“Got a headache, huh?” Wykcoff asked when she’d left.
“Oh, yeah,” I told him, as I rubbed my temple with my fingers. “Look, do you think there’s any chance at all that this could have been something more than just a mugging? I mean, seven o’clock in the morning, a single shot to the heart from five feet away, nobody saw anyone in the area prior to the shooting, the guy’s wallet wasn’t taken.”
“How come you’re tryin’ to make more outta this thing than there is? You wanna string along the broad, that’s fine with me, but don’t expect me to help, ya know? I did my job.”
“If doing your job includes being lazy, ignoring the facts, failing to use deductive reasoning, and being a racist, well, then, yes, detective, I would have to agree that you did your job.” Perhaps I had reached the limit of my patience with Detective Carson.
“Hey,” he said, “I ain’t no racist.”
“I’ll be sure to pass that along to Detective Wilcox. It’s probably been keeping him up nights.”
“You can tell Denny anything you want. He’s – ”
“Carson,” I said, “if you say he’s one of the good ones, I swear I’ll smack you into the middle of next week.”
“I was gonna say that Denny’s a friend of mine. I talk to him alla time, just like he was a regular guy.”
At that point, the waitress came back. She gave Wykcoff his drinks and then turned to hand me the two aspirin she’d actually brought. I stood up and tossed two twenties on her tray.
“Thanks, Elaine. You keep the aspirin, too. Working here, I figure you need’em more than I do.” She gave me a smile that indicated she was aware of a lot more than most of her customers figured she was, then walked away. I looked down at Detective Wkycoff.
“Carson, old buddy, it’s been, well, certainly enlightening. I wouldn’t have thought people with your value system still existed, but that just shows you how wrong I can be, right?”
While he struggled with that, I walked out. So much for my contribution to police-community relations.
Smack you into the middle of next week?
Chapter 11
On the drive home from Clancey’s, I was not a happy camper. My conversation with Wykcoff had left me irritated and on edge, in part because of the sloppy way he’d handled the investigation into Terry Pendleton’s murder, but also because of the man’s intolerant attitude. It’s one thing to be stupid, but when you combine that stupidity with ignorance, you have a truly deadly combination. What was bothering me most, though, was the fact that old Carson had just assumed that, because I was white, I would naturally share his prejudices. I run into this attitude way too often, especially since once is way too often. The bigots of the world seem to think that if you’re not one of “those other people,” then of course you’re “one of us.” I’ve never had any patience with that viewpoint, and I find, as I get older, that I’m becoming even less tolerant of it. There was a time when I would simply do my best to avoid people like Carson Wykcoff, but more and more these days, I find myself confronting them, exposing them for what they are. It’s not that I expect to change their minds, because I know that isn’t going to happen, certainly not because of my getting in someone’s face. I guess I do it mainly for my own mental health. But if that was the case, why was I still so upset?
Food. When all else fails, eat. Or exercise. Since I didn’t feel like exercising, I headed for my kitchen. On one hand, I’m not helpless when it comes to cooking. On the other hand, I’m far from being a gourmet chef. I don’t especially enjoy preparing meals, and my schedule sometimes doesn’t allow me the time to do so, anyway, so more often than not, I order out or eat at one of the many local restaurants. I do make an effort to eat healthy meals, though, avoiding all those fried foods and greasy combinations that taste so good but are so bad for you. Once in a while, I’ll splurge at a McDonald’s, but usually I behave myself. No sense doing all the running and lifting if I’m just going to negate everything by scarfing down a high-calorie, high-fat meal every night. I stay in shape partly because of my job. Sometimes I have to deal with people who insist on physical confrontation, and I don’t like losing those confrontations. But, to be honest, there’s some vanity involved, too. I don’t look my age, and I don’t ever intend to.
My refrigerator held the usual: one quart of 2% milk, a container of leftover spaghetti from a couple of nights ago, half a bottle of Lambrusco, some orange juice, Diet Coke, chipped ham, eggs, lettuce, broccoli, carrots, Granny Smith apples, etc. In the freezer section, I had some yogurt, a couple of boxes of Girl Scout cookies I’d bought from a kid down the street several months ago, frozen strawberries, several one-pound packages of ground sirloin, a bag of plain bagels, and a box of pierogies.
Nothing appealed to me, so I threw on a jacket and walked to Shadyside. It was close to ten o’clock, and there wasn’t much still open, but I knew that Starbucks didn’t close until eleven. When I walked in, I saw Irv behind the counter. There weren’t any other customers, so Irv and I had time to chat while I had a plain scone and a latte.
“You run into many racists here?” I asked him.
He raised an eyebrow and then said, “Since this is planet Earth, yeah, we get our share. You thinking about anyone in particular?”
“I just had a conversation with a guy who assumed that since I’m a white male, I must share his feelings about black people. Why is that, you suppose?”
“Why do racists assume that everyone else is a racist, too? Probably because of the ignorance factor. They’ve never taken the time to examine their own belief system, so why should they assume you’ve examined yours? They hang around with other people like themselves, which just reinforces the idea that everybody they know is just as racist as they are, only they don’t think of it as being racist. To them, it’s just an acknowledgement of the obvious: blacks are basically lazy lowlifes who have gotten ahead in this country because of welfare programs, affirmative action, etc. Oh, and you can substitute Hispanics for blacks in that formula, too. Plus, variations of it work for women and Jews and anybody else you’d care to discriminate against.”
“Seriously, Irv, give this a little thought, okay?”
He laughed and said, “Hey, during the slow periods, I gotta lot of time on my hands. It’s either think about these things or sneak in a TV and watch the soaps.”
“I think you made the right choice there.”
A few minutes later, I got up to leave.
“Thanks for the food and the friendly ear, Irv.”
“What’s this guy’s name, JB, the racist?”
“Wykcoff.”
“Well, for whatever it’s worth, keep in mind that things could be worse. At least you’re not this Wykcoff dude.”
“Yeah, but which one of us will sleep better tonight? I’ll be thinking about what a jerk he is, and he’ll probably be out before his head hits the pillow.”
“Maybe, but whether he knows it or not, he’s still a jerk. And you’re not.”
“Something to that, I guess. Goodnight, Irv.”
“Take it easy, JB.”
* * *
By the time I got home, I’d convinced myself that thinking about all the Carson Wykcoffs of the world wasn’t going to do me any good, at least not tonight. I showered and climbed into bed and read for a while. Unlike many fictional private investigators, I actually enjoy reading detective books, and I wish I could say that I always figure out whodunnit way before the end of the story. Unfortunately, I don’t. Hell, sometimes I don’t get it even when the culprit has been revealed. Tonight, though, I spent a few minutes with P.G. Wodehouse, who wrote all those books about Jeeves, the butler. Uncle Leo got me hooked on Wodehouse a long time ago. I think I like reading his stuff because it allows me to escape into a world where I know nothing really bad is going to happen, because Jeeves won’t allow it. He’ll take care of young Bertie and his friends, no matter what ridiculous situations they find themselves in. Be nice to have a Jeeves around tod
ay. Make my job a lot easier, that’s for sure. I say, Jeeves, about this Pendleton thing, could you wrap it up by tea time? Certainly, sir. And shall I lay out the formal wear for dinner this evening?
Thinking about Terry Pendleton reminded me that I’d have to contact Chaney and Cox and set up a meeting with the partners. Since Carson apparently hadn’t gotten along with anyone at the firm, it stood to reason that at least a couple of the people there must be decent folk. It was a good thought to fall asleep with, which is what I did.
Chapter 12
After breakfast the next morning, I called Chaney and Cox, identified myself, and asked to speak with either Mr. Chaney or Mr. Cox. I was taking a shot here, because the names on a law firm’s letterhead don’t necessarily match the names of anyone currently working there. In this case, though, I learned that both Mr. Chaney and Mr. Cox did, indeed, work at their firm; however, neither one would be available to meet with me until the following Monday morning. Agreeable as ever, I asked the secretary, who had an extremely sexy voice, if her bosses could squeeze me in at, say, nine-ish. She giggled just a bit and told me that nine-ish would be just fine. It was obvious the woman wanted me. Take that, Dennis.
I spent the rest of Thursday and Friday doing some laundry, going shopping for groceries, and tidying up a few things on a couple of other cases. A businessman had hired me to check out a security system he’d purchased from his brother-in-law. I looked at the system and told my client it stunk. He got mad and asked me how I could be so sure, especially since he’d already paid for the thing and all, so the next night I broke into his store and was sitting at his desk, reading a Spenser novel, when he opened up in the morning. He looked at me for a minute, then said, “Send me a bill,” which I did. Also, I completed a report for a woman whose husband of thirty-five years had divorced her and “taken up,” as she put it, with a much younger woman, with whom he was currently residing in an expensive condominium in Cleveland. My client was convinced that her ex had managed to hide some money somewhere during their divorce proceedings. Turns out she was right, the guy’d been moving money among several accounts in several different banks, and his wife’s attorney hadn’t caught up with most of it. Now it was going to cost the guy a whole lot more than if he’d just been honest about it in the first place. People.
On Saturday morning, I got up at six, did a quick five miles, went home and showered, threw on jeans and a blue oxford-cloth shirt, and drove over to Angie and Simon’s. Their house is in a middle-class neighborhood just ten minutes from my place, and I pulled into the driveway at exactly seven-thirty. Punctuality is a virtue, I always say.
As I got out of my car, Simon came running down the street, wearing an old UCLA sweatsuit. He’d been a gymnast in high school and college, and he still had the build. He slowed to a walk as he approached the 4Runner, his face gleaming with perspiration.
“Hey, JB, how’re you doing? Shoulda come earlier, we could have run together before breakfast.”
“From the looks of things, Simon, I’d say that you stretched it out a bit today. Where’d you go?”
“Over to Mellon Park, through East Liberty, up Highland to the zoo and back. Probably about nine or ten miles. An easy run for you, JB.”
“Not at your pace, it isn’t,” I told him. I can run as far as Simon but not as fast.
We went into the house, and Simon went upstairs to shower, while I headed back to the kitchen. Angie was there, putting an enormous amount of food on the table.
“What’d you do,” I asked her, “invite the villagers in for the annual spring feast?”
“I know,” she said, “but I’ve been up since four, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. Besides, this’ll be the last home-cooked meal Tommy will have for a while.”
“He’ll be okay, Ang.”
She stopped for a minute.
“God, I hope so, JB. I don’t even want to think about what’ll happen if this doesn’t work.”
“Then don’t. Where are the kids?”
“They’re downstairs in the game room. Tommy wanted to talk to them, explain why he won’t be around for a while.”
At that moment, Tommy and the kids came upstairs. Matt and Abby seemed their usual good-natured selves, and Tommy appeared to be in a good mood, too, although I could see that he was nervous.
“Hey, JB,” he said, “thanks for coming. I appreciate it.”
Simon came downstairs a few minutes later, and we all sat down to eat. The meal was like so many others I’d had in that house, everybody talking at once, with most of the conversation centering around the kids and their various activities. When we finished, Abby and Matt kissed their uncle good-bye and left with their father to go to softball practice. I waited outside while Angie and Tommy talked. When he came out, he was alone. He stopped and looked back at the house for minute, then got into my car, and we drove off.
* * *
For the next thirty or forty minutes, Tommy didn’t say anything. I figured when he was ready to talk, he would, so I kept quiet, too. Finally, a few minutes later, he stirred.
“I know I had no right to ask if you’d do this, JB, and I know you’re doing it mostly for my sister, but thanks, anyway. Angie and Simon would’ve made the drive, but they’ve put up with so much crap from me already, I didn’t want them to have to enroll me in a drunk tank, too, but somebody’s gotta be there to sign the papers with me, so . . .”
“It’s okay, Tommy. Part of this is for Angie, sure, but part of it’s for you, too. When you’re sober, you’re a pretty good guy, somebody I actually like. I wouldn’t mind having that guy around all the time.”
I glanced over at him. He was staring straight ahead, his eyes wide open and shiny.
“What’d you tell the kids?” I asked him.
“Told’em I had a disease, that I reacted different to alcohol than most people do. I said it was like how some people are allergic to certain foods, so they have to avoid those foods. I said I have to avoid booze the rest of my life.”
“How’d they react?”
“Well, when I finished, Abby said, ‘So you’re an alcoholic, Uncle Tommy?’” He shook his head. “Kids, huh?”
“What about work?” I asked. Tommy was a foreman for a local construction company.
“Andy’s been more than fair about this,” he said. “Told me the job isn’t going anywhere, that I should concentrate on getting better. His brother’s a recovered alcoholic, and Andy’s talked to me a couple of times about getting help. He said he’s proud of me.” Tommy stopped for a minute, shook his head again, and said, “Proud of me. Can you believe that, after all the times I showed up drunk or didn’t show up at all.”
“Angie gonna keep an eye on your apartment?”
“Yeah,” he said, “so everything’s covered.”
“One more thing, Tommy,” I said. “When we get there, if you decide to bolt, I’m not stopping you. This thing won’t work if you don’t want it to.”
“I know, JB. Don’t worry about that.” He took a deep breath. “I’m scared, man, but I’m gonna do it. I gotta do it.”
He lapsed into silence, and we both kept our own counsel the rest of the trip, most of it moving north on I-79. After a little over another hour’s drive, I spotted the sign for Havenhurst. I made a right onto a gravel path and drove along nicely landscaped grounds for half a mile to a fairly large building that could have passed for an old colonial inn. As soon as I stopped the car, a medium-sized man in a gray sweat suit came out and introduced himself. Mel Witherspoon, the director of the place. He took us inside, and we disposed of the paperwork in fifteen minutes. Then Mel waited while Tommy walked me back out to my car. After getting his suitcase, Tommy thanked me again and started to hold out his hand, then stopped. I put my hand out, but Tommy shook his head.
“No, JB,” he said. “I haven’t earned the right.”
“Yeah,” I told him, “you just did.”
And we shook.
His grip was firm.
Chapter 13
Most of the time, I wear jeans or casual slacks, with a T-shirt or sweatshirt or maybe an oxford-cloth button-down. Sometimes, though, when I’m working, I’ll wear what someone with a more highly-developed sense of fashion than mine would call situationally-appropriate clothes, especially if I’m trying to get information from people. No sense in antagonizing folks right off the bat by dressing in a manner designed to offend. Angie says I’m already good enough at pissing people off without throwing lousy ensembles into the mix. So when I presented myself at the twentieth floor law offices of Chaney and Cox at nine o’clock sharp the following Monday morning, I was wearing lightweight gray wool slacks, white shirt with gold collar pin, burgundy tie with muted windowpane blue stripes on the diagonal, a silk navy blazer, and recently-shined cordovan loafers with tassels, just to show that I had a bit of whimsy in me. I completed the look with a smile so brilliant that I expected the young woman at the desk in the reception area, she of the extremely sexy voice, to attack me, or, at the very least, beg me to father her children. She decided to take a more indirect approach.
“Do you have an appointment, sir?” she asked.
“Yes, indeed.” I said. “My name is Jeremy Barnes, and, by the way, you look as good as you sounded on the phone.”
“Oh, Mr. Barnes,” she said. “Yes, I remember you.”
They always do.
“Please have a seat. Mr. Chaney and Mr. Cox will be with you shortly.”
“You notice,” I told her, “that I arrived at exactly nine o’clock. There are those who will tell you that punctuality is a virtue.”
She smiled and said, “If that’s the case, then a lot of the lawyers around here are flirting with sin every day.”
“So,” I asked, “how about me?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do I look as good as I sounded on the phone?”
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