by Dorien Grey
After exchanged greetings with Cessy and Jenny, his eight-year-old niece—who, as usual, came running down from her upstairs bedroom the minute she heard his voice—he went over to lift baby Sandy out of her highchair and give her a big kiss. As always, she rewarded him by putting her arms around his neck and giving him a one-year-old’s equivalent of a hug.
“Where’s BJ?” he asked.
“He’s over at a friend’s,” Cessy said from her position at the stove, where she was stirring a large pot of beef stew. “He’ll be home shortly.”
Brad had gone to the refrigerator to extract two beers, and motioned for Elliott to follow him into the living room. Jenny followed close behind, telling them of her latest adventures at school, to which Elliott listened attentively.
“Why don’t you go finish your homework, honey?” Brad suggested as the men sat down. “We’ll be eating soon.”
Reluctantly, Jenny went back up the stairs.
“So,” Brad said, taking a long drink from his beer, “solved any good murders lately?”
This had become part of their having-a-beer-together ritual since Elliott had been instrumental in helping the police solve John’s murder. He had never let Brad know it was only with John’s cooperation and assistance he’d been able to do so, and Brad was still both puzzled by and somewhat suspicious of how Elliott could have known what he knew about John’s death.
“One murder was enough for me, thanks,” was Elliott’s standard reply, and it was true—he had no idea how Brad, as a member of the homicide division, could deal with violence and death day after day without burning out totally.
The entrance of Elliott’s nephew, BJ, and Cessy’s announcement that dinner was ready, put an end to any further conversation on that subject.
* * *
Arriving home just before the late news, Elliott went to bed shortly thereafter.
Poor guy.
Who?
The guy in the apartment.
Ah, yeah, him. Was he there today?
He’s always there. Remember how at first all I could convey to you was that my name was John? All I can get from him is the name “Bill,” but I don’t think that’s his own name, so I’d guess that’s who he’s waiting for. I feel really sorry for him.
Any idea of who this Bill might be, or why he’s waiting for him?
I don’t know yet. But he’s been waiting a long time. As I said he’s like a tornado of emotions, but grief is the strongest.
Then how come I wasn’t aware of him? I sensed you the minute I woke up in the hospital.
That’s because I really wanted you to know I was there. I don’t think this guy is even aware of you. There’s really no reason why he should be.
But he’s aware of you, I hope.
I think so. Peripherally, anyway. He’s really confused. Not being corporeal is incredibly difficult for some of us.
You managed.
Yes, and you know how long it took me. We’re all different, whether we have a physical body or not. Unfortunately, there’s no Handbook for the Corporeally Challenged.
Is there such a word as corporeally?
Elliott felt the tingling of John’s laughter.
There is now.
So, what now?
We’ll just have to wait and see. I get the feeling he knows he’s not as he was, but doesn’t know what to do about it. And there’s this overwhelming sadness that I don’t think is related to his current condition. I’ll just have to be patient. As I said, I do think he knows I’m there; that’s about all I can do for now. Oh, and before I go—you’ll definitely like Steve’s painting.
And it was morning again.
* * *
He debated only briefly, as he had breakfast and packed his lunch, on whether he should hold off a day or so before getting back to the Wolinskis with an offer, but realized that was pointless—the Wolinskis wanted badly to sell, his crew had given the building their approval, winter was rapidly approaching, and if he intended to get the sandblasting done while the weather would still allow, there wasn’t much time for games.
He called as soon as he got to the Roscoe building. After verifying with Mrs. Wolinski that the price she had quoted him was one they could live with, he said he would be in contact with his lawyer to draw up the papers.
Normally, with a property that had been listed by a realtor, he’d have asked Larry Fingerhood to handle the matter for him, but this transaction, he felt, fell under the purview of Ken Atkins, a lawyer versed in real estate with whom he’d worked on a few similar situations in the past. As soon as he hung up, he called Ken with the basic information he would need to get the transaction underway.
* * *
The week passed in a blur of details, each one handled as it arose and then let go to move on to the next. The Roscoe building was finished. Thad had done his video and photo tour of the house, presenting Elliott with a copy on Friday after dropping the original off at Larry Fingerhood’s office. Larry had officially listed the property on Wednesday and had put his sign in the yard. He was planning an open house for other brokers on Sunday.
Elliott had talked to Steve a couple of times, and Steve apparently was totally preoccupied with the painting, to the point that he told Elliott on Thursday he’d only had three hours’ sleep the night before.
“I swear I didn’t realize the time! I just get so caught up in what I’m doing…”
“Well, I know what you’re going to get for Christmas,” Elliott said.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“A grandfather clock that chimes every fifteen minutes.”
“Great idea, but tell me—how aware are you of the noise from the el three blocks away?”
“I never hear it,” Elliott admitted.
“I rest my case,” Steve said. “But thanks for your concern.”
“How’s the picture coming? I’m really eager to see it.”
“Almost done. If I can spend all day Saturday on it maybe we can go out to dinner.”
“That means Friday night’s off, I take it?” Elliott asked, and immediately wished he hadn’t. It could be interpreted as sounding a little piqued.
“You know how I hate to say no,” Steve said, “but when I’m in my champing-at-the-bit mode I’m pretty lousy company.”
“I understand,” Elliott said. “I’ve champed at a bit a couple of times myself.”
“I’m sure you have,” Steve laughed.
They left it with tentative plans for dinner Saturday night, and Steve’s promise to call by noon Saturday to verify.
* * *
He didn’t have to check his caller ID when the phone rang exactly at noon on Saturday.
“Done?” he asked as he picked up the phone, not bothering with a “Hi, Steve.”
“Done!” Steve said. He sounded both elated and tired.
“Congratulations! Did you get any sleep last night?”
“Not much, but I’m thinking of lying down for a couple of hours now. I wanted to call you first.”
“I appreciate that,” Elliott replied. “So, you think you’re up for dinner, then?”
“Sure. I’ll be fine after a couple more hours of sleep. I can meet you somewhere, or pick you up, or if you want to see the picture, you can come over here about seven to take a look at it.”
“You know I want to see the picture,” Elliott said, “so, seven it is. Now, go get some sleep.”
* * *
He stopped on the way to Steve’s to pick up a small bottle of champagne, and Steve greeted him at the door wet-haired and naked except for a towel around his waist.
“Come on in,” he said, stepping back to open the door fully. “I just got out of the shower, as you might possibly have guessed.” He gave Elliott a one-armed hug, then took the proffered bottle with thanks and moved to the kitchen to put it in the refrigerator, with Elliott following.
“Let me get dressed,” Steve said, “then I’ll give you a look at the painting, and if you lik
e it, we can open the champagne and have a toast.”
Elliott followed him closely into the bedroom, wrapping his arms around Steve’s waist. Steve removed his hand from the towel, which dropped to the floor.
Steve turned to face him, giving him one of those smiles that made him weak in the knees. “Something I can do for you?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact, there is,” Elliott said, placing his hands on Steve’s shoulders and easing him backward onto the bed.
* * *
“Well, so much for going out for dinner,” Steve said with a grin, propping his head on his bent arm. “You want to call out for a pizza?”
“Sounds great to me,” Elliott replied. “Nothin’ like champagne and pizza, I always say.”
“Hey, so we’re decadent,” Steve said. “We’re entitled.”
“That we are,” Elliott agreed, swinging out of bed. “Bathroom time,” he said, reaching for his shorts. “And I want to see that painting.”
“Oh, yeah, the painting!” Steve said, also getting up. “I almost forgot.”
“Bullshit,” Elliott said over his shoulder as he walked into the bathroom. “And I didn’t forget it, either. I just got a little distracted. You’ve got to remember not to be so damned sexy, and never, never meet me at the door in a towel if you know what’s good for you.”
“Yeah, well, I do know what’s good for me. Why do you think I met you at the door in a towel?”
They both laughed as Elliott returned to the bedroom.
Finished dressing, he said, “So, the picture.”
“Right this way,” Steve replied, heading into the hall.
Reaching through the partly open door to turn on the light in the room he used as his studio, he gave an arm-sweeping “after you” gesture, and they entered. The painting stood on an easel in the center of the room, facing away from them.
“Wait here,” Steve said, going to the easel and turning it around so Elliott could see the painting. “Ta-da!”
Elliott stood there for long moments staring at it, then slowly shook his head. “How in the hell do you do it?” he said. “It’s…fantastic! How come you didn’t have it covered with a white cloth and whip it off?”
Steve grinned. “Because it’s an oil, and oil takes a long time to dry. I didn’t want to risk putting anything over it and smearing the paint. But you like it?”
Elliott walked over to hug him tightly.
“I want it!” he said.
“It’s yours.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Elliott said. “I want it, but only if you’ll let me buy it. And I’m serious. You can’t just go around giving your work away. Pretend I’m just another of your art patrons. Please.”
Steve sighed and grinned. “Well, we’ll talk about it later,” he said, and Elliott moved closer to the painting to get a better look.
Then he saw it.
Steve almost never put people in his paintings, but he had in this one, and Elliott felt an almost electric shock—a double shock, actually—of realization. The first was the sudden powerful awareness of John’s presence. The second was that, while the features were indistinguishable, the person in the picture was a man, standing in the far-left window of the top floor, the apartment that had so intrigued John. One hand held back a curtain, and he looked out into the street as if he were waiting for someone.
CHAPTER 3
“What’s wrong?” he heard Steve saying. “Are you okay? You turned pale as a ghost there for a second.”
“I’m fine!” Elliott managed. “I was just…surprised…to see you put someone in your painting. I can’t remember your ever doing that, unless it was a portrait.”
Steve pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. “Yeah, you’re right. I really don’t know why I put him in there, but the picture just didn’t seem complete without him.”
“Was there anyone in the window when you did your sketches?”
“No. I just felt he belonged there, somehow. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” Elliott lied.
Steve put his hand on Elliott’s arm. “Maybe you’re just hungry,” he said. “Let’s go order that pizza.”
* * *
Steve was asleep long before Elliott was, but listening to his steady, soft breathing at last lulled him to sleep, too.
That’s Aaron.
Who’s Aaron?
The man in the window.
Ah, so you found out his name. Anything on this “Bill” he’s waiting for?
Nothing so far. Steve’s really very…perceptive, by the way. Not quite in the same way as you, but perceptive.
What is this Aaron doing there, other than waiting?
It’s his apartment, that’s what he’s doing there.
But he’s. de…he’s like you, now, right?
John laughed.
That’s all right, Elliott. You can use the word if you want to. There’s way too much political correctness in the world these days.
But he’s aware of you now?
I’m pretty sure he must be, but it’s really so hard to tell. He’s totally consumed with sadness and coming to terms with his present condition, so it’s hard to connect with him. But I’ll keep trying.
* * *
Elliott hated the waiting period between projects. He was not comfortable not working.
The Roscoe property was up for sale, the Wolinskis’ building was in escrow, and nothing could be done until it closed. Because he wanted to be sure the sandblasting was completed before winter set in, he’d arranged for the shortest possible escrow, assuring the Wolinskis they would have an official ninety days from the start of the period before they had to move. He knew he could easily extend that if necessary—everything had happened so fast, the Wolinskis hadn’t given much consideration to exactly where they would go. However, that wasn’t really his concern.
The ground-floor tenant, upon hearing the building was being sold, had begun arrangements to relocate. What to do with Mrs. Reinerio was a different matter. He couldn’t evict her, since she had a lease, even though it was up within three months, and he’d hate to do so even if he could; a possibility, however, was to switch her from her apartment into a refurbished one, inconvenient though that might be for his team; it was much easier and more logical to do all the plumbing work and kitchen renovation at once. Once the refinished building was sold, the status of her occupancy would be out of his hands. Even if the new owners might be very happy to have such a reliable tenant remain, the rents would undoubtedly go up, and Elliott had no idea of her financial status. Again, that wasn’t his concern, but it did bother him. If worse came to worst, he would offer her an availability in one of the buildings he owned.
It bothered him at times that he became so concerned over displacing tenants. He considered himself a pragmatic businessman, though most businessmen, he knew, couldn’t afford the luxury of becoming involved in such matters. And even though he could afford it, it wasn’t good business practice. So he tried to deal with each situation as it arose.
He occupied his time sketching out his ideas for the building, meeting several times with his work crew who, as independent contractors, always had plenty to keep them working full-time, lining up a company to do the sandblasting, and a variety of other chores he knew would bore most people to the point of having their eyes glaze over. He, on the contrary, truly enjoyed it.
* * *
While he made it a policy to have as little contact as possible with a building’s tenants during the escrow period, he felt for some reason compelled to talk with Mrs. Reinerio regarding her options. He didn’t have her phone number, so he called the Wolinskis to ask for it, and to let them know of his intentions so they’d not think it strange for him to show up. As he expected, they had no objections.
Mrs. Wolinski reported they had found a small condo in a new retirement complex and would be moving within a month of the closing of escrow. He then called Mrs. Reinerio, who said she would be happy to talk with him, and
would be home all day.
He drove over after lunch, noting that the weather was definitely turning cooler. Escrow was to close on a Tuesday, but badly as he wanted to get to work immediately, he knew that last-minute glitches often pushed the close back a day or so. To be on the safe side, he’d made arrangements for the sandblasters to come on the Monday following the official close date. He was fairly sure they could easily complete the work before the weather got too bad, but this was Chicago, and he didn’t want to take any chances.
He was curious, too, about street parking around the new property during the day, and was relieved to see it wasn’t too difficult to find a space. He took his time walking up to the building, pausing again to look at its neighbors. He was pleased to confirm his earlier observation that the entire block appeared to be relatively well maintained.
Climbing the steps to the front door, he rang Mrs. Reinerio’s buzzer. She had opened her door by the time he entered the hall.
“Come in, Mr. Smith,” she said, warmly.
“Elliott, please.” He followed her inside, waiting as she closed the door behind him.
“Please, sit,” she said. “May I get you some coffee?”
“If you have some made,” he replied, taking the indicated chair.
“Of course. I’ll only be a moment.”
While she was gone, Elliott looked around. He’d seen the apartment during the inspection tour, but now had a chance to concentrate on some of the individual elements in the room. It was, he decided, definitely a grandmother’s apartment—comfortable, neat, clean, and heavy with an indefinable air of the past.
Mrs. Reinerio returned a few minutes later with a tray on which were two coffee mugs, a creamer, sugar bowl, and a small plate with several pieces of coffee cake. “I don’t hold much on ceremony,” she said. She put the tray on the coffee table in front of him.
Waiting until she had taken a seat across from him, Elliott got right to the point of his visit. He outlined what he perceived to be her options, emphasizing that he was renovating the building for resale, and that a rent increase under the new owners was almost inevitable.
