A Picture of Guilt (26 page)

“But now I’m not sure who’s doing what or why.” I told him about Dale Reedy and the wire on her window.

Dad put a hand on his cane and the other on the handle. “You say the fire department hasn’t solved this arson?”

“They don’t have any suspects.”

“But somebody set that fire.”

I nodded.

“And you thought it was the Mafia coming after you—because of something you were supposed to know. That Brashares and the Disapio girl probably also knew.”

I nodded again.

“But now not only the FBI but this oil executive is asking you questions about the same tape. The tape you showed at the Santoro trial.”

I considered telling him about Abdul and his possible connection to Dale Reedy but decided not to. I wasn’t sure how—or even if—they were connected, and the fact that Abdul was in touch with David would just give Dad another reason to worry. “That’s about it.”

I exited the Edens on Old Orchard Road and drove east. Dad looked straight ahead, a frown on his face. The only sound in the car was his cane tapping.

He seemed to become aware of something slowly. “Maybe you’ve been looking at it the wrong way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe it wasn’t you they were after. Maybe it was the tape.”

“The tape?”

“It sounds like some people don’t want that tape to exist.”

“The woman at Great Lakes Oil?”

“Among others.”

“Because of the RF.”

“Which the FBI is trying to analyze.” He looked over. “Tell me. How many copies of that tape did you make?”

“That’s what Dale Reedy wanted to know.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Actually, not much. We were interrupted by a phone call.” I thought back. “And then I saw the wire on her window.”

He rubbed his chin. “So, how many are there?”

“Let’s see. I made two copies before I testified. One of which I took with me to Brashares’ office the first time. Then there was the original Beta that we played at the trial. There was also the master dub that we made for the files—in case we never got the original back. That’s the one that was destroyed in the fire.” I stopped at a light. “Brashares may have copied the copy for the prosecution, but then again, he was so cheap he might have just lent them the original.”

“If the prosecution wanted a copy, they would have paid for it.”

“Okay. So, I’m not sure what Brashares did.”

“Too bad you can’t ask him.” He cleared his throat. “So, as far as you know, we’re talking about four tapes.”

“Yes.”

He laid the cane down and ticked them off on his fingers. “You gave Brashares the original and one copy.”

I nodded.

“And there was another one in the studio that was burned.”

“Right.”

“What about the fourth?” He squeezed his pinkie.

I didn’t answer. It had been in my bag until I gave it to the Feds. But nobody, except Dad now, knew I didn’t have it.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-FOUR

There were two calls on my machine when I got home. The first was a terse message from LeJeune. He’d be out of town for a few days but would be in touch when he got back. That was it. No mention about getting my call. Nothing about looking into Dale Reedy or Great Lakes Oil.

The second was from Abdul, who was back in Chicago. “I am sorry I did not reach you,” he said on the tape. “Please call me back.” He reeled off the number of the Four Seasons.

As if I didn’t know.

I deleted the message.

A bone-chilling rain mixed with sleet pounded the area that night. The weather people congratulated themselves on accurately predicting the first snow of the season. Never mind that they’d predicted the same thing a few days ago, and nothing materialized. It’s as if they can’t wait to proclaim that winter has, in fact, arrived in Chicago. It must be written into their contracts. I turned up the heat and threw extra quilts on the beds.

Dad wanted me to let Dale Reedy know that I had given the fourth tape to the FBI. I wasn’t so sure. Given her odd behavior the other day, that seemed like the wrong kind of signal to send. If she thought I was onto something she didn’t want known, telling her that I had surrendered the tape wasn’t going to convince her I was suddenly not a threat.

But that left me not knowing what to do—or whom to trust. I punched in LeJeune’s number again. I knew he wouldn’t be there, but maybe he’d call me back. “Hey, Nick. It’s Ellie. I know you’re out of town, but I really need to talk to you… Give a call, okay?”

As I hung up, I heard a grunt from the hall. Rachel stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. “You’re dumping David, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“You’re dumping David for Nick.”

“Are you crazy? Of course not.”

“I don’t believe you. You’re lying.”

“Rachel, what’s gotten into you?”

“You know something? Daddy was right.” Angry red patches flared on her cheeks.

“What are you talking about?”

“He said you’re too dysfunctional for a normal relationship. He said you’d probably run through a lot of men.”

I stared at her, slack jawed. “He said what?”

She didn’t answer.

“Rachel, there’s nothing between us. You’ll have to trust me on that. And, as for your father—”

“I saw how he looked at you the night he came over. He asked me a lot of questions, too.”

“Rachel, he’s an FBI agent. That’s his job.”

“Questions about David and Daddy?”

“Young lady, I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I don’t like it one bit. I think—”

Her face was turning purple. “You get after me for drinking, for breaking the rules. But you’re the real hypocrite. You dump one guy, then go out with another. I wonder who it’ll be tomorrow? You know something? I want to move in with Dad. At least he and Marlene are stable.”

She stomped out of the room.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-FIVE

Angry gray clouds scudded across the sky as I pulled into the lot at the supermarket the next day. They matched my mood. I grabbed a cart and headed inside. Rachel’s outburst had been unnerving. Not just because of her emotional swings, which I knew were the result of hormones kicking in. Or even her anger, which was understandable—she’d seen me with David, and then, a short time later, with Nick. She could be legitimately confused.

What
was
making me crazy was Barry. I thought, after years of hostility, we’d reached a plateau where we could interact with civility if not warmth. But he had blindsided me again, spinning half-truths behind my back. In the past, I could usually work around him. Stop—or at least deflect his blows—before he did any damage. But this time I’d played into his hands. David was gone, LeJeune had appeared. I was his best accessory.

I snatched two bags of chocolate chips off the shelf. I tore one open and shoved a handful in my mouth. As the chocolate slid down my throat, I wasn’t sure whom to blame: Barry or myself.

***

Hank Chenowsky lives in a three-flat in Wrigleyville, not far from the ballpark. It was an older building, and as I climbed to the second floor, a musty smell sifted through the walls. Hank opened the door, a surprised look on his face. I wondered why; I’d called him from the grocery store. He was taking the day off; the editing room wasn’t quite ready. I got my answer when I sniffed the air.

I swore off grass years ago, choosing alcohol instead. It was a Hobson’s choice. I was all for “better living through chemistry,” but I knew weed could lead to lung cancer. Some studies linked it to brain damage. Alcohol could trigger heart attacks and brain damage. Since brain damage was a given, I went with liquor, figuring a heart attack would kill me quicker than cancer. Oh. And booze is legal.

Hank’s eyes were bloodshot, his pupils dilated. “Oh, man. You did say you were coming down. Sorry.”

I looked around. “Where’s Sandy?”

“Giving a music lesson.”

“Too bad. I was hoping I could meet her.”

“Me, too.” He smiled beatifically. “She’s awesome.”

At least somebody’s love life was good. I followed him back to the kitchen, feeling envious. His apartment had hardwood floors, high ceilings, and a back porch off the kitchen. My first apartment in Old Town had a similar layout. A memory of winter weekends with Barry flashed through my mind. Both of us stripping off boots, Levi’s, turtlenecks, and sweaters, desperate to get our hands on each other, even though we’d just gotten dressed. Passion and sex are easy when you’re young.

Hank opened the fridge and scratched his head. “You want something? Juice? Tea?”

“I’ll settle for diet soda.”

He whirled around, a look of horror suffusing his face. “Ellie, do you know how bad that shit is for you?”

Considering his present state of consciousness, I bit my lip.

“You should purify your system, you know? Cleanse all the additives polluting your body. Your body is your temple, man.” He sniffed with the zeal of a convert. “Sandy won’t bring anything into the house that isn’t organic.” He rummaged in the fridge and pulled out a pitcher of something dark and murky. “Here. Try this oolong. It’s organic. It flushes out toxins.” He poured a glass.

I took a sip. Bitter and sharp. I had a sudden craving for a Big Mac. “I feel better already.”

Brightening, he poured one for himself, and we went into the living room. A framed eight-by-ten photo rested on a table. Hank with a young woman. Almost as tall as Hank, she had long, frizzy red hair and wore granny glasses. Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent. Their arms were wrapped around each other, and they both wore loopy smiles. I saw the lake in the background.

“Hey, this is the first time you’ve ever been here,” he said, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

“That’s right, Hank.”

He nodded his head. “Cool, man.”

I settled back on the couch. Hank has a big-screen TV with every conceivable accessory attached to it: DVD, video deck, satellite receiver. He even has a connection to his computer in case he needs to see something he’s downloaded on a really big screen.

“So why are you here?”

“Well, like I said, I was hoping I could meet Sandy.” I pointed to the picture.

He flashed me the same loopy smile. “She’s working. Teaching.”

“A music lesson.”

“How’d you know?”

I set the glass down on the table. “So how have things been going since the fire?”

“We’re getting there. Another few weeks, we’ll be finished.”

“Still no word on who might have done it?”

“No. Mac says the case is still open, but since the insurance came through, I don’t think he cares too much.”

I nodded. Next to the picture of Hank and Sandy was a frog in a red and white striped shirt, steering a gondola.

“Hank, do you remember the RF on that tape from the cribs?”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, man. Not again.”

“Well, a few questions came up recently, and you know so much more about that kind of thing than I do.”

“I don’t know. I kinda wanta forget about that.”

“Just a couple of questions. Please.”

He flipped up his palm. “Let’s have it.”

“Thanks.” I set down my tea. “Okay. Let’s say you have interference on a tape, and you find out that rather than being continuous, it might have been just one single, powerful burst. What does that tell you?”

He squinted, and rubbed his chin with his fingers. “I give up. What?”

“Seriously, Hank. The tape is being analyzed—” I didn’t say by whom— “and they’re not sure the interference came through the camera.”

“That’s weird.”

“Not if the tape was sitting next to a source that was transmitting radio waves.”

“Is that what they’re saying?”

“They’re not saying anything. I’m asking.”

He rubbed his chin again. “Man, I don’t know. Anything I say would just be a guess.”

“Guessing counts.”

“Well, when you’re talking about one burst, no matter where it’s coming from, you might be looking at some kind of data transmission.”

“Data?”

“Voice transmission is continuous. More or less steady. Depending on the conversation, of course. But when you transmit data, it comes in a binary burst. Kind of like…” He paused and then expelled a loud noise, part belch, part word. “
BRAAAP
.”

I suppressed a giggle. “So the signal might have been one of those—er,
BRAAAP
s?”

“Yeah.
BRAAAP
.” It sounded like an imitation of a sick frog. “
BRAAAP
.
BRAAAP
.” He grinned like a kid who’s discovered a new way to annoy his mother.

“That’s pretty much what Rachel said, too. Well, not in as many words.” I shifted. “So it could be a data transmission. Theoretically.”

“Sure,” he nodded. “You have enough power, you can put an RF signal on anything that’s magnetic.”

“Power? How much power are you talking about?”

“Man, I don’t know. I’m a video guy, Ellie, not an engineer. Enough to trigger the signal.” He tossed his long hair, then gathered it as if he was making a ponytail. “Where was it?”

“The transmitter?”

“Right.”

“I don’t know. But is there any way to tell whether a signal is transmitting voice or data from the pattern of RF on video?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, hypothetically, could there be streaks on the tape if the signal were voice, but snow if it were data…something like that?”

“Sorry, Charlie.”

“Why not?”

He squinted at me. “You ever take any science courses?”

“As few as possible.”

“It shows. Listen. You’re dealing with the electromagnetic spectrum. It’s all the same shit. The only thing that changes is the frequency. The wavelength.”

“Which means?”

“In your case, it means that just because you see it doesn’t mean you can tell what’s causing it.”

I sighed. “Okay. I got it.”