1 The Reluctant Dick - The Case of the Not-So-Fair Trader (6 page)

He helps me look up every article written about or that mentions Alvin J. Augustus. This is boring, tedious work. My eyes tire as the pages zip across a large black screen. I search for a hook, an angle, something that jumps out that doesn’t make sense. I adjust and re-adjust the focus to read what I already know. After three hours, I’m toast; my eyes as blurry as the two bottom lines on a Snellen eye chart.

As I reach the street, my cell phone comes alive with an American Idol wanting to “Breakaway.” Care, my youngest installed a ring tone on my phone, and I have no idea how to remove it.

There are three messages: Tiffany, Norbert, and Theresa, the Augustus’ maid.

Norbert thanks me for lunch and drops in that the M
rs.
is back in town. Theresa asks, in much better English, if I could call or stop by, and Tiffany screams “Mister Sherlock!”

I return Tiffany’s call.

“You didn’t call me,” she says instead of Hello. “Daddy said I was to be kept in the loop.”

“You were in the L
oop.”

“No way.”

“You told me Monday you’re in the
L
oop for your facial.”

“Not that loop.”

“My bad.” If there is one expression I hate, it is,
“m
y
b
ad
.
”

“I can reschedule my zits getting popped, any day. We’re on a case.” She pauses for effect. “Dammit, you should have called me, Mister Sherlock.”

“Sorry.”

She calms down. “What are we doing tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s Tuesday.”

“Ah, duh.”

“Tuesdays, I see my kids.”

“So?”

“That means I don’t work. I pick them up at two, we hang out, cook dinner; I get to be a dad.”

“Ah… there is a twelve-million-dollar policy at stake here.”

“Not my money.”

“But it could be mine someday,” she says in no uncertain terms. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at ten.”

___

Tiffany arrives at my apartment at ten-thirty; being fashionably late applies to all Tiffany destinations. She wears a yellow sundress, flip-flops, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail.

“I don’t know why we are wasting our time going back to see that woman,” Tiffany says driving back through the Northshore. “I mean bleach not only destroys good fabric, but you can smell the fumes while you wear it.”

“How many lattés have you had this morning?”

“Three, I’m going to have to make a pit stop if we hit traffic.”

Tiffany is ready to burst by the time she parks behind the black-and-white in Alvin’s driveway.

“You wait for me before you question her,” Tiffany orders before running into the house the moment Theresa opens the front door.

“Mister Sherlock.” Theresa steps onto the porch.

I put up one finger to stop her before she speaks. We wait until Tiffany returns and says, “Thanks, I needed that.”

The three of us walk around the house, down the driveway, and into the back acreage.

“Mister Sherlock, I worry about Hector,” Theresa tells us.

“Why?”

“I think, they think he did it.”

“Did he?”

“No,” Theresa says.
“Only things Hector ever kill are
bugs.”

“Is he your husband?”

Theresa stares at her shoes.

“Lover, s
í
?” Tiffany hits the nail on the head.

“I get lonely being so far from home.”

“Me too.”

I look at Tiffany; what the hell is she talking about? She’s twenty minutes away from her condo.

“It is so hard when you don’t have someone you love near you.” Tiffany hands over her monogrammed silk handkerchief.

“He’s illegal, right?”
I ask.

“
S
í
.”

“Aren’t we all in some way or another?” Tiffany must have been watching Oprah while she was sucking down her lattés.

“They won’t do anything to him,” I tell Theresa. “They know he’s innocent.”

“Should I tell him to come back?”

“How far away is he?”

“My cousins’.”

“That confirms how hard they’re looking for him. Tell him to lay low and I’ll let you know.” I keep walking, the two women slightly behind. “Tell me something, Theresa, Mr. Augustus ever walk around kinda spacey?”

“Spacey?”

“
Es
loco
e
n la cabe
z
a.”
Tiffany translates.

“No.”

“How about drunk?”

“No.”

“And his wife?”

“Drunk or loc
a
?” Theresa wants clarification.

“You pick.”

“No,” Theresa says. “Mrs. Alvin too busy being mean to be drunk or dizzy.”

I continue. “Would you say they made a nice couple?”

“Mr. Alvin mean, too.”

“Is that about the only thing they had in common?”

“Is really not my business.” Theresa is embarrassed for the second time.

“How about their kids?”

“Oh,” Theresa says, “
b
oo.”

I pause.

“They treat me like servant.”

“Well, isn’t that par for the course?” Tiffany asks.

Although Theresa has never played golf, she gets the gist of Tiffany’s question.

“What time did Alvin come home on Friday?”

“Don’t know; wasn’t here.”

“Hector’s?”

“
S
í
.”

“She has her needs, Mister Sherlock,” Tiffany informs me.

I turn back to the maid. “Whatever you do, Theresa, don’t leave town.”

“
S
í
.”

Tiffany gets her handkerchief back before we leave.

___

The second-worst person in the world anyone can marry is a cop. The first is a cop who is a detective. My ex was a nice suburban girl, from a good family -- dad a welder, mom worked in the school cafeteria. At first, she thought it would be exciting married to one of Chicago’s finest, but got very mad when she discovered this was not the case. The difference between my ex and the exes of most of my fellow cops was: Their wives got mad, got divorced, and moved on. Mine got mad, got divorced, and stayed mad.

In retrospect, I can’t blame her for cuttin
g me loose. My hours were awful.
I’d get calls in the middle of the night and out the door I went. She was never sure if I’d come home in one piece or come home at all. My attempts to be a good husband were always interrupted by some gang war, mafia hit, or murderous crime spree. Once she started hanging around other cops’ wives and ex-wives, who provided her a forum for unadulterated bitching, our marriage became as rocky as Alvin’s demise.

___

We arrive at my ex and now my ex’s house in Sa
u
g
a
nash ten minutes late. She is inside, no doubt recording my tardiness for negative fodder the next time she takes me to court for more money.

Care and Kelly are thrilled to see Tiffany, not me.

“Are we going shopping?” Kelly asks.

“No.”

“What are we doing then, Daddy?” Care, my ten-year-old, asks.

“Since it is so hot, we’re going someplace really cool.” I tell them with a phony excitement in my voice.

“Cool, as in cool,
” Kelly my twelve-year-old says.
“
O
r cool as in temperature?”

“Both.”

“Don’t worry,” Tiffany says, “I’ll take you to Saks and we’ll get your make-up done.”

“Now, that’s cool.”

“
They don’t need make-up,” I say.
“They’re not even teenagers yet.”

“Never too young to learn the basics of a good blush, Mister Sherlock.”

We arrive at a dirty-white, oblong structure with a driveway concealed from street view. Ambulances drive in and out all day and never a siren is heard.

“What’s this place, Dad?” Care asks, the more vocally inquisitive of the two.

“Trust me; it’s cool.” I pull the handle on the door. “You people wait in the car.”

“No way,” Kelly pipes up.

“Yeah, no way,” Tiffany agrees.

The three females follow me through the parking area, up the ramp and into the main door. The four of us look like we’re heading for dinner at TGI Friday
’
s.

Jellyroll, an attendant I’ve known for years, meets us as we enter. “Doing field trips now, Sherlock?”

“Is Alvin Augustus still around?”

“Unless he stepped out when I wasn’t watching,” Jellyroll says.

Bad gallows humor is the norm in this place.

In the entryway, it must be sixty-five degrees, about thirty less than outside, and Tiffany’s natural thermometers chart it. My older daughter stares at her chest with jealous envy. The teenage years are going to be hell.

“Alvin’s been one of our more popular guests today.” Jellyroll tells us as we proceed down the corridor.

“Is the slice-and-dice completed?”

“Yesterday.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know where a copy might be available for takeout; would you?”

“No tickee; no washee,” an Asian accent from an old black man.

I motion to Tiffany with thumb rubbing my forefingers. She gets the message.

“How much for two adults and two kids under twelve?”

Kelly says, “I’m almost thirteen.”

“Hundred,” I answer.

Jellyroll smiles, he only charges me twenty.

Tiffany opens her Coach purse as we stop at the end of the corridor. “Is there a cash machine here or will you take a check?”

To the left is a long room with two levels of stainless-steel doors. To the right is the holding area where a number of gurneys wait with covered remains; each has a foot sticking out with a tag attached to the big toe. Just what I’ve always wanted my kids to see.

“Number sixteen on the right.” Jellyroll points.

“You people go with Jelly and don’t look at anything you’re not supposed to look at.”

Kelly demands. “I want to see the stiffs.”

“Go.”

I turn right. They turn back down the corridor and walk towards the waiting room.

I grab a pair of latex gloves on my way to number sixteen, where I flip the latch and slide Alvin out for a full view. He remains disgusting. No matter how well they clean him up, an open coffin is out of the question. I cover what is left of his face. Been there; seen that. On his torso, he has a train-track scar running from the base of his neck down past his navel where they cut him open to take inventory.

I look for needle marks on his arms, on his thighs, and between his toes. I find one pin-prick that might even be a mosquito bite. Alvin is no needle freak. There are numerous bruises on his body, forearms, and legs, but his manicured nails have held up well. I skip his privates; some areas should remain private in life and death. He has white pasty legs and bunion-filled feet. Feet tell a lot about a person. He also stinks, not of formaldehyde, but whatever they use to stuff his veins and arteries. The entire process has taken less than fifteen minutes. I’m angry. I have seen nothing of interest, nothing that helps, nothing out of the ordinary. How shameful that I consider someone with his head bashed
-
in ordinary.

Tiffany and Care return with Jellyroll. I slide Alvin back into his refrigerated condo unit, take off the gloves and join them.

“Was it gross?” Care asks.

“Totally,” I reply, then ask, “
W
here’s your sister?”

Care shrugs her shoulders.

I turn to my left to see my eldest daughter in the anteroom reading toe tags like they were labels in a department store.

“Get over here.”

“Just looking,” she says returning. “You always say we should develop a healthy curiosity.”

“You’ve never paid attention to any of my advice before; why start now?”

“First thing you said that ever made any sense, Dad.”

I have raised an incurable wiseass.

“Anything else, Sherlock?” Jellyroll asks.

“Health records.”

“Didn’t have any.”