The Single Twin

by Sean Little

  In twenty years of beating the Chicago streets neither Duff nor Abe had ever fired his weapon in the field. They were gun-range heroes only. They qualified for their licenses but no more. Carrying the guns that lived in a gun safe most of the time made both of them feel like imposters.

  They stood in front of Mindy’s apartment building. Abe stretched. It was after midnight. The city was relatively quiet. “You said you know where she is?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Duff nodded emphatically. “I have since we first came here. It’s pretty obvious if you were paying attention.”

  “For the sake of argument let’s pretend I wasn’t.”

  Duff pointed at the homeless woman down the street camped next to the orange Home Depot cart on the sidewalk. “She’s been here the whole time.”

  “Seriously?”

  Duff started walking toward her. “Trust me.”

  The homeless woman was covered with her bright orange sleeping bag. She was resting her head on a rolled-up jacket. Her cart was next to her, tied to her arm with a length of old pantyhose. She was still wearing a ragged, stained sweatshirt, the cowl pulled over her face. She did not move as Duff and Abe approached.

  Duff squatted next to the woman. “Your brother is Marcus Stevens, the illegally adopted son of Senator Robert Stevens. The senator doesn’t know he’s not blood-relation. We believe the senator’s real son was killed somehow, likely by Kimberly Stevens. Your brother was adopted as a replacement in order not to cause a scandal for the young senator’s career.”

  The woman did not flinch.

  “Did you see a big-ass black van the other night? It would have been the same night the kid got shot and the cops had to rope off the alley down the street.”

  The woman still did not flinch.

  “No one’s here right now. They’re all laying low because they tried to kill me and Abe earlier.”

  The woman was still as death. Abe started to reach down to feel for a pulse.

  “Touch me and you’ll pull back a stump.”

  Abe jerked his hand back. “Sorry. My bad.”

  The woman rolled to a sitting position. “How did you know?” She pulled back the hood of the sweatshirt and yanked off a ratty wig to reveal the tired and dirty face of Mindy Jefferson.

  “The first time Abe and I came here I handed you a twenty.”

  “What about it?” Mindy was scowling.

  “Your hand and wrist. I recognized your manicure and your hand was too clean for a homeless person. I realized you also moved a little too well for the age you were trying to play, and your hand looked too young to be as old as you were trying to be. And, there was one other thing.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to be gross.”

  Abe was taken aback. “Since when?”

  “Be gross. I need to know.”

  Duff pointed at one of the bags in her cart. The bag was partially open, just barely enough to make out what was inside. A black-and-white box was visible in it, as was a paper receipt. “Big-ass box of tampons. A woman the age you were trying to play likely wouldn’t have needed any, and if she did she wouldn’t have a newly purchased box of brand-names. She would have had a few of the free generics from the women’s shelter, maybe whatever she could have stolen from a public restroom.”

  Mindy’s scowl stayed firm. “You guys are good.”

  “That’s why you hired us,” said Duff. “How was it staying on the street, by the way?”

  “Not bad. Not great, either. I got bored a lot, so I did a lot of thinking. I snuck up to my apartment a couple of times in the predawn hours to shower.” She fanned her shirt a few times. “Hot as hell in these clothes and the blanket, though. I don’t know how real homeless people do it. I have a greater respect and appreciation for them, though.”

  “It was a good hiding spot.” Duff was impressed.

  “Sherlock Holmes. ‘The art of disguise is to hide in plain sight.’ No one is more invisible than the homeless.” Mindy shook her head sadly. “Especially to politicians, I guess. Are you certain my brother is Marcus Stevens?”

  “Not a hundred percent positive, no. We don’t have proof, but I’m comfortable with my hypothesis.”

  “I’m comfortable with that hypothesis, too,” said Abe. “He seems to be the likely candidate, no pun intended. We have a witness who put Ron Tasker, Stevens’s chief of staff and campaign manager, and Uriah Lafferty, Kimberly Stevens’s older brother, on site in the delivery suite when you were born.”

  Duff chimed in with his two cents. “We also believe something happened to the Stevens’ original baby, that’s why they moved so fast on your mother. My theory was Stevens himself killed his son, whether on purpose or by accident, so Tasker and Lafferty helped him cover it up. Now, we believe Kimberly did it and the senator never noticed.”

  “But, you have no proof?”

  “None at all.” Abe shrugged. He sat down next to Mindy, as well. “We just have really solid theories, a pretty telling facial reaction, and an attempt on our lives by someone in a big, black van. We think the van might have been seen the night the young man got shot in the alley down the street. Did you see it?”

  “I did. It was really conspicuous for this neighborhood. Big, black Mercedes van. Most people, if they’re going to pop for a Mercedes, they’re going to get something stylish. This thing was big and ugly. Tinted windows.”

  “That’d be it.”

  “Yeah, it was here. I didn’t see who was driving it. Had standard Illinois plates, though. Not government plates.”

  “This whole thing is a big clusterfuck, isn’t it?” Duff rubbed his face with both his hands. “I’m willing to bet Kimberly Stevens isn’t some sort of horrible person. She acted as your mother’s benefactor for years, I think.”

  Mindy’s forehead wrinkled. “How do you mean?”

  “Did you have a decent apartment growing up?”

  “Better than some, yeah.”

  “How’d a teenager with barely a high school diploma pay for it?”

  Mindy still looked confused. “She had a job.”

  “A job that paid enough for a decent apartment? With no education? In Baltimore? Were you in Section Eight housing?”

  “No, it was a regular place—” Mindy stopped short. “I see what you’re saying. You think she paid for my mom’s place, got her a job, maybe. You think she paid my mom to keep quiet all those years.”

  “Did you go to a good school? Did you get on the fast track for becoming an officer in the military? Did you think you were just handed a shot at an advanced degree?”

  “I busted my ass—”

  Duff cut her off. “Ease up, princess. No one’s saying you got gifted anything; you just had help, that’s all. Think about it. If anything, I wonder if Kimberly Stevens feels betrayed. She paid your mom to keep quiet and she couldn’t or didn’t. And then you had to start digging. I’m sure whatever files you were searching at the C.I.A. set off alarms somewhere in the political machine and word got back to Tasker. If you found out the truth, you’d ruin everything for her family.”

  Mindy paused. She weighed her thoughts and bit off anything nasty she might have said. She blew out a long, low breath. “Fine. I accept your hypothesis. How does she keep it quiet for so long?”

  Abe threw up his hands. “Who knows? It’s Congress, they can cover up anything. Enough political clout, enough money—anything can be hushed up.”

  “Even space aliens,” said Duff.

  “Don’t start with the Roswell thing again, please.”

  Duff pointed a finger at Abe. “I’ve told you: they literally said they recovered a flying saucer and alien corpses. Then, twelve hours later, some dude who wasn’t even on the scene comes out and tells the media it was a weather balloon. Are you telling me that doesn’t sound like a massive pile of horseshit?”

  Mindy threw up a hand to silence Duff before he could really start his tinfoil hat rants. “What’s your next play?”

  Du
ff considered it for a moment. “Security at the Stevens residence would be tighter than a nun’s fartbox, I’m betting.”

  “What happened to you not wanting to be gross?” Abe’s nose wrinkled in disgust.

  Mindy shrugged. “Lafferty, then. He’s the play, right?”

  Duff nodded. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? He’s got a residence near here. We could go over there, poke around a little, see what we can see. Maybe find a gun we can tie to the murder of the Davies kid. Maybe find something we tie back to Baltimore. Who knows?”

  Mindy stood up. “Let me get dressed in real clothes. I’ll go with you.”

  “Are you sure?” Abe chewed his bottom lip nervously. “We don’t want you to put yourself in jeopardy.”

  “I went underground because I didn’t know who was coming for me. Now that I know, I can see them coming. It’s fair game. We’re on a level playing field now.” Mindy reached into one of the bags in the cart and pulled out a sidearm, a slim, black Beretta 92.

  “Military pistol,” said Duff. “Nice.”

  Mindy pulled a backpack out of another of the garbage pages. “I have a change of clothes and my keys in here. Let me get out of these rags and into something practical.”

  “Uh, do you have a car we can use?” asked Abe. “Mine was in an accident.”

  Mindy flipped him the keys. “Gray Charger. You remember it, right? It’s in the parking garage under the building. I’ll meet you there.”

  -15-

  THE CHARGER ROARED to life on the first press of the starter button. The big V8 under the hood rumbled with a deep, tiger-like purr. Abe shook his head at the new-fangled push-button ignition and the key fob which had to be inside the car to start it. He put the fob in the cup-holder and exited the vehicle to sit in the passenger seat. “What was wrong with keys? I liked keys. Keys were simple. They made sense. This—this is voodoo.”

  Duff was crammed in the back seat of the coupe. He sat in the middle, one leg in either floor pan straddling the little hump on the floor where the driveshaft ran. “We should get one of these.”

  Abe put on his seatbelt. “It’s not practical.”

  “Impractical is always far more fun than practical.”

  “You don’t say that when I pull out two-for-one coupons for Culver’s.”

  “Because the first rule of the religion of C.S. Duffy is Thou Shalt Not Pay Full Price for Butterburgers.”

  The driver’s side door opened, and Mindy Jefferson slid behind the wheel. She was wearing jeans and a plain, black, long-sleeved shirt, a pair of black Adidas Sambas on her feet. The ratty wig was gone, replaced by her sleek, black bun on the back of her head, military-style. She had a black hip holster for her Beretta.

  “You do have a license for that, I assume,” said Abe.

  “I do. I don’t have a P.I. license. If we get busted, you’ll have to say I’m training with you.”

  “I don’t know. We have high standards about who we add to the practice,” said Duff.

  “Like what?”

  “Like, someone would have to ask to join the practice. No one has ever asked to join.”

  “Well, your record still stands. I don’t want to join. You’re just my excuse.” Mindy dropped the shift lever to drive and guided the Charger out of the parking lot. “I’m glad I had a pair of sneakers in my bug-out bag in the cart. All my other shoes are missing.”

  “They’re at our office,” said Duff.

  “Business or pleasure, pervert?” Mindy shot Duff a sly smile.

  He waggled an eyebrow. “I’ll let you know when I decide.”

  Abe stumbled over himself broaching his next question. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you afford this car, the fifty-grand you paid us, and the apartment on a C.I.A. salary? I mean, I know you don’t exactly get peanuts up that high in the echelon, but I know you’re not exactly at Bill Gates money, either.”

  “My mom.” Mindy patted the car’s dash. “She had a fat life insurance policy. That’s why I named this car after her.”

  “And—I apologize if this is too forward—how do you think she got her policy? Was it purely from her hard work, smart investments, or…” Abe trailed off, unable to finish the question the way he wanted.

  Mindy knew exactly where Abe was heading. “You’re asking if Washington D.C. indirectly bought me this car.”

  “It seems like a distinct possibility, doesn’t it?” Duff leaned between the two seats. He pushed back his cap and pointed at the car’s odometer. “Hah! You’re at twenty-thousand and sixty-nine miles. Nice.”

  “Really?” Mindy and Abe said simultaneously.

  “The second rule of my religion is Thou Shalt Not Miss Any Chance to Point Out a Sixty-Nine.”

  “No offense, but your religion sounds like it was founded by a jackass.”

  “Oh, it was,” said Abe. “It very much was.”

  “Heathen. Just for that, you’re not invited to Duffmas. It’s like Christmas but instead of giving everyone else presents you just give presents to me.”

  “I’m okay with not being invited to Duffmas.”

  “You think so now, but you’ll miss out on seeing the joy on my face when I open all the gifts from my legions of worshippers.”

  Mindy glanced sideways at Duff. “Did you start a cult with the money I gave you idiots?”

  “Of course not!” Duff looked offended. “I started this cult years ago. Still looking for members, though.”

  “I thought you just said you had legions of followers?”

  “Not yet. I’m being optimistic, though. There’s still a few months between now and Duffmas. Anything can happen.”

  “Hard pass,” said Mindy.

  “Wise,” said Abe.

  Duff stuck out his tongue at his partner, jabbed his thumb on the end of his nose, and waggled his fingers in a schoolyard taunt. “Consider yourself cursed.”

  “I have for most of my life.”

  On the way to Lafferty’s place, Duff and Abe filled Mindy in on all the details of their investigation, making sure to let her know exactly how close she was to solving the case by herself.

  URIAH LAFFERTY LIVED in a modest townhome on a modest street. He wasn’t in the ghetto, but it wasn’t exactly Glencoe, either. In some ways Lafferty’s neighborhood looked a lot like the neighborhood in which Katherine and Tilda—and until recently, Abe—lived. It was just a hair sketchier, a little rougher around the edges, a bit more gang graffiti.

  Mindy guided the car down the street. “He knows what I drive. I know I was being followed when I didn’t know who was following me. He sees the car with these plates, and we’re busted.”

  Abe checked his phone. It was after 2:00 A.M. “I think we’ll be okay. If he’s here, he’s asleep. If he’s not here, we’ll be ready for him.”

  Mindy pulled to the curb behind a rust-ridden Chevy Malibu. They were a block from Lafferty’s house. She killed the engine. “No disrespect, but you guys don’t look like you’re the type of men who storm the Bastille.”

  “Oh, we storm,” said Duff.

  “No, we don’t,” said Abe.

  “No. We don’t,” conceded Duff. “We’ve always meant to, but most of our cases don’t require a manic rush to a French prison.”

  “Have either of you ever been in a gunfight?”

  “No, never,” said Abe. “Have you?”

  “Nope. I was in operations. Closest I got to shooting a gun was when we played laser tag on shore leave.”

  “I guess we better not get shot at, or we’re screwed.” Duff held a finger to his lips to quiet them. He pointed at a few windows in the neighborhood. There were dancing lights in many of the windows signifying the flickering images on televisions. A few windows had lights blazing full and silhouettes moving behind curtains. The neighborhood was not asleep, despite the late hour. Anyone getting curious would only have to look out the window and get an eyeful of an odd-looking trio in a neighborhood where they did not exactly look like they belonged. The p
eople of the neighborhood were probably used to people stumbling down the street late at night. Only a block away were a couple of bars and twenty-four-hour doughnut shop. The street was not exactly a quiet little strip of suburbia, but it was not heavily traveled after two in the morning, either.

  The houses on the street were close to the roads. Each one barely had ten feet of yard in front of them in a narrow strip from the front doors to the sidewalk. The houses were separated by narrow walkways of about four feet. Some houses were a little closer to their neighbor, some were a little farther away, but the distance was negligible. The walkways led back to a decent, square-shaped backyards. Most of the yards were fenced-in with six or eight-foot-high privacy fencing. Beyond the backyards, most of the homes had two-car garages which faced an alley. One had to drive to the end of the block, go to the half-block entrance to the alley, and maneuver past an array of kids’ bicycles, garbage cans, and old basketball hoops to get to put their cars away. Many owners chose to just park on the street for convenience. The curbside parking was in heavy use unless the city declared a snow emergency.

  The trio quietly walked to Uriah Lafferty’s house. The house looked dark. No light came from any windows. None of the windows were open, despite the heat. One of the bedrooms at the front of the house had an air conditioning unit jutting from a side window, but it was not running.

  “I don’t think anyone’s home.” Duff hot-footed across the grass and crept up to the front door. He tested the doorknob. It was locked.

  “We should try around back,” said Abe. “The garage. If he had to ditch the van, that’s where it would be.”

  Duff touched the end of his nose. They started to walk between Lafferty’s house and the house next to it. Duff stopped short. “There’s a big damn fence.”

  Lafferty had an eight-foot privacy fence. There was a gate alongside the house, but it did not have an exterior lock. That usually meant it was locked from the inside. Duff tried the handle on the fence. As suspected, the door was locked, but it was not a solid lock, more like a hook-and-loop fastener.