Bitter Business

it’s not dangerous. The security guard says the only reason he thinks they keep it locked up is so that somebody doesn’t accidentally mistake it for sugar.”
    “So how much of this would it take to kill someone?”
    “According to what Dr. Gordon told Joe, a quarter of a teaspoon, maybe less.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Have you seen enough?”
    I nodded. Elliott put the top back on the container, switched off the light, closed the door, and relocked it. We stood facing each other across the narrow and dimly lit hall, but there was no trace of the previous night’s electricity. Elliott’s features were stern—all business. Both of us were preoccupied with the riddle of the poison.
    “I assume they’re going to test all of the stuff they’re taking from the medicine chest,” I said. “Perhaps the poison was in some sort of medicine, eyedrops or a nasal spray. Might that not account for the fact that the stomach contents of both women had turned up negative for the poison? How long will it be before they have the results?”
    “My guess is a week or ten days. I’m sure Joe’ll do what he can to speed things up. You should see if Jack Cavanaugh has any juice he can use to pressure them into moving on this. But between you and me there’s only so much we’re going to be able to do. The way things are right now we’re in a catch-22 situation. So far the medical examiner’s office has pended both deaths and I know for a fact that won’t change until they’ve categorically ruled out the chance that both women were poisoned by accident. Unfortunately, as far as the Chicago Police Department is concerned, a pended case is not a murder. And if it’s not a murder, then it doesn’t go onto the homicide squad’s list of open files and Joe Blades doesn’t get taken out of the rotation to investigate it. It’s up to the primary detective to investigate pending cases on his own. Believe me, Joe’s a good cop and he’s going to work it as hard as he can. But tonight he’s going to report for his shift and the phone’s going to ring and it’s going to be a fresh murder. And after that it’s going to be a steady stream of shootings, stabbings, overdoses, and autoerotic strangulations.”
    “So what are you trying to tell me?” I asked, knowing the answer already.
    “I’m trying to tell you that the way things stand right now, unless we do something about it, this case is going to slip right through the cracks.”
     
    Declining a halfhearted invitation for lunch, I had Elliott drop me a few blocks from my office. Under the circumstances, I felt like I needed the walk to clear my head.
    It had been sunny when I’d gone for a run that morning, but that seemed like a lifetime ago. By now it had clouded over, and in the permanent shade of the office buildings on LaSalle Street there was a raw chill in the air. I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my raincoat and pulled out the two cigars I’d bought for Daniel Babbage. I held them on my palm and looked at them for a minute. I closed my fingers tightly around them until I slam-dunked them into a filthy trash barrel on the comer of Monroe Street.
    Callahan Ross was in its usual state of Sunday somnolence. On Sundays even the biggest grinds could be counted upon to stay at home, since no partner worth impressing ever crossed the threshold unless in the throes of a particularly heated transaction. Which, of course, is what made Sunday my favorite day of the week for getting work done. I loved the feeling of having the entire firm to myself. So I was surprised in my journey down the dark and silent corridor to see the light on in Daniel Babbage’s office.
    I don’t know who I expected to see, but when I leaned into the open doorway to take a peek, it was Daniel’s secretary, Madeline, who spun around with a small shriek of surprise. She was dressed in a pantsuit of lavender polyester and her hair was varnished into the same tortured bouffant that had greeted Daniel every day at the office. The only difference was that today her stem features were blotched and puffy from crying.
    She had, she explained, been with him when he died. There had also been a sister who’d driven in from Naperville at his bedside as well. I usually try to steer clear of maudlin sentimentality, but I confess that I was glad to learn that Daniel, a self-proclaimed solitary in life, hadn’t spent his last hours alone.
    “How many years did you work for him?” I