“Only when it’s cooked,” I said, and she surprised the hell out of me with a spasm of laughter that brought her close to spitting out her food. When I was sure she didn’t need the Heimlich maneuver, I laughed with her.
“That Milly you mentioned was getting payments from Snooky,” I said.
“She worked for him?”
“I doubt it.”
“What was the money for?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out, which brings me to ask one more time: can you remember anything specific he said about why Milly was nervous?”
“I have nothing for you,” Audrey said and the tone of her voice told me she meant it. She took another bite of her sandwich and stared at a point in space above my head. Then she said, “Are you happy, Jules?”
“I’m ecstatic.”
“Why did you pick this career?”
“Why do you care?”
“If you’re going to keep popping up in my life, you’ll become a character in my story, and I need to learn about you. Why did you pick this career?”
“Just make something up.”
“That question ticks you off.”
It did for some reason. “I like puzzles, mysteries, figuring things out—being my own boss. And I guess I wanted a different kind of life.”
“Different from what?”
“Different from what was expected.”
Audrey returned her gaze back into space then said, “But can’t this kind of work be dangerous?”
“I suppose. How did you meet Snooky?”
“My father got his name from a financial consultant who likes to work with professors.”
“Your father’s a professor?” I wondered what Daddy thought of his little girl’s career.
“Yeah, but he doesn’t teach anymore. He became disillusioned with my generation, and now he’s just an administrator at the University of Illinois at Chicago, giving him more time to dabble in real estate.”
“What kind of real estate?”
“I don’t know.”
This was news. I thought Snooky’s legit clients were all shop owners. “Can you get this consultant’s phone number for me?”
Audrey reached into her shoulder bag and handed me a business card for Linda Conway, Personal Financial Consultant. I thought it strange that her office was in a university building. “My father got a vacant office for her to use in exchange for being a guest lecturer at the business school.”
I put the card in my pocket and wondered what the tax-paying public would think of this arrangement. We ate in silence until she said, “I have to get back,” and wrapped what was left of her sandwich in a couple of napkins and stuffed it in her bag. When we stepped outside, I reiterated my promise not to bother her again and told her I was parked in the opposite direction. She gave me half of a goodbye wave, and we both turned to leave. A few steps down the sidewalk, she called my name. I turned and she said, “I wanted a different kind of life, too.”
8
Outside my apartment, the Crown Vic was still a scofflaw. I stood in front of the car waving my arms at the tinted windshield. This action elicited no response so I moved to the driver’s side window and tapped on the blackened glass. When that didn’t work, I climbed onto the hood and lay across the windshield while pounding my fists on the roof.
This time the door opened and a short bald guy stepped out. “Get off, you stupid fuck!”
I jumped down and yelled back, “Did you know you’re parked illegally? Did you know that windshield tint is only allowed on the top six inches? Did you know tint on the driver’s side window is illegal?”
His looked like his head would explode. “You skinny shit, I could tear you in half!”
“You want me to call the cops and report a rent-a-Guido harassment in progress?”
He took a step toward me and then retreated. “Why don’t you call the cops and see what happens, dumb ass?” he said and got back into the car. As I suspected, a Kalijero stooge.
I walked up the stairs to my apartment unconcerned with Guido but satisfied I had found a potential lead, and perhaps a connection with a beautiful woman. I expressed my gratitude by offering up a fresh kidney to the domestic short-haired goddess who shook the organ violently before swallowing it.
Once again the light was blinking on my answering machine. Once again Kalijero’s voice spoke. “… I’m not the bad guy, Jules. There’s no reason we can’t work together …” Two messages in three hours. I might have to get a restraining order.
* * *
I called Linda Conway and told her I was investigating the murder of Charles Snook, and I hoped she wouldn’t mind if I asked her a few questions regarding the last time she saw him.
“Yes, of course,” Conway said and then asked, “Are you a professional private investigator?”
“I’m not a cop and, yes, I get paid to investigate.”
“I’ll be in my office for another two hours, you’re welcome to stop by.”
I drove south toward the university feeling cockier than ever. As I approached the huge concrete slabs that made up the university’s original buildings, I wondered how many people recognized the irony of an architectural style called Brutalism in a neighborhood where Snooky’s body was found on a debris pile of what used to be cheap apartments for poor Maxwell Street peddlers. The area surrounding the campus was a frenzied construction zone. Let’s hide the crime as quickly as possible.
Linda Conway’s office was in the Jordan wing of the graduate business school next to the finance library. When I arrived, the door was open and she was working at her desk. I knocked lightly and introduced myself. She hurried over to shake my hand before inviting me to sit on one of the two chairs in front of her desk.
Curious as to what she would reveal of her connection to the university, I asked for an overview of her job, and she said she counseled impoverished graduate students not to give up on achieving financial independence. “You can start with saving a dollar a week,” she said. “If you believe you’re worthy of wealth, you will achieve it.” Tall and attractive, she spoke with the kind of confident saleswoman’s optimism I imagined made it difficult for people to leave without writing a check. Her walls were covered with eight by ten photographs of her posing alongside well-known Christian conservatives, several of whom had made fortunes with their television and radio shows.
“I see you have celebrity clients.”
Conway smiled. “Those are teachers, not clients.”
“Not exactly the role models one expects to see in a financial advisor’s office.”
“Oh, but you’re wrong! You see, God rewards those who seek the right path.”
I didn’t see. “I’m investigating the murder of Charles Snook, and I was told he had done some work for you.”
Suddenly, the beaming face of confidence turned pale. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. “When I heard the news and saw his name—I assumed there could only be one Snooky.” Her voice wavered. “He helped me with my tax return. That was last February. How did you know?”
“Audrey, the daughter of a professor—”
“Jerry’s daughter. I didn’t know she was in town.”
“Just curious. Why would you need Snooky’s help?”
“I’m not a tax expert.”
“Had you seen Snooky since February?”
“We had breakfast Friday morning.”
“Did you talk about taxes or was this a social call?”
“He was very personable and intelligent, so it was hard not to talk about other things.”
We took turns glancing at each other and then looking away until I said, “You knew why I was coming over, right?”
“You told me on the phone. Why are you asking?”
“When I first walked in, you were businesswoman of the year. I mention Snooky and you’re shell-shocked.”
“I have to put aside personal emotions when explaining my occupation. Everyone has the potential to
need financial counseling.”
“You thought I was an impoverished graduate student?”
“Well, no,” she said and started rubbing the back of her neck. “I don’t limit myself to students. I’m glad to talk to anyone.”
“I’m glad I left my checkbook at home.” She didn’t laugh. “Were you and Snooky more than friends?”
Linda Conway stood and walked to the window overlooking a construction site for new graduate housing. “Charles—I mean Snooky—was a wonderful person. He had a tremendous curiosity about spiritual prosperity. Long after my taxes were finished, he continued stopping by. We’d go out to lunch or to the opera. We felt great intimacy toward each other.”
“What time did Friday morning’s breakfast end?”
“About nine-thirty. I was to be a guest speaker at a graduate seminar at ten.”
“Did he give you a reason for being down here other than to see you?”
“He always said he was here on business. I just assumed he had clients in this area.”
“What about Friday morning? Did he mention anybody he was seeing that morning?”
Conway walked back to her desk but didn’t sit. She began arranging paper clips with her index finger. Without looking up, she said, “He never mentioned names. He just made references—someone involved with city government or something to do with real estate. He had his briefcase with him on Friday, so I assumed he was in the area on business. But these were asides. Our time together was of a more personal nature.”
“Did he confide in you?”
“What do you mean?”
“People who feel great intimacy often confide in each other.”
She looked away and said, “I told you he didn’t use names. We didn’t betray confidences. It was much too risky—”
“So you knew he laundered money?”
“I knew no such thing!”
“Then what was risky?”
“We both worked with other people’s money, Mr. Landau. Money is confidential by nature. And I don’t appreciate what you’re implying.”
“Snooky watched me grow up. He helped me become a man.”
Conway sat back down. “His loss must bring you great pain.”
“I need to know as much as possible about the people he associated with.”
Conway hesitated and then said, “But we must find space to be thankful for the time we did have with him. I even thanked Jerry for recommending Snooky, thus bringing him into my life—”
“Audrey’s dad recommended Snooky to you?”
“This surprises you?”
I dialed it back down. “I just thought it was the other way around. Are you sure he introduced you?”
“Of course. I had inherited some rental property and needed tax advice. Jerry and I served on a steering committee together for a local nonprofit, and that’s when he recommended him. In fact, Jerry had some business to discuss with Snooky and invited me along to meet him and ask my real estate questions. I decided to just hire him to do my taxes.”
“Snooky knew about your arrangement with Audrey’s father?”
Conway gave me a puzzled look. “What arrangement?”
“Running a for-profit business from a public university office, and, perhaps, evangelizing while you’re at it.”
“The university treats me as if I was an adjunct professor. Adjunct professors are allowed to work outside the academic scope. You should check the bylaws, Mr. Landau. And my job is to counsel people. I resent the suggestion I proselytize.” I’d hit a nerve.
“Checking the bylaws is a good idea,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind if I stop by again should I have more questions.”
“As you said, it’s a public university. Whether I mind or not is irrelevant.”
* * *
Because I was still dissecting my conversation with Conway as I walked back to my apartment, I didn’t notice the Crown Vic still parked in front of my building until an angry voice interrupted my thoughts. I turned and saw Kalijero’s face looking out the passenger side window.
“What do I gotta do to get a call back?” he said.
“You’re being too needy, Jimmy. It’s a turnoff.” I resumed walking and heard the car door slam.
“What the fuck, Jules,” Kalijero said, running over. “We’re on the same team here. Let’s look over what we got.”
I stopped and faced him. “Okay, you start. Whaddya got?”
Kalijero frowned. “There’s a rumor someone was messing around Snooky’s neighbor’s backyard.”
“What else you got?”
“You’re starting to piss me off. Was that you? You got some evidence you want to show me?”
“I’ll tell you what, Jimmy, you come clean with me, and I’ll do the same. Why do you care so much about his murder?”
“Like I said, I don’t like seeing civilians get hurt—”
“Why not just tell me why you care so much—”
“Because I don’t have to!” Kalijero shouted. “I’m the police, remember? It’s you who has to talk, and if you don’t start soon, I’ll have you arrested for obstruction!” Kalijero took a step back and wiped the spittle off his mouth. He looked pathetic standing there taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself. I resumed walking toward my building. “You’re too cocky, Landau,” Kalijero shouted. “That might get you into trouble.” Once again, I knew he was right.
9
I lay down on the couch and tried to collect my thoughts. The apartment’s one window air conditioner struggled to keep pace with the July heat, but the white noise helped me drift into one of those late afternoon slumbers where the events of the past two days ricocheted around my subconscious. Audrey, Kalijero, and Linda Conway took turns demanding my attention while I became increasingly aware of pressure on my abdomen with intermittent pinpricks. Consciousness returned with the phone ringing. Punim lay on my pelvis, kneading with her front paws.
“A cop just stopped by,” the female voice said, and it took a moment for the dust to settle in my brain before I recognized Audrey’s voice.
“Detective Kalijero. He’s been tracking me.”
“He wanted to know what we talked about. He freaked me out.”
“Just tell him what you know. He’s the police.”
“I said we talked about my friendship with Snooky and that I told you someone called Milly was nervous. Then he asked if you had a book of Snooky’s clients, and I said I didn’t know.”
“There is no book.”
“He scared me. He really wanted that book. It almost felt like he was threatening me. Are you sure you don’t have a book? I don’t want him coming back here.”
I reassured Audrey she had nothing to fear or hide and told her to always cooperate with the cops, and then I said, “I’m sorry for all the hassle. Was it possible Snooky knew your father before he was hired as his accountant?”
“No.”
“And you’re absolutely sure about that?”
A pause and then, “Well, Snooky never mentioned knowing my dad. I don’t see why he would. Dad did his own taxes and didn’t run a business on the side.”
“But you said something about real estate.”
“Sure, but I don’t think it’s anything too complicated. Collecting rent on a couple of condos or something.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Someone just walked in.” She hung up.
10
The unmistakable smell of fried lunch meat. “You want some?” Frownie said.
I declined and watched a man in his eighties place strips of American cheese on bologna slices, spread mayo over white toast, and then slap together dinner. I bet his LDL cholesterol was less than one hundred. We sat down at the fancy dining room table in his high-rise apartment.
“So whaddya got?” Frownie said and took a bite of his sandwich.
“I’ve got a man lying to his daughter about knowing Snooky. I got a police detective who’s got a hard-on for me.”
&nb
sp; Without looking up from his plate Frownie said, “The liar—what does he do?”
“College administrator.”
“Who’s his kid?”
“One of Snooky’s favorite clients.”
“Who’s the cop?”
“Kalijero.”
Frownie stopped chewing and looked at me. “The guy who put your dad away?”
“Yeah. Why’s he so hot for me?”
Frownie started chewing again. “Lots of reasons,” Frownie said. “You think Kalijero hired Snooky for his cleaning service?”
“No idea. Does a lying professor and a horny cop mean they know each other?”
“It doesn’t mean anything. Could be a million reasons why the college man knew Snooky. But Kalijero surprises me. He was clean when I knew him. The daughter—what does she know?”
“Nothing.”
“You gettin’ into her britches?”
“You’re a sick bastard.”
Frownie wiped the grease off his mouth with a cloth napkin and took a deep breath. “From the start I didn’t like it, Julie. Mob scum is bad enough, now maybe a dirty cop?”
I waited a few seconds and said, “You know I’m not dropping it.”
Frownie rubbed his eyes and sighed. “You gonna talk to the kid’s father?”
“That was my plan,” I said.
Frownie gave me his favorite expression, make sure you give him enough rope to hang himself, and then said, “If you find out Kalijero is dirty, you go to the Feds.”
We walked to the door. I could tell he was upset. Frownie said, “The best investigators are the ones who don’t get emotional—but I told you that already. They stay detached and let things play out before reachin’ conclusions. They don’t show what they’re thinkin’ or feelin’. Can you do that?”
“It’s in my bloodline,” I said.
“I’ll never forgive myself if I outlive you. Do me a favor and let me die first.”
* * *
That Frownie’s somber words failed to penetrate my consciousness I attributed to the family curse. That is, the genetic code responsible for my family’s propensity toward graft also explained why I drove home thinking only of cold pomegranate juice and Cubs baseball. With luck, Punim would stretch out on my lap and allow me to stroke her belly. My goal for the evening was to think of a way to question Audrey’s father, the college man.
Maxwell Street Blues Page 4
