An Echo of Death Read online

  Lester said, “While I make breakfast, we must think of a plan.”

  I discovered I was ravenous. The night before, at the fund-raiser, we had dined on that peculiar form of dead chicken grown, I was sure, for just such banquets. The tasteless, dried-out bird that gives its life so you’ll open your wallet and give your money.

  I generally didn’t like being in Lester’s kitchen. I hate to cook, and you could barely look anywhere in this kitchen without observing clues that a gourmet lurked nearby. On the top of a set of cabinets and hanging on a wall was a vast collection of all the modern cooking gadgets sold at all the trendier stores. The only ones I remotely recognized were the graduated wire whisks, whose function I could never understand. One simple fork did most of the mixing I needed.

  Dangling from the ceiling were enough copper pots to obscure half the ceiling. What was worse, Lester knew how to use every device in the kitchen and loved to entertain with lavish dinners for small, intimate groups of friends.

  Lester began yanking vegetables out of the refrigerator and placing them on the butcher-block table in the center of the room. “I know a Jason Proctor,” Lester said. “Filthy rich.”

  “Same family,” Scott said. “Remember the time I got you passes to the field before the game?”

  Lester nodded.

  “Glen Proctor was the one horsing around with the baseball bat.”

  “The one rubbing it up the butt crack of the dark-haired outfielder?” Lester’s eyes shone.

  “Him,” Scott said.

  “Is he … ?”

  “No,” Scott said.

  “A practical-joke-playing, straight prick tease,” I said.

  “He was very blond and sexy, like Scott,” Lester said.

  “Was not,” I said.

  Lester ignored us and asked, “Why are you in peril? You were not in jeopardy before Proctor came. You are now. Therefore, and quite obviously, you are in danger because of Proctor. What have you done?”

  “We let him stay at our place,” Scott said.

  “Not something to kill somebody for,” Lester said.

  “It’s not as if we were protecting or hiding him,” I said. “We didn’t think it was some kind of secret.”

  “Nor, evidently, was it a secret to whoever is bothering you,” Lester said. “They killed him. Leaving aside their reasons for doing him in, what makes it necessary to do you two?”

  “We know something,” I said. “Or Proctor brought something into the penthouse that they want?”

  “Why not just take what they want and leave you alone?” Lester asked.

  “We’d be happy to give it to them, if we knew what it was,” Scott said.

  “Did either of you see the contents of his luggage?” Lester asked.

  I said, “I didn’t see anything except him strutting around in his blue jeans, starched white shirt, and gym socks the first night, or yesterday prancing around in his underwear and then in a pair of the skimpiest gym shorts I’ve ever seen.”

  While we talked, Lester’s hands flew as he diced vegetables, whisked eggs, shook out spices, and sliced fresh bread.

  Scott said, “I helped him carry his stuff in. I didn’t see anything unusual. When I got up early to go to the bathroom yesterday morning, I ran into him. We sat in the breakfast nook for about an hour and talked before Tom got up.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this?” I demanded.

  “I don’t report all my conversations to you,” Scott said.

  “Did he tell you anything that might explain what’s been going on?” The cold asperity in my voice matched the angry annoyance in his.

  Scott glared at me, then said, “He told me nothing I can think of connected to all this. Do you think I wouldn’t have told you if he’d said something that could help us?”

  My good sense told me he would have, but the angry and frightened part of me wanted to throttle him for not telling me about their conversation.

  “Gentlemen,” Lester said. “We need to stick to the questions at hand. One major concern is, did you see anything Proctor had that might have some value?”

  Scott shook his head.

  “He gave us presents,” I said. I explained about the necklaces Proctor had given us.

  Scott unhooked the chain and handed it to Lester, who ran a critical eye over it.

  “I have no idea whether these are real,” he said. “From what you say about him and his so-called deals that have turned out to be duds, I have my doubts. Although this is the most beautiful green.” He shook his head and handed it back to Scott. “Either he got taken, or he wanted to impress you with a little glitter and glass. These could be the crown jewels of King Otho the Insignificant or a national treasure of Mexico smuggled out of the country.”

  “We’ve got to use logic and common sense,” I said. “Maybe it’s really simple. You constantly see headlines about drugs flooding in from Mexico, South America, and the Caribbean. This could easily be some kind of drug deal gone bad. Proctor has the reputation. Maybe he found the opportunity.”

  “We never saw any drugs,” Scott said. “He certainly never mentioned it, but his suitcases were gone; so if he had any on him, whoever was after him took it with them.”

  “He wouldn’t necessarily mention it to you, if he was trying to use you in some way,” Lester suggested.

  “Use us how?” I asked.

  Lester shrugged. “I don’t know. What I think is essential to figure out is, if they got what they wanted, why keep after you?”

  “Proctor said he came straight to our place from the airport,” Scott said. “We have no proof of that. Maybe he took the stuff and hid it someplace in the city. Could be whoever is after us thinks we know where it is.”

  “If they are still looking for something, then it would make sense to keep us alive,” I said.

  “If they found it without the information they think you have, why waste the time to come back and kill you?” Lester asked.

  “I don’t know,” I answered.

  “Did they ransack your place?” Lester asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Then maybe they weren’t looking for something.”

  “Then why take the luggage?” I asked.

  “Was it gone the first time you came back?” Lester asked.

  “I don’t know. We didn’t have time to look in the bedroom.”

  “So they could have killed him for the luggage or come back for him and the luggage.”

  “That’s what I don’t get,” Scott said. “Why come back for him? They must have known we’d report it to the police.”

  “Not if they made you dead first,” Lester said.

  “But they didn’t stay and wait for us to come home to kill us,” Scott said.

  Lester rubbed his hands together with all-too-much eagerness. “What a wonderful series of puzzles!” he said.

  I ignored my annoyance at his delight. “We’ve got to sort this out, or we could get killed,” I said. “They weren’t looking for something, but they took the luggage. Proctor is dead, but they come back, and then take the body to make it look like nothing happened. That defies logic.”

  “Not to the people who did it,” Lester said.

  “They didn’t want a particular thing the second time,” Scott said. “They wanted us. We didn’t get shot at until we were in the tunnels. Maybe because they’d ordered us to be taken alive, but then why start shooting?”

  “It’s crazy,” Lester commented.

  “We knew or know something,” I said.

  “Or they think you do,” Lester added.

  “A secret that Proctor was supposed to tell us?” Scott said.

  “But what did he tell us? Except for the conversation you had with him this morning, we were both around when he talked. I didn’t hear him say anything that somebody might kill him for.”

  “He didn’t say anything to me,” Scott said. “He mostly talked about baseball, or how proud he was to be free of drugs and alcoho
l, and how he was sure he’d make a contribution to his team next year.”

  “You’re sure?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Scott said.

  Silence permeated the room for several minutes while Lester set a magnificent repast before us.

  After slaking my appetite, I said, “I’d like to talk to the Proctor family. They have a right to know what’s happened to their son. Also, they’ve got to have some idea of what’s going on.”

  Lester said, “I have some connection with Mr. Proctor from my work at the bank. We aren’t best friends, but we play a round of golf once in a while. I had a hand in a few of his deals. I may be able to get you in to talk to him.”

  “You golf and you’re gay,” I said. “You must be the only gay person on the planet who plays golf.”

  “I forced myself to learn,” Lester said. “My straight clients get so impressed if I can golf.”

  “What kind of guy is Mr. Proctor?” Scott asked.

  “Fiercely aggressive,” Lester said. “Hates to lose at golf or anything else. Big in real estate in this city. If he’s not the biggest, he’s pretty damn close to the top. Buys and sells huge or expensive or both pieces of property. Makes enormous profits. Lots of battles over the years. Can’t stand to lose.”

  “How can you deal with that kind of person?” Scott asked.

  “Business,” Lester answered. “You want to do deals in this town, you’ll bump up against old man Proctor at some point. I’m surprised you’d be bothered by fierce competition. I’ve seen you pitch. It’s a battle, and the most warlike wins.”

  “Not like that,” Scott said. “We’re paid to entertain and supposedly win. The owners may be rapacious monsters, but for most players it’s a job.”

  “That’s what this is for Proctor—his job—and he’s very good at it.”

  As we finished the meal, Lester promised to do what he could to get us in to see Jason Proctor.

  I prodded Lester to tell us more about the Proctor family finances.

  “Wealth, wealth, and more wealth. Orrin Proctor, the grandfather of young Glen, owned several railroads. He invested in Canadian municipal bonds and gold just before the stock market crash in 1929, so he was spared its horrors. He managed to hold onto and eventually increase his wealth. Jason Proctor, immediate sire of Glen, could have lived a life of luxury simply on what Daddy had, but Jason had ambitions. He began to branch out and dabble in many fields. Always seemed to make a go of them. He invested in two movies, and they became blockbusters. Threw money into Texas oil in the early eighties, and then ran just before the crash came in the mid-eighties. He’s had a lot of luck.”

  “Where does most of his money come from now?” I asked.

  “Investments in just about anything,” Lester said. “A guy with that much wealth has his finger in a zillion pies. Shopping centers in Singapore, an office building in Zurich, an auto-parts monopoly in Santiago, Chile, and hundreds of things in between.”

  “Is he a billionaire?” I asked.

  “Not quite that much, but enough so he could retire today and live for the rest of his life in luxury unknown to most of the inhabitants of the globe.”

  “Do you know anything about Glen’s mother?” I asked.

  “I have never met Mrs. Proctor. She is in real estate also. Rumored and real marital problems have plagued them both for years. She is supposedly at least as rich as he in her own right. They’d break any law to get back at each other. When you’re that rich, you can ignore most codes of conduct. You become a law unto yourself. I’ve dealt with him, but not her. If you’d like, I can try and get more information about both of them for you.”

  I told him I’d appreciate it if he would.

  A few minutes later, we thanked Lester for breakfast and left. We trudged in silence back up the Inner Drive. I found I was exhausted. It was after nine in the morning. At this hour on Sunday, the Inner Drive was crowded with shoppers heading for breakfast, brunch, or the stores on North Michigan Avenue. On the Inner Drive, which passed immediately in front of our building, a line of honking cars crept around a stopped carriage. Chicago has those ubiquitous carriage rides that clop people around the streets at a pace guaranteed to blow at least a few drivers’ tempers, although the time Scott and I took one in San Francisco, it had been reasonably pleasant and romantic.

  This one was stopped because the driver was arguing with the passengers. They wanted to get out now. I couldn’t help hearing the shouted arguments.

  As we neared our door, I began to wonder about our safety. If they’d attacked once, why not again? I didn’t think we were in the clear yet. We’d have to find a place to take refuge.

  Across the way, the couple in the carriage were now arguing with each other. In voices that could be heard at least a block away, each was accusing the other of making a public spectacle. The gist of the whole thing seemed to be that the man wanted a full refund and the woman wanted to go home. So much for romance. The driver intermittently added an antiphon to their duet. Mostly he wanted his money.

  Finally the woman leaped from the carriage and began stalking away. Her date climbed down but seemed torn between following her and getting his money. He and the driver continued a discussion in a more modulated range.

  Scott pointed to the carriage and said, “The whole world has gone crazy.”

  “I wanted to lose my temper with those cops,” I said.

  “I was close a couple times, but it’s probably better we didn’t. Quinn sort of sounded like he was willing to listen.”

  “I hated Bolewski,” I said.

  We were talking outside our building. Scott rubbed his arms. We hadn’t worn our jackets, and it was cool.

  “What happened to Glen and why?” I asked. “How can we prove it? How can we get something the cops will believe?”

  “They’ll track the team down in Mexico,” Scott said. “They can try to confirm whether he was there or not.”

  “But it won’t prove he had two bullet holes in him on our living-room floor.”

  “It’s a start.”

  I turned toward the door. Two men in gray suits emerged from around a dark corner on the north side of the building. I grabbed Scott.

  “What?” he said. He turned to look.

  I swiveled my head around. Two more men, both with guns out, were approaching from the south end of the building. I twisted my head back. The first two now flashed some lethal-looking artillery. All four seemed to be in decent-enough shape to give us a good chase if we tried to run, although they had us boxed fairly well right and left and flight in those directions was cut off.

  In seconds, I was pulling Scott after me to the only alternative.

  We dashed toward Lake Shore Drive. I was willing to cause a multi-car pile-up if it would draw attention to our plight. First we dove out onto the Inner Drive. To the left I saw a row of southbound cars rushing toward us. They had just been released from the stoplight at La Salle Drive. We made it across ahead of them. Our pursuers were stuck behind this vehicular barrier.

  Two shots rang out as I eased around one of the cars maneuvering slowly past the carriage. The passenger was just handing the driver some money. They both gaped at us.

  I crouched behind the carriage. Scott joined me as several more shots rang out. The passenger took off running. The driver looked from us to the guys attempting to dodge the traffic. Another shot rang out, striking the pavement inches from my left hand. The driver chose discretion and bolted. The horse whinnied, flicked its ears, and tried to pull the carriage with it. For the moment the animal’s being used to the noise and chaos of the city and the brake being in place, kept the horse from going berserk.

  I didn’t want to leave the temporary safety of the carriage. I was still willing to try a dash across the Drive, but their shooting added a dangerous dimension.

  I wondered why hadn’t they shot at us immediately, earlier, when it had been much less public?

  Scott said, “Follow me.”

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sp; He leaped into the carriage and grabbed the reins. I tumbled in after him. He ducked down as well as he could, released the brake and flicked the whip at the old nag. The carriage lurched forward as more shots rang out.

  For a minute, we trotted down the road. I kept my head down. Scott knelt on the carriage floor with legs spraddled, urging the horse to greater swiftness. Balancing myself with both hands I eased my head up so that my eyes peeked over the bunting around the backseat. A stream of cars followed us, the ones on the left passing, with the occupants staring at us.

  Two guys, waving their guns and running furiously, chased us on foot. I saw a car start up on the side street next to our building. The car’s tires screeched and the vehicle headed north into the temporarily vacant southbound lanes and came barreling after us. I looked forward. Another set of cars, released from La Salle Drive, approached rapidly.

  We were about two hundred yards from the corner ourselves when I glanced behind. One of the gunmen stopped running and aimed carefully. With the rapidly expanding distance and the violent shaking of the carriage, I doubted whether he could hit us, but I grabbed Scott and made him duck. I heard several shots but didn’t notice that anything hit us. When I looked again, one hood had resumed the chase and was falling farther behind. The other was reloading.

  The poor old mare had long since passed from a trot to a dead run. By this time the carriage was careening nearly out of control.

  Brakes squealed behind us as our pursuers met the oncoming traffic. My head bobbed with the motion of the carriage as I watched the pursuing car face the onslaught. Horns blared as the driver wrenched the vehicle into the northbound lanes.

  I looked ahead. Scott now stood up with his legs spread wide, hips against the rim of the carriage, balancing himself against the wild swaying of our escape vehicle. With the reins gathered in one hand, and the whip flicking out over the back of the horse in the other, he looked just like a Roman charioteer. I’d have loved to be in a chariot race if this is what it would have been like, but more practical considerations quickly overcame the thrill of a dash reminiscent of ages past.

  “Get down!” I shouted.

  I swear to God, he actually yelled, “Yee-ha!” and then cracked the whip over the horse’s back. His only response to my warning was to bend his knees slightly. He glanced back, flicked the reins, employed the whip, turned forward again, and gave another yell. We rushed on.