Mike Faricy - Devlin Haskell 07 - Ting-A-Ling

by Mike Faricy

  “Renee Paris, the address you provided is the same one we have on record. DOB twelve August, 1968. Two moving violations, one a minor speeding charge, sixty-nine in a fifty-five, that was in 2005. An accident in 2011, he was found at fault, speeding, no proof of insurance, license suspension for ninety days before reinstatement. That’s standard. I found four prior addresses, the first in 1987…” She read off his previous addresses, mentioned he was listed as an organ donor on his driver’s license and gave me his height at five feet four inches and his weight, one hundred and eighty-five pounds. Short and kind of stocky.

  “Can you email me his license photo.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean no?”

  “I don’t want any sort of trail suggesting I’ve ever had contact with you.”

  It was my turn not to say anything. I waited for close to a minute before she finally spoke.

  “Give me your address and I’ll mail it to you, but this is the last time. I really mean it. You’ve certainly gotten more than your pound of flesh from me. Honestly.” She wasn’t yelling, but she was close to it. Judging from the background noise I guessed she’d found one of the few remaining pay phones in town and had called me on that. I gave her my office address.

  “Is there anything else?”

  “No, Donna. I appreciate…” She hung up before I could finish.

  I looked over the notes I’d taken. At least from the stand point of the DMV Renee Paris looked like your basic upstanding citizen. I knew better and went online to search his business activity.

  Chapter Seven

  LuSifer’s Treats. It took me a moment to put it together. Renee Paris was either a lousy speller or too clever by half. LuSifer, a take off on Lucifer, I guessed. Being a former banker and lawyer turned real estate developer I thought the whole devil aspect was more than a little appropriate. It appeared that based on some moderate success at regional fairs and food competitions Renee had put together a business selling sauces, rubs and about a hundred different articles of clothing. The site sold everything from aprons, to T-shirts, to little red-satin devil’s horns and, of course, his Bar-B-Que sauces. Amazing how far a borrowed fifty-grand in cash could take you. His online store was just that, online, so no physical address was available. I decided to take a drive past his home address and check it out. I figured he was probably working the online business out of his house.

  The address on his driver’s license had Renee Paris’ home located in the neighborhood surrounding a 1913 water tower referred to locally as the Witches Hat tower. The area of hundred-year-old homes is roughly triangular in shape and bounded by the interstate, the Mississippi river and busy, commercial University Ave. Many of the homes now serve as rental properties for college students, which leads to a constant coming and going. That fact made the address I was checking on stand out all the more.

  I spotted the property almost a block away, although I didn’t know it at the time. The front sidewalk was unshoveled and judging from all the snow on the six steps leading up to the front yard the place hadn’t been entered for at least the past month. It looked like shopping circulars had been stuffed in the mail box until it overflowed. Then they were attached to the front door knob with rubber bands and left to suffer the elements. A number of city inspection notices were attached to the front door and the front picture window.

  I was familiar with the notices. Nowadays everyone in town was familiar with them. They were red, blue or white. Basically, they declared the property vacant, the utilities disconnected and the place unfit for habitation. They also threatened a pretty serious fine if you attempted to remove them or to enter the property. If Renee Paris owned this place he certainly hadn’t been here for a while.

  The heat was coming on in my car, finally, and I couldn’t see any advantage to trudging around the place through the snow. I tried to phone the number for Paris that Danielle had given me, but the recording said the phone number was no longer in service. I drove back to the office to do what I should have done to begin with, check the county tax records.

  Six minutes after sitting down at my desk I knew the property was listed as a category three nuisance. Basically, that meant there had been enough citizen complaints that the city tagged the structure. The place couldn’t be sold unless it was brought up to code, and unless it was brought up to code in one hundred and twenty days it could be slated for demolition. Interestingly enough the taxes had been paid through June of next year.

  It had always struck me as a short-sighted city policy, but even a city our size had something like twelve thousand abandoned buildings on its hands after the Great Recession. Not the best setting in which to make long range municipal plans. I wondered if the beautiful, but flakey Danielle was aware of the place being abandoned.

  “Unfit for human habitation? Really? You’re kidding? He just had a new kitchen put in a year or two ago, cherry-wood cabinets, granite counter tops, a special refrigerator just for wine. I’m partial to Pavo, that sparkling white from Portugal. Are you familiar with it?”

  She asked the question like she already knew the answer.

  “When were you there last, Danielle?”

  “His house?”

  ‘No Portugal,’ I thought. “Yeah, his house.”

  “Pretty recently, we had a Bar-B-Que with some potential investors out in the backyard.”

  “Well if it was out in the backyard, it had to be more than a couple of months ago.”

  “Let’s see, it was either Memorial Day or Labor Day weekend, I always get them mixed up. It was the one with all the flags.”

  I immediately thought ‘Fourth of July’, then said, “Labor Day is in the fall, first weekend in September.”

  “September? No, that wasn’t it. Only because I was in Tuscany then, with some girlfriends. God, it must have been last spring already. Gee, go figure. Who knew?”

  “Danielle, when was the last time you saw him?”

  “God, I’ve tried to put it out of my mind.”

  “Did you have a disagreement?”

  “I’ll say, he caused a scene and then told the bartender I was paying the tab before he stomped out the door.”

  “And, his business still seems to be alive and well, at least online. That sort of suggests he could still be in town. Any idea where he would go? Maybe someone he might move in with?”

  “No. God, I can’t imagine anyone who would want to put up with him, at least not for very long. How long did you say it’s been, a month?”

  “That’s just what I could determine from no footprints in the snow and the sidewalks unshoveled. I think it has to be closer to six months before the city would act, post the notices the way they did.”

  “Huh?”

  “How often did you see him?” It seemed the logical question. I was beginning to think Danielle had maybe been just a bankroll with benefits for old Renee.

  “Well, probably about two or three times a week. He was always over here and we’d maybe go out for dinner or something. I don’t like to cook. We’d usually do Saturday night, Sunday. He’d call on Monday, I guess Wednesday nights too. See he always liked to play trivia down at Spanky’s, so we had to go there.”

  “Do you have any other phone number? I called the one you gave me, but it was disconnected.”

  “Yeah, that seemed to happen a lot. Problems with his phone. He was always getting a new phone with a different number.”

  “Define a lot. How often did he have a new phone?”

  “It seemed like just about every month. He seemed to have the worst luck with service providers.”

  I was thinking he probably used throw away phones. Buy a cheap phone, pay for a certain amount of minutes and toss the thing when you used them up, virtually untraceable. That might make sense if he was a hit-man for the mob, but a guy who
makes Bar-B-Que sauce, it didn’t seem to add up.

  “And you haven’t been in his home since last spring?”

  “I guess not. To tell you the truth, I like mine a lot better. It’s just a lot nicer and well, my cleaning lady is in here twice a week. I have the sheets changed regularly, the bathroom is clean, and there’s always toilet paper. I always have something besides ice cream and a box of cheap wine in my refrigerator.”

  I’d heard the same sort of comments from a number of my former companions and decided to move on. “I’ll see what I can find out about his kitchen, where his sauces and things are being made. But it’s beginning to look like he’s gone underground and maybe he’s been that way for awhile.”

  “Okay,” she said. I waited, but she didn’t offer anything else. She was either completely oblivious or what I’d told her wasn’t at all surprising. I couldn’t tell which it was.

  It took some time, but I located his kitchen. It might have been easier had I been trying to locate a meth lab. I came across a number of dormant internet sites, a couple of blogs with postings from four years back and some dormant pages on Facebook. I couldn’t find any phone numbers or addresses. I ended up doing what I should have done in the beginning. I called a local grocery store chain and lied.

  “Yeah, I’m wondering if you can help me. I’m trying to get in touch with the people at LuSifer’s Treats. I’m with the paper and I’d like to do an article on them, but I can’t seem to get a location or a current phone number.”

  “The Bar-B-Que sauce people, right? Gee, we’ve had a lot of success with that particular line.”

  Right there the woman in purchasing seemed to know more than Danielle.

  “That’s why I wanted to write an article about them, I’d list your stores as a source, if you don’t mind. We wanted to run the article in this weekend’s food variety section. You know, get the word out to people right before the holidays.”

  “Let me just check here,” she said. I could hear keys clicking on a keyboard in the background. “Oh yes, here you go. This number should work. If I recall you may have to leave a message, but they seem to be fairly prompt in returning the call. I’m afraid the only address I have here is a PO Box.”

  I wrote the phone number down, told her thanks, and then got off the line before she wanted any real information from me. At least the phone number was still live. I left a message when I phoned LuSifer Treats and used the line about writing an article for the paper, then sat back and waited.

  Chapter Eight

  I was still waiting later that night in The Spot. I had drifted in around five-thirty for just one and found out it was Jameson night. That had been a good four hours ago. Bob Seger was blaring on the juke box so loudly I didn’t hear my phone ring, but I could feel the vibration in my pocket, so I dashed into the men’s room to escape ‘Old Time Rock & Roll’. The noise level was a little better, but just barely.

  “Haskell Investigations.”

  There was a long pause before a deep voice said, “Damn it. Wrong number. This God damned phone…”

  “Is this LuSifer Treats?” I guessed.

  “Yeah.” The voice sounded cautious.

  “Sorry, I was just joking. I thought you were a pal calling me back. I phoned earlier regarding an article I wanted to write about your line of sauces and rubs. We’re going to run it in the Food Variety section, this weekend. We have a lot of requests for product like yours coming up before the holidays and we wanted to get the word out.”

  “What do you…” The door suddenly opened and one of the regulars half staggered into a stall. Bob Seger filled the small room and I had trouble hearing his response.

  “Actually, I’m really unable to talk just now,” I said as the door closed. “I wonder if we might set a time and I could meet you for a brief interview, see your facility, that sort of thing.”

  “What’s your name, again?”

  “Haskell, Devlin Haskell. I freelance for a number of food publications and trade journals. I’m actually on the beat right now, doing a taste test. I could meet you sometime tomorrow if that would work. You just name the time and I’ll adjust my schedule.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, I know it’s sort of short notice, but we just had half a page open up. Look, if you can’t, no problem, I’ll just go on to the next name on my list. Like I said, we wanted to get this in before the holidays. You know how people stock up,” I said, then held my breath and waited.

  “I can probably do three tomorrow afternoon, but I can only give you a few minutes,” he said grudgingly. He made it sound like he would be doing me a big favor and it suddenly felt like I was pulling teeth. If I’d been a real reporter I probably would have told the guy to shove it right about now. But, since I was a phony I said, “Terrific. Where are you located?”

  “You know Casey’s?”

  I thought for a long moment. “The only Casey’s I know is a place on Fort Road. I think it closed about a year ago.”

  “Actually, closer to two years. That’s where we’re at, we rent the kitchen. It’s all legal,” he quickly added as an after thought, making me think maybe it wasn’t quite squeaky clean. At this point the door opened again and even though it was the men’s room, Lady Gaga filled the place.

  “I put a finger in my ear and said, “See you at three tomorrow.” Then I crossed my fingers and asked, “And your name, sir?”

  He waited a moment before he answered, like he was weighing his options. “Paris. Renee Paris,” he said and paused for effect. He had said his name in a way that made you think applause should follow. Instead the toilet flushed behind me.

  “When you get here pull in back. Just ring the buzzer next to the door marked ‘Employees Only’. See you tomorrow, three o’clock,” he said and hung up.

  I left The Spot about fifteen minutes before closing. What I thought was a parking ticket on my windshield turned out to be a plain white, number ten business envelope stuck under my windshield wiper. Nothing was written on the outside. Inside was a printed copy of Renee Paris’ driver’s license with not so much as a rude comment penned anywhere. I walked around my car just to make sure Donna hadn’t slit one of my tires then I drove home.

  Chapter Nine

  I phoned Danielle first thing the next morning, a little after eleven. I got the impression I woke her.

  “Hello?” It was her voice all right, but a couple of octaves lower than normal. I visualized her in a darkened room with the shades drawn. The only thing she would be wearing was a black silk mask that covered her eyes. Skimpy little items of personal clothing probably marked a trail down the hallway to her bed and even though she answered the phone her wrists would somehow be tied to the bed posts with silk cords that…

  “Hello, hello?”

  “Oh, hi, Danielle, Dev Haskell. Sorry, I was lost in thought. I wanted to give you a report. I’m meeting your friend, Mr. Paris this afternoon.”

  “Renee? Really? Where?”

  “Kind of strange. There used to be a bar, Casey’s down on Fort Road. It’s been closed for quite a while.”

  “I know the place, Renee owns it.”

  “He owns it?”

  “Well, he did, the building, that is. Another one of his investments that didn’t quite work out. I forget what he was supposed to do, some kind of code violation that was going to be too expensive to fix. Update the sprinkler system or elevators or something. He ignored the citations and the city eventually closed it until the code violations were taken care of. Renee was in the middle of an ongoing argument with the guy who actually owned the restaurant located there. Then he was killed in a car accident and they never reopened the place.”

  “It sounds like that’s the kitchen he’s been using for his sauces. I wonder if it’s even up to code?”

  �
��That sort of thing never seems to bother Renee.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll soon find out. I’m going to be meeting him there this afternoon.”

  “He agreed to meet with you?”

  “Yeah. Well, I told him I was with the newspaper and we wanted to do an article on his business, the Bar-B-Que sauces. He seemed to buy it.”

  “And what are you going to say to him?”

  “I’m not sure, maybe pretend to be a reporter for a bit, but eventually I was planning to tell him I was hired to investigate him. That you want your money back or at the very least a repayment plan.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think he’ll agree to that.”

  “Probably not. But then again, he doesn’t have to agree to anything. I’m just the messenger on this. And, it’s a good start for you. I’m thinking if he’s halfway serious about his sauce business he can’t hide for too long. If he disappears I’ll find him again, maybe threaten a lawsuit. I office with an attorney…”

  “He’s probably threatened like that a couple of times every day.”

  “Maybe, but at some point he’ll have to begin to pay you back, hopefully.”

  “You should just shoot him or something,” she said, then quickly added, “I suppose I shouldn’t even joke like that.”

  “No, you shouldn’t. But I understand how you feel,” I said.

  “Let me know what he says, but I don’t think its going to be positive. Like I said he can get kind of paranoid.”

  “I guess we won’t know until I meet with him.”

  “You’ll call me after you talk with him?”

  “Yes, Danielle, I will.”

  Chapter Ten

  I pulled into the back parking lot of Casey’s a few minutes before three. The windows on all four sides of the building were whitewashed so you couldn’t see in. As I drove around the building I noticed someone had smashed all the glass tubes on the neon ‘CASEY’S’ sign above the entrance. With the exception of a set of tire tracks leading to the silver Mercedes parked at the back door the half acre parking lot didn’t have so much as a footprint spoiling the pristine snow cover. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and although the sun was glaring off the snow, the temperature remained a balmy minus three on the Fahrenheit scale.