Grave Designs (26 page)

Chapter Forty

It was a quarter to nine Wednesday morning. Kevin, Ishmael, Cindi, and I were back in Cindi's hotel room. I had just told them my idea.

“In a sanitary napkin disposal?” Kevin asked.

“There's one in every stall in every women's bathroom,” I explained again. “It's big enough to hold a videocassette. No one
ever
looks in there, so there's almost no risk that someone else might find it. It's a perfect hiding place. A closed box in a private toilet stall in a busy public bathroom.”

“But how does he get to it?” Kevin asked. “Do you expect him to go in drag into a ladies' room at O'Hare?”

“No,” I answered. “He could send a girlfriend. Or just find some woman at the airport and ask her to do him a favor. Or maybe pay her to go in there and get it for him. It's perfect. She walks into a private toilet stall in a crowded bathroom, takes the videocassette out of the sanitary napkin disposal…which reminds me.” I turned to Kevin. “You'll have to put it in a plastic bag…to protect it”—I blushed—“from the rest of the stuff there. Anyway, she takes the videocassette, puts it into her purse, walks out, and meets our guy in some private spot at the airport and hands over the videocassette. There must be dozens of women going into those toilet stalls every hour out there. There's usually a line during the busy hours. She goes in and goes out, just like anyone else. No one knows she took it. No one sees him, and his assistant is completely inconspicuous.”

“It's a great idea,” Cindi said.

I said, “We just need to make sure the cleaning crew doesn't empty the disposal before she picks up the videocassette.”

“No problem,” Kevin said. “I can work that part out. We can keep the cleaning crew out of there for hours.”

“Let's get the personals message written,” Ishmael said.

“Already done,” I said. I passed around the message I had worked on last night when the idea came to me in bed. “Now we need to come up with a message from Joe Oliver to the mystery man. We can have it typed on Oliver's stationery and put it in the videocassette jacket along with the videotape.”

“Joe Oliver has to insist that the exchange be done face-to-face,” Kevin said, “so we can nail him when it happens.”

“How quickly can we get the personals message into the newspapers?” I asked.

Ishmael checked his watch. “We have about four hours before the afternoon editions go to press,” he said. “I know the publishers. I'll handle that part. It'll run this afternoon and in all the morning editions. Set the drop for tomorrow afternoon.”

Joe Oliver came to my office at 2 p.m. to sign the note that would be included with the videocassette. Mary had typed it on a sheet of Oliver's stationery that he had furnished by messenger that morning. Ishmael had approved the text at noon.

“Hello, Joe,” I said as he walked into my office. He was wearing dark-rimmed glasses, a blue blazer, and gray slacks.

Joe Oliver nodded curtly. “Where's the note?” he asked.

I handed it to him. It was typed in all capital letters with a space for his signature at the bottom:

IF YOU LIKE THIS PREVIEW, YOU CAN
TRADE FOR THE FULL-LENGTH VERSION,
STARRING ISHMAEL RICHARDSON.
YOUR COPIES OF ME FOR MY COPY OF
RICHARDSON. YOU NAME WHERE AND
WHEN. BUT ONE CONDITION: WE
EXCHANGE FACE-TO-FACE. WHEN I
KNOW YOUR IDENTITY, WE HAVE
MUTUAL ASSURED DESTRUCTION.
UNDERSTAND? IF I DON'T RECOGNIZE
YOU, THE DEAL IS OFF.

Oliver read it through twice without comment and then, pulling out a gold fountain pen, signed his name in a diagonal scrawl at the bottom of the page. He looked up at me. “Ishmael said you intercepted the videotape,” he said in a nasal monotone.

I nodded.

“Did you watch it?”

“Yes.”

He took off his glasses and slipped them into the inside pocket of his blazer. There were bags under his weary eyes. “I want to meet him face-to-face,” he said slowly. “I don't want some Keystone Kops operation. You understand?”

“Even if he goes for the bait,” I said, “he'll still be worried it might be a setup. He'll try to arrange the meeting in a secluded place—where he can be sure that the police won't be around. Don't worry, they won't be visible. But they'll be there to protect you.”

“The police can come in later,” Oliver said. “But I have to meet him face-to-face. Alone.”

“Joe, the odds are good that he'll try to kill you. You can't do this on your own.”

Oliver stared at me, his face expressionless. I had seen him do that to hostile trial witnesses on cross-examination. It worked in court, but it didn't work today. The effect of the dreaded Joe Oliver stare was lost on someone who had seen him on videotape naked and tied to the bedposts with pink scarves. “I assume he will try to kill me,” he said in his deliberate monotone. He breathed deeply through his nose. “That's why I want to meet him alone.”

“You aren't the only victim, Joe. He tried to kill Cindi Reynolds. He actually killed two people in that explosion. He's a dangerous man.”

Oliver remained stone-faced. I sighed and said, “You don't want to cooperate, fine. We can junk the operation, and eventually he'll give those tapes to your family and friends. Is that what you want? You're not the only one who's been hurt. I'm a victim too, and I'm not going to let you screw this up. You understand? Damn you, Joe. You can either trust the police or you can get out of here and we'll forget the whole thing.”

Joe smiled at my anger. He stood up. “Call me when he picks up the videocassette. I'll call you when he contacts me. Don't worry, young lady.”

As soon as Oliver left I called Kevin. “Kevin, you're going to have to watch out for Oliver. He may try to turn free agent on you. You may have to put a tail on him.”

***

I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to dictate my Canaan investigation notes. I wanted to get the rest of the story down—to make sure there'd be some record of all this. Just in case.

But I couldn't concentrate. Last night I was filming a porno flick. Today I had arranged a “high noon” encounter between Joe Oliver and the blackmailer. This wasn't what they prepared me for in law school. I stared at my Dictaphone and then reached forward to buzz Mary.

“What's up?” she asked, poking her head into my office.

I sighed. “I'm bushed.”

Mary studied me. “How ‘bout some fresh coffee?”

I gave her a sheepish smile. “That sounds great. Bring us both a cup. I could use some company.”

Harlan Dodson called around four-thirty to ask why I hadn't yet sent him my files on the Canaan legacy. I told him that I'd been busy on other matters and would send them over in the next few days. He made a vague threat about informing Ishmael Richardson about my dilatory behavior and hung up.

By 6 p.m. I found myself dictating the same sentence over and over. I decided to pack it in and go home. A warm bubble bath and an early bed sounded wonderful.

I picked up the afternoon
Tribune
on my way to the subway station and found the personals message as I waited for the northbound train:

To Video B-Mailer: Will exchange my tape for yours. Mine is better. For sample, go to ORD, Term. 3, Main Level, SW Worn. Bthrm., Stall 3, San. Napk. Disp. Thurs. @ noon. Joe O.

The sanitary napkin disposal in stall number three of the women's bathroom in the southwest part of the main level of Terminal 3 at O'Hare Airport. Tomorrow at noon. Go get him, Kevin.

Ozzie came trotting out of my bedroom when I opened the door to my apartment. I froze in the entranceway. My bedroom light was on. Backing into the hallway, I grabbed for the umbrella hanging from the closest doorknob.

As I drew the umbrella back with both hands, Paul Mason strolled out of my bedroom. “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“Whoa,” Paul said, his eyes wide. “It's just me, Rachel.” He put his hands in the air with a sheepish grin.

Ozzie walked back to Paul, his tail wagging. Paul kept one hand in the air and patted Ozzie on the head with the other.

“Answer my question, dammit. What are you doing here?”

“Hey, relax,” he said. “I've been leaving messages on your damn answering machine for three days. I finally gave up and decided to come over to show you what I found. Your landlord's gone, so I came up here.” He smiled. “My key still works. I was afraid you'd had the locks changed when we broke up.”

“You just come barging into my home? Damn you, Paul. You've got no right to do that.”

“Hey, I'm sorry. Okay? Relax. I wouldn't have used the key if I thought you were in here. I knocked on the door, shouted your name. You weren't here.” He shrugged. “So I decided to come in and leave you a message along with the stuff I found.” He rubbed Ozzie on the head. “Old Ozzie was sure happy to see me, weren't you, boy?” Ozzie was sitting in front of Paul now, his tail flopping.

I walked into my apartment. “Give me that key,” I said, holding out my hand.

Paul dug a hand into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out the key.

I took it from him. “Don't you ever do that again. Ever.”

“My mistake, okay? Let's drop it. Listen, I've got some great stuff to show you. Then I promise I'll leave.” He raised his hand. “Scout's honor. You're going to love it.”

I shook my head, trying to force back a smile. “You are really a jerk,” I said. “Okay, what do you think you have?”

“Think
I have? May I remind you you're talking to someone who probably knows more about Sam Spade and Mike Hammer than anyone in this country.”

“Give me a break, Paul. Reading about detectives isn't the same as being one. I've read
Big Two-Hearted River
about ten times, and I still can't bait a hook.” I was standing just an arm's length away from Paul, close enough to pick up the familiar scent of his cologne. I was torn between an urge to kiss him and an urge to crack him over the head with the umbrella. I wasn't strong enough to do the latter; for the moment, at least, I was strong enough to resist the former.

“You want proof?” Paul asked with a wink. “Look at what I left on your desk.”

I followed him into my bedroom. He lifted a large envelope off the desk. He had scrawled a brief note to me on the outside.

“I was down in the microfilm room at the library all afternoon yesterday and all morning today,” he said as he tore open the envelope. “I started with 1985, keying in to the week or so before each of those four newspaper articles.” He shuffled through the glossy photocopies. “Look what I found.”

He handed me four photocopied pages from the classified section. Circled in red on each page was a Canaan message in the same format I had found—each with the name of an el or subway station, a time (always after midnight) and a day.

“So they used the same system back then,” I said.

“Exactly. So then I tried 1986 and 1987. I didn't have time to check all the newspapers. It's incredible drudge work just going through one set of microfilm. I stuck with the
Sun-Times.
I found three—two in 1986 and one in 1987.” He handed them to me.

I stared at the Canaan messages. They were proof that someone out there had carried on the lottery, or at least used the Canaan communications system, after 1985
but before Marshall died.
I looked up at Paul. “Good work,” I said.

“You better believe it. But here's the best part.” He pulled a folded page of newsprint out of the envelope. “I tried to call you on Sunday about this one. Look what appeared in last Sunday's
Trib.”

It was the same Canaan message Benny Goldberg had shown me out at Maggie's place last Sunday—the message that led to the discovery of the extortion scheme. But that wasn't what caught my attention. What did was on my desk, right next to where Paul must have placed his envelope before I walked into the apartment. Last night I had sat at my desk trying to think of a drop point for the fake videotape of Ishmael and Cindi. I had sketched out my thoughts on a yellow legal pad. When Paul handed me the page from the Sunday
Tribune,
I saw those notes. No doubt Paul had seen them too—before I got home.

Near the top of the first page of the legal pad I had written
Canaan.
Below that were the words
Joe Oliver
—
how to get Ishmael videotape to extortionist???
The rest of the page, and the two following it, contained random notes, arrows, words underlined or circled, words and phrases crossed out. It was all too easy for someone clever to figure out.

I looked at Paul, who was smiling proudly. He'd have to have seen those notes.

“That was just a couple of days ago,” Paul said.

“Huh?”

“This message in the paper. Hell, I was half tempted to go down to the Grand Avenue subway station myself to see what happened. I probably would have if I hadn't had the deadline on that paper I was writing.”

I nodded, feeling numb. “Yeah. I wonder what happened down there.”

“How are you doing on your end of the investigation?”

“I'm basically done,” I said. “The coffin turned up.”

“No kidding?”

I shrugged. “There was a skeleton inside. Whoever did it probably bought a skeleton and put it inside. But the law firm was satisfied. They're going to break the trust and close the investigation.”

“Just like that?” Paul asked. “They don't want to find out what's going on now?”

I shook my head. “I guess not. Ishmael Richardson decided that enough was enough.”

“God, lawyers are hopeless. This is great stuff, and all they want to do is get back to their cases.”

“Me too,” I said. “I've had it.”

“Well, I'm going to keep poking around. I might surprise you, Rachel.”