Shell Game

by Sara Paretsky

  “Rest EZ, they’re part of a—”

  “I know Rest EZ,” I said.

  They’re a payday loan company, one of the bigger fish in a scummy pond. A payday loan is supposed to be a bridge, to carry you to that next paycheck, but in Illinois, interest runs as high as 400 percent a year. Even the Mob would blush at that—go to Don Pasquale, one of the few godfathers not in federal custody, and he’d bail you out for 300.

  “You’re sure,” I said to Harmony. “You didn’t get the name wrong? There are mattress companies called that.”

  Harmony flushed. “Are you like everyone else? You think because I’m blond I’m stupid? Reno said she was in financial services. She said she worked for Rest EZ. Does that sound like a mattress to you?”

  “No,” I agreed meekly. “It sounds like she worked for Rest EZ. Have you filed a missing persons report?” I asked instead.

  “With the police? No, I can’t go to the police!”

  “They have resources way beyond what I can do,” I said.

  “You think they care about people like me or Reno?” Harmony cried, eyes bright. “They only care about one thing when they see us.”

  “Grandpa Tony was a cop,” I said. “If he were still alive—”

  “But he’s not, and I won’t talk to any cop, not even if he’s Grandpa Tony’s twin brother!”

  I said we could insist we talk to a woman officer, but Harmony was beyond reason.

  No police, not now, not ever. “I know you’re a detective, I looked you up online. You’ve solved big cases.”

  My mouth twisted. “It can be easier to sort out a big fraud than to find a missing person.”

  “But still, please, can you try to find her?”

  “In the morning, I can start a serious search, but right now, I’m too tired to think straight.”

  Mr. Contreras weighed in now on my behalf. “That’s right, Harmony. I’m going to cook you a nice steak, you and me are going to watch the races, and then you can sleep in my grandsons’ room. We’re going to leave your aunt here in peace.”

  It was a kind offer for us both, but Harmony fought it.

  “I have to go back to Reno’s place. What if she comes home in the night? I need to be there for her!”

  We couldn’t budge her. I promised I would drive her back to her sister’s apartment. After my bath. After supper.

  4

  Queens Dressed in Silk

  While I relaxed in the tub, I checked in with Lotty. She hadn’t heard anything from Felix today, and he hadn’t answered her phone calls, either. I told her about trailing him up to Edgewater early this morning and my speculations about the young woman, but Lotty had no more idea what he might be doing there than I did.

  I started to tell her about Harmony Seale’s unexpected arrival, but lacked the energy to convey my own news. Instead, I promised to be in touch and dozed off.

  Harmony woke me half an hour later, gently rubbing my shoulder: Mr. Contreras had sent her up to fetch me; dinner was ready. She lingered in my short hallway while I went into the bedroom to dress.

  A poster-size photo of my mother hangs there, Gabriella on the brink of a concert comeback before ovarian cancer ravaged her. In the photo, she looks dazzling, her concert gown with its burnt velvet bodice and soft silk skirt making her more glamorous than Callas.

  Harmony asked a few polite questions about her. “You’re lucky, having a mom you can be proud of,” she said. “Although Reno and I got lucky with our foster mom, Clarisse, only now she has Alzheimer’s and doesn’t know who I am.”

  “That’s very tough,” I agreed.

  I touched the glass over my mother’s face as I passed. It’s been thirty years and still Harmony’s chance comment could send a spasm of grief through me. There are no balance scales to loss: my mother’s too-young death, Clarisse vanishing in the present—there, but not there. All these losses are an opening into an abyss. When we start falling in, it’s hard to climb back up.

  After dinner, Mr. Contreras tried once again to urge Harmony into spending the night in his spare room. “Vic don’t need to be out driving this late.”

  “I can call a car,” Harmony said.

  I drove, partly to establish a relationship—I was reliable, I wouldn’t leave her on her own in a strange city. I also wanted to see her sister’s place: Fairfield and North, the gentrifying northeast corner of Humboldt Park. We brought Mitch with us—the hundred-pound black dog commands respect wherever he goes.

  In the ride over I asked Harmony what had brought her sister back to Chicago.

  Harmony hunched a shoulder. “Mom went on to Oakland after our so-called father stood her up. She got some kind of job, but everything disintegrated like it always did with her. Mom was begging on the streets, anything she got went for drugs. She tried to get Grandmother Yarborough to take us, or Uncle Dick, but they both said no.

  “We slept under viaducts or sometimes in church basements. We ate out of dumpsters. Reno and me—Reno was so pretty, Mom would—she would kind of use her—get men to come around and give her drugs. And me, even though I wasn’t as pretty, they—”

  She turned her head away. My stomach muscles tightened in outrage, at Becky Seale for putting her daughters through this, at Dick and his mother for turning a cold shoulder, at myself for ignoring them. I didn’t say anything—outrage at this point in Harmony’s life would be cheap.

  “When I was ten and Reno was eleven, we decided to run away, to hitchhike back to Chicago, to see if anyone in the family would take us in. We thought maybe Grandpa Tony . . . but we never made it out of Oakland: a lady picked us up at the freeway entrance.

  “We got put in this state home for runaways and discards; we were working on a plan for running away from there when Clarisse and Henry showed up. Clarisse and Henry Yu. They were a mixed-race couple, see, who couldn’t have any kids of their own, so the authorities figured two fucked-up white girls could be dumped on them. We were street kids. We weren’t users, but you couldn’t tell us anything about drugs. And we knew—a whole lot—about sex.”

  Harmony’s hands went involuntarily to her stomach. I risked a touch on her shoulder. She didn’t push me away, but she held herself rigid: she’d been touched too many times without permission.

  We’d reached Reno’s building. I busied myself parking, both hands on the steering wheel.

  “It sounds as though you landed in a good place,” I ventured.

  “Oh, we did. It took us a long time to trust them, but in the end, it all came together. Clarisse was strict. Not in a mean way, but we weren’t used to rules—go to school every day, home after school, do homework and chores before sports or choir or anything, and no excuses.” Harmony smiled at some private memory.

  “Henry was easier going—if we got a B or a C, he’d tell Clarisse to relax, no one expected us to be Marie Curie. His real name was Heng, Yu Heng in Chinese, but in America he called himself Henry. Clarisse and Henry, when they wanted to be private, they’d speak Chinese, so of course we learned it some, at least to understand. Reno was always better at that than me—I could say ‘good morning’ or ‘how’s your arthritis,’ but she got so she could really speak in Chinese.

  “Clarisse and Henry ran a flower shop in Oakland, but Henry raised fruits and vegetables for the family. That was my favorite thing, digging in the dirt with Henry. Reno didn’t like that, but she loved working in the shop, especially when Clarisse let her put together bouquets. Reno’s specialty was funerals.”

  A macabre pleasure, but maybe Reno worked out some complicated emotional puzzle, vicariously taking part in other people’s sorrows.

  “We went to community college in Oakland, and Clarisse and Henry, when we graduated, you would have thought we were number one at Stanford.”

  “It sounds as though Reno would have told Clarisse or Henry what was troubling her, if she didn’t tell you,” I said.

  Harmony’s lips quivered. “Henry had a heart attack and died five years ago. T
hat was why we moved to Portland. There wasn’t any money, or not much, anyway, after his funeral, and we could afford Portland better. Clarisse came with us, but she’d already started with Alzheimer’s. We tried to look after her ourselves—we owed her and Henry everything—but she needs so much care, we couldn’t do it.”

  Harmony rubbed her nose with a tissue. “We had to put her into a home. That’s what made Reno come out east—it made her feel angry and—and damaged, like every person in our lives leaves us. First Fulton—our dad, assuming he even was our dad, with Mom how could we be sure?—then Mom and all those Yarboroughs, then Henry and now Clarisse—she doesn’t even know me when I go to visit. Reno wanted to be in a new place where she could forget all that, but she chose Chicago. I guess she thought Uncle Dick or even our tight-ass grandmother might want to see her now that we’re adults. But guess again on that one.”

  “You said Reno and you didn’t know my name. How did you find me?”

  “I called Uncle Dick’s office. Some snot of a PA wouldn’t let me talk to him, but she told me you were a detective who likes stray dogs. I didn’t know any of that, but she gave me your address.”

  “How very kind of her, to both of us,” I said.

  We’d reached Reno’s stretch of North Avenue. Cars honked their way through the park just west of us, and, despite the cold, girls in minis and thick jackets teetered down the street in high-heeled boots, arm in arm with each other or with slim-hipped boys. Skateboarders swerved around us, hooting at “the blond chick” as I followed Harmony to the building entrance. When Mitch curled his lip at one kid who rode too close, the rest of them backed off.

  “How did you get keys?” I asked as Harmony undid the outer locks.

  “The janitor, he let me in. I was waiting out here”—she gestured to the sidewalk—“when he was leaving for the day. I look a lot like Reno even if I’m not as pretty, so he guessed right away I was her sister and he let me in.”

  “He gave you keys?”

  “No. Reno hadn’t taken hers, which makes me even more worried. How could she leave and not take her keys with her? But hers were where we always put them, in the bowl by the door. When you have a system, you don’t waste time hunting for things.”

  Missing person, possible abduction. Janitor with keys. I opened and shut my mouth. I wasn’t up to another battle with Harmony over the police: I’d make my own report in the morning.

  Mitch and I followed Harmony up the stairs to the third floor. Just inside the doorway was a small stand with a blue porcelain bowl on it. Harmony put the key ring into it, on top of a few pieces of mail.

  I took a quick look around the apartment, checking for signs of disturbance, also whether the security seemed adequate. The apartment would have been easy to search, since Reno had been neat to the point of bareness. The drawers to a desk in the front room held nothing but essentials—the few bills that still come in the mail instead of online, an invitation to a fund-raiser for a youth program, some old letters, including one in Chinese characters. There were also two Chinese prints on the walls of the main room.

  In Reno’s bedroom, her minimal wardrobe was neatly arranged on hangers and in baskets. She had three handbags, all empty. No computer, no phone.

  She had framed family photos on her nightstand and on the wall near her bed. An African-American woman and a Chinese man featured in most of them: Clarisse and Henry. A formal portrait of them with the two sisters stood on the nightstand.

  The picture that brought Harmony to life showed her grinning with Henry, both of them wearing dirt-crusted overalls, holding a basket of vegetables so that the camera caught the perfectly shaped eggplant, surrounded by tomatoes and summer squashes.

  In another, the woman stood in profile in the flower shop, putting a rose into a wreath. The ghost of a smile was on her lips—she knew she was being photographed and was laughing at the pretense that she didn’t. There were several of the girls at their different graduations, the two adults behind them, all four grinning widely with pride.

  In one, they were showing off matching gold chains with old-fashioned locket hearts. “Clarisse gave them to us when we graduated from junior college. We never take them off. At least, I never do. I don’t know what Reno does these days.”

  She pulled the chain out from under her sweater. It was of real gold, not plate, an intricate set of links holding a gold locket. Harmony opened it to show me the faces of Clarisse and Henry on one side and her sister on the other.

  When I admired the craft in the chain, Harmony said, “It’s called Singapore style. Henry had an aunt in Shanghai who used to send him things like jewelry or fancy silks to give to us. One year for Christmas he gave Clarisse and me and Reno silk bathrobes. We used to sit on the back porch in them, pretending we were queens, eating breakfast in our silk clothes.”

  I looked at all the windows to make sure they had working locks, checked the rear exit, which opened not to the outside, but to the utility stairwell and elevator.

  “Keep your doors locked when you’re inside,” I said.

  “I grew up in Oakland,” Harmony said scornfully. “I’m not afraid of this neighborhood.”

  “Something happened to your sister,” I said. “She’s not answering her phone, she left her keys here. If someone got inside this place once, they can do it again. If you want to come back with me, I’m happy to take you, but if you’re staying here, stay smart, okay?”

  “Yeah, okay. That’s what Clarisse would say, too: stay smart. Do you think you can find Reno?” Her voice broke on the last sentence.

  “I don’t know, sweetheart. I’ll try, but there’s a lot of ground to cover. I’ll check with Rest EZ tomorrow and let you know what they say. Did she ever mention a co-worker or a boss that she got on with?”

  “Her new boss, after her promotion, Reno seemed to like her. She had a name like ‘Lute.’ Something like that.”

  “Okay. I’ll find Ms. Lute. You have my number, you have Mr. Contreras’s; call if you need us.”

  5

  Team Player

  Mitch and I rode the utility elevator to the basement. I followed the sound of washing machines to a laundry room. A middle-aged woman who was folding clothes gave a little scream when she saw the dog.

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  I held up Mitch’s leash so she could see he was under control. “I’m looking for the janitor’s room.”

  “Vern doesn’t live here—it’s a nine-to-five job.”

  “That’s fine. I still want to find his room. Someone gave something of mine to him; he was supposed to leave it out for me.”

  She studied me and the dog for a moment, then shrugged—maybe we were robbers, but she wasn’t going to get involved. “Down the hall, other side of the furnace room.”

  I switched on the lights in the hall, low-hanging single bulbs swinging from a wire. The janitor’s door was locked, but it wasn’t much of a lock. I looked back up the hall; the woman doing laundry wasn’t interested in us. I took my PI license, sturdy laminate, and wedged it between the lock-lip and the jamb, jiggled the knob, and we were inside.

  Vern had an overstuffed easy chair where he relaxed when his work duties became onerous. The cushion had a deep indentation—the duties must often be overwhelming.

  A twenty-four-inch flat-screen TV faced the chair. On the floor next to the chair, a stack of magazines, some about boating and fishing, some a collection of standard porn. A small refrigerator with a salami and seven bottles of Pabst. A sink with a plate crusted with mustard. He should have taken cleaning lessons from Reno.

  In the back of the room was his worktable. His tools, at least, he treated with care. Files, screwdrivers, electrical supplies, all in drawers labeled in the round clumsy letters of someone who doesn’t often write. Emergency plumbing equipment in racks on a facing wall. Saws.

  I didn’t touch the tools but looked closely for anything that might suggest blood or hair. I peered behind all the boxes and sh
elves. I took Mitch next door to the furnace room. We didn’t see any signs that a woman had been brought down here and assaulted. I guess that was a comfort.

  There was a warren of small rooms and strange bins beyond the boiler room, but searching them would have been an all-night job. It was already past midnight and I hadn’t gotten to bed until five yesterday morning.

  Mr. Contreras had waited up for me, which was touching, if tiring, since we had to rehash Harmony’s story. I assured him that I would help her, although I was beginning to feel as though there were a flashing light on my head that read give me your troubled relatives, exhausting labor. no charge.

  When I finally made it up to my own apartment, I checked the news to see if any word had come in on the body in the woods. The ME must not have prettied up the face enough yet for the media. Before going to bed, I tried Felix, but had no more luck than Lotty.

  I left a text, asking him to check in with his aunt so that she wouldn’t worry, turned my phone off, and was, for once, granted the sleep of the righteous. In the morning I had time for my own exercises, a chance to run the dogs, and an actual breakfast at my own table. I made it downtown in good time for my first meeting.

  I love having Darraugh Graham paying some of my bills, but it’s my small clients who keep me going. The partners in the firm for whom I’d investigated a potential client were so pleased with my work they had invited me to lunch. I declined with regret—they were both witty women, and they enjoyed good food.

  Instead of quenelles of pike at the Potawatomi Club, I sat at a counter in a crowded coffee bar, eating a cheese sandwich while I finished responding to a client query. Over my second cortado, I looked up the Seale sisters: trust everyone but cut the cards. I wanted to make sure I was really looking at Harmony Seale. I wanted to make sure she wasn’t dragging me into some financial feud with her sister.

  It took the better part of two hours to track down Clarisse and Heng “Henry” Yu, to double-check that they had, indeed, fostered Harmony and Reno, that Henry had died five years earlier, and that the modest estate he’d left was invested for the sole benefit of Clarisse Yu’s care. Whether the sisters loved or hated each other didn’t show up in any tax or probate reports, but they weren’t suing each other and neither had much of a bank balance.