by Tracy Clark
Chapter 19
They’d dimmed the lights in the ICU waiting room, which was empty except for me. I sat at a table near the window, looking out at the city lights, going over my notes, everything I’d gotten from UIC, everything I knew about Allen, aka Benita Ramsey, from her press and fantastical memoir. The family had gone home to sleep and recharge.
Why not mention her mother’s violent death? That would have been a pivotal moment in her life, wouldn’t it? My mother’s death had certainly been a turning point in mine. I’d grown up and stopped being a child in the few short days between her passing and the morning my father decided he wanted out and left me. Had Allen experienced something similar? Had she walled herself off from the tragedy, or had it propelled her forward, given her drive? Who erased their own mother from their life story? I looked up from my notes when I heard hushed activity from the hall and watched as Whip, Eli, and Barb walked in, laden down with food. It was a weird sight, the red-headed nun, the tall cop, and the barrel-chested ex-con turned model citizen standing in the doorway.
I stood. “What are you all doing here? What’s all this?”
Whip held up a bag that smelled heavenly, reminding me that it’d been half a day since I’d eaten anything. “You won’t go home, and you won’t let us stay with you, so we got to do our thing stealth-like.”
I checked my watch. “It’s after midnight. You have jobs, stuff. I’m fine, really.”
Barb sat down at the table and started unscrewing a thermos. “We all have watches.” She unscrewed the cap, sending a puff of soup steam wafting into the air. “Lentil soup. Mrs. Vincent’s. Don’t bother crabbing about it. We’re staying until you eat. We can’t do a thing about you getting some sleep, so food will have to do for now.”
Eli looked me over, and I knew he was taking a full study, checking to see how much I really had left in the tank. There wasn’t much, but I’d never admit it. “How’s he doing?”
“The same. No worse. That’s good, I think. I’m not that hungry.”
Barb poured soup into the little thermos cup. “You’re eating.”
Whip and Eli pulled chairs up to the table and began unloading everything, ignoring the fact that I was standing there protesting. I finally gave in and sat back down again. Whip reached inside the bag.
“Cheeseburgers,” he announced.
I slid my notes aside, making room, my mind still on the pages. “From where?”
Whip’s hand stilled. “From where? My kitchen is from where. You know I don’t waste money on that fast-food junk. Don’t make me hurt you.”
“Did you cook fries, too?”
He gave me a look of such profound pity before pulling his hand out of the bag. “Now you’re just playin’.” He’d wrapped the fries in butcher’s paper, and the grease was seeping through. The smell of salt and oil filled the room. When he handed them to me, they were still warm. My mouth began to water.
Maybe I was a little hungry. I smiled, dug in. “Thanks.”
Barb handed me the cup of soup. “Drink up.”
Eli grinned and pulled a cookie wrapped in plastic wrap from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. “Dessert.” I managed a small smile, and then took a sip of soup. I still had so much to get done, and my path was anything but clear, but for now there was this.
* * *
Carole and Mrs. Mickerson were back at six the next morning. I gave them an update on Ben’s condition. Nothing had changed. Then I filled them in on what I’d learned so far. It wasn’t much yet, and none of it got us anywhere close to Ben’s attacker, but I wasn’t about to stop. We switched off, and I went home to crash for a couple of hours. When I woke up, I showered, dressed, grabbed a yogurt and an apple, and then rushed out of the house, to find Lenny Vine leaning against my car like it belonged to him and not me.
Lenny was a PI like me whom I’d run into a couple of times while doing business. We weren’t friends, not even really colleagues, since Vine was a sleazy-looking white guy who’d do anything for money, and I do mean anything. But there was Lenny, dressed in black and gray, a dirty porkpie hat on his bald, square head, leaning on my ride.
“Raines,” he said.
“Vine,” I said.
“Nice day, ain’t it?”
I looked around at the day. It looked all right. “Guess so.”
Birds tweeted in the trees, but Lenny and I didn’t make a peep.
“Can I help you with something, Lenny?”
He eased up off my car, and I checked it for butt scratches. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a paper, handed it to me, grinning. “You’ve been served.”
I watched as he swaggered off and poured himself into a ratty-looking Jeep Wrangler with a rusted front bumper. He waved at me as he pulled away. I narrowed my eyes. I hated Lenny Vine. I hated being served, too, especially since I was used to being the server and not the servee. I read the summons. Allen was suing me for violating the terms of her stupid nondisclosure agreement. My eyes narrowed more. I hated Allen, too. I balled the summons up, tossed it on the ground, and walked away. Three steps out, I thought better of it and went back and picked it up, then stuffed the summons ball into my bag. I’d worry about Allen and her seddity nonsense later.
I headed for Veritas magazine to talk to Henry and Deton Peets about their legal run-in with Allen, and given the start to my day, it looked like we’d have a lot to commiserate over. I found Veritas in a tiny storefront right off Eighty-Seventh and King Drive. In the hood. But light hood, not deep hood. Here, like all over the city, hardworking, decent folks kept it moving, though they were forced by circumstance to fast walk through their lives, eyes wide, heads on the swivel, hands securely over their valuables, dodging random violence and street thuggery. I parked out front, locked my car, and went inside.
“Hello?” I called.
The place was small, dingy. Cheap plastic chairs lined a wall; three clunky desks, empty, dotted the room. The place felt sticky and tight and smelled of mildew and dust. On the wall the word veritas had been stenciled in big bold letters painted black, red, and green.
“Hello?” I said again.
“Hold on.” The voice came from a back room, and I waited, then watched as an old man emerged and ambled toward me, limping badly, aided by a cane that looked as old as he was. He eyed me cautiously as he made his way, giving me the full sweep. “Help you?”
I recalled the piece I’d read on the Peetses. A father-son team. This had to be Deton. “I hope so. Mr. Deton Peets?”
His dark eyes lasered in, suspicious. He could have been seventy or ninety; it was hard to gauge. His white button-down shirt was open at the collar, and his gray trousers had been neatly pressed.
“You a lawyer?”
I blinked. It was an odd question to ask when just meeting a person. “I’m not. Why?”
“Because I hate lawyers. All of ’em should be sealed in a drum and dropped in the lake.”
“That’s a bit harsh.”
His eyes wouldn’t let up. “Not from where I’m standing.”
“I’m Cassandra Raines. I’m an investigator. I’d like to talk to you about Vonda Allen.”
The suspicious look he’d given me up till then was gone in a finger snap’s time, replaced by the meanest, angriest look I’d ever seen on a black man, and that was including Deek, the owner of my neighborhood diner, who could likely give Satan himself a run for his money.
“That witch had the nerve to send you here? After all she’s done?” He raised the cane, brandished it like a club. “Turn around. Get out, or I’ll throw you out.”
I calmly started again, mindful of the cane. “I don’t work for her. I’m a private investigator asking about her, specifically about your dealings with her concerning—”
“Let me stop you right there. I know what’s been going on with her. I read the papers same as everybody else. It was only a matter of time before she sent one of her henchmen down here to see if I didn’t have something to do with
it. Bankrupting us wasn’t enough. Now she wants me locked up. Ain’t that just like her.”
“Ah . . .” This was far more than I’d expected right out of the gate, and I wasn’t sure how to reset the conversation. The old man was working himself up. Couldn’t be healthy for him “Mr. Peets, maybe we should—”
“She steals from us, cuts us off at the knees, and now I’m a killer?” He shook the cane. I backed up. “I don’t want you in my place. I’d tell her to go to hell, but she’ll get there soon enough.”
We said nothing for a time. I used the quiet to try to figure out where I’d wandered off the path. I had no idea what Peets was doing on his end. He banged the cane down on the floor like Gandalf in The Lord of the Rings. I checked the distance again between him and me, making sure I was out of old man swinging range.
“You didn’t hear me?” he finally said.
“I heard you. Did you hear me? Especially the part where I said I didn’t work for Allen?”
He squared his slanted shoulders. “Don’t believe you.”
“Why would I lie?”
“Can’t say. I got no idea who raised you.”
“Here’s the deal, Mr. Peets.” I eased forward slowly. “Again, I’m here about her, not for her. You read the papers? You know what’s going on? I’m looking into all that. Whoever’s doing what they’re doing may be someone she knows. You may know him, too. That’s why I’m here. That’s it. No tricks.”
“Why’s any of that your business if you’re not working for her?”
“Let’s just say I have a personal interest.”
His thin lips pursed. “Personal.”
“Yes, sir.”
He looked me up and down again. “You talk like a lawyer. Come in here, thinking I’m too old to know what you’re trying to do. Swindle me is what. Think I’ll just go along. Well, I won’t just go along. You can go tell Ms. Vonda Allen her name don’t get her nothing down this way.”
I eased my wallet out of my bag, showed him my investigator’s license. “Do you see the word lawyer anywhere on this thing?” Begrudgingly, he slid his eyes to the laminated card showing through the plastic sleeve. He frowned but still didn’t look convinced.
I went on. “I’m looking for information on the woman. You’ve dealt with her. I read about your lawsuit and how it came out. I need you to tell me about that. Two people have been killed already. No one knows why or if they’re even connected. That’s what I’m after. That’s what’s happening.” I held my arms out, twisted them, lifted up my jacket sleeves. I was really going for it. “Nothing up my sleeves. No rabbits out of a hat. We good now?”
His watery eyes narrowed. “You got some kind of badge or something?”
I waved the license. “This right here, sir, is what I got. I’m not with the police. Did you hear me say I was with the police? Investigator. Private. That’s what I am. Now, are you going to help me or not?”
Peets leaned on his cane. “Shoulda shown me that first off.”
“Would have if I’d known you’d come out here going zero to sixty.” I snapped the wallet closed and stuffed it back in my bag. “Well?”
Peets slowly backed up a bit, cocked his head toward the back. “Come on into the office, then. Just don’t try nothing crazy. I can still take care of myself.”
He limped off unevenly, the cane dragging along the musty carpet. I stayed where I was, watching him go, wondering what the hell his problem was. If he was still this angry at Allen four years after the resolution of his lawsuit against her, I couldn’t even imagine how contentious the proceedings had been. He was old, he limped, and he wouldn’t have been much of a match for Allen head-to-head, but he could certainly write a letter, stamp and mail it.
Peets turned to face me. “You coming or not? I’m old. I don’t have all day.”
Oh, my God. I glowered at him, then followed.
Chapter 20
Peets’s inner office was even more depressing than the space out front—a cheap desk; two cane-back chairs, one behind the desk, one in front of it; and boxes upon boxes of forlorn Veritas issues left to rot, as if they couldn’t find a home anywhere. Peets caught me looking. He slowly maneuvered around the boxes and sat down behind the desk, wincing as he did so.
“It ain’t much, but it coulda been,” he said.
I eyed the lumpy chair in front of me, then sat down on it. “You and your son sued her. I know why. But you lost your case, and she got rich. You’re still angry about that.”
“There you go again, trying to tie me up. I haven’t laid eyes on that woman in over four years. I took my last look on the courthouse steps. Henry was there with me.”
“Your son.”
He nodded. “We watched her prance down those steps, all high and mighty, cool as anything, and then slip into a long black car and drive away. We took the bus home, poor as a couple of church mice then, and now.”
“You haven’t seen her, but have you reached out in any way? Letters maybe. Flowers?”
His laugh sounded like it rattled something in his chest. “Send that harlot flowers? I wish I would. And there isn’t a thing I need to put in a letter that I didn’t say in my court papers. She knows where the Peetses stand, yes, ma’am. She knows for sure.”
“You couldn’t prove she stole your ideas.”
“Fancy-talking lawyers and tricky statutes and such. Peets versus Allen, this and that. When it came down to it, it was a ‘he said, she said’ thing.”
“How’d she steal from you to begin with?”
Peets leaned back in his chair, repositioned his leg. “Henry met her at some community meeting. She was big into public relations then, working for some fancy outfit and all. The way he told it, they started talking about what each of them could do for the community, and Henry started in on his idea for Veritas. He said she seemed real interested in how it could all go. Thought she might agree to back us. Turns out she was interested, all right, only not for us, for her. She took everything but the name and beat us to market by six whole months. By the time we got out there, she had already pulled in most of the advertisers and the readership we were counting on. We were dead in the water. We couldn’t get nobody interested in Veritas—sponsors, ads, nothing. The community could maybe keep one magazine going, not two.” He looked around the ratty office. “I can’t afford to keep people on full-time, even part-time. One ten-page issue four times a year, that’s Veritas now. Meanwhile, she’s living high on the hog, the money just rolling in for her. I hear now they’re giving her her own show, which will suit her just fine. High and mighty, yes sir. Always at the center of everything.”
“Did she ever say anything to you about your lawsuit?”
“To my face, no. We weren’t that important to her. In front of the judge, she told everybody that she and Henry had been together, and because they were, she couldn’t very well steal what he was more than happy to give to her. That just about crushed his spirit then and there. The guilt nearly killed him.” He looked at me. “Here’s your information. Vonda Allen is a heartless woman. She’s got no soul. She’d stab you in the back soon as look at you. I try not to keep hate in my heart, you understand, but you won’t find too many people fretting over her circumstances.”
“Does the name Benita Ramsey mean anything to you?”
“Should it?”
“Anyone you know connected to her named Eric? He’d be about midtwenties.”
Peets shook his head.
“Your son, Henry. Can I talk to him?”
Peets’s face clouded over. “You’ll have to take my word for what I just gave you. My son passed away four years ago.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped it across his nose and forehead. “Two weeks after we lost our case against her, we were in a car crash. I got pinned. Henry got worse. He seemed okay at first, up, talking. Then one thing led to another, surgeries, this and that, and then something went wrong. You never, ever get over losing a child. They never found the driver. He left
us rolled over in a ditch like we were no better than trash.”
I muttered a feeble condolence, but I didn’t think Peets heard me. It looked like he was back in that ditch with his son, and I was in the ICU, waiting for Ben to wake up.
“I keep this place going because it was his dream. I’m too old for it, and it barely hangs on, but it was Henry’s. And every night I have the same nightmare. The headlights lighting up the window, the sound of metal twisting all around us. That hateful woman is always driving the other car. If I didn’t go after her then, Ms. Private Investigator, I got no call to go after her now. Whoever is, though, I wish them all the luck in the world.”
* * *
I read Carole’s cryptic text while stopped at a light on my way to see Patsy O’Keefe, Allen’s UIC classmate. Carole’s note read simply: Holding his own, but no real change, bad or good. He has to make it. God, Cass, what if he doesn’t make it? I thought of Deton Peets. He’d thought his son, Henry, was going to make it, too, but then there’d been one thing after another, just like with Ben. I checked for a text or a voice mail from Tanaka. Nothing. She’d obviously decided to take a pass on my offer. Fine. I hit the gas and went.
O’Keefe owned a tiny bookstore named Barnaby’s on Church Street in Evanston. I’d called on my way up, so she was expecting me. When I walked in, she was arranging hardcover books on a display table, her back to the door. She turned around when she heard the door open, smiled, and walked toward me, her hand already extended. She looked much as she had in her college paper, only a little fuller, more settled in, her blond hair streaked with gray.
“Ms. Raines? Come in. Come in. Welcome to Barnaby’s.”
Her hand was cold. I blamed the AC. O’Keefe was wearing jeans and a bulky cardigan with oversize pockets, likely to keep her warm. Maybe she needed the place cold for the books?
“Thanks for agreeing to talk to me.”