1 The Reluctant Dick - The Case of the Not-So-Fair Trader (9 page)

“Except for being joined at the wallet?” I ask.

“Whatever.” Brewster finishes his beer. “There is a slew of people who hated him a lot more than I did. Good luck hitting bingo.”

One positive about Brewster Augustus, he was able to bring things down to the simplest common denominator.

___

A ringing phone at two-eighteen in the morning is a part-time dad’s greatest fear.

“What?”

I shake waiting for the response.

“Get your ass out of bed,” Steve Burrell says. “Get dressed and meet us at the mansion. The case just got a little more interesting.”

8

Feng shui your gaydar

The Augustus house is lit up like a movie set. There are three squad cars, two fire trucks, Norbert
’s
and Steve’s sedans and now my Toyota. The front door is open; I walk right in.

“If we got to be here,” Norbert says, “
we
thought you should, too.”

“It’s always nice to be remembered,” I say as he leads me inside.

The den is a shambles. Drawers open and emptied onto the floor, books tossed off the shelves in no particular order, cabinets emptied, pictures and artwork off the walls.

I mill around in the mess. “A scavenger hunt gone horribly wrong?”

“Your sense of humor is hard enough for me to take when I’m awake, much less when I’m half-asleep,” Steve says.

“Any other rooms get a makeover?”

“Bedroom.”

I pace around the walls of the den. Two wall safes have not been touched. “Where’s Theresa?”

“Night off.”

I picture her lying beneath Hector, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. A tank of bug spray sits next to their bed.

“Alarm on?”

“Was.”

“See anything missing?”

“Not that we can remember,” Norbert says.

“Call the wife?”

“She didn’t answer her phone.”

“Beauty sleep,” I say.

“We’ll have the room dusted tomorrow,” Steve says.

“Don’t bother.”

“Why not.”

“Won’t do a bit of good.”

“What makes you so sure, Sherlock?”

“Because whoever did this entered, turned off the alarm, trashed the place, turned the alarm back on, and split. No one could do this much damage in the time between the alarm going off and a patrol car arriving. Nothing is missing and there is no sign of forced entry.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was going to say,” Norbert says. “But why all the fuss?”

“They were pissed because they didn’t find what they were looking for.”

“Which is?”

“I don’t know.”

The detectives look at each other, look at their shoes and back towards me.

I yawn.
I’m tired. I hate my job.

“If we assume…”

“Don’t assume anything; that’s my first rule of life.”

Steve does not continue.

“There is a reason, and probably a bad one, for this happening,” I say. “But the only thing I’m certain of is we won’t be figuring it out tonight.”

Steve and Norbert sigh.

“I’m going home.” I turn to exit. “I got a big day tomorrow.”

___

Clayton Augustus was as miserable a human being as his younger brother, but in an entirely different way.

“You talk to that half-wit, half-brother of mine?” Clayton asks as Tiffany and I sit in his renovated Lincoln Park greystone, beneath an oil painting that could double as a Rorschach test.

“He said he didn’t do it.”

“And you believed him?”

“So far.”

“Well, I didn’t kill him, either.”

I look over at Tiffany. “Can I go home now?”

“No.”

Tiffany was dressed junior executive, matching skirt and jacket, white blouse and sensible, but expensive, shoes. She must have more clothes than Diane von Furstenberg. No doubt, I could fit my entire apartment into her closet and she would still have room for her winter outfits, ski equipment, and an inflated white water raft.

“How do you think you’ll do in the will?”

“Like, I care?”

“I would,” Tiffany says.

“The money certainly didn’t do Daddy much good in the long run, now did it?”

“He had a pretty good run,” I say.

Clayton puts his feet up on his coffee table and leans back onto his leather couch. He had been whisked off his exercise room treadmill to come and talk with us. The odor of sweat mixed with designer aftershave wafted from his Under Armour workout attire. He was about twenty-seven, four years older than Brewster.

“Did you ever see or talk to your father?”

“When I had to.”

“And when would that be?”

“Whenever.” Clayton was trying hard to act bored.

“Saturday or the Friday before he died?”

“No.”

“You get this all from your father?” I ask motioning to the lavish décor or the room.

“No.”

“Then, how?”

“I tap into people’s greed.”

“That was your major in college?” I can play his verbal game, too.

“I didn’t go to college.”

Tiffany removes a steno pad and pen from her purse and begins to take notes. I wonder what she could possibly find interesting in this inane conversation.

“I match people with a lot of money, with people who have ideas that can make them a lot more money and take a piece of the action from both parties. Actually, it’s quite a simple business.”

“If it is so simple, why doesn’t everyone do it?”

“Hell if I know.”

Clayton Augustus founded INCUBATE INC. when he was twenty, to fund biotech research for the pharmaceutical industry. His business recipe was to add large parts private capital with very adept drug science, let it marinate into the promise of the next Viagra or Xanax, then sell the sizzle to the highest bidder. With a number of the biggest drug companies in the world in the Chicago area, Abbott Labs, Baxter Intl., to name two, the market was hungry. With the old money he grew up around, as well as the
venture capital
millions available, there was cash around to invest. And with Northwestern, University of Chicago, Children’s and Rush/Presbyterian research hospitals subway distance apart
,
he never lacked for good ideas.

“For not caring much for your dad, you sure ended up a lot like him.”

Clayton didn’t appreciate my assessment. “Bullshit.”

“You don’t make, create, manufacture, or market any product or service. You might as well be jumping up and down at the Board of Trade.”

“What I do has nothing to do with what my father did.”

Tiffany stood up, breaking the tension as she sizes up the room.

Clayton watches her like a lion stalking prey.

“This room feng shui?”

“What?” I ask, wondering where that came from.

“You would have to ask my designer,” Clayton answers.

“Marceau DeLeon?”

Clayton perks up at Tiffany’s knowledge. “You’re good.”

“Marceau doesn’t feng shui.”

Clayton sits up, turns to face Tiffany.

“You should have it done.”

I have no idea what these two are discussing.

Tiffany begins to move furniture, re-aligning the angles of the chairs and tables. “Way too much negative energy in the room.”

“I didn’t know I’d be getting a decorating detective, too,” Clayton says, glancing my way.

“At no extra charge.” Tiffany heads for the stairway. “I can’t wait to see the master bedroom.”

Clayton gets up to follow her.

“Ah, Clayton…”

He stops, returns, and sits. “Can we hurry this along? I have a hot chick in my bedroom.”

I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Think
d
addy left anything for your mother?”

“No.”

“She still pissed?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

The second Augustus divorce was a pit bull fight to the death. Joan claimed Alvin had been screwing around for years. Alvin countered with Joan being an unfit parent and mounted a case so strong, even Joan started believing she was a little loony. There were lawyers upon lawyers, accusing, briefing, motioning, declaring, posturing, and pleading. The legal bills could have fed a third world country for a month. The court, in the end, gave most of the money to the son, Clayton, via an executor, to dole out the dollars as he saw fit. Joan was left, not the happiest of campers.

“I was the one who took care of my mother; he didn’t.”

“But you did it with your father’s money.”

“What was I supposed to do, go out and get a paper route?”

“I had one, when I was a kid.” I usually don’t give personal details, but it seemed a fitting time to do so.

“Thank you, Horatio Alger.”

I was surprised he knew Horatio Alger. “You spent your time between your mother’s and father’s homes?”

“I would go from the outhouse to the penthouse and back twice a week,” Clayton shifts uncomfortably on the couch, “that was a charming experience.”

“Where were you when your father died?”

“Here.”

“Doing what?”

“Getting laid.”

“What was her name?”

“Blond, she was blond.”

“Let me guess, a special person in your life?”

“To be honest with you, she wasn’t a real blond.” Clayton was quite satisfied with his answer. “See, I can be a detective, too.”

“And how do you suggest I go about finding this non-blond-blond?”

“Make a lot of money, drive an expensive car, hang out at the right clubs, buy a lot of drinks, and she’ll come around.”

“I’ll get right on it, but if you happen to run across her name and number, let me know.”

“I’m sure it’s around here somewhere, most of them leave a calling card of sorts.”

“You were out with your brother the night before his death?”

“Yeah.”

“You two close?”

“No.”

“Then why were you together?”

“He needed a designated driver,” he pauses, “and someone to pick up his bar tab.”

“Remember what club?”

“No.”

“Did you have a good time?”

“I did after I picked up blond what’s her name.”

Tiffany comes down the stairs about as low key as Scarlett O’Hara. “I don’t see you as an earth-tone kind of guy,” she says to Clayton as she closes her notepad.

“What do you see me as?”

“Stripes.”

Exactly what Clayton will be wearing in prison, if he’s the guy who bopped his old man.

“I’ll talk to my designer.”

“And personal shopper,” Tiffany adds.

Clayton gives Tiffany a smile, probably similar to the one he gave the non-blond blond, and turns to me. “Can I go back to my treadmill, now?”

“Whatever turns you on.”

Tiffany and I leave without shaking his hand.

___

“The guy made it on his own,” Tiffany says as she fires up the Lexus.

“I doubt that.”

She swings out of the parking spot. “All you have to do is go through his suits. He started with
Robert Talbott
, moved up to Brooks Brothers, went
Joseph
A
b
boud, and finally went custom
made.”

“You went through his closet?”

“Guys like him never throw anything away. I think they keep their old rags to remind themselves of where they came from.”

“Promise me you’ll never go inside my closet, Tiffany.”

“Don’t worry; I’m allergic to polyester.”

She makes a right on Fullerton and heads toward the
l
ake.

“What did you think of young Clayton?”

“As a murderer or dating material?”

“You pick.”

“He has a lot of negative energy
.
I sense a deep shade of gray aura.”

“Aura?”

“His personal ethereal glow,” Tiffany explains. “Mine’s pink. I’m not sure about yours, Mister Sherlock; you’re a tough one to read.”

“What other interesting tidbits did you pick up on dear Clayton?”