by Julie Hyzy
“Who was that?” Lucy asked when the machine beeped off.
Without getting too far into an explanation, I gave Lucy a basic idea of David’s role in Mrs. Vicks’ murder investigation. I shrugged. “He and I are working together on this and we need to talk tomorrow.”
She nodded, a solemn look on her face. “So if he called, he must have something important to tell you.”
“Probably,” I lied.
Lucy’s face lit up. In a burst of emotion, she threw her arms around me. “You see?” she said. “Something finally went right for you today. I knew it would.”
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Finally.”
* * * * *
Friday morning, I turned on my fully charged cell phone and checked for messages just in case someone had happened to call overnight. My in-box came up empty, yet again, so I shut it down. Keeping it on all day, even while accessible at work, was a luxury I could no longer afford.
When I pulled into my regular parking spot in the garage beneath our building, I gathered my coat, purse, and briefcase, to step out of the car.
“Alex?”
I screamed as I spun.
Barton Vicks stepped back, alarmed. “I’m sorry,” he said, his wide face turning this way and that, as though expecting security to come and cart him away again. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“What are you doing here?”
More than anything else, the panic in my voice made me angry; I hated feeling so out of control. This wasn’t the way I liked to handle things. I called the shots; I was used to it. Mrs. Vicks murder and subsequent events had sent all my self-confidence into a frustrating tailspin and I wanted everything the way it used to be.
“Back off,” I said.
To my surprise, he did. A sheepish look came over his face as his little eyes blinked a couple of times and he gave a short shrug. “I just need to talk with you, Alex. I’m really sorry about the other day. I . . .” As his words trailed off, his eyes sought answers in the cement ceiling above us.
I became aware of others parking their cars and heading toward the elevators. Lots of footsteps, chatter, and clunking of doors. A few people glanced our way. I waved to one of the assistants from out station. Despite the fact that I wasn’t alone this time, I still moved around my car, keeping a safe distance between us, reaching in my purse for the familiar comfort of the pepper spray.
“You think popping out of the shadows in a dark garage is going to make me want to talk with you?”
He dropped his head, nodding toward his big, brown loafers. “I know. I was going to come by your house last night, but every time I drove by, there was another cop car.” Still looking down, he swayed a bit from side to side, making a funny noise, as though he didn’t quite know what to say next. He reminded me of Diana, at Mrs. Vicks’ wake—swaying instead of talking. It made them look dithering and dull. Finally, he added, “And I know that your boss has a thing set up so I can’t come visit you at work.”
“Can you blame him?”
I still fingered the pepper spray, hoping I hadn’t used the full contents last night. Geez, that little tool was getting quite a workout.
“No,” he said. “I was . . . I mean . . .”
He shifted his weight and chanced a look up at me.
The anger and determination I’d seen on his face when he’d accosted me in the office was gone, replaced by chagrin, maybe. I didn’t think Big Bart had it in him to pull off such an effective ruse, but I still didn’t like the man.
“Spit it out, Bart.”
He took a deep breath and stared up at the cement beams again. “I have a problem,” he said. Then, with what appeared to take every ounce of his courage, he bit the side of his lip, tightened his face and then said, while exhaling: “I’m an alcoholic.”
Okay, so that wasn’t exactly the surprise of the day. I waited.
“I was out of control when I came to see you. I just don’t have any answers. I don’t know what to do . . .” He watched himself shuffle, then looked directly at me. “I was doing good until Ma died. I mean, I wasn’t perfect or nothing, but I was going to meetings and all. And today, I been good all morning. But I don’t think I can get back in the program until I get some answers. You can do that for me.”
“I don’t have any answers,” I said, in as calm a voice as I could muster.
“I know that,” he said quickly, his hands coming up to stop me from leaving, even though I hadn’t made a move. “I know I screwed up here, but I know you’re trying to find out who killed Ma and I’m getting desperate.”
“Desperate? How so?” I prompted.
“Okay, listen,” he said. “Let me level with you. I should of done that right at the start, huh?” He shook his massive head, a wincing expression on his down-turned face. “I should of told you the truth.”
Apparently, a sober Bart was a somber Bart.
“Tell me now,” I said.
His left hand twitched, making a movement as if to grab the hip flask, suddenly stopped by some unseen power. I waited, shivered. “You cold?” he asked.
I was. With only a thirty-second walk separating my car from the elevator, I’d chosen to drape my coat over my arm, rather than wear it. “Yeah,” I said. “Come on, we can talk in my office.”
As we walked through the hub of busy workers to my office, I felt like a zoo trainer leading a well-behaved gorilla through their midst. Resisting the urge to reassure them with “It’s okay,” I simply smiled and, when we got to my office door, gestured him in. Jordan stared at me with her, “What the hell are you thinking, girl?” look on her face.
As Barton got himself settled, I turned to her. “Would you mind holding my calls for a while?”
Her eyes flicked toward my open door, then back to me. “You’re not going in there alone with him, are you?”
Frances had apparently alerted Bass, and now he came toward us, his little legs bustling our direction as fast as they could. “He’s here?” Bass asked, not bothering to keep his voice down. Leaning backward slightly to look into my office, he held out his hands. “What’s he want?”
“I plan to find out,” I said. I didn’t want to leave Barton alone for very long. Not until after I’d had a chance to talk with him. There was no telling when his self-control would falter and he’d reach for that flask again.
“I’m coming with you,” Bass said, little hazel eyes glinting with bravado. “You never know if he gets out of hand; you might need protection again.”
I opened my mouth to make a caustic remark, then thought better of it. “Fine.”
Barton stood as we entered. Mrs. Vicks would have been proud to know he occasionally had manners. When he spied Bass, Barton’s face colored. He stammered. “She said it was okay to come up here,” he said, pointing at me.
Bass shook a warning finger up toward Barton’s face. “You just better not try anything this time.”
“I won’t, sir.”
Sir? The absurdity of the situation seemed to be lost on everyone but me. Barton Vicks could probably bench press Bass without breaking a sweat. When Big Bart had said he was desperate, he evidently wasn’t kidding.
“Look,” I said, taking control of the conversation as we sat. “I’m willing to listen to what you have to say, Bart, but let’s just get one thing straight. I don’t have to tell you anything.” I said, gauging his reaction, “Nada.”
He nodded, blank-eyed, eager to please. “I know that.”
When under the influence, this man, to my mind, easily possessed the capacity to murder someone. But now, in this listless, sober state, I couldn’t picture this sloth-like creature hurting a soul, least of all his own mother.
“Then what brings you here?”
Barton shifted in his seat, his girth prevented from escape by the chair’s wooden arms. “I have another problem too,” he said, staring at the floor. He sucked on his droopy bottom lip for a long moment. “It’s not just the drinking. I’m in deep for some
big money. I like to go to the track sometimes, and I’ve been having some bad luck the past few months.”
The gambling problem. Score another point for David.
He lifted his eyebrows, still facing downward. “I don’t see a way out of it this time. I owe a shitload of cash and I don’t got enough to pay it off. I don’t make big bucks the way some people do.” He’d lifted his head at that comment, and I saw a remnant of the anger he’d had the other day.
“How much are we talking?” Bass asked.
Barton’s shoulders heaved. “Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five thousand?” Bass repeated.
Barton’s eyes widened as though saying the words aloud made them more real. “Yeah,” he said, giving a panicked nod of his head.
I thought Bass’s mouth would drop; I know mine did. We exchanged glances. All of a sudden David’s admonishment that fifty grand would be a shot in the arm to Barton screamed out at me.
“And you don’t have that kind of money?” I asked.
“Hell, no,” Barton said. “But I sure know that my ma did. She told me she was socking it away for me. Matter of fact, she told me that she put a bundle away every month.”
That tidbit tap-danced through my brain as Bart plodded onward about his mother’s plans for him. Mrs. Vicks had written those even-amount checks every month for about fifteen years. It reminded me that Owen Riordan hadn’t gotten back to me on that issue yet.
I tuned back in.
“She must of said it a hundred times,” Barton continued, “she said that she was looking to take care of my future. She said even if I didn’t see it so clear myself—that she was taking care of everything for me. So you see, she must’ve got everything set up. All’s I’m asking for is that somebody gives me my due. And I don’t think I should have to wait, no matter what that guy at the bank told me.”
“Which guy?” I asked.
“The guy with the fruity name. Owen.” Barton strung the name out, sing-song. “He told me that he went and filed the will, or some shit like that.” He opened big hands in a gesture of frustration. “And now I can’t get any action on it till he gets it back.”
“I know that they have to file a will within thirty days of the person’s death,” I said, “but doesn’t he have a copy on file?”
I could almost see the proverbial light bulb go on over Barton’s head. “Hey . . .” he said, with dawning realization. “Yeah. Why do I have to wait till he gets it back? All I want is to see what she had.”
Despite the fact that my stomach churned at the thought of this big lug benefiting from Mrs. Vicks’ death, I knew that if he was indeed the sole beneficiary, he had every right to pursue his interests in that regard. I, however, had no obligation to help him. I’d done enough.
“Well, then,” I said, “Looks like you have your work cut out for you.”
“Maybe you could get it for me?” The corners of his mouth tugged into something akin to a smile, his fleshy dollop of double-chin sagging lugubriously.
“Not a chance.”
Bass had angled his chair so that he could observe our conversation more than actually participate himself, though in the world of body language, his positioning was anchored to me. Now, his head twisted back and forth between us, like he was watching an old-fashioned game of pong.
“Maybe,” Barton said, looking helpless as he shrugged, “maybe you could loan it to me and when I help you solve it and get that reward, I could pay you back?”
“Reward?” Bass and I repeated the word together.
“Yeah. You didn’t know about it?” Dark eyes sought reassurance.
“No,” we answered together, again. I could hear the surprise in Bass’s voice and I sure the heck felt it in mine.
“What reward?” I asked.
“That bank guy is offering a fifty-thousand dollar reward for anyone who comes up with information to find who murdered my mother.”
“The bank guy?” I asked. But I knew. David’s phone call. That must’ve been what he wanted to tell me.
As the man with the answers all of a sudden, Barton affected a swaggering tone. “Well, yeah,” he said, as though it were common knowledge. “She worked there for over twenty years. They oughta do something—don’t you think?”
Bass ran a hand down his face, rubbing his chin. “When did they tell you this?” He shot a questioning look my direction.
I shook my head. This was the first I’d heard of it.
Barton shifted in the chair again. “When I went over there yesterday. I wanted to talk to them about the will and that’s when they told me they sent it out for some kinda legal reason.” He licked fat lips till they glistened. “They didn’t want me being there. Said that it was bad for business and that I should go home. Said they would get ahold of me when the will came back.”
“Who did you talk to?” I asked.
“Fruity guy.”
“Owen?”
“Yep,” he said. “He told me he’d call me back at Ma’s house. I’m going to be moving in there now, you know—it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than staying in a hotel.”
I didn’t know that, and I said so.
“Yeah, well, when I first came down I thought it’d be quick, you know . . .” He had the decency to look away. “That I’d be walking away with enough that I could afford a hotel for a couple of nights. I guess not, huh?” Making a see-saw motion with his head, forgiving himself his mercenary tendencies, I supposed, he continued. “So anyway, Owen tells me that if anybody can come up with evidence to get somebody convicted, then the bank will give them this reward. He said that the cops think the murderer was looking for something. I figured I’d look around myself, maybe I’ll solve it and then I can collect, right? What the heck?”
“No wait,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
Detective Lulinski had said that the intruder had been looking for something in Mrs. Vicks’ house. Maybe Barton was guilty, maybe he wasn’t. But truth would be better served by my poking around in there, than by his.
He squinted at me. “Uh-uh,” he said with a solemn shake of his head. “I’m not sharing this money with nobody.”
“I don’t want the reward,” I said. “Honest. I just think that . . .” my mind raced, trying to come up with a plausible reason to let me look around without Big Bart breathing over my shoulder. “I think that I might be in a better position to recognize . . . clues,” I said.
Lame, very lame. But this guy was no rocket scientist.
He appeared to consider it and I could almost see relief wash over his features at the prospect of having the work done without having to do it himself. Eyes narrowed my direction. “You ain’t kidding me about not wanting the reward?”
“No, swear to God,” I said, doing a funny little cross-my-heart movement.
It was enough for him. “Okay,” he said, sucking on his lower lip again. “But maybe I should move back in anyway. I mean . . .” He didn’t finish, but I knew where he was going.
“What do you say, Bass?” I turned to him. “Think the station can pick up the tab for Barton’s hotel for a couple days?”
Hazel eyes hardened my direction. Bass kept a grip on the station’s money like it was his own. I knew he wanted this story, but the question now was whether or not he was willing to cough up some cash to help it along.
I smiled, all innocence. I had him in a touchy spot, where he had to make a decision that twisted his tender parts. One of my favorite parts of the job.
“Sure,” he said. “Send me copies of your bill. We’ll reimburse you.”
This was fun. Getting money out of Bass was like getting the Pope to start handing out birth control pills.
To Barton, I said, “I have your permission to look around the house,” without phrasing it as a question. “We’re clear on that, right?”
He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Clear. And I get the money.”
“If there’s money,” I said with weight. “And now,” I said, with a dismi
ssive handclap, “why don’t we all get started on what we need to do.”
Barton left amid much thanking and groveling. When he tried to shake my hand for a third time, I pretended to be busy at the computer. Bass stood in my doorway and watched until Barton cleared the office doors and had stepped into one of the hallway elevators.
“What’s with you?” he asked as he sat back in the chair he’d recently vacated.
“Something the detective said,” I said, shrugging. “Don’t know that I’ll find anything of interest, but I feel like I have to try.”
“Aren’t you the one who told me off the other day? ‘I’m not getting involved.’” He made little bird wing gestures and spoke in a falsetto voice, “‘Let the police handle it.’”
“I thought you’d be thrilled.”
“Thrilled? Hardly. I don’t get thrilled much anymore at my age.” He stared out over the city of Chicago from my bright window, shook his head. “Nope. Never try to bullshit a bullshitter.” He stood up then, made his way to the doorway. “I knew you’d never let this one go, no matter what you told me.” He gave an exaggerated wink. “And you knew it, too.”
* * * * *
Owen sang a “poor me” song when I called him to ask if he’d had those checks looked up yet. When he started to rehash all the things gone wrong today for him I cut him off, letting him know that I was busy and that, as soon as I hung up, I still needed to return a phone call to David.
Instant change of tune.
Owen fell over himself at that, promising me he’d have the information collected and ready to go by mid-afternoon. “Good,” I’d said, in a false-encouraging voice. I provided my fax number, and if that little stutter on the other end of the phone meant that he was reluctant to send the records to my office, then he wisely chose to keep his hesitation to himself.
Time to call David.
I identified myself to his secretary and her efficient tone switched immediately to one of warmth. “Thanks for calling him back, Ms. St. James. He’s out of the office right now but he left a message for you.”
