With a roar, the fire escape below her caught fire, blocking her only avenue down. Desperately, she banged on the doorway into the second floor apartment. It didn't budge. The roar of the flames grew louder, making it impossible to concentrate.

  Driven by the fury of the fire, she crashed into the landing rail. Her eyes caught sight of the half-filled garbage Dumpster twenty feet below. With a lunge of sheer desperation. Lisa launched herself over the railing into the air.

  She hit the refuse and dirt in the rusted metal Dumpster with a thump. Her legs and arms ached, but otherwise she seemed unharmed by her fall. She rolled around in the waste, reaching for the edge of the bin.

  A small object thumped down on the garbage, only inches away from her. The propane torch, thrown there by the Dark Man in one last desperate attempt to destroy her. With a groan, Lisa flopped over the side into the alley just as the refuse caught fire.

  Forcing herself to keep moving, Lisa staggered across the alley, staying far away from the furiously burning building. In the distance, the shrill sound of fire engines filled the night air.

  "You escaped me for now, Lisa," called the Dark Man, his form invisible in the midst of the raging holocaust. "Just for now."

  Then, as if by afterthought, he added, "Remember me to your friends. Tell them I'll be coming for them as well. Soon. Real soon."

  7

  Taine pulled into the parking lot at Gallagher's Pub a little before seven that night. A popular Yuppie hangout on Chicago's Near North Side, it was almost deserted this early in the evening. The social drinkers and cruisers didn't make the scene until well after dark, which suited Taine just fine.

  Entering the lounge, Taine walked over to the huge horseshoe bar that dominated the front of the establishment. "I'll have whatever's on tap," he told the lone bartender.

  With a casual eye that missed no detail, he turned and surveyed the few patrons close by. Not spotting a familiar face, Taine waved the bartender over.

  "Jack Korshak anywhere?" he asked. "He told me to meet him here at seven."

  "Sure. He came in around twenty minutes ago." The bartender waved to the rear of the pub. "He always takes a booth in the back. You Taine?"

  "That's my name."

  "He said for you to join him when you arrived. Last table before you get to the kitchen. We hold it for him special. He comes in here so often, we kinda think of it as his table. You know, just like in the movies."

  "Yeah, I hear you loud and clear," said Taine with a laugh. He picked up his drink and headed in the indicated direction. "Like Citizen Kane or All the President's Men."

  Jack Korshak raised his drink in greeting when Taine approached. A short, totally bald man with a thick black beard that covered his face from ear to ear, he resembled some mad Russian poet much more than a financial reporter. Korshak covered the stock market and related areas of interest for the Chicago Post.

  Taine met Korshak a year earlier while investigating a commodities swindle. Mutual respect and a shared sense of the absurd forged a casual but lasting friendship.

  "Ah, my favorite occult detective in Chicago," said Korshak, holding out his hand for a quick shake. "Or maybe I should qualify that a little bit. The only occult detective in Chicago. No matter. Sit down and relax. You eat dinner yet?"

  "No," answered Taine, "but—"

  "But nothing," said the other man. "I'm like Nero Wolfe. Can't talk business until after a meal. Besides, they make great Italian beef sandwiches here. I already ordered them for the two of us. Got you the special; sweet peppers, cheese, and red sauce on the side. Large order of fries as well—greasy things but incredible. Should be ready in just a few minutes."

  "You're gonna die of a heart attack before you reach forty, Jack," said Taine, laughing. "If your liver doesn't go first from all the beer you drink."

  "Nah," said Korshak, raising his glass for another quick gulp. "I know better. It's all propaganda from the Milk Board. Beer never hurt anybody. It's that dairy stuff that kills you. Remember that Woody Allen movie? The one where he woke up in the future and everyone was eating chocolate bars because they were good for you.

  "Sleeper," said Taine, with a sigh. Jack loved movies but rarely remembered their titles. And his memory of certain scenes proved often to be extremely subjective. He conveniently forgot the parts he didn't like or that contradicted his opinion.

  An attractive young woman in an abbreviated cocktail waitress outfit brought their sandwiches and another round of beer. Despite his protests, Taine was hungry. The two friends devoured the sandwiches and fries in silence, devoting all of their energy to their meal.

  "What did I tell you?" said Korshak ten minutes later as their waitress cleared the plates and brought another round. "Best beef sandwiches in the city."

  "I can't argue," said Taine. "In any case, you're the expert. I rarely eat out. It costs too much."

  "I write it all off as a business expense," said Korshak. "The paper picks up my tab for lunch and my dinners get deducted as business expenses. I'm the ultimate capitalist. Remember the trickle down theory the Republicans championed? I'm living proof of it. All the money I make goes to my favorite restaurants. If I stopped eating out, a hundred busboys would get fired."

  "I can't argue with logic like that," said Taine, smiling. "But don't you ever miss a good home-cooked meal?"

  "Ha," said Korshak. He took a long swig of beer before continuing. "Never. Give me pizza, ribs, tacos, and fried chicken any day. You still living by yourself in that apartment on the Near North Side?"

  "Yes," answered Taine, wondering what oddball line of reasoning his friend was pursuing.

  "Still single, no female attachments or such."

  "Or such," repeated Taine. "I'm still on my own."

  "Do your own cooking, then?" said Jack, with a satisfied expression on his face.

  "When the mood strikes me," said Taine. "I rarely make anything fancy, though. Most nights I'll broil a few hamburgers or fix a steak. Once in a while, I'll cook some chicken."

  "Ugh," said Korshak, wrinkling his face in disgust, his whole body trembling. "I close my case. You touch raw meat."

  "Sure. You can't cook without it."

  "Which explains why I eat out all the time," said Korshak. "I could never touch the stuff. The very thought of handling uncooked meat gives me the shivers. When I was a kid, my mother koshered our meat at home, on a board over the sink. She put the salt on to draw out the blood, the whole works. What a mess it made. Ever since, I never could face a piece of raw meat without getting a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach."

  "Lucky you didn't become a crime reporter."

  "Tell me about it. But enough about my phobias. What's new with you? Your cryptic call whetted my appetite. I gather you're working on a case involving the Chicago financial community?"

  "Correct," said Taine. "However, I would appreciate it if the whole bar didn't know all the details. Lower your voice a little. I'm handling a rather delicate case and need some information about one of the principals. I thought you might be able to help. What can you tell me about Harmon Sangmeister?"

  "Harmon Sangmeister?" asked Korshak, all the color draining from his face. "The Harmon Sangmeister?"

  "Is there more than one?"

  "Not funny, my friend," said Korshak, his tone much subdued. "There ain't much funny about Sangmeister."

  "I've heard that already. Can you fill me in on his background—how he made his fortune, who he associates with, what he does for fun? You know what I want—the usual dirt."

  Jack Korshak shook his head. "You don't know what you're asking for." Taking a long, deep swig of beer, as if for courage, he then continued. "Let me explain in my own roundabout way.

  "Tom Joshko, the guy I started with at the Post, handled the financial section of the paper for twenty years. His stringers covered the financial district like a blanket. Tom knew the ins and outs of every major deal consummated in this city and revealed more than a few of them in his column.

  "Yet, for all of his smarts, Tom Joshko never once wrote an original story about Harmon Sangmeister or his financial empire. I repeat, not once. The only news Tom ever ran about Sangmeister in his column came from the wire services.

  "He never told me the reason, but I guessed early on. Joshko valued only one thing more than the truth—his health."

  "Exactly what are you implying? Do you think Sangmeister threatened your boss? I thought occurrences like that went out with Al Capone."

  "You tell me," said Korshak, signaling the waitress for another beer. "Tom Joshko was a crusty old bird. Nothing frightened him. But he steered clear of Harmon Sangmeister."

  The reporter held up one hand, forestalling any questions by Taine. "Let me finish. I've got another story for you. This one is a little more to the point.

  "Phil Barkley used to write a terrific column for Chicago Business Monthly. He uncovered more embarrassing facts and figures than The National Enquirer. And he backed up all his claims with solid, well-researched data. More than one financial empire collapsed due to his probing.

  "In his last piece, Barkley hinted that he had uncovered some deep, dark secrets behind the Sangmeister fortune. He never came right out and said exactly what he meant, but the mere suggestion of impropriety sent HS stock plummeting twenty points on the New York Exchange.

  "That article never appeared. It was scheduled for the January 'eighty-four issue of CBM. In November, Phil Barkley came down with bronchial pneumonia. He died the day the magazine hit the stands—without his column. The editor claimed that Phil never submitted final copy.

  "No one had a clue to the contents of the piece. Barkley never shared his sources with anyone. Whatever he uncovered about Sangmeister died with him.

  "One or two brokers screamed foul play, but after a few weeks, the hubbub died down and the story drifted out of the news. Sangmeister stock rose to previous levels."

  "Coincidence?" asked Taine.

  "Maybe," said Jack Korshak, "but I'm still not finished.

  "We keep a running morgue file on all the big shots in the city. Every newspaper maintains one. Information comes from all the news stories featuring the celebrity throughout his career. When that person dies unexpectedly, you use the info in the file to write his obituary. It provides the basic facts and history, while interviews with family and friends fill in the human element.

  "I'm responsible for keeping the financial biographies current. Every time Donald Trump does something spectacular, I dutifully record it in his file. And so it goes for most of the major figures in the business world. After a while, the files get pretty thick, filled with all sorts of meaningless trivia. You want to know the brand of cereal the chairman of General Motors eats for breakfast? I can tell you. Or how much money, to the dollar, Howard Hughes was worth when he died? Ask me anything about anyone—except one man—Harmon Sangmeister."

  "He never makes the news," said Taine cautiously.

  "You guessed it. The guy controls one of the largest business empires in the United States, second perhaps only to the Pritzker family. No one knows for sure, since no one knows the full extent of his holdings. He works through so many holding companies and secondary trusts that you can't pin down all of his assets. Only a few people outside of the financial field realize the power and influence this guy wields.

  "He never grants interviews. He rarely speaks in public. Unlike a lot of millionaires, he exhibits no desire to give away a penny of his fortune. The only time he earns a mention in the paper is in the gossip columns. His only human failing seems to be blond bombshells. Every picture I've ever seen of him features some buxom blond bimbo hanging on his arm. According to the reports, Sangmeister believes in liberal doses of sex and is willing to pay for his pleasure."

  "Sounds like your typical sweet, wholesome millionaire," said Taine. "I guess I'll survive without that background check. Don't worry about it. Sangmeister's involvement touches only the fringes of this case."

  "Yeah?" said Korshak, straightening up in his seat a little. "How is that?"

  "I'm checking into rumors concerning a secret investors' group," said Taine, watching his friend's expression carefully. "I thought Sangmeister might belong."

  "Groups like that are strictly illegal, you know," said Korshak suspiciously. "Last winter, the FBI broke up a huge network operating at the Commodities Exchange. Sangmeister's name never came up in the investigation."

  "Does that surprise you?" said Taine, still treading cautiously. "You already told me how secretive he is. These federal dragnets rarely snare all of the guilty parties."

  "You could be right," said Korshak. "It sure would explain a lot of mysterious deals that take place for no apparent reason. An insiders' club, composed of millionaires, manipulating the market. It sounds too good to be true."

  His eyes narrowed in thought. Taine waited, wondering if his friend needed a bit more prodding. One more hint might tip the scales.

  "It doesn't add up," said Korshak slowly, rubbing his beard with one hand. "Why hasn't anyone ever heard of this mysterious group before? After all, there's always jealous outsiders, and disgruntled ex-members. Franklin said it best. 'Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.' These days, nothing stays confidential very long."

  "Except, according to you, Harmon Sangmeister's business dealings," said Taine, knowing he had hooked his friend. Now he just had to reel him in. "Perhaps Sangmeister controls any mention of this club in the very same manner."

  "This sounds a bit dramatic," said Korshak. "But one thing I've learned when dealing with millions and millions—nothing is too outrageous when that much money is involved. Let me see what I can turn up on this. You in a hurry for information?"

  "Does immediately sound too soon?"

  "Give me a day," said Korshak, signaling for another round of beers. "Even a master technician needs time. Phil Barkley still worries me. Let me do a little networking so I don't leave a paper trail for anyone to follow. Not that I suspect anything, but ..."

  "Agreed," said Taine. "Let me handle all the rough stuff. You get me the info, I'll supply the story when it breaks. I can use anything you get, but don't do anything foolish on my account."

  "Nah," said Korshak. "I only do the dumb stuff on my own."

  8

  Tim happily babbled his way through dinner, keeping up a running conversation with everyone at the table. He was in all his glory with a room full of adults to entertain. Janet often wondered how her son managed to remain quiet at school. All of his teachers remarked on what a polite, shy boy he was in class. He enjoyed playing in the various team games in math and spelling and reading, but he rarely volunteered information unless asked. At home, he voiced an opinion on everything.

  While Janet listened half-heartedly to his conversation, her son found a ready audience in his grandfather. Her father never spoke down to Tim, and he accorded him the same respect he gave to any adult. He further delighted the boy by addressing him as "sir," or "young Mr. Packard."

  Leo never rushed Tim. He always gave the boy plenty of time to verbalize his thoughts, and always answered Tim's questions thoroughly and methodically. Leo Packard was an even-tempered, patient man.

  Ruefully, Janet admitted she had no patience. She was always in a hurry.

  On the wall of her tiny office in the jewelry store hung a small sign that summed up her own philosophy in two Latin words. Carpe Diem. "Seize the day." Janet tried to remain true to that maxim. Still, sitting here at the dinner table with her father, the most successful businessman she knew, Janet wondered if perhaps his way might be better.

  "Mom," said Tim, loudly, effectively breaking through her inner reflections. "Mom, you didn't answer me."

  "Sorry, son," she said, shaking her head to clear the cobwebs from her brain. "What did you say?"

  "When are you going home? I need my other Transformers."

  "I'll leave in just a few minutes. Did you have any homework tonight?"

  "Nope."

  "Are you sure? What about math?"

  "Mo-o-om," said Tim, with an exasperated tone to his voice that drew that one word out into three syllables. "I did my math in study time. I finished all my homework in school."

  "Okay, then. Make up a list of which toys you want me to bring back with me. Don't overdo it. You know how much those metal marvels weigh. Your poor mom isn't a weight lifter. No more than ten Transformers."

  Tim frowned, faced with making hard choices. "Fifteen?"

  "Ten," said Janet, firmly. "And not all the big ones, either. Your mother wasn't born yesterday."

  "Just bring back all the ones on the shelf over my dresser," said Tim. "I put all the best ones there for protection."

  Then, as if remembering something important, her son turned to her father. "Good gosh. What time is it, Grandpa?"

  "Five minutes till seven," said Leo, with only the slightest hint of a smile on his face. Like most young precocious children of the television generation, Tim often used words and phrases not in normal everyday usage. He possessed a huge vocabulary and believed in using it.

  "Something important happening at seven o'clock?" asked Leo.

  "Back to the Beach is on channel nine tonight," said Tim. "The kid who tells the story is really Dudical. I want to watch it. Did you ever see it, Grandpa?"

  "I rarely watch TV other than the baseball games, sir," answered Leo, the look on his face passing judgment on modern programming. "But I will join you if I am permitted to read my book while we peruse this classic."

  "Sounds like a good deal to me, Tim," said Janet, rising from her chair. "Grandpa never watched TV with me when I was a kid."

  "I drew the line at soap operas," said Leo, grimacing. "You refused to watch the Cubs."