My hand grew wet on my little phone. “I thought Catherine told you why we were talking.”
“Give me some credit, Ms. Warshawski: I didn’t just climb down from a tree and start walking erect. I’ve spoken to Darraugh Graham. Besides assuring me Catherine never asked him for the name of a detective, he says he told you to end the inquiry that took you to New Solway to begin with.”
“He’s not my only client, Ms. Bayard. I’m investigating Marcus Whitby’s death. Mr. Whitby died in New Solway and-“
“And has no connection with my husband or granddaughter that I can discern.”
“And has a definite connection with Olin Taverner, who also died this week in odd circumstances.” Annoyance stiffened my attitude. “Mr. Whitby met with Taverner shortly before his death. Taverner showed him his secret files, which are now missing. I’m assuming their mutual interest was Kylie Ballantine; I was hoping you knew what Taverner’s involvement was with Ballantine.”
“And I’m supposed to be your research file? Because we published one of Ballantine’s books?”
“Because you met Mr. Bayard during the HUAC hearings and you might remember whether Kylie Ballantine was also a target of Olin Taverner’s.” She paused for a moment, as if deciding whether I deserved an answer, before saying, “There used to be something called the Committee for Social Thought and justice, a kind of left-wing think tank. Olin always wanted them to be a Communist front. Ballantine might have taken part in some of their meetings, I don’t know. If she did, Olin might have questioned her privately, but I wouldn’t know. What were the odd circumstances of Olin’s death?”
“They’re part of an ongoing police inquiry,” I said primly. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“I’m amazed: you take so many other unauthorized liberties. One
which you may not have again is access either to my granddaughter or my home.”
She hung up without saying good-bye. I climbed out of the car, feeling shaky, the way one does after being run over by a high-speed train. I abandoned the car and the winos, who kept telling me they could get that engine going, no problem.
In the house, Amy and I finished our search, just going through the motions. We knew there wasn’t anything under the floorboards or in a secret compartment-Marc might not have left documents under J.T. or Simon Hendricks’s prying eyes at work, but he wouldn’t have felt the need to hide papers inside his own home.
“I really hoped I’d find some of Kylie Ballantine’s letters,” I said. “I think I mentioned last night-Marc left a message with the archivist at the Harsh Collection, maybe ten days before he died. Gideon Reed knew Marc was going through her old home; he thought maybe Marc wanted to let him know he’d actually found something there.”
“I could go over to her place,” Amy volunteered, “talk to the owner or tenants or whoever, see whether they know if Marc turned up anything.” Ballantine’s old home was just around the corner on King Drive. “Can’t hurt if you have the time. But there’s something else I was hoping you could do, as well.”
I described my frustrating conversation with Renee Bayard. “While you’re down at the University of Chicago library, see how much you can find out about the Committee on Social Thought and Justice. It’s a slender thread, but it’s the only one we’ve got right now. There are a couple of references to an unspecified committee in the Ballantine archives-it’s a good assumption it’s that one. And come to think of it, Taverner questioned Bayard about his involvement with the same committee … Let’s leave: we’re not going to find anything here.”
I’d worn jeans and a sweatshirt for my search, but had brought a business suit to put on for my meeting with the New Solway lawyers. I changed in Marc Whitby’s living room, picked up a homemade biscuit at a local diner to eat in the car and joined the early afternoon exodus from the city.
CHAPTER 23
The Family Retainer
Even though I reached the Eisenhower at two-thirty, traffic was already heavy; by the time I’d found a place to park, found the right building in the massive shopping-office complex and used a ladies’ room to brush biscuit crumbs from my blouse, I was fifteen minutes late for my meeting. Larry Yosano whisked me straight into the senior partner’s office.
Julius Arnoff was a short, bony man, perhaps in his late seventies, with deep-sunk eyes under hooded lids. He didn’t shake hands with me, just waved Yosano and me to a couple of straight-back chairs on the far side of his desk. “I understand from young Yosano here that you are a Chicago detective? A private detective, not with the Chicago police?”
“That’s correct.”