Aaron's Wait

by Dorien Grey

  “Thank you, Mr. Smith. One moment, please.”

  The canned music didn’t get more than three bars into whatever song it was supposed to be before, “This is James Babcock. How can I help you?”

  “I’d spoken with Bill Somers three or four years ago about possibly utilizing Future Com’s services at some point and recently came across his card. I thought it was time I gave it serious consideration. I gather he’s left the company? I’d understood he was one of the owners.”

  “He was my business partner,” Babcock said. “Unfortunately, he passed away, and I’m now the sole owner.”

  “I’m really sorry to hear of Mr. Somers’ death,” Elliott said. “I’m sure it must have been a terrific blow to you and the company.”

  “Yes, it was a shame,” Babcock said, his tone indicating otherwise, “though he was always more of a silent partner than active in the business. So, how can Future Com help you?”

  “It’s all a bit complicated. I’m afraid my business doesn’t fit the usual molds, which is why I’m considering going with a DBA firm. I’m in the middle of a project now, and my time is really at a premium.”

  “I could meet with you at your convenience,” Babcock said, “either in the evening—or on the weekend, if you prefer. At Future Com, our entire philosophy is adapting to our clients’ specific needs.”

  “Well, that’s very good to hear. Perhaps a weekend—”

  “Would tomorrow be convenient?”

  Somewhat taken aback by Babcock’s eagerness, he said, “Yes, tomorrow would be all right. I can come to your office any time in the afternoon.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then, “We’re just getting ready to move our offices next week,” Babcock said, “so I’m afraid things are a bit chaotic around here. I’d be happy to come to your home. Say one o’clock?”

  “That would be fine.” He gave Babcock his address and home phone number and hung up with the distinct impression he was being hustled.

  He glanced again at Somers’ business card, looking for the address. He remembered when he’d first looked that it had seemed familiar—in or near the Loop, as he recalled. He had no idea how big the company might be, but knew it had to be doing pretty well, since office space anywhere in the Loop didn’t come cheap. He was more than a little surprised now to realize the address was the Sears Tower.

  He began to idly weave a few loose strands of speculation into a cobweb of mystery. How many companies housed in the Sears Tower, he wondered, would put an unknown caller through almost immediately to the owner of the company rather than to a subordinate? That Babcock had said the office was moving, and his eagerness to talk to Elliott—on a weekend, and at Elliott’s home, no less—suggested the possibility the business might be in trouble. He wondered again what had happened to Bill Somers’ share. Babcock would have had to buy out whoever was named in Bill’s will—and he was sure there would have been legal complexities if Aaron had, indeed, been Bill’s heir. Or perhaps the business agreement with Babcock had a survivorship clause.

  And what about Babcock’s implying that Bill had been just a silent partner? Even without having known Bill, he strongly doubted the accuracy of that claim, so why had Babcock made it? The more questions he asked himself the less the mystery seemed like a cobweb and more like a Gordian Knot.

  * * *

  Friday night he stayed over at Steve’s after a pizza-and-movie night they both enjoyed. Neither of them mentioned Steve’s ex—Elliott couldn’t help but think of him that way, as much as he tried not to—other than Steve’s verification that Gil would be flying in the following Friday afternoon and staying a week, when he’d catch a train on Thursday back to LA. Steve had arranged to take Monday through Thursday off to show him around the city.

  Elliott had determined not to have any sort of conversation about his and Steve’s relationship until after Gil left, if then, and he reluctantly admitted to himself he didn’t even want to go near the subject if there was any possible chance Steve and Gil might decide their own relationship wasn’t as over as Steve had assured him it was. He didn’t see it as being pessimistic in his thinking, merely practical.

  Saturday after breakfast, having agreed to get together for dinner later, he dropped Steve off at an art supply house and, after being assured yet again that Steve could easily take the bus home, Elliott headed on home for his meeting with Babcock.

  * * *

  The lobby called to announce Babcock’s arrival at exactly one o’clock, and Elliott opened his door to a compact, buffed, perfectly groomed mid-thirties poster boy for Bally’s Gym. In fact, Elliott was pretty sure he’d seen him there on several occasions.

  Babcock immediately extended his hand. “Elliott—Jim Babcock.” His smile and his handshake were equally firm and, Elliott was sure, equally studied.

  “Thanks for coming,” Elliott said, showing him into the living room. Noticing Babcock’s briefcase, he gestured toward the dining alcove. “Should we sit at the table?”

  “Wherever you’d be more comfortable,” Babcock replied, and they moved into the dining area and pulled out chairs on opposite sides of the table.

  “I must say I was a little surprised that you’d take the time on a weekend to come over yourself,” Elliott observed.

  “At Future Com, the client’s needs come first,” Babcock said, still wearing the hearty smile as he opened his briefcase and removed several brochures and folders, which he set on the table. “Normally, one of my associates handles new clients, but we’ve been so busy lately, I’ve been pitching in.”

  “I’m sure the loss of your partner placed quite a lot of extra work on you,” Elliott said.

  Babcock didn’t bat an eye. “Not really. It’s been nearly four years, and he was more of a silent partner, actually. The work always rested mostly with me.”

  Again, Elliott mentally questioned the accuracy of that statement, but didn’t say anything.

  Babcock closed his briefcase and set it on the floor at the side of his chair. “Now, tell me how Future Com can help you.”

  Elliott had given thought to exactly how he could make it appear he needed assistance with the operation of his business when he actually didn’t. He quickly outlined all the details routinely involved in any of his projects as Babcock sat looking at him, nodding occasionally.

  When he’d finished, Babcock leaned forward in his chair, reaching for one of the glossy brochures in front of him. “Well, here’s what we can do for you,” he began.

  Half an hour later, with most of the brochures and folders now on his side of the table, Babcock ended his rapid-fire spiel with “So, do you have any questions?”

  Elliott looked down at the array of glossy material in front of him, noting they were obviously designed to impress and must have cost a fortune to produce. He shook his head.

  “Not at the moment. You’ve certainly given me a lot to think about. I’d like to take some time to sort it all out.”

  Though Babcock gave no outward indication of it, Elliott sensed his response was not what the man had wanted to hear.

  “Of course,” he said. “I don’t want to pressure you, but keep in mind that every minute lost is money lost. We can make your business run like a Swiss watch.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Elliott said. As they both rose from their chairs, he added, “So, where are you moving? Bigger quarters?”

  “Smaller, actually,” Babcock said, leaning over to retrieve his briefcase. “Since my associates spend most of their time working outside of the office, there’s really no need for all the space we have now.”

  “Still in the Sears Tower?” Elliott pushed.

  “No, I bought a nice building on Lincoln. The Tower is fine, but most of our clients are smaller businesses scattered throughout the city. The Tower proved to be a little hard for most people to get to, and frankly, it’s a little intimidating for some. The new building will make us a lot more—well, user friendly, as it were.”

  I
t will also be a lot cheaper, Elliott thought. “Well, you’ve obviously done very well for yourself,” he said. “I remember when I met Bill Somers it was just basically the two of you.”

  Babcock smiled, but his eyes didn’t. “Yes, well, times change. And you know the old saying: ‘Build a better mousetrap, and the world will beat a path to your door.’ Future Com is definitely a better mousetrap.”

  Elliott was tempted to push a bit further to ask just how many “associates” Babcock had in his employ, but thought better of it.

  “I’ll check with you in a few days,” Babcock said as Elliott opened the door to show him out.

  * * *

  After dinner, a late movie, and a nightcap at one of the quieter bars—which both Elliott and Steve tended to prefer over the noisier places, where it was often impossible to talk without shouting—they headed to Elliott’s, where they spent a most pleasant couple more hours in bed before finally falling asleep.

  He’s lying:

  Steve? What are you talking about?

  No, not Steve—Babcock.

  Ah. Yeah, I gathered as much just talking with him. Did you fund out anything more from Aaron?

  Afraid not.

  Does Aaron know what happened to Bill’s share of the business?

  I can check, but I’d tend to doubt it from what he’s indicated about Bill’s keeping the details of his business private. And Aaron was—I wish there were another word for dead, one that didn’t sound so final. Anyway, since Aaron had left his body before they found Bill, I’m sure he hasn’t any idea what disposition was made of Bill’s affairs.

  * * *

  As he went through his Monday-morning routine—showering, getting dressed, packing his lunch, and having breakfast—Elliott thought back on his pre-John days, when the only problems he had to be concerned with were his own.

  He was still ambivalent about getting involved in the Aaron/Bill situation. He knew the simple logistics of looking into Bill’s death would inevitably take time away from his work project, and he was mildly resentful at the prospect.

  But having committed himself to helping, one of the first things he would have to do was find out if Bill had left a will—which would require a trip to the Clerk of Courts’ office, which in turn meant he’d have to take time off from work. And if there was a will, what had become of Bill’s assets?

  Going over his work plan, he saw little opportunity to get away. He’d just have to factor it in for the next day, somehow.

  When, on Tuesday, a problem with the delivery of new windows necessitated Elliott’s meeting with the supplier halfway between the project and the Loop, he took advantage of it to detour to Probate Court in Daley Center. He hated driving in the Loop, but didn’t see much in the way of a practical alternative. Taking the el would involve its own set of problems.

  It took him the better part of three hours for the meeting, then to find a parking place near Daley Center, locate the right office, and go through all the hassle required to find out whether Bill had a will filed with Probate. When he discovered there was one, more time was spent locating and being able to look at it.

  It had been drawn up six years before, apparently before Bill had met Aaron, and had not been changed before he died. It decreed that, pursuant to the terms of incorporation of Future Com and lacking any specifically designated heir, his interest in the business would go to his partner, James Babcock. No other individual was named, and the remainder of his estate went to various charities. Elliott found the part about “lacking any specifically designated heir” particularly significant. He was also sure Bill probably had just not gotten around to amending the will after he and Aaron got together.

  Elliott’s penchant for trivia found it interesting that the will had been drawn up by a lawyer named Manfred Gutierrez, and he immediately thought not only of Steve but of Steve’s brother, Manny. It also reminded him that, should he and Steve ever decide to make a definite commitment, he would have to be sure to change his own will—and was instantly surprised at the ease with which he had the thought.

  * * *

  Driving back to work, he considered the implications of Bill’s will. That it had been drawn up before Bill met Aaron and had not been updated to include him meant Babcock had inherited the business. Considering that Bill might have been planning to dissolve the partnership, either factor could certainly be a motive for murder—if Babcock knew of Bill’s intentions. With Bill and the challenges to Babcock’s spending out of the way, Future Com became Babcock’s to do with as he pleased. And Elliott was fairly certain, from what he’d been able to deduce, that Babcock had continued to run the business into the ground.

  However, he found it difficult to link having a motive to murder with acting on it. The world, he liked to think, just didn’t work that way. Yet, John had been murdered, and if it hadn’t been for Elliott, his killer might never have been caught. If Bill had not committed suicide, it was equally possible his murder would go not only unsolved but unacknowledged. He deserved better.

  Unfortunately, he told himself, murderers can’t be convicted on the basis of merely having a motive. To suspect Babcock was one thing. To prove it was quite another. The difficulty was compounded by the fact that, as an ordinary citizen, Elliott had no investigative authority—or experience, for that matter. That his brother-in-law was a homicide detective was a definite plus, but Elliott couldn’t and wouldn’t expect to drag Brad into it unless and until there was something more concrete to go on than speculation.

  * * *

  Aaron didn’t have a will.

  Well that’s interesting, but I’m concentrating on Bill right now. And how do you know Aaron didn’t have one?

  Ever seen one of those batting-practice machines that keeps shooting out baseballs? Aaron’s a lot like that. He keeps firing off random thoughts and impressions in a steady stream, one after the other. A lot of them are about not having a will. I have no idea what it means, but obviously it means something.

  Well, see if you can find out anything more about it.

  Will do.

  * * *

  Getting ready for work the next morning, he wondered just what John’s revelation about Aaron’s not having a will might have to do with anything. His thoughts then moved on to Aaron’s apparent belief that Jim Babcock was involved. Babcock was not, according to Aaron, the only possible suspect in Bill’s death—if, he again cautioned himself, the death had in fact been murder.

  There was Irv Wilson. Elliott didn’t know for sure what their relationship had been, and he wasn’t quite sure why Aaron had come up with the name. Wilson may have been possessive bordering on paranoia, but he certainly wasn’t the only one against whom that charge could be made. And not every psychopath was a murderer.

  Still, arriving at work, he determined to try to have a talk with Wilson—which would in turn involve his contacting Troy Fashow, the guy he’d once dated, who knew Wilson. He wasn’t particularly keen on the idea of reaching out to Troy again, but he didn’t see that he had much choice.

  * * *

  That evening, after dinner, he went through his address book. Troy’s name and number were still there—he’d written them in pen for some reason. The entry had a line drawn through it, but was still legible. When he called and got an answering machine, his first thought was to hang up, but he changed his mind, since that would only prolong the inevitable.

  “Troy, hi. This is Elliott Smith calling. I know it’s been a while, but I have a question you might be able to help me with. Could you give me a call when you have a minute?” He then left his home number and hung up. He realized he probably should have said something about being sorry he’d not called before, but he really didn’t want to lie to him or give him the wrong idea.

  At around eight, the phone rang. Pushing the mute on the TV remote, he picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Elliott, this is Jim Babcock calling. I was wondering if you’d had a chance to look over the materia
ls I left.”

  “Yes, I did, but on thinking everything over, I’m just not sure that’s the way for me to go right now.”

  The disappointment was clear in Babcock’s voice when he said, “Well, you know we can tailor our services to whatever your needs are. Our client list is almost full now, and I just wanted to be sure we could schedule you in for one of the remaining slots. I’ll be happy to go over any questions you might still have.”

  “I do appreciate that, Jim, but I’m afraid right now just isn’t the time.”

  “I understand,” Babcock said, in a voice which made it clear he didn’t, “but remember that time lost is money lost, and we can help you get your growing business running as smoothly as a Swiss watch. I’d hate to see you pass up the opportunity.”

  “As I say, I appreciate it, and I’ll be sure to contact you if things change, but—”

  “I tell you what,” Babcock pressed, “just to prove what we can do for your bottom line, we can offer you a reduced-price package deal, which includes—”

  “That’s really nice of you, Jim, but I’m just going to have to pass for now. As I say, I’ll definitely keep you in mind.”

  “Well, give it some more thought, and let me check back with you in a month or so.”

  “That’ll be fine, Jim. Thanks. Nice talking to you.” And he hung up.

  When the phone rang half an hour later, he was initially hesitant to pick it up, thinking it might be Babcock again. He wondered if Babcock’s desperation were as clear to every potential client he contacted.

  However, the call was just a check-in from Cessy and, as always, went on for a good fifteen minutes. He was just getting into bed after The Daily Show on Comedy Central when the phone rang yet again. He picked up the bedside extension.

  “Elliott Smith.”

  “Elliott! It’s Troy. I got your message.” The slightly fogged tone of his voice suggested he had been drinking, which Elliott remembered Troy did frequently.

  “Thanks for calling, Troy,” he said.

  “Am I calling too late? You weren’t in bed, were you?”

  “No,” Elliott lied. “I was just thinking about it, though.”