1 The Reluctant Dick - The Case of the Not-So-Fair Trader (27 page)

I know why
;
but I’m not saying.

“The big boys are letting it be known,” Steve says, “if anyone talks, the same fate awaits.”

“I’m not sure the murders are connected,” I change the subject slightly.

“You have got to be kidding,” Steve snaps at me.

“At least not in the traditional sense.”

Care looks over to ask me, “What’s traditional sense?”

The other detectives may not like me, but they want to hear what I have to say.

“Maybe, Joey in there is a result of the plan taking a u-turn? Something could have happened, someone could have panicked, a clue got dropped that wasn’t supposed to get dropped, or maybe someone is starting another case to throw us off the first one.” I pause, take a breath. I have their attention. “The biggest problem I see is there are too many motives, too many suspects, too many reasons to kill old Alvin. I mean, have any of us run across any human that liked the guy? He was a cheating spouse, liar, gambler, manipulator, and thief
. H
is business enemies number in the hundreds. Both sons he ha
d
by their business shorthairs, his daughter’s kept on a budget, and his employees are standing in the unemployment line. He’s fired his wife and has a couple of ex-wives who aren’t too fond of him, either.”

“What a guy,” Tiffany says.

“Somebody wanted Alvin six feet under
,
and they were willing to shoot him, blow him up, poison, or trap him in an avalanche.”

“We,” Jonas says, “have a world of possibilities at our fingertips.”

“I’m still leaning toward Brewster,” Kelly says.

I get out of my chair. “Come on, girls, we should go; you need some food in you.”

“I thought we were going shopping, Dad?”

“No, you never shop on an empty stomach. Right, Tiffany?”

“Or after seeing a corpse.” Her agreement is not exactly the positive reinforcement I desired. “Come on,” she says, “I’ll take you to dinner.”

Before leaving, I tell the girls, “Go to the bathroom before we go.”

Tiffany, Care, and Kelly go to the little girls’ room together. When they return, I say, “My turn.”

I lock the bathroom door behind me, go straight to the sink and look underneath. I’m relieved. I next relieve myself the usual way, flush, wash my hands and return to the three detectives, carrying the two shopping bags with toilet paper sticking out of the tops.

“Can I ask a favor of you guys?”

“What, Sherlock?”

“I haven’t had a chance to get to the store this week and I’m all out at home. Mind if I take this with me?”

Before they can say no, I add, “My girls go through toilet paper like water.”

“Sherlock, you have hit a new low,” Steve says.

“Okay with you, Jonas?” Norbert asks the detective who is officially in charge of the crime scene.

“Sure, I got daughters of my own.”

Norbert grabs a couple of rolls off the top as I pass by. “Always good to keep a couple in reserve,” he says
,
as I lead my crew out of the condo.

___

If it were up to me, I’d do the drive-thru at Superda
wg for hot dogs and curly fries;
but Tiffany opts for a health food noodle place off Lincoln near Belmont. The kids eat their dinner only because Tiffany eats hers. They want to be cool.

“Where do we go from here, Mister Sherlock?”

“Home
. T
he kids are tired.”

“I mean in the case.”

“I think we have to divide to conquer,” I answer.

“What does that mean?” Care asks.

“Yeah,” Tiffany says, “what does that mean?”

“Don’t you see it as a bit strange that almost everyone in this case has a partner?”

“They do?”

“Brewster and Doris, Christina and Lizzy, Heffelfinger and Millie, even Clayton and his mother.”

“And,” Tiffany blurts out, “the two hookers.”

Kelly perks up at Tiffany’s addition to my list and Care follows suit. “Hookers.”

“I didn’t think we had to mention everyone.”

“Oh, darn,” Tiffany says, seeing my daughters have stopped eating.

“Tell me about the hookers,” Kelly pleads.

“No.”

“What’s a hooker?” Care asks.

“I’ll tell you later,” I say
,
and glare at Tiffany.

“When?”

“In a few years.”

“Don’t worry, Care, I’ll tell you when we get home,” Kelly says to her sister. “Come on, Dad, this is getting good.”

“Sorry about that, Mister Sherlock,” Tiffany says in apologetic remorse.

“Eat your dinner, girls; we’re going home.”

“Gee, Dad, you’re no fun.”

“Yeah, but at least I’m consistent.”

22

A crack in the case

Judge Anton Berle gavels one case to a close and begins another. “Next case.”

The Clerk of the Court calls out: “Brewster Alvin Augustus.”

As the accused, m
om, and an attorney in a suit with stripes as wide as a railroad track walk to the bench, I start to stand
;
but Tiffany pulls me back down, “Are you going to get up there and lie, Mister Sherlock?”

“Tiffany, you’re learning.”

I walk to the front of the courtroom. I have already talked to the arresting officer and now only have to convince the judge.

“May I approach the bench,
y
our
h
onor?”

The judge smiles at my familiar face. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I come, I go, and sometimes I come back.”

Brewster and Doris are surprised to see me.

“I’ve missed you, Sherlock.”

“And I
too, judge, have missed the pleasure of your company. Would it be possible to see you in chambers?”

“Concerning this case or are you going to try to sell me magazine subscriptions?”

“I’ve fallen, but not that far.”

The judge speaks to his bailiff, “Is the arresting officer present?”

“No, Judge
Berle
.”

The judge leans closer so only I can hear, “You head him off at the pass?”

“I would never consider such a thing,
j
udge.”

Judge Berle rises and I and the prosecutor follow him through the back door. We are in his little office only a few minute
s. Coming back in the courtroom
I pass by Brewster and say, “Do what he tells you,” and return to my seat next to Tiffany.

“Was it a real whopper?”

“Shush.”

The judge speaks. “Due to the arresting officer’s absence, the court will
permit personal recognizance and continue this case
for one month. During that time if the accused is willing to wear a monitor and attend a series of AA meetings, bail will be dropped.” Judge Berle pauses, stares at Brewster. “Yes?”

Brewster looks at the judge, then to me.

I nod my head.

“Yes, your honor,” Brewster speaks softly.

“So ordered.” The gavel comes down. “Call the next case.”

I wave goodbye to the judge before leaving.

Mom and attorney meet me and Tiffany outside in the hallway. Brewster is off being fitted for his bracelet.

“Great job in there, counselor,” I congratulate the attorney and add, “and I love the suit.”

Doris slips the man a hundred dollar bill and he makes his way back to taxicab court. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I had to buy off the arresting officer first,” I lie.

“How much?”

“It will be on your bill.”

“What happens now?” Doris asks.

“Brewster will be wearing an attractive ankle bracelet. Don’t let him leave town and have him start attending AA meetings. If he’s a good boy, in a month the charges will be dropped.”

Doris is at a loss for words.

“You should say ‘thank you’ to Mister Sherlock,” Tiffany tells her.

“I don’t thank my employees,” Doris says to my assistant, “I pay them.”

“That’s music to my ears.”

“In due time,” Doris adds. “I had to borrow that hundred to pay off that awful attorney.”

I give the woman a slight smile. “Funny, I would have thought you’d use some of the cash you pulled out of the joint account a week before Alvin’s death. There certainly was plenty to pull from.”

Doris stops breathing for a nanosecond. I have caught her at an opportune moment for me, but not for her.

“How would you know?” she asks abruptly.

“I have ways.”

As usual her face shows little emotion. Her chin takes a rest on her chest.

“That kind of money could have taken you a lot further than Palm Springs.”

She looks up.

“Sure you were in Palm Springs, Doris? Because we searched far and wide and can’t find a hotel with your name on the guest list.”

Her facial expression does not change, probably because it can’t, but beads of sweat form on her forehead.

“I stayed in a private home.”

“Name?”

“They were friends of a friend who is a broker.”

“Nice to have friends,
too bad your husband didn’t.”

“If you don’t believe me, call the airline and they will confirm I was on the flight back,” Doris says.

“I’ll add it to the list of my homework assignments.”

Brewster approaches, walking a bit funny. Doris clutches her Coach purse and bids a “
g
ood day, Mister Sherlock.” She pulls Brewster along towards the elevators.

Tiffany and I are left by our lonesome. “How’d you know she wasn’t in Palm Springs?”

“I didn’t, but I do now.”

“How?”

“I planted a seed, added water, fertilized, and watched it grow. Then I shook the tree.”

“What came out?”

“Fear.”

Tiffany admits, “I didn’t see any.”

“Her story is starting to crack, but she doesn’t know how big of a fissure.”

“What’s a fissure?” Tiffany says, sounding like my daughter Care.

“The size of the crack.”

Tiffany walks beside me as we make our way out of the court’s lobby. “How big is her crack?”

“It’s not how big it is; it’s how we can make it bigger.”

___

The same afternoon, the Lexus parks in front of hit man Clarence’s house. We sit.

“I trust you are enjoying the ambi
e
nce of the neighborhood?”

“If I lived here, Mister Sherlock, I’d move.”

As we wait, I take the file of photographs Tiffany has printed from her computer and mix in pictures of Martin Luther King and two Queens: M
other
from England and Latifah from Hollywood.

“Got two tens?”

Tiffany reaches into her purse, pulls out her wallet and extracts two bills from the many and hands them to me. “What’s this for?”

“A snitch.”

Finally, the brat kid comes by and taps on my window. “You back?”

I roll down my window. “Want to make another ten bucks?”

“No,” he says, “I want to make twenty.”

“Get in.”

Tiffany hits the button, the door locks pop up and the kid takes a seat in the back.

“This is our snitch?” Tiffany asks.

“For this kind of money, what would you expect?”

The kid sits back, luxuriating into the soft leather. “Dis is a cool ride.”

“Maybe if you work hard, you can afford one too some day,” I do my best to counsel the boy.

“How much crack you sell to get one of these?”

“I wasn’t referring to selling illegal substances.”

“She your ho?” he asks of my driver.

“No.”

“Then how else you get a ride like this?”

“Her father gave it to her,” I say, tiring quickly of the conversation.

“Wish I had one a them.”

“Father or a car?” Tiffany asks.

“Car.”

“You’re not old enough to drive,” Tiffany says.

He shrugs as if to say that fact isn’t much of a problem.

I take the folder of photos, hand the kid ten bucks. “You tell me if you’ve seen any of these people hanging around here.”