Grave Designs (16 page)

Chapter Nineteen

The thick fur on Ozzie's neck was damp from my tears. He was lying on his side in one of the examining rooms of Dr. Terry Machelski's office. Ozzie's eyes were closed, his mouth was open, and his tongue lolled on the table. He was breathing, though. Thank God he was breathing.

I checked my watch. It had been almost thirty minutes since Terry Machelski had pumped Ozzie's stomach. I scratched Ozzie behind the ear. “It'll be okay, Oz,” I whispered, leaning forward to kiss him on the nose.

Terry Machelski walked back in, drying his hands with a paper towel. “He's going to be okay, Rachel,” he said, patting Ozzie gently on his ribs. “You gave us a real scare, big fella.” Terry leaned over and opened one of Ozzie's eyes with a thick finger.

Everything about Terry Machelski seemed larger than life. He was as big and broad as a Chicago Bears offensive tackle and had a full, bushy beard as red as the thick, curly hair on his head. When Terry had hugged me as I arrived at his office, I had felt like a waif in those enormous arms.

I met Terry and Peg four years before at a folksong concert at the Earl of Old Town. My date and I were shown to a small table near the stage, where we squeezed in next to this Kodiak bear of a man and his tiny blond wife. Terry welcomed us like long-lost family members—something Terry does all the time with strangers and stray pets. Two years ago Terry drove me to a kennel out near Union and selected Ozzie from a litter of pups. The owners of the kennel, obviously enchanted by Terry, gave me the pup for half price so long as I promised to make Terry his vet. It's the easiest promise I've ever had to keep.

“What's wrong with Ozzie?” I asked Terry. The sounds of Steve Goodman's “Jazz Man” played over the office speakers.

“Do you take sleeping pills, Rachel?”

“No.”

“Do you have any in your apartment?”

“No. Why? Was he drugged?”

Terry scratched his beard. “It looks that way. I've sent samples of his stomach contents to the lab to make sure. But I found this when I pumped his stomach.” He reached into the front pocket of his white coat and pulled out a clear plastic bag. Inside was a red capsule.

“What is it?”

“Seconal.”

“A sleeping pill?”

Terry nodded. “It's a secobarbital. Prescription only. It's a special type of barbiturate that works fast and wears off fairly fast. In humans it starts to work after just ten to fifteen minutes and wears off after three to four hours.”

“You found that in his stomach?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“How many were there?”

“I don't know. This is the only one that wasn't dissolved. Judging from Ozzie's condition, there were probably several other capsules in the meat.”

“Meat?”

“Hamburger. This capsule was inside a chunk of hamburger. Whoever did this must have stuck several Seconals into some ground meat and then fed it to him.”

My eyes widened.

Terry nodded, his eyes angry. “Someone broke into your apartment,” he said. “I've called the police. They'll have a squad car waiting there.”

My shoulders sagged. “What about Ozzie?”

“He ought to wake up in a few hours. Let me keep him here for another day or two. For observation. I want to make sure there aren't any aftereffects.” Terry came around the table and placed a hand on my shoulder. “You can come stay with us tonight, Rachel. I'll tell Peg to make up the extra bedroom.”

I stroked Ozzie. “Thanks. I'll be all right if Ozzie is. But if the apartment is a wreck, I might just take you up on it.” I stood up.

“You let me know if they find the guy, Rachel,” he said, his voice growing hard. “Because when they do, I'm going to visit him in jail.”

“Oh?” I said, smiling despite myself.

“After what he did, I'd like to rip off his head and shit in his lungs.”

***

“Here's how he got in, ma'am,” Officer Tom Casey called from my kitchen. I was in the bedroom with his partner, Officer Sharon Kreusser. Nothing was missing from my jewelry box, and the four twenty-dollar bills were still at the bottom of my sweater drawer.

I followed Officer Kreusser to the kitchen, where Officer Casey was standing by the kitchen counter. “Right through this window here,” he said, pointing to the window over the counter with his nightstick. “Looks like it wasn't locked. At least there ain't no sign he had to force it.”

I remembered opening that window when I came home the night before. “I guess I forgot to lock it,” I said.

“Screen's busted,” he said, reaching over and sliding it up. “Latch don't work.” He let it drop with a bang.

I looked down at the kitchen floor near his feet.

“What is it?” Officer Kreusser asked.

I knelt. A circle of grease was barely visible on the floor. “He must have opened the window and tossed in the meat,” I said. “It probably landed here.” Ozzie had nearly licked the floor clean. Linda Burns had said she found him asleep by the sink. I thought of Ozzie happily gulping down the drugged hamburger. Rage flooded my veins like adrenaline.

The two cops stayed on for another half hour. I had found signs of the intruder in several places. The papers in and on my desk had been rifled and then replaced in neater stacks than before. A kitchen cabinet was slightly ajar, and the container of peppercorns was now in the front row of spices. The panties in my underwear drawer had been pushed to one side.

But nothing had been stolen.

Officer Kreusser followed me around as I locked all the windows. She told me that one of the detectives would call in the next couple of days.

Linda Burns came up when the cops left. She and the kids were driving up to Ravinia that night to meet John and then they were all going to Wisconsin for a long weekend. I told her Ozzie was all right and assured her that I was too.

***

Terry Machelski and his wife, Peg, called. I thanked them both for the offer of their extra bedroom, but told them I was okay.

“I'll be fine,” I told Peg. “Really.” I tried to put some conviction in my voice.

It was still light out. I checked my watch. Six thirty-five p.m.

Maybe he was a real burglar. Hoping to find something more valuable than anything I owned. But it didn't feel like a burglary. After all, the money in my sweater drawer was still there.

I wandered through the empty apartment. Whoever it was had tried to get in and out without my knowing it. According to Terry Machelski, a correct dose would have knocked Ozzie out for just three to four hours. He would have been up and about by the time I got home in the evening.

I thought of my underwear drawer again, of my panties pushed to one side. I shuddered.

I checked my watch. Six-fifty p.m. The sky seemed to be darkening a bit.

I stopped in the living room and stared at the phone. I sat down on the couch and lifted the receiver. I dialed the first three digits of Benny's number and then paused. Much as I loved him, Benny just wasn't the person I wanted to talk to tonight. I hung up and then lifted the receiver again. I dialed the first two digits of a number I still knew by heart. I hesitated, and then, with a sigh, dialed the remaining digits.

On the third ring a male voice answered.

“Uh, is Paul Mason there?” I asked.

“He stepped out for a couple of minutes. Can I take a message?”

“Kent?”

“Yeah? Rachel?”

“It's me.”

“How are you?”

“Where's Paul?”

“We just finished playing tennis at Northwestern. He went down to pick up a pizza. He'll be back any minute.”

“Oh.”

“Is something the matter?”

“No. Well, sort of.”

“What is it?”

“Someone broke into my apartment.”

“Oh, my God. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. It happened while I was out.”

“Did they steal anything? Have you called the police?”

“The police were here. I don't think anything's missing.”

“I'll go get Paul. Sit tight. We'll be right over, Rachel.”

“That's okay, Kent. I'll be okay.”

“Don't be silly. It's no problem. You're just five minutes away. We'll be right there.”

I hung up and frowned, replaying the telephone conversation in my head.

I sat back on the couch. I saw the note from Paul Mason on the coffee table, the one that had been attached to the copy of
The Lottery of Canaan
he had dropped off last night. It was faceup on the table, in plain view.

Chapter Twenty

Kent Charles and Paul Mason arrived thirty minutes later with a large sausage pizza, a bucket of chicken, and two six-packs of beer. They were both in tennis whites; Paul was carrying a gym bag. I forced my paranoia into a back closet and tried to enjoy them.

It was easier than I hoped. After I satisfied their curiosity—showing them the window I had left unlocked, the grease markings on the kitchen floor—the three of us devoured the pizza and chicken. The fog of fear that had seemed to fill my apartment dissolved in our laughter and conversation, which included Kent's spirited defense of his claim that Arnold Schwarzenegger's
The Terminator
was one of the greatest movies of the decade.

“You guys are great,” I said, my eyes watering from a mixture of laughter and emotion. “Thanks for coming by.”

Paul smiled. “You're my pal, Rachel. That's what pals are for.”

“Hey,” Kent said, popping the tab on a beer, “let's not get sentimental. Paul may want his pal, but I'm here just to make sure my new co-counsel is okay.” He turned to Paul. “Rachel's coming back on board. She's going to represent one of the defendants in Bottles and Cans.”

“Really?” Paul asked me.

I sighed. “I don't think so.”

“Why not?” Kent asked.

I poured the rest of my beer into the mug. “It's hard to explain.” I paused. “I left Abbott and Windsor to get away from giant cases like that. I want clients I can know, cases I can understand. I don't want to be just another pig at the trough of some huge case.”

“It won't be like that,” Kent said.

“I like being a trial lawyer, Kent. I like standing up in court on my own, picking my own jury, making my own opening statement, doing my own cross-examination. I want to win on my own.” I smiled. “And lose on my own. I want to control my own destiny. That's what it boils down to, I guess. In Bottles and Cans I'd be just another grunt again—for years into the future. And if the case ever went to trial, there probably wouldn't even be room in the courtroom for most of the lawyers.” I shrugged. “I appreciate your trying to get me into the case. I know you're only trying to help out. And maybe if things were really bad, I'd be tempted. But fortunately, knock on wood, I have interesting cases. Better yet, I have clients who pay their bills on time.”

I thought Kent would be angry. After all, I had just turned down an opportunity to get involved in the biggest case of his career. But he didn't even appear to be irritated. “I think I understand,” he said. “I also think you're crazy to pass it up. But I think I understand. I'm just sorry I won't have the chance to work with you on this case. I was looking forward to it.”

I smiled. “There'll be other cases, Kent. We'll have other chances.”

The three of us talked for another fifteen minutes or so and then Kent got up to go. “I have to be in court at nine-thirty on a big discovery motion. I think I'd better read the court papers first.”

I walked him to the door and thanked him again for coming over.

Kent looked back toward the living room. Paul was in the kitchen emptying the chicken bones into the garbage can.

“Give me a buzz if he doesn't treat you right,” Kent said with a wink. “Maybe we can still have that dinner.”

I was flattered. He really was a hunk. In his tennis whites he looked as though he had just stepped out of the pages of
Gentlemen's Quarterly.
“Thanks,” I said. “Have fun with your briefs.”

Paul was in the kitchen washing the dishes. I pulled out a dishtowel.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Like I've been violated.”

He looked over, his eyes sad. “I know. You have.”

“He drugs my dog, searches my house. It's creepy.”

“Nothing was missing?”

“Not a thing.”

“What do you think he was looking for?” Paul asked.

“I wish I knew.”

“You think it had to do with Canaan?”

“Maybe. It makes a kind of sense. First they rob the grave. And now this.” I dried a plate, thinking it over again. “Someone's trying to cover someone's tracks. But whose tracks I don't know. Whoever it is must not want me to find what was in that coffin. Maybe they searched my place to see if I had come up with any evidence.”

“You think Graham Marshall had an accomplice?” Paul asked.

“I don't know. But it sure seems like someone doesn't want me, or anyone else for that matter, to discover what Graham was up to.”

Paul ran a soapy sponge around the inside of a beer mug. “Well, if Marshall really had a hand in the stuff in those four newspaper articles, he probably couldn't have done it all by himself. At the very least, he'd need some thugs to help carry it out.” Paul set the mug down. “You think one of them is trying to cover this up?”

“You're my mystery expert,” I said. “Have you ever read a book involving a blind communication system?”

Paul frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You know, where the bad guy has a way to contact the henchmen without their knowing who he is?”

Paul thought it over and smiled. “You don't need to go to fiction for that. Remember the Barfield murder?”

Vaguely. Wasn't that about six years ago?”

“Yep. Ted Barfield was a wealthy plumbing contractor from the western suburbs who decided to knock off his wife. He had some mob contacts, and they put him in touch with two enforcers. Except Barfield never met the hit men face-to-face, and they apparently never even met each other. Barfield communicated with one of them through a post office box, and that guy communicated with the other through some other drop point that Barfield picked. The whole thing took about six months to carry out. It was a great scheme. Perfect plot for a mystery.”

“How'd they catch him?”

“The FBI nailed the guy in the middle on some drug offense. They leaned on him, hoping he'd squeal on the drug boss. He didn't, but he told them about this mystery guy who used to contact him through a post office box about killing his wife. He still had a couple of typewritten notes from the guy. The FBI eventually traced the typewriter back to Barfield's office, and Barfield confessed.” Paul shook his head. “They never caught the guy who actually killed her.”

He rinsed out the mug and handed it to me. “Why do you ask?”

I told him about the Canaan personals.

“You actually went up there on the el? Are you nuts, Rachel?”

I shrugged. “It was too late to call anyone. So I took Ozzie.”

“Still.” Paul shook his head. “At two in the morning?”

I shrugged. “I lived. Ozzie is a good bodyguard.”

“Except for himself. Poor Ozzie.” Paul leaned back against the kitchen counter. “What a great system,” he said. “What do you think they were doing?”

I sighed. “I don't know, Paul. And frankly, I almost don't care. I just want to wrap up this assignment for Ishmael Richardson and get on with my life.”

“How can you say that? This is great stuff.”

Paul's enthusiasm was irritating. “Look, I'm just a lawyer, Paul. I'm not a cop. I'm not an FBI agent. I'm not some private eye on a mission. That's storybook stuff. Sure I'm curious. Who wouldn't be? But look what's happening to me. I've got strangers breaking into my house. Practically killing my dog, for God's sake. Enough is enough. I want out.”

Paul nodded, his eyes bright. “I understand, Rachel. And you're probably right. Once you get what Ishmael Richardson needs, you ought to get out of it. But this newspaper personals angle is terrific stuff. Let me look into it. Maybe I can come up with something.”

“Go get 'em, tiger.” I put the dishtowel on the counter and rubbed my forehead.

“Headache?” Paul asked.

“Probably from lack of sleep.”

He walked over to the cabinet and opened it. “Ah, still keep your aspirin with the spices. Here,” he said, handing me two tablets. Paul filled a juice glass with water from the faucet.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the two aspirin.

“Go lie down on your bed,” he said. “I brought a change of clothes. I can stay with you tonight.” He smiled. “On your couch, of course.”

“Don't be silly, Paul. Go home. I'll be okay.”

“It's no problem, Rachel. Really. I'll get out of these sweaty clothes, take a shower, and hit the sack. I'm bushed myself. It's almost one o'clock in the morning. I even brought my own towel and toothbrush.”

“You're sweet.”

“Hey, you had a hell of a scare today. It's my pleasure. I mean it.” With that—and before it got awkward—he grabbed his gym bag and walked into the bathroom.

I undressed in my bedroom and slipped on a nightgown. I looked at myself in the mirror: It was a sensible, comfortable cotton nightgown that was cut full and reached to my ankles. I studied my reflection for a moment and then walked back to the closet. I pulled the sensible nightgown off over my head and took out a blue silk nightshirt that reached to mid-thigh. Much better, I told myself as I buttoned it up in front of the mirror.

I climbed in bed, pulling up the sheets. My head was throbbing. I yawned. Listening to the sound of the shower, I smiled. It was good to know he'd be here with me tonight. I yawned again. Back in college I could pull all-nighters with ease during finals. You're getting old, kid.

I woke up in the dark. The clock on the nightstand showed 2:10 a.m. I staggered to the bathroom and drank a cup of water. Then I remembered Paul. I must have fallen asleep before he got out of the shower.

I walked softly into the living room. Paul was sound asleep on the couch, wearing nothing but a pair of fitted boxer shorts. I bent over and kissed him lightly on the nose. He grunted but didn't stir.

“Sleep tight, baby,” I whispered into his ear.

I got back into bed, pulled up the sheet, and fell right back to sleep.