"Shit, nobody cares."
"Nobody cares until somebody writes about it."
He went quite still when I said that.
"Not that I want to write about your house. What I want is something else entirely. You know, Larry, if one of you stabbed Plumly, that's not the fault of the other two. Not necessarily."
"That isn't what happened. I hate to say it, babe, bustin' your balloon here, but your brother killed the guy."
"But if one of you stabbed him and covered up for it by giving misinformation to the police, that's involvement. It makes you an accessory after the fact. People go to jail for that."
* * *
The next day, at the crack of late morning, I was in the garage under Taubman's building. Now, it's not a new concept that people who are haughty sometimes antagonize people they believe to be underlings. Con O'Mara, who ran the parking garage, had a pink face, beautiful silky pure white hair combed back
en brosse
, bright blue eyes— one of those men who just looks sparkling clean— and a true distaste for E. T. Taubman. A very good thing for me. Especially since I had talked to several other people this morning and had gotten nowhere.
"Both of them," he said, bouncing on very small feet, clad in bright white running shoes. He smelled of Irish Spring soap. My excuse for talking with him had been that I was thinking of writing about Taubman, which was possible, if not strictly true. I had promised O'Mara anonymity and wonder of wonders, he believed me. That part was certainly true. If there is one thing I'm proud of, it's that I've never betrayed a source to write a story. Con O'Mara, though, was all pink and bright and eager to talk about the Taubmans. "She acts more bossy than he does, hon, unless you get to know them. Pretty soon you realize he's just as bad."
"Like what?"
"Ya know how sometimes a person just wants to show you they're so smart they're watching everything? Nothing is going to slip past them, see? I got seventeen men here, taking all shifts and vacation time and all. And see, Taubman decides he's going to pay attention to which ones do the right things with his cars and which guys don't. He's keeping a log, see, of when there's fingermarks on the car. Did I explain that tenants get two car washes a month?"
"No, you didn't."
"Well, they do. Anyhow, I find out that every time he gets the car back, he gives it a grade. How clean is it? Did they remember to wash off any polish residue where the chrome meets the painted part? Like around the lights. Did they wash under the windshield wiper? Clean the ashtrays? And like I said, did they leave any fingerprints? Then he puts the score down next to the name of the guy who did the wash job. Writes it in a little black spiral-bound notebook, no less! At the end of four months he comes to me with the grades, tells me who's bad and who's good. I ought to say, he tells me who's bad and who's acceptable. You ever heard of such a thing?"
"Never."
"Still doing it to this day. Thank God he got rid of the other car. At least now he's coming in with a shorter list. One oughta be due in about another week, I would say. I'm looking forward to that, I can tell you.
Not
, as my granddaughter used to say."
"What other car?"
"What?"
"He had another car? What happened to it?"
"He sold it. Had a Porsche and a Lincoln Continental. Sold the Porsche."
"Why?"
"Who knows? Why are you so interested? He made some sort of joke that he'd sell the Lincoln instead but his father-in-law gave it to them for their tenth wedding anniversary."
"No kidding? Did he take it to a dealer?" I had visions of locating the automobile agency, tracing the check to their bank, and finding he had signed the check over to whomever he bribed. But that would be too much luck on my part and too stupid on his part. At least I could talk with the dealer and find out the amount.
"No, you know what, hon? He sold it on eBay. First time I ever heard of anybody doing that."
And got cash or a check, which he deposited in his own bank, I suppose. I didn't think I had any way of getting eBay records and finding out the high bid on an item. Damn! But maybe the cops could follow it up.
At least I could get an idea of how much money he got. "How old was this car?"
"Two years. Still in perfectly good condition."
"When did he sell it?"
"This car really interests you, doesn't it? A year and a half ago. No, hon, I'm lyin'. A little less than that. Fifteen, sixteen months."
I called Barry from my car phone.
"When are the decisions made about whom to hire for a festival?"
"I'm busy."
"Come on. Just tell me."
"It varies. I can't just tell you. The Oz Festival had been planned for two years, and the idea first surfaced three years ago. You can't just rush a festival into Grant Park. There's a lot of scheduling. Two years was a tighter schedule than we like. But it was the centennial."
"Well, when are people hired? When were the decisions made?"
"I was hired two years ago. There's a hell of a lot of preplanning. Then the council worked on what kind of a festival they wanted. And all the advisory committees meet and talk. There are companies that supply rides for state fairs and county fairs, so we knew where to get equipment. Design modifications had to be specified about twelve months in advance. So the artists had to be on board a little before that."
"Well, when were people like Jennifer Denslow and E. T. Taubman hired?"
"Maybe fifteen months ago."
"Aha."
The lightbulb went on over my head. What an idiot I'd been. I'd been so fixed on the notion that the three "important" men, Pottle, Taubman, and Mazzanovich, had raked in the loot, taking bribes for throwing work to people, that I hadn't realized a major point. Taubman couldn't throw any work to anybody, except maybe an assistant to change a lightbulb. He wasn't on any committee. He didn't have clout. He didn't hand out work, he
wanted
work.
Taubman wanted the prestige and PR of being the lighting designer for the first Chicago/Grant Park Oz Festival. And he'd been a hundred percent right in wanting it. The publicity he'd reaped would be worth many thousands to his business and untold amounts for his reputation. And probably make his wife happier with him, too. From being one of many lighting designers in Chicago, he'd vaulted to being one of the premier lighting designers. What's more, a credit like that didn't go away. It would always be there on his résumé, glowing like a neon strip.
Taubman would be a briber, not a bribee.
Which was why he had sold his Porsche over a year ago. He needed money for the bribe.
But if it ever came out that he had paid people off to get the job, his reputation would be forever tainted. The fact that his lighting was pretty damned good would be smothered by the nasty word that he had stooped so low. And this would be true even if he escaped criminal prosecution for making the payoff.
* * *
"So I keep hearing that Taubman is bossy and arrogant," I said to my informant. She was the same one who had told me where to find him the night of the string quartet.
"Absolutely. He regards it as artistic temperament. He's impatient. An ego as big as all outdoors. Doesn't have time for the peons."
"Then why has he been spending time explaining things to me? Guilty conscience?"
"I don't know whether he has a guilty conscience. But I do know why he's been spending time with you. You're the press. He hopes sooner or later you'll write about him."
22
POPPIES WILL PUT THEM TO SLEEP
I sat on a low tiled wall, backed by green shrubs, watching for the right moment. Trying very hard to look like a wealthy young woman whose date would be coming by at any moment, I shifted back and forth on the hard seat.
A couple in evening dress passed by and entered the foyer, but if possible I needed a larger party. A single man hopped out of a cab and went up the walk. No good.
It was Monday evening, and wearing a little black dress, I had approached Edmond Pottle's elegant North Michigan Avenue building. My informant had told me the banker was having a small dinner party for forty of his closest friends.
The slinky dress did nothing to cushion me from the hard tile wall.
But hey! Here came a limo, and there were several people inside. Risking a mistake, I got up and sauntered toward the building. If the doorman saw me come up to the door with a group and then beat a retreat, he'd never let me in later with a different group.
I stopped to fiddle with the clasp on my pseudo-pearl necklace. Sure enough, the limo disgorged five people, one an elderly lady in lavender. Two younger couples accompanied her, the older of the two men taking her arm for support. I fell in next to them.
"Yes, ma'am?" the doorman said, addressing the elderly lady.
"Edmond Pottle, young man."
"Yes, ma'am. Mr. Pottle is on nineteen, the top floor."
He stepped to the elevator and pressed the button to call it. The doorman returned to the front door, while the five of us waited for the elevator. "Oh, you're going to Pottle's, too," the younger man said to me.
"Yes, I am."
"Know him from the bank?"
"No, actually from the Oz Festival." Why not be honest when you can afford to?
"Isn't it nice that Edmond takes an interest in these civic events," the older woman said.
Pottle's apartment was huge. There were only two apartments on nineteen, which meant that each had three sides of the building. Pottle's faced west, south, and east, giving him a full lake view to the east, a view of Navy Pier to the southeast, and the city skyline to the west.
I didn't see Pottle when I walked in. The party of five I had entered with passed through the large foyer and into the living room beyond on the right. A long hall led back from the foyer to a kitchen, which I just glimpsed as a uniformed waitress opened the door and let it swing closed behind her. On my left opposite the living room arch was another hall, presumably leading to bedrooms.
I followed the five into the living room. Pottle did not rush over to greet his guests. The living room buzzed with sound, and Pottle himself stood near a large window overlooking the lake. Beyond him were small tables set with white tablecloths, and beyond that, the dining room contained a long table, also set for dinner. All the tables were bedecked with huge bowls of dark red roses, so big that people sitting across from each other would not be able to see each other through the flowers. The silver was heavy and the napkins looked thick.
The rest of the apartment was similar in style. Pottle liked heavily carved wood. To my eye, the carved mantelpiece looked as if it had been taken from an old Spanish church. The sofas were covered in dark red velvet and had curved backs and carved arms. Several chairs in the living room resembled thrones.
I made sure I got well into the living room, far from the front door, before giving Pottle any chance of seeing me. When he did, unlike Taubman at the concert the night before, he made an immediate beeline toward me, brushing past several guests.
"What are you doing here?" he whispered.
"I've come to visit."
"I'm having a dinner party."
"Yes, and I'm dressed for it."
"You can't be serious. You aren't invited. Oh yes, Adrienne," he said to a middle-aged woman who leaned toward him and cooed in his ear. She and he both smiled toothily. "I'll be right over and meet your aunt." I had seen Adrienne's picture in the society glossies, but couldn't remember what for. She had something to do with civic statuary. To me he said, "If you don't leave, I'll call the police."
Four more guests entered the foyer. One said, "Oh, Emily! Lovely dress!"
"Black, like everybody else, I'm afraid."
"Except for Poppy."
"Oh, Poppy's always different. She always makes a statement."
A woman with apricot hair, presumably Poppy, said, "I'm not making a statement. Didn't you know red was the new black?"
"I thought beige was the new black."
"Silly! Beige is the new white."
Serving people passed among the guests, making the crowd even more numerous and more confusing. All of the waitresses were young women of about twenty, all of them dressed in black with white aprons, apparently unaware that they should be red and beige.
"Oh, shoot, Mr. Pottle," I said, pouting— something I never do in the normal course of events. "I guess you don't want me here."
"Judge Danvers!" Pottle burbled, ignoring me. "Have a drink and I'll be right there. I want you to meet Adrienne's aunt."
Judge Danvers approached waving his arms. "Edmond! I have some news on
