Lucky Bones

by Michael Wiley

  Genevieve Bower waited to make sure he was done, then said, ‘Which is your way of saying you’ll stay on the job.’

  ‘Yes. But if you—’

  His phone rang.

  Caller ID said Dan Peters.

  ‘That’s a cop,’ Kelson told her. ‘You want to explain yourself now?’

  ‘Could you hold them off for now?’

  The phone rang again.

  ‘For now.’ He silenced the ringer. ‘I’ve worked with this guy before. He’s mostly reasonable, but once he gets a thought in his head, it’s hard to shake it. I’ll try to keep from putting thoughts in his head.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The phone vibrated – Kelson had a message. ‘He thinks I’m an idiot.’ He touched the phone key for voicemail, then touched the key for the speaker.

  Dan Peters’s voice said, ‘What the hell, Kelson?’

  ‘See?’ Kelson said.

  Peters said, ‘Blood on the floor. Blood on the rug. Blood on the couch. But no body. Is this your idea of funny?’ The message ended.

  Kelson stared at Genevieve Bower.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  So he dialed Dan Peters’s number.

  Peters answered after the first ring. ‘What the hell?’

  ‘What do you mean, “no body”?’ Kelson said.

  ‘I mean, no body. Blood smears. Spatter on the floor. A hole in the wall by the shelves – small caliber. No body unless you stuck him under the floorboards.’

  ‘He was sitting on the couch,’ Kelson said. ‘A .22 in his hand. A gunshot wound above his left eye.’

  ‘You’re telling me a guy killed himself and then got up and left?’

  ‘He didn’t kill himself. He died on the floor – but then he was on the couch. The gun in his hand – he didn’t pick it up. It probably doesn’t match the bullet in his skull – or the wall.’

  Peters sounded worn out. ‘Are you screwing with me?’

  Kelson told the truth, as always. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ Peters said. ‘What you saw.’

  Kelson told him about parking in front of the North Hermitage bungalow, stepping on to the front porch, stepping off it, walking to the back of the house, climbing the back steps, climbing back down—

  ‘Just what you saw inside,’ Peters said.

  Kelson described the kitchen, the eggshells in the kitchen garbage, the bedroom, the red velour bedspread and half pint of Hennessy—

  ‘The body,’ Peters said. ‘Tell me about the body.’

  Kelson told him about Jeremy Oliver’s body in bloody detail.

  ‘Come down to the station,’ Peters said. ‘You need to give a full statement – background and that kind of thing. Not to me. I’ll get someone with typing skills and a couple reams of paper.’

  When they hung up, Kelson promised Genevieve Bower he would keep looking for her stolen fakes. She promised to call right away if she heard anything about Jeremy Oliver or if she sensed a personal threat or even felt uneasy.

  Kelson said, ‘Oliver’s death probably has nothing to do with you. Whoever killed him took him by surprise. At least he seemed calm when I talked with him last night. But by moving his body, you put yourself into the middle of whatever happened. And now the body’s gone. Where? Why?’

  If Genevieve Bower knew any answers, she didn’t share them.

  SEVEN

  Kelson picked up Sue Ellen at Nancy’s house at six thirty that evening. Dressed in dentist scrubs, Nancy waved from the door as their daughter ran down the front walk to his car.

  Nancy and Kelson met in police academy, but she quit the department and went to dental school when Sue Ellen was born. Now she pulled teeth and, in her spare time, practiced taekwondo and jujitsu. Since she’d started dating again – a man whose name she wouldn’t tell Kelson, and even Sue Ellen wouldn’t spill – she seemed happier than he’d ever known her, at times almost affectionate, a development Kelson considered a turnoff. Still, just last week she’d said a mixed martial arts promoter had encouraged her to join the amateur competitions he staged in a southside warehouse on the first Monday of each month. So there was hope.

  At Taquería Uptown, Kelson liked the bare walls and the carne asada. Sue Ellen liked the guacamole, the limón soda, and the chance to play Stump Dad when they sat side by side on the counter stools. A white-shirted, white-hatted counterman welcomed them as they came in.

  Sue Ellen and Kelson sat, and before the counterman even set a limón soda in front of her, she started the questions.

  ‘Favorite food,’ she said.

  ‘Eggs,’ Kelson said.

  ‘Eggs?’

  ‘Scrambled – with glazed donuts.’

  ‘That’s just weird,’ she said.

  ‘Eggs.’

  ‘Fine. What’s your weirdest dream in the last week?’ she asked. ‘In three words or less.’

  ‘Eggs, eggs, eggs,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You know I never lie. Let’s just have a conversation tonight, OK?’

  She didn’t bother to shake her head. ‘Tell me an embarrassing childhood memory.’

  Kelson nodded at the counterman. ‘He doesn’t want to hear this.’

  ‘Sí, I do,’ the counterman said.

  ‘An embarrassing childhood memory,’ Sue Ellen said.

  ‘This is just mean,’ Kelson said.

  ‘And don’t say “eggs”.’

  As he told it, mild disgust crossed her face, though the counterman listened with open-minded interest. ‘That’s gross, Dad,’ Sue Ellen said.

  ‘Don’t ask what you don’t want to know,’ he said. ‘Had enough?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ she said. ‘This is just getting good. What did you do today in six words or less?’

  ‘You first,’ he said.

  Sue Ellen took the challenge. ‘Homework sucks, homework sucks, homework sucks.’

  ‘Not much of a plot,’ he said.

  ‘That’s because homework sucks. Your turn.’

  ‘Big-boobed client loses Eighties DJ corpse.’

  Sue Ellen counted with her fingers. ‘First of all, that’s seven. Second of all, a dad shouldn’t say “boob” to an eleven-year-old.’

  ‘Is “big-boobed” one word or two? And you made me.’

  Kelson ate his tacos, Sue Ellen her tostadas. They went out for coffee afterward, and he treated her to a double espresso.

  ‘You know, this will keep me awake all night,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘My gift to your mom.’

  EIGHT

  The next morning, Kelson drove to his office and tracked the purchase history on Jeremy Oliver’s credit cards. He looked for self-storage rentals, payments on a commercial property lease, even check-ins at motels – anything that might show where Oliver hid Genevieve Bower’s stolen fakes. He found mostly a record of cheap meals at fast food restaurants and expensive drinks at late-night dance clubs. Oliver needed to store his DJ equipment somewhere, and Kelson wondered if the shoes might be with it. He opened the JollyOllie website and clicked through the images until he found one of an outdoor party. Behind a couple in matching madras shorts, he saw a yellow cargo van emblazoned with a JollyOllie logo.

  He made a property search of the address where Oliver lived and found that Oliver rented the attic from a Bruce McCall. He dialed McCall’s contact number, over-explained himself to the woman who answered, and got put through to an impatient-sounding man.

  ‘Long story short,’ Kelson said, and started into the long story of how he found Jeremy Oliver’s body and then the body disappeared and then—

  ‘I’m sorry,’ McCall said, ‘why are you calling?’

  ‘The garage behind the house,’ Kelson said. ‘Did Jeremy Oliver rent it?’

  ‘Yes,’ McCall said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Did he keep his van there?’

  ‘Sure, his van and his sound equipment.’ Then he made the mistake of asking, ‘Who e
xactly is this?’

  Kelson told him about the bullet he’d taken in the head as an undercover narcotics cop and started to work sideways from there.

  ‘Look,’ McCall said, ‘I’ve already talked with the police. If you need more information, get it from them.’

  ‘Just one more thing. When I found Oliver’s body, the garage looked empty. Do you know where he kept the van when he didn’t have it in the garage?’

  ‘Far as I know, he either drove it or kept it in the garage. That van was his whole life.’

  They hung up, and Kelson did a vehicle registration search and then called a woman he knew at the Auto Pound. Beatrice O’Malley was the gruffest cop he’d ever met, but he once saw her cry when they found a thirteen-year-old drug lookout dead in the trunk of a stolen BMW. Now he rehearsed what he would say and, when she answered, spit it out all at once. ‘If you tow a yellow van that advertises a DJ business called JollyOllie, will you let me know?’ He gave her the license and registration numbers and added, ‘Do me a favor and don’t ask why.’

  ‘OK – why?’ she said. She talked like she had tobacco in her cheek.

  ‘Jimmy Choos. They might be in the van.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Case I’m working. Stolen shoes.’

  ‘Funny. How’s that head of yours? Still seeing double?’

  ‘I never saw double.’

  ‘Your daughter?’

  ‘Sue Ellen’s good, thanks.’

  ‘The cats?’

  ‘How did you hear about the cats?’

  ‘Word gets around. You tell one guy, that guy tells another guy, that other guy tells me. You know I can’t tell you about vehicle recovery, not unless it’s your van. I hear you’re hanging with a good-looking one-armed guy.’

  ‘Only a few people can outtalk me, Beatrice,’ Kelson said. ‘Let me know about the van if you’ve got it in your heart.’

  ‘You know I got no heart,’ she said.

  Next, Kelson put the battery back into Jeremy Oliver’s phone. Oliver had set a password, and Kelson tried everything from ‘jollyollie’ to ‘olliejolly’ to ‘jeremyO’ to variations on Oliver’s Hermitage Avenue address to ‘crappy80stunes’. He got nowhere. He stared at the screen and said, ‘You bastard.’ The screen stayed silent, so Kelson said, ‘We’ve got ways to make you talk.’

  At eleven, he joined Rodman, Marty, and Neto at a table at Staropolska, a Polish restaurant where Rodman knew the owner. Kelson handed Jeremy Oliver’s phone to Marty and said, ‘I can’t get past the password.’

  Marty didn’t ask whose phone it was or why Kelson wanted to break into it. He said, ‘Time me.’

  Kelson looked at his watch, and Marty went to work, his thumb beating the screen as if keeping time to music. When he held up the phone to show he’d gotten in, Kelson checked the time. ‘Forty-three seconds.’

  Marty grinned. ‘Still got it.’

  Neto rolled his eyes. ‘Old man.’

  ‘Yeah? Fuck you.’ Marty turned off the phone, turned it on again, and gave it to Neto. ‘Money where your mouth is.’

  Neto grinned. ‘Time me.’

  ‘Do it one handed, fuckhead,’ Marty said.

  Neto tucked a hand behind his back and went at it with the other.

  When he held up the screen to show the others, Kelson checked his watch. ‘Forty-one seconds.’

  Neto pointed at his uncle. ‘Eat it, Marty.’

  Marty looked scornful. ‘Youth.’

  They ordered the family dinner, which started with potato pancakes, soup, and salad, shot through beef stroganoff, sausages, and sauerkraut, and finished with pierogi and sweet cheese blintzes. They ate and drank, talked and laughed, waiting for Neto’s call from G&G.

  Rodman told Neto, ‘We’ll follow you wherever they send you. If they pull something, we’ll be on top of them before they know we’re there.’

  ‘Like a brick,’ Kelson said.

  Neto said, ‘Nix. I’ll go alone.’

  Kelson said, ‘Who the hell says “nix”?’

  Marty said, ‘I do.’

  Rodman nodded and said, ‘He does.’

  ‘I’m good,’ Neto said.

  ‘You aren’t good, you’re cocky,’ said Kelson.

  ‘Says the man whose phone I just hacked,’ Neto said.

  ‘Sam’s right,’ Rodman said. ‘Anyone who scares your uncle needs watching.’

  ‘I guarantee I can outsmart them,’ Neto said. ‘No problem, no worries. I’ll call if I change my mind – I won’t change my mind.’

  ‘I guarantee that kind of attitude will get you killed,’ Kelson said. ‘I saw it happen when I worked narcotics. It almost happened to me.’

  ‘Listen to the man, Neto,’ Marty said.

  Neto gave Kelson a superior smile. ‘A man with a hole in his head? No thanks.’

  ‘I respect guts,’ Kelson said. ‘I hate cockiness.’

  As if the G&G people respected the lunch schedule, Neto’s phone rang as he chewed his last bite of blintze. He answered, exchanged a few words, and hung up. ‘Rogers Park Branch Library,’ he told the others. He quoted the caller – ‘Alone.’

  So they wished him luck, and he said luck was for suckers and left – alone – to do the job.

  Rodman and Marty let him get out the door, then exchanged a look. Rodman asked Kelson, ‘You want to watch the arrogant prick with us, or play point?’

  ‘I’ll stay by my phone,’ Kelson said.

  So Rodman and Marty followed Neto to the northside library.

  Kelson sat in his car outside Staropolska and looked through Oliver’s phone. Call history showed over a dozen missed calls from Genevieve Bower, ending two and a half days earlier, along with two calls Oliver had made to her. She’d texted him another dozen times, pleading with him to return her things and threatening to cut off his balls – sometimes both in one message. He’d texted back, demanding to see cash. Only one exchange confused Kelson. After Genevieve Bower said she couldn’t raise the fifteen thousand dollars, Oliver wrote, Get it from her, and she wrote back, Screw you.

  ‘That’s telling him,’ Kelson said to the phone.

  He scrolled through Oliver’s contacts – over two hundred of them. None stood out.

  He looked through Oliver’s pictures and videos. Mostly, he had shots and clips of his DJ jobs, though he’d saved a whole album of selfies of himself getting high. ‘Dumbass,’ Kelson said. When he found a series of shots of Genevieve Bower doing things with her breasts he didn’t know breasts could do, he said, ‘Yikes,’ selected the pictures, and deleted them.

  He checked Oliver’s web browsing history. ‘Surprise me for once,’ he said when he saw that Oliver spent several hours every day on Pornhub watching videos he found by searching the phrase ‘big tits’ and a few others he found with ‘big daddy’. In the past week, Oliver had also searched the Jimmy Choo website thoroughly and looked at websites tied to the counterfeit shoe trade.

  On Google, Kelson discovered that the Chinese played hard in the fake shoe market, selling sneakers and sandals for under ten bucks a pair. Phony Nikes were big. A Sabrina’s Closet link listed ‘Seven Ways to Spot Fake Jimmy Choos’. Kelson learned that unless Genevieve Bower also had authentic-looking Jimmy Choo shoeboxes, authentic-looking dust bags for the shoes, and zipper tabs with the Jimmy Choo name engraved on them, her fakes would sell for much less than she said they would – more than ten bucks a pair but nowhere near list price. ‘Liar,’ he said.

  Returning to Oliver’s web browsing history, Kelson saw that JollyOllie also seemed to eat a lot of pizza, searching for restaurants throughout the city and suburbs. ‘Probably near his DJ jobs,’ Kelson said. But one search surprised him. A month and a half ago, Oliver had searched the name ‘Genevieve Bower’. According to her when she hired Kelson, she’d met Oliver only four weeks ago at a cousin’s party, starting a nine-day whirlwind of dating and imprudent video recording.

  ‘The hell,’ Kelson said, and he got out his own phone and called Genev
ieve Bower.

  She answered, ‘Do you have the shoes?’

  He said, ‘I have questions. Tell me how you met Jeremy Oliver.’

  ‘My cousin Susan had a party. Her fortieth birthday. Jeremy did the music. We started talking, and—’

  ‘Did you start talking with him, or did he start talking with you?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m trying to understand,’ he said.

  ‘I was at the bar. He came to get a drink. He said something corny. I’m a sucker for corny.’

  ‘Do you remember what he said?’

  ‘Yeah. “I prefer blondes.”’

  ‘Like a gentleman.’

  ‘All I know is he looked at my face, not my chest, which is what most men look at, you included.’

  ‘But he was thinking about your chest, and you fell for his act. Then what?’

  ‘Has anyone told you you’re a jerk?’

  ‘Yes. What happened then?’

  ‘I told him I hated Duran Duran and Milli Vanilli and Styx – pretty much everything he played before he came to the bar. I asked why didn’t he play Madonna.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing. He got his drink and walked away. But in the next mix, he played “Like a Virgin” three times in a row. Everyone booed. Not me – I loved it.’

  ‘So you left the party with him?’

  ‘He met me at my house after he packed up.’

  ‘For nine whirlwind days of sex and rock ’n’ roll.’

  ‘More or less, yes.’

  ‘And then he stole the shoes.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What else did he take?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The shoes aren’t worth sixty thousand dollars – or even the fifteen thousand he asked for. What else did he take?’

  ‘Do you know how much Jimmy Choos cost?’

  ‘I don’t wear furry shoes,’ he said. ‘But I know how much they cost at the Jimmy Choo store on Oak Street. I also know I can buy a pair of knockoff bunny slippers online for three bucks. So I’m guessing I could get some fancy fake Jimmy Choos for about seventy or eighty. But you’ve got a hundred pairs, and that’s wholesale. Forty bucks a pair at most. Four thousand dollars total.’

  ‘You’ve got no idea—’