Blacklist (31 page)

I remembered Geraldine Graham’s comment, that she had felt sorry for Renee Bayard, until she saw how well Renee could take care of herself. As if echoing that thought, Edwards pushed himself to his feet. “I’m sure whatever happened, she was no match for you, Mother. I’m going back to the hospital. That guard doesn’t seem reliable to me. I don’t know where you found him, but I’m going to get Spadona to set us up with a better service tomorrow. I want to be in the room in case he lets in cops from some jurisdiction. You and Calvin may have persuaded Trina to reject my values, but she’s still my daughter, not yours. And I still love her.” “Darling, we disagree about far too many things, but we agree about cherishing Catherine. I’ll come along later, but you should have time alone with her, and I want a last word with Ms.-I’m sorry, I’m usually better with names.”

I followed Edwards out of the room. When Renee called out sharply that she had more to say to me, I said, “In a minute,” over my shoulder. “You and I need to talk before the day is over.”

Edwards tried to brush me off me off, but I forced him to face me. He scowled, started to protest, then realized he’d better make the best of the situation. He agreed to meet me in my office at four.

CHAPTER 38

Conversation Between Hardheads

When I returned to her room, Renee had moved to the deep leather armchair behind her desk. I helped myself to water from a pitcher on the trolley and looked at the prints on the wall. Most were cover art from notable books published by Bayard Publishing. A Tale of Two Countries held pride of place above Renee’s desk, with an inscription “To the Boy Genius” from “the weary old man, Armand Pelletier” I guess it was supposed to be a joke-Pelletier was only a dozen years older than Calvin Bayard himself when Calvin took on the press’s first nonreligious novel.

“I’d rather speak to your face than your back,” Renee said.

I pulled up a chair to face her. “When we first met last Wednesday, I mentioned to you that I worked for the Bayard Foundation during law school because of my admiration for your husband’s work. When did your son start holding such very different views?”

“It was one of those things,” she said. “It started as an adolescent rebellion that hardened into adult intransigence.”

I made a sour face. “You are at least as agile as I at dancing away from questions you don’t want to answer.”

“I’m not subtle-I’d quell you when you asked intrusive questions, not dance around you, if I didn’t want your cooperation. You wouldn’t have betrayed a confidence with Edwards in the room, since it’s obvious that he supports the attorney general’s efforts to round up every Arab in the country for questioning. But now that we’re alone, you can tell me where this Arab boy is. I feel certain that you know.”

I was startled. “You’re wrong, Ms. Bayard: I don’t know where Benjamin Sadawi is. If he is in league with a terrorist group, I hope the law soon catches up with him, but if he’s just a scared runaway kid-I hope he finds another friend as good as your granddaughter.”

She looked at me through narrowed eyes. “I don’t know how to persuade you to tell me. Because I don’t believe you don’t know.”

“Why does it matter so much to you? I should think you’d be glad to have h~m out of Catherine’s life.”

She stopped for a moment to choose her words. “I am. And the surest way for her to continue to be infatuated with him, or the romance of his situation, as you put it, is for her to think of him as being on the run. If she could see him for what he is-an immigrant dishwasher caught up in events out of his control-she’d stop imagining herself as a romantic heroine in his novel.”

“She’s impulsive and passionate,” I said, “but I think she’s fundamentally levelheaded. Still, as I told you, I’m eager to question him myself, so if I find him I will let you know. You should realize, by the way, that my phones may be monitored by various law enforcement agencies.”

She didn’t want to be satisfied with my response, but she couldn’t think of a lever to pry the information out of me. If all this had happened twenty years ago, she’d probably have made Calvin hire me as a personal assistant just to get what she wanted, but she couldn’t come up with any good lever or bribe this afternoon. She was a smart woman-she didn’t keep pushing when she saw she had nothing to push with.

“If Darraugh Graham hadn’t hated Larchmont so much, it wouldn’t be standing empty,” I said idly. “Catherine might have brought young Sadawi to you in that case. I gather that Darraugh hates Larchmont because he was the person who found his father’s dead body. Did you ever know what drove Mr. Graham to take his life?”

Renee looked at me steadily. “It happened around the time that I married Calvin, and I had a great deal else on my mind. I do remember that Mr. Graham’s death was considered a scandal in the community, although old Mrs. Drummond made sure it didn’t get into the papers.

“It was that kind of event that made me determined not to live in New Solway: the women spent their lives in the most backbiting gossip, while the men did deals with each other, and had affairs with their neighbors. The women married their sons to their neighbors’ daughters and so the backbiting continued between mothers-and daughters-in-law. I insisted that we buy this apartment in town. I involved myself in the press. We spent weekends out on Coverdale Lane, riding and doing country things, but I didn’t keep track of our neighbors’ personal lives.”

It was my turn to look at her distrustfully: I was sure she knew more about the Grahams and the other Coverdale Lane residents than she pretended, but, like her, I didn’t have a crowbar for prying out more information. I changed the subject again.

“Kylie Ballantine’s papers are in the Vivian Harsh Collection at the Chicago Public Library. I went down to read them and there were several references in them to an unnamed committee-and to the committee’s patron. Would that have been your husband?”

She looked at me in hauteur. “Calvin’s support of art and artists is legendary. But I must say I’m surprised you have time to visit libraries. Are you planning to follow in this dead journalist’s steps in writing a book about Ballantine?”

“No, ma’am. Just trying to figure out why he went out to New Solway.” “Yes, well, I can’t see that that concerns me. My only interest in your activities is how they affect my granddaughter’s well-being.” She got up to press a buzzer on her desk phone. After a moment, Elsbetta appeared and was told to show me out.

“When you decide to tell me about the Sadawi boy, call my office and set up an appointment. I’ll make sure my secretary knows to fit you in immediately.” She was right: she didn’t dance, she slam-dunked.

I walked the four miles from Banks Street to my office. I’d heard a great deal today, and I was hoping I could remember enough of the nuances to let me sort lies from truth. I wished I had someone to talk it all over with. My old assistant, Mary Louise, with her astringent approach to the business side of detection, would have given me good feedback.

Or Morrell, whose thoughtful response to my own passionate ideasMorrell-I was getting so I couldn’t express his name without feeling

something in my center disintegrate. I had a moment of despair so overwhelming that I collapsed onto a bench, head on my knees. I flung out a hand, as if I could touch him.

Something cold landed in my outstretched fingers: a passerby had given me a quarter. I looked around, but I was at a crowded intersection on North Avenue. Any of the people leaving Walgreens or heading into Starbucks could have felt sorry for a woman so decrepit she couldn’t hold up her head.

I sighed and stood up. Back to your loom, Penelope.

I continued west on North Avenue, doggedly thinking about the Bayards. Neither Renee nor Edwards would have said as much to me on their own as they had together. Edwards’s anger with his mother over Catherine, and his mother’s anger about his rightwing views, had let me learn that there was something fishy about Bayard Publishing’s finances-either today, or sometime in the past. Edwards had also implied that his father had slept around-he’d called Kylie Ballantine one of his “special projects.”

And Geraldine Graham? I had reached the bridge over the Chicago River, where I came to a halt, staring at a crane moving scrap metal in a plant at the river’s edge. Had she also been one of Calvin Bayard’s special projects? A lover, supplanted by the new young wife from Vassar? If that was the case, it was funny that MacKenzie Graham killed himself after Calvin arrived back in New Solway with Renee, instead of while Geraldine and Calvin were still lovers.

All those New Solway lives, they were like the twisted ribbons of steel dangling from the crane’s magnet. You could turn them and see them in different combinations. I could see a version in which Geraldine Graham threw a mask into the pool so she wouldn’t remember the lover who made her buy it. Or because she had found out that she shared the lover with the mask’s provider. I could see, less clearly, her formidable mother throwing the mask away: No primitive art allowed? No primitive passions allowed? Or Darraugh throwing it in because he resented anything to do with Calvin Bayard-if Calvin had been Geraldine’s lover.

Calvin had also forced Olin Taverner to buy a mask. And Edwards Bayard had grown up to give Olin any revenge against his neighbor and nemesis the old lawyer might crave. But why should Taverner want

revenge-surely it was Calvin Bayard who was the wronged party here. And what did that have to do with Marcus Whitby-aside from his interest in Kylie Ballantine?

The crane dropped its load. The sound didn’t reach me over the traffic noise along the bridge, but the end of the show galvanized me back into motion. At the corner of Damen, a drunk was panhandling. I gave him the quarter I’d gotten on Wells Street. He wasn’t grateful-these days a quarter is a pathetic handout.

Tessa’s truck was in the parking lot. When I passed the door to her studio, I stopped for a moment to watch. She was working weekends to finish a commissioned piece for a Cincinnati park, highly polished chunks of chrome that made you want to touch and slide on them. Despite the cool day, she had the heat turned off and was working in a tank top and shorts under her protective apron, her beaded hair pulled back under a hard hat.

I’ve learned not to interrupt her when she’s got her blowtorch going full blast, but when she saw me in the doorway she turned off the flame and came over to me, removing her hard hat and flipping her protective eye shield up over her head. “Are you still full of germs? How far away do I have to stand from you?”

“Keep burning your blowtorch under your nose; it’ll kill any viruses.” She laughed and came over to the door. “How many people have you given your office keys to lately, Warshawski?”

“Just one-a young economics Ph.D. who’s doing a little work for me.” “Some men were here yesterday and again this morning who didn’t seem to have any trouble with your front door. What’s going on?”

So much for trying to operate without the fear that leads detectives to unacceptable levels of nerviness. “They think I’m hiding an Arab terrorist.” “If you are, keep him buried until these guys lay off they’re a thoroughly mean-spirited bunch. If I didn’t have to finish `Children at Play’ this week, I’d take a hike, too-they make me nervous. These are what-federal agents? You know, my mother’s family was from Cameron, Mississippi. My grandparents had to run away in the middle of the night when the local sheriff led a group in burning down their house because it was in a spot where some local white muckety-muck wanted to build. I am not crazy about citizens having to stand helplessly by while the law takes over their homes.”

“Me, neither, but I don’t know what to do about it at this point. They keep waving that damned Patriot bill in my face.”

“Bastards!” She took me to a glassed-in cubicle at the back of her studio. She sat at a drawing board and began sketching rapidly with charcoal. In a minute, she had drawn four faces, two each on two separate sheets of newsprint. They were the same two men, dressed in service overalls in the first picture, in suits in the second. One of them was the man who’d insisted on searching my apartment last night.

“The one guy is a federal marshal, so I suppose his sidekick is, too.” I took the sketches from her.

“Try not to do anything to get these boys in blue so mad they burn down our space here: I’ve got two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of equipment that I don’t want to try to replace. Insurance company never paid my granddaddy one thin dime for his house, you know.” She stomped back to her blowtorch.

I moved slowly across the hall and undid the locks to my office. Why did I bother, when the FBI or whoever could come in with sophisticated lock busters and help themselves to my space?

At least they hadn’t trashed my office, not like the horrible time I’d had a year or so back when I’d gotten on the wrong side of a malevolent city cop. I booted up and checked my messages. I wrote Morrell a long e-letter, telling him everything I’d been doing since Friday morning, even about getting a quarter when I was reaching out a hand for him. I wanted to be able to discuss Benjamin with someone, or rehash how we’d run away from Larchmont, leaving Catherine Bayard bleeding in the fields behind us, and I poured it all into the letter. But when I read it through, I deleted that part. If they were tapping my phone line, they could pick up my e-mail as readily as my conversations.

Oh, darling, I wish I knew where you were. Surely you wouldn’t have gone off with some set of extremists and not left word with someone from your team. Surely you’re not with Susan Horseley or some other fascinating jet-setting journalist?

In the end, I deleted the whole letter and turned to my own phone logs.

CHAPTER 39

Dirty Laundry

Edwards Bayard came late to our meeting. I figured that was to show me he was really in charge, despite agreeing to meet on my home ground. While I waited, I made my call to Mr. Contreras to let him know I hadn’t been arrested, at least not so far today.

I still had a stack of unanswered messages from yesterday. Most that I returned just got me voice mail, since it was Sunday afternoon, but I reached Geraldine Graham. She was feeling cranky for being neglected, said she couldn’t hear me when I mumbled into the phone, then lectured me for shouting at her. What she really wanted was for me to come out to New Solway. When I told her I’d try to make it tomorrow afternoon, if my schedule permitted, she got rather huffy and ordered me to remember who was paying me.

“Not you or Darraugh, ma’am. If you want to put me on your payroll, I bill my time at two hundred dollars an hour.” On those occasions that I found clients who could afford it.

She paused. “I’ll expect you at five tomorrow, then.” “If I can make it. If I can’t-I’ll let you know.”

I felt honor-bound to call Darraugh, just to let him know I was visiting his mother, despite his orders to the contrary. He was home and slightly less arctic than the last time we’d spoken-although, naturally, he didn’t apologize for threatening to fire me.

“So Mother actually saw someone in the attic. Maybe she’s a heroine in the war on terrorism. She probably enjoyed herself at the social hour after church this morning.”

He wanted a report on what had actually happened at Larchmoilt. Like Bobby Mallory and Renee Bayard, he didn’t believe I didn’t know where Benjamin Sadawi was, but, even if I’d been sure of my phones, Darraugh sure hadn’t earned the right to my secrets lately.

When we finished talking, I looked at Tessa’s charcoal sketches of the men who’d broken into my office so efficiently. I wondered if they’d come in to bug my place. Even though I knew i? the FBI wanted to tap my phones they’d do it from a remote location, I unscrewed the handsets and went out to the junction box but didn’t find anything.

And if they wanted to bug the office … I looked around in dismay. Even though Tessa rents two-thirds of our warehouse, I still have a lot of room. I had it divided into human-sized work areas to make it look friendlier-there’s a meeting space for clients with couches and a glass-topped table-my own work area with a long table for laying out big exhibits or maps-Mary Lou’s old desk. And then the computers and the light fixtures and the pictures on the walls. The walled-off back area for supplies, a small room with a cot for when I needed to crash.

I supposed I could have someone come in and sweep the room, but, in the meantime, should I even let clients talk to me here? Should I take Edwards Bayard someplace else if he was going to spill his guts?

To amuse myself while I waited, I made headers for Tessa’s sketches of the two federal agents: Warning-Housebreakers. Pretend to be U.. S. Marshals. Armed, Dangerous, Call 911 at once if you see them in the area. I made twenty photocopies and did a circuit of the block, taping them to lampposts and getting the local shops and coffee bars to put them in their windows.

Elton, a homeless man who sells StreetWise on my stretch of Milwaukee Avenue, peered over my shoulder as I taped up my last copy. “They break into your place, V L? I see them on the street, you bet I’ll let you know right away.” He probably would, too, if he was sober: he struggles with his drinking, but it’s not an easy habit to combat at the best of times, let alone while you’re on the streets.

“Kind of looks like one of them right now,” he added, jerking his thumb across the street at my building.

I whirled around. It was Edwards Bayard. He did look like one of the Feds, with the thick, side-parted hair that’s become a kind of uniform among men in the corpo-political world. But no federal agent could have afforded his clothes, or his BMW convertible.

Bayard was looking from me and Elton to his car, not sure he and his valuable machine belonged near us. I crossed the street and greeted him cheerily. “I don’t have much time,” he said sternly as I tapped in the code for the front-door lock.

“No, I know: you’re a busy man,” I soothed him. “I, of course, have nothing else to do, so I don’t mind when you’re fortyfive minutes late.” He flushed and murmured something about his daughter and the hospital. Nyaa, I thought: the first person to apologize loses.

Edwards turned down offers of refreshment and aggressively moved my desk chair into the area where I meet with clients.

I sat on the arm of the couch. “So tell me why you broke into Olin Taverner’s apartment on Thursday and then pretended to your family you’d been in Washington until Catherine was shot.”

“I wasn’t-“

“No, no, you’re a busy man, let’s not add to your burdens by sifting through lies. We both know you were there; you weren’t wearing gloves.” “Yes, I was,” he started, and then bit his lip midsentence.

He’d never been interrogated-he’d fallen for the easiest trick in the book. “We’ll take that as a `Yes, I was there.’ Catherine will find it thrilling when she learns you’re a housebreaker-it’ll make you seem younger, more daring in her eyes. Not to mention your mom, who thinks you’re on the stodgy side.”

His jaw dropped. “I-my daughter is too young to understand why I might have to do something unorthodox.”

I smiled sweetly. “And your mother is too old. So what was in those files Taverner kept in his locked drawer?”

“You know so damned much, you tell me.”

“Bayard, for a smart guy, you’re not so bright. Rick Salvi may be in your family’s pocket, but Chicago’s Captain Mallory is starting to pay serious attention to New Solway. He can call on some of the working cops out in DuPage to do a real criminal investigation out there. So stop stalling, because the next time you do, I’m on the phone to the captain.”

He smacked his thigh with a balled-up fist. “I’m Olin’s executor; I had a right to be there.”

“Then why break in through the patio? Why not go over to Julius Arnoff’s office and present your credentials and get him to let you in?” When he didn’t say anything, I said, “Is it because Arnoff is really the executor and your Spadona Foundation is one of the heirs? Is it because you didn’t want anyone to know you weren’t really in Washington on Thursday? Had you flown out on Sunday and killed Marcus Whitby, without realizing the important papers were in Taverner’s desk?”

Bayard turned pale. “That’s an outrageous accusation. I did not kill Marcus Whitby or any other person.”

“Including Olin Taverner?”

“Especially not Olin. He-was an important figure in my life.” “More important than your father,” I suggested.

His lip curled in a scornful smile. “Certainly more important than Calvin, who barely registered my existence.”

I looked at him curiously. “Olin Taverner paid active attention to you when you were a child? He was the one who took you to ball games and taught you to ride your first pony?”

He turned his head away, discomfited. “No, but Calvin sure as hell didn’t-he was too busy being a hero to the whole damned world. Olin lived in Washington when I was growing up. He had an active law practice there, and, anyway, after the hearings, Calvin and Renee took over New Solway; they made Olin uncomfortable in his own home. Can you believe that? Calvin and Renee bore him such a grudge that they persuaded people he’d known his whole life to cut him!”

“He tried to destroy your father’s life,” I said. “It’s not too surprising your parents weren’t his biggest well-wishers.”

“Well, they had their own dirty laundry to hide. Or at least Calvin did, and Renee, of course, trotted around after him in her busy efficient way helping him bury it.”

“So when did Taverner show you what their laundry was?”

He cast me a sidelong glance, as if trying to decide what story I’d be most likely to believe.

I spoke before he chose a version. “This afternoon at your mother’s, you were implying that your father’s financial dealings were shaky. Did Taverner tell you that?”

“Not exactly.”

“So what exactly?”

“I found a letter in Calvin’s desk,” he blurted out. “From old Mrs. Drummond-Mrs. Graham’s mother.”

“She knew about your father’s financial situation?” I was incredulous. “Apparently, Calvin was stealing from the Drummonds, or maybe the Grahams. I can still recite that damned letter by heart:

Dear Calvin,

I am aware of the theft you are committing against my household. A streak of hypocrisy seems to grow deep within your family’s character; your mother had a similar tendency to parade the halls draped in righteousness while her conduct behind the scenes didn’t bear close scrutiny. I shall, of course, expect restitution, and you may be sure that I will take appropriate measures should your actions continue.

“She signed it with her full name, Laura Taverner Drummond, which is how I learned she was related to Olin. No one ever told me anything about all those people-I kept stumbling on bits of information like that and feeling goddamned blindsided”

The resentment from twentyfive years earlier still burned: his cheeks were red now, and his voice shaking with anger.

“So then did you take the letter to Taverner?”

“I was only sixteen, I went to Renee and demanded she tell me what the letter was about. She laughed-laughed, mind you, as if it were a joke,

not a character flaw. She said Calvin had been `a bit unscrupulous’ in borrowing from the neighbors, but that when she married him she put a stop to all that. But you know, word always seeps out in a small town, and people gossip endlessly. It’s one thing I owe Renee-growing up chiefly in Chicago instead of that dead-alive fishbowl on Coverdale Lane. Weekends there were bad enough.”

“Yes, indeed.” In any small community, including the urban neighborhood o? my own childhood, people gossip mercilessly about Mrs. This’s daughter’s pregnancy and how poor Mrs. That felt when her husband lost all the rent money at craps. I felt momentary compunction for Darraugh and for the angry man in front of me-both of them poor little rich boys in their way.

“I wonder why your father kept the letter? Anyone on your family’s staff might have found it and blackmailed him.”

“Calvin is-was-an incurable pack rat. His study out in New Solway is crammed with papers. I can’t imagine the Lantners being bothered to look through all that crap.”

“And why were you looking at it? A congenital weakness for poking through other people’s desks?” I spoke with deliberate roughness, hoping to goad a further response.

Deepening anger turned Bayard’s blue eyes black. “All that damned talk. We’d had a big house party-the fortieth anniversary of Calvin taking over Bayard Publishing, his pals from the left’s glory days came, even old Armand Pelletier-he stayed with us for three days, until he got into a huge shouting match with Calvin and stormed out. There was one of those daylong parties-people came to ride and have breakfast and stayed on all day until we had dinner for eighty-Renee loved showing off, not her possessions, her genius for organizing.

“All the neighbors from Coverdale Lane showed up, except Olin, of course. Old Mrs. Drummond creaked over in her diamonds. She was ninety-eight and forced everybody to drop anything they were doing if she had any kind of whim. Even Renee danced when Mrs. Drummond banged her drum. Geraldine Graham came, too, although she and Renee didn’t get along. And she didn’t get along that great with Mrs. Drummond, with her mother, come to think of it. And I heard some of the women talking in those delicious breathless voices, `Does he even suspect, do you think? After all, he looks just like his mother, so why would he?”’

His chin jutted out as if he dared me to mock him. “I do look like Renee, so if Calvin isn’t my father, I can’t tell by looking in the mirror. When I was little, I kept believing I’d grow up as tall as he was, and then I was sixteen and stuck at five foot eight. I look like Renee’s father, like his younger twin, there’s not a trace of Bayard in me!

“So while they were having the time of their lives at that party, I went through Calvin’s desk-I knew his study was the one room that people didn’t go to fuck in. Sacred ground, not like even my own bedroom where I found Armand with Peter Felitti’s wife! I was hoping there’d be one word in Calvin’s old diaries about me, one thought that he’d paid attention to my conception or my birth!”

Bayard was panting as though he’d been running hard. “When Trina was born, I made a conscious effort to write it up. It was a big moment in my life, I should think in any father’s life, his first child’s birth, seeing that perfect little creature you made happen. But not Calvin. And I never knew whether it was because he wasn’t my father, or because he was so damned wound up in his own importance that I didn’t count for crap. Everyone worshiped him-you yourself do. Well, I wanted a father, not a god who expected to be on that pedestal.”

My stomach tightened at the accusation, but I kept my voice steady. “Did your mother have affairs? It doesn’t seem in character, although I didn’t know her when she was twenty.”

“That’s what I would have thought, too,” he said savagely. “And of course it’s what she said when I put it to her.”

“So what did you tell Taverner when you met? Did you ask him who your father really was, or just about the letter from Ms. Drummond?”

He began picking at the rubber edge to one of my legal pads. “It-I decided to explore other viewpoints than Calvin and Renee’s and served as an intern in Senator Tower’s office. That was when I really met Olin, got to know him. He was astonished, of course, to see a Bayard in that office, but he and Tower were good friends. Olin was a different kind of person than Calvin, not as easygoing, not expecting people to fall down and worship him. I liked him, and we got to be friends.”

“And there was the added benefit that knowing him made your parents see red-so to speak.”

“As if that isn’t what they always saw.” He ripped a length of rubber from the pad. Now the pages would all fall off, but that was a small price for the information I was getting.

“So you came to tell him about the letter from Ms. Drummond. Did he know about it?”