1 The Reluctant Dick - The Case of the Not-So-Fair Trader (7 page)

“Everybody has health records
,
” I say.

“Not Alvin,” Jellyroll says. “Never spent a day in a hospital.”

“Can we go get our faces done now?” Kelly asks Tiffany.

“Sure.”

___

I sit in the chair reserved for the rich guy while his wife or mistress spends his money, and read the autopsy report. My two daughters sit in high chairs at the cosmetic counter with Tiffany directing the cosmeticians like Spielberg on the set of a movie.

The autopsy reports Alvin had six different drugs in his system when or before he died, not one name I recognize. The six had no correlation, except that they were all high-powered and deadly if taken in bulk. If a person is not a constant user of drugs, the substances will clear their system completely which is the reason they do random tests of athletes for steroids and growth hormones. Alvin could have been an every-so-often abuser and even his doctor wouldn’t have known the difference. I make a mental note to myself to check on the amounts of each drug found in his system, because I have no clue how much would be too much. Other than six opiates found, Alvin was the picture of health. Heart, liver, lungs, kidneys all in great shape; too bad he wasn’t available for parts; he would have been a goldmine.

I hardly recognized my two daughters when Tiffany brings them over. They resembled Jon Benet Ramsey, the six-year-old beauty queen of unsolved-murder fame.

“You two look like painted Barbie dolls.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Yes, Kelly, you do.”

“Barbie has breasts; we don’t.”

Tiffany drives us back to my apartment, where she tells the kids, “Next time I’ll teach you how to shop.”

I make chicken for dinner. They say it’s gross, but they eat it. We watch some dumb TV show on Nickelodeon, Kelly relenting to Care for some reason I’ll never know.

When the girls are with me, they sleep in my bed and I take the couch, which does wonders for my back. They were tired. I tuck them in, give them a kiss.

“Tell us a Joe and Mo, Dad,” Care requests.

Whenever I was home at bedtime, when the two were young, I would tell them a story about an old geezer couple who lived in a shack by the river. Joe and Mo. I made the tales up as I went along, finishing as eyelids were closing. It was a ritual I enjoyed immensely.

Now the girls are well past story time age, but a request is a request. I sit on the edge of the bed and make up an absurd tale of Joe catching a catfish that was a spitting image of Mo and then can’t tell the two apart until he plants a big kiss on the fish’s lips. In five minutes they are fast asleep.

Just when you believe your kids are growing up, they revert to hold onto a piece of their childhood. Yes, I want my kids to learn, mature, become self-confident, and do things on their own; but I never want to forget that feeling when they needed me, wanted me around and appreciated me being their dad. Exactly how I feel at this very moment.

6

Money dearest

“It was the bitch before me.”

I am in a Ritz Carlton suite, twice the size of my apartment, seated in a leather chair so comfortable I could easily drift off into naptime, except for the fact that the woman across from me has the voice of a peacock.

“Bitch could never get over the fact that she got beat at her own game.”

Doris Augustus refused to return to the Kenilworth house. She said bad karma still lurked within its walls. She instead booked a suite at the Ritz and was living as comfortably as she could in her time of grief.

“Doris, please…”

Doris
. T
here is a moniker you don’t hear very often any more. Too bad, I like the name, although not its namesake before me.

Mrs. Augustus is a slight woman, five-one, maybe a hundred pounds, late forty-something, trying her best to look late thirty-something. If she is bereaved, she hides it well
-
-
very little expression on her face. No doubt she’s tough, stoic, unflinching in her opinions and demands. In a family argument, I can see her standing up to Alvin until he opened up his checkbook.

Tiffany sits to my left. The Ritz Carlton is her element.

“What were you doing in Palm Springs?” I ask the widow.

“Vacationing.”

“In 190-plus heat?” Tiffany repeats herself from two days ago.

“It’s a dry heat,” Doris snaps back.

“You could cook an egg on the sidewalk,” Tiffany argues.

“I don’t do dairy,” Doris retorts.

“Why were you there?” I try again.

“Vacationing.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, alone.”

I give up on hearing any valid reason for travel. “Was there anyone else besides,” and I use her inflection, “that bitch second wife of his who hated your husband enough to kill him?”

“That bitch,” she repeats
,
“and everybody else.”

“Thank you for narrowing things down.”

“Those guys at the Board of Trade, their job is to put the other guy into the poor house.” Doris points a manicured finger my way. “Somebody take
s
your money, you’d hate
th
em, too.”

“But that’s business
,
” I say. “Or divorce.”

“It’s money,” Doris says. “And money transcends all.”

“Right on.”

“Thank you for your input, Tiffany.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Were you divorced before you married Alvin?” My question will surely solidify her monetary policy.

“Isn’t everyone?” she replies.

I stand, mosey over to the window. The northern view from the fortieth floor is spectacular. “How long had you been in Palm Springs?”

“Two weeks.”

Tiffany zeroes in on Doris with a squint each time the woman speaks.

“When was the last time you spoke with your husband?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“You didn’t call during your trip?”

“No. Why would I?”

“Maybe just to say, ‘Hey?’”

“No.”

“So, you didn’t speak?”

“Only when we had to.”

“How often was that?”

“I can’t recall.”

My ex used to give me the silent treatment for weeks and months at a time. All of a sudden she would clam up and treat me as if I wasn’t in the room, driving me nuts. She wouldn’t even pass the salt, if asked. Her silent treatment was the death knell of our marriage.

“So, could we say the conversational element of your marriage had fallen into disrepair?”

From what Doris answered, she and Alvin had four working cold shoulders, night and day. They shared their distaste for one another by not speaking, unless it was absolutely necessary, which was probably when Doris was asking for more money.

I turn back from the view. “Do you know where Alvin was the night before he died?”

“No.”

“Where were you?”

“In Palm Springs,” she snaps back.

I raise an index finger to acknowledge my mistake. “Do you know where your husband may have been going on a Saturday morning dressed in a linen suit?”

“He always dressed to go to the office.”

“On a Saturday?”

“He was funny like that.”

I wait. She seemed to suddenly want to talk.

“Alvin was peculiar in some ways,” Doris said in a calm tone of voice. “His idea of kicking back was a clean, pressed pair of slacks, a silk shirt, and a blue blazer. That might be a result of his upbringing, when he couldn’t afford a shirt. He also didn’t write checks
-
-
kept a wad of cash on him at all times. He didn’t own a cell phone and didn’t use a computer. His underwear had to be ironed and his shoes had to be perfectly buffed.”

“Nothing the matter with that,” Tiffany chimes in.

“Was that because he had bad feet?”

Doris was surprised. “How did you know that?”

“Homework.”

“Beside
s
his feet, did Alvin have any ailments?”

“No.”

“Who was his doctor?”

“Didn’t have one.”

“Did he do a lot of cardio?” Tiffany asks.

Doris glares at Tiffany, as if she is an idiot in designer clothes.

“What was the appeal of the rock garden?” I ask.

“He’d spend hours out there, digging, designing, moving one, replacing another. I’m glad you couldn’t see it from the house; embarrassing to watch a grown man playing with his pebbles.”

“Did he beat you?” Tiffany asked.

“No.”

I wasn’t sure what direction to go next after that sudden foray.

Doris leaned towards Tiffany. There was very little movement in her face when she spoke. “When will the insurance pay out?”

“I’m not sure.” Tiffany knows, but won’t tell.

Doris knows Tiffany knows.

“I’m not sure the policy is ready to be disbursed,” Tiffany says.

“That’s my money.”

“Ah,” Tiffany says, “
n
ot yet.”

A crack in her expression, Doris is pissed or surprised. Hard to tell which.

“Bullshit.” She’s pissed.

Tiffany shrugs.

“Who is in charge?” Doris asks.

“My dad.” Tiffany smiles again.

I make no comment.

“His money is my money.”

“Not quite,” Tiffany continues th
e
tête-à-têt
e
“I earned every penny. Alvin was more than a husband; he was a job.”

“And when he was terminated, you got fired.”

The edges of my mouth turn down and I nod slightly; Tiffany’s comment amazes me.

Doris stands, walks to the door, opens it. “You can go now.”

___

“Boob lift.”

Tiffany and I sit in the Ritz lobby on the twelfth floor of Water Tower Place. If there is a more impeccably manicured room in the world, I’d like to see it.

“She had a boob lift.”

“What?”

Tiffany demonstrates. “They pull this up to fight this falling down.”

I am slightly embarrassed, staring at the young girl’s flawless breasts. “You think that’s why she was in Palm Springs?”

“What better time to go?” Tiffany says. “She’s probably got a standing room reservation at a private hospital every year at that time.”

“She’s had that much work done?”

“If Doris has one more face lift, she’ll be wearing a goatee.”

I sip coffee from a cup of fine china. “Why does a guy like Alvin stay married to a woman like Doris?”

“He doesn’t want to be bothered,” Tiffany says.

“Bothered by what?”

“His house, cars, help, kids, social obligations, whatever; he’s got too much else going on to worry about. He lets her do all that, ’cause she’s got nothing better to do.”

“She was right-on about marriage being a job?”

“All she has to do is keep the house running, keep herself looking good; so he looks good and everybody is happy.”

“Think they still did it?”

“Sex?” Tiffany questions my question. “No way.”

“Why not?”

“She doesn’t have to anymore and he’s shelling out for premium blend.”

I sip my coffee. “Is there something going on with that policy, I should know about?”

“Yeah.”

“What?”

“Some kind of rider.”

“Ever consider mentioning that to me?”

“Not really.”

“What did the rider specify?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tiffany, tell me.”

“All I know is Daddy didn’t get to be Daddy by paying out.”

7

The old block's chip

Two gangbangers are found shot to death on the Red Line train at
3 am
on a Tuesday night. The case falls on the rookie detective’s desk.

The victims are teenagers, sporting more tattoos than a starting NBA line-up. They wore the requisite baggy shorts and skin-tight tee-shirts, but in dissimilar colors. Each had a criminal record from age thirteen and spent most of their time, doing time. Each was shot at close range, one bullet per brain. There are four witnesses who wo
n’t talk and I can’t blame them. W
itnesses in the projects become an immediate endangered species. The lab guys refuse to dust for prints on a subway car; can’t blame them for that, either. All I have to go on are eight-by-ten glossies of the boys in deathly splendor.