by Dorien Grey
* * *
The play Friday night turned out to be a musical comedy review, which, while Elliott doubted would ever make it to Broadway, gave him the chance to laugh, which he’d not done much in recent days. He’d accomplished quite a bit during the day, most of it taken up with making arrangements to have the Sheffield building demolished. But he also called the numbers of the two buildings he’d checked out Wednesday and set up appointments to see both Saturday.
Being with Steve was a major factor in lightening his mood. And as always he was aware of John’s presence on the periphery of his consciousness, although he had begun to detect some indescribably subtle difference ever since the explosion. Confidence? Purpose? He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it felt as though John was definitely becoming more sure of himself.
They spent the night at Steve’s, and though Elliott couldn’t remember who suggested it first, agreed to have dinner Saturday night. Returning home Saturday morning to change clothes and get ready for his property-viewing, he found a message from Cessy.
“I didn’t want to bother you on your cell phone,” she explained. “I figured you might be with Steve. Just wanted to tell you Marcella’s here and wants to have you come over Monday night for dinner. She’s fixing lasagna just for you. Give me a call as soon as you can. Bye.”
The reference to Steve, of course, didn’t escape him. Cessy was bound and determined that he was going to settle down, or she’d die trying. And he knew, of course, that Mrs. Priebe—only Cessy called her Marcella—wasn’t going to all that trouble just for him, but he thought it was nice of her, or Cessy, to pretend she was. He immediately called to confirm.
* * *
Whenever he looked at a property represented by a realtor he’d not dealt with before, he always played the naïf, as though the particular property being looked at was his first venture into real estate. He could tell a lot from how the realtor presented it—what was emphasized and what was not, what was mentioned and what was not, which questions were addressed head-on and which danced around.
The female agent for the ten-unit on Montana was one of those bubbly “isn’t-everything-just-wonderful?” types he could not abide. Any potential problem he pointed out was greeted with an “Oh, look over there!” deflection.
It was when the issue of selling price came up that he definitely turned off. The price quoted in the paper had struck him as more than a little on the high side, but he knew there was always room for negotiation. However, when he asked her, in his role of not knowing much about real estate, how much she thought the owners would take, she looked at him as though he should not be allowed to handle sharp objects.
“Oh, it’s worth every penny of the asking price!” she said. “Of course, I’m obligated to present any offer you might make, but I’ve had several other people looking, and if you’re really interested in the property, the more closely you come to the asking price, the better.”
He resisted adding, And the higher your commission.
But while her attitude and presentation were a turn-off in themselves, it was the condition of the interior on which he based his decision. Unlike the Sheffield building, it had not been well maintained. As always, he went through it with a mental calculator, noting what absolutely had to be done, what changes could be made to increase its value, and how much those changes might cost. He noted that the ceilings in the top-floor hallway showed evidence of water damage—a pretty strong indication that the roof probably required significant work, if not complete replacement. The work that needed to be done throughout the building, he knew, went far beyond the cosmetic.
He thanked the realtor for her time and made a note of the agency’s name for future reference. He didn’t think he’d bother looking at another of their listings any time soon.
The four-flat on Elmdale was another story. He clearly could tell that a minimum of effort could greatly increase the property’s value. It was a typical raised three-story post-WWI Chicago-style and originally had been a three-flat, with each apartment taking up an entire floor. As he’d noted on his walk-by earlier, though it didn’t look like it from the outside, the raised basement was now considered the fourth flat.
The owners were a pleasant middle-aged couple who lived on the first floor but were in the process of buying a condo in Evanston. They had arranged with their tenants to let him do a walk-through, and he was favorably impressed. There were several nice gingerbread elements, which, though largely hidden in the course of several minor renovations, could easily be restored or replaced.
As to the basement being a “flat,” he found that sometime in the early 1950s the front two-thirds of the basement had been turned into a small, currently unoccupied three-room apartment, which didn’t technically qualify it as a flat, but he could see how with relatively little work it could be turned into a much larger sunken garden style apartment, and still leave enough room for a compact laundry and utilities area in the rear.
The asking price was also a little high, but he was sure they could negotiate. Part of the game was never appearing overly eager, so he told the owners he would give it careful consideration and get back to them early the following week to arrange to have his crew go through the building. The owners were amenable, and he left feeling fairly confident that he had found his next project.
* * *
When he called Steve to see about dinner, Steve suggested that instead of going out, they get a bucket of carry-out chicken and rent a movie, which was fine with Elliott. He really wasn’t a going-out-a-lot kind of guy, and was pleased to learn that Steve also didn’t feel the necessity to be always on the go. He volunteered to stop for both on his way over, and Steve left the selection of movie to him.
On a whim, he took along one of his own favorite porn videos—not that they needed one, but from what he knew about Steve, he was pretty sure how the evening would end up and figured it would be fun for them to duplicate the on-screen action.
He was right.
* * *
Sunday, Steve fixed breakfast then explained he wanted to spend the day painting, so Elliott headed home, where his own day was spent, albeit prematurely, jotting down notes and ideas on the Elmdale four-flat—estimating rough costs, time involved, making some preliminary sketches from what he remembered of the building, and a myriad of other details.
He had by now become so accustomed to John’s presence that, like the faint sound of the el trains three blocks away, he was completely unaware of it. He had the sense that John was waiting patiently for whatever lay ahead, but there was also that growing emanation of confidence he assumed was a combination of John’s growing awareness of the world beyond himself, of accommodating himself to his current state, and the fact that Elliott and the police were on track to discovering who the man behind G.J. Hill might have been.
* * *
Monday evening, on his way to Brad and Cessy’s, he stopped at a small Italian grocery store and picked up a large tin of Amoretto Biscotti, which he knew Mrs. Priebe loved, and which he also knew wouldn’t last through the evening with Brad and BJ around.
It was, for him, one of those evenings when he was truly grateful for the gift of family. Part of it may have been the casualness of his relationship with his parents as opposed to the warmth and sense of inclusiveness he got from Cessy and her family, but the feeling of truly belonging was one he treasured.
Brad’s mother, too, was a delight. Warm and funny and affectionate, she adored her son and her grandchildren and treated Cessy as though she were a daughter rather than her daughter-in-law. And she’d always been very kind to Elliott on those rare occasions when he had the chance to see her.
Elliott, of course, flattered her at every opportunity, but he felt the flattery was justified. In addition to her other sterling qualities, she was a superb cook, and he ate more at that one meal than he usually ate in a day. Luckily, anticipating the appetites of three men—BJ ate like a ranch hand—Mrs. Priebe had made two huge pans of lasagna.
After dinner, as Cessy and Mrs. Priebe cleared the table and brought in coffee and the tin of biscotti, he heard himself asking Brad if there had been any further developments on tracking down G.J. Hill’s true identity. He was a little surprised at himself, since he didn’t like to drag Brad’s work into family time.
Mrs. Priebe, who had just returned to the table with Cessy, said, “What’s this about?” and Brad filled her in briefly on the case and its complexities, and Elliott’s role in it.
“You do have a fascinating life,” she said with a smile.
“I like names that are things,” Jenny volunteered. She turned to her mother. “Did you know that actor on TV, Joe Montagna’s last name means mountain?” She then turned to her grandmother. “Grandma, what’s the Italian word for hill?”
Mrs. Priebe smiled at her. “Collina,” she said.
CHAPTER 13
He managed to say, “Excuse me a moment,” before quickly leaving the table, headed for the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and sat down on the toilet, his head between his hands. He felt so dizzy he was afraid he might pass out. He had no idea what part of his reaction was his, and what part was John’s, but the combination of the two produced a sensation he had never before in his life experienced, and it terrified him.
He didn’t know how long he was in there until there was a rapping at the door and he heard Cessy’s voice.
“Elliott, are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Sis. I’ll be right out.”
He pulled himself together and got up to splash water on his face. He patted himself dry with a towel, then flushed the toilet and left the bathroom. Cessy was standing in the hall, waiting for him.
“Are you sure you’re all right? We were all worried about you. You turned pale as a ghost!”
“I’m sorry,” he replied, aware of but ignoring the irony of her comment. “I’ve been a little under the weather the past few days,” he lied, “and I guess I just ate too much too fast.”
They returned to the table, where he made his apologies and repeated his excuse. He noticed Brad looking at him, and knew Brad didn’t buy it.
He left shortly thereafter, assuring Cessy he was fine to drive, and taking, at Mrs. Priebe’s insistence, a large dish of lasagna “for when you’re feeling better.”
Despite his lightheadedness and the indescribable turmoil going on in his head, he made it home. He resisted the urge to go directly to bed, knowing that he’d be hearing from John, but wanting to take a little while to sort out his own thoughts first.
John Doe was John Collina, who had not, as his brother Al had said and as his sister Marie believed, died in Africa. He had no idea what the real story was, but now that John knew who he was, perhaps it might restore his memory, and he’d be able to explain it all to Elliott…as well as identify his killer. Elliott was pretty sure he already knew.
* * *
Shortly after ten, he gave up on his attempt to watch the news when he realized, seeing the weatherman on the screen, that he hadn’t heard a word of what had been said. He’d just gotten up to go into the bedroom when the phone rang.
“Elliott, it’s Brad.”
He knew full well who it was and wondered why Brad insisted on telling him. “So I gather from your reaction at dinner that you think our John Doe…G.J. Hill…whoever…is a Collina?”
“Not just a Collina,” Elliott replied. “He’s John Collina, Al’s brother.”
“I see,” Brad said, clearly indicating that he did no such thing. “And how does this get around the fact of John Collina’s having died in Africa eight years ago? You want to tell me what’s going on? What haven’t you told me?”
“That’s just it…John didn’t die in Africa! No body was ever found. I think he just used the ferry capsizing to disappear for good. It…” He paused, trying to gather his thoughts so they’d make some sense to Brad. Again, he didn’t want to mention John’s current status if he could avoid it. “It’s a long story,” he continued. “Are you sure you want to go into it now?”
“I waited until the kids were in bed, and Cessy and Mom are in the kitchen talking. Yes, I want to go into it now. Something about this whole thing has been strange from the very beginning. What’s going on?”
Elliott opened the floodgates, carefully controlling the flow to avoid mentioning John’s presence.
“Look, John never got along with either his dad or Al. Al told me Vittorio had disowned John for being gay. I think he joined the Peace Corps to put as much distance as he could between himself and Vittorio and Al. The ferry capsizing gave him the opportunity to cut his ties to the family once and for all. He returned to the states, where he took...Parsons’…name. He probably couldn’t force himself to give up his own name totally, so he disguised it by changing it to Hill. He might have decided to keep Parson’s initials, G.J., because they could also stand for Giovanni, his birth name, and John, the name he preferred—though that’s just a guess.”
“Why in hell would he go through all that trouble? Why would he want to disappear in the first place?”
“Well, for one thing, can you imagine being gay and having a father like Vittorio and a brother like Al?”
“Yeah, but that was a pretty rotten thing to do to his sister and mother.”
“Granted. But knowing Johnny, I’m sure he must have had a very good reason, though I can’t guess what it might be.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s not enough? Well, I’ll also bet Al found out John wasn’t dead—again, I have no idea how or when.”
There was a slight pause before Brad said, “Interesting, if pretty unlikely, theory. But theories don’t stand up well in court, either. If Al knew John didn’t die in Africa, why wouldn’t he have said so?”
“Because Al wanted him to stay out of the way. Once he found out John was still alive, he probably kept as close track of him as he could, which John didn’t make easier by moving around all the time. I don’t know if he knew Al was aware he was alive or not, but he probably didn’t want to take any chances.”
“Okay, so if he disappeared because of his old man, why didn’t he resurface when Vittorio died?”
“Well, Al was still around. And by that time, he probably thought his mother and sister couldn’t or wouldn’t be able to forgive him for letting them think he was dead. Knowing Al, when Vittorio died I’d guess he pretty much took over as much of the family affairs as Sophia would let him get away with. He certainly wouldn’t want John coming back and creating problems.”
“So what was John doing back in Chicago?”
“I’ll bet he came back for his mother’s funeral. I’m not sure of the exact date she died, but if you check it out, I think the funeral was the twenty-third or twenty-fourth—Cole told me he’d left a note saying he’d be back on the twenty-fourth, and I don’t imagine he would have planned on staying in Chicago any longer than he had to. You said the San Luis Obispo police found Hill had a return ticket for that date.”
“Okay, then, how did Al know he was coming back and why, if Al wanted him dead, didn’t he do it as soon as he found John was still alive? He could have done it any time.”
“I think Al was pretty confident John wanted to keep his distance. But when Sophia died, Al probably knew John would try to make it to the funeral, and he decided to kill him before he got there.”
“I still don’t see what reason he’d have. He just could have let John come back.”
“Marie told us at the recital that Sophia had refused to sign the documents that would have declared John legally dead, even though Al had been after her to do so. She also apparently never changed her will, which means John was entitled to a third of her estate. Al’s a greedy bastard, and killing John before he had a chance to resurface—and making sure no one would be able to identify his body—would mean he could then file the papers to have John declared legally dead and thereby get his portion of John’s share of Sophia’s estate.”
There
was another long pause, then Brad said, “This is all conjecture and speculation, but it would be a pretty solid motive. I suppose we could talk to him. But there’s still one major problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Despite everything you’ve said, and as plausible as it may be, we’d still need proof positive that our John Doe is John Collina.”
“You have John’s DNA. Can you get a sample from Al?”
Brad laughed. “This guy isn’t stupid. If I’d just killed my brother, I sure as hell wouldn’t volunteer to give a DNA sample!”
“Well, would it hurt to ask? If he refuses, that’d be another pretty good indication that he’s hiding something.”
There was another long pause. “Well, I’m not sure. Let me think about all this. We can’t go running off accusing people—even a shit like Al Collina—of murder if we’re still not sure of who the victim is. It still could be possible that our John Doe is someone else entirely.”
“Trust me, he’s not. He’s John Collina.”
“I admire your conviction, Elliott, and I might agree with you, but I don’t know that he is, and unless you know something you’re not telling me, you can’t either. You’ve made a good case in theory, but again, theory isn’t the same as fact. Is there anything else? Anything you’re not telling me?”
“No,” Elliott lied. “I’m just absolutely positive that I’m right, and if I am, we can’t let Al Collina get away with it.”
“No argument,” Brad said. “But I’m walking on pretty thin ice here. As I say, let me think on it and figure out how to handle it, okay?”
“Sure. Thanks, Brad. I don’t know what I would—or could—do about all this if it weren’t for you.”
“No problem. We’ll talk later. G’night.”
“‘Night.”
* * *
Elliott had no doubt, when he went to bed, that he would be hearing from John. But trying to will himself to sleep, of course, had the opposite effect, and his growing impatience made it even worse. The last time he remembered looking at the clock, it was 12:15.
