Lady 52: A Jack Daniels/Nicholas Colt Novel

by Jude Hardin

  “No, that’s not what this is about. Morris died in his sleep. His heart, you know.”

  I nodded. I waited for her to continue, and when she didn’t, I said, “So tell me why you’re thinking about hiring a private investigator.”

  “Oh, I’m definitely going to hire one. I’m not just thinking about it. It’s my mother. She was the one who was murdered. I’m almost sure of it.”

  “In Florida?”

  “No, in Illinois. Near Chicago. You’re going to think this is crazy, but it happened almost twenty-six years ago. Should I start from the beginning?”

  I looked at my watch. “Please do,” I said.

  “When I was thirty-three, my mother kind of went nuts. My father had died in an industrial accident a few years before that, and I guess she was never able to get over it. Anyway, she quit her job and let her home go into foreclosure. Maxed out her credit cards, filed bankruptcy and all that. It was a big mess. She moved in with Morris and me for a while, and then one day she was just gone. Never wrote, never called, nothing. Poof. She just disappeared. Of course we filed a missing persons report, and we even hired a private investigator back then, but she was nowhere to be found. We finally just had to go on with our lives. Hope for the best, assume the worst. But I never stopped thinking about her.”

  “So what makes you think she was murdered?”

  “Well, I finally found her, about a month ago. She’d always talked about moving to Chicago, so every now and then I would check the obituaries up there, and the missing persons sites and all, and a couple of months ago there she was, on the Cook County Medical Examiner’s website. They’d found a gold chain and a locket with her skeleton. It was the only way I knew it was her.”

  “Did they list a cause of death?”

  “They’re almost certain she died in a fire, probably decades old. The police weren’t very forthcoming with any information, so I did some research on my own, went through a bunch of newspaper articles from back then, discovered that an abandoned house had burned not far from where she was found.”

  “Sounds like it was probably an accident,” I said. “Your mother was homeless, right? She found a place to squat, fell asleep with a cigarette in her hand or something.”

  “That’s what the police said, but I don’t believe it. Mom was always terrified of fire. It was her greatest fear, being burned to death. She was always super cautious anytime there was a flame nearby. And she didn’t smoke.”

  “Maybe she was hanging out with someone who did.”

  Doris sighed. “If you had known her, if you had known how she was about fire, then you would understand what I’m trying to tell you. She got burned really bad when she was a little girl. I’m not going to go into it other than to say it wasn’t an accident that time. And I’m almost sure the fire that killed her wasn’t an accident either.”

  I took a drink of beer. The lunch crowd had started filing in, and the place was getting noisy. Kelly’s had been featured on a cable television show called Grills, Game Rooms, and Greasy Spoons a while back, and since then business had been—as the show’s host might have said—off the chain. I was happy for Anil, the owner, but I had a feeling the joint was never going to be quite the same as it was before all the publicity.

  “Want to step outside for a minute?” I said.

  “Okay.”

  “Let me just settle up at the bar.”

  I paid for the drinks, and we walked out to the wooden porch that spanned the front of the building. I lit a cigarette, asked Doris if she wanted one.

  “I’ve been trying to quit,” she said. “Doctor says I have COPD. I just don’t want to have to go on oxygen and all that crap, you know?”

  “Yeah.”

  I took a deep drag, knowing I would be in the same boat someday if I didn’t get my act together.

  “Anyway, my mother never smoked a cigarette in her life. Not that I know of. So I really don’t think—”

  “There has to be something else,” I said. “Something more to it. Something you’re not remembering. Otherwise, it would be completely reasonable for anyone to assume that your mother’s death was accidental. Even with her history. Do you have that article you found, about the fire?”

  She handed me a photo copy of a Chicago Tribune column, no more than two inches of print. Abandoned building in the Chipilly Woods in Northbrook, fire of indeterminate origin, possibly lightning. No mention of anyone killed.

  “This could be unrelated.”

  “My mother’s remains were found fifty feet from that fire.”

  “Why weren’t they found at the time?”

  “Look at the article again. Nighttime, during a thunderstorm, and the fire was quickly put out. They probably missed her in the dark and rain.”

  I was no fireman, but I was pretty sure looking for victims was on their to-do list. The skepticism must have shown on my face, because Doris said, “I promise I’m not holding anything back from you, Mr. Colt. It’s just that I knew my mother, and I’m certain she would have never put herself in a position to die in a house fire. She wouldn’t even allow us to have a barbecue grill when I was growing up.”

  I didn’t believe her. I figured there was more to the story, but I couldn’t make her tell me something she didn’t want to tell me.

  “How did they end up finding her?” I said.

  “Some hunters found one of her leg bones in the woods, just a few yards from the house that burned. The police started looking around, and eventually they found the rest of her. The investigator I talked to said that the upper half of her body had practically been cooked. There was little doubt in his mind that she’d died in a fire.”

  And it hadn’t been discovered for years? Not even by animals? That was rather odd.

  “All right,” I said. “If I agree to go to work for you, what do you hope to get out of it?”

  “Nothing, except the truth. And maybe some justice for whoever was responsible for my mother’s death.”

  “I’ll need some money up front for expenses, and my rate is a hundred dollars an hour.”

  “That could get expensive quick,” she said.

  “Yes, it could.”

  “How much do you need up front?”

  “Enough for a plane ticket to Chicago and a downtown hotel room. I should have something for you within a few days. If not, you can decide then if you still want to proceed with the investigation.”

  She stared at me, hard. “What do you think of your chances?”

  I needed the money, but I never needed money bad enough to lie. “The odds are against it, Doris. If I had to bet, I’d say you were throwing your money away. I’m good at what I do, but I can’t perform miracles.”

  “Thanks for your honesty. Can I think it over?”

  “Of course.”

  We shook hands and parted ways, and I never expected to hear from her again.

  DANIELS

  FRIDAY, 11:29 A.M. CST

  I’d stopped by the tow lot to take a closer look at Dr. Shipman’s Mercedes, and I’d stopped by the ME’s office to take a closer look at his corpse. No big revelations at either place, although Shipman did have some bruises on his chest that indicated he might have gotten into a scuffle before being mortally wounded. He wasn’t what you would call obese, but he was no Rocky Balboa either. I doubted he exercised much, and I doubted he would have lasted more than thirty seconds in any sort of intense physical altercation.

  I also stopped at the hospital to see my mother. A while ago, she’d been beaten to within inches of her life by a man who escaped police custody and went on a killing spree. Mom was in a coma. Her condition had improved, but she still wasn’t able to move or speak. The doctors and social workers were currently trying to find placement for her in a long term care facility. I made a concerted effort to stop and visit with her at least once a day, which meant that I cried like a baby at least once a day. I loved my mother, and I missed being able to talk with her.

  Genario’
s Pizza wasn’t far from my apartment. I’d been there many times. Checkered tablecloths, globed candles, parmesan cheese and crushed red pepper beside every chrome napkin holder. It was on the way to the CigsMart, so I decided to stop there first. I got there right at eleven-thirty, just as they were opening for lunch.

  Michael Genario greeted me at the door. He’d been in the United States for over twenty years, still spoke with a heavy Italian accent. Stereotypical though it might be, he sounded exactly like Chico Marx.

  “Jack! So nice to see you. Are you alone today?”

  “I’m not here for lunch, Mike. I just wanted to ask you some questions.”

  “Sure, sit down.”

  He gestured toward a booth. I took a seat on the padded vinyl bench, and he slid in across from me.

  “Do you know a Dr. William Howard Shipman?” I said.

  “Sure, I know Bill. He was here just last night. He comes every Thursday with his partners, the other doctors he works with. They always order the same thing. Large pie with mushrooms and pepperoni and—”

  “He’s dead, Mike.”

  “What? Bill is dead? But he was just here. Oh, my. This is terrible. Terrible.”

  “It happened around ten o’clock last night, at the CigsMart over on Addison. Someone cut him up and took his wallet.”

  “Terrible, terrible. I don’t know what to say.”

  “You were here until closing last night?” I said.

  “Yes, I was here. You know me, Jack. I’m here all the time. Twelve hours a day, six days a week.”

  “I was just wondering if you noticed anything unusual while Dr. Shipman and his party were here.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, Dr. Shipman died in what appears to be a random robbery, but I still have to rule everything else out. If the murder was planned, for example, premeditated, someone might have been following him. Did you notice anyone sitting alone in the restaurant last night, or any other suspicious activity?”

  “People come in alone sometimes. I don’t consider that suspicious. But no, I don’t remember anything like that last night.”

  “How about Dr. Shipman and his friends? Anything unusual about them?”

  “Not really. Well, now that you mention it, maybe they weren’t quite as, how you say, jovial as usual. Most of the time they’re drinking beer and laughing and talking about sports and everything. Last night was a little different. Kind of quiet.”

  “Did all three of them leave the restaurant together?”

  “That, I do not know. It was a little busy last night, and I really wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Do you know who waited on their table?”

  “No, but I can find out. Be back in a minute. You want a coffee or some beer or something?”

  “No thanks, Mike. I’ve already had about a gallon of coffee this morning, and it’s a little early for beer.”

  He nodded, got up and walked back toward the kitchen. A few seconds later, a man wearing a rumpled baby blue suit pushed his way through the swinging glass front door and said, “Hiya, Jackie!”

  It was Harry McGlade.

  Perfect.

  Years ago, Harry had been my partner. Now he was a private investigator. No matter his profession, he was always a pain in the ass.

  He walked over to my table, plopped down in the seat across from me. The yellow blob on his necktie that I’d thought was some sort of abstract design now revealed itself to be a mustard stain.

  “What do you want, Harry?”

  “A guy has to want something all the time? I saw your car parked out there, just dropped in to say hello. Thought you might want to buy me lunch.”

  “I’m here on business,” I said. “And it’ll be a cold day in—”

  “Be nice. So what’s it take to get some service around here anyway? Is that one waitress here today? The one with the huge rack?”

  “Felencia Chase,” Mike said. He’d stepped up to the table while Harry was being rude, crude, and socially unacceptable. In other words, his normal self.

  “Yeah, that’s her,” McGlade said.

  “He was talking to me, Harry,” I said.

  “They’re perfect, Jack. Big and bouncy and boob-shaped. And she’s a nice girl too, probably. Is she pretty?” Harry asked Mike. “I don’t think I’ve ever looked at her face.”

  Mike looked at me, gestured toward McGlade. “Do you know this person, Jack?”

  “Harry was just leaving,” I said. “Right, Harry?”

  “Actually, I was thinking about having something to eat. But I can see that the two of you want to talk, so I’ll find another table. Which section is Fellatio working in?”

  “Felencia,” Mike said. “She’s off today.”

  “Fail. Got any other girls with a pair like that?”

  Mike shrugged, looked at me questioningly.

  “Get out of here, Harry,” I said.

  “It’s a free country, Jack.”

  “I have the right to refuse service,” Mike said, folding his arms.

  “And I have the right to call the health department and tell them there’s urine in your lemonade.”

  “There’s no urine in my lemonade!”

  “Sure there is. Just close your eyes and give me three minutes.”

  “Get out of my restaurant.”

  “You’ll have to call the cops on me,” Harry said. “Oh look, they’re here.”

  “You want to get arrested, McGlade?”

  “I know you, Jackie. I’m not worth the paperwork. Speaking of paperwork.”

  Harry reached into the side pocket of his sports jacket and pulled out a crumpled piece of copy paper. He unfolded it, set it on the table, smoothed it out with his hand.

  “What’s this?” I said.

  “It’s the release form for your character in Fatal Autonomy. We got the green light for the pilot, but they don’t want to do it without your character. You promised, remember? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for months.”

  “I’ve been busy,” I said. “My mother’s in a coma.”

  “Your mother would have wanted this. If she was awake, she’d tell you.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “Soon to be a rich asshole.”

  Harry had been involved in a Hollywood dramatization, the fictional account of a serial killer known as the Gingerbread Man—a particularly heinous individual he and Herb and I had tangled with—and now some producers wanted to make a series out of the story. In the feature film, the character named Jacqueline Daniels was played by woman who could have been my double.

  In pounds.

  Not in appearance.

  I didn’t want anything to do with any of it, but Harry had done me a favor a while back and I’d promised to sign the release allowing my good name to be continually defiled.

  “I knew you didn’t just stop in here to say hello,” I said. “I knew you wanted something.”

  “That’s the cynic in you. One of the reasons you’re so hard to like.”

  “Want me to call the police?” Mike asked.

  “Want me to call immigration?” McGlade countered.

  “Just gimme the damn thing.”

  I reached into my purse, grabbed a pen, scratched my signature on the bottom of the form.

  “There,” I said. “Now leave.”

  “No problem. I hope I didn’t make you mad, you know, about the boob comments. Flat chicks need love, too. But I’d also recommend surgery.”

  “I will shoot you, McGlade.”

  Harry stuffed the paper back into his pocket, got up and walked out of the restaurant.

  Mike handed me a business card. He’d written Felencia Chase’s phone number on the back of it.

  “I wish I could be more help,” he said. “Maybe Felencia will be able to tell you something.”

  “Thanks, Mike. And I think I’ll take you up on that beer now.”

  Five minutes with McGlade, and I felt the need for some alcohol.
/>   And a bath.

  DEL CHIVO

  FRIDAY, 11:46 A.M. CST

  Time for your shave,” the barber said.

  “Please, señor. Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.”

  The barber didn’t say anything. He slathered some soap onto Jaso’s face, and then he approached him with the razor. With a single swipe—one fluid motion, moving gracefully like an artist with a brush—the barber sliced Jaso’s nose completely off. He pinched it with two fingers, rolled it around in his palm, tossed it aside.

  Blood bubbled from the wound on Jaso’s face like some sort of ghastly fountain in the darkest corner of hell. The barber rinsed his hands off, and then he started sawing on his prisoner’s left ear.

  Sergio Del Chivo woke with a gasp, Jaso’s tortured, gurgling screams still echoing in his throbbing head.

  The cheap wine had done a number on him. He was thirsty and dizzy and nauseated, and the house he’d slept in reeked of cigarette smoke, sweat, and urine. He couldn’t believe that some people in the United States of America actually lived like this. Cerdos! He longed to finish his job and get out of this wretched place.

  One down. Just four to go.

  Sergio had purchased a utility knife, what the gringos sometimes referred to as a box cutter, a plastic poncho, a plastic box with sealable lid, and some rubber gloves, all at a local discount store. It had cost him nearly all of the ten dollars Señor Mendoza had given him for the trip. But he had more money now, from the wallet of the man he’d killed. He was practically rich compared to the lowlife stinking bums camping in this abandoned house with him.

  He rose from the filthy green carpet, walked to the bathroom and used the toilet. He pushed the lever to flush it, but there wasn’t any water. The service had probably been shut off long ago, along with the electricity.

  Like animals, these Americanos lived.

  He walked through the house, checking all the rooms, but there was nobody else around. His friends must have gone out to panhandle already.

  Lawrence and Shorty.

  Insufferable drunken swine.

  He’d heard them talking about it last night, about getting out early to hit the morning traffic. He would have killed the two of them while they slept, but he doubted they had proper identification. It would have been a waste of time, and an unnecessary risk. They wouldn’t have counted toward his quota.