by Jim Stevens
“Where is the wife?” I ask Norbert.
“Flying in from Palm Springs, evidently her husband’s death has put a serious dent in her vacation plans.”
“No one goes to the Springs now,” Tiffany says.
“She did.”
“And it’s like a 190 during the day.”
“But it’s a dry heat.” I put in my ill attempt at humor.
“Sounds like tummy-tuck time to me,” Tiffany offers her answer to the mystery.
___
Theresa has nothing better to do than make us all lunch. Norbert has a ham-and-pepper cheese on white with mustard and mayo, topped with sliced kosher dill pickles.
“Hey,” he says, “try it; you’ll like it.”
Theresa whips up a tuna salad for me and Tiffany nibbles on carrots and cucumbers with a bran muffin for her entree.
“Sundays are the best day of the week to flush your system.” She offers way too much information for my tastes.
Before Norbert inhales the second half of the sandwich, he pushes a yellow legal pad in front of me. “Steve gets a bit territorial; but if you just happen to see this, it won’t bother me much.”
On the pad is a step-by-step listing, a cop’s to-do list with corresponding dates, times, and locations.
I make mental notes. “Want me to lead or follow?”
“For now, follow.”
After the feast, I go outside and retrace the steps I made yesterday. Nothing new.
All in all, a totally worthless day. Detectives have lots of worthless days, not like on TV when all crimes are solved in less than an hour.
I go home. I call my kids. Kelly and Care both get on the phone and go on and on about how great it was riding their new horse.
I couldn’t afford to own a horse when I was married, so how my ex is able to afford one now is beyond my comprehension. The entry of my girls into the horsey set unnerves me because about all I know of horses is not to stand behind one.
I tell the girls I love them and can’t wait to see them on Tuesday.
I watch the news. Alvin’s story has dropped to the last fifteen minutes, packaged between the weather and the sports. By tomorrow it will be off the air.
___
First thing Monday morning I get an anonymous phone message informing me that partial lab results are in and if I happen to be in Kenilworth, at a certain restaurant, around lunchtime, a copy might be available for viewing.
I arrive at 12 noon on the dot. Norbert is manning the rear booth, slurping the soup of the day. “Great lentil soup in this place,” he says. “You wouldn’t think so, this town being so Waspy.”
It’s lunchtime, but I order breakfast, the most important meal of the day.
Norbert pushes four pages of stapled report across the table.
I read quickly.
“Blunt trauma.” Norbert pushes the empty bowl away to make room for his next course.
“I drove all the way up here to hear that?” I put the report down. “Did you order a full tox screen?”
“I can’t do that for an accidental death.”
“Why not?”
“Not in the budget.”
“Norbert, we’re in Kenilworth.”
The food arrives and Norbert digs in. I continue reading.
The text is mostly lab mumbo jumbo. I wait for something to jump out, but it is pretty much boilerplate: blood loss, position of the body, vital statistics, and a medical ya-ya of how an avalanche of rocks, falling from a height of approximately ten feet onto a human being, will cause irreparable harm and/or death. The report is hardly appetizing.
“No fingerprints. Maybe it was accidental.”
“They’re called gloves, Norbert.”
“No footprints, loose hairs, dandruff, thread, snot, or sweat on Alvin or on the rock.”
“So, look for someone in a Hazmat suit who likes to toss boulders around for fun.”
“I’m telling you, Sherlock; we could be onto the perfect crime.”
“There is no such thing.”
“Oh, come on,” Norbert stops chewing. “I could commit the perfect crime if I wanted to.”
“Go ahead, Norbert, steal a quarter.”
I fold the pages in half. “Can I keep this?”
“I won’t read it again,” Norbert says, lifting his Monte Cristo sandwich. “You might also want to know that the feds called to voice their displeasure that Alvin would no longer be available for their investigation of insider trading at the Board of Trade.” Norbert takes a bite, but continues to speak. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”
This information is worth the price of admission.
I pick up my fork and eat. My eggs are perfect. Why can’t I learn how to poach an egg?
“You think somebody killed him to shut him up?” I ask.
“Steve thought it might be a contract or a mob hit, a wake-up call for any other squealers,” Norbert says between bites, “but I think even the mob has more class than that.”
I agree. “But who would want to rock him out, when a baseball bat is so much better suited to bashing in a person’s head?”
“I heard the mob has switched to using those aluminum bats, much easier to clean and they sink when you toss them into the lake.”
“Technology,” I say, “it’s everywhere.”
I eat; Norbert devours. A piece of pie magically appears the second the last French fry enters his mouth.
“What do ya think, Sherlock?”
I should be asking, not answering. “Everything’s not kosher.”
“Alvin wasn’t Jewish.”
“Nobody kills a guy dressed in a linen suit on a Saturday morning, drags him home and buries him under an avalanche of his own rocks.”
“Yeah, does seem kind of odd.”
The waitress lays the check between us. “Insurance company give you an expense account?” Norbert asks.
“No,”
He pushes the tab my way. “Well, they should.”
5
Parts is parts
On my drive back into the city I have time to contemplate the case, but I don’t. As I pass through Lincoln Park, I look to my right and see what was once the Lincoln Hotel, which was the landing spot of Northside guys who had been kicked out of the house. I could smell the cheap disinfectant, stale smoke, bad booze, and the cloud of depression that came along with each room’s monthly rental. After the little lady gave me the boot, the LH was my home.
What a memorable time. Estranged from the wife, kicked off the force for what most cops would consider a normal reaction, missing my kids terribly, fat, out of shape, back killing me daily. I was broke, living off credit cards, depressed, a real pleasure to be around.
Job-wise, I had been blackballed out of any department in the suburbs, the sheriff’s department wouldn’t touch me and the feds wouldn’t admit I existed. Leaving town was out of the question because of my kids. I should have started a new career at the takeout window at a McDonald’s, but instead I accepted a job as an insurance investigator with the promise that the hours would be my own. My second mistake was borrowing money from my new employer to pay off the credit cards. Dumb move. Once you owe your soul to the company store, it’s tough to get back. Now, when Richmond Insurance calls, Richard Sherlock has no choice but to answer. I feel like an on-call OB/GYN in a Mormon polygamist compound.
___
I arrive at the morgue, not Cook County’s, but the Sun Times.
One of the great things about living in Chicago is that they have two great, but different, newspapers: the Tribune, which is a high-brow broadsheet, made to read while sipping morning coffee at home -- and the Sun Times, a tabloid written for the working class stiff who pages through while riding the bus or “L” to work. The only time I ever read the Trib consistently was when Mike Royko took the big bucks to write for them; since his death over a decade ago, I’m back to the Times. There was no greater newspaper columnist than Mike Royko.
With
the internet, few venture into the microfiche daily annals of yesterday and yesteryear. I am welcomed with open arms and files by a clerk named Theobald, a man who looks like he has worked below ground his whole life; he’s whiter than Tide.
He helps me look up every article written about or that mentions Alvin J. Augustus. This is boring, tedious work. My eyes tire as the pages zip across a large black screen. I search for a hook, an angle, something that jumps out that doesn’t make sense. I adjust and re-adjust the focus to read what I already know. After three hours, I’m toast; my eyes as blurry as the two bottom lines on a Snellen eye chart.
As I reach the street, my cell phone comes alive with an American Idol wanting to “Breakaway.” Care, my youngest installed a ring tone on my phone, and I have no idea how to remove it.
There are three messages: Tiffany, Norbert, and Theresa, the Augustus’ maid.
Norbert thanks me for lunch and drops in that the Mrs. is back in town. Theresa asks, in much better English, if I could call or stop by, and Tiffany screams “Mister Sherlock!”
I return Tiffany’s call.
“You didn’t call me,” she says instead of Hello. “Daddy said I was to be kept in the loop.”
“You were in the Loop.”
“No way.”
“You told me Monday you’re in the Loop for your facial.”
“Not that loop.”
“My bad.” If there is one expression I hate, it is, “my bad.”
“I can reschedule my zits getting popped, any day. We’re on a case.” She pauses for effect. “Dammit, you should have called me, Mister Sherlock.”
“Sorry.”
She calms down. “What are we doing tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s Tuesday.”
“Ah, duh.”
“Tuesdays, I see my kids.”
“So?”
“That means I don’t work. I pick them up at two, we hang out, cook dinner; I get to be a dad.”
“Ah… there is a twelve-million-dollar policy at stake here.”
“Not my money.”
“But it could be mine someday,” she says in no uncertain terms. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at ten.”
___
Tiffany arrives at my apartment at ten-thirty; being fashionably late applies to all Tiffany destinations. She wears a yellow sundress, flip-flops, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail.
“I don’t know why we are wasting our time going back to see that woman,” Tiffany says driving back through the Northshore. “I mean bleach not only destroys good fabric, but you can smell the fumes while you wear it.”
“How many lattés have you had this morning?”
“Three, I’m going to have to make a pit stop if we hit traffic.”
Tiffany is ready to burst by the time she parks behind the black-and-white in Alvin’s driveway.
“You wait for me before you question her,” Tiffany orders before running into the house the moment Theresa opens the front door.
“Mister Sherlock.” Theresa steps onto the porch.
I put up one finger to stop her before she speaks. We wait until Tiffany returns and says, “Thanks, I needed that.”
The three of us walk around the house, down the driveway, and into the back acreage.
“Mister Sherlock, I worry about Hector,” Theresa tells us.
“Why?”
“I think, they think he did it.”
“Did he?”
“No,” Theresa says. “Only things Hector ever kill are bugs.”
“Is he your husband?”
Theresa stares at her shoes.
“Lover, sí?” Tiffany hits the nail on the head.
“I get lonely being so far from home.”
“Me too.”
I look at Tiffany; what the hell is she talking about? She’s twenty minutes away from her condo.
“It is so hard when you don’t have someone you love near you.” Tiffany hands over her monogrammed silk handkerchief.
“He’s illegal, right?” I ask.
“Sí.”
“Aren’t we all in some way or another?” Tiffany must have been watching Oprah while she was sucking down her lattés.
“They won’t do anything to him,” I tell Theresa. “They know he’s innocent.”
“Should I tell him to come back?”
“How far away is he?”
“My cousins’.”
“That confirms how hard they’re looking for him. Tell him to lay low and I’ll let you know.” I keep walking, the two women slightly behind. “Tell me something, Theresa, Mr. Augustus ever walk around kinda spacey?”
“Spacey?”
“Es loco en la cabeza.” Tiffany translates.
“No.”
“How about drunk?”
“No.”
“And his wife?”
“Drunk or loca?” Theresa wants clarification.
“You pick.”
“No,” Theresa says. “Mrs. Alvin too busy being mean to be drunk or dizzy.”
I continue. “Would you say they made a nice couple?”
“Mr. Alvin mean, too.”
“Is that about the only thing they had in common?”
“Is really not my business.” Theresa is embarrassed for the second time.
“How about their kids?”
“Oh,” Theresa says, “boo.”
I pause.
“They treat me like servant.”
“Well, isn’t that par for the course?” Tiffany asks.
Although Theresa has never played golf, she gets the gist of Tiffany’s question.
“What time did Alvin come home on Friday?”
“Don’t know; wasn’t here.”
“Hector’s?”
“Sí.”
“She has her needs, Mister Sherlock,” Tiffany informs me.
I turn back to the maid. “Whatever you do, Theresa, don’t leave town.”
“Sí.”
Tiffany gets her handkerchief back before we leave.
___
The second-worst person in the world anyone can marry is a cop. The first is a cop who is a detective. My ex was a nice suburban girl, from a good family -- dad a welder, mom worked in the school cafeteria. At first, she thought it would be exciting married to one of Chicago’s finest, but got very mad when she discovered this was not the case. The difference between my ex and the exes of most of my fellow cops was: Their wives got mad, got divorced, and moved on. Mine got mad, got divorced, and stayed mad.
In retrospect, I can’t blame her for cutting me loose. My hours were awful. I’d get calls in the middle of the night and out the door I went. She was never sure if I’d come home in one piece or come home at all. My attempts to be a good husband were always interrupted by some gang war, mafia hit, or murderous crime spree. Once she started hanging around other cops’ wives and ex-wives, who provided her a forum for unadulterated bitching, our marriage became as rocky as Alvin’s demise.
___
We arrive at my ex and now my ex’s house in Sauganash ten minutes late. She is inside, no doubt recording my tardiness for negative fodder the next time she takes me to court for more money.
Care and Kelly are thrilled to see Tiffany, not me.
“Are we going shopping?” Kelly asks.
“No.”
“What are we doing then, Daddy?” Care, my ten-year-old, asks.
“Since it is so hot, we’re going someplace really cool.” I tell them with a phony excitement in my voice.
“Cool, as in cool,” Kelly my twelve-year-old says. “Or cool as in temperature?”
“Both.”
“Don’t worry,” Tiffany says, “I’ll take you to Saks and we’ll get your make-up done.”
“Now, that’s cool.”
“They don’t need make-up,” I say. “They’re not even teenagers yet.”
“Never too young to learn the basics of a good blush, Mister Sherlock.”
We arrive at a dirty-white, ob
long structure with a driveway concealed from street view. Ambulances drive in and out all day and never a siren is heard.
“What’s this place, Dad?” Care asks, the more vocally inquisitive of the two.
“Trust me; it’s cool.” I pull the handle on the door. “You people wait in the car.”
“No way,” Kelly pipes up.
“Yeah, no way,” Tiffany agrees.
The three females follow me through the parking area, up the ramp and into the main door. The four of us look like we’re heading for dinner at TGI Friday’s.
Jellyroll, an attendant I’ve known for years, meets us as we enter. “Doing field trips now, Sherlock?”
“Is Alvin Augustus still around?”
“Unless he stepped out when I wasn’t watching,” Jellyroll says.
Bad gallows humor is the norm in this place.
In the entryway, it must be sixty-five degrees, about thirty less than outside, and Tiffany’s natural thermometers chart it. My older daughter stares at her chest with jealous envy. The teenage years are going to be hell.
“Alvin’s been one of our more popular guests today.” Jellyroll tells us as we proceed down the corridor.
“Is the slice-and-dice completed?”
“Yesterday.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know where a copy might be available for takeout; would you?”
“No tickee; no washee,” an Asian accent from an old black man.
I motion to Tiffany with thumb rubbing my forefingers. She gets the message.
“How much for two adults and two kids under twelve?”
Kelly says, “I’m almost thirteen.”
“Hundred,” I answer.
Jellyroll smiles, he only charges me twenty.
Tiffany opens her Coach purse as we stop at the end of the corridor. “Is there a cash machine here or will you take a check?”
To the left is a long room with two levels of stainless-steel doors. To the right is the holding area where a number of gurneys wait with covered remains; each has a foot sticking out with a tag attached to the big toe. Just what I’ve always wanted my kids to see.
