Nuala, who became quite invisible when she wanted to, couldn’t have been away for more than fifteen seconds.
Julia led us to the door of the gallery and showed us the blown-out box on the wall across from the door. It was a mass of melted wires and circuits.
“We assume that this is where the blast hit first because the greatest damage is here,” she said.
“Obviously,” I agreed.
“And you can see the marks on the door frame where the door was removed. It was done very quickly.”
“Obviously,” I said again.
We thanked her. She graciously invited us to return. Nuala and I walked down Superior towards Orleans, where we had parked the Benz in a crowded multilevel parking garage.
“You see anything down there?” I asked her.
“Did I ever! Behind a pile of picture frames, I found an old iron door, probably linking the furnace to a coal bin. It was locked.”
“Just like you said there would be; a safe hidden somewhere behind something else.”
“I was not quite right, Michael. It wasn’t a safe, though I suppose there might be one inside.”
“Maybe a big one. You’re too young to remember. My grandfather told me once that coal bins, especially for a warehouse, tended to be pretty big. It’s probably sealed up from the outside now. Too bad.”
An attendant brought our car and we headed north and turned left on Chicago Avenue, the same route that our Republican friend from Mount Prospect had followed.
“You caught his one lie?” Nuala asked me.
“Yeah. The Art Institute never approached him.”
“Couldn’t we get the cops to search it?”
“Sure, they could get a warrant if they had any reason to believe that there was something down there. What reason do we have, except your young woman’s excellent insights?”
“None that I can think of.”
“That laser blast of theirs could just as well be caused by someone who turned off the system, jammed a screwdriver into that main box at the door, and then turned the system back on. I’ve seen things like that done before.”
I parked the car in the John Hancock Center garage. As Mike Casey had invited us, we walked over to Oak Street and the Reilly Gallery. It turned out that the Caseys, Mike and his wife Annie, lived in the Hancock. She was an attractive woman in her early sixties at whom I had nodded and smiled often in the elevators.
They were very much in love with one another. I was promptly identified as the brother of “that nice young priest over at the cathedral.”
I didn’t say that George was not all that young anymore. If I had, I would not have been served a tall glass of raspberry kiwi herbal iced tea, which was the best thing for thirst quenching since pink lemonade, along with a large plate of homemade chocolate-chip and oatmeal-raisin cookies.
Naturally Ms. Casey and Nuala bonded almost instantly.
The gallery was smaller than the Armacost and much more charming, a place where you felt you could talk in your natural voice. Mike Casey’s and Catherine Curran’s work were displayed prominently, both festivals of Celtic Twilight. The latter’s misty nudes were overwhelming. Dead focking brill. I’d have to ask the Priest if he thought she would want to paint herself.
We reported our efforts for the day.
“I’d never trust her,” Annie said decisively. “He’s pretty square. She’s a devious conniving woman. Loves him though, at least as far as you can tell. Might stop at nothing to protect him.”
“They’re in trouble?”
“You bet they are,” she said. “Huge mortgage, big inventory, high expenses, and very slow sales. They’re not going to fold like some of the other Suho galleries but they might be forced to rent that place and move farther west into the barrio.”
“You folks don’t seem to have any trouble,” I said.
“We are just the opposite: small gallery, no mortgage, low expenses, no prejudices in favor of art that only the critics like, and strong sales. That’s why we didn’t run from Michigan Avenue when everyone else did. As long as my husband and his cousin keep turning out their works, we’ll flourish.”
“When I heard the story of the Armacost theft last Sunday,” Mike Casey observed, “I smelled something. Thieves that are smart enough to blow out a security system don’t dash out in front of an oncoming car. They do exactly the opposite; they wait till there’s no car coming. I don’t know what’s taking them so long to search the place, except they may not have probable cause yet. There’s plenty of reason for the insurance investigators to be suspicious. I expect the cops are waiting till they catch the heist ring and find the pictures.”
“The Armacosts think they may be an East European gang of specialists,” I said. “Pretty soon they’ll cut and run.”
“They might at that, particularly if they think someone else is trying to steal their thunder. Former Russian Black Berets, maybe. A lot of them have turned to spectacular crime. Still, they better be careful. The local guys, the ones out on the West Side, think this is their territory. They’re not likely to take kindly to someone cutting in on it without asking permission. The old guys are pretty tired now, but the young bloods might take this one into their own hands.”
I swallowed two more oatmeal-raisin cookies.
“Aren’t you folks worried about someone raiding your place?” I asked.
“We have a couple of my friends watching it every night,” Mike said, with a wink at the word “friends.”
“Just off Michigan Avenue is pretty safe,” Annie added. “People coming out the movies at the Esquire, kids like you, Dermot, roaming around. Although there’s a new nightlife clientele over there, it’s not like this part of town.”
“I don’t roam,” I protested. “I sleep. I’m old.”
“Terrible old altogether,” Nuala agreed.
They laughed at me. They didn’t know what happened to me on Ferris wheels. Or merry-go-rounds.
“Mr. Casey,” Nuala asked, “do you think you can find us the architects’ plans for that building? I’d like to know what that coal bin looks like.”
“Give me a ring first thing in the morning, seven o’clock or so. I’ll see what I can do. They have to be registered somewhere—zoning commission, most likely.”
“Good. Come on, Dermot, before you spoil your supper with all those cookies.”
Again much laughter at Dermot’s expense.
“No lunch. Besides, nothing ever spoils my supper.”
I grabbed three more cookies as we left the Reilly Gallery.
I swam, took a shower, and dressed in a lightweight dark blue suit with thin white threads running through the cloth. You’re having supper with a rising young Arthur Andersen type, you dress for it.
Mike Casey phoned me just as I was preparing to leave.
“I have the plans for that building, Dermot. Don’t ask how I got them. I’ll see you and Nuala at the Ritz tomorrow morning. Annie will come along. Seventhirty?”
“Grand!”
I told myself that, after a long hot and exhausting day, the evening was likely to be relatively quiet. I would merely listen to her observations and her new theories, tell her about breakfast with the Caseys, and come back to my apartment for a good night’s sleep.
Was I ever wrong. Again.
13
NUALA WAS waiting for me at the Italian Village, charming the maître d’ and the waiters. She was dressed in a nicely fitted black suit, a silver blouse with its own tie, and moderate heels. She wore a touch of makeup and had done up her hair in a gently upsweeping bun. The successful young accountant must appear chic—at the cheapest possible prices.
“My don’t we look handsome tonight?” she began.
“If I’m going out with a successful young accountant, I have to look the part, don’t I?”
Her eyes dancing with mischief, she considered that.
“No, Dermot, you look quite nice, but you don’t look like an accountant. I don’t
think you could ever look like one even if you tried, which I don’t want you to do.”
“Then what do I look like?”
She pondered again.
“Well … like a movie actor or television personality, or maybe a successful young venture capitalist.”
“Not like a seanachie.”
“Hmm … maybe an Irish-American seanachie.”
We both laughed, she touched my hand. I told myself that if I were careful for another day or two, the old rules would be back in place.
I was wrong, but this time it wasn’t my fault. Or hers.
“Nuala, I lied to you yesterday.”
“Sure, I never lie to you, do I now? Only deceive you a little bit now and then.” She put her hand over mine and added, “What did you lie about?”
“I am afflicted with both acrophobia, vertigo, if you want to call it that, and an inner ear which objects violently when I spin around in circles.”
“Now, didn’t I suspect that yesterday, and didn’t I ask you, and didn’t you say that you felt fine?”
“That was the lie.”
“But why ever lie about something as unimportant as that?”
“I didn’t want to spoil your fun.”
“Sure, you wouldn’t have spoiled it, at all, at all. Wouldn’t I ride those frigging things by meself?”
“I know.”
“You thought I’d laugh at you?”
“No.”
“Then, why … Och, don’t I understand? Real men don’t have bad inner ears! That testosterone thing again.”
“Maybe.”
“And why are you telling me the truth now?”
“I felt guilty. I shouldn’t ever lie to you, Nuala Anne.”
“Sure, Dermot, you’re a grand man. That’s why I’ll always trust you … . What should I eat at this super place?”
I ordered a bottle of expensive Barolo and two fettucine bolognese. We finished the pasta and most, but not all of the wine. I was cautious with it because I would be driving back to her house.
“Dermot Michael, don’t you have grand taste in wines?” she said, savoring the last sip of the Barolo. “And won’t you spoil me altogether for all your cheap wines?”
“I’m glad you like it. Now, over our spumoni, tell me what we do next.”
“I couldn’t eat a bit of anything else. Don’t be ordering that spumoni for me.”
“You really think those paintings are in the coal bin, Nuala?”
“Either there or somewhere else in the building. If I were them, I’d try to smuggle them out, but that’s a risky business.”
“Do you think both of them are involved?”
“I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell. They’re both pretty strange sort of folks, aren’t they? Can we search the coal bin?”
“Not without breaking the law, which would be dangerous around an art gallery these days, and besides not the sort of thing we should be doing. If we can find out a little more, maybe the cops will search it for us.”
She nodded.
We lingered over coffee and chatted happily. Then Nuala adjourned the meeting.
“We have another little task after dinner,” she said. “We can do it on the way to my house. It’ll take only a minute.”
“Grand,” I said, feeling very proud of myself for the way I had handled the dinner.
In the public parking lot she practically assaulted me with a passionate embrace and a wave of passionate kisses.
“Wow! Nuala Anne, what was that all about?”
“Ah, nothing much at all, at all! I just love you a great frigging lot tonight.”
“Remind me always to order Barolo!”
“I’d like that,” she giggled.
“Where to, me love?” I asked her as I paid at the entrance of the lot.
“Lakeview, wherever that is.”
“Kind of an unsavory neighborhood.”
“1413 West Hollywood.”
“Very unsavory … . What is it?”
“Isn’t it your man’s basement apartment?”
I made a good guess as to who my man was this time.
“Billy Hernon?”
“None other.”
“Woman, you’re daft altogether!”
“No, I’m not. He’s out of town now. If he’s there, we won’t go in.”
“You want to break and enter?”
“I want to do no such thing. I want to use this key and enter.”
She dangled a key chain with two keys in front of me.
“Where did you get that?”
“Didn’t me pal Aisling slip it into my hands before I left your police station?”
“Did she say why?”
“She said that she never trusted that gobshite for a single minute. So she lifted his key in case anyone wanted to search his place without breaking and entering.”
“What do you expect to find there?”
“Isn’t it the clearest thing in the world, Dermot Michael? The frames from the Armacost Gallery!”
Right! The clearest thing in the world!
Most of the buildings in the neighborhood were vast apartment buildings, five or six stories high with twelve apartments on each floor. Not as bad as public housing perhaps, but not very attractive anymore—though in the 1920s they had been elegant places to live. Their cousins on Lake Shore Drive were highly prized condominiums now.
I parked a block beyond the building in a spot barely big enough for the Benz. A short distance ahead of us was the Rosehill Cemetery, where General Benjamin Sweet was buried. We hiked back to the corner where the building stood and prowled around looking for 1413. Several highly dubious characters appeared out of the gloom and stared menacingly at us. They must have taken a look at me and decided that they’d rather be safe than sorry. I was terrified that we might bump into Billy Hernon or one of his friends.
There was so little light in the courtyard that I had to feel the numbers to find out where we were.
“Here we are, Nuala: 1413.”
“It’s dark and scary, Dermot Michael.”
“Do you want to wait till morning?”
“Certainly not … here’s the key.”
“You’re shivering.”
“I’m perishing with the heat and quaking with me fear … . There’s no sign of life in that basement apartment, is there?”
“No lights, anyway.”
“It’s too early for that gobshite to go to bed … . Open the door, Derm.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I fumbled around and finally got a key in the outer door. I turned it one way and then the other. The door would not open. I tried the other key. It fit, too. I turned it to the right and pushed. No dice. I turned it to left and pushed again. The door sprang open and I tumbled into the equally dark lobby, which smelled strongly of urine.
“It took you long enough,” Nuala grumbled.
“Did you want to open it?”
“I’d have been scared I’d drop it.”
The next step was to figure out in the darkness which of the two doors led to the basement apartment. If I’d had any sense at all, at all, I would have remembered to bring a flashlight from the car. I tried the first key on the door to the left. It opened easily—to stairs going up.
“Wrong door,” I whispered.
“How do you know?”
“Because the stairs go up. The basement stairs should go down.”
“But couldn’t they go up and then go down?”
“Nuala,” I said, “have you ever been in an American apartment building like this?”
“I have not.”
“I have, many times. Are you willing to concede that I might have some expertise in the matter?”
“Fair play to you, Derm,” she said with a giggle.
I fit the key in easily enough. It wouldn’t turn either way.
I tried the other key, the one that opened the outer door. It turned easily and opened on a dark, dark stairwell. I listened intentl
y for noise.
Nothing.
“I’m going down first, Nuala. You grab my belt and follow me down. Quietly.”
“Yes, Derm.”
She stumbled only once and made a terrible racket in the process. Nuala was good on stairs only when she bounded up and down them.
“Be careful!” I snapped.
“Sorry, Derm.”
We reached the bottom of the stairwell. I put out my hand like a blind man and felt ahead of me. I touched a wall and felt to the left and to the right. No door. I felt around the wall and reached another. I continued groping till the wall yielded to a door. Neither key would fit in the door.
Nuala was silent. Good for her.
I probed back in the opposite direction and found another door. As an expert on American apartment buildings, I should have known that there are often two basement apartments.
This time the key fit perfectly and the door opened easily. A bit of light from one of the outside lamps bathed a segment of the floor with a pale glow.
The room smelled of stout and whiskey and cigarette smoke. No noise. I stood in the doorway and listened for the sound of breathing. Nothing.
The glow of light revealed a mess of takeout food cartons on the floor. Still no noise.
I probed around walls inside the doorway for a switch and found one on the right side. It was one of the old push switches. I pushed, and a single light went on and flickered as if it were not sure that lighting the room was worth the effort.
“Glory be to God! Would you look at the place! Isn’t it a filthy mess altogether?”
Empty cans and bottles were strewn all around. Food cartons littered the floor. Urine traces marked the walls. They had smashed the small television set and broken up the furniture. Deliberate wanton destruction.
“Whose apartment is this, Nuala?”
“Two lads who went home for their holidays and left it to your man.”
“They’ll be a little surprised when they come back … . Careful, Nuala, don’t leave fingerprints on anything.”
This after I had smeared the outside walls with my own prints. The FBI, however, did not have my prints.
“Yes, Dermot.”
“I don’t see any frames.”
“They’re here—I’m sure they’re here. Let’s find them!”
Irish Lace Page 24