1 The Reluctant Dick - The Case of the Not-So-Fair Trader (4 page)

Steve Burrell comes to where we are standing. “You answer that phone?”

“Yes,” Tiffany confesses.

“Who was it?”

“Wrong number,” I tell him.

“Telemarketer,” Tiffany adds.

Steve tells Tiffany, “You’re a lousy liar.”

“No, I’m not,” Tiffany says. “I’m an excellent liar.”

“You always make a habit of answering other people’s phone calls?”

“Only if I’m dating them seriously.”

I pick up the receiver, dial *69, listen and write on the pad of paper next to the phone what a computer is telling me, hang up, and hand the paper to Steve. “Here’s your caller.”

Steve dials the number.

“I’ll bet it’s either untraceable or a pay phone,” I say.

“It’s ringing.” Steve holds the receiver to his ear.

“Mister Sherlock,” Tiffany says, “
p
eople don’t use pay phones anymore.”

“Still ringing?” I ask.

Steve hangs up the receiver. “Nobody answered.”

“Well, then if it was the murderer, he should be easy to catch,” Tiffany says excitedly. “There’s not that many pay phones anymore and all cell calls are listed on a giant computer in orbit around the earth.”

“Really?”

“I got that from a reliable source,” she explains.

“Was the source for sale at the checkout line at the market?” Steve asks.

“Could have been.”

“Tiffany,” I tell her.
“Next time, just ask who is calling.”

The day is done. We’ve all had enough. We separate to make our way to respective exits, us out the back and the detectives out the front. No one says goodbye.

4

My doggone back

I awake on Sunday morning with a pain so sharp it almost levitates me out of my own bed. The agony starts in my lower back, lumbar region
,
and shoots upward through my body like a lightning bolt through storm clouds. My feet go numb; I can’t move my legs. I lay helpless, waiting for the first wave of misery to pass. Partial relief may take one minute or twenty. I scrunch my six-foot frame into the fetal position and begin to rock my upper torso in miniscule increments of movement to loosen my vertebrae. Some days it can take an hour before I can move my legs. Off the bedside table I grab my emergency ibuprofen, pop three in my dry mouth and force them down my throat. Their result won’t come for ten minutes, but the result will come. I keep rocking and the pain starts to lessen. I move my toes, which helps my back; but this is misery. Anyone who has ever had back pain can relate; there is no worse feeling than your spine twisted as taut as a wet dish rag.

I’ve had back problems going on a decade now. Maybe it was too many years sitting in a state-issued, domestic car; maybe it was the strain of the divorce; maybe it was one-too-many criminals wrestled to the ground. Whatever the cause, it hurts.

Today, it is a half-hour between waking and stepping into the shower. I start lukewarm and keep increasing the temperature until it is so hot I could make tea. The jet stream hits my back like one flaming torpedo after another and, with the ibuprofen kicking in, I finally can move like a normal human being.

Yet another aspect of my miserable existence.

Thank God, it is not my kid weekend. The only other plans I had were to attend a victory party at the home office of Chico’s Bailbonds, which will certainly not be happening.

I lay on my back, on the floor, feet resting on the couch. I watch, upside down, every local news program that reports on the mysterious, accidental demise of Alvin J. Augustus. From the footage shot early that morning, the yellow crime tape did not do its job once again. There were close-ups of the blood stains, the path, and the rocks. A few of the stories had old footage of Alvin at some art opening or in front of some bank. The weekend anchors and reporters covering the stories were not as well known or as good-looking as the weekday anchors, in the blow-dried, bleached teeth kind of way; but each gave it their best shot in reviewing the lurid details for an audience hungry for a good, gory, death. I wonder if the regular folks watching are snickering at the fact that Alvin won’t get a chance to spend all the money he worked so hard to make.

Feeling better, I rise to my feet and make a very easy decision to not clean my small apartment, a common practice I perform on Sunday mornings. Instead, I flip on my computer and make my way onto the
i
nternet.

I hate the computer. The fact that my ten-year-old daughter can whip around from one website to the next, while I can’t figure out why you have to push START to turn it off, infuriates the hell out of me. How am I going to be able to protect her and her sister from
i
nternet predators when I don’t know an interface from a Facebook?

I do a search on Alvin J. Augustus
. There are a number of i
nternet references. I learn he is/was fifty-seven, had three wives, three kids, a dead mother, and a father missing in action. His name appeared as the defendant on a number of lawsuits. I couldn’t tell if any were currently pending. He had no business or social affiliations, wasn’t a member of the Rotary, Lions, Elks, Moose, or Knights of Columbus. With all the lawsuits, he probably didn’t have time for meetings. The one charity that listed his name as a major benefactor was Alcoholics Anonymous.

Google refers me to a
Sun Times
article from a few years back, from which I learn Alvin J. Augustus was the son of an abusive father and a promiscuous mother. He bolted home at sixteen, talked his way into a job as a runner at the Board of Trade, and put his mind to learning puts and calls. Whether it was corn, wheat, stocks, or pork bellies, young Alvin developed what many said was a sixth sense about the rise and fall of commodity prices. When he became a trader at the tender age of eighteen, he bought when others were selling and sold in the middle of a buying frenzy. He was not right all the time, but he was right more than anyone else. Alvin’s business boomed, with no need for employees, patents, factories, warehouses, company cars, bylaws, or boards of directors. He made his money gambling the futures of commodities, currencies, stocks, bonds, and whatever else was on the table. As an aside, the article mentioned that Alvin never played poker, craps, or baccarat, not that he couldn’t; he merely considered these games beneath his talents.

I next search “rock murders” and am amazed at the number of singers, guitar players, and drummers gunned down, poisoned, or stabbed in bar fights. I try “murders by rocks” and get some religious nut who lists stoned victims. Pairing the two, I wonder how many of the rock-and-rollers were stoned when they became victims. All in all it is a worthless search. More people waste more time at computers than any other household item, except for the TV.

Noon, my back still hurt, but nowhere near like before, I had no choice but to suck it up and head north.

___

If you are forced to drive an old car, drive a Toyota; all you have to do is keep oil in them and they will last forever. If I can figure this out, why can’t Ford and General Motors?

I park my Corolla about a hundred yards from the AJA estate. There are three cars in Alvin’s circled driveway, one squad car and two late model Chevys; one has to be either Steve’s or Norbert’s. I go up the path to Alvin’s neighbor, ring the bell and wait.

A woman, mid-to-late thirties, opens and answers. “Yes?”

I show her my license that closely resembles a badge. “My name is Richard Sherlock. I’m investigating the occurrence next door.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

She chuckled.

“I didn’t get to pick my last name.”

“I did.”

She opens the door and I step inside the foyer. “I’ll get my husband.”

“Morris, Barry Morris,” says the sixty-something man wearing an awful pair of multi-colored golf pants, approaching me with his hand out to shake.

“I apologize for bothering you, but I’d like to…”

“No bother,” he interrupts.

Barry was obviously skilled at interrupting people.

“We didn’t see or hear a thing,” he says, finishing his sentence.

“Not a thing,” his wife, who I doubt was his first, added.

“Did you know the Augustus family?”

“We knew them,” he said.

“But it wasn’t like we did pot luck,” the little missus adds.

“Were you home yesterday afternoon?”

“I was at the mall.”

“And I was playing golf.”

My first rule of life is to never make assumptions, but I had to assume that Barry owned more than one pair of designer-from-hell golf togs. The thought was unsettling.

“Did you like the Augustus family?”

“No,” they answer in tandem.

“Why not?”

They silence in tandem as well.

I decide to wait them out. Give it enough time and he’ll say something.

“You know,” Barry speaks after about five seconds, “I’m a lawyer and in the legal field we have a name for people like the Augustus’.”

“And that would…” I start to ask, but he cuts me to the quick again.

“We call ’em assholes.”

A few more pointless questions and I bid adieu to the Morris family.

The family who lived next to the Morris’ was not home; neither was the family next to them. My neighborhood canvas was turning up nothing.

Down the block I had better luck, at least in finding people to talk with. The only disappointment was none of the three families heard or saw anything out of the ordinary for a Saturday morning. I was crossing the street to the opposite side of the Augustus home when a familiar Lexus 430 pulled up.

“Mister Sherlock,” Tiffany said, hanging towards the passenger window, “I thought you were going to call me.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” I said, “I was worried that you still might be praying.”

“Praying?”

“On the Church of Saint Mattress.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Tiffany parks the car, facing the wrong way on the street, and gets out with Starbucks in hand, laughing
.
“You know I forget how funny I am sometimes.”

“I don’t.”

Since it was a hot day, I couldn’t blame Tiffany for wearing shorts, but a wife-beater tee-shirt is a little on the casual side, even for investigating a murder. On her feet were three-inch wood clogs with sandal straps from the era of Ancient Rome. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and fitted between the canvas and the adjustable plastic strap on the back of her Cubs baseball cap. We made quite a couple pacing up a sidewalk, which seemed longer than a football field.

“Have you discovered any clues yet?” Tiffany asks before I ring the doorbell of a house that reminded me of the stately manor of Bruce Wayne.

“It’s still early.”

“I know, I’m not even through my first double-loaded, mocha-cappuccino latté yet.”

I will not venture a guess at what the man thought, opening his front door to middle-aged me in tennis shoes, jeans, and wrinkled polo shirt, standing next to Tiffany, looking one bad photo out of a Cosmo exposé on “How to look slutty, but cool.”

“Can I help you?”

I flash the badge, introduce myself.

“Is it ‘take your kid to work day?
’
” He asks, as his eyes focus between Tiffany’s chin and navel.

“We’re not related.”

He smiles.

Tiffany crosses her arms, ruining his view. “I’m his assistant.”

“Do you have a minute?”

The man allows us entrance. “Honey, a detective is here with his assistant.”

We are led to a massive kitchen, which opens to a den and sunroom facing Lake Michigan. This is a gorgeous, warm, livable home, the opposite end on the comparison scale to the Augustus’ abode.

The wife rises to greet and get a better look at Tiffany. “I’m Mrs. Coulter. You’ll have to excuse us; we’re in the middle of a crisis.”

A teenager sits in the den, curled up on the couch, tears pouring down her face. Tiffany makes a beeline to the girl, who stops crying at the sight of shoes.

“Hugo Boss?”

“Are there any other kind?” Tiffany asks and their bond is secure. “What’s the matter?”

“Her dog died,” Mr. Coulter said.

“What was his name?” Tiffany asks.

“Lucy.” The girl weeps.

“What kind?”

“Labrador.” Sniffle, sniffle.

I used to have a Labrador, named Ralph. I loved that dog. Wasn’t the sharpest arrow in the quiver, but he was pure white, full of energy, and I could see the dollars rolling in once I had him bred. But I lost the dog in my divorce. Is there no justice for a “man’s best friend?” To make matters worse, my ex had him fixed and changed his name to Pumpkin.