probably had leftover penicillin tablets.
And what were the odds that, in that stash of pills he’d found by Savannah’s bed, four of them would be mine?
Neither preacher nor pragmatist wanted to bet against me.
In my mind’s eye, I could almost see it happen: Chan takes the elevator down to Dixie’s floor. He’s going to bum a ride home with her. She’s not there, but a note on her door says she’ll be back for me at ten. He sits down on the swing to wait, remembers he has chocolate brownies in his pocket and swallows one down in two bites.
Immediately, his throat starts to close up as his breathing passages react to the penicillin. He gags, vomits, tries to get up, but already his brain is screaming for oxygen. It screams once more and then cuts out and all further struggle for air is lost in merciful unconsciousness.
Along comes Savannah, intending to return my tote—minus its loose change and pills—and finds Chan already unconscious. She drops the tote behind one of the chairs and flees.
And who had been with him only minutes earlier and had the opportunity to slip some brownies into his jacket pocket? Who was known to have had penicillin tablets at hand just last summer?
And who had a good reason to want Chan dead?
Right.
I stepped away from the coffee line, took out my flip phone and dialed Underwood’s pager. At the beep, I said, “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I think I know whose tablets they were. I’m going to take Heather over to Mulholland to see if we can find Savannah and then I’ll swing by your office. We really need to talk.”
26
« ^ » “
In stark contrast to the organized clutter that lay behind those double doors off to the left, the reception area of Mulholland Design Studio was clean-lined minimal, a high-tech setting for the large black-and-white photographs, each framed in chrome strips, that lined the walls. Each featured a single piece of furniture, photographed alone like a piece of jewelry or a work of art, and each carried a company logo. Widdicomb, Baker, Henredon, Fitch and Patterson, and Ethan Allen were there among other blue-chip names, but pieces of Benchcraft, This End Up and Hickory Hill showed the range of Mulholland’s clientele and of the freelance designers who used these facilities.
“I’m sorry,” said the receptionist, “but we’re closed now. All of our designers are gone for the day and I was just getting ready to lock up.”
Indeed, she had already switched off the main lights in the reception area.
“We’re here to see Pell Austin,” I said. “He’s still around, isn’t he? I’m a friend—Judge Deborah Knott.”
“Let me check.” She pushed a button on her console phone. “Pell? There’s a Judge Knott here to see you. Shall I send her up?… Okay, I’ll tell her. You’ve got a key, right? Because I’m going to lock up down here.”
She put down the receiver, smiled, and gestured to the chrome and glass staircase. “You can use those stairs or there’s an elevator around the corner.”
I must not have been the first to give her such a blank look because she immediately pulled out a floor plan from beneath the counter.
“Here’s where we are. You go up these stairs, through the double doors, left, straight down the hall till it deadends in a cross corridor, take another left and keep going almost to the end. Pell’s door will be open and he says to holler if you don’t find him.”
Beyond the sleek chrome-plated doors on the next level lay the shabby workaday reality I remembered from my tour on Saturday morning. The concrete landing was painted black, as were the industrial-steel steps that led down into the studio area.
“Wow!” said Heather as we stood looking out over the various sets in different stages of being built or torn down.
The whole lower floor was almost in darkness now. The main overhead fluorescents had been turned off and only a few security lights lit the main path through the labyrinth. Yet I could see a bright glow from somewhere over on the far side, as if a single floor lamp had been left burning.
Outside, I knew that the sun was still fairly high in the western sky. In here though, it might as well have been midnight for all the shadowy gloom.
At least the second-floor halls were brightly lit and we kept taking left turns till we fetched up at Pell’s door.
“Ah, you found me.” His long pleasant face warmed with a smile of welcome that included Heather.
“I thought Lynnette was with you,” I said.
“She is. I told her she could go play in the toy section.”
I frowned. “You’re not worried about her wandering around down there in the dark?”
“Is she wandering? I told her not to go past the toys.” He walked past us and out into the hall a few steps to where the landing was.
We followed him. Immediately next to the steps below, a dining room vignette was half built. Or half dismantled. It was hard for a layman to tell. Beyond that, Lynnette sat on the floor under a torchere lamp, about a quarter of the way down one of the long rows. She was surrounded by teddy bears and other stuffed animals.
