She wore a black suit, high-heel shoes and big hair.
Gina Rossellini’s dark eyes must have been sharp; she caught sight of Lindsey’s lapel pin and held out her arms like an ideal Mediterranean mother. She had rented a car in Lindsey’s name, a white Ford LTD. It was waiting in the airport parking structure.
Lindsey tossed his carry-on luggage and palmtop computer in the Ford’s trunk. He’d never been in Chicago before so Gina drove. Heading away from O’Hare, she told him that she’d heard from Denver. “You’ve got a great little job there. All you have to do is track down a model from a forty-year-old painting.”
“Better than that,” Lindsey replied. “I don’t have a copy of the painting. Looks like nobody does.” He told her about his visit to Scotty Anderson. “At least I wound up with the Paige Publications’ address. And a list of their books. It’s a start.”
“You bet. You busy for dinner?”
Lindsey looked at his watch. It was a little early, but the winter darkness had settled quickly over Chicago while he was still in the airport. He could use a good meal and a good rest.
He checked into the Drake Hotel on Lake Shore Drive. It was an elegant establishment; entering the lobby was like stepping into Chicago’s past. He half expected to see Elliot Ness conferring with an underling, Frank Nitti stubbing out a cigarette in a potted palm.
They gave him a high corner room with windows on two sides and a view of Lake Michigan. There was a lock-bar in one corner, a couple of easy chairs and an elegant writing desk with a wooden chair. Gina Rossellini said she had some errands to run, she’d meet him in the Cape Cod Room at 8:00. She’d already made a reservation for them.
He showered, then sat with his feet up, looking out over the lake. Lights of freighters moved slowly across its black surface. He phoned Marvia at home, but he’d forgotten the difference in time zones and got only her machine. He told her that he loved her and would talk with her soon. He left his hotel number in case she felt like calling him back. He called his own home and left a similar message for Mother.
He turned on his palmtop computer, plugged it into the hotel’s phone line, and tapped into KlameNet/Plus. The computer whizzes had enhanced KlameNet into a corporate information system. If you had the right passwords you could tap into International Surety’s main data base, file reports, dredge up records. It was wonderful. Almost as good as talking to somebody who knew what was going on.
First things first: Lindsey and all the other SPUDS operatives in the company were told to stand by for a meeting in Denver. The alert contained a little information on the planned program. It looked like a combination pep talk/threat, standard Ducky Richelieu stuff, seasoned with elements of class reunion and corporate convention. Knowing International Surety and Desmond Richelieu, Lindsey figured there would be precious little drunken ribaldry at the gathering, a good deal of maneuvering, some promotions announced and some involuntary transfers posted.
At least Lindsey had been invited. In I.S., when you heard about a meeting like this one from a colleague but you weren’t invited, it was time to polish up your résumé. Sometimes, it was already too late.
There was nothing new on the Vansittart case. Lindsey had keyed the Paige Publications bibliography into the computer, and even though he still had the paper copy that Scotty Anderson had given him, he called the document up on the screen instead and sat there, staring at the titles and by-lines.
Baseball Stars of 1952. He wasn’t much of a sports fan; he noticed the headlines when one of the local teams made it into the World Series or the Super Bowl but he wasn’t really involved. He had no idea who the baseball stars of 1952 would be…well, maybe a little idea. Some of the names still popped up on the 10:00 o’clock news. Was Joe DiMaggio still playing in 1952? Stan Musial? And that pitcher—his rental car reminded him of the guy. Yeah, Whitey Ford.
Well, no matter. That wasn’t likely to have any bearing on the case. And By Studebaker Across America—now that sounded like a hot one!
He checked his watch. He’d reset it for Chicago time, and it was nearly time to meet Gina Rossellini at the Cape Cod Room. He shut down the computer, pulled on his shoes and slipped into his jacket. He was relieved that the Cape Cod Room was part of the Drake. He was weary and the temperature must be well below freezing. He could hear the wind whistling past his room, trying to make it around the corner from Lake Shore Drive onto Michigan Avenue.
As he was leaving his room the telephone rang. He turned back and picked it up. It was Marvia. She’d heard from Willie Fergus in Reno. The UNR prof had lowered his fiber-optic scanner into Lake Tahoe, looking for the wreckage of Albert Crocker Vansittart’s helicopter. The scanner had located the wreck. At that depth, of course, there was no natural light, but the coaxial fiber-optic cable that could bring back an image to the surface could carry light down to the lake-bed. The image, Marvia told Lindsey, was dark and unclear, but there was an image. They were going to bring in a stronger light-source and a more sensitive probe and try to get a clearer picture of the crash.
Later, Fergus had told Marvia, they hoped to bring up the wreckage, with Albert Crocker Vansittart inside. If he was still there. If something—crabs, fish, or maybe Tahoe Tessie—hadn’t eaten him by then.
Lindsey said there was no progress at his end, but he was going to work in the morning and he had his hopes.
Marvia said, “Bart, I miss you. I love you.”
He said, “Me too.” It sounded stupid to him, but it was all he could think of to say.
Downstairs, the Cape Cod Room was jammed. What Cape Cod had to do with a Chicago hotel was baffling, but the place was attractive and comfortable. There was even a fireplace with a huge blaze in it, perfect for a night like this.
Gina Rossellini must live nearby. Either that or she kept a change of clothes handy wherever she went, like Clark Kent. She wore a scoop-necked blouse that displayed her chest to maximum advantage, and she’d put on makeup and earrings and a necklace. The earth-mother look was gone; she actually looked elegant.
Hey, Anna Magnani would have looked elegant, too, if she’d dressed like this.
The food was good and Lindsey and Gina Rossellini shared a bottle of Bardolino with it. A brandy afterwards helped, too, and Lindsey was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.
In the morning Lindsey set out on his quest. The temperature had dropped overnight and a thin, frozen mist was falling. He had to stop and buy a hat and a pair of gloves. He surveyed himself in the haberdasher’s mirror. He looked like Jim Dial on Murphy Brown. He wondered if Charles Kimbrough ever felt as desperately outmoded as the character he played. He wondered if he was becoming obsolete himself.
Maneuvering the white LTD through crowded, slush-choked streets he found LaSalle and Kinzie, parked and walked to the site of the Paige Building. He’d expected to find a modest, old-fashioned commercial structure, but instead he found himself gazing at a modern office building that managed to shimmer in the gray mist like the ghost of technology. Surely this was not the Paige Building, but he pushed through revolving doors into the lobby and looked for a building directory, just to be certain.
No, this was not the Paige Building.
A uniformed major domo must have read Lindsey’s distress. He asked if he could help and Lindsey asked if he had ever heard of the Paige Building or of Paige Publications. The man shook his head.
Lindsey was ready to give up. He started back toward the revolving
