The longer young Art stayed away, the less I liked it. The kid didn’t have any friends and he didn’t have any street sense. I shook my head uselessly and stuck the Smith & Wesson into the waist of my jeans.
Kappelman was calmly reading The Wall Street Journal when I came back to the living room. He didn’t look as though he’d been monitoring me on the phone, but if he was truly an evil creep, he’d be able to appear innocent. I gave up chewing on it.
“I have to tell Mr. Contreras I’m going out—otherwise, when he realizes I’m not up here he’s going to call the cops and have you arrested for murdering me.”
He made a fatalistic gesture. “I thought I’d left that kind of crap behind when I moved out of my mother’s house. That’s why I’m in Pullman—it was as far as I could reasonably get from Highland Park.”
As I locked the dead bolt the phone started to ring. Thinking it might be young Art, I excused myself to Ron and went back into the apartment. Much to my astonishment it was Ms. Chigwell, in extreme distress. I braced myself, thinking she had called to upbraid me for driving her brother to attempt suicide. I tried a few awkward apologies.
“Yes, yes, it was very sad. But Curtis was never a strong character—it didn’t surprise me. Nor that he wasn’t able to do it successfully. I suspect he meant to be found—he left all the lights on in the garage, and he knew I would come in to see why. After all, he believes I drove him to it.”
I blinked a little at the indulgent contempt in her voice. She surely wasn’t phoning to assuage any putative guilt on my part. I asked an exploratory question.
“Well, really, it’s just something—something very strange happened this afternoon.” She was suddenly stumbling, losing her usual gruff assurance.
“Yes?” I said encouragingly.
“I know it’s inconsiderate of me to bother you, when you just had such a terrible ordeal yourself, but you are an investigator, and it seemed to me you were a more proper person to go to than the police.”
Another long pause. I lay down on the couch to ease the soreness between my shoulders.
“It’s—well, it’s Curtis. I’m sure he broke in here this afternoon.”
That was sufficiently startling that I sat up again. “Broke in? I thought he lived with you!”
“He does, of course. But, well, I rushed him to the hospital when I found him on Tuesday. He wasn’t very sick and they released him on Wednesday. He was terribly embarrassed, didn’t want to face me over the breakfast table, and said he was going to stay with friends. And to be frank with you, Miss Warshawski, I was just as happy to be rid of him for a few days.”
Kappelman came over to where I was sitting. He waved a note under my nose—he would be down with Mr. Contreras getting permission for my outing. I nodded abstractedly and asked Ms. Chigwell to continue.
She took a breath, audible across the lines. “Fridays are my day at the hospital, you know. I do volunteer work with elderly ladies who no longer—well, you don’t want to hear about that now. But when I got back I knew the house had been broken into.”
“And you called the police and stayed with a friend until they arrived?”
“No. No, I didn’t. Because I realized almost immediately it had to be Curtis. Or that he had let someone in who wouldn’t have known the house well enough not to create a disturbance.”
Confusion was making me impatient. I interrupted to ask if any valuables were gone.
“Nothing like that. But you see, Curtis’s medical notebooks are missing. I’d hidden them from him after he tried burning them, and that’s why—” She broke off. “I’m explaining this so badly. It’s why I hoped you would come, even though it’s a great distance and you are most tired yourself I feel sure that whatever Curtis was involved with down at the Xerxes plant that he didn’t want to tell you is in those notebooks.”
“Which are missing,” I interjected shortly.
She gave the ghost of a laugh. “Only his copies. I kept the originals. I typed his notes up for him over the years. That’s all that’s missing. I never told him I kept all the original notebooks.
“You see—he had put the data in Father’s old leather diaries, the ones he had custom-bound for himself in London. It seemed—a kind of desecration to throw them out, but I knew Curtis would be horribly angry to think I was keeping them out of memory for Father. So I never told him.”
I felt a little prickling along the base of my neck, that primitive adrenaline jolt that lets you know you’re getting close to the saber-toothed tiger. I told her I’d be at her house within the hour.
28
The Golden Notebooks