Chapter 12
The next morning a woman’s pleasant voice thanked me for calling DeWeldt and Van Buren.
“I’m interested in meeting with Mr. DeWeldt regarding a will,” I said.
“Have you worked with Mr. DeWeldt before?”
“No.”
“Hold, please.” Then, “This is Nancy. I understand you’d like a will executed?”
“Yes, I’d like to work with Mr. DeWeldt.”
“Mr. DeWeldt usually hands these types of requests off to associates like myself—unless he makes a personal decision.”
“How about I make an appointment with Mr. DeWeldt?”
“Okay, I’ll transfer you back.” Once again I was welcomed to the DeWeldt and Van Buren law firm.
“I’d like to make an appointment with Mr. DeWeldt, please.”
“And what is this regarding?”
“Estate planning.”
“Hold please.” Then, “This is Nancy. I understand you’re interested in estate planning?”
I hung up.
A little hardball might be in order. I found a website for the Attorney Registration & Disciplinary Commission, plugged in the name Henry DeWeldt, then hit search. Up popped two men by that name, one with the designation “Jr.” It turned out DeWeldt Junior had an integrity problem, allegedly bilking an old lady out of a bunch of money. This activity sounded familiar. Time to call “Johnny Bail Bonds” Duggan.
“Johnny Bail Bonds. How may I direct your call?”
“Jules for Johnny,” I said, knowing those three words were the same as Chief O’Hara shining the bat signal into the sky.
“Hey, Mr. Jules!” Johnny said. “What can I do you for?”
“You got any contacts over at the ARDC? The lawyer discipline people?”
“I’ve pawned a lot of shysters, so I’m thinkin’ mos def, my friend.”
“We’re talking starched white collar. Henry DeWeldt, Jr., pillaged an old lady’s trust instead of managing it. Only got a suspension. How does that happen? Whose palms got greased, that kind of thing.”
“I just got a lead on a skip, so give me a few hours to do a little hound doggin’.”
—
What a decade ago had been the Illinois Central rail yards was now Millennium Park, a civic center of lawns, gardens, public art, and music. Dressed in my finest gray worsted wool suit, I walked among the native grasses, deciduous shrubs, and blooming perennials, deep in thought about murder. I was still stuck on motive. Linda and Kessler both insisted Kate McCall was stealing from Jackie Whitney, but neither claimed Jackie Whitney herself told them about it. That didn’t make sense. And if Kate McCall was getting away with stealing golden eggs, murdering the goose would’ve been the last thing on her mind. Money assuaged all bitterness, after all. Establishing Dr. Kessler or Linda Napier lying about their whereabouts played well for Kate’s reasonable doubt defense. But who was it that couldn’t resist crushing Jackie Whitney’s skull?
Johnny Bail Bonds called back. “Okay, my sources say DeWeldt’s got lots of suction. Junior was gonna be disbarred. DeWeldt got to the review-board dudes, made offers of cash and entry into some private clubs, that kind of thing. It’s the old boys’ connection hard at work.”
“What about the old man? DeWeldt Senior. Also caught milking an old lady’s trust?”
“Nobody said anything about the old man.”
“Okay, Johnny. Thanks a billion!”
Four blocks away, DeWeldt, Van Buren & Associates loomed over the neighborhood from the forty-ninth floor of Brandt Tower. Two layouts of luxurious furniture worthy of a statesman’s living room served as the firm’s waiting area. Apart from the receptionist’s gaze, I felt quite comfortable on the couch in my beautiful suit reading Forbes magazine.
“Can I help you with something, sir?” she finally asked.
I looked at my watch. “I’m just killing time before my appointment.”
“May I ask who your appointment is with?”
“Uh, one of the associates. I forgot her name. It’s just a will.” She smiled and returned to her duties.
While I was engrossed in an article describing the improbable comeback of the Hostess Twinkie, two young lawyers appeared from an inner hallway. One looked neatly pressed and tailored, the other I gave props for trying to look comfortable in a gray flannel suit. His hair also looked too long for the clothes and his voice was too loud for his profession. As they passed me and exited the office, certain characteristics about the guy’s face struck me as familiar, then I remembered the photo of Henry DeWeldt from the website. On the wall, other headshots were mounted showing the various partners through the years. I walked over and studied DeWeldt the Elder’s face. The pale blue eyes, strong chin, and high cheekbones told me the disorderly looking man was almost certainly DeWeldt the Younger. Another photo caught my eye, this one of DeWeldt the Elder shaking hands with a woman while handing her a check. I looked closer. The check was a ten-thousand-dollar donation to the Senior Tricks bridge club’s general fund. The ad in the magazine on Jackie Whitney’s coffee table came to mind.
“Is Mr. DeWeldt in the office today?” I asked the receptionist. “I wanted to say hello from my father. They knew each other a long time ago.”
“Oh? You didn’t mention that before.”
“I thought maybe I’d run into him while waiting for, uh, Nancy. I think that’s her name.”
“Well, he’ll probably be going to lunch soon. I didn’t think Nancy was in the office today.”
“Uh, maybe not. But I was supposed to meet her here first.”
“You want me to check—”
“No, no, that’s okay. I’ll just wait around a little bit and call her if I get concerned. I’m curious. How many lawyers in this firm?”
“About two hundred,” she said, a little puzzled by my question. I returned to reading about Twinkies but my attention was soon drawn behind the reception desk where two large conference doors opened. Several men appeared, including Henry DeWeldt, Sr. He spoke cheerfully with his colleagues a bit before saying goodbye and walking toward the elevators.
Before I could make a move, the receptionist jumped in with, “Mr. DeWeldt, this gentleman has a message from his father he’d like to relay.”
DeWeldt looked at me suspiciously. “Oh? Who is your father?”
“Can I walk out with you, sir?”
“I suppose. I don’t own the hallway. At least not yet.” He smiled and waited for me to reciprocate, which I did. We stood in front of the elevator.
“Tom Brookstone—”
“Brookstone has a son? I didn’t know that.”
“No, I’m wondering why you hired him to intimidate me.”
DeWeldt’s eyes narrowed. “Intimidate you? I don’t know you.”
“I’m investigating Jackie Whitney’s murder.”
DeWeldt looked stricken. The elevator dinged. He stepped in, I followed then said, “Brookstone warned me about getting in the way of a jury finding Kate McCall guilty. Care to comment?”
DeWeldt stared at the numbers lighting up with each floor. As more people boarded, I remained close to my partner. “You already acknowledged that you know Brookstone,” I said, ostensibly talking to no one in particular, which elicited curious glances.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” DeWeldt whispered.
I slipped a business card into his jacket pocket. “I know the strings you pulled for Junior,” I whispered back. “He should’ve been disbarred, don’tcha think?” I thought I felt heat radiating out of DeWeldt’s collar. When the door opened to the lobby, I grabbed his arm as the others walked out. “Think about it. I have subpoena power, you know. And rumors can run like wildfire in this town about why Junior got off so easy. What if the media started investigating? A lot of questions would arise. So what the hell are you doing with an ass-clown like Brookstone? I look forward to your call.”
I started walking away. This time DeWeldt grabbed my arm. The color h
ad returned to his face. “Go ahead,” he growled. “Say all you want about my son. Nothing will be proven and I’ll sue you for slander.”
His surge of confidence bothered me. I watched him leave the building then dialed Debbie’s number. She answered with her usual sweetness.
“What do you need, Jules?”
“I’d like to get together again and talk about my latest findings.”
“That penguin place, same time.”
It was an order, not a suggestion. “I can’t wait to see you,” I said. She hung up.
Chapter 13
The Youji Lu Grocer’s trickling fountains, natural light, and bamboo floors emanated warmth. Faint smells of oil and incense, torchiere lamps, and wall sconces added to the elegance. People spoke quietly as they shopped. A Chinese man smiled broadly while walking the aisles. People stopped him, bowed, then spoke. He showed them where products were, explained ingredients.
The Chinese man finished with a customer then walked directly to me. “May I help?” he said in heavily accented English. His name badge read Mr. Chao.
“Kate McCall worked here?” I said then gave him my ID. I thought he smiled knowingly as he looked at it and handed it back, but I couldn’t be sure.
“You Kate friend?” Mr. Chao said.
“I want to help Kate,” I said. “I think Kate is innocent.”
“Yes. You help Kate. Kate a good worker. Kate know much about Kentucky mushroom. I show you.”
Mr. Chao led me to one of the produce displays. He pointed to a bin of yellowish mushrooms. “Morel,” he said. “Oldham County, Kentucky. Good for iron and vitamin D.” He brought me to another basket. “Agrocybe mushroom. Big for copper nutrition.” Mr. Chao showed me several more varieties and described their nutritional profiles. “I not know big information for mushroom. All this knowledge from Kate.”
“But Kate cleaned for you, no?”
“Yes. She good cleaner.” Mr. Chao raised a closed fist. “Strong woman. I know Chinese mushroom. She go home to Kentucky, bring back mushroom, teach me for Kentucky mushroom.”
“Do you think Kate could kill that woman?”
“Yes,” Mr. Chao said without hesitating.
I waited for him to elaborate but he just stared at me. “Why do you think yes?” I asked.
“I think because I also kill. You also kill. All person also kill.”
“But did Kate kill this woman, Jackie Whitney?”
Mr. Chao shrugged and said, “Who know?”
“Kate knew you looked through the trash?”
“No. I don’t think. Kate not stupid. Kate very smart.”
“The prescription bottle, the car registration, the keys. Kate put them in your garbage?”
“No. I say already Kate not stupid.”
“Any guess who put them there?”
Mr. Chao appeared deep in thought a few moments, then said, “Maybe you put.”
I would’ve laughed, but I got the feeling he was making fun of me. “Did you know anything about Kate’s life outside of the grocery?”
Mr. Chao nodded, stared straight ahead. A smile crept over his face. “Kate love children with disable. Wheelchair, crutch. Kate bring children here, she teach about garden. Then she go to garden place and show to grow plant…”
Mr. Chao thoughtfully described what I interpreted as a community garden designed so handicapped children could get their hands dirty while learning to grow vegetables, herbs, and flowers. Several times he paused to dab his eyes when describing the faces of joyful children and the pleasure Kate derived from their happiness. Verb-subject disagreements and missing articles did nothing to diminish Mr. Chao’s enchantment.
He continued to stare straight ahead after he stopped. I waited for him to look at me and said, “You knew the victim, Jackie Whitney?”
He nodded. “She good customer,” he said quietly.
“Did you know her at all? Was she someone you would talk to?”
“I know only she buy much cheese and olive oil. And she like Kate. Very sad.”
I thanked Mr. Chao for his time then bowed before leaving.
—
I arrived at the Kutaisi Georgian Bakery in the last throes of its lunch chaos. Tamar had a table reserved for me with a piece of notebook paper she had written “reserved” on. Also waiting for me was a portobello sandwich with roasted garlic.
“Portobello doesn’t sound very Georgian to me,” I said.
“I know a lot of hungry Georgians who would be glad to have that sandwich,” she said. “And that’s just the crew in the prep room.”
“My apologies,” I said and took a bite. The sandwich was amazing.
“I saw a picture of Kate McCall in today’s Chicago Post,” Tamar said.
I waited for more but that’s all she had. “Don’t waste your time with that rag,” I said.
“You don’t want to tell me about the article?”
“What article? I don’t waste my time with tabloid stupidity.”
“You forgot to tell me how cute she was.”
“I didn’t have to tell you. You had already read of her described as a ‘sex kitten.’ ”
“But you saw her in person and didn’t say one way or the other.”
The tone was unmistakable. I stopped eating, pushed the plate aside, leaned forward on my elbows. “You mind telling me what’s going on?”
“Who’s Li’l Abner?”
“A character in a hillbilly comic strip from a long time ago. Why?”
“What about Daisy Mae?”
“Abner’s hillbilly girlfriend. What’re you getting at?”
Tamar pulled the Post out from under the table. The headline read, “There’s No Need to Fear! Private eye Li’l Abner Landau is here to save his beloved Daisy Mae McCall.” I closed my eyes then opened them. It wasn’t a dream. There I was, my cartooned face on Li’l Abner’s muscle-bound body. Sitting on my shoulder was Daisy Mae’s voluptuous form with Kate McCall’s face.
At that moment, I truly understood what being speechless meant. “You mind giving me a summary?” I said. “Or are you going to make me read it?”
Tamar held the Post up and began reading. “Superman, Batman, Spiderman, y’all ain’t got nothin’ on Chicago’s coolest private eye, Li’l Abner Landau. Even that Royal Mounted Canadian Dudley Do-Right can’t rescue Nell enough times from imminent dismemberment to compare to good ol’ boy, Li’l Abner Landau. In fact, you can plumb take the whole dad gum Justice League of ’Merica and it won’t mean diddly squat compared to…”
The author could only be Ellis Knight, a twenty-something journalist who once had the potential for respect when he wrote for The Partisan, but had apparently swapped his soul for a Post front page byline. Knight’s style was smart-ass, while hinting at some greater truth. I doubted many readers picked up on the truth part. Aside from the description of my role in solving two murders and locating a missing person, I heard nothing resembling truth. But who cared about truth when Ellis Knight could spin a tale suggesting city-boy-country-girl love that had no basis in reality?
“Okay, I’ve heard enough,” I said. “It’s all fiction, Tamar. My motivation has nothing to do with Kate McCall’s looks and everything to do with making sure the DA has arrested the right person. And the money Kate McCall is paying me helps the motivation too.”
Tamar said nothing, dropped the Post on an empty chair. “So what are you allowed to tell me today about Kate McCall’s guilt or innocence?”
“Well, I have people unsure about their comings and goings around the time of the murder. That could mean everything or nothing. Jackie Whitney apparently had been dating a corrupt lawyer who hired a goon to discourage me from investigating.”
“Huh? What do you mean ‘discourage’?”
“He’s a cop who flat out warned me off. I have an inkling why.”
I purposely took my time eating until Tamar said, “Oh, c’mon, tell me.”
“First, say you believe me about my motivat
ion….”
“I believe you. Tell me.”
“Jackie Whitney may have discovered this lawyer was bilking money out of an old lady or two. But get this. His son did the same thing, and got just a slap on the wrist.”
“And if Jackie Whitney and the lawyer were dating?”
“Then I have a connection between the lawyer and the victim and maybe the defendant sitting in jail.”
“By threatening you, the lawyer only brings to light that he may have some involvement with the crime. Why would someone be so stupid?”
“Scared people often do stupid things. A lot of crimes are solved because of stupidity.”
I changed the subject to life at the bakery. Tamar sounded fairly optimistic. She seemed to be relaxing much more into the role of owner and operator. Then she surprised me with an envelope.
“What’s this?” I said, tearing it open. Inside was a check for ten thousand dollars and a loan statement.
“That’s the first installment of what I owe you. And it’s an amount the bakery can comfortably afford—as you put it a few days ago.”
I sensed her mood had lifted. “You had a good month, I guess?”
Tamar smiled. “Not bad. Thirty-four more months like the last one and I’ll be free and clear of you.”
“I don’t like the sound of that. Maybe you should keep the money.”
Tamar giggled, grabbed my collar like she did the last time I was in the bakery, then pulled me into a prolonged kiss. “I gotta go,” she said and was off.
I watched her disappear into the prep room then grabbed the Post off the chair, exited the bakery, and walked around the corner to Fairfield Avenue. I had my car in sight when a voice shouted, “Hey!” The ungainly figure of Brookstone lumbered toward me looking quite joyful.
“How did you like the article?” Brookstone said. “You’re famous! I’m like your press agent.”
“You sold Ellis Knight a load of crap.”
“Sell him? I just told him about you coming to a murderer’s rescue and he took it from there. I remembered he wrote those other articles about your fine detective work.”
Doubt in the 2nd Degree Page 10
