The guard approached and pointed to an observation deck above the carnage. “Mr. Kane will see you now.”
I looked to where he was pointing. Brady Kane was standing up there—an immense, scowling golem. His bald head resembled the business end of a battering ram. I followed the guard up the stairs and onto the platform. Kane glanced over at me and then back down at the activities on the floor of the slaughterhouse.
I waited for him to say something. He didn’t.
“I appreciate your making time to meet with me,” I said.
He continued to stare silently at the scene below. “I understand you have some information for me,” I said.
He jerked his thumb toward a small table behind him. On it was a manila folder. I picked it up. Inside was a one-page computer printout entitled BY-PRODUCTS ACTIVITY—MONTH TO DATE. I looked down the page. There were summary inventory counts and sales revenues for a variety of beef by-products, including pancreas glands, fetal blood, beef warts, and a category labeled “miscellaneous (incl. gallstones).”
“Don’t you have a separate tally for gallstones?” I asked.
He turned his massive head toward me, his eyes cold. “Used to.”
“When did you stop?”
“Can’t remember.”
“More than a year ago?”
“Maybe,” he said, his face impassive.
“Who do you sell gallstones to?”
“Varies.” He looked down at the floor operations. “Same with the rest of the by-products.”
I held the one-page printout. “This is only November.”
He nodded.
“What about the records for the prior months?”
He shook his head. “Gone.”
“What do you mean?”
“Kept the hard copy off-site in a warehouse in Sauget. They were destroyed three months ago. Water pipe burst on ’em.”
“What about the computer records?”
“Virus.” He shook his head. “Zapped them all a couple weeks back. Damn shame.”
“All plant records?”
“Just by-products.”
“How convenient,” I said sarcastically.
“Filed a report on it.” He turned toward me, his eyes impassive. “They sent one of their tech boys in from Kansas City. He ran one of them antivirus programs. Filed a report, too. They got a copy up in Chicago.” He gave me a chilly smile. “Ought to be safe from here on out.”
***
I looked east in the night sky. Off in the distance I saw the blinking red light atop the Arch. As I gazed at the St. Louis skyline, I heard the sound of male voices. I turned to see two middle-aged men coming through the front door of the Douglas Beef plant. One was skinny and the other stout. They separated at the end of the front path and headed for their cars.
I checked my watch. Eight thirty-five. According to Walter Brunt, the accounting staff got off at eight-thirty tonight.
Next out the door was a youngish, chubby woman with platinum hair worn in an old-fashioned beehive. She was carrying a purse in one hand and a canvas lunch sack in the other. Another man, then another woman, and then April Lindner. Walter Brunt had pointed her out to me as we were leaving the building forty-five minutes ago. She had long brown hair and was wearing a St. Louis Blues jacket over a red miniskirt that spotlighted a pair of ample thighs (polkas, as my father used to call them).
I watched her walk rapidly to a white Camaro two rows over. As she got in her car, I started my engine. I pulled out of the parking lot behind her and stayed two cars back in traffic until she turned onto the eastbound entrance ramp to 1–64.
Now I had to make my decision. When Brady Kane ended our meeting by announcing that he was going downstairs to drain some fetuses, I had hung around the Douglas Beef parking lot as I tried to decide whether to approach April tonight or set up something for tomorrow.
Tonight or tomorrow?
Tonight.
I followed her up the ramp and kept another car between us until she took one of the Belleville exits. Coming off the ramp, I hung back far enough to blend in with the other headlights in her rearview mirror. She pulled into a filling station. I drove past and turned into a McDonald’s parking lot. I turned to watch as she pumped gas, cleaned her windshield, and went inside to pay. She came back out with a pack of cigarettes. Lighting one up, she got back in her car and drove out. I followed her down the road. Just past the next intersection she pulled into a 7-Eleven lot, parked the car, and went inside. I turned into a motel parking lot across the street, backed the car around so that I was facing out again, and waited, the engine idling. After about five minutes, I turned on the radio. It was tuned to an oldies station, which at the moment was playing “Little Red Riding Hood” by Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs. Sam started howling as she came walking out of the store carrying a grocery bag and a six-pack of Budweiser. I had to smile at the timing.
I followed her out of the 7-Eleven lot. Another mile or so down the road she turned off the main road into a residential area. I did, too, first clicking off my headlights. We were driving through what seemed to be a working-class neighborhood of brick bungalows and small ranch houses. She took a right and then a left and then another right. I hung back, watching from the intersection as her brake lights came on and she turned into the driveway of the seventh bungalow on the left, stopping in front of the garage.
I drove on past, trying to decide what to do. This was definitely the unscripted part. I got to the end of the block and pulled over to the side. The house had been dark when she arrived, which probably meant she was alone. I checked my watch. It was nine-twenty. Not too late. I turned right at the end of the block, and kept turning right until I was back where I started.
I drove slowly toward her house. There was now a big Dodge Ram pickup parked directly behind her car. As I drove slowly past the house, I noted the RUSH IS RIGHT sticker on the rear bumper of the pickup. I kept on going.
***
I got home at ten-thirty. There was a police car parked in front. Walter Brunt had certainly handled that part of his assignment well: there were squad cars cruising by my house throughout the night. I put my car in the garage and came back out front to see whether the cops wanted something to drink. Behind the wheel was a young white female officer. Her partner was an older, heavyset black man. They thanked me politely but said no thanks. Each of them had a takeout cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.
“There’ll be a squad car parked out here all night, ma’am,” the female officer told me.
I gave her a curious look. “Parked?”
She nodded. “That’ll be the routine for the next few nights.”
“How come?”
“Just a precaution. Junior Dice made bail about an hour ago. He’s back on the streets.”
There was a message on my answering machine from Jonathan Wolf with the same information. He ended by asking me to call him when I got in. I did.
“The risk is low,” he said. “Junior may be many things, but he’s not stupid. Nevertheless, a little extra police attention for the next few nights seems justified.”
“Thanks, Jonathan.”
“Sure,” he said brusquely. “Tell me about your meeting with Brady Kane.”
I filled him in, including the part about following April Lindner.
“Rachel, Rachel.” He sounded exasperated.
“I drove right past her house and went home.”
Ozzie came padding over and sat in front of me.
After a moment, Jonathan asked, “How do you feel?”
I scratched Ozzie behind the ear. “I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
I leaned over and kissed Ozzie on top of his head. “I’m sure.”
Jonathan was silent.
I laughed. “Don’t worry so much. I’m delighted to have
you tough guys in charge. I feel very safe.”
“That’s good. But if your feelings change, well…” He hesitated.
“Well what?”
“Well, if you have any anxiety about being there alone, I’ve told you we have an extra bedroom here. The bed is made. You’d have your own bathroom.”
“Thanks. I’m okay so far.” I ruffled Ozzie’s coat. “I’ve got a squad car outside and a big, ferocious dog in here with me. Right, Oz?” He wagged his tail in response.
Nevertheless, when I took my shower that night I had Ozzie stay in the bathroom with me, and before I went to bed I double-checked the electronic security system and I peered out the front window to make sure there was a squad car parked at the curb. There was.
***
The only place not secured that night was my unconscious, and it served up a doozy. In the dream I was standing on the foul, slippery concrete floor of the slaughterhouse dressed in a white wedding gown and veil. The gown and the veil were splattered with red. Next to me was Neville McBride, dressed in a business suit that was smeared with blood and offal. Inching toward us on meat hooks was an endless line of headless carcasses—a gruesome, swaying disassembly line. As each carcass stopped in front of McBride, he would slit it open from neck to groin with his carving knife. And all the while, as slimy ropes of intestines coiled at our feet and large gray organs flopped onto the concrete and an occasional spray of warm blood made us shield our eyes, McBride droned on and on about the tax advantages of certain limited partnership investments. As he lectured on the use of passive losses to offset gains, an especially large carcass stopped in front of him.
“Ah ha,” he said, eyeing the swaying body, “it’s about time, eh?”
He grasped it by the shoulder and sliced it open. But this time, as the red gash bulged out, I saw there was a human body inside, curled in a fetal position with its backside facing out. It slid through the opening and dropped out at my feet, the back of its head thonking against the hard concrete. It was a naked woman, and she was clutching something against her chest. Horrified, I knelt beside the corpse and tried to brush the hair away from the face. My eyes widened in surprise. It was Sally Wade. Her eyelids were open, only the whites of her eyes showing. She was clutching a telephone. As I staggered back, appalled, the phone started ringing. I looked over at Neville, whose eyebrows arched with amusement. “Answer it,” he said with a chuckle. “It must be for you.”
I awoke with a start and sat up in bed, my heart racing. Ozzie was on his feet, staring at me. My nightgown was wet with perspiration. I realized the phone was ringing. I looked at my clock radio: 2:47 a.m. I sat there rigid. The ringing stopped. I heard my answering machine go on downstairs—the taped message (“Hi, you have reached…”), then the beep, then a dial tone, then silence. A minute passed. Then another. My clock radio read 2:49 a.m.
And then the phone started ringing. I stared at it. One ring. Two rings. I picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Miss Gold?” It was a woman’s voice.
I paused. “Who is this?”
“My name is Tammy.”
Chapter Thirty-two
It was close to noon on Friday. We were down to our last two boxes. Amy had one of them in front of her, and I had the other in front of me. The two of us were seated on the rug in the reception area of Sally Wade & Associates. As far as I could tell, we knew nothing more about Sally’s connection to Douglas Beef than we had when we started.
Stifling a yawn, I moved my head side to side to stretch my neck.
Amy leaned forward with a look of concern. “You look exhausted, Rachel.”
I nodded wearily. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“How come?”
“She called.”
“Who?” Her eyes got wide. “Oh, my God, you mean that woman? Tammy?”
I nodded.
“She actually called you? Wow. What did she say?”
“Not much.” I frowned. “She said she knew something important about the night of the murder, but she refused to say what it was.”
“Why?”
I shrugged in frustration. “She was incredibly skittish. She told me that she was calling from a pay phone and wouldn’t talk long because she was afraid that the police would trace the call. I tried to assure her that the police didn’t even know about the call, but she told me that I was too naive. She said she might be willing to talk to me in person, but it had to be completely off the record. She said she didn’t want her name in the paper or her picture on the news, and if there was any risk of that happening she’d vanish and we’d never hear from her again. Then she gasped and said there was a car coming down the street and hung up.”
“This is incredible,” Amy said, shaking her head in wonder. “Do you think she’ll call again?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea.” I paused. “She sounds like she’s from Chicago.”
“Chicago?” Amy said. “What do you mean?”
“Her accent. Sha-CAW-go. Sout-west. Sounded vintage Chicagoland to me.”
“Have you told anyone else about her call?” Amy asked.
“Jonathan Wolf.” I gave her a concerned frown. “I told him I’ve got a bad feeling about that woman.”
“What do you mean?”
“Whatever she has to say isn’t going to be good for Neville.” I sighed. “Just a gut feeling.” I shook my head. “And if I’m right, so be it. The most logical explanation for Sally’s murder is still the one the police have.”
“But what about the explosion? And that creep in the Schnuck’s parking lot?”
“Maybe,” I said, lifting the next file out of the box, “but not necessarily. Remember, there’s nothing that conclusively ties that stuff to this case.” I flipped idly through the file. “It could still be an angry ex-husband or a crazy former client. The only direct link to Sally Wade so far is the night Junior Dice broke into my office.”
We worked alongside one another in silence for a while, leafing through each of the files in the box.
“How did you leave it with her?” Amy asked.
I looked up and shrugged. “Just the way I described it. Maybe she’ll call, maybe she won’t.”
When we finished the last boxes, Amy left for lunch and a doctor’s appointment. I went into Sally’s office to check in with Jacki and pick up my messages.
Benny Goldberg had left two for me. I caught him just as he was leaving to teach his antitrust seminar. He wanted to know if he could drop by tonight after dinner.
“I’ll rent a movie and we can make some popcorn.”
That sounded wonderful—a relaxing night at home with company. “Sure,” I told him.
“Should I bring my three-piece latex suit?”
“Should I recharge my rhino stun gun?”
“Never mind.”
I returned a few other calls, the last to the lawyer who was representing a witness in an age discrimination case that I was handling for one of my mother’s friends. As the lawyer blabbered on about certain attorney-client privilege issues, I flipped on Sally’s computer. When I got to the main screen, I poked around until I found the directory that contained the draft lawsuit that she had brought to my office the day she (or someone posing as her) retained me. Eventually, the lawyer talked himself out. Hanging up, I studied the date-created information on the terminal screen. It was the same directory Amy had located for me back when we first looked through Sally’s computer. It showed that the draft lawsuit had been created the morning of the day she came to visit me. Fairly compelling evidence. Indeed, the police had made a copy of the computer hard drive for that very reason.
Then again, I reminded myself, the date-created screen wasn’t dispositive. Someone could have planted the document. Anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of computers could have taken a document create
d on another computer, copied it to a floppy disk, transferred it to Sally’s hard drive several days later, and voilà—it would look as if Sally had created the document back on the same date the document was originally created.
But, I cautioned myself, the most obvious explanation is also the most logical, namely, that Sally Wade herself typed the draft lawsuit right here at her own computer terminal just before she came to see me on October fifteenth.
I sat back and stared at the screen with my arms crossed over my chest.
Then again, if someone could add a document to her computer, someone could delete one as well.
I rummaged through my briefcase and found Tyrone Henderson’s instructions for launching the undelete program. I typed in the commands and waited. The screen went blank except for the lower right corner, where the word SEARCHING started flashing. It flashed for almost thirty seconds, and then a new message appeared:
12 DELETED DOCUMENTS HAVE BEEN LOCATED AND RECOVERED. TO VIEW UNDELETED DOCUMENT #1 OF 12,
PRESS ANY KEY…
Chapter Thirty-three
Ten minutes after Benny arrived with three bags of microwave popcorn, a jumbo box of Milk Duds, a large bag of M&M’s, and two videotapes, the doorbell rang. We exchanged puzzled looks. Benny followed me to the door.
“Who is it?” I called.
“Your mother, doll baby. Let me in.”
I gave her a hug and kiss, and so did Benny.
“Here,” she said, handing me a covered platter. “I brought something sweet.”
“Way to go, Sarah G,” Benny said, peering under the cover. “Oh, baby, is that your world-famous banana bread?”
My mother nodded. “I baked it today.”
“Let’s have some dessert, ladies.”
We got out the plates and silverware and I put on water for tea.
As we waited for the water to boil, I filled them in on my day, starting with my review of the Douglas Beef files.
“So what did you expect to find?” Benny said when I was through. “A bag of gallstones and a signed receipt from Brady Kane?”
“I was hoping to find something in those files.”
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