Blacklist (11 page)

at home, too. A lot of the writers do most of their work at home. Can you imagine trying to work with Jason Tompkin blaring away all day?”

This last was said loud enough for Tompkin to hear, but all he did was laugh again and say, “Stimulation, darling. I was stimulating him, but Marc was too uptight to enjoy it.”

I followed Aretha to her own desk. The research assistants and fact checkers were another peg down from the writers: her desk wasn’t in a cubicle but one of four put together to make a square. She slipped the disk into her own computer, skimmed through the contents, but said there wasn’t anything current on it.

I leaned over her shoulder to study what was on the screen. She brought up the file that showed Kylie Ballantine’s history. It was annotated with his sources, mostly private papers labeled “VH”-“The Vivian Harsh Collection at the Chicago Library,” Aretha explained. When she realized I was trying to scribble notes off the screen onto my own notepad, she printed out a copy.

“I can also give you the back issues of T-Square where he wrote about Bronzeville already. They’ll tell you some of the history. There’s nothing here about his new story. If his sister has his things, she’ll have his notebooks and stuff. Do you think-could you ask his sister-I’d love to have one of his notebooks …”

I promised her that as soon as I’d sorted through what he’d left in his house I’d see she got some of his personal papers. I was disappointed, though: I’d hoped for some kind of breakthrough here, or insight. But maybe there wasn’t anything to find. Maybe Marcus Whitby had gone to talk to Calvin Bayard-but about what? Blacklisted writers whom Bayard might have known? He hadn’t mentioned it because you weren’t supposed to go to Bayard about anything. And then he’d gotten lost on his way back to his car. He’d tripped on the loose bricks and fallen to his death. It could have happened.

“Why didn’t Simon Hendricks want to let me know what Marc was working on if there isn’t anything very secret about it?” I asked Aretha as she waited with me for the elevator.

She shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, corporate stuff, you know…”

“Oh.” I grinned, suddenly making sense of Jason Tompkin’s laughter. “He didn’t want a white woman poking around?”

She blushed. “It’s not personal. But Mr. Hendricks, well, he came up in the organization when Mr. Llewellyn was still fighting every inch o? the way, to get funding, to get distributors, everything. I think he would have expected the Whitby family to hire a different investigator.”

As I rode the elevator back down to the lobby, I hoped Hendricks was wrong.

CHAPTER 11

A Child’s Garden of Verses

BMWs and Mercedeses stood three abreast on Astor Street as parents and nannies waited to fetch their children from the Vina Fields Academy. Chicago taxpayers were helping out: city cops had blocked off the street and were directing outsiders like me away from the area. I found a sort of legal space on Burton Place and sprinted back, but the students hadn’t yet started to emerge.

I was cutting it close because I’d hung around the entrance to Llewellyn Publishing hoping Jason Tompkin would come out for lunch-he hadn’t seemed like the type to eat at his desk. After fortyfive minutes, when I was about to give it up, he’d emerged with a couple of coworkers. One of them was Delaney, Simon Hendricks’s assistant, who frowned when she saw me. The third was the woman Jason had been talking to when I was in Marc Whitby’s cubicle.

Jason Tompkin came over to me, tipping the beret he was wearing. “Ah, the special investigator, looking for the X-Files. What can I do for you?” His voice and smile were without malice; I had to smile in turn. “X-Files is right. I was hoping, since you worked right next to Marc Whitby, you might have heard something-anything-that would explain why he’d gone out to New Solway. Aretha said you all weren’t supposed to talk to anyone at Bayard about work in progress, so I did wonder if he’d had a surreptitious appointment with Calvin Bayard.”

Delaney said, “Marcus Whitby thought being a star reporter, he could write his own rules. It wouldn’t surprise me if he thought he could bypass Mr. Hendricks’s orders about this, too.”

“And did he?” I asked Tompkin.

“I like to feed the rumor mill as much or more as the next man, but I unfortunately did not hear the ace reporter talking to or about the Bayard empire. He was working on something he thought was pretty hot, that much I can tell you, but he made sure I never heard him actually say anything.”

“When did that start? His acting like he had something pretty hot?” Jason shrugged one slim shoulder. “A week before he died, maybe. He’d started making a lot of calls, started hanging by his phone so he could jump on it when it rang. Being a finalist for the Pulitzer gave him a taste for glory. He kept hoping he’d got that big prizewinning story in his sights.”

“Why aren’t you supposed to talk to anyone at Bayard?” I asked, wondering if I’d hear the same reason Aretha had given.

“It’s our policy with all our big competitors,” Delaney said.

“Mr. Llewellyn is the proudest man on the planet,” Jason added. “No, Delaney, that’s not an insult. It’s the truth. The Bayard policy dates from-” ` J.T, just stop it right there,” Delaney said. “We don’t need to tell every stranger on the street our business, and you know Mr. Llewellyn would say that louder than Mr. Hendricks. You hear?”

Tompkin rolled his eyes expressively, but a glance at his other coworker’s frowning face shut him up. Delaney pushed him on the shoulder to start him up the street. I followed after long enough to give all three one of my cards. Delaney let hers flutter to the pavement, but Jason and the other woman tucked them away.

I sprinted back to my car-but not in time to avoid the meter reader. An orange envelope, my chance to give the city fifty dollars, was stuck to my windshield. I swore roundly and drove over to La Llorona for a quick bowl of soup.

So who was Marcus Whitby? The warm, loving hope of his familyand Aretha Cummings-who’d come close to a Pulitzer? The competitive, uncommunicative coworker? The star who thought he could make his own rules?

Huddled up against the restaurant window, away from the noise at the

counter, I checked my messages. I had an urgent one from Harriet. When I reached her, I learned that Deputy Protheroe had come through for us: when Mrs. Whitby’s funeral director in Atlanta tried to arrange the shipment of Marc Whitby’s body, the DuPage ME’s office gave them a runaround-they needed a little more time to process the paperwork.

“Mother got so angry I blurted out that you’d done it, to buy more time for the investigation, and then I had to confess that I’d hired you, which made her really furious. I was wishing the floor would open under me when Daddy suddenly said he thought it was a good idea. He never disagrees with Mother about-about, oh, domestic things-so she was completely surprised. And then he kind of put his arm around me and said thank goodness I’d had the gumption to take the bull by the horns, that he doesn’t want a slur over Marc’s reputation on account of how he died. But-he isn’t ready to agree to an-well, to letting someone else look at Marc’s body.”

Getting her parents to agree to an investigation seemed like the most important first step: I could get going on more ideas, and keep pushing on the independent autopsy. Harriet said Amy Blount hadn’t had any luck with locating a key to Marc’s house. We agreed to meet there the next morning around nine, whether Amy had found a key or not.

I gulped down the rest of my chicken soup while I scribbled down my other messages, and then hightailed it to Vina Fields. Not that I often visit the Gold Coast, but I’d never really noticed the school before, so carefully was it tucked into its surroundings. It presented the same bland, inwardturning fa~ade as the apartments and homes on the street, pushing outsiders away as firmly as a guard dog. Only a small plaque near the double doors identified the stone building-that and the waiting nest of mothers and nannies clustered at the bottom of the steps. Actually, two men stood in the group, one with a stroller and a toddler, the other with a copy of the New York Times tucked under his arm.

This late in the school season, those on foot seemed to know each other, at least by sight. They chatted about their children’s triumphs and whether they could sell the tickets for the school play each family had been allotted, occasionally shooting a curious glance my way.

After about ten minutes, the doors opened and children began streaming out. The primary grades left first, in knots of giggling girls, of boys

loudly haranguing each other, punching each other’s arms, both sets ignoring the children alone, who hunched down in their coats as if already resigned at age eight to life as outsiders. A lot of the boys were in shirtsleeves, their coats slung over a shoulder: hey, we’re men, we’re too tough for sissy things like coats in winter.

The cars started to pull up, honking and jockeying for curb space, parents screaming invective at each other. A woman with a blond coiffure that spoke of weekly visits to the salon climbed out of her Lexus to yell abuse that would have made a truck driver squirm; the Jaguar in front of her replied with a finger.

The adults on foot were waiting on the young kids-older students living close enough to the school to walk could make their own way home. When the upper grades began to trickle out a little later, I was the lone grown-up still standing by the stairs.

I fingered the ratty teddy bear in my shoulder bag. As time passed, I began to fret that I’d missed my quarry, or that she had lacrosse practice or junior publishers’ club. Just as I had decided to take my chances on getting into the Banks Street apartment, Catherine Bayard appeared.

Although she was paler than I’d thought from seeing her by moonlight, I knew her at once. Her mouth was wide and tremulous, her face so narrow the cheekbones almost seemed at oblique angles to her nose. Sleep deprivation had produced violet bruises around her eyes.

She was with two other girls who were expostulating loudly about someone’s odd behavior, but Catherine herself didn’t seem to be listening to them. Although one was blond and the other Indian, all three looked remarkably alike in their tight jeans and hip-length coats. Perhaps it was the healthiness and confidence they exuded. Or maybe the wealth that showed up in little details, like the diamond studs ringing the blonde’s ears and the Indian girl’s cashmere cap and scarf.

“Earth to Catherine,” the Indian girl said. “Aren’t you listening?” Catherine blinked. “Sorry, Alix. I didn’t sleep much last night.” “Jerry?” the blonde grinned suggestively.

Catherine forced a smile. “Yeah. Like Gran wouldn’t lose it completely if he came around on a school night.”

Just as the trio turned south on Astor I stepped in front of them. “Hello, Catherine. V I. Warshawski.”

The three girls froze, alarm bells of what happens when strangers accost you ringing in their heads loudly enough for me to hear. The one who’d mentioned Jerry looked over her shoulder for help.

“We met Sunday night,” I said heartily. “When we both decided to go for a late-night run. You left something of yours with me, remember?” “I’ll get P idgeley,” the blonde turned back to the stairs.

“No, Marissa, it’s okay.” Catherine produced another unconvincing smile. “I forgot. I was jogging at midnight and I ran into this woman.” “Jogging? At midnight? You’ve always said runners were the biggest losers on the planet,” Marissa exclaimed.

“Yeah. It’s just, you know, the SATs, my grandfather’s health, all that stuff, I thought I might work some of it off and I couldn’t exactly go out riding in the middle of the night. Anyway, let me find out what this person wants. She seems to think she’s in charge of the universe.”

“Just a small stretch of Chicagoland,” I said, smiling affably. “Where can we talk privately? Banks Street? Or would you like to come to my office?” “There’s a coffee bar on the corner,” Catherine said.

“Not quiet enough. My office is just a couple of miles west along North Avenue. Or-maybe you’d like to visit the old Graham estate. You choose.” She shot an unhappy look at her friends, at me, at the school, and finally decided we could go to her apartment. Her friends stood uneasily by, clearly wondering whether it was safe to leave her alone with me. Finally, Alix said forcefully that Catherine had her pager number; she should just beep if she needed help.

“We’ll be at Grounds for Delight, like, reading until six or so,” the other girl said. “You can catch us there.”

We walked down the street together, an awkward foursome, until Catherine’s friends turned west at the first cross street. Alix reminded Catherine to beep if she wanted them to call 911.

“I worked for the Bayard Foundation one summer when I was in law school,” I said when we were alone. “Before I joined the sex police, I mean. I am one of your grandfather’s many admirers; I’m sorry if he’s ill.”

She turned her head away from me: she was not going to help me.

“I fell into the pond when I was running after you Sunday night,” I said. “That’s how I caught this cold. But it’s also how I found Marcus Whitby.” “Whoever that is. You made your point, you saw me Sunday. Do you really have something of mine, or was that just blackmail to make me come with you?” She kept her head turned away, so that all I saw of her was her left ear. It exposed her youth, that pale shell, and made her seem vulnerable, breakable.

“I really have something of yours. It’s how I found you so easily. What I don’t understand is why you went back to Larchmont last night.”

That startled her into facing me again. “How did you-I wasn’t-I was here in town last night.”

“Your grandmother will no doubt back you up on that. We’ll ask her when we get to your place.”

After a pause she said, “You can ask the housekeeper. My grandmother is still at the office. I was in bed before she got home last night.”

I nodded. “Is the housekeeper Ms. Lantner? She moves between the New Solway mansion and Banks Street?”

“How do you know all this about my family?” she said. “Where I live and everything? How do I know who you are?”

“You don’t. You haven’t asked. I’m exactly what I said I was on Sunday: a private investigator. I used to be a lawyer, a public defender. I don’t know whose account of me you would trust, but I can refer you to a reporter at the Herald-Star, or someone on the Chicago police force. Or better still, Darraugh Graham. I do a lot of work for him. You do know him, right, hanging around his boyhood home the way you do?”

She bit her lip but didn’t say anything.

“It would be an excellent plan for you to call one of these people and ask if they know me. You shouldn’t trust a stranger who comes up to you on the street. But we’re still going to talk, because if we don’t, I’m giving your name and phone number to the DuPage County sheriff. Right now I’m the only person who knows you were at the crime scene Sunday night, but as soon as the sheriff learns about you, he will be here with as much force as he can use on the granddaughter of a powerful taxpayer.” Of

course he’d also be on my butt like a horsefly for concealing her presence, but I hoped she was too inexperienced to think of that.

“What are you talking about? You think Rick Salvi is going to care that I was trespassing?”

“It’s nice, you knowing the sheriff by his first name and all, but we’re not talking about trespassing here. And even if he dandled you on his knee when you were a baby, he’s going to want to know what you’re up to at Larchmont.”

“I can’t help being born into a rich family, but that doesn’t mean I think I have a right to special treatment,” she burst out, her eyes bright. “I know if you have a special position you have special obligations.”

I nodded. “You don’t look much like your grandfather, but you sure sound like him. Your yearbook statement said you hoped to go into the publishing company. Do you do much around there now?”

“I was an intern last summer. I got to work with Haile Talbot, I mean I just brought him coffee-” She broke off, remembering we were enemies, and refused to speak again until we turned the corner onto Banks Street.

I was glad I hadn’t tried to talk my way in: her family’s town home was in a five-story building, hidden from the street by a high stone wall and a wrought-iron door with opaque safety glass filling the curlicues. A microphone was set into a recess beside the door, where I could have bent over and tried to persuade someone inside to buzz me in.

Catherine unlocked the door and led me across a flagged courtyard. A little garden with a couple of fruit trees and an old stone bench lay on the east side of the building, continuing, as far as I could tell, around to the back. We walked up gray flagstones to the front entrance, also locked, and took an elevator to the fourth floor. No doorman. Catherine could come and go with no one seeing her.