by Jim Stevens
“Fine,” Care says. “Take us to Disneyworld.”
“How about Kiddieland?” It’s a tacky amusement park that’s located west of Chicago in Melrose Park. The perfect spot for three to five-year-old kids with cheap parents.
“It went broke years ago, Dad,” Kelly informs me.
“It did?” I don’t keep up with amusement park news.
“Mom takes us to Six Flags,” Care says.
“How about a swing set at the park?”
“Totally boring,” Kelly responds.
“You are going to take us to the fireworks?” Care asks.
“Fireworks I can do.”
“Because they’re free,” Kelly says.
“No, because they’re fun, as well as an excellent bonding experience for my daughters and me.”
“Yeah, right Dad.” Kelly has her father figured out and is, unfortunately, instructing Care how to do likewise.
Afternoon traffic is horrible as we putt-putt to my apartment.
“Here’s what we have to do,” I tell my pair, stopping the Toyota in front of my building. “Go in and get your toothbrushes, pajamas, and clean underwear.”
“Why?”
“Because you should always start the day in clean underwear.”
“Where are we going?” Care asks.
“Family sleepover.”
“Sounds gay, Dad.”
“It’s going to be fun.”
“Promise?” Care wants assurances.
“No.”
By the time the kids pack up and we’re on our way downtown to Kennard’s condo, it’s well past dinnertime.
“Are you going to tell us what’s going on?” Kelly asks as we exit Lakeshore Drive at North Avenue.
I answer as vaguely as possible. “Let’s just say crime never takes a vacation.”
“What kind of crime?” Care asks.
“Murder?” Kelly tacks on.
“No.”
“Robbery?”
“No.”
“Drug deal gone bad?”
“You kids watch too much TV.”
We pull into the underground garage of Kennard’s high- rise condo building. “Well, Dad, are you going to tell us or not?” Care asks.
“Kidnapping.”
“Oh, wow! I didn’t know you did kidnappings,” Care says.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have a choice.”
“Kidnapping’s not bad,” Kelly says. “I like kidnapping.”
What kind of children am I raising?
There are five levels of parking at Kennard’s condo, but only three spots designated Visitor. To have just three Visitor spots for sixty floors of condos seems a bit pointless to me. We park, check in, and make our way upward.
“This is better than your place, Dad,” Kelly says stepping out onto the eighth floor.
“That isn’t saying much,” I tell her as we proceed down the hallway.
Inside Kennard’s unit, Tiffany greets the girls with open arms. “Hey, little dudettes.”
“Is this like your place, Tiffany?” Care immediately asks.
“Oh, no, mine is much higher, and bigger, and has panoramic views.”
“That’s what I would have thought,” Kelly says.
“Anybody call, text, e-mail, whatever?” I ask Tiffany.
“That’s good, Mr. Sherlock. You’re learning.”
“Nothing,” Kennard says from the couch, where he lays with a compress across his forehead. “Not a peep.”
“Or, a tweet,” Tiffany adds.
“Kennard, these are my kids, Kelly and Care.” I pull the girls toward him. “Say hello to Mr. Horsley, girls.”
“Mr. Horsley,” Care asks. “Do you have a horse?” Care’s working on name recognition.
“No.” Kennard pulls the cloth away from one eye. “But my ex-wife did.”
“What’s her name?”
“Shoo-be-doo.”
“That’s a great name for a horse,” Care says.
“No,” Tiffany says. “Shoo-be-doo was his ex-wife.”
“Oh.”
“That’s what I used to call her,” Kennard says.
“What’s the horse’s name?” Care won’t give it up.
“I forget,” Kennard says, re-covering his one eye.
Before Care has a chance to ask, “Why did you name the horse ‘I Forget’,” the landline phone rings.
Everyone in the room freezes. I take out a small tape recorder, retrieved at my apartment, push the Record button; and place it close to where I will speak. Kennard comes off the couch like a rhino getting up after a nap. Tiffany moves closer to me. I put my finger to my lips for a silent “Shhhhhh,” and answer the phone on its third ring.
“Hello.” I listen as everyone in the room waits with bated breath. “Okay, send him up.”
Kennard rushes to me as I hang up the telephone. “The kidnapper, he’s coming up here?”
“Not unless he also delivers pizzas.”
When the kid from Uno’s Pizza, knocks on the door I look in my wallet and see emptiness. “Kennard?”
“Don’t look at me,” he says.
“We could borrow it from the million dollars in the suitcase?” I suggest.
“No,” Kennard says. “If we come up short, the kidnappers will be back for more.”
Tiffany reaches inside her Coach purse, which is probably worth more than my car, and pulls out a wad of bills. “I got it,” she says.
Tiffany tips the kid well and places the pizza on the kitchen’s laminate countertop. Kennard is first in line for a slice. He might be in the throes of anxiety over Schnook’s disappearance, but his appetite hasn’t been affected in the least. I shovel up slices for Kelly and Care and deposit the kids in front of the TV in the adjacent den. “Don’t watch anything where people aren’t wearing any clothes,” I tell them.
“Can we do pay-per-view?”
“No.”
“Gee, Dad,” Kelly says. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m a Dad. I’m not supposed to be fun.”
I return to the front room, where Kennard is devouring his third slice.
I serve myself. Uno’s is the best pizza on the planet. They’ve perfected a cornbread crust for a deep-dish pizza that makes life worthwhile. I notice Tiffany cutting out the veggies in her pizza like a surgeon removing colon polyps. “Tiffany, you’re missing the best part.”
“When it comes to crusts it’s a minute in your mouth, an hour in your stomach, and a lifetime on your hips.”
The three of us eat. I can hear one of those Hollywood gossip TV shows coming from the adjacent room.
“What happens if they don’t call?” Kennard asks as he chomps away, leaving dangling strands of cheese hanging from his chin.
“They will,” I answer.
“It’s standard kidnap procedure for the kidnappers to do the calling, Uncle Kenno,” Tiffany says. “Kinda like a first date thing with a guy.”
Kennard becomes a bit animated. “What if they’re softening her up?” Kennard says. “What if Schnooks is chained to a wall in an underground dungeon, undergoing some horrific torture, forced to do unmentionable acts of depravity?”
Tiffany somehow sees a silver lining in Kennard’s rain cloud. “That would be good because then we could narrow the suspects down to only known, kinky kidnappers.”
To calm Kennard down, I ask, “Are you sure no one at the nail spa saw anything strange when Schnooks left the place?”
“That’s what I think they said,” Kennard snaps back. “You go down there and see if you can make sense of that crowd. They all speak like they’re still in Mongolia.”
“By the way, how long does it take to get a mani-pedi?” I ask.
“It depends.”
“ FYI,” Tiffany says. “French Tips take a lot longer than just a buff and polish job.”
“How can I be so stupid?”
“You have so much to learn.”
“What was she wearing?” I continue.
“I
don’t remember,” Kennard answers.
“Any phone calls that morning?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Anything odd happen in the few days before?”
“I don’t remember.”
Since I have an amnesia sufferer for a client I quit asking questions.
“I have to get going,” Tiffany says, leaving her half-eaten slice on the counter for someone else to clean up. Ingrained habit, no doubt. “Start of a big party weekend tonight.”
“Should I call if something happens?” I ask.
“Only if it’s a big break in the case or a twist that needs my deductive powers of reasoning.”
“How about if I leave you a voice-mail?”
“No, text me,” Tiffany says. “Nobody uses voice-mail anymore.”
“I don’t text, Tiffany.”
“Gonna have to start sometime,” Tiffany says, as she packs up to go. “Remember, the longest text message starts with the first letter.”
Tiffany exits after saying ciao to the girls. Kennard settles on the couch to nap and digest. Care and Kelly watch TV. I wander around the condo.
Amazing what you can learn snooping around someone’s home.
Kennard and Schnooks don’t have much sex. On one nightstand is a stack of self-help books. On the other a TV remote control. They have a bed with a lumpy mattress that sags horribly in the middle, but I doubt if this is from too much spooning. Each has a drawer in the chest of drawers for underwear. His has boxers. Hers, granny-panties. There are other drawers for his wool pajamas and her flannel nightgowns. On the small bedside nightstands, there are no candles, creams, oils, or lubricants. And no vial of Viagra.
“Whatcha doing, Dad?” Kelly startles me.
“Why aren’t you watching TV with your sister?”
“I can only watch so much Nickelodeon,” Kelly says as she comes to me. “So, what are you doing?”
“Detecting a lifestyle.”
“Can I help?”
“Sure.”
She follows me into the walk-in closet and stops when I stop. “Look around, what can you tell me about these people?”
Kelly glances at the full shelves, drawers, shoe racks, and the clothes on hangers. “That they’re not very stylish?”
“That I probably wouldn’t know,” I admit. “Look, this closet can tell you a lot about the couple sharing it.”
“Really?” Kelly takes another long gander.
“Think.”
She spins all the way around until she faces me again, “Give me a hint.”
“Don’t you think it’s odd that he uses triple the closet space as her?” I physically compare the space his clothes have to hers. “Look at the shoe difference. What does that tell you?”
“He has a foot fetish?”
I’m shocked. “What do you know about a foot fetish, Kelly?”
“Dad, that’s why the Internet was invented.”
“Leave the Internet alone.”
“I couldn’t live without the Internet.”
Kids these days.
I open a smaller drawer. “What does this tell you?”
Kelly sees a pile of jewelry. “She doesn’t take good care of her jewelry?”
“No.”
The drawer is filled with costume junk, tacky at best.
“It’s ugly?”
“Good.”
“Cheap?”
“Better. What else? Something much more important.”
Kelly tries, “I don’t know.”
“Try some on.”
Kelly pulls out a ring, a watch, and a gold chain, circa 1970 disco era. “It doesn’t fit me.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s ugly.”
“No,” I tell her. “Because it’s his and not hers.”
“That’s what I was going to say next.”
“Now, what else don’t you see?”
I give her a few seconds. She gets another “I have no clue” look on her face.
“I give up.”
“She only has one kind of clothing.”
“I said she wasn’t stylish.”
“But what does one kind of clothing tell you?”
“She doesn’t know how to shop?”
“No. It tells you, the rest of her clothes must be somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“I would guess her place.”
I make Kelly put the jewelry back in the drawer. “There’s something else missing in this closet. What?”
“Dad, this is hard.” Kelly adds a shoulder shrug and a forced sigh to make her point.
“There’s no plastic.”
“Credit cards?”
I’m ashamed of my daughter’s word association. “No, there’s no plastic wrapping around clothing.”
She still doesn’t get it.
“When dry cleaning is returned, it comes covered by thin plastic. This closet has none which tells me they’re either slobs or they can’t afford it.”
“Dad,” Kelly argues. “They live in a lakefront condo.”
“On the eighth floor.”
“That’s seven higher than you, Dad.”
Kelly has a point.
“Always remember, Kelly,” I tell her, “what may be on the surface is seldom reality.”
“Oh Dad, please don’t start with the life lessons.”
Bestowing wisdom upon your children is a difficult and thankless task.
Kelly follows me into the bathroom. “What does this room tell you?” I point to the blackened grout in the shower corners, the watermarks on the chrome, and the loose hairs decorating the floor tile.
“Mom’s house before we got a cleaning lady?”
“Your mother can afford a cleaning lady?”
“Yes.”
Kelly prowls around the small room. “I can’t think in a bathroom.”
“Your mother can afford a cleaning lady when she doesn’t have a job?”
“She said she had to be ready if a big offer came in and she had to report to work right away.”
Maybe I should be pleased their mother is teaching them to plan ahead.
We move into the master bedroom. The wood furniture surfaces are layered with dust, although some spots stand out, as if something was sitting there, but was recently removed. The vacuum has not reached all the way to the corners. I take a deep, exaggerated breath, “What does it smell like?”
“It doesn’t smell as bad as your car.”
“It’s musty.”
“So?”
“So, think.”
Kelly contemplates the evidence for a minute before giving me her final answer. “Mr. Horsley’s cleaning lady is very bad at her job.”
“Or?”
“They don’t have a cleaning lady?”
“Bravo, my daughter. Bravo.”
“I’m right?”
“Close enough.”
We make our way back to the den.
“Mr. Horsley snores,” Care informs us.
We stop to listen to a never-ending series of nasal eruptions, equal to those of Mt. St. Helens. Nothing we can do about that.
I find a deck of cards and the three of us play gin rummy for the next two hours. I win by thirty points.
The girls don’t argue when I tell them it is time for nighty-night. They use the dirty bathroom, while I fold down the guest room bed, which hasn’t been used in some time. I wonder about the sheets. I kiss the girls each “good night” as I tuck them in. “Love ya,” I say as I close the door behind me.
I quietly creep into the front room, check to see that Kennard is truly out cold and make my way to the suitcase. I hesitate and make a wish. Sitting before me represents past due balances, a house, two college educations, a new car, and saying “I quit” to Mr. Richmond. I place my fingers on the zipper and discover the suitcase is locked up tight. Here I sit so close to my financial brass ring of life and unable to grab. The story of my life.
To avoid being drive
n crazy by Kennard’s buzz saw snoring, I continue my detecting of the life lived in this file cabinet condo.
For being a trust fund baby, Kennard certainly doesn’t have much to show for it. No original artwork on the walls, no china in a cabinet, no silver service for twelve in a wooden case. He’s down to nine wine glasses. The bar is stocked with Popov, not some fancy imported brand. The carpets have stains to last for eternity, the furniture is tired, and the couch sags from too many naps, similar to the one Kennard’s presently taking.
There’s is a roll-top desk in the den, which I open and find a closed laptop. I pop up its lid and the screen illuminates. I play with the mouse until the Welcome wallpaper comes up and asks me for a password. I try “Schnooks, 12345”, and “Moomah”. All with the same result. I wish I knew Kennard’s date of birth. I give up on breaking in. A hacker I’ll never be.
I close the laptop and open a drawer. There’s a stack of bills, house stuff mostly. Gas, electric, cable TV. The only one more than thirty days past due is the condo association dues. $867.17. His checkbook has a balance of $1,513.87. Not much, but healthier than mine. I find no statements for investments in stocks, bonds, or savings accounts. Way, way back of the file drawer are two well-worn, dog-eared, porno magazines. Kennard is a breast man.
The landline phone rings. Kennard almost levitates off the couch.
“Don’t pick it up yet,” I order as I retrieve my hand-held tape recorder.
Kennard faces the phone and waits for it to ring a second time.
I depress the Record button, pick up the phone, and hold it between Kennard’s ear and the recording device.
“Hello,” Kennard says.
A voice speaks.
Then Kennard, “It’s for you.”
“Hello,” I say putting the receiver to my ear.
“Oland here.”
“Where are you?”
“Dinner and a movie make good couple.”
“Are you coming over here?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Boredom seldom need partner.”
“Gee thanks.”
“The phones are tapped, her picture’s distributed, and we went over the condo security camera tapes for the morning she left. I got my squad on alert. As soon as the call comes in we’re ready to roll.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Must wrap up case quicker than Chinese takeout. Pot stickers already made for July Fourth barbeque.”
I hang up the phone.
Kennard asks, “What did he say?”
