Bitter Business

said, “Leave her to me.”
    The rest of the afternoon flew by. Bob Halloran at Goodman Peabody and I played at least six rounds of phone tag before actually speaking to each other. When we finally made contact I set up a meeting for six o’clock at my office. I also spent a couple of hours on Frostman Refrigeration, a deal I’d mentally filed as completely sewn up that suddenly showed alarming signs of coming unraveled. Between phone calls, I also sat down with a highly regarded third-year associate named Nora Masterson, who agreed to take on the matter of Claire’s estate.
    Elliott Abelman called at some point to report that the box that the perfume had been delivered in was made of plain brown corrugated cardboard. Furthermore, the package had arrived regular U.S. mail and was postmarked on February 12. While the exterior of the box was covered with the fingerprints of half of the U.S. postal service, the interior was negative for prints. The only item of any possible significance was that neither the address nor the return address had been written on the box by hand. Instead, one of Chip Polarski’s business cards, identical to the one that had been included with the perfume, had been taped to the upper-left-hand corner while one of Jack Cavanaugh’s business cards had served as the address of the intended recipient.
    I had no time to either absorb or contemplate the implications of any of this. I had less than two hours before the meeting with the investment bankers from Goodman Peabody. In desperation, I took the memo on the proposed securities offering that Adam Beeson had sent me more than a week before and read it in the ladies’ room on the couch usually reserved for typists with the vapors. By the time I flipped the cassette onto which I’d dictated what I hoped was a coherent legal opinion, Cheryl came to tell me that Stephen was on the phone, saying that it was urgent.
    “What is it?” I demanded, once I’d gotten to the phone and had Stephen on the line.
    “I need to see you for a few minutes,” Stephen said.
    “When?” I demanded.
    “Now.”
    I looked at my watch. The investment bankers from Goodman Peabody were due in just about an hour.
    “Has something happened with the Swiss,” I demanded, “or can it wait? I’ve got a meeting at six.”
    “It can’t wait, but it will only take ten minutes,” he replied cryptically.
    “What is it?” I demanded again.
    “I can’t tell you,” he replied. “You have to see it for yourself.”
     

26
     
    It was raining, so naturally, every available taxi in the city of Chicago had vanished from the face of the earth. The address where Stephen had asked me to meet him was on the north end of the Magnificent Mile. From the number I figured it was either the Drake or the Mayfair Regent. As I made my way miserably up LaSalle Street, waving frantically at every yellow cab that passed, I wondered who or what it was that I had to see in person and not be told about over the phone.
    Finally, a cab pulled to the curb. There was already someone in it, an associate at the firm whose name I had once known but could no longer remember. He was on his way to a Bar Association function and had spotted me slogging through the rain. Out of either charity or an unwillingness to pass by an opportunity to suck up, he decided to stop and offer me a lift.
    By the time we got out of the loop, we were in the thick of rush hour and traffic on Michigan Avenue had coagulated to its usual near standstill in front of the Water Tower, so I thanked him and bailed out, deciding that I’d cover the last four blocks faster on foot. I dodged through the crowds of aggressively fashionable shoppers on Michigan Avenue like a running back.
    Stopping under the awning of the Drake, I scrabbled through my pocket for the scrap of paper on which I’d jotted the address that Stephen had given me. He wasn’t at the Drake. Sodden and out of breath, I continued walking toward the Mayfair Regent, reassuring myself that the numbers increased as I proceeded toward the lake. I stopped in front of the Mayfair Regent to check the number and was surprised to see that I still had a couple of buildings to go. Everything west of the Mayfair was residential—beautiful old buildings that had been built at the turn of the century, a quiet pocket of real grandeur set between Michigan Avenue and the lake.
    Fifty feet ahead of me I spotted Stephen standing beneath a dark blue awning. There was a