“That’s not very nice, Jacki.”
“You’ll see.”
I sighed. “Okay. Anything else?”
“Yes. The libel case. I checked on the two subpoenas.”
“And?”
“Good news. Neiman-Marcus will produce their documents and the actual returned item tomorrow afternoon.”
“Super. Did they tell you what the item is?”
“Nope, but I’m guessing a purse.”
I whistled. “That’s an expensive purse.”
“Hey, Rachel, Cissy Thompson wasn’t exactly shopping at Target.”
“What about the other one? The fancy shoe store at Plaza Frontenac?”
“La Femme Elegante.” She gave it an exaggerated foreign pronunciation. “They’ll produce their stuff tomorrow, too. I’ll drive out there and pick them both up after lunch.”
“Good work, Jacki.”
“Thanks. Whoops, that’s the other line. See you later, Rachel.”
I sorted through the notes and documents in my briefcase, checking off items from my list of topics. I found Amy back in the file room collating bills.
“Do you know what kind of calendar Sally had?” I asked.
Amy looked up from the documents. “One of those little black ones,” she said. “She used to keep it in her purse. Why?”
I shrugged. “It’s missing. It wasn’t listed on any of the inventories.”
Amy frowned. “That’s strange. Fortunately, I kept track of most things on a calendar on the computer.”
“Do you mind if we take a look at it?”
“No problem. Come on.”
I followed her back to her desk. Her computer was already running. She hit a few keys and a calendar appeared on the screen. I leaned forward to study it.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“Meetings.” I scanned the entries for October 15 through her last day alive. “Rats,” I said. “No meetings.”
“Why meetings?”
“Meetings have people. People are witnesses. I need a witness.”
Amy gave me a perplexed look. “A witness to what?”
“To Sally’s physical condition. I need to find someone who spent time with her on that Thursday or Friday. Or even over the weekend. I need to find someone who can testify to her injuries.”
“Why?”
“Because Neville totally denies hitting her. He claims he hadn’t seen her in months.”
“Yeah, right,” Amy said bitterly.
“He and his lawyer think she may have faked the injuries.”
Amy slapped her hand on the desk. “Those jerks! Typical male reaction. That really pisses me off.”
“I know,” I said with a weary sigh. “It’s exactly what I warned Sally about when she came to see me.” I leaned back and rapped a pencil on the desk in frustration. “I still need a witness.”
“You’ve got me.”
“But you can’t testify to much. You didn’t actually see anything, and she didn’t tell you about the incident. I need more than you can give.”
“Listen, Rachel,” Amy said with quiet intensity, “if you need to prove that her ex-husband is a no-good cheating bastard, I’m your witness.”
I stared at her. “What do you mean?”
She leaned forward, her eyes burning. “I met him about six months after they got married. He came over with her one day to check things out.” She gave a cynical laugh. “He definitely checked things out. Like my boobs and my legs and my butt. A couple of weeks later, when Sally was out of town on business, he called to say he had a client meeting in the vicinity and wanted to know if I’d join him for lunch. I was kind of caught off guard, and I said yes. Well, twenty minutes into lunch, the guy’s downed three Bloody Marys and is trying to slide his hand up my thighs.”
I shook my head. “Unbelievable.”
“Tell me about it. Well, I survived that lunch, but the guy pestered me for at least a month after that. He’d call me at home, call me at work, trying to get me to go out with him. He had to attend some seminar in Boston and had the gall to ask me if I wanted to join him for the weekend.” She shook her head, seething over the memory. “This was all just six months after he married Sally! Can you believe it? He’s a total snake, Rachel. If you need a character witness, count me in.”
She checked her watch. “Damn. Listen, I’ve got to run to the Granite City Courthouse for a status call on one of Sally’s cases. It won’t take long. I should be back in forty-five minutes.”
“No problem. I’ll lock the door if I leave before you’re back.”
I was still there when she returned, waiting to ask my one question.
I’d spent most of the time searching for client files that matched the plaintiffs’ names on the nine-page handwritten document I’d found in Sally’s safe deposit box—the document with the mystery names in the second column. I was able to locate five client files: Zenger, Janney, Gianino, Blakeman and Stahl. The others, I assumed, had been closed and sent off to storage.
Then I brought the files into Sally’s office to review them closely. I was looking for any reference to the names that appeared in the second column and some clue as to what the percentages and dollar amounts in the other columns were all about. I jotted down a summary chart:
I slowly paged through every document in each of the five files. Nowhere did any of the names in the second column appear. Four of the five cases were still active; the Blakeman case had settled. I found the Blakeman closing statement in the file:
I examined the closing statement and then glanced over at the handwritten entry for Blakeman:
Blakeman Rice 10 $1,100 11/8/95
The settlement date on the closing statement matched the date on the handwritten entry, but the dollar amounts were different. I looked at the percentage number. Ten percent. My eyes fixed on the $11,000 entry on the closing statement. Ten percent of $11,000 was $1,100, which was the number on the list.
I leaned back in the chair, my brows furrowed. What was the connection between the closing statement and the other document? And why had Sally kept that other document in her safe deposit box? I studied the closing statement. I paged through the nine-page list. I leaned back on the couch and stared at the wall.
And then it clicked.
Amy smiled when she came into the room and saw me. “Still here, eh?”
“I needed to ask you something.”
She hesitated. “Okay.”
“I want to show you a document I found in Sally’s safe deposit box.” I paused, choosing my words carefully. “Before I show you the document, Amy, I want you to understand that whatever you tell me will be protected by the attorney-client privilege. Is that clear?”
Amy nodded, her eyes wary.
“Take a look.” I handed her the document.
Amy slowly flipped through the pages. She kept her expression blank. When she finished the last page, she carefully closed the document and looked at me.
“Have you seen that before?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Here?” I asked.
“Sally used to keep it here. About a year ago it disappeared. She didn’t tell me where it went.”
“About a year ago?” I repeated.
Amy nodded.
“What else happened about a year ago?”
Amy gazed at me poker-faced.
“Illinois or Missouri?” I finally asked.
Amy looked down. “Illinois,” she said softly.
I nodded. “Is it still pending?”
“I don’t know. Sally never said.”
“You see the first column on that list?”
She nodded.
“Those are Sally’s clients, correct?”
“Yes.”
“See t
he names in the second column?”
She nodded.
“Are those chasers?”
She stared down at the list for a while and then looked up at me.
“Yes,” she said.
Chapter Nine
Benny squinted at the photograph. “What the fuck are these goddam things?”
I shook my head. “I haven’t got a clue.”
He held the photograph at arm’s length, then brought it up close. He tilted it sideways. “Petrified rabbit turds?”
“Wrong size.”
“Where do you get size?”
“Here.” I slid another one of Sally’s photos across my desk toward him. It was a close-up shot of three of the objects alongside a ruler.
Benny scrutinized the picture. “About two centimeters, eh?” He looked over at me. “How big is that?”
“A little under an inch, I think.”
He grunted in irritation. “Fucking metric numbers. Who’s the yahoo who came up with that system?”
We were in my office. I had returned from Sally’s office at quarter to five, and Benny had dropped by twenty minutes later toting his idea of a light afternoon snack: a chilled six-pack of Pete’s Wicked Ale, a bag of jumbo pretzels, a huge slab of extra-sharp cheddar, and a summer sausage the size of a Louisville Slugger. Jacki couldn’t hang around because her property law class started at five-thirty, so Benny hacked off a thick slab of sausage for her to take along.
Sally’s photographs were an enigma. There were twelve in all, and all twelve were shots of what appeared to be rust-colored stones. Some were brown, others yellowish-orange. Most were round, a few triangular or cube-shaped. In six of the twelve shots, about two dozen of the stones were displayed on a white tray. In four of the other shots, three of them were placed against a ruler. Their individual sizes ranged from 1.5 to 3.5 centimeters. The last two pictures had a bunch of them in what looked like a vacuum-packed plastic bag.
“Samples for a rock garden?” Benny said, studying the photographs. “Rusty machine parts?”
I studied the Walgreens photo-processing envelope and shook my head. “The timing makes no sense.”
“How so?”
“The day after she hires me—the day after I practically order her to have someone take photographs of her injuries—this is the film she drops off to be developed?” I turned over the envelope. She had filled out the name and address information. “I’ll have Jonathan Wolf’s handwriting expert look at this.”
“Speaking of which, what’s the story with the Wolf Man, anyway?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure. He called while I was out. We’ve been playing phone tag.”
Benny shuffled through the photographs again and handed them back to me. “Maybe his client knows what this weird shit is.”
“Maybe.” I dropped the photographs into the Walgreens envelope.
Benny pried off the cap of another bottle of ale. “More sausage?” he asked, reaching for the knife.
I shook my head.
He hacked off a big chunk. “So what’d you find over at Sally’s office?”
I filled him in on my afternoon. When I finished, he asked, “So what’s this Amy like?”
“She seems nice enough.”
He took a bite of sausage and washed it down with a big sip of beer. “She hasn’t put on a lot of weight, has she?”
I looked at him oddly. “Huh?”
Benny raised his eyebrows lecherously. “I definitely remember her water bed ad. We’re talking blue veiner city.”
I let out a long-suffering sigh. “You have such a winsome touch with words, Benny. I’m sure she’d be charmed.”
“Now don’t go Fem-Nazi on me, woman. When we’re talking Amy Chickering we’re not exactly talking Margaret Thatcher. We’re talking about a woman who poses in a negligee on a water bed with her hooters on display. Something tells me that the goal of that commercial is not to make guys fantasize about a night on the water bed discussing Spinoza.”
“Touché,” I said grudgingly.
He gave me a leer. “Which is not to say I wouldn’t mind discussing Spinoza with her on a water bed. Or Plato, for that matter. After all, it would be a shame to let my undergrad degree go to waste. Maybe you can introduce us.”
I gave him a cynical look. “Are you planning to impress her with the size of your epistemology?”
“Hey, woman, as Manny Kant once said, it’s not the length of your metaphysics, it’s the quality of your categorical imperatives.”
“I love when you philosophy guys talk dirty.”
The phone rang and I answered it.
“Ah, Miss Gold,” my caller said in that familiar nasal staccato. “I believe you attempted to make contact with me earlier this day.”
I gave Benny a wink.
“Who is it?” he whispered.
I said into the mouthpiece, “Hello, Melvin.”
Benny grinned broadly. “Melvin? Put that lunatic on the speaker box.”
“Melvin,” I said, “there’s someone else here. Hang on.” I pressed down the speakerphone button and replaced the receiver. “Are you still there?”
“I am indeed, Miss Gold.”
Benny leaned toward the speakerphone. “Mel, baby, how’s the main vein?”
“Oh, no.” I punched the mute button. “Not now, Benny,” I pleaded.
“Ah,” Melvin’s voice crackled over the speakerphone, sounding more duck than human, “is that Herr Doktor Goldberg?”
Benny reached over and clicked off the mute button. “Hey, colostomy bag,” he shouted into the speakerphone, “I said, ‘How’s the main vein?’”
Melvin giggled. “Uhh, up tight,” he recited, “and, uhh, out of sight.”
I groaned and leaned back in my chair. “Not again,” I said glumly.
It was too late. They were already several lines into their old routine—the one they’d perfected back in the days when we were all young associates at the Chicago office of Abbott & Windsor. Benny and Melvin had shared an office their first year. Benny detested him from the start. “That turbocharged geek is driving me batshit,” he used to complain to me over lunch at our favorite Chinese restaurant, nestled in the perpetual shadow of the Board of Trade.
But then, one fateful night during our first year at Abbott & Windsor, something magic happened. Benny returned to the office late after sharing several rounds of beers with some college buddies passing through Chicago. Melvin was still there—Melvin was always still there—but for the first time, they actually had a conversation, the substance of which Benny never disclosed. And then, wonder of wonders, Benny invited Melvin back to his apartment, where Melvin smoked his first and only joint. (Benny captured it on film, and surrendered the negative several weeks later after extracting Melvin’s agreement to help him draft interrogatories for one of Benny’s cases.) After the joint, they listened to Benny’s Firesign Theater albums, which Melvin committed to memory after just one play. Overnight, Melvin was transformed from circus geek to Benny’s science fair project. The two of them worked up a bizarre routine—a grab bag of rock lyrics, Firesign Theater riffs, and movie dialogue—and sprang it on the rest of the junior associates in the firm cafeteria the next morning. It was an instant classic, and remained funny the first ten or twenty times you heard it. This, however, was about the five thousandth time I’d heard it.
“My liege,” Benny was saying, “what has happened to your nose?”
“I, uhh, just returned from Rome.”
“What-what?”
“What-what-what-what?”
“Excellent, Mel, excellent.” Benny looked at me and winked. “This guy is totally awesome. He’s so far ahead of the curve it’s scary.” He turned to the speaker box. “Tell me the truth, Mel. Back in college did you do a lot of acid?”
“Hydrochloric
or sulfuric?” Melvin answered, punctuating his joke with a machine-gun burst of high-pitched cackling.
I put my finger on the mute button and stared at Benny. “May I proceed, Professor?”
Benny bowed with a sweeping gesture of his hands. “The dude is all yours.”
I released the mute button. “Melvin?”
“Yes, Miss Gold.”
I paused a beat and gave a weary sigh. “You’re allowed to call me Rachel.”
“Indeed.”
I looked over at Benny and shook my head. Benny snickered.
“Melvin,” I said, “do you still have any contacts within the Illinois Disciplinary Commission?”
“I happen to have two exceptional sources of information within that estimable organization. You have in mind a particular investigation?”
“I do. I’m counsel to the personal representative for the Estate of Sally Wade. She was a personal injury lawyer down here in Madison County. I think she may have been the subject of an ongoing investigation.”
“I see. Do you happen to know which provision of the Code of Professional Responsibility her inquisitors accuse Ms. Wade of transgressing?”
“The very same one involved in that Lester Fleming lawsuit you worked on.”
“Ah-ha! Chasers?”
“Chasers,” I confirmed.
“I shall contact my sources in the morning. I should be able to obtain copies of all pertinent investigative materials by the end of the day. Will you be available the following morning?”
I glanced at my calendar. “Sure.”
“I shall deliver them to you personally.”
“You don’t have to do that, Melvin. Just put them in the mail.”
“Ordinarily I would, Miss Gold, but I will be traveling to your fair city to attend yet another round of Bottles & Cans depositions.”
I looked over at Benny in amazement. “Can you believe that case is still going on?” I whispered.
“Shall we say nine o’clock at your office, Miss Gold?”
“That’d be great, Melvin. Thanks.”
“I’m teaching at nine, Mel,” Benny called out. “I’ll hook up with you later in the day.”
“Excellent, Benjamin. I shall anticipate our rendezvous with great fervor.”
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