off the last of his graduate school loans. His wife agreed that their "borrowed time" was coming to an end and the "good life" loomed on the horizon.

  Mrs. Rivers hurried through the little apartment gathering the lease and tax returns, birth certificates, and diplomas while Sara continued her fascination with my legs. So far, everything looked clean on Ron. I asked about takeover rumors at HI-Data, but he claimed he hadn't heard anything about that or about Ken's death, either. I said good-by after extricating myself from Sara's tiny hands. When the door closed behind me, I could hear them discussing what a takeover might mean to Ron's job security.

  TWENTY

  IT WAS GETTING LATE. I wasn't sure if I'd make it to Joyce and Company before Tom closed up shop. Nevertheless, still jumpy, I again opened the Miata's hood and checked the undercarriage before turning the key.

  Tom's eclectic bookshop was on the ground floor of a two-story building west of the loop near Oprah's Harpo Studios. The city fathers had turned Randolph Street into a boulevard along this stretch, and restaurants and trendy real estate have finally made Tom's investment of some years ago pay off. He had his own reserved parking spot directly outside the front door for loading and unloading books, which was a good thing because his street was usually parked up and you could cruise for an hour and still not find a parking spot. I parked in the pay lot across the street, took a ticket at th
e metal access gate, and hurried out.

  True to his word, the "Open" sign still hung on the door. A tiny bell tinkled as I entered. The mysterious and powerful smell of leather and old books engulfed me.

  Tom glanced up from a book. His dark-rimmed glasses shaded tired but interested eyes.

  "How does my good lady?" he asked in his best Shakespearean voice. "I've been waiting. I was half afraid your surprise was going to be Auntie Gorgon coming to meet me."

  "No, but she is tangentially involved. I promise this will be worth it. Where's the wassail?"

  "Alas, 'tis gone." He smiled through his tailored brown mustache. "A bunch of carolers came by, and needless to say, they were singing a lot more off key when they left." He chuckled heartily like Olde King Cole, and I could tell he was a bit fortified.

  "You're higher than Everest," I quipped as I sloughed off my coat and headed for the massive oak library table at one end of the room.

  "Mount Everest, I'll have you know DD, stands 8.85 kilometers above sea level, roughly the maximum height reached by international airplane flights, but much less than the 300 kilometers achieved by a space shuttle."

  "Yeah, and the Statue at the Lincoln Memorial is made up of twenty-eight stones. We know we can trade trivia all evening, but this is really important ... Can you clear a space here?"

  Tom shifted piles of books from the table onto the maple floorboards. He watched closely as I set the briefcase on the table, drew on Auntie's gloves and gently removed the leather pouch with the glass fragments and the manuscript.

  He rubbed his palms together. "Let's see what you've got here."

  He watched intently as I carefully opened the pouch, unwrapped the glass pieces and laid them out on the table.

  "Here you are, Tom. A little Christmas puzzle, as Sherlock Holmes would say."

  Tom pulled out a pair of surgical gloves from an open box he always kept on top of his kidney-shaped desk. He put them on and lifted each piece of glass and slowly studied it as I outlined what Auntie had told me, along with the bits of investigation I'd gathered from the Internet.

  When he'd finished examining the glass, he gingerly lifted the document.

  "So this has to do with that Auntie Gorgon of yours. I'm assuming that she and you are telling me all the facts as you know them. You wouldn't believe the number of people who bring things in and try to test me by withholding or making up data. So far, I've kept ahead of them."

  "Artifacts 101," I joked.

  Tom then slowly unfolded the document and examined it minutely. His forehead wrinkled as he scrutinized the etched lettering on the glass, bending forward for a closer look. He didn't appear tipsy anymore as he said, "Certainly looks like period handwriting."

  "Supposedly," I related, "Burns visited Stirling in 1787 to tour the seat of the Scottish kings. You probably know that's where all the Scots Kings were crowned. I looked it up on the Internet. It's one hell of an imposing fortress. Made me think of William Wallace and all that."

  "The castle rock at Stirling," Tom interjected, "has an interesting history with its Medieval great hall. It was built on a plain, 250 feet above an extinct volcano-and you're right, DD, a number of Scottish kings and queens were baptized, crowned, murdered, and were buried there since the days of Alexander the First and maybe even earlier."

  Tom's knowledge on almost any subject was daunting. I was supposed to be the statistician, and we always traded facts and figures. But somehow, no matter how hard I tried, he was always besting me.

  "Anyway," I carried on as his sharp eyes closely examined the document, "Burns supposedly wrote this poem with a diamondtipped pen on a window of the room he was staying in at the Golden Lion Inn during this visit to Stirling."

  "Writing with a diamond-tipped pen is not unheard of," Tom said. "Nathaniel Hawthorne was known to have used one to scratch notes on a window pane."

  "Oh, at the House of the Seven Gables?"

  "I expected that from you, DD. Glad to see you're in form tonight. No, it was at a home overlooking Concord Bridge, off the road to Lexington." "

  I read today on one web site that Burns liked to scratch verses all over on windows and above fireplaces. There's some museum in Scotland that has a window preserved from the Cross Keys Inn where he scratched a verse." "

  I do remember some mention of that one. History records that scratching verses with diamond-tipped pens all over Scotland was one of Burns' favorite pastimes. He also did it on a window of his home in Dunfries where he penned-scratched-a poem to Anna Park, her of the `golden locks' Hand me that lighted magnifier, will you?"

  I passed it over to him, and he continued his examination. Finally he said, "This definitely is not modern glass. And the inscrip tion's not in ink, so there'll be some differences in the script, but the writing appears quite compatible with the handwriting on the document."

  "So what's next?"

  "Looks like this is `a three pipe problem,' as Mr. Holmes would say. First, we check the handwriting against a known source. Next we identify the writing instrument, the paper, and note any watermarks. After that comes the hard part."

  I stifled a yawn as Tom climbed a half ladder.

  "I could contact one of the museums in Scotland that has Burns' Common Place Books. They were his version of a diary-full of ideas and old songs he'd heard-all in his handwriting. But since I've got a facsimile volume of the Glenriddell right here, we'll have an answer much sooner."

  "What's a Glenriddell? I know I've heard of it, but..."

  "It's a collection of poems that Burns himself redrafted in his own hand and presented to a friend, one Captain Robert Riddell. Usually all we get to work with is an isolated signature, but this volume will give us extensive reproductions of his writing.

  "By the way, DD, I hear your office building's coming down. Don't forget to give me your new address and phone number."

  "Sure," I drawled, "if and when I find someplace where the rent isn't more than my bank account."

  "Can't you work from your apartment?"

  "No way. I come in contact with a lot of weirdoes. That's why I'm unlisted in the phone directory. I can't have them knowing my home address."

  "Yeah, there's that," he grunted as he removed a calf-bound volume from a shelf about nine feet up.

  "This damn thing's really heavy," he groaned, climbing down and placing it on an antique library table covered with a silk cloth embroidered with camels.

  "Burns included over fifty unpublished poems in this collection. You know, some years later all hell broke loose in Scotland when an American purchased the original Glenriddell. But now it's back in Scotland at the National Library."

  He ran his finger down the index. "Here it is, page 80." He located the page and pointed. "Here's the verse, but it's not in Burns handwriting."

  I looked over his shoulder.

  "A scribe or amanuensis wrote it," he explained. "Common practice at the time. But Burns did write a few lines underneath it. See here."

  Tom the sleuth was enjoying this. I was too, but nonetheless found myself stifling another yawn. The wonderful smell of old books and the peace of the shop were having a soporific effect on me.

  "You do realize, DD, how extremely collectible Burns is right now? He's an icon. He's gotten even more popular throughout the years.

  "I wonder why?"

  "Think about it, DD. If you've ever sung `Auld Lang Syne,' you've quoted Robert Burns. A few years ago, a handwritten copy of `Auld Lang Syne' sold in the States for $170,000."

  "What would that sell for today?"

  "Oh, in general, prices tend to double every ten years or so." He laughed and waved his arms at the floor to ceiling bookshelves. "I'm surrounded by my retirement here."

  I surveyed the myriad maze of bookcases and yawned again.

  "You look beat, DD. I won't ask what you've been doing. Look, since all the wassail's gone, how about a nip of something else while I work on this?"

  "Yes, please," I said gratefully
.

  Tom took out a key and locked his front door. Then he ducked into a small kitchen, invisible to patrons behind a wall unit of antique oak barrister bookcases. I heard noises and the unmistakable clink of ice.

  I sat down in one of his Queen Anne style burgundy leather chairs. The bookstore was warm and comfy. The wonderful smell of old books permeated the air. I pulled off Auntie's gloves and rested my weary feet on his coffee table.

  When the bookman returned, he carried a tray with two glasses and a bottle labeled "Baker Street Blended Scotch Whisky." He poured a generous amount of the amber liquid into each glass.

  "Cheers. Since we're researching Burns, Scotch is definitely in order instead of my usual Jameson's Irish. Don't worry. You won't have to nurse a hangover. It's good booze. `Baker Street Scotch' isn't available anymore, so I keep refilling the empty bottle with Glen- fiddich Special Reserve. Now relax."

  The Scotch tasted great. I wanted to follow what Tom was doing as he began to compare handwriting samples, but my eyes wouldn't stay open. Everything was quiet except for the sound of pages turning.

  TWENTY-ONE

  "WELL, I'VE DONE WHAT I can for tonight," Tom said, breaking my reverie. "Come on over here, and I'll tell you what I've discovered so far."

  I stood up, still tired but somewhat refreshed.

  "Look at these letters in the manuscript," he pointed. "You can see from these capital Ss, Ts, and Ws, Burns' handwriting is what I'd call a plain, old-fashioned script. And the distinctive backward curl in the lowercase `d' is an unmistakable trait." "

  I see what you mean."

  "So, I've concluded that the handwriting on your document as well as the script on the glass appear to match samples of Burns' writing. This document seems to have been written with a quill pen, not a steel nib, and that's important."

 

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