ATF Agent Till, who’d just given me a bum’s rush downtown, had beaten me back to the turret and was sitting on the bench. A brown lunch bag was beside him. He was throwing scraps of a sandwich at a duck.
It was no surprise that he’d remembered the way. He’d come around often, frequently and futilely, when I’d been recuperating from the lacerations and burns I’d suffered in the explosion Till was investigating. I hadn’t wanted to talk, for fear of incriminating those who didn’t deserve incrimination. Amanda and a friendly doctor kept him away from me, citing my need to heal.
That did not deter Till. For two weeks, he came every day at noon, to sit on the bench and throw bits of his lunch at the ducks, and to threaten me with his relentless presence. New cases finally forced him to give it up, and he quit coming around.
I sat next to him on the bench and ate the first of my peanut- buttered Cinnamon Toast squares.
The sandwich Till was tearing had little green tendrils poking out from under the bits of wholewheat bread. Each time Till tossed a piece, the duck would circle it, floating in the water. The river was calm that afternoon, barely moving. Bits of sandwich surrounded the duck.
‘The duck isn’t eating, Till,’ I said, after a moment.
‘He’s waiting for the green things to wash off.’
‘What are they?’
‘Alfalfa sprouts. My wife says they’re good for arthritis.’ He ripped off another piece and tossed it at the duck.
‘Are you going to throw away your whole lunch?’
‘It’s called recycling. I throw this into the water, the duck eats it, and converts it to something better: duck shit.’
‘But the duck’s not eating.’
‘Then it’s going to get arthritis.’
‘And you?’
‘I stopped for two chili dogs on the way here.’
‘Ah,’ I said. I spooned up more peanut butter and Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
‘What are you eating?’ Till asked after a time.
‘What’s available.’
‘Ah,’ Till said.
We sat silently on the bench until all of Till’s sandwich lay floating around the duck. Then he folded up his brown bag, put it in the jacket pocket of his brown suit, and stood up.
‘Are you going to tell me what I want to know?’ he asked, of that long-ago explosion.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Arthur Lamm is in big-time trouble,’ he said. ‘He took customer deposits from an escrow account holding insurance premiums.’
‘Embezzling?’
‘Absolutely. Sometimes clients pay their premiums to an insurance brokerage agency. That agency is supposed to put the money into a reserve account for forwarding to the insurance company. Lamm tapped the keg for personal expenses like upkeep on his mansion and beauty treatments for his lady friends, replenishing it with new escrow payments as they came in. The IRS also likes him for giving freebie insurance to his heavyweight pals in Chicago and for not returning client overpayments. They’re getting indictments ready.’
‘Sounds like reason enough for Lamm to run.’
‘Lamm’s on the lam.’ He laughed, delighted by his wit. ‘He hasn’t been seen for some time.’
‘Isn’t the IRS out looking for him?’
‘They need warrants first.’
‘You found all that out awfully fast,’ I said.
‘Only took one phone call. I did it in the car, between chili dogs.’
‘Thank you.’
‘That tree’s dead,’ he said, looking up at the ash.
‘Not yet,’ I said.
‘Soon,’ he said, and walked away.
THIRTY-FOUR
‘Your information was correct,’ I told the Bohemian. ‘Arthur Lamm is being investigated by the IRS. He might be running.’
He sighed into the phone. ‘That’s good news of a sort, if it means he’s hiding out and not dead, a fourth prominent man killed. Fears of a murderous conspiracy are unfounded?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Your client knows, though, doesn’t he?’ By now I was sure he’d guessed that I’d been hired by Wendell Phelps.
‘Debbie Goring promised me five per cent of any insurance she collects if I can prove her father was not a suicide,’ I said.
‘You won’t tell me your client’s name?’
‘No.’
‘Any chance of helping Debbie collect?’
‘Only if I can prove someone else gave her father an overdose.’
‘So we are back to imagining conspiracy?’
‘You’re familiar with very private, exclusive organizations?’
‘Some,’ he said, evading now himself.
‘I’m interested in something called a “C. Club”. It meets on the second Tuesdays of even-numbered months.’
‘That’s very specific.’ He paused so I could tell him why I was asking.
I didn’t. I waited.
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ he said finally.
‘Perhaps you could contact a few friends.’
‘My God, Vlodek; I can’t call around and ask whether they belong to some secret organization.’
‘Barberi, Whitman and Carson each died on, or immediately following, one of those secret-meeting Tuesdays.’
‘This is for real?’
‘Real as death, Anton.’
‘Then I shall try,’ he said.
The Bohemian called back early that evening. ‘No one admits knowing anything of a “C. Club.” More interestingly, two gentlemen whom I know very well, and who are ordinarily very voluble, actually blew me off by saying they had to take important incoming calls.’
‘Dodging you?’
‘These are men who talk confidentially to me about all sorts of things,’ he said, still sounding shocked, ‘but they clammed up, almost rudely, when I mentioned your club.’
‘I’m striking nerves.’
‘What’s going on, Vlodek?’
‘Fear. Where is Arthur Lamm’s primary office?’
‘He runs everything out of his insurance brokerage.’ He gave me the address.
Lamm’s insurance brokerage was in a three-story building in Oak Brook, several towns of better income west of Rivertown. I got there at eight o’clock. Since it was Friday night, only a handful of cars remained in the parking lot. The back vestibule door was locked, but a woman was coming out.
There was a FedEx box outside, next to the door. I opened the supply compartment, pulled out an empty envelope, and pretended to fill out the label. The woman came out, in too much of a hurry to notice I’d used my shoe to stop the door from closing behind her. I slipped inside and went to the directory by the elevators. Lamm’s insurance agency was on the top floor.
My gut wanted the cover of the stairs, but my brain took the elevator because it reasoned I’d look more like I belonged if I rode up. Executives coming back for evening work don’t use stairs; they’re too tired from spending long days being executives.
The top floor hall was empty, except for filled black plastic garbage bags piled outside several of the offices. Luckier still, Lamm’s office was one of them, and his doors were propped open by a metal cart filled with cleaning aerosols, more black bags and rags. I tucked the FedEx envelope under my arm and stepped inside, clever as hell.
A vacuum cleaner was running close by, off to my left. I walked away from the noise, towards the row of offices in the back.
The vacuum cleaner stopped. Footsteps approached from behind, padding softly on the lush carpet. I turned to smile, executive-like.
The vacuuming man wore dark blue trousers and thick-soled black shoes. The pale blue oval on his white shirt said his name was Bill.
I held up the FedEx envelope. ‘I forgot to leave this for Mr Lamm’s secretary.’
He smiled and went back to the vacuum.
It was that simple.
The doors to the private offices had names lettered in black on their glass sidelights. Lamm’s was in the corner. Seemingly study-ing the FedEx envelope, I bumped up against the knob. It was locked. The glint of a square silver dead bolt showed in the gap between the door and the jamb, too solid for a credit card to pop.