by Jim Stevens
I skip the middle offices, leery of how much time I’m allowed in the men’s room.
Alvin’s office is twice the size of the accountant’s. On a massive desk sits an empty in-box, a large desk blotter, a gold pen-and-pencil set. It is past being neat. On the opposite wall, facing the desk, are three plasma-TV screens stacked one above the other. To the left and right of the screens are two computer desks with the largest PC monitors I have ever seen; they must be twenty-five inches in width. There are two Oriental rugs on the floor, one beneath Alvin’s desk and the other under one of the computer stations in front of the TV monitors. There is one spot on the floor that needs a rug to cover the crummy carpet.
The drawers of Alvin’s desk are locked. I get on my hands and knees, crawl under the desk and use my miniature Swiss Army knife to pop the lock. Locking a desk is stupid; any idiot can open a locked desk. The middle drawer holds pencils, pens, a ruler, stapler, and other assorted office accessories. The file drawers have green alphabet files, none of which hold a single sheet of paper. The drawers on the opposite side of the desk have little of interest, except the one holding a silver lock box. I could pick its lock, too; but instead lift it up and shake it. Empty, as I suspected.
I have seen enough. I go back through the office area to the reception area, where the future teeth cleaner has finished her right hand nails and is on the ring finger of her left. I pat my stomach and say, “Mexican food last night.”
I have given her way too much information and she does not respond. I smile as I leave.
I take the elevator to the ground floor, walk out the back way, and proceed about half a block to the Sign of the Trader, a favorite watering hole in the financial district.
I man a barstool, order a light beer and a burger, and sit alone until 2 pm, when the losers of the day trickle in to drown their sorrows. The winners will arrive about 3:15.
“Alvin Augustus ever come in here?” I ask the bartender, a guy who looks like he could have been born in the place.
“He used to, years ago,” the old guy said, “once they get rich, they don’t hobnob anymore. That is,” he adds, “unless they’re drunks.”
“You hear anything about an undercover investigation of cheating on the floor?”
My question makes him drop a glass.
“I hear everything.”
I place a twenty on the table.
“But I haven’t heard anything about that.”
I double down.
The man turns his nose up at my bills; what he must consider chump change.
I have one ten dollar bill left in my wallet and two singles, which I will need to take the “L” to my afternoon prostitution appointment. I offer the ten up.
He eyes the fifty-dollar pot, puts his hands on the bar, the width of my shoulders and says, “Let me tell you, bud, if I had a fifty for every inside operation, sting, investigation, or bust at the Board, I wouldn’t be pouring booze, I’d be drinking it.”
“Anything lately?”
His nose turns up one more time. “That’ll be eighteen dollars for the burger and the beer.”
I rise, pull two bills from the pile, leaving the twenty all by its lonesome. “Take it out of my tab.”
Boy, did I show him.
___
I am pacing the lobby when Tiffany enters One North State at eight minutes after four.
“I told you to be on time.”
“I’m sorry, your needs will have to wait a few more minutes.”
“Tiffany…”
“This is about the earliest I’ve ever been for being late.”
She is dressed in a boring gray pair of easy-fit pants and a tee-shirt that says Wrigley Field Established 1914. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She had made herself about as un-sexy as possible.
“Do you have my money?”
“I wouldn’t be considering it your money, Mister Sherlock,” she says as she pulls out a stack of bills from her back pocket. “The money is money for the case, so to speak.”
I take the entire wad out of her hand. “I promise this will be well spent,” and point to an empty chair in the corner of the lobby. “Wait there. I’ll be less than an hour.”
“I’ll bet you’ll be a lot less than that.”
I stash the cash in my pocket, hurry over to the reception desk, and wait my turn.
“Yes?” the male receptionist/doorman says as I step up to his desk.
“Forty-one-fourteen.”
The guy cracks a smarmy smile. “Name?”
“Sherlock.”
“Like Sherlock Holmes, because we have a Doctor Watson on the third floor.” He giggles; this must be his big thrill of the day.
“Richard Sherlock.”
He takes an eternity, dialing the four numbers, knowing I’m late and every second counts.
“Second bank of elevators,” he says as he buzzes open the glass door, then adds, “Have a good time.”
I do my best to ignore the jerk and get to the elevator as its doors are closing. I press the button and two passengers give me a funny glare.
I go left out of the elevator, make it about two doors down before I turn and go in the opposite direction. I knock on 4114 and step back so I can be seen clearly through the peep hole in the door.
The door opens. It’s the redhead from the funeral, looking as good as her picture on the internet.
“We were worried you weren’t coming.” She steps back from the door to allow me entrance.
It is an interesting fear she has; I wonder if it is work related. “Are you Diane?”
“I am today.”
She leads me down a short but narrow hallway, past a bathroom. I have a difficult time keeping my eyes off her thin, airy chemise, which barely covers her lovely backside.
In the main room of the studio apartment, a king-size bed, neatly made with satin pillows and silk sheets is on my right. There is a huge clock on the wall. On my left is the kitchenette, a wall with a TV and a loveseat on which sits the blond, Diane’s partner at the funeral service.
Two beautiful women, one king-size bed, and me, the ultimate male pipe-dream.
“I’m Alexis.”
It is not her hand I want to shake.
Before I sit, I take in the view to the west. I am forty-one stories above what was once Cabrini Green, known to be one of the most despicable housing projects in the country. Amazing how close poverty and wealth once existed.
“We need you,” Diane says as she sits on the edge of the bed.
“That’s flattering.” I sit next to Alexis, who wears a micro-mini, cut-off pair of denim shorts. She must have a Daisy Duke fantasy at five.
Diane says, being careful to keep her knees together, “We need you to get us our money.”
“Why me?”
Alexis speaks, “You’re the detective on Alvin Augustus; aren’t you?”
“I’m the insurance guy, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s good enough,” Alexis says.
“He owes us over forty-two grand.”
“Forty-two-seven-fifty-five to be exact.”
I bet these two really work well together.
“We’ll give you ten percent of whatever you get us,” Diane says.
“Fifteen,” I counter.
“Ten,” Diane negotiates. “Plus we’ll throw in a few extras.”
This is tempting. “Twelve-and-a-half and I’ll let my imagination run wild in place of the extras.”
“Deal.”
“I suspect the money you’re seeking was for services rendered?”
“Alvin was one horny son of a bitch,” Alexis says.
“Why wasn’t he a cash-and-carry customer?”
Diane shifts her 105 pounds a bit. “Let’s just say he was a private client.”
“Nick didn’t get a cut?”
“No.”
“How do you expect me to secure this money?”
“If we knew how, we wouldn’t be hiring you; w
ould we?” Diane might make her living on her back, but she has learned the ways of the world of business.
“Oh,” Alexis says, “and we want it in cash.”
“I’m not sure I can collect, much less collect cash.”
“Why not?”
“Alvin was broke.”
“Bullshit.”
“You two are not half as surprised as his family.”
“Believe me,” Alexis says, “if there is one thing Alvin wasn’t, he wasn’t broke.”
“The reading of the will was priceless, literally.”
“There has to be some money. I’ve seen what he carries on him.”
“You two have a phony business set up with a credit card account?”
“Redblond Personal Services, LLC.”
“Send an invoice for the amount -- call it concierge services or whatever -- to his office in the Board of Trade, and a copy to my apartment. You won’t get a dime without an invoice.”
“I could have thought of that,” Diane says.
“Why didn’t you?” Alexis asks.
“If the invoice gets in the right pile, you may be paid out of the estate money, if and when it gets disbursed.”
“When will that be?” Alexis asks.
I shrug.
She explains, “I’m kind of having a little cash-flow problem.”
“I know the feeling,” I tell her.
“It is a bit hard to believe Alvin has no money,” Diane says.
“Yes, it is.”
“We need our money, Mister Sherlock,” Alexis says. “So, get it.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Both women sit back for a few seconds.
“By the way,” I say, “when was the last time either of you saw Alvin?”
Alexis speaks first. “I don’t remember.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah, I’m always sure when I don’t remember.” Alexis was never an A-student.
“We did him on Wednesday,” Diane says.
“Thank God he didn’t go to the grave horny,” I conclude.
“Don’t be too positive. Alvin was born horny,” Alexis says.
“I will need a way to get a hold of you, unless you want me to chat-up Nick again.”
Diane has two cell phones in her purse and Alexis has three. I immediately feel communications-deprived. We exchange numbers.
“It is best to call us a few minutes before the top of the hour,” Alexis says.
“I’d hate to interfere with any business being transacted.”
Diane rises and makes it clear that it is time for me to leave.
I remain seated, as does Alexis. “Did you like Alvin?”
“Not particularly,” Alexis says curtly.
“Why not?”
“Don’t start asking about sexual proclivities,” Diane says. “We do have some respect.”
Proclivities is a big word. Diane was not the one who wrote the note I received in the mail.
“Did he ever open up to you?” I pause. “I mean in a non-biblical sense?”
“They all talk,” Diane says, “that’s the main reason a lot of them come.”
Interesting choice of words.
“Was Alvin, in the past month or so, more tense or agitated… indisposed?”
Alexis says, “Yeah, pissy.”
“Did he say why?”
“It had to have been about money,” Alexis says. “It was the only thing he seemed to care about.”
“He ever talk about his wife?”
“They all talk about their wives.”
I see Diane glance up at the clock and motion to Alexis, who gets up. She has legs that go all the way to her neck.
“You have to get to work now,” Diane says.
“And get our money,” Alexis tells me.
I make my way to the front door. “I’ll be in touch.”
In the lobby, the idiot at the reception desk gives me another dumb smile, which I ignore as I pass through the glass door.
Tiffany runs up to me, sick of waiting no doubt.
I take her by the arm, turn slightly and parade in front of the reception desk.
“How did it go?” Tiffany asks.
I speak loud enough for all to hear. “It went so well they refused to take my money.”
“Oh, Mister Sherlock, you stud, you.”
12
One of us deserves a night on the town
There is a parking ticket on the Lexus windshield. Tiffany removes it and places it in the glove compartment, neatly stacking it on top of the other parking tickets. “I hate carrying around quarters,” she confesses.
___
Norbert and Steve are waiting in a booth in the dining room of the Skokie Country Club. On Mondays, the club allows cops and firemen from the area to play, but not eat, for free.
The detectives are laughing as we slide into the booth.
“If you could have seen the faces of that family when the lawyer told ’em Alvin was broke,” Norbert says, “priceless.”
The waitress replaces Norbert’s and Steve’s empty cocktail glasses with a fresh pair.
“I don’t know why you’re laughing,” I say, “all we have to follow here is the money, and there isn’t any.”
“Family didn’t know he was broke?” Steve asks.
“It seems inconceivable,” I say, “that he could lose that much money and have it go unnoticed.”
There is a lull in the conversation until Tiffany wonders out loud, “Maybe Alvin knew he was going to get snuffed.”
“Certainly would explain the rider on the policy,” Steve jumps on her thought.
“What tipped him off?” Norbert asks.
“Maybe somebody already tried,” I say.
“Or he knew if he spilled the beans to the FBI, a lot of people wouldn’t be real happy,” Steve says.
“That wouldn’t explain why he’d cut the family out first.” Norbert takes a sip of his fresh cocktail.
“We’re not dealing with Mister Rogers here, don’t forget,” I remind the group. “If everyone hated Alvin, it would only stand to reason, Alvin returned the compliment.”
“Too bad he didn’t commit suicide, then the policy would be invalid and we could all go home,” Tiffany concludes.
“Here, here,” Steve says and picks up the menu.
Norbert orders the rib-eye, Steve the filet, me the fish since I’m watching my cholesterol, and Tiffany a chicken breast with veggies on the side, no butter or oil.
“We need warrants for all Alvin’s books.”
“The FBI’s got ’em,” Steve says. “Won’t give ’em up.”
“We still need them.”
“I got the agent’s name somewhere. I’ll ask again. We got some other stuff from years past, if that will help,” Norbert assures me.
We go over the time of death, the lack of evidence at the crime scene, what a bitch Doris is, and that if you look up “Momma’s Boy” in the dictionary, you’ll see Brewster’s picture.
The food arrives.
Norbert swallows a chunk of cow and says, “I got a big appetite for protein today.”
“Alibis check out?” I ask.
Steve answers, “Brewster says he was with Clayton. Clayton’s with a blond, Christina at a coming out party, Doris in Palm Springs.”
“Tox screen come back?”
“Not yet.”
“I’d like to see it,” I say.
“No problem.”
There is quiet as the men eat and Tiffany picks at her food, nibbling on minute bites.
Norbert and Steve order dessert.
“Any ideas on where we go from here?” Norbert asks between bites of apple pie a la mode.
“If we keep beating the bushes, something may eventually fly out,” I say.
“I hate to say this boys and girls,” Steve says, “but thus far, we don’t have a clue.”
“Literally.”
“Just don’t disburse any insurance money.” Norbert lo
oks at Tiffany as he speaks.
“No problem there.”
When the bill comes, Norbert hands it to Steve, who hands it to me, and I hand it to Tiffany.
“Is this what you mean about following the money?” she asks.
___
The toothy receptionist is past distraught when we enter the Augustus offices the next morning.
“What’s the matter?” Tiffany asks as she rushes to comfort the poor girl.
“I’ve been fired.”
“That’s too bad.” Tiffany pats her on her back.
“I thought you wanted to clean teeth?” I ask.
“I do.”
The shock of getting the axe must have caused her to forget her true calling in life.
“Is Mister Heffelfinger in?”
She flips her thumb out like a hitchhiker. We take the cue and walk past her into the office area and to the corner office door.
“Knock, knock.”
Heffelfinger is at his desk, wearing a tweed coat with leather patches on the elbows. His left hand pushes keys on the adding machine as his right does the calculator. “Who the hell are you?”
“Richard Sherlock. I’m the investigator from the insurance company.”
“I don’t have to talk to you.”
“That’s correct.”
“Get out.”
“After the reading of the will, trust me, I’m not the only guy who will be in here wanting to chat.”
Heffelfinger harrumphed. “Augustus business is none of your business.”
“Well, if you ever expect to see a dime of the disbursement, you might consider changing your mind.”
Heffelfinger punched one key on his phone pad, waited for the connection to be made, but not a voice, “Millie get in here.”
Less than ten seconds elapse. A woman, fifty-five, maybe sixty, hurries into the room. She’s wearing a pair of green pants that she shouldn’t be allowed to wear. She looks like a mossy stump. “Hello.”
The elderly couple from the funeral is now complete. There is no doubt in my mind that these two are boinking each other.
“This is Mister Sherlock. He’d like to have a talk with us.”
