Chapter 20

I booked a suite at the Viceroy Chicago because the website promised views of Lake Michigan. Chance and luck, twin sisters I’ve been courting since early adolescence, cancelled their reservation an hour before my arrival and I was offered an upgrade. It was a corner suite. Besides looking out on a lake as big as an ocean, I could enjoy the sight of the glass and steel monuments to the gods of ego and avarice. One, I never tired of; the other, well, stalagmites are interesting and maybe even beautiful, but doubt I would feel the promise of an undefined future from standing in a cave, as I do, standing on a shoreline.

One of the things I look forward to, when staying in a hotel, is room service. Blame it on my inner recluse, but having someone bring me just what I want for breakfast, and then sending them away, without the slightest guilt or remorse? Priceless. Of course, I tip them extra; the barnacles of a catholic school education never completely fall away.

After Sophia put everything on the table, I had my first cup of coffee. This is something of a luxury in itself. I drink instant coffee with generic half and half at home. The shyly-assertive girl brought the real thing.

My interview with Attorney McGurn, the previous afternoon was educational and expensive, at least for my client. I asked him what his hourly rate was, thinking I might write it off as a business expense. He responded, quite matter-of-factly, that his firm billed him out at seven hundred dollars an hour. He was quick to add that the Prendergasts received a discounted rate, being one of the first clients he brought in upon making partner. I decided I’d get three hundred dollars’ worth of legal expertise, then go find the kid’s house on my own.

It wasn’t necessary. I was un-surprised when he asked, “You’d like to talk to Kyle Harrington, correct?”

I started to explain why, despite being aware that he already knew, when he picked up the phone on his desk and dialed a number. After informing whoever answered that they were on speaker phone, but not on-record, he pushed a button and said,

“Carl, Stefan McGurn. I’ve a private investigator by the name of Ian Devereaux in my office. He’d like to ask you some questions about your son, Kyle.”

Barely managing to keep the exuberantly confident voice from blowing out whatever sound-quality circuits the phone had built into its speaker, a voice barged into the office and sat on the edge of the desk, “Hell, Stefan, if that’s all he wants, he can ask Kyle himself.” In a voice slightly under 100 dB, fortunately aimed at someone not sitting next to me, he said, “Wilhemina, go get Kyle down here.”

I thought of Leanne Thunberg at Radcliffe and made a note to call her if this meeting went the way I thought it would.

It did.

Now, with dawn of a new day, I began to review my conversation with Kyle Harrington, one of only three surviving members of the Radcliffe chapter of the Hermes Consortium. It felt appropriate that my first sight of the morning sun was as a black flare of light on the side of a skyscraper. The light was concentrated, focused and pretty-much blinding. Had it not been for the reflective coating on my own windows, I would’ve spent the rest of the day stepping sideways to avoid the floating grey rectangles, courtesy of my city-mugged retinas.

I took out my phone and dialed a number in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

“Hello” There was a cautious uplift to the ‘o’ in Leanne’s answer, that blurred the visual memory I had of her.

“Dr. Thunberg, this is Ian Devereaux. We met a few weeks ago at your office. You were quite helpful and said if I needed any additional information I should call you.” I smiled as I spoke and remembered to deepen the pitch of my voice a little.

“What time is it?”

I looked around the room. The decor surely gained awards in the interior design world, in the category, “Make Them Work for a Sense of Familiarity’. I looked down at my phone. It said 4:53 am. This made perfect sense because the hotel room service was available starting at 4:30 local time. I considered lying. But then I remembered she had at least one Ph.D.

“Early…ish. But I’m in another time zone.”

“What?” I heard the rustle of cloth in the background and my stomach dropped. I tried to remember if I believed she lived with someone or would likely be with someone.

“I should call you later. Maybe an email first, that way I won’t be disturbing you.”

“No, that’s alright.” Another background sound, a rasping scratch followed by a tired exhale. Nothing like a cigarette to get the mind focused.

“What can I do for you, Ian?”

I relaxed. Poured some coffee and, adding biologically-produced creamer, said, “I’m glad you asked. I had a conversation with one of your students yesterday. I was hoping you could provide some insight.”

***

“Good morning, Sister Margaret.”

Anya Claireaux smiled. To describe it as having something in common with Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa would not have been fair to the artist, as he was going for ‘enigmatic happiness’. To assign that quality to the expression on the face of an attractive blond woman in an office in Chicago would represent a potentially lethal underestimation of both her motives and capabilities.

“What can I do for you?”