‘OK,’ the desk sergeant said slowly, not comprehending where I was heading.
‘That’s over half a vial. His reserve supply at home was untouched.’
‘What are you saying?’
I rattled the vial in the plastic bag. ‘He took pills from this vial exactly on schedule, two a day. Where did Whitman get fifteen pills to swallow all at once?’
Finch grabbed the bag back. ‘From this-’
‘No,’ I cut in. ‘There weren’t enough left in there.’
The desk sergeant cocked his head, motioning Finch to leave. ‘You’ll have to check with the medical examiner,’ he said to me.
I gave it up, and walked up the stairs. I took a long look through the window in the door before going out. I saw no black BMW or sharply barbered MBA outside, but I’d just seen plenty inside.
I crossed the street to a drug store and bought a pack of Listerine breath tapes. They were stronger than my generics, and got rid of the taste of onions right away.
But they didn’t mask the bile that had risen in my throat.
FIFTEEN
Robert McClain was in the parking lot behind his dark brick apartment building, dry wiping a shiny black Cadillac Seville. He looked old enough to have been driving when roads were made of dirt.
‘I like to be ready, in case I get a call,’ he said, smiling.
I asked him about Jim Whitman.
‘Working for Mr Whitman was a real pleasure,’ he said. ‘Most fellows would have insisted on a younger driver, but not Mr Whitman. He was always real polite and regular, always sat up front with me. He tipped really well.’
‘Do you remember the night he died?’
‘Like yesterday. I knew he was ill – he was straightforward about it – but he didn’t act like a man about to kill himself.’
‘His spirits were good?’
‘Considering what he was facing, yes. As usual, he talked about his grandchildren all the way into the city.’
‘You picked him up about seven?’
McClain nodded. ‘Went in, had a spot of coffee with Mrs Johnson while Mr Whitman was getting ready.’
‘Do you remember where you took him?’
‘Corner of Michigan and Walton, downtown.’
‘I meant which restaurant.’
‘No restaurant. Dropped him at the same corner, as usual.’
‘You’d taken him there before?’
‘Every few weeks. He never did say where exactly he was going from there.’
‘And you picked him up later at that same corner?’
‘Not that night. He called to say he was catching another way home.’
‘You didn’t bring him home in a tan-colored car?’
‘This baby’s all I got,’ he said, touching the gleaming hood of the black Cadillac.
‘Was it usual for him to find another way home from there?’
‘He’d never done it before. Every other time, I picked him up at ten o’clock sharp. He’d be standing on that same corner, waiting.’ He picked up his rag, worked at an imagined spot. ‘That was the last time I drove anybody.’
‘Business slow?’
‘I’m old, and I look it. The agency’s got younger drivers.’
There was nothing left to say. I left him in the late-afternoon sun, polishing a future that likely had disappeared.
I busied myself cutting the last of the closet trim that evening. I needed simple work requiring clear and logical steps while my mind stumbled about in the fog surrounding Jim Whitman’s pills.
For a time, it worked. The cutting, sanding and staining were calming, easy steps in an understandable sequence. But then, well into the evening, it came time for varnishing. Varnishing, done right, requires care: one pass, no over-brushing. Be too fast, and a spot can get overlooked.
And that’s what happened with the cops looking at Jim Whitman’s death. They’d missed a big spot: they hadn’t accounted for his pills. He couldn’t have used his current two-week prescription to kill himself because there had been too few remaining. And he hadn’t tapped his reserve vial because it was untouched. He had to have gotten his fatal batch of fifteen pills from a third source.
Unless he hadn’t. Someone else could have slipped Gendarin into his meal or his drink, knowing that the excess in his bloodstream wouldn’t be questioned because it was the pain medication he was already taking. It would have been assumed that Whitman used his own supply to overdose himself.
What I couldn’t see was the logic in risking the murder of an already dying man.
The vague thoughts and the pungent smell of the varnish finally made me woozy. I walked down to the river to sit on the bench and breathe in the cold March air. Behind me, the jukes in the tonks along Thompson Avenue were beating out big bass notes, primitive drums summoning tribe members to return. I almost envied those in that dark carnival. They were sure of what they were seeking: a simple tingle from some booze, a few laughs, a rub of rented flesh.
Perhaps it had been that simple for Jim Whitman, that last night. Maybe he’d finished a good meal, enjoyed a few drinks, had a few laughs being driven home by a friend… and realized things would never get any better than they were that evening. Maybe he’d rat-holed a stash of Gendarin for just such a time, and asked himself, on the spur of that moment: Why not? Why not check out with a belly full of good steak and good Scotch, and the sound of a laugh still resonating in the back of his throat? Why not?
Except for the grandchildren he’d left without a nickel.
The dim light from the lamp along the riverwalk made a tiny shadow on the ground just beyond my feet. It was another still-born ash leaf, curled and dried on the grass. I looked up at the tree. There was not enough light to see for sure, but I knew in my throat that no new leaves had appeared that day.
I took out my pocket calendar and recorded that loss, too.
SIXTEEN
Two men in loose-fitting gray suits, one carrying a square carton, the other something the size of a wrapped painting, came out of the Whitman house the next morning, heading toward the black Ford Expedition parked at the curb. They stopped when they saw me pull up. The one with the painting gestured at someone in the big SUV, and a third man, also in a suit, got out from the driver’s door. All three stood motionless, watching me. I couldn’t see the guns, but I knew they had them. Whatever Jim Whitman had bequeathed, it was worth enough to merit three guards.
Mrs Johnson had followed the two men out of the house, saw them tense and stop on the front walk. She turned to look where they were looking. I waved out the Jeep’s open side curtain. She squinted, recognized my face. ‘We’re almost done,’ she called. And the world righted itself. The men carrying the box and the painting resumed walking toward the SUV, the driver got back inside, and I settled back to wait.
Ten minutes later, Mrs Johnson followed the armed men out with the last of the cartons, and watched them drive away. She came over to the Jeep. ‘You can’t imagine how relieved I am that those things are on their way to the Museum of Contemporary Art,’ she said. ‘The house has an alarm, but I’ve not been comfortable there, alone with all those valuable pieces.’
‘They’ll be exhibited soon?’ I asked as we went up the front walk.
‘The curator said they’ll be catalogued, then stored. In a year, maybe less, they’ll be rotated into exhibition.’
‘How valuable are the pieces?’
‘Millions,’ she said, as we entered the house. ‘Mr Whitman was a plain man, not the usual patron of the arts. Those pieces were recommended as investments. From what I understand, he profited quite handsomely from their purchase.’
‘Yet not even one was left to Debbie.’
The distress on her face seemed genuine. ‘Wealthy fathers can be especially difficult on young daughters. And Debbie, as you might imagine, was very strong-willed. But Mr Whitman cared for his daughter, and adored his grandsons.’