Caesar's Fall

by Dorien Grey

Do you believe him?

  About whether he knew about the Jennys? Hard to say. If he’s as big a con artist as I think he is, that bit about not knowing their name was a nice touch, and of course, he’d look surprised to hear they’re missing. The one thing that stood out other than the obvious bullshit was that he’s an arrogant son of a bitch.

  Being an arrogant son of a bitch is hardly motive for murder.

  True. But playing coy about the Jennys could be. That thing about Blanton cashing a “sizable” check from Bruno two days before Bruno died set off some bells, as maybe Means knew it would. A classic example of “Oh! Look over there!” I think I can guess what the check was for, and why he was in such a rush to cash it. So, Blanton’s next on my list, if I can figure out how to reach him. Bruno told me he had a website, so I’ll check there.

  Good luck.

  I’ll need it!

  *

  Friday was too full of work details—replacing damaged pressed-tin ceiling panels, paneling the front eight feet on either side of the to-be-showroom area with the remaining panels, reducing the size of the bathroom, and starting the framing-in of the two back offices—for Elliott to have even a chance to think about Clifford Blanton. He’d brought a change of clothes, since Steve had suggested dinner and a movie, so there was no time to do an Internet check on Blanton.

  They had their morning coffee on Steve’s new patio, using folding chairs and TV trays since Steve hadn’t had a chance to pick up any outdoor furniture for it yet. Elliott suggested they go by Target later that morning to see what was available.

  “I probably won’t be able to buy anything until at least next payday,” Steve said, “but we can get an idea.”

  Elliott knew better than to suggest he get it and Steve could pay him back.

  He had just gone into the kitchen to refill their coffees when sounds in the hallway announced the arrival of Button and his moving team. Going to the door, he opened it to the passing of a large, muscular man carrying an upside-down wingback chair, the seat balanced on his head and the arms resting on his shoulders. Behind him, struggling with a slab of thick glass—likely the top of a coffee table—was Paul.

  “Good morning, Elliott,” he said brightly.

  “Need some help?”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks. I hope we aren’t making too much noise.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Button wanted us to start at six thirty, but I told him that would be a sure way to get evicted before he even moved in.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Elliott,” Button said, squeezing past the guy with the chair and heading down the stairs. “He’s just in a snit because I told him he’d have to carry more than two throw pillows at a time.”

  Elliott grinned. “Well, if you need anything, just let us know.”

  With that, he went back into the apartment to get the coffee and rejoin Steve on the patio.

  Chapter 8

  He’d planned to return to his condo Saturday afternoon to give Steve some time to paint, but they went looking for patio furniture at Target as intended and ended up going to a couple other places as well. They had lunch, and on returning to Steve’s, ran into Button and Paul, who had just dropped off the rental truck, and who invited them up to see the apartment.

  “It’ll take a couple of days to get things in order,” Button said as he showed them in.

  Elliott was impressed by how much had already been done. The furniture was arranged, boxes awaiting unpacking were stacked neatly in one corner, and paintings leaned against the walls where they would be hung. Steve was impressed by some of the original pieces, including a signed Bernard Buffet print.

  “I was hoping you were in,” Button said. “I was going to stop on the way up to invite you for a glass of champagne to celebrate. I’m so glad we caught you.”

  “The place looks great already,” Steve said with admiration. “I really appreciate your taste in art.”

  Button smiled. “Thank you. I hope to have a Gutierrez among my collection one of these days.” He paused only a moment before saying, “Please, sit down. Paul, why don’t you keep these lovely people entertained while I go see to the champagne?”

  “You really got a lot done in a very short time,” Elliott observed to Paul as Button went into the kitchen.

  “The joys of OCD,” Paul replied with a grin. “A place for everything, and everything in its place. Or else! But he was so lucky to have found this place. He loves it. Too bad this isn’t a three-flat—I’d jump at it.”

  “Paul,” Button called from the kitchen, “could you give me a hand?”

  Excusing himself, Paul got up and hurried away, to return almost immediately carrying two glasses of champagne, which he handed to Steve and Elliott, followed by Button with his and Paul’s.

  “A toast,” Button said, raising his glass, and both Steve and Elliott stood to echo his gesture. “To friends old and new.”

  They clicked their glasses and sat down.

  “Sorry not to have hors d’oeuvres,” Button said, “but it’s the butler’s day off.”

  “I had the day off?” Paul said. “You could have fooled me.”

  They talked and laughed and took their time drinking their champagne. After Button refilled their glasses, the conversation got around to Bruno, and immediately Elliott detected a very subtle hint of Old Spice. Steve’s sideways glance said he’d noted it, too.

  “So, tell me about Bruno before he won the lottery,” Elliott said.

  Button’s expression softened to one of reflection.

  “Ah, dear, sweet Bruno. I forget exactly how we met.” He paused. “Oh, yes. At the Caribou on Broadway and Aldine. All the tables were taken, and I asked Bruno if I could join him. We met there a couple more times and gradually became friends.

  “He didn’t have many friends, I’m afraid. He was really very shy and withdrawn. Winning the lottery was a real shock for him, and I don’t know that he really got over it, even though having all that money made him far more outgoing on the surface. But he was much too trusting, and he drew predators like a wounded antelope attracts lions. I warned him time and again. Rudy, his nephew, that phony `sensei,’ and all the others.”

  “What do you know about ‘Dr.’ Blanton?”

  “The graduate of the University of Metaphysics? Please! He probably got his degree out of a Cracker Jack box. But he had Bruno thoroughly fooled. However, I noticed a slight change in his utter devotion toward the end. I have no idea what the cause may have been, but I know Blanton had been trying to convince him to invest in some sort of metaphysical retreat in Wisconsin.”

  “You do know the police are treating Bruno’s death as a homicide?”

  Button shook his head slowly and sighed. “I got that impression when they talked to me, but they didn’t come right out and say they were investigating a murder, so I hoped my impression was wrong.”

  “Afraid not. Can you think of anyone else who might have had a motive to see him dead?”

  A long pause before, “Not really. A lot of people ‘borrowed’ a lot of money from him and, I’m sure, never intended to pay back a nickel. But I understand the night of his last party—neither Paul nor I were there—he intended to tell everyone he wasn’t going to be a patsy anymore, and the loans had to be repaid. He didn’t like his financial manager very much, and I don’t think he trusted him, but his insistence that Bruno lay down the law to them was good advice.” Button stopped abruptly, and the fingertips of his free hand rose to his chest. “Unless it got him killed!”

  Actually, Elliott knew it had been Blanton who suggested the party, but he merely shrugged and said nothing.

  “If you can think of anything or anyone the police should be taking a look at, please let me know. I can pass it on to my brother-in-law, who’s a cop, and he can give it to the detectives on the case.”

  “I certainly will.”

  As if by mutual agreement, the conversation moved on to other topics, and Elliott and Steve left abou
t twenty minutes later.

  “Too late for me to get any painting done,” Steve observed as they got back to his apartment, “so why don’t you spend the night, and I’ll get to it tomorrow? We can have dinner and…”

  “You talked me into it,” Elliott replied, grinning. “I especially liked the ‘and’ part.”

  *

  He didn’t get home until shortly after noon on Sunday and immediately spent half an hour catching up on phone messages and talking at length with Cessy. He then spent another forty-five minutes going through piled-up emails.

  Finally, he did a web search for Clifford Blanton and came up with a number of entries, all making reference to the “Center for Metaphysical Growth.” He hadn’t a clue as to what that might mean, but it sounded impressive, which he was sure was its sole purpose.

  He went through them until he found a phone number for a “Clifford Blanton, Ph.D., Director.” Being fairly certain any reputable nonretail business would not be open on a Sunday, he called. He wasn’t particularly surprised to hear the phone being picked up on the third ring.

  “This is Dr. Blanton. How can I help you?”

  “Clifford, hello.” He was taking a risk of alienating him by using his first name instead of addressing him as “Doctor,” but wanted to make it clear from the start he wasn’t willing to play games. “This is Elliott Smith, Bruno Caesar’s neighbor. We met a couple of times at his parties.”

  There was only a slight pause before, “Ah, yes, Mr. Smith.” Blanton was obviously no slouch at playing the upper-hand game. “What can I do for you?”

  “I had a few questions about Bruno you might be able to help me with.”

  Another pause. “What kind of questions? I’m sure I covered everything with the police when I talked to them. May I ask just why you’re curious?”

  “Well, first of all, did the police tell you they’re operating on the belief that Bruno was murdered?”

  “When I spoke with them immediately after Bruno’s tragic death, they said they could not rule out the possibility, and I hastened to dissuade them of that idea. I really can’t discuss my specific reasons, other than to say that Bruno had some serious issues not apparent to his friends…or neighbors.”

  “I understand. And are you aware his Inverted Jennys are missing?”

  “Yes, the police contacted me again after they learned of it, since they heard it was I who had acted as middleman in their acquisition. They asked if I had any idea what might have happened to them. Of course, I didn’t. Bruno had a very active social life, and there were people coming and going constantly, some of whom I fear were quite capable of theft. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a seminar to prepare for.”

  “Of course. One more question, though. I understand you wanted Bruno to fund some sort of a resort or retreat you’re planning in Wisconsin.”

  Blanton laughed. “I offered him the opportunity to become one of the many investors in the project, yes. Bruno believed fully in it, and he was looking forward to participating.”

  “So, the check he gave you two days before he died was for the project?”

  “I’m afraid I really must go, Mr. Smith. Thank you for calling.” The phone went dead.

  On a whim, he called Adam and Jesse’s number, hoping to talk to Ricky. It had occurred to him he hadn’t asked how much Bruno had confided in Ricky about his dealings with Blanton—or Rudy or Cage or any of the other people who might have had a good motive for murder.

  When the answering machine kicked in, he left a message saying “hi” to Adam and Jesse and asking Ricky to call him, then spent an hour or so opening his accumulated mail and paying bills.

  Ricky returned his call just as he was fixing his before-dinner drink. “Hi, Elliott, I just got home. What’s up?”

  “A couple of questions. Bruno talked with Rudy privately at the party, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any idea how it went?”

  “No, there was so much going on, and I’d already had a little too much to drink. I know he stayed for quite a while after their talk, though.”

  “Thanks. And I was wondering what you might know about Bruno and his relationship with Clifford Blanton, and especially about Blanton’s trying to get him to invest in some project.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line.

  “Bruno didn’t talk to me much about financial stuff. I did know Sensei was talking with him about a TV show of his meditation seminars, and he was really enthused about starting some kind of metaphysical retreat. The day before he died, Bruno got a call from a real estate office. He wasn’t home, so I took the call.”

  “You wouldn’t remember which office, or where it was, by any chance?”

  “Yeah, I remember the name of the place—Superior Realty. I remember because I thought it was a pretty la-di-dah name.”

  “Do you remember where they were located?”

  “Iron Falls…Iron Lake…Iron something-to-do-with-water. It was in Wisconsin, I know.”

  “Iron River?”

  “Yeah, Iron River. I think so.”

  “Do you know if Bruno called them back?”

  “Yeah, he did. I don’t know what they said, but Bruno was pretty unhappy afterwards, and said he was definitely going to have a talk with Sensei at the party.”

  “Did he, do you know?”

  “Yes, he spent some time alone in the den with several people, and Sensei was one of them.”

  “Did he tell you what he was going to talk to each of them about?”

  “No. I knew it had something to do with things he wasn’t happy about, but he didn’t go into detail. I did notice most of them left right after he talked to them.”

  “But not Blanton?”

  “No, he stayed.”

  “Did you mention the talks to the police?”

  “No. It didn’t even occur to me at the time. There was always something going on, and I couldn’t remember everything that happened. I never even would have thought of that call from the real estate place if you hadn’t mentioned Sensei and a resort. Do you think one of the people he talked to might have been responsible for his death? Should I call the police and tell them? I don’t want to interfere with what they’re doing.”

  “I’d hold off,” Elliott said. “Let me try to call the real estate office and see if I can find out what the call was all about. I’ll let you know if I think you should talk to the police.”

  “Okay.”

  After hanging up, and making a mental note to track down Superior Realty on Monday, he went into the kitchen to fix dinner.

  *

  You like this, don’t you?

  Like what?

  Playing detective.

  I like finding out what’s going on, and since Brad isn’t involved in this case, I don’t have any real link with the police to know what they’re doing or not doing. There are so many…details…they can’t possibly be aware of that might be a clue to what happened to Bruno. Like Ricky said, nobody can be expected to remember everything. And speaking of remembering, how is Bruno doing?

  He’s making real progress. I think he’s calming down, pulling himself together. I think we’re pretty close to actually being able to communicate one-on-one. I do know he’s aware of what you’re doing, and l can tell he appreciates it.

  Well I hope he can start the direct communication thing with you pretty soon. There’s a hell of a lot I don’t know that he can tell you.

  Yeah, but keep in mind there’s also a lot he doesn’t know.

  *

  He called Steve first thing Monday morning before he knew Steve would be leaving for work to ask if it would be all right to take his laptop up during lunch to hook into Steve’s Internet connection to look for Superior Realty and a phone number for them.

  Steve laughed. “You don’t need my permission. You have a key—use it whenever you want.”

  “Thanks, but I’m still walking a fine line here. It’s your apartment and your spac
e, and I don’t want to come in unannounced.”

  “Well, you’re a lot more concerned about it than I am. Just come on up when you’re ready.”

  *

  Finding Superior Realty in Iron River, Wisconsin, proved relatively easy, thanks to Google. Noting that their webpage included a listing of their available properties, he went through and found the resort he was sure Blanton had in mind—ten lakeside cabins plus a central lodge. The asking price was very reasonable by Chicago standards, but this was in northern Wisconsin, a good seven-hour drive north with no convenient public transportation access.

  He called.

  “Superior Realty,” a decidedly male voice said.

  “Yes, I was looking at your website and noticed a resort for sale. Is it still available, by any chance?”

  “As a matter of fact, it is,” the man said.

  “Has it been on the market long?”

  “Only a month or two. I must tell you we have one party extremely interested in it. We’ve sent him a complete packet of information, and we’re expecting an offer, but first come, first served. If you act quickly, it can be yours. Could I fax you some information on it?”

  “Well, I just now came across it and haven’t discussed it with my business partner yet. Let me check with him and get back to you. I appreciate your help.” He hung up before the agent had a chance to say anything more.

  Returning to the ground floor, he finished his lunch with his team and resumed work. He kept working after the others had left, waiting for Steve to get home. Steve already had a key for the ground-floor front door, and Elliott knew he stopped in every night to check on the progress made during the day.

  Around five thirty, as he pulled electrical wire through holes drilled in the wall studs of what would be his office, he heard Steve call his name. “Back here.”

  “Wow! Lookin’ good.”

  “We’re getting there.”

  “Kind of surprised you’re still here.”

  “I wanted to fill you in on what I found out when I called the real estate agency in Wisconsin, and thought I’d tell you in person.”

  Steve had been looking around the newly created office spaces while Elliott talked.