Grave Designs (25 page)

Chapter Thirty-eight

I called Kevin Turelli and Cindi from my office and set up a meeting at Cindi's hotel room at 6 p.m.

“We have to come up with some sort of plan for the cops fast,” I told Cindi. “Maybe the four of us can dream up something.”

“Great. I'm going stir crazy in here. The cops won't let me out of this room.”

“Whoever did it must have known that you kept videocassettes in the safe behind the picture,” I explained. “We have four suspects.”

There was a pause, and then Cindi said, “Give me their names.”

I did.

Another pause. “Cal Pemberton,” she said.

“Pemberton?”

“Twice. About a year ago.”

“Any of the others?”

“I don't think so, Rachel.”

“How did Pemberton get your name?”

“He said someone from the firm told him about me.”

“He say who?”

“He may have. I can't remember.”

“Did you have any other clients from Abbott and Windsor?”

“I don't think so, Rachel. Graham and Cal. I think that's all.”

“What do you remember about Cal?”

“Enough. He was a real weirdo.”

I felt a chill. “How so?”

“It was like the guy had a split personality. The second time I was with him he was a completely different person than the first time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the first time he was real subdued. He had a lot of trouble doing it. Making love, you know. He took a lot of work. Afterward, after the first time, he asked a lot of questions. Not about sex. He was really curious about the business end of things. How I got customers, how I decided how much to charge, how I handled the income-tax end of it. That sort of thing.”

“Did he ask you about videocassettes and where you kept them?”

“I'm not sure.” Cindi paused. “I can't picture it in my memory, but I wouldn't be surprised if he did. He asked about everything.”

“Did he want his own videotape?”

“No. We didn't make a videotape.”

“What about the second time?”

“It was awful. He wanted to tie me up and try some rough stuff. He was a totally different person, I told him I didn't do that stuff. He got furious, tried to tie me up anyway. I fought him off and kicked him out. I tell you, I was a little scared. I told him I never wanted to see him again.” She paused. “And I never did.”

I thought it was over. Cal Pemberton? “Well, I'll be over at six,” I said. “See you then, Cindi.”

Mary poked her head in my office with a handful of message slips. “One of Mr. Richardson's secretaries called to say he'll be a few minutes late. Benny Goldberg called too. He's in his office. Also, that Paul Mason called again.”

“Thanks,” I said. Paul would have to wait. I had too much else to worry about without adding Paul and whatever he was after. Benny Goldberg? I shook my head. It just couldn't be Benny. I dialed his number.

He answered the telephone, as usual, with, “Talk to me.”

“Hi.”

“Rachel! What's happening, girl?”

“Not much,” I said.

“Any new leads?”

But then again, how could I be certain? “Not yet,” I said, “I'm stumped for the moment.”

“What about the guy from the el? Rossino. You going to have someone talk to him?”

“Maybe.”

“You and I could do it, Rachel. See if he'll talk.”

“I don't know. It's too dangerous.”

“Yeah. Maybe you're right. I hear they've closed the Canaan file, anyway.”

“I gave Ishmael my report yesterday,” I said. “Now that the coffin's back, I guess they decided they didn't need anything else.”

“What about the other grave robbery?”

“Probably vandals,” I said, waiting for his reaction.

“Yeah, maybe so. Well, sit tight for the next few days. I'm leaving town Thursday. I'll be back late Friday. You going to the hippo's funeral on Saturday?”

“Yep.”

“We can try to figure it out after the funeral. We might want to go to the police on it, anyway. At least for Cindi's sake. She can't stay dead forever.”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Down to your hometown.”

“St. Louis?”

“Yeah, I'm looking at documents tomorrow and deposing their expert, a structural engineer, on Friday. I got some terrific background dope on the guy. I'm going to drill him a new asshole in that deposition.”

“How're things at the firm?” I asked.

“You're going to love this, Rachel. These guys here are like vultures picking at bones. Earl Woods dropped in this morning to ask me about some project I did for Graham Marshall a few years back. They want to see if they can figure out some way to bill it to a client. Can you believe this place?”

“What kind of project?”

“Something on abandoned property. Marshall told me one of his kids found some jewelry or something like that. He wanted to know if he could keep it. I told Earl Woods they'd never be able to bill anyone for that time.”

Don't you make the connection, Benny? “Well, have a good time in St. Louis,” I said.

“See you on Saturday.”

***

“We're going to have to lure this guy out into the open,” Kevin Turelli told Cindi and me. We were sitting around the small conference table in Cindi's hotel room. “The way I see it, we have two, maybe three days. After that he's likely to hear Rossino's been arrested.”

Cindi stood up and walked to the window, her hands in the front pockets of her new jeans. She turned toward us and said, “Well, he's operating right now with some pretty serious misinformation. He thinks I'm dead and he thinks no one knows he stole the videotapes. He assumes Joe Oliver got that extortion letter. And he doesn't know that Rossino got arrested and confessed. Maybe we can use that misinformation against him.”

“We have to figure out how,” Kevin said. He stood up, took off his sports jacket, hung it over the back of the chair, and sat down again. He had a gun in his shoulder holster. “I just can't make this guy. Muggings, setting up Bill Bentley with the document destruction scheme. And now this extortion number.” Kevin shook his head.

“But not extortion in the usual sense,” I said. “It looks like he doesn't want money from Joe Oliver. He just wants to make him squirm.”

Cindi said, “He wants to make them all squirm. Power's what this guy's after. Power to screw up people's lives, throw them off balance. Believe me, I've dealt with plenty of power-hungry lawyers. They're into control—over clients, witnesses, jurors, other lawyers.” She shook her head. “What we need to do is figure out who this blackmailer would love to have power over.”

The answer came immediately. “Ishmael Richardson,” I said. “Of course! If our guy is a lawyer at A and W, then Ishmael Richardson is the ultimate source of power: managing partner of Abbott and Windsor.”

“You might have something there, Rachel,” Kevin said.

Cindi sat down on the bed, frowning. “Maybe. But how do you turn Ishmael into bait?”

“How about this?” I said, the idea forming as I began talking. “Joe Oliver has the extortion letter, and he's desperate, right. Put yourself in his shoes. How can he stop the guy? Offer to trade him the videotape for something even more valuable. Offer to trade him for another videotape.” I looked at Cindi. “A videotape of Ishmael Richardson and you.”

“Me?” Cindi asked.

Kevin frowned. “I don't know.”

“Cindi's dead, right?” I said. “Killed in that explosion as far as he knows. So a tape with Cindi can't be a fake.”

“Me and…Ishmael Richardson?” Cindi asked.

“Richardson would never agree,” Kevin said, standing up and walking over to the window. “Never. No way. Forget it.”

“But Ishmael doesn't have to actually do anything,” I said. “Don't you see? Joe Oliver offers a trade to the blackmailer and then tempts him by giving him a sample of the tape. Just the beginning. Cindi on the bed, telling Ishmael to join her. And then the tape ends. Just a teaser. That's the bait. Then Joe tells him if he wants the rest, he has to trade his copies of Joe and Cindi for the original of Ishmael. And if the blackmailer goes for the bait, you can arrest him when he makes the trade. Don't you see? We could make the videotape here. Tonight.”

Cindi and Kevin stared at me. After a while Cindi started to smile. “It might work,” she said.

Kevin shook his head. “It's not logical. Put yourself in Joe Oliver's shoes. That's what our guy will do. How does Joe know our guy is going to give him all the copies of the videotape with Joe in it? How does Joe know our guy will keep his end of the bargain?”

“Joe doesn't,” I said. “That's the beauty of it. Don't you see? Joe can't be sure our guy won't keep an extra copy. That's why he'd insist that the exchange be done face-to-face. So he can find out who the extortionist is. Then Joe will have some leverage too. Our guy can't use his tapes of Joe or Joe will blow the whistle on him. And Joe can't try to blow the whistle on our guy because our guy will release his copies of Joe in action. It becomes a Mexican standoff.”

“Not bad,” Kevin said.

Cindi held up her hands. “Hold it. How is Joe Oliver supposed to have a videotape of Ishmael and me? Isn't our mystery man going to wonder about that?”

Kevin scratched his head. “Well,” he said, “he'd be more suspicious if he thought you were still alive. Since he thinks you're dead, he'll be convinced the videotape is authentic. He may not even wonder how Joe got the tape. I've dealt with extortionists before. They're ready to believe others are just as devious as they are. And our guy obviously knows that Joe Oliver is one tough cookie. He'll probably convince himself that Joe bought the tape from you or snuck it out of your apartment one night when he was there. Or maybe he'll think you accidentally gave Joe the wrong tape. Believe me, if we're right about our mystery man, he'll be so eager to get the videotape of Ishmael that he won't care how Joe ended up with it.”

“You're probably right,” Cindi said.

Kevin shook his head. “Wait a minute. Once we get the tape of Richardson and Miss Reynolds, how do we contact the mystery man?”

I didn't have an answer.

“I know!” Cindi said. “We have four suspects. We send each one a note from Joe. A short cryptic note that only the real one will understand.”

I thought it over. “Won't work,” I said. “How would Joe know who to send the note to? How does he know who the suspects are? If he sends a note directly to the right one, the right one will get spooked. And even if he doesn't, the chances are that one of the others might tell him about the duplicate note he got. ‘Look at this crazy note I got,' one of them might say when he shows it to the real guy. The real guy will know immediately that it's a trick.”

Cindi lay back on her bed, her arms behind her head. “Rats,” she said.

Kevin leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

“Of course!” I said. “The personals column. He'd put a message in the personals. A personals message to the videotape extortionist, whoever you are.”

Cindi sat up. “I like it.”

“And you think our guy reads the personals?” Kevin asked.

“Chances are he does,” I said. “After all, that's how his Canaan operatives communicate with each other, right? He probably checks the personals all the time to make sure they aren't going into business for themselves.”

Kevin finally smiled. “I like it,” he said.

“So do I,” Cindi said. “Let's nail that bastard.”

Her telephone started ringing. Kevin answered it. “Hello? Fine, send him up.” He hung up and turned to me. “Ishmael Richardson is coming up.”

***

Kevin waited out in the hall while I explained our plan to Ishmael Richardson.

He didn't say yes and he didn't say no. He didn't say anything until he asked, “How do you propose to get this sample into his hands?”

“I don't know yet,” I said. “We'll figure out some drop point and then put it in the personals message.”

Ishmael turned to Cindi. “How do you feel about this, young lady?”

“This man tried to kill me, Mr. Richardson,” Cindi said. “He killed two people in my condo. He broke into Rachel's apartment and almost killed her dog. Now he's trying to destroy Joe Oliver, and he'll destroy me in the process. He'll ruin any future I might have. I think Rachel's plan might work. I'm willing to try it, sir.”

Ishmael nodded slowly.

“I don't know what else we can do,” I said. “You'd never be visible on camera. It'd be just Cindi talking. She'd mention only your first name.”

Ishmael rubbed his chin. Cindi and I were silent. He finally stood up and walked over to the telephone. He dialed a number. “June,” he said, “I'll be at 555-2020 until about ten tonight. Room 847.” Still on the telephone, he turned to me and winked. “It looks like I may be tied up for a while.”

Chapter Thirty-nine

Kevin had arranged for the police to bring video equipment to the hotel and had sent a woman police officer over to Water Tower Place to pick up a sexy outfit for Cindi. She had returned fifteen minutes ago with a Marshall Field's box.

Cindi was in the bathroom, having already positioned the video camera at the foot of the bed. Ishmael was sitting on the couch fiddling with a cuff link. Kevin Turelli was out in the hall. By agreement, I would witness the proceedings and operate the camera. There would be no one else in the room except for Ishmael and Cindi.

The bathroom door opened. Cindi stood in the doorway, barefoot. She was wearing a semi-transparent red teddy cut high on the hips and a black garter on her left thigh. “Well?” she said as she turned slowly. From behind, the teddy was cut even higher, exposing both cheeks. From the front, her nipples and belly button were clearly visible through the filmy material. She looked down and said, “I could use some Neet.” A few blond curly hairs poked out of both sides of the lower V of the teddy.

“You look super,” I said.

Cindi reached back into the bathroom and pulled out an oversize bath towel, which she wrapped around her body, sarong-style.

Ishmael cleared his throat. “All set?” he asked.

“I think so,” I said, turning to Cindi. “This is the On button?” I asked, pointing to a button on the camera.

She nodded. “Make sure I'm in the frame before you push it.”

“What is the script?” Ishmael asked, still seated on the couch, trying to look relaxed.

“We'll open with Cindi alone on the bed,” I said, “facing the camera. She'll talk into the camera, say something about how she's lonely, and then she'll say your first name and ask you to join her. That's when I'll stop the film.”

Ishmael frowned. “We want to make sure we bait the hook, correct?” He seemed to perk up.

I nodded.

Ishmael said, “Lyndon Johnson once told me that the best way to destroy a man is to catch him in bed with another man or with an animal. I am afraid I must draw the line at animals. After all, I am a trustee of the Lincoln Park Zoo.” He smiled. “However, if we want to guarantee that the hook is properly baited, we should add another man to the bed along with Miss Reynolds.”

Ten minutes later we were ready to roll. Cindi sat in the middle of the bed, her wrists handcuffed in front of her and one of the spaghetti straps of her teddy off her shoulder, exposing her left breast. She held a second set of handcuffs, the cuffs open, in her left hand. Seated next to her on the bed was Chicago Police Officer Thomas O'Brien, the beefy, moon-faced young cop who had been stationed on guard in the hotel room next door. He was in full uniform and attempting to keep a straight face.

“Ready?” I asked nervously, peering through the viewfinder. Cindi was in the middle of the camera frame; Officer O'Brien was to her right. I never expected to be making my debut tonight as a porno filmmaker.

Cindi nodded, looking down.

“Roll 'em,” I said, pushing the On button.

Cindi looked up slowly, her eyes wide. She ran her tongue around her lips. “Ishmael,” she said in a husky voice, “Officer O'Brien says that I've been a very naughty girl. He says I have to be punished because I'm such a bad, bad girl.” She held her handcuffed wrists up, the second pair of handcuffs dangling. “Officer O'Brien says that naughty girls have to be spanked.” She closed her eyes and then slowly opened them again. “Come over here, Ishmael. Spank me.”

“Cut,” I said, turning off the camera. “Perfect.”

“Here,” Cindi said, shoving her handcuffed wrists toward Officer O'Brien. “Take these off of me.”

Officer O'Brien took the key off his belt and unlocked the handcuffs. Cindi got off the bed and walked quickly to the bathroom. She slammed the door behind her.

“That'll be all, Officer,” I said to O'Brien.

“My pleasure, lady.” He had a big grin on his face.

“If you breathe a word of this to anyone, Mr. O'Brien,” Ishmael said, “I will personally see to it that you are transferred to the graveyard shift at O'Hare Airport.”

O'Brien's eyes opened wide.

“Do you understand me?” Ishmael said.

“Yes, sir.” O'Brien left.

Kevin stuck his head in. “Everything go okay?”

“Fine,” I said.

“Where's Cindi?”

“She's changing,” I said. “Give us a few minutes alone, Kevin. Okay?”

“Sure. I'll be out here.”

Ishmael and I reviewed the videotape twice on the small viewfinder screen on the camera. It looked good. Ishmael watched as I tried to dismantle the video equipment. I couldn't unhook the camera from the tripod.

“Rachel,” he said, glancing toward the closed bathroom door, “perhaps I should speak with her.”

“No. I should,” I said. “Maybe you could wait outside.”

Just then the bathroom door opened. Cindi was dressed again in her blue jeans and pink cotton T-shirt. Her face was taut. She took a deep breath. “Let's go, guys. We have work to do.”

***

But at 10:30 p.m. we were still stumped. Ishmael had left an hour before to meet in private with Joe Oliver to explain what had happened and what was planned.

Cindi, Kevin, and I were seated around the table in her room, having just finished our room-service dinners.

“There has to be a way,” Cindi said as she poked her fork at a decorative orange half that looked as if it had been cut with pinking shears.

The problem was how to get the videotape teaser to the mystery man. We had to pick a drop point that would allow him to pick up the videocassette without the fear of being seen. The obvious choices were no good. A post office box, a locker at the bus or train station—he would be too visible, too conspicuous. It had to be someplace he knew he couldn't be spotted by a plainclothes cop.

“It has to be a private place in a public spot,” Cindi said. “Somewhere where there's lots of traffic but where you can be private.”

“A movie theater?” Kevin asked. “No,” he answered himself. “He wouldn't know who was watching him in the darkness.”

“How ‘bout a bathroom?” Cindi asked. “A public bathroom, like out at O'Hare.”

“Where would you put the videocassette?” I asked.

Cindi answered, “Tape it behind a toilet. Tell him which stall to look in. Like that scene in
The Godfather.”

I thought that one over. “Not bad,” I said. “But not foolproof. What if someone else finds it before our guy? Some other guy goes into the toilet stall, happens to see it, and takes it with him because he's curious. By the time our guy gets there it's gone.”

We mulled it over until Ishmael called at about 11 p.m.

“I spent an hour with Joe Oliver,” he said to me over the telephone. “He is quite upset about the whole situation. I made him understand that my interests are parallel to his. He has agreed to cooperate.”

I told Ishmael that we still hadn't solved the drop-point problem.

“The bathroom idea has possibilities,” he said. “I'll think it over tonight. We should meet in Miss Reynolds's room tomorrow morning at 8:30. Time is of the essence here.”

Kevin offered to drop me off at home. He went out into the hall to confer with the plainclothes cop handling the night shift.

“You okay?” I asked Cindi.

“Yeah. The whole thing got to me real bad while we were making the film. But I'll be okay, Rachel. Let's hope the cops get that bastard, and then I can get my life back together.”

I gave her a hug. “We're going to do it, Cindi.”

***

Kevin drove me home in his unmarked car. He came up to my apartment and searched each room with Ozzie and me in tow. Ozzie and I walked back down with him to his car.

“See you tomorrow morning, Rachel,” Kevin said.

“Thanks, Kevin.” I kissed him on the cheek.

I walked Ozzie to the end of the block and back while Kevin watched from his car in front of my apartment.

“I'll wait till you get upstairs,” he said. “Flick your lights twice when you get up there.”

I did, and heard Kevin's car start up and pull away.

There was another message from Paul on my answering machine. I dialed his number, let it ring ten times, and hung up.

Before I left Cindi at the hotel, I had asked her about Paul Mason. “No,” she had said. “Never had a client that matched that description. And I certainly never had an English professor from Northwestern.”