Dead Certain

Frango Mints. For some reason the simple kindness of it undid me completely. I sat at the table clutching the folded terry cloth of the robe like a pillow to my chest and wept for a very long time.
    When I was finished, I didn’t feel better, just exhausted. Even so, I made my way into the little room adjacent to the kitchen that I intended to use as an office. While the rest of the apartment was furnished with valuable pieces about which adjectives like one of a kind and unique provenance applied, I’d decorated this room myself with a utilitarian computer desk from Pottery Barn and a fabulously comfortable double-wide reading chair upholstered in a cheery shade of red I’d picked out of the Crate and Barrel catalog.
    I plunked my briefcase down on the desk and unclipped my hair. I was surprised to find sections were still wet from the morning. I picked up the phone and dialed the extension for the apartment operator. The amenities of my new building went well beyond having a prestigious address. Besides the security and the twenty-four-hour valet and the concierge services that rivaled a four-star hotel’s, all calls that weren’t picked up on the fifth ring were immediately transferred to the building’s own answering service, who took down the messages verbatim in shorthand.
    I’d had four calls. One was from Stephen, offering his condolences and inquiring about funeral arrangements. Another was from Cheryl, just letting me know that Professor Stein had gotten off safely and that she’d taken the liberty of giving Carl Laffer my home number. Not surprisingly, the next call was from Laffer asking when it might be convenient to drop off Claudia’s personal effects. The last call was from my mother.
    I thanked the operator and dialed my parents’ number. Anna, the tight-lipped Filipino woman who’d been my mother’s maid for as long as I could remember, answered the phone and informed me that “the Mrs., she is out.”
    I practically had to beg, but I finally managed to convince her to get my mother’s personal phone book and give me Gavin McDermott’s home number. When I finished taking it down, I looked up at the clock. It was after eleven. “Good,” I thought to myself savagely. “I hope I wake him up.”
    The phone rang twice before Patsy answered sounding groggy and none too pleased. “I thought you said you weren’t on call,” I heard her say to someone, presumably McDermott, between the time she picked up the receiver and actually said hello.
    “Hi, Patsy, this is Kate Millholland. I’m sorry to disturb you so late at night, but I need to speak to Gavin right away.”
    I waited for so long that I worried that perhaps she’d just turned over and gone back to sleep. I was about to hang up when Gavin came on the line. He didn’t sound sleepy at all. Instead he sounded furious.
    “What the fuck do you think you’re doing calling me at home in the middle of the night? I don’t care who the hell you think you are. You have a lot of nerve! How the hell did you even get my number?”
    “From my mother” I said sweetly.
    “Then I suppose you’re going to tell me what the fuck you want.”
    “You and I need to talk.”
    “About what?” he demanded. His voice suddenly seemed not just loud, but belligerent. He was either drunk or close to it.
    “You and HCC.”
    “No fucking way. This constitutes harassment! I categorically refuse to discuss this with you or anybody else. Of all the nerve—”
    “No problem,” I said smoothly. “But I just want you to know that I’m going to the courthouse first thing on Monday morning, and I’m filing a lawsuit against HCC, alleging that they made use of misappropriated confidential information in their offer to buy Prescott Memorial and identifying you specifically by name as the person who gave it to them. It doesn’t matter to me one way or another if you want to talk or not. I’m just calling you as a courtesy.” Then I hung up the phone.
    I’d only managed to count to seven before my phone rang. His phone must have had an automatic dial feature.
    “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock at Rinalli’s—222 South Wabash,” he said.
    Then the line went dead.
     

CHAPTER 28
     
    I hadn’t really expected to sleep, but McDermott’s reaction to my call erased whatever small possibility there might have been. I had hoped to strike a nerve, and I’d succeeded. If I played my cards right, by tomorrow afternoon I would have