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?”
“He said he was surprised old Mrs. Drummond cared, that her views on Negroes were as antiquated as she was-she hung on until 1984, you know, running Larchmont like it had been when she moved into it, except she installed electricity, talking about the coloreds knowing their place and hiring four Japanese gardeners to keep the pond and gardens in order. Mrs. Drummond was Olin’s aunt, but even though he made fun of her she intimidated him, too.”
“What did her views on blacks have to do with your father?” I tried staying on the main point, but I had trouble figuring out what it was. “Calvin had been stealing from Augustus Llewellyn, apparently. Olin never spelled it out, he said he wasn’t there to stir up old wounds, but as I’d seen his aunt’s letter, I should know that Calvin had been-“
“But that doesn’t make sense,” I interjected. “Your father lent Llewellyn the money to start T-Square.”
He stared at me. “Did Renee tell you that?”
“Yes. And they confirmed it over at Llewellyn enterprises.”
“Calvin did something with Llewellyn’s finances,” Bayard insisted. “Olin told me, and he wasn’t a liar.”
“So what else did he tell you?” I demanded. “Why did he hint around about your father’s financial deals but never spell them out?”
“Because he’d made a promise, and he kept his word.”
“Be your age, Bayard. Have you ever even read any of the transcripts of the hearings Taverner masterminded? He reveled in unveiling people’s secrets. He kept quiet because-“
“I know you share Calvin’s views,” he shouted me down. “You can’t believe Taverner had a sense of honor, because the Communists you admire so much didn’t believe in the concept.”
“You’ve said about twenty actionable things in the last five minutes,
Bayard.” My own temper was rising. “But let’s keep to the real questions here. Isn’t it more likely Taverner kept his secrets to himself because he didn’t want his own secrets coming out?”
“If you mean his homosexuality, he didn’t hide that from me. It didn’t affect my respect for him,” he said stiffly.
“It doesn’t matter now the way it did in the fifties,” I agreed. “So what secret of his own did Taverner care so much about that he kept one of your father’s for four decades?”
“You are completely wrong about Olin’s character because you only believe what you read in the liberal media.”
“This line about the liberal media is the same kind of garbage as `lies of the capitalist press’ that the old fellow travelers reiterated,” I snapped, exasperated. “Both of them are slogans to keep you from thinking about what you don’t want to know. But have it your way: Taverner pledged his life, his fortune and his sacred honor not to tell people your father had been stealing from Augustus Llewellyn. Now, tell me: How did you know Taverner had this secret file in his desk, the one you broke into his place to find?”
He scowled. “It was a desk that had belonged to one of the early Supreme Court justices, William Johnson, and it was Olin’s most prized possession. He had it in his Washington home, not his office, and he moved it back to Chicago with him. A couple of times when I was visiting him and we were talking about-about Calvin and Renee, he tapped the desktop and said, `It’s all in there, my boy, and when I’m gone you can learn the whole sorry story.”’
“So when you learned he was dead, you wanted to get to the whole sorry story before the lawyers did,” I suggested, “just in case Julius Arnoff thought the papers ought to go to your mother or even be suppressed, instead of including them with what he turned over to the heirs.”
“It would be like Julius,” he said bitterly. “Damned little busybody, trotting around like Calvin’s lapdog, wagging his tail anytime the big man threw him a biscuit.”
“And when you got there, and went to all that trouble busting open the patio door, what did you think when you saw the papers were already gone?” “I figured the Mexican who looked after him stole them to see what he could get for them.”
I thought of Domingo Rivas, with his quiet dignity in looking after his “gentlemen,” and felt another spurt of anger. “So did you talk to Mr. Rivas?” “I told him I’d pay him a thousand dollars for anything he removed from Olin’s desk, but he claimed he knew nothing about those papers.”
“He has his own code of honor, and I doubt it includes stealing from his patients. You know, of course, that if he’d wanted to take something of Taverner’s, he would have known where the keys were-he wouldn’t have had to follow your sterling example and break any locks.”
He flushed. “Who else could have them-unless that black reporter filched them. Because I sure as hell don’t have them.”
“Oh, it could be a black reporter or a Mexican orderly, but not a rich white guy?” I was thoroughly angry by now. “That’s the question, isn’t it: If you don’t have them, and Marcus Whitby didn’t take them, where are Olin Taverner’s secret documents?”