1 The Reluctant Dick - The Case of the Not-So-Fair Trader (5 page)

“What happened?” I ask the parents.

“She takes Lucy down by the lake everyday and lets her run,” Mrs. Coulter says.

“And the dog comes back, goes through this doggie Saint Vitus Dance and drops dead,” the daddy says. “I couldn’t believe it.”

I move closer to the couple. “Where’s the dog now?”

“Being prepared for the service,” the wife speaks with a “what else can we do?”
tone in her voice.

Tiffany and the bereaved one whisper.

I accept the Coulter’s offer of coffee and sit at their table to go through a series of questions.

What they tell me, in so many words, is that people who live in these neighborhoods, besides being so far apart in distance from each other, really don’t want or need neighbors in the traditional sense. They have their own friends, never need a cup of sugar, and have few complaints since the
Village
of Kenilworth has such strict rules on what you can and cannot do with your property. These people are hardly the types to hang out on their front porches, sip a cool one, and chat up the people passing by.

“About all I can say is, people do come and go at the oddest times at that house.” Mr. Coulter spoke as he sipped his java. “I travel quite a bit and some nights come home at
2
am,
and I’ll see a caravan of cars pull into the driveway.”

“Then for weeks we won’t see or hear a peep out of the place,” the wife says.

I get the feeling the couple is enjoying this show-and-tell session. This is always my signal to quit. Too much information is sometimes worse than too little.

“Thank you very much.” I stand, motion over to my assistant that it is time to go.

Tiffany and the teen, who has ceased the waterworks, hug, air-kiss, and part company.

Outside, Tiffany asks, “Did you find out anything?”

“No, did you?”

“Yes, her parents have her on a budget for clothes and accessories. Talk about torture. How is a girl going to be able to compete at New Trier High School on what’s barely lunch money?”

___

Norbert evidently pulled the short straw of the two and is at the house when we arrive. “Should I bother with the neighbors?” he asked.

“No.”

“Good.”

Except for the media folk trampling the backyard, the place was pretty much as we left it. “Where did they take the body?”

“Downtown.”

“When are they doing the slice and dice?”

“Monday,” Norbert says sarcastically. “Evidently not everyone has to work on the Lord’s day.”

“When did you find religion?” I ask the lumpy detective.

“Every Sunday I have to work,” he replies and sips coffee from a mug equal in size to a German beer stein.

“Don’t you have to use the bathroom constantly using that thing?” Tiffany luckily pointed at his coffee mug as she poses her question.

“The most important tool a detective can have, little lady, is a bladder the size of a football.”

Tiffany surveyed his girth, “Obviously, you’re well prepared.”

“Talk to the gardener yet?” I ask.

“We got an APB out on him.”

“You think he killed Alvin for criticizing his pruning?”

“He took a powder. That’s as good as a confession in most cases.”

“I thought you labeled the case accidental?”

“Oh, yeah.” At Norbert’s age, memory goes first.

“What’s his name?”

“Hector Elondsio.”

“Who is scared shitless that someone is going to run a background check, find out he’s illegal and ship him back to Juarez.”

“Okay, okay, so maybe he’s not the best suspect.”

“He’s probably on his way back to Mexico as we speak.”

“P
oor Hector,” Tiffany bemoans, “h
e’s going to be the only Mexican to have to sneak over the border both ways.”

___

In the house, I retrace my steps of yesterday in reverse. I am trying to see things from a different angle; too bad it doesn’t work.

Tiffany tags along, she looks in each closet. “I love labels.”

“Where is the wife?” I ask Norbert.

“Flying in from Palm Springs, evidently her husband’s death has put a serious dent in her vacation plans.”

“No one goes to the Springs now,” Tiffany says.

“She did.”

“And it’s like a 190 during the day.”

“But it’s a dry heat.” I put in my ill attempt at humor.

“Sounds like tummy-tuck time to me,” Tiffany offers her answer to the mystery.

___

Theresa has nothing better to do than make us all lunch. Norbert has a ham-and-pepper cheese on white with mustard and mayo, topped with sliced kosher dill pickles.

“Hey,” he says, “try it; you’ll like it.”

Theresa whips up a tuna salad for me and Tiffany nibbles on carrots and cucumbers with a bran muffin for her entree.

“Sundays are the best day of the week to flush your system.” She offers way too much information for my tastes.

Before Norbert inhales the second half of the sandwich, he pushes a yellow legal pad in front of me. “Steve gets a bit territorial; but if you just happen to see this, it won’t bother me much.”

On the pad is a step-by-step listing, a cop’s to-do list with corresponding dates, times, and locations.

I make mental notes. “Want me to lead or follow?”

“For now, follow.”

After the feast, I go outside and retrace the steps I made yesterday. Nothing new.

All in all, a totally worthless day. Detectives have lots of worthless days, not like on TV when all crimes are solved in less than an hour.

I go home. I call my kids. Kelly and Care both get on the phone and go on and on about how great it was riding their new horse.

I couldn’t afford to own a horse when I was married, so how my ex is able to afford one now is beyond my comprehension. The entry of my girls into the horsey set unnerves me because about all I know of horses is not to stand behind one.

I tell the girls I love them and can’t wait to see them on Tuesday.

I watch the news. Alvin’s story has dropped to the last fifteen minutes, packaged between the weather and the sports. By tomorrow it will be off the air.

___

First thing Monday morning I get an anonymous phone message informing me that partial lab results are in and if I happen to be in Kenilworth, at a certain restaurant, around lunchtime, a copy might be available for viewing.

I arrive at
12 noon
on the dot. Norbert is manning the rear booth, slurping the soup of the day. “Great lentil soup in this place,” he says. “You wouldn’t think so, this town being so
W
aspy.”

It’s lunchtime, but I order breakfast, the most important meal of the day.

Norbert pushes four pages of stapled report across the table.

I read quickly.

“Blunt trauma.” Norbert pushes the empty bowl away to make room for his next course.

“I drove all the way up here to hear that?” I put the report down. “Did you order a full tox screen?”

“I can’t do that for an accidental death.”

“Why not?”

“Not in the budget.”

“Norbert, we’re in Kenilworth.”

The food arrives and Norbert digs in. I continue reading.

The text is mostly lab mumbo jumbo. I wait for something to jump out, but it is pretty much boilerplate: blood loss, position of the body, vital statistics, and a medical ya-ya of how an avalanche of rocks, falling from a height of approximately ten feet onto a human being, will cause irreparable harm and/or death. The report is hardly appetizing.

“No fingerprints. Maybe it was accidental.”

“They’re called gloves, Norbert.”

“No footprints, loose hairs, dandruff, thread, snot, or sweat on Alvin or on the rock.”

“So, look for someone in a Hazmat suit who likes to toss boulders around for fun.”

“I’m telling you, Sherlock; we could be onto the perfect crime.”

“There is no such thing.”

“Oh, come on,” Norbert stops chewing. “I could commit the perfect crime if I wanted to.”

“Go ahead, Norbert, steal a quarter.”

I fold the pages in half. “Can I keep this?”

“I won’t read it again,” Norbert says, lifting his Monte Cristo sandwich. “You might also want to know that the feds called to voice their displeasure that Alvin would no longer be available for their investigation of insider trading at the Board of Trade.” Norbert takes a bite, but continues to speak. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

This information is worth the price of admission.

I pick up my fork and eat. My eggs are perfect. Why can’t I learn how to poach an egg?

“You think somebody killed him to shut him up?” I ask.

“Steve thought it might be a contract or a mob hit, a wake-up call for any other squealers,” Norbert says between bites, “but I think even the mob has more class than that.”

I agree. “But who would want to rock him out, when a baseball bat is so much better suited to bashing in a person’s head?”

“I heard the mob has switched to using those aluminum bats, much easier to clean and they sink when you toss
th
em into the lake.”

“Technology,” I say, “it’s everywhere.”

I eat; Norbert devours. A piece of pie magically appears the second the last French fry enters his mouth.

“What do ya think, Sherlock?”

I should be asking, not answering. “Everything’s not kosher.”

“Alvin wasn’t Jewish.”

“Nobody kills a guy dressed in a linen suit on a Saturday morning, drags him home and buries him under an avalanche of his own rocks.”

“Yeah, does seem kind of odd.”

The waitress lays the check between us. “Insurance company give you an expense account?” Norbert asks.

“No,”

He pushes the tab my way. “Well, they should.”

5

Parts is parts

On my drive back into the city I have time to contemplate the case, but I don’t. As I pass through Lincoln Park, I look to my right and see what was once the Lincoln Hotel, which was the landing spot of Northside guys who had been kicked out of the house. I could smell the cheap disinfectant, stale smoke, bad booze, and the cloud of depression that came along with each room’s monthly rental. After the little lady gave me the boot, the LH was my home.

What a memorable time. Estranged from the wife, kicked off the force for what most cops would consider a normal reaction, missing my kids terribly, fat, out of shape, back killing me daily. I was broke, living off credit cards, depressed, a real pleasure to be around.

Job-wise, I had been blackballed out of any department in the suburbs, the
s
heriff’s
d
epartment wouldn’t touch me and the feds wouldn’t admit I existed. Leaving town was out of the question because of my kids. I should have started a new career at the takeout window at a McDonald’s, but instead I accepted a job as an insurance investigator with the promise that the hours would be my own. My second mistake was borrowing money from my new employer to pay off the credit cards. Dumb move. Once you owe your soul to the company store, it’s tough to get back. Now, when Richmond Insurance calls, Richard Sherlock has no choice but to answer. I feel like an on-call OB/GYN in a Mormon polygamist compound.

___

I arrive at the morgue, not Cook County’s, but the
Sun Times.

One of the great things about living in Chicago is that they have two great, but different, newspapers: the
Tribune
, which is a high-brow broadsheet, made to read while sipping morning coffee at home -- and the
Sun Times
, a tabloid written for the working class stiff who pages through while riding the bus or
“L”
to work. The only time I ever read the
Trib
consistently was when Mike Royko took the big bucks to write for them; since his death over a decade ago, I’m back to the
Times
. There was no greater newspaper columnist than Mike Royko.

With the i
nternet, few venture into the microfiche daily annals of yesterday and yesteryear. I am welcomed with open arms and files by a clerk named Theobald, a man who looks like he has worked below ground his whole life; he’s whiter than Tide.