by Jim Stevens
“I didn’t think we had to mention everyone.”
“Oh, darn,” Tiffany says, seeing my daughters have stopped eating.
“Tell me about the hookers,” Kelly pleads.
“No.”
“What’s a hooker?” Care asks.
“I’ll tell you later,” I say, and glare at Tiffany.
“When?”
“In a few years.”
“Don’t worry, Care, I’ll tell you when we get home,” Kelly says to her sister. “Come on, Dad, this is getting good.”
“Sorry about that, Mister Sherlock,” Tiffany says in apologetic remorse.
“Eat your dinner, girls; we’re going home.”
“Gee, Dad, you’re no fun.”
“Yeah, but at least I’m consistent.”
22
A crack in the case
Judge Anton Berle gavels one case to a close and begins another. “Next case.”
The Clerk of the Court calls out: “Brewster Alvin Augustus.”
As the accused, mom, and an attorney in a suit with stripes as wide as a railroad track walk to the bench, I start to stand; but Tiffany pulls me back down, “Are you going to get up there and lie, Mister Sherlock?”
“Tiffany, you’re learning.”
I walk to the front of the courtroom. I have already talked to the arresting officer and now only have to convince the judge.
“May I approach the bench, your honor?”
The judge smiles at my familiar face. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I come, I go, and sometimes I come back.”
Brewster and Doris are surprised to see me.
“I’ve missed you, Sherlock.”
“And I too, judge, have missed the pleasure of your company. Would it be possible to see you in chambers?”
“Concerning this case or are you going to try to sell me magazine subscriptions?”
“I’ve fallen, but not that far.”
The judge speaks to his bailiff, “Is the arresting officer present?”
“No, Judge Berle.”
The judge leans closer so only I can hear, “You head him off at the pass?”
“I would never consider such a thing, judge.”
Judge Berle rises and I and the prosecutor follow him through the back door. We are in his little office only a few minutes. Coming back in the courtroom I pass by Brewster and say, “Do what he tells you,” and return to my seat next to Tiffany.
“Was it a real whopper?”
“Shush.”
The judge speaks. “Due to the arresting officer’s absence, the court will permit personal recognizance and continue this case for one month. During that time if the accused is willing to wear a monitor and attend a series of AA meetings, bail will be dropped.” Judge Berle pauses, stares at Brewster. “Yes?”
Brewster looks at the judge, then to me.
I nod my head.
“Yes, your honor,” Brewster speaks softly.
“So ordered.” The gavel comes down. “Call the next case.”
I wave goodbye to the judge before leaving.
Mom and attorney meet me and Tiffany outside in the hallway. Brewster is off being fitted for his bracelet.
“Great job in there, counselor,” I congratulate the attorney and add, “and I love the suit.”
Doris slips the man a hundred dollar bill and he makes his way back to taxicab court. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I had to buy off the arresting officer first,” I lie.
“How much?”
“It will be on your bill.”
“What happens now?” Doris asks.
“Brewster will be wearing an attractive ankle bracelet. Don’t let him leave town and have him start attending AA meetings. If he’s a good boy, in a month the charges will be dropped.”
Doris is at a loss for words.
“You should say ‘thank you’ to Mister Sherlock,” Tiffany tells her.
“I don’t thank my employees,” Doris says to my assistant, “I pay them.”
“That’s music to my ears.”
“In due time,” Doris adds. “I had to borrow that hundred to pay off that awful attorney.”
I give the woman a slight smile. “Funny, I would have thought you’d use some of the cash you pulled out of the joint account a week before Alvin’s death. There certainly was plenty to pull from.”
Doris stops breathing for a nanosecond. I have caught her at an opportune moment for me, but not for her.
“How would you know?” she asks abruptly.
“I have ways.”
As usual her face shows little emotion. Her chin takes a rest on her chest.
“That kind of money could have taken you a lot further than Palm Springs.”
She looks up.
“Sure you were in Palm Springs, Doris? Because we searched far and wide and can’t find a hotel with your name on the guest list.”
Her facial expression does not change, probably because it can’t, but beads of sweat form on her forehead.
“I stayed in a private home.”
“Name?”
“They were friends of a friend who is a broker.”
“Nice to have friends, too bad your husband didn’t.”
“If you don’t believe me, call the airline and they will confirm I was on the flight back,” Doris says.
“I’ll add it to the list of my homework assignments.”
Brewster approaches, walking a bit funny. Doris clutches her Coach purse and bids a “good day, Mister Sherlock.” She pulls Brewster along towards the elevators.
Tiffany and I are left by our lonesome. “How’d you know she wasn’t in Palm Springs?”
“I didn’t, but I do now.”
“How?”
“I planted a seed, added water, fertilized, and watched it grow. Then I shook the tree.”
“What came out?”
“Fear.”
Tiffany admits, “I didn’t see any.”
“Her story is starting to crack, but she doesn’t know how big of a fissure.”
“What’s a fissure?” Tiffany says, sounding like my daughter Care.
“The size of the crack.”
Tiffany walks beside me as we make our way out of the court’s lobby. “How big is her crack?”
“It’s not how big it is; it’s how we can make it bigger.”
___
The same afternoon, the Lexus parks in front of hit man Clarence’s house. We sit.
“I trust you are enjoying the ambience of the neighborhood?”
“If I lived here, Mister Sherlock, I’d move.”
As we wait, I take the file of photographs Tiffany has printed from her computer and mix in pictures of Martin Luther King and two Queens: Mother from England and Latifah from Hollywood.
“Got two tens?”
Tiffany reaches into her purse, pulls out her wallet and extracts two bills from the many and hands them to me. “What’s this for?”
“A snitch.”
Finally, the brat kid comes by and taps on my window. “You back?”
I roll down my window. “Want to make another ten bucks?”
“No,” he says, “I want to make twenty.”
“Get in.”
Tiffany hits the button, the door locks pop up and the kid takes a seat in the back.
“This is our snitch?” Tiffany asks.
“For this kind of money, what would you expect?”
The kid sits back, luxuriating into the soft leather. “Dis is a cool ride.”
“Maybe if you work hard, you can afford one too some day,” I do my best to counsel the boy.
“How much crack you sell to get one of these?”
“I wasn’t referring to selling illegal substances.”
“She your ho?” he asks of my driver.
“No.”
“Then how else you get a ride like this?”
“Her father gave it to her,” I say, tiring quickly o
f the conversation.
“Wish I had one a them.”
“Father or a car?” Tiffany asks.
“Car.”
“You’re not old enough to drive,” Tiffany says.
He shrugs as if to say that fact isn’t much of a problem.
I take the folder of photos, hand the kid ten bucks. “You tell me if you’ve seen any of these people hanging around here.”
The pictures Tiffany snapped at the funeral with her camera phone weren’t very clear, but that didn’t seem to bother the boy. I watch him closely. He pauses for a second look at Queen Latifah. “This one looks familiar.”
“Great,” I roll my eyes. “Keep going.”
He also pauses at Joan’s picture, one of the traders who attended and one homeless guy who slept in the back pew.
“Anybody?”
He shakes his head.
“Take a look at this one again.” I page back to the picture of Martin Luther King. “You ever see this guy before?”
“Don’t ring no bell.”
“How about her?” Tiffany says, showing him Doris one more time.
“Not sure.”
“So far, he’s a pretty lousy snitch,” Tiffany says.
“Who you talkin’ ’bout, bitch?”
I place the pictures of Doris and Joan side by side. “Mister Bird ever get white women visiting him?”
He picks up both photos, gives them one last look. “Maybe. Can I have da other ten bucks now?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Who said you were getting another ten bucks?”
“I ain’t leavin’ till I get another ten bucks,” he says, sitting deeper into the seat.
“Tell me more.”
“I didn’t say there was no white woman, especially no old white woman bitch hangin’ ’round here.”
“Start the car, Tiffany,” I say, roll down my window and hang the bill outside. “Come and get it.”
The kid comes out of the backseat, up the side of the car, and snatches the bill out of my hand.
“Go.”
I can faintly hear the boy yell, “Come back if you need some weed,” as we drive off.
In a few seconds Tiffany asks, “Was that worth twenty bucks?”
“It was to me.”
“Why?”
“Because it was your money.”
___
Tiffany wastes no time getting out of this part of Dodge. She breaks every speed limit to the Dan Ryan Expressway. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing with the suspects, then maybe I could be more help.”
“I would, but I don’t know myself.”
“Then how am I supposed to learn from somebody who doesn’t know what he’s doing?”
“Thank God, Tiffany, that is your problem and not mine.”
The skyline of the city reflects the afternoon sunlight. Chicago is beautiful in a phoenix-rising-out-of-the-ashes kind of way.
“Where are we going next?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, “but head North.”
We get caught in lunchtime traffic just before the interchange. I get out my cell and dial.
“Hello, Nick… Richard Sherlock… I’m calling from my cell… Does Alexis have any time open this afternoon?”
Nick calls back in five minutes.
“I knew you’d be back,” he says, consulting her schedule, “For you, she’s available.”
“Good, I’ll be there at four.” I flip my phone closed.
“Now what are you doing?” Tiffany says.
“Return trip to the escort.”
“Again?” Tiffany asks. “You turning into some kind of sex maniac, Mister Sherlock?”
We continue north.
___
It is no secret that architects don’t make a lot of money. They are considered more artists than businessmen. Architects probably have mixed feelings about this. So, it only stands to reason that an architect’s assistant wouldn’t be pulling in the big bucks, either.
The building we arrive at, just past 2 pm, is no designated landmark. The offices of Frued and Associates are not going to win any design awards. Our person of interest sits at the front desk in the one office, office. There must not be a lot of associates associated with Frued.
“Are you Lizzy?” I ask the somewhat attractive, under thirty, thin, but slightly weathered brunette.
“Only to my friends,” she says as if she knows who I am.
“Richard Sherlock,” I put out my hand to shake.
She pushes back in her chair. “Christina told me about you.”
“Anything good?”
“You’re supposed to be helping her get her money back; but instead you send over this disgusting beast of a man.”
Herman must have made a house call.
“Who are you?”
Tiffany matches Lizzy’s level of politeness. “His assistant.”
“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”
“You already have,” Lizzy says.
I sit in the chair. Tiffany prefers to stand.
“You didn’t get along too well with Christina’s daddy, I understand?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He was a tight-assed, cheap son-of-a-bitch that Christina could have done a hell of a lot better without.”
“Please,” I say in all modesty, “don’t hold back.”
“Alvin didn’t do shit for her. He sinks tons of money into those idiot half-brothers; but she has to fight for every dime she gets. She should be part of the corporation, drive a company car, get expenses, health insurance and a salary, as well as that miniscule trust fund she had to wait five years to collect on.”
“Do you also act as her de facto business manager?”
“I try.”
“That’s big of you,” Tiffany says.
“How about the mother?” I ask.
“Never met her, either.”
“Never met Doris?”
“Oh yeah, her,” Lizzy says, “is she a piece of work or what?”
I sit back in the chair, in an attempt to allow the venom in the room to dissipate a bit. “Who do you think killed him?”
“I don’t care.”
“That wasn’t the question,” Tiffany corrects.
“Does it matter?” Lizzy asks.
“Yeah,” Tiffany says.
“All I know is it wasn’t Christina. We were together the night before and that Saturday. Plus, she doesn’t have an evil bone in her body.”
“Being a product of Alvin’s genes, that doesn’t seem possible; does it?”
“Believe me, a more loving, trusting, gentle human being doesn’t exist,” Lizzy says.
“Must take after her real mother,” I conclude. “You know her?”
“I’ve never been to Boston.”
“How did you two meet?” Tiffany asks, as she decides to sit in the chair next to mine.
“In a bar.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Was it a lesbian bar?” Tiffany keeps it all in staccato.
“Probably.”
“Which one? There’s not that many.”
“Girl Bar, maybe.”
“Don’t know it.”
“Why would you?” Lizzy asks.
“Some of my best friends are lesbians,” Tiffany says in obvious false admission.
“Name one.”
Tiffany hesitates, caught in a game of her own making.
I take back the questioning. “Were you ever at the house in Kenilworth?”
“No. I wasn’t welcome.”
“Your and Christina’s picture was in the den,” I say.
“No, it wasn’t.”
Lizzy is either calling my bluff or was lying on the previous question.
“How long have you two been a couple?”
“Six, eight months.”
“Love her?”
“Of course I love her.
”
Lizzy shuffles papers on her desk. “I got to get back to work. It’s been a real joy speaking with you.”
I stand. “Herman might be a beast, but he’s a genius when it comes to anything money.”
“Your buddy embodies everything disgusting about men.”
Lizzy may have a point.
___
We get into the Lexus and head back downtown. “You feel okay?” I ask.
“Fine.”
“What did you glean from our visit with Lizzy?”
Tiffany says, “I wouldn’t want her in the audience if I was doing stand-up.”
“I don’t see the two of them together,” I say.
“For every fem, there’s a dyke.”
“They just don’t fit.”
We drive down Western Avenue, past car dealer after car dealer. Each one offers better financing options than the last. Something is wrong, but I don’t know what.
“Sure nothing is bothering you?”
“Yes,” she says.
“Good.”
We pass a bank.
“Don’t forget to stop at an ATM. I’m going to need cash for my appointment with Alexis.”
___
Same idiot works the concierge desk. He makes another “Enjoy” comment as I pass through the inner doors.
Instead of 4114, I knock on 4116 directly across the hall. There is a short wait until Alexis opens the door. She is dressed in a tight black mini-skirt and flowered blouse.
“I’m surprised to see you,” she says, as I enter the condo almost identical to the one I visited before.
“I try to be a surprising kind of a guy whenever possible.”
“So this is regular business?”
“Whatever.”
We sit. She offers champagne. I decline. She crosses her legs and smiles. I am perfectly still. She watches me and I watch her. Alexis leans forward, places her hand on my knee. Smiles again. I cannot imagine a situation less sensual or sexy.
“I didn’t come for sex.”
“You called Nick.”
“I wanted to see you alone.”
“Why?” She removes her hand from my knee.
“Numbers don’t add up.” I cross my arms on my chest. “Even at five hundred bucks a pop, you two would have had to have done Alvin over eighty times to run up such a tab. Alvin would have keeled over weeks ago from the fluid loss.”
