1 The Reluctant Dick - The Case of the Not-So-Fair Trader (16 page)

“Why not?”

“Because I hate my job.”

“I think it’s really fun, running all over town, seeing dead bodies, trying to unravel a mystery.”

“I could do that at home playing Clue with my kids.”

“Colonel Mustard, in the study, with the candlestick,” Tiffany says.

“You really want to play detective?”

“I’d love to.”

My mind must be turning in bizarre circles to give Tiffany an assignment.

I remove the
Augustus c
orporat
e
check out of my pocket. “I want you to call the bank, tell them you
have a check from this account.
” I show her the number on the check, “For eighty-three-thousand dollars. Ask if it wil
l clear.” I hand over the check.
S
he reads the printed name and address.

“How did you get this?”

“I lifted it the other day when I was in Alvin’s office.”

“You’re not supposed to do that,
are you?”

I ignore her question. “If the bank won’t tell you, use that feminine charm of yours. I need to know if there is money in the account.”

“I thought he was broke.”

“First rule of life, assume nothing.”

“Next,” I say, “pick up what financials Norbert’s got and take
th
em over to this guy.” I scribble down an address on North Ashland. “Knock on the door and if Herman’s home, don’t get too close, the guy is a little creepy.”

“Don’t worry, Mister Sherlock,
I’m used to creepy.”

“Then
,
go home, take a nap, eat a good dinner,
and
go out drinking
at
all the clubs
where
I’d look like an idiot
. S
tart asking around about the two brothers. What they’re like, friends, enemies, who they sleep with, the kind of money they waste
. S
ee if you can find out anything good, sleazy,
or
if either gets out of town on a regular basis. And if anybody saw them the Friday night before the murder.”

“Why?”

“Because one of us deserves a night on the town.”

“That would be me,” she says, “but besides that, why?”

“I want to see if they are following in their father’s footsteps.”

“Why?”

“Because don’t you think it is odd that nobody will tell us anything about anything? Nobody cares who killed their father, husband, employer, or business partner.”

“That never entered my mind,” Tiffany confesses.

“The lack of remorse in this case is frightening.”

“I’ll do my best, Mister Sherlock.”

“There is no one better-suited for this assignment than you, Tiffany.”

“I can’t wait to pick out what I’m going to wear.”

“And one other thing, the four hundred dollars I was going to spend on the hooker
--
I’ll need it for petty cash.”

“You know,” she says, “I forgot all about that.”

I pull away from the table. “Good luck.”

“Hey, if I’m on assignment, what are you going to do the rest of the day?”

“It’s Tuesday, my kid day.”

13

If you can't be good, be clever...

Kelly is in a snit as she steps into the Toyota.

“What’s the matter with your sister?” I ask Carolyn.

“She’s table-challenged.”

“Shut up!” Kelly yells at her sister. “Last time I tell you anything.”

“What’s the problem, Kel?”

She doesn’t speak
,
sulks instead. I know she wants to talk and only have to wait before she spills her guts. “How was your day, Care?”

“It sucked.”

“Did you learn anything new at school?”

“No.”

“Good, glad to hear my tax dollars are at work.”

I pull the car out of the circular pickup area and head for home.

“I have a chance to sit at the better lunch table
;
but if I do, my friends at the old table will think I’m stuck-up like the people at the better table.” Kelly has to stop and take a breath. “I want to go
;
but if I go and they end up not liking me, then I won’t be able to go back to my old table
,
and I’ll have to sit in a bathroom stall and eat my lunch because everybody will know I’m a loser that nobody wants to sit with.”

“Where did you sit today?” I ask calmly to slow the crisis down.

“I sat with my old table, but on the edge closest to the girls at the better table.”

“That was clever.” I have tried to teach my girls, if you can’t be good, be clever.

“But I can’t do that forever, Dad.”

“How long have you been in the middle of this conundrum?”

“What’s a con-un-der-um?”
Care, my inquisitive one, asks.

“It’s like a problem you can’t figure out
,
” I explain.

“Two days,” Kelly says. “The worst two days of my life.”

“Oh, the horror of it all,” I say with a slight chuckle.

“Dad, it’s not funny.”

“I’m not making light of your situation, Kel, I’m just warning you it gets a lot worse than this.”

Kelly goes back into a funk.

“I take it this table of new girls is the most popular?”

“Ah, yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because they are.”

“I need a better reason.” I pause. “Is it because more boys hang around that table?”

Kelly doesn’t have to answer.

“What does your mother say to do?” I should never ask this question, but I do, because the answer usually will make my life easier.

“She says I should go for it.”

“What do you think you should do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want my advice?”

“Not really.” She does, but can’t admit it
-
a code of pre-teenage behavior.

“Do you want mine?” Care asks.

“No, twerp.”

“Try sitting with the people you like and the people that like you. Better yet, sit with people you respect and respect you.” I talk slowly, she might not get it right away; but if she hears it, she’ll get it sooner or later. “If you have to try to be liked, you won’t be yourself and one of the worst things you can ever do is not be yourself.”

“Gee, Dad,” Care says, “you sound like the dad on one of those
Full House
re-runs.”

“My God, that show is so lame!” Kelly almost screams. “The Olsen twins are like forty and all weird-looking now.”

“I like that show.”

“How lame.”

“You get what I’m trying to say, Kel?”

“No.”

She does; she just won’t admit it (keeping in code).

___

The rest of the time spent with dad goes pretty much according to plan. Snacks, TV, hating my cooking, homework, baths, more TV, and lights out.

I tuck Care in the left side of my bed and give her a kiss. On the right, I sit. “The best way to be liked by others is to like yourself. That’s what Shakespeare was talking about when he said ‘To thine own self be true.’” I secretly hope Care is listening in on all this, so I won’t have to repeat it in a couple of years.

“Dad, seventh-graders don’t study Shakespeare,” Kelly informs me.

“Well, they should.” I lean over and give my oldest a kiss. “And if you ever find yourself needing someone to eat lunch with, you give your old dad a call and I’ll be there in no time.”

“Oh, would that be hurl-worthy.”

“Goodnight, Kelly. I love you.”

___

Herman McFadden resembles a gnome gone wrong. He’s short, maybe five-feet-four in heels, with a scraggly white beard and a patch of thinning, greasy, gray hair plastered across his head in a comb-over. Herman is one of those obese people whose eighty-or-so unneeded pounds starts sticking out at his sternum and do
esn
’t stop until reaching his crotch. I bet he has to pee sitting down.

Herman is at his computer all day and, when he is not watching porn, he takes time to be a financial genius.

“That chick who brought over the stuff
was really hot,
” Herman says, opening his apartment door. “Are you doing her?”

“No, Herman, I’m not.”

“I’d like to.”

“Fine, Herman, I’ll find out if she feels the same way about you.”

“And tell her if she ever wants to do any porn, I know a lot of people.”

“I’m sure that fact will improve your chances of dating her.”

“I don’t want to date her, Sherlock
.
I want to have sex with her.” He p
aused to be sure, “She is legal,
isn’t she?”

“Yes, Herman, but that will be the least of your problems with her.”

It was over six years ago, when Herman was implicated in a case involving the kidnapping and murder of a runaway teenager, later found six-feet under in an Iowa cornfield. There was enough
incriminating
evidence against Herman to send him to the joint for about six life terms. Photos of the girl on his computer, emails linking him to the site where she was
featured
,
and he had
no alibi the night she disappeared from the corner she was working
. There was also
an eyewitness account of the girl climbing into a black Caddy, the exact year and model Herman owned.

I sat in an interrogation room questioning Herman for more than three hours, which wasn’t easy because Herman smells bad. I came to the conclusion that Herman might be a truly disgusting human being, but he was no murderer. What bothered me about the case was there was too much evidence against him, all of which was unsubstantiated. I went to work, asked questions, surveyed the neighborhood, and kept asking questions. It took me about
one
week to figure it all out. A neighbor of Herman set him up perfectly, except for one little mistake: the dirt under his fingernails matched the dirt from the cornfield. It pays to get a manicure.

Ever since, Herman is beholding to yours truly. He even does my taxes.

The apartment is good size, two bedrooms, a full dining room, but filthy. I wish I had a pair of latex gloves to put on. “What did you find out?”

He clears a spot at the table. “Alvin was either the smartest dude on the street or the dumbest. A year ago, he’s got more money than God, but in the next twelve months, goes into a tailspin that sucks every dime out of his coffers.”

“Isn’t that the way of the trader?”

“Not a guy who has done it for twenty years. The idiot mortgages a house he’s owned free and clear with a checkbook loan, and runs it to the max in three weeks. Naw, this guy’s dick ain’t shooting straight.”

“Interesting analogy, Herman.”

“He’s got all these pieces of corporations and not one of them makes any money. That’s not kosher.” Herman becomes more animated, he loves being able to sneak-peek into the lives of others. “He runs his credit cards to the limit, cashes out his personal IRA. He must be giving his wife cash, because she ceases to be an employee of his company.”

“Doris worked for him?”

“Tax dodge.”

“The oddest of all of it, Sherlock
? H
e pays his taxes in advance.”

“If he’s losing all his money, why would he pay future taxes?”

“Odd, remember, I said odd.”

I am perplexed
. M
ore pieces of the puzzle, yet none fit together. “Could he be stealing from himself?”

“I thought of that, too.” Herman says. “But why would a guy with millions steal millions from himself?”

“Tax dodge?”

“I just told you he paid them in advance.”

I sit back, the chair creaks as if it will break any second. “Could he being doing this out of spite for the rest of his family?”

“Why not just cut them off and leave them out of his will?”

“How about the accountant
? W
ouldn’t he know all this was going on?”

Herman sits back. His chair is silent
. H
e knows which one to s
it on. “You sure would think so,
wouldn’t you?”

My head is spinning
. T
here are a million questions to ask, but I can only come up with one. “Can you use that computer of yours to find out if Alvin had any offshore accounts?”