Dead and Gone b-12

by Andrew Vachss

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That I lost my memory. From the head trauma. I had no idea who I was, much less what happened.”

  “They must have loved that.”

  “No. But the hospital backed me up—the story was plausible. They had nothing to hold me on, anyway. One night, I just walked away.”

  “So there’s no way of knowing what they know.”

  “I guess that’s right. This is a new face for me. And I’ve been underground, even deeper than usual, for months. This happened back in August.”

  “Tell me again why you need to talk to these people out here.”

  “They wanted me done. Or they work for someone who does. Whoever that is, they may not know if I’m dead or alive, but sooner or later, they’ll find out. I want to find them first.”

  “You’re not here to take them out?” he asked, the warning clear in his tone.

  “No. No way. Whoever went to all that trouble, it couldn’t be people I don’t know. I figure the ones out here for branches, not roots. Anything happened to them, my last door would be closed. You want to go back, get your own car? I can find the address myself, no problem.”

  “We’re already here,” Clancy said, pulling into a long driveway between stone columns.

  “How much would a house like this go for around here?” I asked Clancy.

  “Somewhere between three-quarters of a million and one-point-five, depending on the grounds, what they got inside, like that. It’s high-end, but not cream-of-the-crop. Not for this area.”

  “It doesn’t look deserted.”

  “Let’s see,” he said, opening his door.

  The driveway had been shoveled. Professionally, it looked like, the edges squared. The double doors set into the front of the house were massive, bracketed by tall, narrow panels of stained glass. A faint light glowed behind the glass.

  “No bell,” I said.

  “There’s got to be a tradesman’s entrance around the side. This one, it’d only be for guests. And they’d use this,” he replied, lifting a heavy brass knocker and rapping three times against the strike plate.

  We waited a couple of minutes. If the cold bothered Clancy, he gave no sign. Me, I wasn’t so sure.

  “Come on,” he finally said.

  He strolled around to the side of the house as if he belonged there. I followed, keeping my mouth shut. Sure enough, there was a sort of outcropping off the house, with a single door set into it. And there was a bell. Clancy pushed it. We could hear its two-tone chimes from where we stood. Clancy moved so that he was taking up all the optic room the peephole offered. A metallic voice asked, “Who is there?” and I spotted the tiny speaker set into the door frame.

  “Police,” Clancy said.

  “What is wrong?” the voice asked. A woman’s voice, strongly accented. Sounded nervous. But maybe it was a tinny speaker.

  “Nothing at all, ma’am. We’re conducting an investigation and we thought you might perhaps be of assistance.”

  “Who are you investigating?”

  “Could you please open the door, ma’am?” Clancy said, a trace of impatience in his voice.

  I could sense decisions being made inside. Suddenly, the door opened. The woman was short, with dark hair cropped just past her nape. She was wearing a denim skirt and a man’s white button-down shirt. Looked around late thirties, maybe younger.

  “You are the police?” she asked, hovering between obsequiousness and challenge.

  Clancy didn’t flash his badge like most of them did. He took it out slowly, flicked the leather case open, held it out to her, palm up. “You can write down the number,” he said gently. “Close the door, call the station, ask if I am actually a police officer. My name is Clancy. This is Rogers.”

  I didn’t react to the instant name-change he’d conferred, just waited to see what would happen.

  Clancy smiled. The woman’s mouth twisted as if she couldn’t make up her mind. “Please come in,” she finally said.

  We entered a kitchen big enough to be a New York studio apartment. “Do you want coffee?” she asked, gesturing toward a breakfast nook built into a bay window.

  “That would be lovely,” Clancy replied. “It’s cold out there.”

  “That is not cold,” the woman said, taking a ceramic pot from a fancy coffeemaker and pouring two mugs, apparently accepting that Clancy would be doing all the talking. “Where I come from, this would be springtime.”

  “Would that be Russia, then?” Clancy asked her, a brogue creeping into his voice.

  “Siberia,” the woman said, with the kind of pride you see in earthquake survivors.

  “Ah. Well, here, when the wind comes off the lake, the temperature gets all the way down to—”

  “It is not temperature that makes cold.”

  “You’re right,” Clancy said, gesturing with his coffee cup to make a salute, dropping the argument.

  The woman made a sound of satisfaction. “You said you are investigating …?”

  “I did, indeed. But you are not the …”

  “Owner? No. I live here. To work, I live here. My name is Marja.”

  “And the people who own the house?”

  “They are traveling. In Europe.”

  “How long have they been away?”

  “Oh, maybe couple of months. I don’t keep track.”

  “They travel a lot, then?”

  “Oh yes. Always they travel.”

  “Hmmm … How long have you worked for them?”

  “I work for them since I come to America. It will be six years on February third.”

  “It must be hard on their work, to travel so much. A doctor has patients.…”

  “No. Not anymore. They are retired. No more work.”

  “There’s no such thing, is there? No more work,” Clancy asked softly, closing the space around himself and the woman, moving me out to the margins. It was seamlessly beautiful technique, like the six-inch punch you never see.

  “No,” she said, sadness somewhere in her voice. “For some people there is always work.”

  “It must be difficult for you,” he said, moving me even farther away from the two of them. “So much responsibility.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, even if they don’t work anymore, they still have to have money. To pay bills. The electric, the phone. The cars. Food. Credit cards. Even to pay you, yes?”

  “Sure, they need money. But they have money. And I take care of all the bills,” she said, a different sort of pride in her voice.

  “I see,” he said, impressed. “Well, what we really need to do is talk to the people who own the house, you understand. So if we could have the address of wherever they’re staying, we’ll just …”

  “I do not have the address,” she said. “When they travel, they go with the wind. They have no plan. I never know where they stay, or when they are coming back. My job is to care for the house.”

  “But, surely, if there was an emergency …?”

  “There are no emergencies. If something happens to the house, I have numbers to call. The plumber, the electric people, the insurance company. And I know 911,” she said, her mouth twisting again in what I guessed was a smile.

  “I was thinking of children. You know how they can …”

  “Ah. They have no children.”

  A fat cat the color of marmalade pranced into the kitchen. It ignored us disdainfully. The woman got up, opened a tiny can of something, and delicately forked it onto a white china plate. The cat approached, sniffed gingerly, then deigned to take a few queenly bites.

  “Katrina is mine,” the woman said, stroking the cat’s lustrous fur. Answering a question nobody had asked.

  “You scope the system?” Clancy asked me.

  “Windows are wired. Probably to a central-station system. I’m guessing no motion sensors—that cat’s got the run of the joint, I’d bet anything on it.”

  “She has to have separate quarter
s.”

  “Yeah. Hard to tell from that kitchen, but I think the space to the left from where we sat, that’s the owners’ area. To the right, that would be off toward the back. Hers …?”

  “Let me check a few things. I should have what I need by tonight. You got any in-between outfits?”

  “I’m not sure what you—”

  “This place where we’re going, you don’t want to look homeless. But you don’t want to look like a lawyer, either, understand?”

  “Tell me what kind of place it is, I’ll buy some stuff.”

  “Good enough. It’s a blues bar, off Rush Street. Not far at all.”

  He gave me the address, said he’d be there by ten.

  The side door was rusted out, or else some fool had painted it the color of dried blood. Overhead, a little blue light winked from inside a steel-mesh cage.

  I stepped inside, found myself in a two-man bracket: one average-looking, the other sumo-sized. The average-looking guy held out his hand, said “Ten.” I forked it over.

  The joint was long and narrow, with a small raised stage at the far end. And crammed so full of people the owner must have bribed the Fire Department. More black than white, but more mixed than most blues clubs. Places I’d been, the high-end spots had mostly all-white audiences, and the juke joints were almost all black. Maybe Chicago was different.

  Clancy appeared out of the mob. “Come on,” was all he said.

  I followed him to a table right near the front but so far to the right that it was almost against the wall. A woman with corn-rowed hair surrounding a hard face was sitting there. When she saw Clancy, she flashed a killer smile, showing off a gold tooth. She stood up, gave Clancy a kiss. He introduced us, calling me Rogers. Her name was Zeffa.

  “Son’ll be on in a minute,” she said to us both. “Should have been on already, but the first set ran long.”

  We took seats. I was thinking … Son? … but didn’t get my hopes up.

  I looked around for the woman in the red dress. There’s always a woman in a red dress in joints like this. I wanted to be sure I wasn’t sitting too close to her.

  The drummer suddenly cracked out a back-beat, hammering the talk-buzz into silence. The guy working a stand-up electric bass added a line, the harp man cranked off a few sharp notes, and the rhythm guitarist carried the lead for a minute, building. An unmanned black guitar rested against the front-most microphone stand.

  A slim man strode out on the little stage. He was all in black, including a cowboy hat with a heavy silver medallion just over the brim. His coat was so long it was almost a duster. He reached down, picked up the black guitar … and the crowd went berserk.

  He smiled gently, a handsome man with strong cheekbones and a beard, bowed his head a few inches in acknowledgment. Most bluesmen open with an up-tempo number, get the crowd into the action. But he started with “Bad Blood,” a true-tale ballad that pile-drivered its way down to where you lived, if you’d ever lived at all. His long fingers were flint against the steel strings, drawing fire … and painting pictures with it.

  I don’t know how he did it. I can’t imagine he’d be able to put it into words if anyone asked.

  The crowd was insane … and under control. His control. He was dealing for real, and the crowd was in his hands—spontaneous reaction to spontaneous combustion. As he teased an impossible run of unreal notes out of the steel slide, a thick-bodied man in a yellow silk shirt stood up and yelled out, “That’s the real thing, brother!” as if he were waiting on a challenge.

  You could almost see the notes flow out of that black guitar—a liquid ribbon of honey and cream, draped over concrete and barbed wire. For a slice of time, I was transported. Lost in the truth. Feeling … connected to something more than me and mine. I reached for a cigarette. Came up empty. Zeffa was next to me, on my left. Her hand dropped to her purse. She flicked it open one-handed, pointed to a pack of Carltons. The pack was right next to what else she was packing—a dull-black Glock.

  I thanked her with a nod. Lit the smoke. Took a deep drag. It tasted like crap, no hit at all. I put it in the ashtray and let it burn down.

  The man with the black guitar finished his set … barely. The crowd kept demanding “One more!” and he kept going with it. Finally, he just bowed slightly, touched the brim of his hat, and stepped off the stage and out the back.

  “Son Seals!” the announcer shouted, as the man walked off with his black guitar.

  “Come on,” Zeffa said.

  We followed her to a basement where ratty old couches were stacked against one wall. Son was seated, alone, smoking a slim black cigar. Zeffa introduced us. I didn’t know what to say, so I just said the truth.

  “You’re the ace,” I told him.

  “Thank you,” was all he said. Not grabbing the title, but not disclaiming it, either.

  Clancy made a motion with his head. I came over to where he was sitting. The basement was filling up, people clotted, waiting for a chance to spend a minute with the legend. Zeffa watched them warily, making the access decisions one by one.

  “They’re gone,” Clancy said, no inflection.

  “How do you—?”

  “They slipped up. Or they couldn’t stand paying taxes under two IDs. INS still has them in Chicago, but that’s no big deal, they’re both green-carded, both waiting on citizenship. Once applicants get to that level, INS figures it’s their job to keep in touch, see?”

  “Sure. If they miss an appointment, it’s their problem. Might even delay their application. But it’s not a problem for the government, so long as they pay their taxes.”

  “Right. And they’re okay with the IRS. But we’ve got a state income tax here. And they haven’t filed in almost three years.”

  “Maybe they didn’t have any income.”

  “That’s possible. Here’s what’s not: neither of them has visited a doctor or a dentist for all that time.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “They have medical insurance. A very good plan, not one of those HMO deals. And they haven’t filed a claim. Not one.”

  “Maybe they gave up the plan, and they’re paying cash. Or maybe they switched plans.”

  “Sure. But if that’s so, why would they keep paying the premiums?”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. And why would they keep paying big numbers to insure their cars, but not maintain them?”

  “How can you be—?”

  “One,” he said, tapping his index finger, “they each have a Mercedes. Two, both of the cars are still under warranty. Three, neither car has been serviced at the local dealer in all this time. And four, both cars are insured to the max, including zero-deductible collision. And they haven’t missed a payment.”

  “You think …?”

  “What?”

  “There’s a garage, right? Around the back, maybe?”

  “Around the back, yeah,” Clancy said. “Behind the house, set off to the right. The driveway—you know, that horseshoe shape?—it spins off to the side to connect there.”

  “Would you happen to know if—?”

  “There’s no alarm. The garage is the same material as the house. Stone. Three-car size. Automatic doors. Free-standing. And there’s a little window on the side.”

  “Okay.”

  He shook his head.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  “You are. This isn’t your territory. You’re working alone. You get popped, it’d be bad.”

  “I won’t get—”

  “That’s right. Because there’s a better way.”

  I wasn’t going to drive the way Clancy did, so I left plenty of slack, arrived forty-five minutes to the good. Clancy was ten minutes early. He took the wheel of the Lexus and meandered through the streets until he found a spot he liked, then pulled over in a copse of trees. I stepped over the console into the back of the SUV. The rear seat had been folded down—there was a lot of room. I lay down in the back, pulling three khaki bla
nkets over me until I looked like a puddle of wool. Clancy drove away.

  “If she’s home, you’ll have thirty minutes safe,” he said. The Lexus was so quiet I could hear him perfectly. “If she’s not, we’ll have to come back. Give me five minutes. If I don’t come back by then, go for it.”

  I felt the Lexus pull into the driveway. I checked my watch. My nice cheap watch with a little button that lit up the face: 7:16.

  It was 7:23 when I slipped out the back door, closing it behind me, but blocking the lock with a strip of duct tape. I moved around to the side of the house, saw the light in the kitchen window. I crouched to stay below it. The garage was exactly where Clancy had said it would be. The little window was nothing. I didn’t even have to touch the glass; just slipped a pry bar under the soft wood and worked it back and forth until the seal broke. I climbed inside, let myself down to the floor gingerly.

  I took out my mini–Mag Solitaire, a tiny black flashlight with a controllable beam. A burglar’s best friend—you turn it on by rotating the front bezel, no click.

  Three cars. The two Mercedes weren’t exactly a matched set—a tiny little SLK, bright yellow, and a big black 480E sedan with AMG badges. The other car was an Audi A4, blue. None of the cars was covered—it looked as if they were used all the time. I looked inside the big black sedan. Couldn’t see any little red lights blinking. No burglar-alarm decals on the windows. No lock on the steering wheel. And … yeah, key in the ignition. What the hell was that all about? I quick-checked the other two cars. Exactly the same, right down to the ignition keys.

  I could be out the window and into the bushes at the side of the house in a few seconds if an alarm went off. And if that happened, Clancy would naturally run out here to investigate, telling the woman to stay where she was. More than enough of an edge for the little bit of risk I’d be taking.

  The big sedan gave off a whiff of stale air when I opened the door. I felt the muscles at the back of my neck loosen when my brain sent the message to my body: No alarm!

  I carefully turned the ignition key just far enough to light up the electronic instrument panel, noted what I needed. Did the same thing to the little yellow two-seater. Neither glove compartment held anything but the owner’s manual.