Bitter Business

she wasn’t using, just that she was never caught. The landlady let me take a look at her apartment. It looked like a druggie’s place—mattress on the floor, a ripped couch that looks like she got it off of someone’s front lawn—but I didn’t see any drug paraphernalia around. You have to wonder. She had a job, she was probably getting money off of Philip and some of the other guys she was seeing. Where was it all going if it wasn’t going up her nose?”
    “Philip says he didn’t give her money. Though he says she asked.”
    “His wife probably keeps track of every dime.”
    “He says that’s why he was going to end the affair. That and the fact that he was worried that his wife would find out.”
    “So you think Philip might have killed her?”
    “Aren’t we getting a little ahead of ourselves? For all we know, Cecilia died of a drug overdose and Dagny Cavanaugh had an undiagnosed brain tumor.”
    “Yeah, and I’m Sheena, Queen of the Jungle.”
    “Even if we assume that Cecilia Dobson was killed, and if we completely ignore what happened to Dagny Cavanaugh, you still have to ask yourself why Philip Cavanaugh would have to kill Cecilia? He said he was going to break it off with her. From what you’ve told me, she doesn’t exactly sound like she was particularly attached to the guy. What motive would he have?”
    “Fear,” replied Elliott, flashing one of his megawatt grins. “Believe me, Kate. I’ve met his wife. I know what I’m talking about.”
     

14
     
    I said good-bye to Elliott Abelman on the sidewalk in front of the Valois. As I walked toward my apartment I found myself thinking about what Joe Blades had said about Elliott having a “thing” for me. No doubt the private investigator and I had our moments—times when the spark of mutual attraction crackled between us—but that was all. Elliott was a professional and I sent a great deal of business from Callahan Ross his way. He was smart enough and gentleman enough to leave it at that. Crossing the street at Lake Park, I found myself turning my conversation with Joe Blades over and over in my mind. I decided that I resented the homicide detective giving speech to what I had long chosen to ignore. When you came right down to it, I liked my life simple. Now, suddenly, everything was getting complicated.
    I made a quick stop at Big Jim’s Tobacco Shop under the bridge beside the train station. The backbone of Big Jim’s trade was rolling papers and boxes of blunts— cheap cigars that the neighborhood dopers soaked with whiskey, hollowed out, and filled with hash. But he was happy to sell me two of his best cigars, Paul Garmierian double coronas, each in its own pale cream cylinder, sealed with red wax.
    Back at my apartment I showered quickly, dressed for the office, and twisting my still-wet hair into its usual French twist, packed as best as I could for my trip to Georgia. I had no idea what Tall Pines plantation would be like and, under the circumstances, had nobody I felt comfortable asking. I chose a dark suit for the funeral and then tried to cover the rest of the bases as best I could, stuffing everything into the hanging bag I used for overnight trips.
    I flagged a cab down in front of the apartment and had the driver stop at Billings Hospital. I told him that I wanted him to keep the meter running. I had a ten o’clock meeting with the in-house counsel for Azor Pharmaceuticals and the lawyers from the firm that was representing Gordimer A.G. in the pending joint venture with Stephen’s company—-but I wanted to see Daniel before I left for Georgia.
    I stood in the doorway of the hospital room, clutching the cigars, and I knew instantly that he’d never smoke them. Daniel looked like he was sleeping, but I could tell from listening to him that it was unlikely he’d ever awaken. His breaths were slow and shallow—after each one I waited, straining to hear if there would be another. When he finally exhaled it was with a rattle from deep in his throat.
    A nurse was with him, busily checking his blood pressure.
    “How is he?” I asked.
    “Are you a relative?”
    “No. Just a colleague.”
    “He’s resting comfortably.”
    I nodded, knowing full well what that meant.
     
    I arrived at Azor’s corporate headquarters on South Michigan with my briefcase in one hand and my suitcase in the other. I parked the suitcase with Tamara, the beautiful Eurasian woman who manned the reception desk and made almost twice what