Aaron's Wait

by Dorien Grey

  “I don’t remember the exact address, but I think it’s on the southwest corner of north Lovejoy, one block off Foster and practically next to the I-90/94. I could get the exact address if you need it but can’t see what good it will do you. Like you said, it’s been four years.”

  “Did you know Bill might have been house-hunting when he disappeared?”

  There was a slight pause before Brad said, “Interesting. How did you find that out?”

  “Mrs. Reinerio, the tenant at the building, and one of his friends both mentioned it in passing, but I didn’t pay any attention to it at the time. But when I got to thinking…”

  “I remember we talked to all the other tenants in Somers’ building right after we found out his partner had died. Considering where Somers was found, I can’t imagine we wouldn’t have asked her and everybody else about whether he might be house-hunting, and if she’d said anything about it I’d have remembered.

  “But as I recall, she was pretty upset when we talked to her. Apparently, she knew both Somers and his partner pretty well. She did say, though, now I think of it, that Somers had seemed pretty unhappy about something just before he disappeared…which helped underscore the case for suicide.

  “And of course, we checked out the realtor for the property where he was found. We talked to the office manager, the secretaries and the woman who had the listing. None of them had ever heard of Somers, and there was no record of any activity on the property within two weeks of when Somers disappeared. For all I know, it might still be for sale.”

  “A lot of realtors keep front door keys in a lockbox hung over the doorknob so that any realtor with a master key can get in to show the property. Do you remember if this place had one?”

  Another pause. “Yeah, now that you mention it, it did. And you’re right in that; technically, I suppose, almost any realtor in the city with a master key could have had access to the property. But standard policy is to call the listing agent to let him or her know they’ll be coming through. And they always leave a business card. Nothing like that here.

  “Then again, it’s unlikely a killer would be dumb enough to murder someone in a place that could be easily traced back to him and then just leave the body there. And the whole realtor thing might be moot anyway, since he was found in the garage, which didn’t have a lock. Anyone who knew the property was vacant could have gotten in.”

  It was Elliott’s turn to pause. “Good point. Well, it was worth a shot to bring it up. Sorry to keep pestering you on this.”

  “Hey, look, don’t think that way. I appreciate your being so interested in this, but people can get hurt playing detective, so I can’t, in good conscience, encourage you to take chances. I’d like nothing better than to be able to close Somers’ file. But we’ve given it our best shot and come up with nothing. Without hard evidence of a crime, we’re just dangling in the wind.”

  “I understand, and believe me, I have no interest in switching careers at this stage of my life. There are just some things about Bill Somers’ death that keep niggling at me like an itch, and I can’t help but scratch it. You can be sure I won’t do anything stupid. I promise.” Another sudden thought prompted him to ask, “Just out of curiosity, do you remember the name of the realtor?”

  “Let me think…Henderson and Polk…no, Gunderson and Polk. Their office is, or was then, on Foster, near Pulaski. And by the way, I’m assuming that when you’re wandering around on this stuff you aren’t mentioning the fact that your brother-in-law is a cop.”

  Elliott laughed. “Not a chance.”

  There was a pause, then a muffled, “Okay. Be right there,” then, “Cessy’s ready. Gotta go.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Brad. I really appreciate the information.” Setting his cell phone on the coffee table, he gave Steve, sitting beside him, an apologetic grin. “Sorry to have taken so long.”

  “Not a problem.” Steve took a sip of his coffee. “So, any plans for the day?”

  Elliott smiled inwardly at the fact they were still playing the “After you, Alfonse” game. Maybe, as John suggested, Steve was waiting for him to say something about it. Maybe he was waiting for Steve.

  Shaking his head, he said, “Not really. How about you? I suppose you want to work on your new painting.”

  Steve looked a bit indecisive. “That’s the problem with a nine-to-five job—there’s just not enough time to do what has to be done. I really should work today, but…”

  “Hey, I understand totally. I’ve got a pile of business paperwork I’ve been putting off that I really should get to. We probably both should do our own thing today.”

  “You don’t mind, then?”

  Elliott grinned. “Sure I mind. I hate to pass up an opportunity for another workout, but…”

  Returning the grin, Steve said, “Well, you don’t have to run right home after breakfast, do you?”

  “Good point.”

  * * *

  On a whim, instead of turning east onto Diversey after leaving Steve’s, he turned west toward the I-94 and took it to Foster. He found the house easily enough, a cookie-cutter version of its neighbors and typical of the area. Turning into the alley behind it, he drove slowly past the garage, which like the house was nearly indistinguishable from its neighbors. He again wondered what Bill might have been doing in this particular area.

  If he was checking out possible houses, he might well have been looking for places relatively close to a freeway or an el, and both were fairly close to this one.

  Brad had said Bill’s office told him Bill had mentioned an appointment the morning he disappeared. It could very well have been with a realtor despite Brad’s logic that anybody who knew the place was vacant could have gotten into the garage. Brad said the listing realtor didn’t have Bill’s name on the showing list, but with a lockbox accessible to any realtor…

  Logic, he told himself, would suggest that whoever Bill had the appointment with was most likely the killer. Otherwise, how, when, or where might Bill have run into him? The same thought had to have occurred to Brad at the time, and without a doubt he had followed up on it only to find it went nowhere. And since realtors do not normally go around killing prospective clients, Elliott told himself, there would have to have been a history between Bill and whoever he’d met. No history, no motive.

  Bruce Stiles’ wife was a realtor. So were several thousand other Chicagoans. Aaron and his brother didn’t get along, but that was hardly motive to kill Bill. Still, the more Elliott thought about it, the more confused and frustrated he became, until he finally forced his mind off the issue entirely and concentrated on driving home.

  * * *

  Though he arrived at work Monday more than a little concerned about encountering some sort of Aaron-inspired activity, he was relieved when there was none, and work progressed smoothly and without incident.

  Monday night Cessy called. “Would you mind giving me Steve’s phone number?” she asked. “I sent him a thank-you note, but I just realized I never told him where I’d hung his painting. It’s right over my dresser where I can see it every morning when I wake up. I just love it.”

  “Well, I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear that,” Elliott said. Then, despite some reservations about her attempting to practice her matchmaking skills, he gave her Steve’s number.

  “So, what did you two do this weekend?” she asked, causing him to smile and shake his head at her never missing the opportunity to pair them.

  “Nothing special.”

  “Well,” she replied in her best sisterly voice, “sometimes that’s the best kind of weekend.”

  Though he didn’t say anything, he tended to agree.

  * * *

  That he heard nothing from John Monday or Tuesday night he took as a good sign. When, on Wednesday at work, he got a call from Larry Fingerhood on his cell phone, he put him on hold until he could step outside.

  “Yeah, Larry. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a couple of places for you to l
ook at, if you think you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Get that noise problem solved?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “So, you want me to come back to complete the walk-through?”

  “Let’s hold off for a while. There are a couple other things I want to finish up first.”

  Larry’s silence spoke louder than the words he finally got out. “Okay. Whenever you’re ready.”

  Taking a notepad from his shirt pocket, and wishing he’d put on his coat, Elliott wrote down the information Larry gave him on his prospective next project—a six-unit on Wrightwood or a duplex on Fullerton.

  “I know you don’t normally do duplexes,” Larry said, “but this one is really right up your alley. Eighteen eighties building in the historic district east of Halsted. The Wrightwood is a row of townhouses—again, I know, not in your usual range. But it might be worth taking a look. I’ll come up with others, but thought I’d give you these two to start.

  “Both properties look like a pretty good deal. The Fullerton is a little pricey, but it’s vacant now; the owner emptied it in anticipation of putting it up for sale, then the market tanked. He’s been sitting there with an empty building for a couple months, and I think he’s getting nervous.”

  “Thanks, Larry.” He put the notepad back in his pocket, eager to get back into the warmth of the building. “I’ll drive by and take a look at them first chance I get.”

  As he reached for the doorknob, he felt a sudden charge of static electricity, and a spark jumped from his hand to the metal knob.

  Don’t start, Aaron! he said without moving his lips. He immediately and briefly sensed John’s presence and then, as though a light had been switched off; nothing.

  * * *

  He’s really trying.

  That he is!

  I didn’t mean it that way.

  I know. But I don’t appreciate having to freeze my ass off by going outside to take a phone call because I’m afraid some guy who’s been dead for four years will overhear. That’s closer to paranoia than I care to come.

  I understand. And Aaron was aware of Larry’s call, yes. But I was able to calm him down before he did anything we both knew he’d regret:

  Yeah, I could tell you were there just as I came back inside.

  So, what now?

  Well, I’d assume that since you’re not tripping over too many of my thoughts, you already know—I haven’t got a clue.

  Are you going to call the realtor?

  Gunderson and Polk? I was thinking about it, but now I really don’t know what good it would do. Brad checked with them at the time, and the passage of four years isn’t likely to have sharpened anyone’s memory.

  Odd, but I get the feeling you know something you aren’t aware of…something in the back of your mind I can’t make out.

  Well, that was cryptic. What do you mean?

  Hard to explain, but I just feel it’s there. Something Steve said, I think.

  Said when? About what? A little help, here!

  If I knew, I’d tell you.

  Elliott felt himself sigh.

  Well, God knows I need something! I’ve really run into a brick wall with both Babcock and Irv Wilson. I haven’t even the hint of a clue as to what more I can do with either one of them.

  So, who’s left?

  Nobody, that I know of. I mean, I never knew either Bill or Aaron, so I have no idea what else might have been going on in their lives. There could be lots of people out there who had reason to kill Bill, but since I never met the guy, there’s no way I could possibly find out.

  What about Button and Paul?

  I think if they knew something they’d have said so. I can ask again, but don’t think it will do any good.

  Not easy.

  Tell me.

  * * *

  Thursday passed smoothly and uneventfully, and after work he detoured from his usual route home to take a look at the properties Larry had referred him to. The Wrightwood townhouses were closest, so he went by them first.

  He generally avoided townhouses simply because they were, in effect, separate houses joined by common walls, and potential roof and basement problems were multiplied by the number of units. However, these, built probably in the early thirties by the look of them, had a nice feel and a few art deco elements that indicated extra thought and care had gone into their planning and construction.

  Driving around through the alley, he noted that five of the units had identical garages, one of which was in bad shape. Adjacent to each garage was a small yard. Apparently, a sixth garage had been torn down and replaced with a concrete slab.

  Emerging from the alley, he turned back on Wrightwood to pass in front of the units again to try to find a parking place so he could do a more leisurely walk past. He noted that the outside wall of the unit farthest west had a few pronounced cracks, which sent up a small red flag. Still, he was willing to take a look at it, and made a mental note to tell Larry so.

  Back in the car, he turned right on Halsted and took a left on Fullerton. The four-block stretch east of Halsted was lined with trees and classic turn-of-the-century and older homes. It was one of the few remaining parts of the north side that had retained its Victorian character.

  He knew the stretch well, and had several favorites, and had hoped the one Larry mentioned might be one of them. He was delighted to see that it was. Though he was far too practical to make a snap judgment, he did feel a tingle of excitement and made a mental note to have Larry set up a showing on both properties as soon as he could.

  He did not dwell on the fact that selling his current project was going to be next to impossible until and unless he could find out why and how Bill Somers had died, and he once again cursed himself for ever getting involved in Aaron’s problems, much as he might empathize with them.

  As his mind wandered back to his previous night’s conversation with John, he tried to think of what John might have been referring to about his knowing something he didn’t know he knew. John had said something very similar when Elliott was helping John find himself.

  * * *

  That night after dinner, talking on the phone with Steve, he mentioned having seen the prospective properties, and his continuing frustration with the Aaron situation.

  “I know I keep saying this, but I honestly don’t know why the hell I’m involved in all this.”

  “You’re helping Aaron,” Steve pointed out.

  Though he’d had no intention of getting as deeply into the subject as he realized he already was, once he started it all just seemed to come rushing out.

  “Which is another thing,” he said, unable to stop. “How do I really help a guy who’s been dead for four years? You know I’m trying and I know I’m trying, and Aaron pounds on walls. If he were to pull that while I’m trying to sell the building, nobody in their right mind would buy it.”

  “You think he’d do that?”

  “After that little display during the walk-through with Larry, I have no confidence he wouldn’t.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” Steve’s voice reflected sincere concern.

  “I really appreciate that, but there’s nothing I can think of at the moment. And that’s my whole problem—there’s nothing I can think of that I can do at the moment, either, other than maybe go off on a wild-goose chase looking into Bruce.”

  There was a considerable pause before Steve said, “He’s a shit, but it’s hard to think of him as a murderer.”

  “It’s hard to think of anybody as a murderer, but some people are. At least maybe Aaron will get it that I’m doing something. But in the meantime, how about you let me take you to dinner tomorrow by way of thanks—unless you’ve got other plans.”

  “No, no other plans. Dinner would be great.”

  “I’ll pick you up around seven?”

  “My turn to drive, especially if you’re buying. Meet me out front?”

  “Sure.”

  As h
e hung up, Elliott admitted that John was right—he really had to have a talk with Steve about where their relationship was going, if for no other reason than to jar loose the stuck needle of their constant “well, if you don’t have any plans” routine.

  But, as happened every time he thought about the prospect of laying the cards on the table, he had second thoughts. Things were going along very well. Why rock the boat? If Steve wanted to bring it up, he could.

  * * *

  Well, that was an interesting conversation.

  You were there? I didn’t sense you.

  Sometimes you don’t when you’re preoccupied. But I’m really glad you’re opening up to Steve. A good sign for the two of you.

  One Cessy in my life is quite enough, thanks. So, what do you think about the possibility of Aaron’s brother being involved in Bill’s death?

  I agree it’s a real stretch, but, l suppose, just as good a possibility as either Babcock or Wilson. I’m sure that idea has never occurred to Aaron, or I’d have known it.

  If only I knew more about Aaron and Bill when they were alive.

  Well, you just have to work with what you’ve got.

  Great. First you’re Cessy and now you’re a fortune cookie.

  He felt John’s laughter.

  You’re in a pretty good mood all things considered. I won’t go so far as to presume it may have something to do with talking to Steve.

  Well it is nice to have someone still in his body to talk to.

  I understand. So, what’s next?

  As I told Steve, I haven’t a clue. Could you try to see what you can find out from Aaron about his brother? Oh! And see if he knows whether Bruce knew anything at all about the wills. Did he even know Aaron had one? And did Aaron tell him about the lawyer’s appointment?

  I don’t suppose Aaron knew whether Bill might have mentioned it to Babcock. If he did, Babcock might have figured out what its purpose was, and that would have given him a strong motive for killing Bill before he had a chance to change his will. Damn! A lot hangs on who knew what about the wills, and when they knew it. And nobody’s around to tell us.