The Confessors' Club

FORTY-SEVEN

The first response I got wasn’t from Krantz’s men, pounding on my door. It was Wendell calling, and he was smoked.

‘What the hell are you doing, Elstrom?’

‘Your name isn’t in the column. Neither is mine.’

‘You should have checked with me first.’

‘You walked away from me, remember?’ I paused, then said, ‘What was Jim Whitman doing in your car on the last night of his life?’

He ignored the questions. ‘Somebody at the IRS or the Chicago police is going to track this to you, and then to me.’

‘Too late; the IRS already knows me. That’s why I can’t talk long. I want to be available to make sure they get the spelling of your name right.’

‘You’re a son of a bitch, Elstrom.’

‘Tell me how deep you’re in with Arthur Lamm.’ I needed to tell him more, that there was a cop imposter also chasing Lamm, but he didn’t give me the chance. He hung up.

It was time to make the call I’d been dreading, but she called me before I could punch in her number. ‘The acquisitions committee is meeting at the Art Institute all day,’ Amanda said, her voice amazingly calm. ‘Dinner tonight at five, on the cheap, at the Corner Bakery across the street?’

Even now, after the dust from our divorce had long since settled, she had the power to charm and transfix me, no matter the turmoil. I supposed that would never change.

I went into the would-be kitchen for more coffee. The cabinet that had fallen lay now in pieces on the makeshift counter. It had taken me hours to tap it apart. I’d salvaged what I could, but still it needed new structure. I’d considered scrapping it, making a new cabinet from scratch. But there are times when starting over seems unwise.

Krantz finally called. ‘Care to have lunch?’ he asked, though his tone made it clear I had no choice.

‘I thought you were tied up in meetings in Washington, discussing ways to harass innocent taxpayers.’

‘I’d like to say I flew back first thing after hearing about your friend Keller’s column. But the truth is, I’d already landed at O‘Hare when I got the news.’ He named a Chinese restaurant close to his office and told me to be there at one.

I took a noon train that got me to the restaurant at the tail end of the lunch rush. Krantz was waiting at a table in the corner. A copy of the Argus-Observer lay on the table, opened to Keller’s page.

I set my rolled peace offering on another chair and sat down. ‘No muscle with handcuffs?’

Krantz peered through his reading glasses at the newspaper. ‘I love this: “Federal boys bungle.”’

‘I knew you wouldn’t be upset.’

‘About you broadsiding a federal investigation, blowing us wide open before we could assemble all our facts?’

‘You’re not identified.’

He looked over his glasses like I was some sort of exhibit. ‘Actually, I suppose I’m pleased. You’ve speeded things up. As we speak, I have an agent in a judge’s chambers. It won’t take long to get warrants now.’

‘Warrants for what?’

‘To search the so-called Confessors’ Club at Sixty-six Delaware.’

He’d referred to it by name. ‘You knew about it?’

‘Of course. Arthur Lamm writes the property insurance for it, and collects a rather sizable management fee for its maintenance. We’ve known, too, that they gather on the second Tuesdays of even-numbered months. But until now, that’s been no cause to go inside and search.’

‘Tonight’s a second Tuesday.’

‘Your reason for going to Keller was to protect your father-in-law?’ he asked.

‘Ex-father-in-law,’ I corrected, ‘but no, he’s not involved. I did it to make sure nobody got killed tonight.’

‘We’ll be watching the place to make sure,’ he said, ‘along with the Chicago PD.’

‘The word’s out?’

‘Maybe not about everything,’ he said. ‘A private detective was murdered?’

‘Eugene Small, hired to do surveillance on the members.’

I had the sense Krantz already knew about Small, like he knew all about the Confessors’ Club.

I took the thin roll of paper I’d brought and put it on the table. ‘Small’s desk calendar. It details the dates, hours and initials of his surveillance targets.’

‘How did you get it?’

‘Someone dropped it on my doorstep, anonymously.’

Krantz frowned. ‘Who hired Small?’

I looked around for a waitress, any waitress, to let me veer away from the questioning by ordering lunch. Only one was in sight, and she was coming toward us carrying two small brown bags.

‘I already ordered for us.’ He leaned forward across the table. ‘Same guy who hired you?’ he repeated.

‘I don’t know who hired Small.’

‘I’m going to interview your client as soon as I can.’

‘Debbie Goring?’

‘Don’t be a smart-ass. You’re in this because Wendell Phelps hired you. Phelps is a prominent guy. So is his business partner, Arthur Lamm.’

‘Not business partner, Krantz. Wendell invested in a couple of real-estate ventures with Lamm. Rich guys do that. To them, it’s just playing Monopoly.’

‘I’ve only just started looking, Elstrom. I’ll learn more.’

I told him about Delray Delmar, the young cop imposter.

He didn’t seem all that surprised, but I supposed by then he wasn’t surprised at any of my fumblings.

When I finished, he asked, ‘The supposed cop really told you, with a straight face, that his name was Delray Delmar? Wasn’t that enough to tip you the guy was a fraud?’

The waitress stopped at our table and set down the two bags. ‘To go, so you don’t starve,’ Krantz said, smiling.