The Last Lie

by Dana Killion

  I zeroed in on a note from Janelle Platt. She was calling a press conference back at 1871 to address women and technology. Looked like our conversation last week had either given her an idea or had been a practice run. I took a quick glance at my calendar. Good, nothing I’d have to reschedule. That gave me an hour to make some calls.

  I was still trying to understand where the belladonna had come from. Without the lot numbers, and therefore, the dates of the associated batches, it was difficult to pin down the source. The musical chairs that had been going on with VTF’s suppliers didn’t make it any easier. Olivia had been helpful last night with names of the new suppliers, and the altered PO felt like a step forward.

  I uploaded all the photos I’d taken of the purchase orders to my laptop, then printed them out, scanning the documents for patterns. I concentrated on the altered PO, looking for other occurrences of the specific handwritten SKU.

  An unknown number flashed on my cell phone and I picked it up.

  “Ms. Kellner, this is Luke Cavanaugh. You said you wanted to help me find out what happened to my Kelly. Is that still true?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, hearing the challenge in his voice. And realizing that he didn’t know about the belladonna. What was the protocol for telling him I might know what killed his daughter? He could also help me shed light on the supplier list. “I’m glad you called,” I let out a breath. “I just received some information that might explain what happened to Kelly.”

  I heard an intake of air on the other end of the line, whatever he’d called about now forgotten. “Go ahead.” His voice broke as he responded as if he wasn’t sure he was ready to know.

  “I hired a testing lab and brought them product, product from my sister’s stash. A contaminant was found.”

  “What? What kind of contaminant? That can’t be.” He seemed offended by the thought and what I imagined to be implications on his quality control process.

  “It’s a botanical toxin called belladonna. We aren’t sure about the timing, so this may or may not be related to Kelly’s death,” I said, feeling the need to inject caution. Without lab confirmation of cause of death, I was projecting. “Until CPD has a better handle on lot numbers, timing, and can figure out when the toxin was inserted into the process, we shouldn’t jump to conclusions, but I’m sure CPD will be in touch as they investigate.”

  “In the meantime, I’m looking at your vendor list. I want to see if I can figure out where the material might have come from. Would you be willing to look over a list of the suppliers that you worked with? Specifically, the suppliers of the botanical raw materials. Did you ever see belladonna on their product list? Anyone who might have been sloppy in filling orders? When did you first order from them? Things like that.”

  “Sure, I can do that. Email it to me.” He read off his address. “But I’m a little confused. Are you saying Kelly was poisoned? Why wouldn’t they know that when she died?”

  “Autopsies don’t always show everything at first glance,” I said, thinking about a difficult case I’d handled as an ASA. “I don’t know how this particular toxin reacts chemically to routine blood testing. Sometimes the ME has to be looking for that needle in the haystack. But it’s a good question for CPD and the medical examiner.” I made a note to myself to ask.

  “And you were the one who ordered this test, not them?”

  “Yes, as I told you, my sister is ill as well, so I hired a private lab. The forensic backlog can get pretty heavy.”

  “Then you can send me a copy of those lab results. I was calling to tell you I’ve hired an attorney. We’re filing a personal injury lawsuit against VTF.”

  Damn! The bad start to my day had just gotten worse. I was going to be dragged into being a witness in the legal proceedings. I told Cavanaugh I’d email him the vendor by the end of the day, then grabbed my coat to head over to Janelle’s press conference.

  By the time I’d arrived, twenty or so journalists and a handful of the film crews were gathered in the auditorium. The room on the corner of the building was flooded with light. A vivid orange wall adorned with a graphic mural contrasted with the exposed pipes and air ducts, increasing the manufactured cool factor.

  I said hello to a few of the journalists I knew, then took a seat in one of the molded plastic chairs. The rumble of conversation quieted as Janelle entered the room once again sporting the female version of a power suit.

  She glad-handed her way to the podium a warm smile on her face. I hadn’t figured out how I felt about her candidacy, but she sure had the polish and moves of a natural. I wondered if the public could get past her husband’s drama long enough to hear if she actually had positions on the local issues. And in this political environment, big city mayors had obstacles coming at them from all sides.

  She welcomed the group and wasted no time jumping into her agenda. Good. No-nonsense played well in Chicago.

  “Back in 2011, when 1871 was just an idea, a group of people gathered to discuss what it could be. A Brand Summit where Chicago’s entrepreneurial and city leaders gathered. They came to the simple conclusion that Chicago is a city of builders. That is our history, our DNA. And they wanted a place where business was built. But Chicago is also a city of immigrants. A diverse and wonderful city of neighborhoods. We have our issues, no doubt, and one of them, from my point of view, is that economic opportunities haven’t been equally distributed. Where are the women? Where are the people of color?”

  She paused, looking around the room, her gaze intense as phones recorded her words and quotes were written.

  “Shouldn’t women and minorities have the same opportunity to be builders?” she said. “Shouldn’t they have the same access to education, funding, mentorship, and entrepreneurship? That’s why I’m running for mayor.”

  She continued, outlining a five-point plan that would be the core tenet of her administration. She spoke with conviction and passion, more campaign speech than press release. I had to admire her strategy and hoped the TV news made good use of their clips. She wrapped up, not taking any questions. Again, good strategy. That way, no one could ask her about her husband, the schmuck.

  I jotted a quick note on the back of my business card and slipped it to her assistant. I knew she didn’t want the peanut gallery to throw her off message, but thought maybe I could get her alone. So, I did an end-around and requested five minutes in the conference we’d been in last week.

  Fifteen minutes later, Janelle walked in.

  “Nicely done Madam Mayor,” I said, giving her a smile. “You may have a future here.”

  “Did you like the ‘sorry, no questions today’?” she laughed. “Even you journalists have to be herded now and then. Unfortunately, you’re like herding cats. Present company excluded, of course. What’s on your mind? Race relations, budget deficits, sanctuary city status?”

  “None of the above. Although, I’ll take a rain check on those subjects.”

  She raised her brow and took a seat. “I’m all yours.”

  “When we spoke last week, you said something about Aaron Nadell being shady. Can you tell me what you’ve heard?” I leaned back in my chair and watched her face.

  “Can you tell me why you want to know?”

  “All I can say is that it appears his name may be in the news again related to a company he’s invested in. I don’t know if he’ll be on the sidelines or digging his own trench. I’m curious about the rumors you mentioned, and whether the past might be repeating itself.”

  “Aren’t you tired of men being assholes?” she shuddered. “Seems to be a genetic defect in most of them.” She smiled and shook her head.

  Although she didn’t say it, I imagined that we were both thinking about our ex-husbands failings right now.

  “Tawdry was the word I used, but I was being polite,” she said. “Rapacious and unscrupulous would be more accurate. About ten years ago, his company nearly went bankrupt. Turns out he had invested big into a software start-up that was spe
nding their dough like they had a personal ATM into Warren Buffett’s bank account. Aaron being Aaron, he was so excited by the potential upside, that he didn’t manage them, didn’t hold them accountable to budgets. Before you know it, the money’s gone, mostly on things the IRS wouldn’t approve of, and they’re nowhere near having a product.”

  She glanced briefly at a text that had popped up. I perked up at the word bankruptcy. Interesting timing. It seemed a safe bet that this was the situation that pulled Candiss into the business.

  “A sane business person would have taken the loss, tucked his tail between his legs, and shut them down. But that’s not Aaron, his ego won’t let him. That would have meant admitting to the world that he’d fucked the whole thing up. So he starts moving the shells and pulling money out of one deal and into another. Eventually he has to play fast and loose with the books to cover his tracks.” Janelle pursed her lips. “That’s the power of compounding lies.”

  “How did he get out of it?” I asked, my mind still on Candiss’s role.

  “I don’t know. But that’s when he switched his focus away from the glamour and glitter of the sexy tech sector and into the boring stuff.”

  “And how do you know all this?”

  “Because I know the guy who owned the software start-up. Part of his exit arraignment included a legal gag order that prevents him from discussing the details.”

  So, left to his own devices, Nadell’s business investment strategy matched his personality. Fast, loose, and blustery. With Candiss not around to reign him in, had he returned to old habits?

  34

  I pushed through the revolving door of the Merchandise Mart onto the street at the corner of Wells and Kinzie. Five feet out a blast of wind slapped me in the face, blinding me with dust for a moment. I cleared the debris stuck to my lipstick, pulled my scarf tighter around my neck, then fished out my gloves.

  Seth had left a phone message while I’d been meeting with Janelle. He’d been nearly incoherent, mumbling, asking me for my help. The situation he was in at VTF was far too complex for anything other than a high-priced legal team. If he was thinking I could get involved or smooth things over, he was quite mistaken. But I was frightened by the sound of him.

  I phoned the receptionist, who told me he was holed up in his office and had asked not to be disturbed. Something was wrong. The shooting, the legal pressure, the thought of whether he had been ingesting belladonna, all crashed through my mind. Was he ill or having a breakdown?

  After my last conversation with Cai, I’d been hesitant to call. Our conflicting interests had put tension in our relationship for the first time, but this wasn’t the time for pettiness. I punched in her cell.

  “Your client’s losing it,” I said, when she came on the line. “I need your help.”

  “What?”

  “Bowman, he’s having a breakdown or something. Hold on.” I paused as the “L” rumbled overhead.

  “Where are you?”

  “Kinzie and Wells. I’m heading over to VTF. Seth is either horribly sick, on something, or about to go off the deep end.” I relayed the tone and contents of the message. “I suggest you, or any other attorney you’ve helped him retain, meet me at their office before he does something stupid.”

  “Shit! Okay, I’m on my way. And I’m putting in a call to Turow.”

  “Turow? Oh, that’s cozy. I’ll text you if it looks like I need to call an EMT.”

  Harlan Turow was the attorney from Cai’s firm who had unsuccessfully defended Janelle Platt’s husband in the casino deal, and a total ass.

  Although it was only six blocks to the old brick warehouse, I hailed a cab as quickly as I could. Texting Brynn that I’d taken a detour. The building was now an office loft space, that housed VTF industries, and a handful of other creative businesses.

  In the five minutes it had taken me to get to the loft, the receptionist had moved from nonchalance to thank-god-a-grownup is here. Her panic was obvious in her inability to stand still.

  “He told me he didn’t want to be disturbed, but he’s like yelling, and like, throwing things. I called him a minute ago, and he was like, really rude to me. I’m afraid to go back there,” she said, twisting her long ponytail.

  Rude was not what I was worried about. “I’m going to go check on him,” I said to the young woman. “His attorney is on the way as well. Send them back when they get here. It will best if you can keep everyone else away from Mr. Bowman’s office right now.” She nodded vigorously, and I wrote down the attorney’s names. As I moved down the hall, I heard voices from an open door to a conference room.

  Martin and Olivia were inside having taken over the room. They looked at me blankly, seemingly as confused as the receptionist. Spare laptops, an extra printer, and a stash of office supplies filled the conference table. It looked like they’d settled in to keep operations moving as much as they could.

  “Do you know what’s going on at the end of the hall?” I asked, shooting my eyes from one to the other.

  “Bowman’s gone bonkers,” Olivia said with her usual tact.

  “Mr. Bowman is agitated,” Martin added, giving Olivia an eye roll. “He’s been in his office since early the morning. I got here at 7:30. We were supposed to review the budget, talk about what we were going to do about the orders for this week. He was already closed up in his office by then. I knocked for our meeting, but he told me to come back later.”

  “Ha, he threw a book at the door and screamed profanities at you. Playing like this is normal ain’t going to help,” Olivia said.

  “Has he been out or let anyone come in?” I asked, my concern ratcheting up.

  Martin shook his head. “The door’s locked.”

  “Any idea what set him off?”

  “Beyond the obvious?” Olivia said.

  “Stay here. I’m going to see if he’ll talk to me.” I said, ignoring Olivia’s commentary.

  The other doors along the corridor were closed, I assumed because of the ruckus, but I could see faces turn my way through the slim side lights as curiosity won out.

  Seth’s office was wedged into the back end of the office space facing Erie Street. Flooded with light, its walnut door was flanked by wide glass side lights. I didn’t see him at first, but heard movement. I stood in front of the glass where he could see me and knocked. Nothing. I knocked again. He stomped over toward me and stopped. His face was the hollow shell of a prisoner who hadn’t seen daylight in months. His eyes looked at me but couldn’t focus. I didn’t know if I would have recognized him on the street if I’d seen him in passing. Then realizing I was there, he turned and paced the room like a caged animal. I knocked again and tried the handle, locked.

  “Seth, it’s Andrea. Please let me in, let’s talk about this.”

  No response. He continued to pace as if not hearing me.

  “Seth, why don’t we go get a cup of coffee. A walk might be good for you.” Coffee wouldn’t be but a slap of the cold weather might be.

  My presence seemed to agitate him even more. He was moving faster now, his gait more erratic.

  “Seth?” I knocked again. “Talk to me.”

  “Go away! I changed my mind. You’re just like the rest. Trying to destroy me.” He picked up a ceramic vase of flowers off his desk and threw them at the door. Startled I stepped back as it crashed against the wood. Water began to seep under the door into the polished concrete floor.

  Doors opened an inch with the sound and frightened eyes looked back at me. I told everyone to go back inside and lock themselves in. What the hell was wrong with him?

  I headed back down the hall away from Seth. My arrival was aggravating him further. Martin stood outside the conference room a horrified look on his face. Olivia was just behind him, a smirk hid the fear in her eyes. The receptionist was nowhere to be found.

  I grabbed my phone and dialed Michael.

  “I’m at VTF’s River North office. We have a situation. Seth Bowman is suffering some kind of br
eakdown. He’s locked himself in his office. Throwing things. Incoherent. I’ve tried to talk him down, but it made things worse. Can you send a team?”

  “Weapons?” he asked, ticking off the risk assessment.

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Stay out of his way. I’ll be there in five.”

  I hung up and said to Olivia and Martin, “Lock this door. CPD is on the way. I’m going to wait for them at reception. Is there another exit beyond the main door?”

  “The windows,” Olivia said.

  I sighed and left them in the conference room, frightening images flooding my head. I tossed my coat on the receptionist’s chair but kept my phone in my back pocket, then locked the door. The last thing we needed were unexpected visitors.

  As I waited for the cavalry, I ignored the endless ring of the phones, and wondered about Seth’s condition. He’s looked ill for over a week now and clearly was deteriorating rapidly. Was it a side effect of the gunshot wound? Or could the belladonna be causing this? I racked my brain for answers trying to remember what symptoms other than arrhythmia were common. Would high doses cause someone to become violent? Lane had been incoherent before she collapsed.

  “No cops yet?” Olivia stood next to the desk.

  “You should go back in the conference room,” I said, “Just until we calm Mr. Bowman down.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know.” I looked at her, seeing a young woman confused and uncertain.

  “The drink?” she asked, her voice wavering.

  I shrugged and squeezed her hand. “I know that VTF views the recipe as a trade secret, but it seems to me that you’ll need to divulge that information to authorities.” She nodded, deep in thought. “How many people know exactly what’s in it?”

  Olivia avoided my question. I tried another tact.

  “I understand that caffeine is used in energy drinks for a quick boost. Hits the blood stream fast.”