by Jim Stevens
“Mr. Sherlock is the best,” Tiffany tells her in no uncertain terms.
“He better be,” the woman says with a snarl on her lip worthy of Snidely Whiplash.
I turn to the woman and counter her snarl with a Crest Toothpaste commercial smile. “We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting,” I say.
“I’m Boo.”
“Boo who?” I can’t resist asking.
“Boo Horsley,” she snaps back. “Short for Bouvier.”
“Her mother had a Jackie Kennedy thing,” Kennard mumbles.
“Nice meeting you.”
Boo gives me a wave, as if she doesn’t do employees. “Kennard’s my father from his first marriage. Moomah’s my grandmother.”
“Boo’s my second kinda cousin,” Tiffany explains.
“So nice of you to be here for moral support,” I tell her.
“I wasn’t busy.”
“By the way,” I ask. “Has anyone called the police?”
Kennard’s head comes up from the table and out of his hands, “No.”
“Why not?”
“They said if I called the police they’d slice her up into tiny, bite-sized pieces and grind her up in the garbage disposal.”
“Was that in a tweet, text or Twittered to you?” I ask.
Tiffany silently counts on her fingers. “Nope. It couldn’t have been in a tweet,” she says. “You can only have 140 characters in a tweet.”
“It could have been in two tweets,” Boo says.
“Tweet, tweet?” I ask.
Kennard removes his carefully folded handkerchief and wipes the perspiration off his wrinkled brow. He re-folds the material not as well as it was folded before. Kennard will never be an Origami master. “You have to help me get back the love of my life.”
“Are you sure, Daddy?” Boo interrupts. “Because you said Mom was the love of your life, and also the wife after her. Plus, you can’t forget Moomah.”
“There’s no rule that says you can only have one love of your life,” Tiffany informs all.
Boo turns to Tiffany. “You probably have one every Friday night.”
“The only guy who wants to take you home is a cabdriver,” Tiffany disses back.
I suspect Tiffany and Boo have never been close.
I pull out one of the regal chairs and sit. This could take a while. “Could we go back to the beginning?”
Kennard sighs and clears some phlegm from his throat. “Schnooks was at Rose Nails on Lincoln…”
“Your wife’s name is Schnooks?”
“Nickname.”
I exert a slight, “Whew.”
“We usually go together for the mani-pedi, but I had a meeting at the yacht club. That’s why I think this could be an inside job.”
“An inside kidnapping?” I ask one of the million questions already on my list.
“They knew our Thursday morning M.O.”
“M.O.?” I ask. “Wouldn’t a mani-pedi be an M.P?”
“What kind of detective are you if you don’t know what a modus operandi is?” Boo interrupts.
“Let me guess, you watch a lot of Law and Order?”
“Do you want to hear what happened, or not?” Kennard interrupts the interruptions.
I really don’t, but I have to make a living. “Continue.”
“She told me she’d call while she was drying, but I didn’t hear from her.”
“What were you doing?”
“I was at the yacht club.”
“Yachting?”
“I was in a meeting.”
“On a yacht?”
“No, in the bar.”
“So you were meeting someone in the bar?”
“Yes.”
“Daddy has a drinking problem,” Boo fills in a salient fact.
“I do not.”
“I stand corrected, Daddy,” his daughter says. “You have no problem drinking.”
“How did Schnooks get to the nail salon?”
“A cab.”
“Are you sure?”
“How else would she get there?”
“Bus, subway?”
“Schnooks is allergic to public transportation.”
“What time did she leave?”
“Her appointment was at ten.”
“When you were already in your meeting?”
“And on his second Bloody Mary,” Boo says.
I try to get Kennard back on track. “What happened next?”
“I called her.”
“And…?”
“She didn’t answer.”
“Is that odd?”
“Yes. She always takes my calls. We’re in love.”
I pause to consider any holes in the story thus far. “If she’s getting a manicure and a pedicure how would she be able to hold the phone?”
“Good question, Mr. Sherlock.” Tiffany scores one for the detective.
Kennard’s voice rises. “You’re making jokes? My wife’s been kidnapped, being held against her will. They could be torturing her by pushing bamboo shoots under her fingernails.”
“That would certainly ruin a set of French Tips.” Tiffany has a way of putting everything into her own personal perspective.
“Now your wife,” I try to begin a new line of questioning, but I’m once again interrupted.
“They haven’t made it official.” Boo keeps the facts coming.
“Why not?”
“The fourth time is seldom the charm.” Boo completes the topic with her not-so-subtle opinion.
I revert back to my original list of questions. “What happened next?”
“I called three times, and she still doesn’t answer, so…”
“You had another Bloody Mary?” Once Boo gets on a roll, she stays on a roll.
“No.”
Evidently, Kennard didn’t stress a lot of parental respect during Boo’s upbringing.
“No, I called the nail salon’s main number.”
“And what did they say?”
“As close as I can figure, they said she walked out with wet nails.”
“And…?”
“Schnooks vanished into thin air.” Kennard flips his hands upward like a fisherman lying about the size of a fish and says, “Poof.”
“Poof,” I repeat. “And when did the kidnappers contact you?”
“Three hours later.”
I’m uncomfortable with what Kennard has told me, especially sitting in damp pants and boxer shorts glued to my skin. I stand and pace around the dining room, squishing the still-wet socks inside my shoes. I stop at the window which looks directly into the eighth floor of the newer high rise next door. I turn and notice the wheelie suitcase on the table.
“Going on a trip?” I ask, this being a day away from the Independence Day holiday.
“No,” Kennard says.
“Then what’s with the suitcase?”
“It’s the ransom money. Duh.”
CHAPTER 3
“I’m sitting less than ten feet from a million dollars?”
“Double duh,” Boo disses.
“It’s no big deal, Mr. Sherlock. A million dollars isn’t what it used to be,” Tiffany explains.
“It is if you’ve never had a million dollars.”
“A million will barely buy a walk-in closet in a penthouse in my neighborhood.” Tiffany finishes her thought.
I do not argue on my lack of knowledge of the upper-end real estate market. I move back to the table and place my hand on the suitcase. “Where’d you come up with a million in cash so quickly?”
“Moomah,” Kennard says.
I remember asking my mother for a dollar once — and not getting it.
“She keeps it in her safety deposit box,” Boo says.
“Must be an awfully big box.” I try to picture it in my head. “Does it slide out?”
“Moomah has more of a safety deposit section,” Tiffany exclaims.
I could fit all my assets in a #10 envelope and still have room for my
passport, three birth certificates, and this month’s Smart Shopper Money Saver Coupon Mailer.
“When did you get the money?”
“This morning.”
“And you’re keeping it here, on the dining room table?”
“Where else am I going to keep it?” Kennard answers my question with a question, which I hate. “I’ve got to be ready when they call.” His cheeks have taken on a purplish glow which does little to improve his everyday reddish tint.
I have plenty of comments, but none would be well received in the current situation. “Have any of the texts or tweets given you any instructions?”
“Not yet.”
I look over at the suitcase. “Must be really heavy.”
“It is.”
“A cashier’s check would have been much easier,” Tiffany says.
“What are we going to do, Mr. Detective?” Boo asks in her inimitable, snarky tone.
“I’d like to call a friend of mine,” I tell her, which elicits an immediate breath-only guffaw.
“This is no time to be making other plans,” Tiffany informs me.
“No, it’s a guy who handles kidnappings.”
“Oh, great,” Boo says. “Let’s bring in a specialist.”
“May I borrow your phone?” I ask because I left mine in my car. I do that a lot.
Tiffany hands me her cell phone and I punch some numbers.
“You know your kidnapper friend’s number?” Kennard seems amazed.
“What’s so strange about that?”
“Nobody remembers phone numbers anymore,” Tiffany says. “We have iPhones instead.”
I wait as the phone rings, hoping my ex-compatriot has not taken an early exit for the holiday. He finally picks up. “Yeah, Oland here.”
“It’s Sherlock.”
There’s a slight pause for recognition before he says, “Call from Sherlock before holiday is omen for lousy holiday weekend.”
Lester Oland 6’2”, blonde hair and blue eyes, grew up the son of a Methodist Minister and a Jewish mother in Alton, Illinois. He attended Southern Illinois University on a wrestling scholarship, graduated with a degree in Asian Art History, and quickly realized his education made him unemployable. So, he did what any self-respecting guy in this situation would do. He became a Chicago cop. We both signed up about the same time. He got handed a kidnapping case early in his detective career and solved it, which allowed him to carve out a nice little niche for himself. Now when someone gets ’napped in Chicagoland, Oland gets the call.
By birthright he’s also a self-proclaimed expert on anything Charlie Chan. He’s read all the books and seen every movie so many times he recites the dialog ahead of the actors. All this because Lester Oland is the son of a man who claims to be the illegitimate son of Warner Oland the Swedish actor of the 1930’s who played the Asian detective in a number of the films. Due to his heritage and his self-taught education in the matter, there’s a lot of Charlie Chan in Lester Oland.
Oland arrives at Kennard’s condo in less than twenty minutes, bows as he enters, and takes off his shoes.
“I thought I told you no cops,” is Kennard’s first reaction to Oland’s badge.
“I don’t follow directions well,” I confess.
“He who doesn’t want help of police, has criminals in family,” Oland says.
“Why does it not surprise me that this guy is a buddy of yours?” Boo says.
Oland walks around the room, stops at the table, pats the suitcase as if it is the head of a small child, and says, “After bullshit talk, money usually walk.”
I get everyone to sit and force Kennard to go through the particulars again. Three of us are bored. Oland seems only half-bored.
“Do you have a picture of the victim?” Oland asks.
Kennard goes into the bedroom and returns with a small stack of photos which he spreads out on the dining room table as if he’s dealing over-sized playing cards. We all get to see Schnooks driving a go-kart, riding a pony, and standing next to the world’s largest ball of twine. The only good close-up of Schnooks is of her at Disneyland — if you ignore the Mickey Mouse ears.
Tiffany picks up the picture and gives it a long look. “That hat makes her look fat.”
“She is fat,” Boo responds.
“You’re not going to put one of those APB’s out on her, are you?” Kennard asks. “If the kidnappers find out, they’ll slice her up like sushi.”
“Don’t worry,” I tell him.
Oland asks Kennard, “How do you think the kidnappers got your cell phone number?”
“I don’t know,” Kennard says. “That’s why I suspect an inside job.”
I ask Oland, “Have you seen a lot of inside kidnappings over the years?”
“Not that I recall.” Oland turns to Kennard. “Do you have close friends or relatives that would want to hold your wife hostage?”
“I can assure you none of my family would want to spend any more time with Schnooks than is absolutely necessary.” Boo speaks as if she is auditioning for the job of “family spokesperson”, a roll which will be needed for the duration of the case.
“Even if she was tied up and gagged?”
“Schnooks would be obnoxious if she were in a coma.”
“You and Step-mom are not close?” Oland asks.
“Actually Schnooks is Boo’s Step-Significant Other,” Tiffany says.
“May I remind everyone that Schnooks’ life is at stake!” Kennard shouts out.
“Oh, yeah.” Boo somewhat agrees with her father.
“What we need is an action plan,” Tiffany says.
“We could put a tap on your phone,” I suggest.
“Tapping a cell phone takes forever,” Oland explains, being a bit on the negative side. “Easier just to listen in.”
“I thought there was some satellite in the sky that records every cell phone conversation on earth,” Tiffany says.
“Yes,” Oland says. “But like stars in sky, very difficult to find just one.”
“Should we canvass the area where she was picked up?” I ask.
“You can if you want,” Oland says. “But I doubt if it would do any good.”
“Know any snitches that could help?”
“Snitch in time, seldom save anything,” Oland says not helping my cause.
I try again. “How about putting her picture out city-wide?”
“The one with the mouse ears?” Tiffany asks. “Knowing everyone would see a picture of me as a rodent, I’d choose to stay kidnapped.”
“Call the F.B.I.,” Boo chimes in.
“Those guys are already home firing up their Smokey-Joes,” I tell her.
“Then what?” Boo asks.
Oland rises from the couch. “When there is little you can do, patience is best virtue.”
Kennard turns to me. “If we sit around and not do anything, Schnooks’ head will come back in a burlap sack.”
“Decapitation’s a Mexican drug cartel thing,” Oland explains. “It hasn’t really caught on here yet.”
“So, that’s good news.” I try to put a more positive spin on the situation.
“We have to do something,” Kennard pleads.
“Much to do. Little time to do it,” Oland says as he walks toward the front door. “One of you has to stay.” Oland faces the group as if waiting for volunteer hands to rise. It doesn’t happen.
Tiffany gives me an odd glance and whispers, “No can do. I got plans.”
“Boo, can you stick around?” I ask.
“Sorry, I have a hair appointment.”
“That leaves you, Sherlock,” Oland says, as if happy that he’s ruining my holiday, as well as I’ve ruined his.
“I can’t.”
“You have to,” Kennard says in a threatening tone. “Or, I’ll tell my half-brother and your ass will be out on the street.”
“If I don’t pick up my kids, my ex-wife will have my ass in a much worse place than the street.”
&
nbsp; Everyone avoids eye contact with everyone else as if they were kids playing a dumb game.
“Tiffany, could you stay until I get back?”
Tiffany sighs like a bad actress. “If I have to.”
“Good.”
Oland and I leave together. We wait at the elevator. He’s not a happy guy.
“What do you think?”
Oland gives me a “Why couldn’t you wait until after the holiday to call me in?”
look.
I shrug back at him, as if to say “Hey, it wasn’t me who snatched Schnooks.”
Oland’s right hand rises to gently pinch the end of his chin, as if he were contemplating a Confucius saying. Then he moves slowly to the small hallway window, peers into the building next door, turns back to me, and says, “He who live on eighth floor of sixty-story high rise have crummy view of life.”
CHAPTER 4
“The car smells funny,” Care, my ten-year-old, says climbing into the back seat.
Her sister, Kelly, twelve, puts it more succinctly. “Gross.”
I tell them, “Your father had an unfortunate incident in a dumpster today.”
“Somebody else throw you out?” Kelly asks.
“No, Tiffany threw me in.”
“Dad, you should really rethink the way you deal with women,” Kelly says. She’s made herself my self-appointed life coach.
“Okay, I’ll start with you.” I turn around and notice something’s missing. “Where are your suitcases?”
“Mom said we didn’t need them.”
“You’re coming for almost two weeks. What are you going to wear?”
“Mom said that was your responsibility,” Care says.
My ex-wife strikes again. She knows full well the girls have a very limited wardrobe at my apartment, hardly enough to get them through their court-allotted summer vacation time with Daddy.
“We want to go to Water Tower Place to shop,” Kelly says. “With Tiffany.”
“How about Wal-Mart with Daddy?”
“No way.”
I pull out of the driveway of what used to be my house.
“What are we going to do on our vacation, Dad?” Care asks.
“Yeah,” Kelly says. “Are we going on a trip?”
“To Disneyworld?” Care adds.
“We don’t want to get bored.”
“Let me tell you, girls. In life, you make your own good time.”
