His Name Is John

by Dorien Grey

  Shortly after seven o’clock he took another quick shower and got dressed. The weather had turned cool and so as a concession to Steve and the occasion, he wore a tie and his favorite sport jacket. Though he would vehemently deny being even remotely vain, he studied himself closely in the mirror looking for evidence of an increase in the number of grey hairs—seven—he’d discovered and yanked out recently. He was relieved not to find any new offenders. He didn’t mind getting older, he just didn’t want to look it.

  He arrived at the gallery a little after eight and was pleased to see a fair number of people already there. Two red-vested waiters moved among the crowd with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Cessy and Brad weren’t there yet, and it took him several seconds to spot Steve, who was at the far end of the room in front of one of his Calico ghost town paintings, talking with a well-dressed white-haired man.

  He looked quickly around the room and spotted the portrait of Steve’s brother, and though he did not see the gallery owner, he did see the woman who had been working the first time he had visited the gallery with Steve—Miss Brown, if he remembered correctly. He hadn’t gotten her first name. She was talking with a tall, strikingly handsome couple and writing something in a leather portfolio. As he watched, she handed the man a business card, closed the notebook, smiled, and shook hands with them both, then turned to move across the room. Seeing Elliott looking at her, she came quickly over to him.

  “I’m so glad you could make it,” she said with a warm smile, and Elliott had no idea of whether she actually recognized him or not. “Have you had a chance to look around?”

  “Actually, I’d like to buy the portrait just to the left of the umbrella plant, but I’d like it to be an anonymous purchase.”

  From her lack of reaction to his stated desire for anonymity, he assumed this was not an unusual request.

  “Of course,” she said, opening her notebook. She quickly and expertly went through a number of glossy sheets of paper in a pocket on one side of the notebook, extracting one with a color photo of Manny’s portrait. Beneath the photo was a list of pertinent information (“Oil on canvas, 14 x 24, 2003, Steven Gutierrez”) and the price.

  Checking to verify that Steve was still engaged in conversation, Elliott took out his checkbook, hoping Steve wouldn’t see him or what he was doing. Folding the description sheet, he put it in his inside jacket pocket. There were times when being wealthy came in handy, and this, he felt, was one of those times.

  When he handed Miss Brown the check, she smiled again, slid it into the pocket behind the detail sheets, and said, “Would you like to pick it up or have it delivered? We would appreciate your allowing us to keep it on display for the duration of the show, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I’ll call you to let you know about delivery.”

  Extracting a business card from her notebook and closing it, she smiled, and as Elliott took the card, extended her hand. It struck him that this was an exact replay of her actions with the couple she’d been talking with when he first spotted her.

  “Please do look around,” she said, “and if you find something else you’d like, I’m at your service.”

  He looked up just in time to see that Steve had noticed him and was coming toward him. He excused himself from Miss Brown and went to meet him.

  He had never seen Steve in a suit and tie before, and he was, to say the least, impressed—and somewhat surprised by the warm flush that swept over him. He was sure it wasn’t John this time.

  They shook hands, and Steve practically glowed.

  “So what do you think?” he asked, indicating the room and the crowd.

  “I think it’s fantastic.”

  “I haven’t seen Cessy or Brad,” Steve said. “I hope they’re coming.”

  “Cessy wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Elliott assured him, grinning.

  Miss Brown suddenly appeared with a fashionably dressed woman in tow. “Excuse me, Mr. Gutierrez, but when you have a moment this lady would like to talk with you.”

  “Of course,” Steve said with a smile Elliott was sure would make Ebenezer Scrooge grow weak in the knees.

  “Go ahead,” Elliott said with a smile and a nod to the woman. “I want to look around some more.” He excused himself and moved toward the door, pausing to take a glass of champagne from the waiter. He’d just taken his first sip when he saw Cessy come in. He did not see Brad. She noticed him immediately and came over. She was wearing the same dress she’d worn at dinner with their parents and looked beautiful.

  “Where’s Brad?” he asked after they exchanged a hug.

  “We were three blocks away when he got called in to work. I really hate it when that happens, but after fifteen years of marriage to a policeman, there’s not much I can do about it. He dropped me off and said to apologize to you and Steve for not making it.”

  “Well, I’m sorry he had to go in,” Elliott said, “but I know he’s not wild about this kind of affair anyway.”

  She smiled and shrugged. “True, but he indulges me shamelessly. Have you talked to Steve yet?”

  “Briefly. He’s a busy man. He’s over there,” he said, gesturing toward Steve with his champagne glass. “He’s the one about three feet off the floor.”

  At that same moment, Steve looked over toward him and, seeing Cessy, gave her a big smile and a wave, which she returned.

  “He’s a very handsome man,” Cessy said. “You make a nice couple.”

  “I don’t think we’re quite at the ‘couple’ stage yet.”

  “But you’d like to be,” she said.

  He grinned. “Push, push, push.”

  “So show me his paintings,” she said, taking his arm.

  * * *

  Steve managed to join them after about ten minutes. He offered his hand to Cessy, but she hugged him instead. “These are absolutely wonderful, Steve,” she said. “I had no idea you were so talented. Elliott tried to tell me, but I thought he was just being prejudiced. I can see now he’s not.”

  Steve’s expression was a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure. “I’m glad you like them,” he said.

  “Oh, I do, and I’m going to be sure to tell Mother about you. She and my father are ardent collectors.”

  “That would be great,” Steve said. “I appreciate the recommendation.”

  “My pleasure,” she said.

  “Okay,” Elliott interjected. “I see Miss Brown looking your way. You’d better get back to earning your keep.”

  Steve shrugged. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I see my boss from work just came in. I’d better go say hello.”

  “That you should,” Elliott agreed. “In case we don’t get a chance to talk again before we leave….”

  “No, no, you come find me before you go.”

  “Okay. Now go greet your boss.”

  * * *

  He rode the el with Cessy to his stop at Thorndale where, despite his insistence that he drive her home from his apartment, she refused with thanks and he got off.

  Walking from the el station to his condo, he reflected on the evening and that he’d enjoyed it, as much for Steve as for himself. When he and Cessy had said their brief good-byes to Steve as they left the gallery, neither Steve nor he mentioned their prearranged agreement to get together Saturday night—Elliott because he didn’t want to add any more fuel to Cessy’s speculations about their relationship, and Steve, Elliott assumed, because he didn’t want to give Cessy the idea that he was pursuing her brother.

  Though he’d had two glasses of champagne at the gallery, he fixed himself a bourbon-Seven and watched a little TV before going to bed.

  He really is talented.

  Yes, I know.

  And you do make a nice couple.

  Great! First Cessy, now you.

  I just calls ’em the way I sees ’em.

  You’re in a good mood tonight.

  Yes. It’s almost over. I can tell.

  And w
hat will happen then?

  Interesting question. I’m not sure.

  Will you leave?

  You, you mean? Do you want me to?

  Well, there’s really not room in here for two separate people.

  I agree. But once it’s over, I’ll be free. I’m in no particular hurry to go anywhere. Eternity is a very long time. I can wait a bit. I’d like to see some of the world from my new perspective. But I promise I’m not going to intrude on your individuality or take up too much room in your mind. But it would be nice if we could stay in touch.

  What does that mean?

  I’m not sure. But we were friends once, and I like to think we’ve become friends again. I’d like to…well, like I said, stay in touch. I’m not quite sure how it will work out, and if you ever want me to just go away, I will. I promise. Is that okay with you?

  Elliott felt himself rising to the surface of consciousness, but he willed himself back into deeper sleep long enough to complete his thought.

  Yeah, I think I’d like that.

  CHAPTER 16

  Steve called early Saturday morning. Elliott could tell from the tone of his, “Good morning, Elliott,” that the opening had gone well.

  “A success, I assume?” Elliott asked.

  “Fantastic! I couldn’t be happier! I sold four outright—one was anonymous, but who cares, it sold! And several other people expressed interest. Mr. Devereux said they’ll probably buy. And I made a lot of contacts. It was great. I’m sorry I couldn’t spend more time with you and Cessy, but…”

  “Hey, don’t worry about it. I’m really glad it was a success. You deserve it.”

  “Thanks…and thanks for being there.”

  “I enjoyed it, and Cessy is more convinced than ever that we’re a match made in heaven. The girl has to get a life.”

  Steve laughed. “So are we still on for tonight?”

  “Sure. Seven thirty okay?”

  “Okay, but let me pick you up this time. We’re always using your car.”

  “I don’t mind, but sure, if you want. I’ll be outside.”

  “Great. I’m looking forward to it.”

  * * *

  He was at the car wash when his cell phone rang.

  “Elliott,” he said.

  “Elliott, it’s Cessy. We’ve just gotten back from Lake Geneva, and I just dropped Sister off. She gave me a hairbrush of her mother’s and asked me to give it to Brad…and she gave me a letter for you.”

  “A letter?”

  “Yes. She says you asked her for it. What’s this all about?”

  “Did Sister tell you what was in it?”

  “No, she said she didn’t read it. She just said she assumes it was what you were looking for. I had no idea what she was talking about, but I took it. It’s addressed to Vittorio Collina, Sister Marie’s father. Why would you want it? How did you even know about it?”

  “Have you read it?”

  “No, of course not. But…”

  “Can I come over and get it?”

  “Now? I’m just getting ready to take BJ to his soccer game. Brad had to go in to the office this morning; he’s meeting us at the field.”

  “What time is the game?”

  “Three o’clock, and it’s nearly two now.”

  “I can be over at your house in fifteen minutes. Can you wait for me…or leave it somewhere I can find it? It’s really important.”

  “Well, I can leave it under the mat if we have to leave before you get here.” Her voice reflected her confusion and a certain degree of anxiety. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Not right now, Sis, but I will. I promise. I’ll see you shortly.”

  His own level of anticipation was high enough—having it compounded by John’s made him feel as though he’d just eaten a box of chocolate-covered donuts and washed them down with two pots of strong black coffee.

  Cessy was just strapping Sandy into her baby seat and BJ was getting into the SUV when Elliott pulled up in front of their house.

  “It’s under the mat,” Cessy called as he got out of his car and she climbed into the driver’s seat. Not seeing Jenny, he assumed she was probably at a friend’s house, but he and BJ exchanged casual waves as Cessy backed out of the driveway and turned toward BJ’s school and the soccer field.

  The letter, which Cessy had slipped into a plastic bag for protection, was addressed to Vittorio Collina at his Lake Geneva estate. It had roughly been torn open, Vittorio apparently not being the type to bother looking for a letter opener, and reclosed with a small strip of scotch tape. He pried the tape loose and took out the letter. A single sheet. It was brief and to the point:

  Vittorio, you rotten son-of-a-bitch, you took my kid and gave me a lousy twenty-five grand, like that was supposed to last me forever. But I didn’t complain, not once in all the years.

  But now when I need money for an operation and ask you for help, you don’t answer my letters or take my phone calls.

  Well, Mr. Asshole, I’ve got a little bombshell to drop on you as a way of showing my appreciation for your response to my request: Remember Larry Genestra, the guy you paid to watch over me while you kept me prisoner? Well, Larry was ten times the man you’ll ever be, and Al is his kid, not yours, you rotten bastard. You don’t believe me, they got dna now. Check it out, and then you can go to hell.

  Celeste

  Elliott stood on Cessy’s porch, reading the letter several times. So, he was right—Al wasn’t Vittorio son! Did Al know it? How could he? Though the knowledge would be ample justification for him to kill John, or more likely, have him killed. Did Sophia know? She had the letter. He had no idea how she got it, but he was sure she would have read it. If she knew Al wasn’t Vittorio’s son, why didn’t she say anything? Possibly, he reasoned, because she had raised Al since he was two years old and she considered him her own.

  He checked the postmark: August 1, 2001. If his trivia file served him right, that was within days of Vittorio’s death. Had he even read it? If he did, could the letter have killed him? Al was the apple of his eye, his doppelganger, his heir apparent. Did finding out Al wasn’t his precipitate his death? The newspaper reports of his death stated that he’d fallen down a flight of steps at his estate; nothing was said about a heart attack or any other cause other than the fall.

  So, he had the letter. He wondered briefly about any other letters, since both John and the letter had mentioned them in the plural. Vittorio had obviously destroyed the earlier ones. Why had he kept this one? All of which was worthy of speculation, but still did not prove that Al had been responsible for John’s death.

  He walked back to his car and headed for the soccer field.

  * * *

  The game hadn’t yet started when he arrived, and he found Brad and Cessy standing on the sidelines about halfway down the field, waiting. They both looked a little surprised to see him.

  “I didn’t know you wanted to come to the game,” Cessy said, apologetically. “We’d have waited for you and not just driven off.”

  “No problem,” he said. “Actually, I wanted to talk to Brad for a minute, if I could.”

  Cessy and Brad exchanged a quick, puzzled glance before Brad said, “Sure. I’ve got to go to the bathroom before the game starts anyway. Walk with me.”

  He handed Sandy to Cessy and the two men turned to walk toward the restrooms.

  “So what’s up?” Brad asked.

  “I don’t know if Cessy’s told you yet, but Sister Marie gave her a hairbrush belonging to Sophia Collina—you hadn’t tested Sophia’s DNA, I assume.”

  Brad pursed his lips. “Yeah, Cessy said she had the brush, and no, we hadn’t thought of getting Sophia’s DNA…and we should have. When Al’s didn’t match our John Doe’s we didn’t look any further because we were sure Al was Vittorio’s biological son. Sloppy police work, I’m embarrassed to say, and I’ll take responsibility.”

  “I was sure you’d want something of hers to check for DNA, so I thought
I could save you a little time by asking Sister if she could bring something back with her.” He handed Brad the letter. “And here’s proof that Al Collina isn’t Vittorio Collina’s son, which means that our John Doe is.”

  They stopped while Brad opened and read the letter. When he’d finished, his eyes moved slowly from the paper to Elliott’s face.

  “First, while it might prove Al isn’t Vittorio’s son, it still doesn’t prove our John Doe is—and where did you get this letter?”

  Elliott paused. He was treading on very thin ice, and he knew it. “I asked Marie to get it for me, and I’d wager anything that Sophia’s DNA matches John’s.”

  “Which doesn’t explain how you knew the letter was there, or how you even knew it existed.”

  Elliott shook his head. “Look, Brad, I can’t tell you how I knew it was there. I just knew it. I told you that ever since the accident I just have these overpowering…hunches. And they’ve all proven to be true.”

  “So now you’re a psychic?”

  “No! It’s not like that at all!”

  “Then what is it like?”

  “Damn it, I don’t know! All I know is that I felt I owed it to John to prove who he was, and we’ve come this far—all we have to do is confirm it.”

  “Which won’t tell us who killed him.”

  “Oh, come on, Brad…if Sophia’s DNA proves he is John Collina, that gives Al every reason to kill him for the family fortune. What more do we need?”

  “Proof would be nice,” Brad pointed out. He was silent a moment, his brows furrowed. “But I’m not arguing with you. I didn’t make it to the gallery with Cessy Friday because I was called in on a new murder—a guy named Charlie Cree. Recognize the name?”

  Elliott shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell, no. Who was he?”

  “He was the head of C&C Demolition, which by sheer coincidence does all the demolition projects for Evermore Properties. He’s a childhood pal of our friend Al Collina. Cree’s old man was in the mob with Vittorio. The day before Cree was killed, we’d gotten an anonymous tip that he’d been involved in a hit a couple months back. It turns out that Cree had an apartment on Surf not far from where our John Doe was shot. I wouldn’t be surprised if, knowing what we know now, the two cases are connected.