by Jim Stevens
Norbert finds Augie registered under the name Keith Jagger, at the I Love Chicago Motor Inn on Peterson, where Ridge and Clark meet. If not the noisiest intersection in the city, it ranks close to the top of the list. Actually, the name of the place wasn’t “I Love,” but “I”, followed by a picture of a heart and the city’s name. Augie has a ground-floor room.
Norbert kept his distance from our man, as was the plan. Steve and I meet Norbert and check into Room 135, bringing the day manager with us for a friendly chat.
While Steve snaps photos of out-of-shape Augie sunning himself by the pool, we quiz the Heart’s manager. “This guy been doing anything while he’s been here?”
“Not much,” he says.
“Does he do her?” Norbert asks, showing him Lizzy’s photo.
“Yeah, I thought she was a professional girl.” The manager would be one that would know.
“How long will he be here?” I ask.
“He paid for the month.”
“In cash?”
“Yeah.”
“Good, that means he’ll stay at least six weeks,” Steve says.
“You know which car he’s driving?”
The man points and Norbert writes down the license number.
“If you think he’s checking out early, you call us,” Steve tells the man.
“What do I get out of all this?” the manager asks.
“Our undying gratitude.”
The manager is not happy. He looks like he needs sleep.
“You don’t think we should pull him in now?” Steve asks.
“Trust me on this boys, there’s a lot more we have to find out about Augie, before he finds out about us.”
The two detectives look at each other. They agree, but not happily.
“I have a request,” I tell them as we watch Augie get up out of his deck chair.
“What?”
“Would you consider exhuming a body?”
“Alvin was cremated, Sherlock.”
“Another body.”
“Joey Villano’s?”
“Not Joey.”
“Who, then?” Steve asks.
“Lucy.”
“Arnaz?”
“No.”
Norbert is perplexed. “Sherlock what the hell are you up to?”
“I’m just trying to help Steve’s vacation plans.”
Steve turns to me. “Where do you want me to start digging?”
We watch Augie wade into the pool, but hold onto the side as he makes his way to the deep end. Augie can’t swim.
“I only need a few more cards on my wall and I’ll be ready to rock and roll.”
“You sure, Sherlock?”
Every case I’ve ever worked on has a lightbulb. When it pops on, the light hits you in the face like a prison searchlight.
“There are only a few more aspects that have to be checked out.”
“What do you need?” Steve asks.
“I need the help of the detective in Boston.”
“Jonas can set that up.”
“I need Alvin’s financials from his account at Northern Trust.”
“Why?”
“Mister P. Carrington Vogel is holding back and I got to find out why.”
“Pace is picking up,” Norbert says. “I like that.”
“Music to my ears,” Steve adds.
“Give a criminal enough rope and he will invariably figure out a way to hang himself,” I tell the boys, “time to prepare the gallows.”
___
Tiffany meets me at my apartment and we pull up EscortsRus.com on my computer.
“I bet I could make a lot of money if I were an escort, Mister Sherlock.”
“Yeah, but you’d have to have sex with guys like Alvin.”
“Oh, gross,” she says.
“And Herman.”
“Oh my God, I’d rather die.”
I scroll down to Diane and Alexis’ pictures. “I need you to pull these two photos off, print up the head shots and take them around to every bartender in town until one recognizes a love connection.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re so good at doing stuff like this.”
“Thanks, Mister Sherlock. I love flattery.”
“But first, I want you to visit Romo at the FBI, and go through the family’s phone records. All you have to do is find the ones with the 617 area code and report those back to me.”
“Maybe while I’m there I can get one of those baseball caps with “FBI” on the front.”
“Why would you want one of those?” I ask. “If you run into a criminal and he sees the hat, you’d be the first on his list to shoot.”
“I didn’t think of that.”
“You’d be better off wearing one that said CRIMINAL on the front.”
“Then wouldn’t the cops want to shoot me?”
“Cops don’t shoot pretty girls, they harass them.”
While we speak, Tiffany figures out she can’t print the photos on my crummy printer. “I’ll have to do this at home.”
“That’s okay; you’re going to need a nap since you’ll be working late tonight.”
“I’m not sure I can sleep. I mean I can feel the energy of the case bubbling to the surface.”
“Well, if you want to tag along, I’m going to see Herman.”
Tiffany yawns. “Maybe you’re right. A little nappy-poo would do wonders.”
___
I call Herman before I show up to be sure his butt is in gear when I arrive.
“What have you found out?”
“Not only has he been skimming Alvin’s account for years, he’s had help.”
“Little Miss Millie?”
“She’d be the logical Target Team Member.”
“How’d they do it?”
“When all the trading chits are tallied each day, they merely take a few for themselves.”
“Alvin didn’t see?”
“He’s too busy jumping up and down on the floor to remember every time he makes a bet.”
It makes sense. Heffelfinger didn’t go out of town to find Alvin’s money; he went to visit his. And, maybe Millie isn’t moving in with her sister in Florida; but traveling farther South to live out her days with Heffy in the splendor of some South American posh resort.
“There are a few more aspects of the case that I want you to figure out, Herman.”
“More?”
“Don’t worry, I’m almost done.”
“You’re leaving me with a lot of porn to catch up on, Sherlock.”
I give him his own to-do list to do.
Next stop, I meet Jonas at Joey Villano’s parents’ house. Parked in the front with a FOR SALE sign is a new Pontiac Grand Am.
“I’ve seen enough.”
“You drag me all the way out and we don’t even go inside? What fun is that?” Jonas asks.
“Want some fun?” I ask him. “I’ll take you someplace for some fun.”
Jonas is too good of a detective, not to take my bait.
We head north to Kenilworth.
Mrs. Coulter is not too thrilled having her backyard dug up for a second time; but Steve was smart enough to arrange it during school hours.
“We’re digging up a dog?” Jonas asks.
“Yep.”
The bag containing Lucy’s remains stinks to high heaven when the unlucky Peter Patrolman pulls it out of the ground.
“Whew!”
“Want it back?” I ask the Missus.
“Ah,” she says, speaking through her handkerchief, pushed against her nose and mouth. “You keep her. We’re good.”
“It’ll never get back to New Trier High School, I promise.”
“Super.”
The bag containing the remains is placed in another, more airtight bag, and loaded into the trunk of Norbert’s car. “This all better pay off, Sherlock, or you’re going to owe me a month of lunches,” Norbert says after rethinking his dinner plans.
We leave
patrolman Peter to fill in the hole.
___
My cell phone sings “Breakaway.” I answer and take down the phone numbers Tiffany found with Romo.
“You did good,” I tell her. “Now get out there this weekend and drink enough martinis to make us both proud.”
“Will do, Mister Sherlock, will do.”
I dial the reverse directory for area code 617, discover exactly what I expected. Jonas and I call Mickey, the Boston detective. We have a nice chat. He is more than helpful.
___
I catch Conway Waddy before he leaves for the day.
“Time to untie the purse strings,” I tell him.
“About time,” he says. “I need my fee.”
“But there is one more person who should be in on the festivities.” I give him a paper with the name, address, and phone number. I also hand over what is left of the four hundred dollars Tiffany withdrew for my escort foray. “All you’ll have to say is that you’re handling Alvin’s estate and there is something here waiting for her.”
“This is all news to me,” Conway says, hiking up his pants.
___
Later, the entire team meets at Barleycorn’s in Lincoln Park for beer and burgers. We take a table in the back, away from the Friday night dinner crowd.
It is time I held court for my comrades.
I get a mind-eye Polaroid of the Original Carlo, filled with index cards; and recite one by one every conceivable aspect of the case. I hold back Bennie, Clarence’s real name, and the boys in the caddie at Leon’s, but I leave no card unturned. I review my thoughts on the murder scene, Alvin’s last night, the scam at the Board, accountants, Doris, Joan, Clayton, Brewster, Christina, friends and foes, the whys, wherefores, what has gone down, and what I think will go down soon. They go through three pitchers of beer while I pour out my thoughts. They have questions, lots of questions. I can’t answer all, but I answer enough. I can see it in their faces. It all makes sense. By the time the burgers arrive, all at the table have heard everything I know, and all I suspect.
Steve is feeling better about his vacation plans.
After dinner they take out their notepads. I rattle off one duty after another. By the time dessert arrives, each has a to-do list that will eat up most of their weekend. No one complains.
My final bit of information is that the Augustus Family Reunion is scheduled for Monday 11 am in Conway Waddy’s conference room.
___
It is late Friday night, and I’m tired. I have a list of stuff to get done this weekend. My back is starting to hurt and I can’t wait to get inside and go to bed.
“Excuse me.” A man steps out of the shadows and approaches me.
Instinctively, I go for my gun, but I’m not wearing one.
“Are you Sherlock?”
My lousy life passes before my eyes, as is hand goes into his coat pocket.
“No, don’t please,” I beg. “I got kids.”
“I know that,” he says, and pulls out two sheets of paper. “Here.” He pushes the papers into my hand. “You’ve been served.”
“Oh, no, please, not now.”
“Sorry, buddy, only doing my job.” The man walks away slowly. “I’ve been trying to find you for three days.”
I read the first paragraph, which is all I need to read.
My ex-wife is taking me back to court, under an emergency order, to get more money.
Timing in life is everything.
29
Order up a paddy wagon
The morning starts off with my back so stiff, you could use it as a cutting board. I crawl to the shower, hoping a combination of the ibuprofen and hot water will give me some relief.
Little, if any.
Hunched over like Quasimodo, I try to force-feed myself the most important meal of the day. I take two more pills before leaving the apartment. I’ve got five in me now. Getting into the Toyota is excruciating. The ride downtown fighting the traffic isn’t much better.
I arrive at the Daley Center at a few minutes before nine and have to wait to get through the metal detectors. The sheriff’s department has set up a display of the knives and homemade blades confiscated from people entering the building. I’m not sure what is more thought-provoking, the number, sizes, and types of weapons on display, or the absolute idiocy of the jerks who actually thought they could get through a metal detector carrying such hardware.
On the ninth floor, I find the assigned courtroom, and peer through the glass doors to see Judge June Shay, already on the bench, berating some couple. I take one step inside the room and I’m in shock.
“What are you doing here?” I shout.
The entire courtroom quiets and stares as I stand over my two daughters.
I continue, as loud, or maybe a bit louder than my last outburst. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
My ex, seated in the middle of the row, pretends she’s never seen me before in her entire life.
“Mom wanted us here,” Kelly says, embarrassed as all eyes in the courtroom focus on her.
“She said she needed moral support,” Care fills in with no concern whatsoever of being on stage.
“Excuse me,” Judge June says.
“Are you out of your mind?” I ask my ex-wife, ignoring the judge.
The bailiff comes out from behind the witness box and takes my arm. “Maybe you better wait outside, buddy.”
“Me?” I say. “If anyone shouldn’t be in this place, it’s my kids. They don’t need to hear any of this crap.”
The bailiff grabs me a bit tighter.
“He’s right,” the judge speaks over all of us. “Take the children outside.”
Kelly and Care exit past me. I give my ex the meanest glare I can muster, and find a seat on the other side of the room.
“If I may continue.” Judge Shay gavels once, returning to the case at hand. “Mister Jones, if you don’t pay support next month, you’re going to jail.”
“But, Judge…”
“Pay up or be shackled up.” She gavels. “Next case.”
“Sherlock versus Sherlock,” the Court Clerk announces.
I hobble to the bench, my back somewhat better. I’m semi-Quasimodo.
“Nice to see both of you again. It seems like only yesterday.” Judge Shay and I share a particular brand of caustic humor. “Let’s see… what is it this time?”
“Guess, your honor,” I say.
“Quiet.”
My ex speaks, she knows the drill well. “I need more money to support my two girls. They’re getting to be teenagers.”
“Really?”
“You know how it is, your honor.”
I stand, wondering if the two are going to start discussing the costs of acne medications.
“The pittance that he gives me now is barely enough to keep them in clothing. They deserve more.” The ex finishes with her best hound-dog face. “They’re growing up.”
“How much more are you requesting?”
“Two hundred,” my ex-says.
I attempt to break in. “Excuse me, judge.”
“Not your turn yet, Mister Sherlock.”
“They’re getting to the age where they want to get out and do things. My Lord, movies are ten dollars, sports events, birthday parties, classes, camps - it all costs money.”
“I know I have two of my own,” Judge June says.
“And since the original judgment on the amount was made when the girls were much younger, it only seems fair that the situation should be revisited.” My ex loads it on and finishes with: “And don’t forget inflation. A dollar doesn’t buy what it used to buy.”
“Anything else?”
“No, your honor.” The ex has rested her case.
The judge pages through the case file.
“My turn?” I ask.
“Not yet,” the judge says. “How much was the increase the last time you were before me?” she asks my ex.
“I can’t remember, but it wasn�
�t much.”
“And the time before that?”
“I don’t remember.”
“And the time before that?”
No answer.
Judge June turns my way. “Your turn.”
I stay calm. “Ask her about the horse.”
“Horse?”
“The horse she bought.”
My ex butts in, “I didn’t buy a horse.”
“That was two guys inside a costume the girls were riding last weekend?”
“I didn’t buy the horse. I’m share-boarding.” My ex turns to plead before the court. “The girls needed a hobby to get their minds off the divorce. Horseback riding is very therapeutic.”
“So is an afternoon walk, but a lot cheaper.”
“You don’t want them to have what the other kids have?”
“How many of their friends have horses?”
“All of them at the stables.”
“You see the reasoning I have to deal with?”
“Enough,” the judge says ending our quarrel. She pauses.
“The girls want a horse, fine. Mister Sherlock you are ordered to pay an additional two-hundred dollars.”
“What?”
“For the next two months.”
“I got to support a horse, too?”
Judge points her gavel at me and shuts me up. “I’m not done yet. Ms. Sherlock, if you feel a horse is that important, then you have one month to find a part-time job to pay for the animal.” The gavel comes down. “And don’t ever bother me with this brand of nonsense again. Next case.”
Outside the courtroom, the girls rush to their mother. I hear, “Do we get to keep our horse?”
“No.”
I immediately correct her answer. “You get to keep the horse if your mother wants to keep the horse.”
