Change of Address
Page 1
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Title
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Change of
Address
Rick Polad
Chanhassen, Minnesota
SECOND EDITION AUGUST 2013
CHANGE OF ADDRESS. Copyright © 2012 by Richard Polad. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover art and book design by Gary Lindberg
Follow the author at:
rickpolad.com
www.facebook.com/spencermanningmysteries
@rickpolad
To my Mom and Dad
Mom was blind at the end of her life –
Dad read the galley of this book to her every
Night after dinner…
I miss you both
About the Author
Rick Polad teaches Earth science and volunteers with the Coast Guard Auxiliary on Lake Michigan. For over a decade, Rick has given editorial assistance to award-winning photographer Bruce Roberts and historian/author Cheryl Shelton-Roberts on several of their maritime-themed publications including North Carolina Lighthouses: Stories of History and Hope, and the third edition of American Lighthouses: A Comprehensive Guide to Exploring Our National Coastal Treasures. Rick also edited the English version of Living With Nuclei, the memoirs of Japanese physicist, Motoharu Kimura. After decades of reading mysteries, Rick has decided to try his hand at writing them.
Acknowledgements
This book would not exist without the help and support of several special people. Carol Deleskiewicz, who fills my life with joy, offered constant encouragement and convinced me to publish an e-book. Ryan Bank, good friend and companion out on the big pond, helped with the first cover and initial marketing effort and gave me a push when I needed one. To my brother, Mike, for a strong edit and several good catches after I though the book was perfect. To my friend Tom Remec, who said, “I have a friend who published an e-book, and I think he had some success.” That turned out to be an understatement, as I soon discovered that Tom’s friend, Gary Lindberg, had the most popular thriller on Amazon during 2012.
Special thanks to Gary Lindberg, the best-selling author of The Shekinah Legacy and Sons of Zadoc, who graciously agreed to share his success story over breakfast. After reading Change of Address, Gary invited me to join his publishing company, Calumet Editions, designed the new cover and reformatted the book for print publication. Without Gary’s expertise and industry knowledge and his willingness to devote his time, this book would not exist. And to all my friends who have read my story and asked for more Spencer, my undying thanks.
Chapter 1
When I awoke, the room was no longer filled with sunshine. The dingy furniture looked even more so in the sickly, late-afternoon light. I had fallen asleep again in my swivel chair, arms folded across my chest and legs crossed on top of my desk. There had been no knock on the door to wake me up. I uncrossed my legs and helped the left one down to the floor. It had fallen asleep. After rubbing out the pins-and-needles feeling, I walked over to the lighthouse calendar hanging on the wall and checked off another day. It had been more than a month since I had put the ad in the paper and there hadn’t been one call, not one single knock on the door. I was beginning to wonder if I should take Uncle Lou up on his offer to make me a meat packer in Philly.
I had come back to Chicago not really knowing what I had wanted to do or why I was coming back. I had gone to college and graduated with a double degree in Psychology and Law Enforcement. Dad, a captain on the Chicago police force, had always hoped I would follow in his footsteps, and, after college, that seemed like the best bet. So, I took the exam and headed for the Police Academy. I was near or at the top of my class in everything, including firearms. When I was five, Dad taught me how to use a gun and how to respect it. The only problem was, when I left the academy, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a cop so I joined the army.
That indecision came from three fronts. One, I didn’t know if I could deal with the system. I knew I couldn’t handle the frustration of arresting someone on Monday and seeing him back on the streets on Tuesday. Dad said that was just part of an overcrowded system and all he could do was to just keep doing his job. Two, even though I could put as many shots as I wanted in the center of a bullseye, I didn’t know if I could pull the trigger if my gun was pointed at a person. Dad said that was something no one liked but, again, it was part of the job and, if the time came, training would take over and the trigger would be pulled. If it was part of the job, maybe I didn’t want the job. Third was a woman.
When I got out of the army, Dad suggested I take some time off and decide. So, I’d packed my camping gear and headed for the back woods of Yellowstone.
I had been gone for six weeks when a park ranger found me and handed me a telegram. My folks had been killed in a car accident. Two weeks had gone by since then. Suddenly, my decision was not so important.
I called Aunt Rose in Wisconsin and found out she and Sergeant Powolski had taken care of everything. According to their wishes, Mom and Dad had been cremated. They were waiting for me to hold the police service.
After the service, a group of people gathered at Antolini’s, Dad’s favorite Italian restaurant. After three hours of listening to people say they were sorry, Stanley Powolski, Aunt Rose, and I were the only ones left. Aunt Rose invited me to come up to Door County, Wisconsin and spend some time at her inn. I kissed her good-bye and told her I would even though I knew I wouldn’t—at least for awhile. There were some memories up there I wanted to avoid. Stosh and I moved to the bar and spent another two hours talking about old times.
Some of my earliest memories were of Stosh Powolski, a big, tough man who got me addicted to hard candy. He was as close to an uncle as I’d ever have. And he was the only one I could have talked to about the accident. Both of us spent a few minutes quietly staring at our glasses before I brought it up.
“How did it happen, Stosh?”
He didn’t seem surprised. It was like he had been waiting for me to ask. He took another sip of his beer and answered, “Drunk driver, young kid.”
“What happened to the kid?”
“Physically or legally?”
“Both.” I raised my eyes and met his. His look was hard and official. It had to be. So did mine. Because just behind that hardness was a lot of pain that may not have st
opped had it gotten started.
He looked down and sighed. “Physically, same old story. The impact must have thrown him sideways. There was a bump on the left temple and a bruised left shoulder. The kid at least had enough sense to put on his seat belt.”
“Good for him.”
Stosh looked back at me and there was a warning in his look. He continued. “Legally, he was arrested and charged with DUI and manslaughter, two counts. He made bond. Case comes up next month. Seems pretty open and closed. But he’s got some big-bucks lawyer.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Where did it happen?”
He pursed his lips and took a deep breath. “Well, you know your dad loved that drive along Sheridan Road. They had been up at the Highland Park Country Club for some political shindig. Instead of going back to the highway, he took Sheridan. Happened at the bend around West Park. Evidently the kid came up on him from behind and tried to pass. They hit the bend side by side and the kid lost it. Your dad went almost straight over the edge and down into the ravine. The kid made it halfway around the curve to the left, spun and ended up facing the wrong way with the left side of the car against a tree.”
“Rich kid?”
He swirled what was left of his ginger ale in the bottom of the glass. “Nope. Not even close. Lives in a dump on Armitage. Has had ten jobs in the last four years.”
“Then where did the lawyer come from?”
“Don’t know yet. The kid wouldn’t say. We’re looking into it but we’ve got to be careful about rights and it’s not illegal to have expensive attorneys.”
“No, just a little strange. It would be nice to know who’s footing the bill.”
“Sure would.”
“Can’t you do anything?”
“We’re doing everything we can, Spence. I have a list of officers and detectives as long as your arm who volunteered to put in off-duty time to tail the kid, but that could open a can of worms. Last thing we want is a harassment charge. We did stake out his apartment. He never showed. Landlord said the kid stiffed him out of the last month’s rent. We’ll see if he shows for court.”
“Any record?”
“None. Kid’s clean. Not even a parking ticket.”
“What about the car?”
“Registered to the kid. It was towed to a yard up on 41. It’s still there.”
I let the facts roll around and bounce off of each other. I liked things to make sense. This didn’t. Stosh was watching the balls roll.
“Leave it alone, Spence.”
I took a deep breath. “It seems a little strange.”
“I know it does. But we’re doing all we can. It’s probably just a case of wrong place at the wrong time. And the kid is probably one of the thousands who hides in the cracks of society.”
“And who has a high-profile attorney.”
“I know. There are things that don’t make sense. But that’s only because we don’t have all the facts. From the right point of view it will make perfect sense. We just don’t have that point of view and the kid wasn’t talking. And he doesn’t have to. He can plead guilty and get off with a slap on the wrist for a first-time offense. Or the big-bucks lawyer may find a loophole and the kid’ll walk.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “It may be as simple as rich girl and poor boy fall in love and daddy is helping to cover it up.”
I thought some more. “Was Dad involved in anything big?”
I got another hard look that softened just a little. Stosh put his hand on my arm and said, “Leave it alone, Spence. We’ll do our job. If there’s something there, we’ll find it.”
I nodded. But I also knew how the system worked—with both hands tied behind its back.
The bartender asked if we wanted refills. We both declined. It was almost ten and, except for a couple at the table in the corner, the place was empty.
“You wanna tell me the kid’s name?”
“Nope. That doesn’t seem in line with my previous advice.”
“It’s public record.”
Stosh nodded his head. “Yup. And if you really want it, go find it. But I’m not giving it to you.”
I wasn’t sure if I did, or, if I did, what my reasons were.
We talked about the Cubs for a few minutes, Stosh emptied his glass, and I put thirty bucks on the bar. He started to protest and then saw the look in my eyes. Twenty years ago, Stanley Powolski had saved my Dad’s life and ever since, Dad had picked up the tab. Stosh’s nod said more than words ever could have. We stood up and shook hands.
As I turned to go, Stosh put his hand on my shoulder and said, “You know, there’s always a spot on the force for you, if you want it.”
I smiled. “Thanks, Stosh. But I pretty much decided that I’d get a P.I. license and see how that goes. I think I still will.”
“Well, whatever you do, you know I’m behind you. If there’s anything you need—”
I smiled. “I’ll be sure to ask.”
At twenty-eight I was a big boy and thought I could take care of myself. But I was not above asking for help if I needed it, and I knew if I asked it would be there. I told him I’d be in touch.
Chapter 2
Six months later I had my license. The kid plea-bargained and was given probation. I looked up his name, but I didn’t go to the trial. I was angry, but more so at life in general than at the kid. It just wasn’t fair. I wondered how I’d act if I ran into him. I always thought I’d kill whoever harmed my family. And up close, I may have done something stupid. From afar I wasn’t quite as angry as I may have been in person, so I stayed away. But the name Robert Dayton would forever be etched in my memory.
I’d rented a puny office with an adjacent room that I could pretend was an apartment on the top floor of an old three-story building on the south side. It was about as far from the old neighborhood as I could get and still be in the city, but it was only a couple of miles from the station. I’d eagerly hung up a little sign that said: “Spencer Manning, Private Detective” and hung my diploma up on the wall. I figured it would be a fun and easy way to make a living. So far it wasn’t much of anything, except maybe bad for my health. I was getting fat and lazy sleeping behind that desk every day. If this kept up much longer, I’d be like one of those old walruses that can barely get off the rocks and back in the water.
My only visitor had been a friend who worked for Motorola who gave me a gift of a new-model pager, saying no self-respecting P.I. would be caught without one.
My stomach suddenly rumbled and I realized I was hungry. I locked the office and walked down the hall and out the back door. I stood on the porch, wiped a few beads of sweat off my forehead and watched as a lonely, hot wind blew a single sheet of newspaper up against a rickety old fence. It was the third week of June and, as I walked down the stairs, I let out a sigh as I remembered how hot and muggy Chicago summers could be. So far, this one was even hotter than normal and it had been a month since we’d had any rain.
Cutting across the back yards, I walked around to the other side of the block and opened the door of Beef’s Diner. I had discovered it just a week ago on one of my strolls around the neighborhood. When Beef found out I had been in the army, he’d started giving me a cut rate on meals. I’d told him it wasn’t necessary but he had insisted. He’d been a sergeant in Viet Nam and picked up his name there. Seems the officers in his outfit had told the guys that if they had a beef they could take it up with the sarge. No one ever did. I wouldn’t have either. Beef was built like a bulldozer and looked like he had the personality to match. A jagged scar stood out like a medal someone had pinned on his left cheek. His arms were solid muscle and his left forearm sported a tattoo of a flagpole. No flag, just the pole. He said the artist had a heart attack and died before he got to the flag and Beef had decided to leave it as is.
His hair was almost white and cut in a crewcut that had probably been his cut of choice since birth. It topped his tough-as-nails exterior. But underneath t
here was a heart of gold. He always had something cheerful to say and we passed the time telling war stories. All the interesting ones were his. And he always asked how business was. Unfortunately, he always got the same answer. I waved at Maria, who was busy in the kitchen working on the dinner crowd, and started toward my usual booth.
“Hey, Mister Detective.”
“Hi, Beef. What’s the special tonight?”
He grinned at me as he set down a couple of plates of meatloaf on the counter and said, “The special is, I got a case for you.”
As I turned and walked back to the counter, I gave him a blank stare and tried to figure out if he was serious or had been at the rum again.
He set down a couple of beers and said, “You didn’t get busy all of a sudden, did you?”
“Not since lunch, no. What do you mean, a case?”
He threw his hands up in the air and said, “A case, a job, something to do besides dust your desk with your legs.”
“What happened? Somebody finally complain about your cooking and want to find out what this stuff really is?”
“Maybe that’s why you’re about as successful as the Cubs. You put out a sign that says ‘Private Detective’ but you really want to be a comedian. Last booth on the left. Go see what the young lady wants. I told her I knew this hotshot who was put on the earth for the sole purpose of solving her problem. Go on, I gotta close the joint in two hours.”
A case. A real case. And a young lady at that. Of course, I had always pictured her walking in my door—long shapely legs, showing just enough under a tight black dress to let you know they were attached to more woman than any man would ever be able to handle. I guessed I could change the scenario to Beef’s Diner. I peered eagerly down the row to the last booth on the left but there was nobody there.