The Dead Caller from Chicago

by Jack Fredrickson

  Someone who might be the actual kidnapper.

  “When’s the last time you were tailed?” I asked.

  “This morning, driving to work.”

  “What time do you quit?”

  “Four thirty, but I’ve got to do a damned forms inspection before that. I’ll be leaving around three.”

  I took the river walk back to the turret. Inside, I rummaged through an old address book and found Wendell Phelps’s phone number. I called his office.

  His secretary said he was out.

  “Out, like in temporarily out?”

  “I’ll have him call you,” she said and hung up. She hadn’t asked for a message, or my number.

  I called Jarobi. “I’m having nasty thoughts.”

  “Such as?”

  “I think there are two parties after that painting, and they might know each other.”

  “You mean like that man and woman divorcing, out in California?”

  I told him about Robinson.

  “How can Robinson being tailed relate to Ms. Phelps?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Look, Elstrom, the divorcing Bennetts are a possibility, I’ll give you that. Both might know Ms. Phelps has been kidnapped, even if only one’s got her. We’ll make sure Mr. Phelps deals with the one that’s got Amanda.”

  “How will he know? What if somehow he’s negotiating with the wrong one?”

  “Call Mr. Phelps.”

  “I tried. He’s out, and his secretary is not taking messages.”

  “I’m out, too, Elstrom. I’m not in the loop much.”

  I sat then, and drank coffee, and made sense of nothing. At two forty-five, I drove to Thompson Avenue and parked where I could see across the spit of land.

  Right at three, Robinson’s burgundy Escalade left city hall and drove up to Thompson Avenue. I tucked a few cars behind it and followed it to Leo’s neighborhood.

  Robinson had gotten out in front of the new excavation by the time I drove by. I parked a few cars up.

  Robinson handed a man wearing a hard hat a white business-sized envelope. The man shook his head, angry. Robinson shrugged and began walking around the hole, taking his time to look down at the forms that had been set up for the foundation walls.

  I called Wendell again. The same secretary answered. I said we probably got cut off a half hour before. She said we hadn’t. I asked if she’d asked Wendell to call me. She hung up on me again.

  I called back. “Tell him to make sure the person has the goods.”

  She hung up.

  Robinson got back in his Escalade and drove away. It was rush hour by now, and Thompson Avenue was thick with traffic. I followed him east into Chicago. He went food shopping and headed home to a bungalow three blocks from Leo’s. I watched his house until ten thirty, when the lights went out. No one had tailed him.

  I called Jarobi. “Anything?”

  “Wendell’s beside himself. Nothing.”

  “You told him about Robinson seeing a shadow?”

  “Yes, though that can’t have anything to do with Mrs. Phelps. I also told him about the people in California. He got your message, by the way. He knows to be careful.”

  I drove to Leo’s house. Only one lamp was on, and that was in the front room. I hoped that meant Ma and Endora were staying away.

  Down the block, the excavation looked as it had, and maybe as it always would. The envelope Robinson had handed the contractor might delay things for forever. I thought about calling Jenny, but whatever she knew about that house didn’t matter much to Amanda’s kidnapping.

  I pulled my peacoat tighter and pushed away the thought that Amanda was lying somewhere, cold like Wozanga.

  Forty-three

  I was down the block from Robinson’s bungalow by five the next morning. His lights went on at six, and he left for city hall at seven. The streets were mostly empty, and I tailed him from far back. No one else did.

  I turned around and went back to the turret. I called Jarobi before I went inside. “I don’t like this one damned bit. The kidnapper should have called by now.”

  “I want to think he’s just being careful.”

  “No one’s tailing Robinson, or they backed off, if they saw me.”

  “Mr. Phelps will concentrate on the one who calls.”

  “Give me something to do.”

  “Back away. Mr. Phelps wants you clear away from all this. For now, we wait for a call from our man.”

  “Or our woman?”

  “California’s a long shot, Elstrom. Don’t get your hopes up.” He promised me he’d call with news and hung up.

  I called the Bohemian. “What do you hear about my friend Mr. Smith?”

  “He’s not so agitated. He quit drawing pictures as soon as you left. Now he’s eating and leafing through magazines.”

  “Still in no shape to leave?”

  “Not even close, they tell me.”

  I called Endora next. “Leo’s improving,” I said.

  “Then we’re coming home.”

  “There’ve been two more murders, plus a corpse found bobbing in the Willahock. Amanda was helping me, trying to puzzle through what Leo might have gotten caught up in. She’s been kidnapped.”

  “My God, Dek!”

  “I’ve got to go away later,” I said. “I can’t worry about you returning to Rivertown while I’m gone.”

  “Leo’s safe; you’re sure?”

  “Hidden away from the world.”

  “Call me soon?”

  “As soon as I know something,” I said, which didn’t sound like anytime soon at all.

  * * *

  The burgundy Escalade passed beneath my windows an hour later. I grabbed my coats and ran to the Jeep.

  Robinson drove to the same Denny’s Jarobi and I had gone to, just the day before. He and another man went in. They sat at a booth by the window, as Jarobi and I had. I watched them eat what looked like omelets. When they came out, I followed them back to city hall. Cars and trucks got between us, but again I spotted no one following Robinson.

  My landline rang as soon as I got back inside.

  “Did you get hungry, watching us?” Robinson asked. He sounded calmer.

  “How was breakfast?”

  “Excellent, like every morning. I spotted you following me home last night as well. I appreciate the thought, but if I noticed you, chances are my secret friend did, too. He’s probably backed off for a while.”

  “Maybe you should ask the police for help.”

  “Rivertown police? You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’ve got to go out of town for a little while. I think you’ll be all right.” I made sure he had my cell phone number and told him to call me if his tail reappeared.

  * * *

  Jarobi called as I was walking from the indoor garage.

  “Anything?” I asked.

  I lost his words in the chatter of a group of people walking behind me, happy folks on their way to happy times.

  “Tell me, Jarobi: anything?”

  “I said—” His words vaporized as the nattering group passed by.

  “Any word?”

  “What the hell are you doing at the airport, Elstrom?” he shouted.

  “Chasing the only idea I’ve got,” I said, riding the escalator up to the ticketing area.

  “There’s a man less than fifty feet behind you. See him waving?”

  I turned. Down at the base of the elevator, a man waved.

  “You’re wasting manpower tailing me.”

  “It’s the only idea I’ve got,” he said, mimicking my words. “He wants to stick a gun in your ribs before you can buy a ticket. What shall I tell him?”

  “Tell him security people will frown at his gun, but if he’s got a cop ID, he can come along.”

  “Those divorcing people?”

  “I can’t just sit.”

  “Your L.A. lovebirds won’t tell you anything. They’ve got the money to hire professionals.�
��

  “I’ll agitate. I’ll fuss, I’ll fidget, I’ll look like I know more than I do. Tell me what else I can do. Tell me why the kidnapper hasn’t called. Tell me how Amanda’s feeling, right now.”

  “Wait here, be bait. Maybe our kidnapper thinks you still have the picture.”

  “He knows better if he’s already contacted Wendell. You can put a man on my turret, though, to see if anyone comes. Or you can pick my lock like the last time and wait inside.”

  “As I remember, it’s too cold inside your place.”

  “I’m hoping I’ll heat things up in L.A.”

  Forty-four

  Right after I landed, I used a nicely anonymous prepaid cell phone to call each of the two divorce lawyers named in the National Enquirer. I gave each receptionist the same message: “This evening only, I’m in town to see if you’re interested in a daisy.”

  Each receptionist asked me to hold. Neither lawyer surprised me by then picking up the phone himself. Each agreed to meet immediately, accompanied by his principal.

  Neither had pretended even a moment’s confusion, and I took that behavior as ambiguous news. Both knew the painting was about to become available; likely each had already been in contact with someone looking to sell a flower. It meant, too, that neither had sent one of his own to kidnap Amanda. Whoever had been hired to grab her was local to Chicago.

  I called Jarobi to update him with the latest news. He didn’t answer. I let myself dare to hope that perhaps the kidnapper was calling at that very moment, and that was why he couldn’t answer his phone.

  I also let myself dare to hope that the kidnapper knew Wendell Phelps had the resources to unleash every hound in hell if even one of the hairs on his daughter’s head was harmed.

  I rented the cheapest thing Hertz had, a tiny Korean car that looked to have been assembled from shrunken parts. It was twice as expensive and just as small as the last car I’d rented, a minuscule concoction from a place named Swifty’s outside the airport in Minneapolis. The swiftest thing about that operation had been the speed with which they’d distanced themselves after I’d run their car into a truckload of pigs. Those seemed like golden days now. I’d only been hunting an heiress then, not someone who’d kidnapped a woman with whom I’d shared part of my life.

  Hunger started abrading the nerves that were twisting in my stomach. I hadn’t eaten since the handful of Cheerios I’d swallowed on the way to the airport. I pulled into a fast food place named In-N-Out, assuming that the name portended nothing of intestinal velocity but simply the speed of their service; my gut was already knotted enough. I ordered a burger and a chocolate shake. I tried to eat while I drove, but after two bites, it was no good. My nerves were more anxious than hungry.

  Mindy Bennett’s lawyer had offices in a low-rise stucco building three miles from the airport. It appeared to be a one-lawyer firm, but perhaps to compensate for that, it had very large furniture in its waiting room. A tidy little man sat in one of the huge chairs.

  I was not asked to sit. The receptionist immediately ushered me into a large inner office. I supposed her speed could have been due to the In-N-Out onions that were most certainly in their Out mode by then, no matter the mints I’d stuffed in my mouth. More likely, her boss was anxious to buy a painting.

  The soon-to-be ex–Mrs. Bennett wore a tight red dress, a blond wig that was slightly askew on her forehead, and too much real tan that had cut deep lines around her eyes and mouth. She was out of breath. She must have rushed to her lawyer’s office from getting tanned somewhere.

  Her lawyer, a fellow named Smilt, wore an open-collared striped shirt, a gold neck chain, and carefully sprayed-up hair that reminded me of the little hair wall that Rivertown’s own Elvis Derbil, late of the Building and Zoning Department, had constructed to hide the bald patch at the back of his head.

  “You’ve brought the painting?” he asked, as I sat down.

  “Not exactly,” I said. I looked over at Mrs. Bennett. She was examining her fingernails.

  Her lawyer cleared his throat loudly. “As I told your partner, I’ll be doing the negotiating, on behalf of Mrs. Bennett.”

  I turned back around. “I understand you had a satisfying conversation.” It seemed like a safe thing to say.

  Before he could answer, my prepaid cell phone rang. It was Mr. Bennett’s lawyer, and he was nervous. “You’re on your way?”

  “I’m with Mrs. Bennett now,” I said affably and clicked him away.

  I smiled at the sprayed-up Smilt. “I’m seeing Mr. Bennett’s lawyer next, of course.”

  His skin had gone pale beneath the tan. “I told your partner that there’s no need. We’re ready to close the deal now, in cash.”

  I snuck a glance behind me. Mrs. Bennett still hadn’t looked up from her fingernails. I understood, then. The lawyer was running the deal, fronting for the sorts of investors who could deal in cash. Mindy Bennett was only along for the ride, and a commission for the use of her claim on Henny Bennett’s assets.

  “You’ll want to inspect the painting,” I said.

  “The appraiser is outside,” he said, meaning the little man in the big chair I’d seen on the way in. “As soon as we examine the painting, we can agree on a final amount.”

  “Soon,” I said.

  “Soon?” The sprayed-up lawyer leaned across his desk. “Let’s stop this shit, shall we? As you well know, we’ve received calls from two individuals other than you. One said he owned the painting, that it had been stolen, and that it cannot be sold without his approval. He is not our concern. Your partner is. He called not two hours ago, stating that he is ready to complete the transaction and would get back to us. Now you’re here, so very promptly. We have the cash ready. I rushed an authenticator over. Yet you’ve not brought the painting to be authenticated? What’s going on?”

  “One must be careful.” I stood up. The lawyer’s eyes had narrowed almost to closing. He was on the verge of realizing I’d come into his office breathing not just onions but lies.

  On the sofa, Mrs. Bennett was still inspecting her nails.

  I turned for the door.

  “When will you contact me?” the lawyer asked.

  “Soon,” I said and beat it out to the car.

  Someone had called, saying he was ready to complete the deal. I called Jarobi and again got routed to voice mail. “I assume you have news,” I said. “Call me.”

  I hoped it meant the exchange was taking place, right about then. I decided to continue on anyway.

  Henny Bennett’s lawyer, one Mickey Gare, had offices in a considerably taller and flashier building on Wilshire Boulevard. The reception area opened to a hall with many doors, a lot of chrome and leather guest furniture, and two beautiful women. One was a stylish blond receptionist, no more than thirty, concentrating on a computer screen. The other was younger, no more than twenty-five. She, too, was blond and concentrating, on a magazine that looked to contain small pictures of big movie stars.

  The blond receptionist looked up. She escorted me into a private office, where the man behind the desk stood to introduce himself. “Mickey Gare,” he said, “and you are…?”

  “Not Mickey Gare.”

  The lawyer winced. The man sitting on one of the guest chairs did not. Nor did he get up. I recognized him from his Internet photos. Henny Bennett wore a suit and an open-collared shirt like his lawyer, though his was unbuttoned halfway past his heavily tanned abs.

  We sat down. “I’m here to make sure your interest in the Daisy is substantial,” I said.

  The man on the chair nodded. The lawyer did not.

  “What?” Gare had a faint smudge of white powder under his nose that reminded me of the ever-present sugar residue on Benny Fittle, Rivertown’s traffic enforcement person.

  “On whose behalf are you here?” Henny Bennett asked.

  “Meaning do I represent the seller or the man who is attempting to block the sale?”

  “That would be it exactly,” Bennett sa
id.

  “I represent the person who has the painting,” I said. “I believe you spoke to him just a couple of hours ago?”

  “I told him we’ll take our chances with a disputed title, if that’s what you mean,” Mickey Gare said.

  “You have cash?”

  “You’ve brought the painting?” Bennett asked.

  “What?” Mickey Gare asked.

  “All seems satisfactory,” I said and left.

  Out in the reception room, the sweet young thing on the couch looked as though she’d made little progress in the magazine she was reading, but then, pictures can sometimes take a long time. I suspected she was to be a future Mrs. Bennett, once Henny got rid of the previous, sun-damaged model.

  “Don’t,” I said, as I headed for the outer door.

  “Don’t?” she asked, looking up, confused. She was gorgeous.

  “Just don’t,” I said.

  I called Jarobi’s phone as soon as I got to the car. He didn’t answer. I didn’t leave a message.

  Two hours later, I was on a plane, more nervous and confused than when I’d arrived. Perhaps the kidnapper had gotten the painting—but no one had called to say what Wendell got in return.

  Forty-five

  My plane landed at midnight. I hurried to an empty gate to check my phone.

  Jenny had left the first voice message, suggesting dinner. Wendell Phelps left the next four. His voice was too agitated to be bearing good news. I sat down to call him.

  “I need you on my payroll,” he said.

  I took a deep breath. I’d been sure I was going to hear worse. “Amanda; she’s safe?”

  “I need you on my payroll,” he said again. He sounded disoriented.

  “You made the exchange, right?”

  Two people passing in front of me turned around. I’d shouted.

  “Wendell,” I said more softly. “The kidnapper called, right? You made the exchange? Amanda is safe?”

  “Another call,” he mumbled. “… you back.”

  I got up and started hurrying toward the garage. Something was wrong.