1 The Reluctant Dick - The Case of the Not-So-Fair Trader (15 page)

“I don’t know why you’re laughing,” I say, “all we have to follow here is the money, and there isn’t any.”

“Family didn’t know he was broke?” Steve asks.

“It seems inconceivable,” I say, “that he could lose that much money and have it go unnoticed.”

There is a lull in the conversation until Tiffany wonders out loud, “Maybe Alvin knew he was going to get snuffed.”

“Certainly would explain the rider on the policy,” Steve jumps on her thought.

“What tipped him off?” Norbert asks.

“Maybe somebody already tried,” I say.

“Or he knew if he spilled the beans to the FBI, a lot of people wouldn’t be real happy,” Steve says.

“That wouldn’t explain why he’d cut the family out first.” Norbert takes a sip of his fresh cocktail.

“We’re not dealing with Mister Rogers here, don’t forget,” I remind the group. “If everyone hated Alvin, it would only stand to reason, Alvin returned the compliment.”

“Too bad he didn’t commit suicide, then the policy would be invalid and we could all go home,” Tiffany concludes.

“Here, here,” Steve says and picks up the menu.

Norbert orders the rib-eye, Steve the filet, me the fish since I’m watching my cholesterol, and Tiffany a chicken breast with veggies on the side, no butter or oil.

“We need warrants for all Alvin’s books.”

“The FBI’s got ’em,” Steve says. “Won’t give ’em up.”

“We still need them.”

“I got the agent’s name somewhere. I’ll ask again. We got some other stuff from years past, if that will help,” Norbert assures me.

We go over the time of death, the lack of evidence at the crime scene, what a bitch Doris is, and that if you look up “Momma’s Boy” in the dictionary, you’ll see Brewster’s picture.

The food arrives.

Norbert swallows a chun
k of cow and says, “I got a big appetite for protein today.”

“Alibis check out?” I ask.

Steve answers, “Brewster says he was with Clayton
.
Clayton’s with a blond, Christina at a coming out party, Doris in Palm Springs.”

“Tox screen come back?”

“Not yet.”

“I’d like to see it,” I say.

“No problem.”

There is quiet as the men eat and Tiffany picks at her food, nibbling on minute bites.

Norbert and Steve order dessert.

“Any ideas on where we go from here?” Norbert asks between bites of apple pie a la mode.

“If we keep beating the bushes, something may eventually fly out,” I say.

“I hate to say this boys and girls,” Steve says, “but thus far, we don’t have a clue.”

“Literally.”

“Just don’t dis
bu
rse any insurance money.” Norbert looks at Tiffany as he speaks.

“No problem there.”

When the bill comes, Norbert hands it to Steve, who hands it to me, and I hand it to Tiffany.

“Is this what you mean about following the money?” she asks.

___

The toothy receptionist
is
past distraught when we enter the Augustus offices the next morning.

“What’s the matter?” Tiffany asks as she rushes to comfort the poor girl.

“I’ve been fired.”

“That’s too bad.” Tiffany pats her on her back.

“I thought you wanted to clean teeth?” I ask.

“I do.”

The shock of getting the axe must have caused her to forget her true calling in life.

“Is Mister Heffelfinger in?”

She flips her thumb out like a hitchhiker. We take the cue and walk past her into the office area and to the corner office door.

“Knock, knock.”

Heffelfinger is at his desk, wearing a tweed coat with leather patches on the elbows. His left hand pushes keys on the adding machine as his right does the calculator. “Who the hell are you?”

“Richard Sherlock. I’m the investigator from the insurance company.”

“I don’t have to talk to you.”

“That’s correct.”

“Get out.”

“After the reading of the will, trust me, I’m not the only guy who will be in here wanting to chat.”

Heffelfinger harrumphed. “Augustus business is none of your business.”

“Well, if you ever expect to see a dime of the disbursement, you might consider changing your mind.”

Heffelfinger punched one key on his phone pad, waited for the connection to be made, but not a voice, “Millie get in here.”

Less than ten seconds elapse. A woman, fifty-five, maybe sixty, hurries into the room. She’s wearing a pair of green pants that she shouldn’t be allowed to wear
. S
he looks like a mossy stump. “Hello.”

The elderly couple from the funeral is now complete. There is no doubt in my mind that these two are boinking each other.

“This is Mister Sherlock
. H
e’d like to have a talk with us.”

“Hello.”

“This is my assistant, Tiffany.”

Heffelfinger gives her a cursory glance.

“What can we help you with?” Millie speaks softly, as if a grandmother to her grandkids.

“We missed you at the reading of the will,” I say.

“Somebody has to do some work in the family,” Heffelfinger says curtly.

I get right to the point. “When did you know that Alvin was bursting faster than the dot-com bubble?”

“I tried to warn the old curmudgeon, but he wouldn’t listen to me.” Heffelfinger calling his boss a curmudgeon is the kettle calling the pot hot.

“When did he begin converting his holdings into cash?”

“Who said he did that?” Heffelfinger asks.

“I read the will.”

“We started selling the properties about a year ago,” Millie says. “Alvin thought the market had topped.”

“He sell everything?” I ask.

“Why do you want to know?” Heffelfinger keeps the tension at a maximum height.

“I’m curious
,
” I confess. “And where did the proceeds end up?”

Neither answers.

“You’re his accountants…”

“We’re not sure,” Millie says in an apologetic voice.

Millie reminds me of my aunt from my mother’s side of the family. Her name was Gladys Pleasant, a misnomer if there ever was one.

“Shall we say that Alvin took greater control of his funds during the past year or so?” I ask.

“For being so smart with money,” Heffelfinger says, “the man could be a real idiot.”

“Let’s go into his office.” I walk out the door and down the way to Alvin’s corner. The three follow.

“Tell me how this all works.” I stand in front of the TV screens between the computer terminals.

Millie takes the remote, and the screens come alive with lists of trading quotes, blinking changes faster than a winking eye. “Alvin would sit at his desk, watch the ticks, and tell the trader what he wanted.”

“Somebody would sit and punch in the trades on these computers?”

“Yep.” Millie was enjoying her financial show-and-tell. “The top screen is the S
&
P’s, the middle are commodities, and the bottom, treasury bills.”

“Alvin did this as if he were playing three hands of poker at the same time?”

“Pretty much.”

“What does all this have to do with who killed him?” Mr. Curmudgeon asks.

“I don’t know.”

Heffelfinger coughed up some phlegm. Standing, one leg slightly bent, his right wingtip shoe was worn down on the inside of the sole. This malady undoubtedly had something to do with his choice of careers.

“When did Alvin start trading electronically?” I ask.

“It was about a year ago,” Millie answers.

“Worst mistake he ever made,” Heffelfinger says. “Nobody was better than him in the pits.”

“So, why did he change?”

“God only knows. I tried to reason with him, but the man was h
ope
less.”

I slow the cadence in my delivery. “How long did you work with Alvin?”

“Thirty-eight years,” he says.

I look to Millie.

“Twenty-nine.”

“That’s both longer than I’ve been alive,” Tiffany puts it into her perspective.

“Painful, after all that time to see the place go down in flames; isn’t it?”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“When?”

He refuses to provide examples. “What do you want from us? I gave all the financials to the FBI.”

“So, how could you be busy now?” Tiffany asks a very good question.

Her question goes unanswered.

Heffelfinger leans against Alvin’s desk. “There is nothing more we can do; we’ve cooperated to the best of our abilities.”

“We really have.” Millie and Heffelfnger must have some interesting sex.

“Did you like Alvin?” I throw out.

“Of course not, nobody liked Alvin,” she smirks as she speaks. “And he didn’t like us,” she adds.

“Did you kill him?”

“Don’t be silly.” Millie laughs.

“Who do you think killed him?” I ask.

“Some guy that Alvin blew off the floor, I’d guess. But what really killed him was the thinning of his wallet,” Heffelfinger says.

“The most feared form of anorexia,” Tiffany declares.

“He hated to lose,” Millie says. “He was on a losing streak and there was nothing he could do to stop.”

“All he would have to do is quit trading, right?” I ask.

“Alvin, stop?” Heffelfinger says, “Never happen.”

“We tried,” Millie says, “but he wouldn’t listen.

“Stupid old coot,” he says.

“Mister Augustus also entered into a number of business ventures that we warned him about.”

Heffelfinger harrumphed
again
hearing Millie’s disclosure.

“Such as?”

Millie didn’t speak.

“What?” I pry, “Was he investing in worm farming?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

No answers.

“Clayton’s business?”

“I warned him about that,” Heffelfinger answers.

“Brewster’s trading?”

“It is difficult following in a father’s footsteps,” Millie says.

Heffelfinger straightens up as best as he can. “I still have work to do, as does Miss Millie.”

“What?” Tiffany asks. “You’re already broke.”

“This meeting is finished,” Heffelfinger says. “Come on, Millie.”

They leave the room together.

On our way out, it didn’t take a detective to see the receptionist had moved out. The stack of celebrity magazines was missing from beneath the desk. I’ll bet she took the stapler, too.

___

There is a Starbucks on every corner in the financial district in downtown Chicago. We pick the closest one. I order a small coffee of the day and Tiffany orders a grandé with soy milk, no froth, loaded, flavored latté in a cup-cone or whatever. The clerk repeats her order to the coffee chef. I couldn’t pronounce it, let alone remember it.

I sit, sip the coffee, and a cold chill goes up my spine.

There is always a point in any case where you feel overwhelmed, the same approximate feeling of dumping the contents of a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle in front of you while gazing at the Jackson Pollock painting on the cover of the box.

“A penny for your thoughts, Mister Sherlock.”

“This coffee is bitter. You would think with all the Starbucks in the world, they could make a cup of coffee that tastes better.”

“That’s how they get you to buy all the extras.” Tiffany has a valid point.

“Well, not me, I’d rather suffer.” I am as sour and bitter as the overpriced coffee.

“You know what I think, Mister Sherlock?”

“No.”

Tiffany sips whatever is in her cup. “If it was up to me, I’d get rid of all pennies; what’s their point?”

I see a bit of milk on her lip. “I thought you ordered no froth?”

Tiffany wipes her upper lip dry. “Don’t tell me I’m looking like one of those
“
drink
-
your
-
milk
”
ads.”

In a very strange way, Tiffany’s overt fear of appearing less than perfect makes her charming.

I sit, the picture of
gloom
.

“You’re not having any fun; are you?” she asks.

“No.”