“Yep.”
“And it was a coincidence that you were asking around about him, right?”
“Not exactly, but I didn’t know who I was after, so I was—”
“I’m glad it wasn’t a coincidence, Whelan. I think I told you once that I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Whelan said nothing.
“And when were you going to tell me that this guy came around to visit?”
“I would have told you.” Eventually, he thought.
“Tell you what, Whelan. You go ahead and look into this guy you’re investigating, and let’s say you come see me with anything that comes up that’s even remotely related to Harry Palm. That okay with you?”
“Do you care if it’s okay with me?”
“No.” Bauman laughed and sniffed into the phone. “Hey listen, Whelan? This broad that answers your phone—what’s she look like?”
“Shelley?” He laughed.
“What’s funny, Whelan?”
“Nothing. I just don’t know how to answer. I’ve never seen her. She’s just a voice to me.”
“Nice voice.”
“Yeah, like a big Lauren Bacall.”
“No idea what she looks like, though, huh?”
“None at all.”
“I’ll be in touch, Whelan. But you knew that, right?” And Bauman hung up, laughing.
He was coming back from the restroom when he heard the phone. He assumed it would be Vosic, but it was Roy Swenson.
“Hello, Roy.”
“Hi, Paul. I’ve got what you wanted. At least I hope I do.”
“Fast work. Let’s hear it.”
“Well, first of all, there is no trace anywhere of anybody named George Brister. As a matter of fact, there are no Bristers in Seattle at all. Couple in Olympia, but none in Seattle. Surprised?”
“No. I’ve got a hunch that he never went back at all, that he just bought a plane ticket.”
“Oh, that old scam. Well, whatever works. Okay, so there’s no trace of him, and I checked the employers you gave me. Here’s the deal: he worked for one of them, but the other two never heard of him. The hospital he listed, St. Anne’s, they knew him and they apparently fired him.”
“Drinking.”
“Right. But the other two acted like this was some kind of practical joke. I gave them the dates you told me and, just to play it safe, I had them go back a few years, in case he doctored his work record. Nothing. Sorry, Paul.”
“No, Roy. I’d have been surprised if you’d found him, and almost nothing else that I’ve been told about this guy makes sense, so why should his work record jibe with the facts? Thanks, Roy.”
“I’m gonna be in your neck of the woods in October, Paul.”
“Let me know when and I’ll block off some time. Sure I can’t send you a few bucks for your trouble?”
Roy Swenson indulged in malicious laughter. “No, buddy, you knew it wouldn’t be that simple.”
The phone rang again and he smiled. This is the busiest I’ve ever been, and I’ve got a hunch I know who this is.
“Paul? Rich Vosic here.”
“Hello, Rich. What can I do for you?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing. Seems you’ve been here and gone. Anything I can do for you?”
“No, I guess I got pretty much everything I need.”
“You did, huh? Hmmm. Look, Paul. We should talk.”
“Does this mean you like me? Are we gonna be buddies, Rich?”
Vosic laughed and Whelan was impressed at how sincere he sounded.
“Yeah, right, we’re gonna get emotionally involved. Look, Paul, I know you’re a busy guy and I know I’m a busy guy, so I won’t beat around the bush. But I think I can be of some help to you with this…ah…this thing. I can save you some time and trouble.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“So what say we have lunch together tomorrow, Pablo.”
“It just happens that I’m free tomorrow.”
“Fine. Want me to pick you up?”
“No. I’ll meet you at your office.”
“Okay. Twelve thirty all right?”
“Perfect.”
“See you then, Paul.”
“See you,” he said and hung up.
I hate it when assholes call me by my first name, he thought.
She was waiting in his dark, airless hallway when he returned, and the look she gave the Burger King bag in his hand withered his french fries. She stared at it for several seconds and he could tell she was keeping the disgust out of her face only with the greatest effort. He knew there were people all over the country who had never eaten at a fast-food restaurant, but up to now their existence had been merely a rumor. Here was a woman who would never set foot inside a Burger King. He decided it was his hallway and she could speak first or there would be no conversation. Janice Fairs collected herself and reverted to her icy politeness.
“Mr. Whelan. I see that I’m interrupting your lunch. I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you. Come in.”
He opened the door and held it for her, then followed and pulled the door shut. She stopped just inside the office and looked around.
“Take a load off, Mrs. Fairs.” He indicated the chair and then took his own seat behind the desk. He started to open his bag and decided he couldn’t eat a Whopper with cheese and an order of fries in front of this woman. But when she shot another look of distaste at his lunch he decided the hell with it and opened the bag.
“Be with you in a second,” he said as he spread open the paper to reveal the big, flat burger flapping out of its bun and dripping ketchup, mustard, and mayo on all sides. People could say what they wanted about Burger King; he’d always be in their debt, for they had taught him what mayonnaise could do for a hamburger. His own mother hadn’t been able to impart such knowledge. He grabbed the burger in both hands and took a large bite and concentrated on it. He looked up at Janice Fairs, who was watching him with the same expression she might use on a man eating garbage from her trash disposal. He wiggled his eyebrows. Bet there’s no Burger King on your block, lady, he thought. He chewed, swallowed, popped a couple of fries in his mouth, took a pull at his Pepsi, and felt that now he could face responsibility.
Her eyes moved around his office again. She took out a cigarette and was about to light up when she looked at his food. “Oh, I beg your pardon. You’re eating…”
She must be impressed, he thought. She now recognizes that I have rights.
“Go ahead and smoke. It doesn’t bother me.”
She lit her cigarette and took a puff and blew smoke away from him and nodded, looking once more around the room.
“Mrs. Fairs, I don’t want to seem impolite, but I don’t think you should be coming to see me at the office. I recommend that you call me and set up a different meeting place next time. I think there is reason to be concerned for your safety.”
She blew smoke and gave him a surprised look. “My safety, Mr. Whelan? Oh, I don’t think there is any cause for concern on that score. They wouldn’t dare—”
“They? Who, Mrs. Fairs?”
“Well, Rich Vosic’s people. And I’ll tell you something, Mr. Whelan: Rich Vosic…I know Rich Vosic, Mr. Whelan. He wouldn’t have the nerve.”
“I don’t understand. You have me investigating a pair of killings that you believe Vosic instigated, and he wouldn’t ‘dare’ harm you? Am I misunderstanding something?”
She smiled but it wouldn’t hold. She shook her head and took nervous puffs at her cigarette and he could almost hear her thinking.
“If he had your husband killed, or Harry Palm, what’s to stop him from having you killed?”
She opened her mouth and made a little shrug. “Well, I just think the whole idea is…ridiculous. It’s just beyond the realm of possibility.”
“If even half of what you suspect is true, Mrs. Fairs, then nothing is beyond the realm of possibility. Next time call me
and we’ll set up a meeting. Now, what brought you out today?”
“I’m staying in town for a while, Mr. Whelan, and I thought I’d come by and see if you had learned anything more.”
“In half a day’s work? No, Mrs. Fairs, I’m not a miracle worker.” She seemed to be holding something back, and he had a vague impression that she was waiting for him to give her something, something that she wasn’t going to ask for. “I met Victor Tabor.”
She frowned and gave a little shake of her head. “Whatever for?”
“I wanted to talk with someone who had actual dealings with your husband and Rich Vosic. He has a somewhat darker view of High Pair and its financial maneuverings.”
“He still harbors some resentment over the loan.”
“Oh, I think it’s something a little stronger than resentment. He thinks they took advantage of him and that they knew what they were doing before they went in. Both of them.”
“He is a bitter old man. My husband was not a crook.”
Whelan decided to try the one he had really been waiting for. “Mrs. Fairs, have you thought any further about the name I mentioned?”
“The name? Oh, yes. Henley.” A new life came into her eyes and she reddened slightly, as though excited.
No, not so hot, lady. Playing dumb is not your strong suit. “Yes, Henley. You said you thought you knew the name.”
She frowned now and her acting wasn’t getting any better. “I’m sure I’ve heard that name before, Mr. Whelan, but it’s impossible for me to tell you where or when. Someone I heard Phil mention, perhaps, or as I said, a name I heard Mr. Palm mention.” She shrugged and smiled a saleswoman’s smile. “I wish I could be more helpful, Mr. Whelan.”
“Well, if it should come to you, please give me a call. It may be important, and I can use any help that comes my way.”
She put out her cigarette and there was something like humor in her eyes. “Oh, Mr. Whelan, I think you’re doing just fine the way you’re working. Just fine. I’m quite satisfied. As a matter of fact—” She dug inside the little purse again and came out with her wallet. “—I have something for you. Here.” She lay a small, neat sheaf of bills on his desk. She didn’t spread them out for effect, just set them down in a perfect pile. The top one was a hundred and there was no reason to believe that the ones below were anything else.
“Pictures of President McKinley. My favorite. But what’s this for?”
She gave him a tight smile. “Call it a bonus, Mr. Whelan. I still intend for you to bill me when all this is…concluded. But for now I’d like to give you this.”
“That’s very generous,” he said.
She was getting up and straightening her skirt. She made an unconscious attempt to brush the imaginary dirt of Whelan’s office from her skirt, and he smiled. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Whelan. By the way, I’m staying at the Harrison-Stratford. You can reach me there.”
“Just as long as it’s not the Estes.”
She frowned. “I don’t know the Estes.”
“Just as well. One quick question: I’d like to know more about Vosic. I know he’s married and that his marriage is unstable.”
She laughed again, a laugh with an edge to it. “Unstable. What a delightful piece of understatement, Mr. Whelan. His marriage is a shambles. His wife hates him, Mr. Whelan. She is rumored to be planning to take him to the cleaners, but no one takes her very seriously. Susan Vosic is what you’d call a lightweight, Mr. Whelan. She has no idea what he has or owns; she’ll do all the damage of a fruit fly.”
“Do they still live together?”
“Ostensibly. His name is on the mailbox, but he hasn’t set foot inside that house in months. He uses the brownstone in Lincoln Park and the condominium on the Gold Coast. She has the house in Melrose Park.” She gave him an amused look. “Why? Are you thinking of calling on Susan Vosic, Mr. Whelan?”
“Maybe. I’m not shy, Mrs. Fairs.”
She nodded and a smile spread across her face. “What a wonderful idea, Mr. Whelan. And one that would never have occurred to me. I know Susan will talk to you, Mr. Whelan.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Oh, there is no doubt in my mind. She’ll talk to anyone about her situation. But don’t tell her you’re looking into my husband’s death. The rest of the world believes it was a suicide, and Susan is a follower, not a leader. Tell her you’re trying to find out about—”
He held up a hand. “No offense, but I think I can manage.”
“Of course you can. You are a very capable man, Mr. Whelan. I don’t mean to tell you your business. There is one thing you should know, though: it would not be helpful to your cause to let Susan know you’re working for me.”
“You don’t get along.”
She smiled tightly. “Another of your understatements, Mr. Whelan.” She nodded once more and turned toward the door.
He got up and showed her out. Then he went back to his desk, picked up the stiff little packet of new bills, and looked at it. Ten hundreds. Some bonus. He took a quick look out the window just in time to see her crossing the street toward a gray Lincoln. These people liked Lincolns. Hers was parked in a loading zone and there was a ticket under her wiper. She glanced at it briefly and then ripped it in pieces, small pieces, many of them. Then she got in, made a U-turn on Lawrence that earned her the hostility and the horns of half a dozen drivers, and she was gone, this woman who drove into run-down neighborhoods and called on private detectives for the sole purpose of giving them handfuls of cash. Now why don’t I believe that? he wondered. He looked at the bills again. The bonus was for coming up with the name.
Whelan sat staring out at the street traffic and wondering when the last time was that someone had told him the truth.
Eleven
Susan Vosic answered the phone on the second ring, a youthful-sounding woman with a nervous phone manner and a habit of hesitating before speaking.
Whelan explained who he was. She wasn’t impressed, but when he told her that he was investigating a connection between her estranged husband and his former accountant she gave him her longest silence.
“I don’t see why that should concern me. I was never involved in the business. I don’t think I said six words to that man Brister.”
“Of course not. But you might have information I can use about the company’s financial picture. It’s pretty nebulous. The companies I’m working for…my clients have some question as to where High Pair’s money actually went. And there is a lot of money involved. A great deal of money.”
There was a long hesitation and then she told him she’d see him in the evening.
It wasn’t a castle but it was easily the largest house on a street of modest but perfectly maintained houses—by Melrose Park standards, a mansion. Whelan had no idea what a guy with a name like Vosic would be doing here in an Italian neighborhood and assumed that Mrs. Vosic was a local girl.
On a summer night in Melrose Park you were never alone. People sat on their front porches or set up folding chairs on the sidewalk in front of the house and watched newcomers with interest and occasional suspicion.
They knew how to throw a party, these people, and once a year for many years, usually in the company of Liz, Whelan had come to Melrose Park for the Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, known more commonly as the Feast, a weeklong carnival and food binge that brought thousands of people to the church grounds and death to half the clams on God’s earth.
A fun neighborhood to visit, so long as you remembered not to park where someone had staked out his space with a kitchen chair. Better to park in front of a hydrant than take somebody’s space.
He walked back up the street to the Vosic house and when he rang the bell, a woman answered. She was young and sharp featured and there was a washed-out quality to her looks, as though she had just recovered from an illness. She was also, as Carmen had said, small, with slender arms and legs that gave an air of frailty. This fragile quality evaporated as soon as you noti
ced her eyes—they were large and very dark, not the eyes of a woman whom people walked all over. She had shoulder-length dark brown hair and she had put on some makeup to combat the paleness.
“Mr. Whelan?”
“Right. Hi.”
“Come in.”
She led him into a large, luminous living room, a room contrived for light. There were windows on three sides of the room. The carpet and draperies were off-white and the furniture was a mixture of blond wood and beige fabric—modern, every stick of it. A bookcase took up one wall, its shelves lined with hard covers still in perfect dust jackets, and he saw a set of the Encyclopedia Brittanica that looked as though someone had polished it. The light from the setting sun made gold of her glass tabletops, one of which supported an enormous book on Greek and Roman art. It wasn’t a living room so much as a showroom for furniture and beautiful things, and when she asked him to make himself comfortable, he wasn’t sure he could.
She smiled. “Anywhere, Mr. Whelan. It’s all for sitting. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thanks.” He took a large armchair facing the sofa, where she sat back, folded her arms, and looked at him with a half smile.
“What is it exactly that you want to know, Mr. Whelan?”
“A number of things. I’m just not sure you’re the person I should be asking. Some of my questions may prove to be quite offensive to you—prying, at the very least, and perhaps insulting to your husband.”
A look of amusement passed quickly over her face and she shook her head. “I doubt that you’ll say anything about Rich that I’ll find insulting. Have you ever met my husband, Mr. Whelan?”
“Uh…yes, I have.”
“Did you like him?”
“I try not to form judgments too quickly. You wind up taking a lot of those back.”
She smiled. “What a diplomat. So you didn’t like him much.”
He laughed. “No, ma’am, but it’s all right. I don’t think he cared much for me, either.”
“Then let’s drop all the pretense, all right? You can’t offend me by anything you ask about Rich. He’s a crook. He’s an operator, Mr. Whelan. He uses everybody. He used me.” She held up one hand. “No, wait. I know what you think I’m going to say. I’m talking business now. He married me because I had money.” She gave him a sardonic grin. “Just like his partner.”
A Body in Belmont Harbor Page 17
