Borrowed Time

by Tracy Clark

  My eyes drifted off the paper to the patch of floor to my right, where I found a pair of scuffed combat boots with thin hairy legs standing in them. I scanned up past knobby knees, cargo shorts, and a wrinkled T-shirt into the flushed face of Jung Byson, Deek’s indolent delivery boy. He was new to the place, just a month or so since he’d been hired. I didn’t know too much about him, but what I did know seemed weird.

  Jung strolled Deek’s food up to my office at least twice a week, and I do mean “strolled.” He never rushed. A University of Chicago student on the lifetime plan, Jung, now in his early twenties, was slowly working his way through every academic concentration they had over there. At last report, he had chucked archaeology for philosophy, and worked for Deek whenever he remembered to show up for his shift. I had no idea what he did the rest of the time, or why Deek hadn’t yet chopped him into a stew.

  “What’s up, Jung?”

  He slid in across from me, a shell-shocked expression on his equine face, offset by blond peach fuzz under his nose and a scraggly soul patch. I looked toward the door to make sure he wasn’t fleeing someone from outside, then watched uneasily as he squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep, cleansing breath before opening them again. “Transcendental breathing,” he said as way of explanation. “Swami Rain recommends it in times of flux.”

  I blinked, but said nothing.

  “He’s my yogi,” Jung added. “My spiritual adviser? He’s the real deal, too. His teachings got me centered. I consider his place my true spiritual home.”

  Jung was average in build and height, and his short blond hair, today, was moussed to death and sticking up like railroad spikes. I stared at him, bewildered by his fashion choices, stuck on Swami Rain, the yogi. Jung wasn’t bleeding; it didn’t look as though he’d been attacked, so I spread my napkin over my lap.

  His clear blue eyes held mine. “I have a problem. A big one.”

  Muna popped up with my breakfast, shot Jung a withering glance, her arms akimbo, big hands on full hips. Jung stared back, clueless. I ignored them both. My breakfast was getting cold and I wanted to eat and get out of here before Deek went apeshit.

  “I’m not on the schedule today,” Jung said. “Personal time. Deek knows.”

  Muna sniffed. “Wondered why you were sitting there like real people instead of carting Deek’s food to folks on that slow boat to China you’re captain of.”

  Jung held his ground. “Everything in its own time.”

  Muna folded her arms across her triple-E bosom. “Eggs and bacon got six minutes before they go stone cold, Speedy Man. Any time after that is the wrong time.” She walked away, having said all she felt she needed to. Muna Steele, mistress of the exit line.

  I smeared butter over my flapjacks. “What kind of problem?”

  Jung swallowed hard. “I went by your office. You weren’t there.”

  “No, I’m here waiting for Deek to give me indigestion. What’d you need?”

  He glanced nervously at the swinging kitchen doors. He knew the drill. He leaned in, lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I want to hire you. I mean, I need to hire you.”

  I poured maple syrup from the sticky dispenser, my thumb pressed down on the lever controlling the spout. “To do what?”

  Jung leaned farther in, his chest practically touching the tabletop. “Find a murderer.”

  I put the dispenser down, looked at him. “Say what now?”

  It wasn’t what I expected. I mean, this was quirky, “not in the world the rest of us live in” Jung Byson. What could he possibly have to do with a murderer? I studied him for a time, convinced he was putting me on. But I noticed that his eyes weren’t as spacey as they normally were. He seemed dialed in. He was serious.

  Jung started again, louder. “I said I need—”

  I waved him quiet. “I’m not deaf. I heard you. Explain yourself.”

  He raked his fingers through his hair. “It just happened . . . well, a couple days ago . . . whatever went down. He’s dead, I know that.”

  “Who’s dead?”

  Jung took another deep breath, and let it out slow. “My friend drowned, and it wasn’t an accident. I don’t care what the cops say. I need you to prove it.” Jung reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills, tens and twenties mostly, a few fifties, but oddly folded, like he’d gotten them dancing for tips in a strip joint. “I’ve never hired a PI before. I can get more if this isn’t enough.”

  I stared at the money, then at the confused look on Jung’s face as he shoved the bills into the center of the table next to Deek’s cheap salt and pepper shakers. “He was killed, and no one believes me. You know the spot I’m in. The priest?”

  He caught me off guard and I drew back. The priest. He meant Pop. The image of his dead body flashed in my head, and my breath caught. I’d noticed his shoe first, sticking out of the confessional. I pushed back against the memory now, against the familiar ache of loss.... I could tell Jung hadn’t meant to plunge me back into the depths of grief, but the closer I looked, the more I could see a familiar pain crushing down on him like pressing stones. Yes, I knew how that felt. I leaned back and shoved my plate aside, breakfast now the furthest thing from my mind. “Go on. I’m listening.”

  Chapter 3

  The priest was Father Ray Heaton, Pop—the nearest thing I’d had to a father. When I found him, a bullet in his head, I knew it wasn’t suicide, because I knew him. The battle with the police had been a hard slog, one I didn’t want to repeat, at least not so soon. It’d only been two months. I still found myself picking up the phone to call him, only to realize too late that he’d never be on the other end. That’s why, for now, I was sticking to work I didn’t have to think too much about, giving myself time to get used to a new normal. Jung’s problem didn’t sound like it’d offer me either time or space, and my first impulse, my prevailing impulse, was to push it and him away as surely as I’d pushed away Deek’s pancakes.

  Jung folded his arms across his chest, as though giving himself a much-needed hug, as though he were cold right down to the bone and couldn’t get warm. “My friend. His name is . . . was . . . Tim Ayers.”

  I recognized the name from the papers. Ayers, the scion of a notable family, had been found floating in Lake Michigan, his yacht adrift. Though his death had quickly been ruled “accidental,” as I read the news reports, there was some speculation that Ayers may have deliberately caused his own death. “DuSable Marina,” I said, recalling the details. “He took his boat out in a storm.”

  Jung shook his head. “The papers got it all wrong, the cops, too. He never would have done it.”

  I cocked my head, more than a little skeptical. Ayers’s death had gotten a good deal of coverage due to his family’s prominence, but not much had come of it. Money has a way of insulating those who have it from prying eyes and intrusive questioning. Ayers drowned, the victim of a tragic accident, case closed. As such, the media spotlight quickly turned elsewhere, leaving the Ayers family to deal with the death on their own.

  “There was no evidence of foul play,” I said gently. “He was drunk. There was nothing missing from the boat.”

  Jung read my look and shot me a wan smile. “And now you’re thinking what the cops are, but I’m telling you all that’s wrong. I mean, those are the facts, but they don’t mean what everybody thinks they mean. Tim was solid. He was a painter, a good one, I guess. I don’t know much about it. He wasn’t a Warhol, or anything, but he was good.” Jung smoothed down the hair he’d disrupted moments ago. He rolled his eyes. “He wasn’t careless and he wasn’t depressed, and I know for sure somebody did this to him.”

  I watched as a family with two toddlers bustled into the diner, dragging along massive strollers and booster seats, one of the kids wailing for his “baa-baa.” Arms shot up at the few occupied tables, diners calling for their checks. Deek had no patience for tiny humans. I had to speed this up.

  “You sound sure.”

  Jung bit into his lower l
ip, eyed a spot on the wall above my head. “I am. I talked to him that morning. In fact, I’m probably one of the last people on earth to talk to him. He was his same old self—talking shit, full of plans, ready for the next big thing, maybe a little distracted, but nothing major. He had something for me, he said, and he wanted me to stop by and get it. He seemed serious about it. I told him, ‘Dude, no way, there’s like a monsoon breathing down our necks.’ I told him I’d catch him mañana, but when I showed up—” Jung stopped, gulped. “If I’d gone over there, maybe . . .” His chin fell to his chest. This was the thing that propelled him, the missed chance, the guilt that grew out of it. “I saw them tow his boat in, then his body.” Jung looked up, despair all over a face that wasn’t used to handling it. “Somebody killed him, I know it.”

  “Who would want to do that?”

  Jung shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe a lot of people? Tim was an ‘in your face’ kind of guy, but he wasn’t a prick . . . well, not a big one. He was just living his life, you know? I’ve been wracking my brain, trying to think who’d take things this far. I know those stuffed shirts at the marina didn’t like him. They’re old-timers, real set in their ways, and Tim liked to have a good time. He could sometimes get a little out-there. The guy in the office, the one who got the complaints, ragged on him all the time. Maybe him?”

  “Family? Girlfriend? Wife?”

  “There’s only his mother and brother. His dad died years ago. Tim was gay. He wasn’t married, or anything. Maybe somebody he met? He liked the bar scene. I don’t think it was Stephen. They weren’t close, but you don’t drown your own brother.

  “Tim wasn’t some stoner. He dabbled, okay—who doesn’t?—but he wasn’t stupid about it. And he’d never get shit-faced on the boat. Another reason I know for sure? He wasn’t wearing a life jacket or slicker when they found him. It’s raining buckets, wind’s whipping around mad crazy, and he goes up on deck, out-of-his-head drunk, with nothing on? No way. Not Tim.”

  “Unless he wasn’t concerned about his safety.”

  “Like he wanted to kill himself? No way. And stop thinking like a cop, will you?” Jung’s voice rose. “I knew the guy. He used to be a certified boating instructor, an absolute lunatic for water safety. No one could get anywhere near that bucket without him shoving a life jacket at them. You need to look at the guy here, not the facts. He was pushed, I know it. You have to trust me on this.”

  He was hurting and I certainly didn’t want to add to it, but I didn’t think Tim not wearing a life jacket proved anything. Suicides were often happy, elated even, before the act. They gave cherished things away to those closest to them and didn’t always leave parting words or long letters of explanation. Sometimes they just did it, leaving unanswered questions and a lot of regret behind. Or, maybe, it was simpler than that. Maybe it was just as the cops pegged it. Tim got drunk, unwisely took his boat out in inhospitable weather, and fell overboard. I wasn’t exactly sure what I should say to Jung, so I sat there for a moment not saying anything.

  “You’ve spoken with the police?”

  Jung frowned. “They’ve closed the case already. Just like that. Accidental drowning. I’ll bet the family just wanted the whole thing to go away. ‘Out of sight, out of mind.’ ” Jung placed his hand on the money pile. “I know you can figure this whole thing out. Can I count on you?”

  I hesitated. Tim had been drunk. There were no signs of foul play reported. But Jung was too shaken to let any of that get through. He looked haggard, spent. “When’s the last time you slept?” I asked.

  He rubbed his eyes. “I don’t need sleep. I need to know what happened to Tim. Now, are you going to help me, or not?”

  When I took too long to answer, Jung leaned back against the booth. “Why don’t you just come out and say it? You think I’m full of shit, a flake, some idiot who just delivers sandwiches, right?”

  “Of course not . . . but I think you’re looking for answers when there might not be any. If you’d stop and give yourself time to really think—”

  Jung interrupted me, bristling at my efforts to settle him. “You can manipulate facts.”

  “In this case, who would do that?” Jung didn’t appear to have an answer to that. “If you know something the police don’t, share it with them. Otherwise, I don’t see any daylight here.” I slid the pile of money back toward him. “And I won’t take your money, if I don’t think I can help you.”

  Jung turned away from me. He shook his head.

  “Go home, Jung. Get some rest. Let things settle.”

  He turned back, his eyes full of fire, resolve in them. He angrily gathered up the money, stuffing it back into his pockets, rising. “Tim didn’t want to die, not like that. The cops don’t know anything. You want to side with them? Fine. But I know what I know, and I’m going to prove it. Sorry I wasted your time.”

  Jung stormed off, and I shot up from the booth, following after him. “Jung, wait.” But he was through the dining room and out the door before I could catch up. I burst out onto the sidewalk, scanning right, left. He was gone.

  “The skinny guy jumped on a beat-up–looking ten-speed and booked it. Want me to give chase?”

  I turned to see Detective Eli Weber leaning his long body against an unmarked cop car. He smiled, nodded. “Which way did he go?” I asked.

  “West, then north. Seriously, do I need to send a flash?”

  I looked west, sighed. Setting the cops on Jung wouldn’t do any good in the long run. “No. Hopefully, he’ll just go on home.”

  Weber unstuck himself from the car and walked over, his intense brown eyes lasering in. He wasn’t hard to look at, I had to admit. He was midforties, six two to my five seven, dark, clean-shaven. His angular face, I’d come to realize, was capable of revealing absolutely nothing, unless he wanted it to. I suspected there was a lot going on behind his probing eyes, and that intrigued me, but that’s as far as I’d taken it. We’d met on Pop’s case, and hadn’t gotten off to a good start, though I slowly found out that he was a stand-up guy, real police. Weber was also married, which right off the bat made his business none of mine.

  “Somebody call for a detective?” I asked.

  “Personal call. Thought I’d stop by and see how you were getting along.” He glanced at my leg. “Last time I saw you, you could barely stand on that knee.”

  “How’d you know to check here?”

  He smiled. “Your place, isn’t it?”

  The hospital. Late April. That’s the last time I’d seen him. I bent my left knee, a quick demonstration of how good the knee had mended. A murdering bastard had stomped on it in a church, right before I’d threatened to blow his head off. The knee was still a little wonky, not yet a hundred percent, but it’d be okay. “No permanent damage. I meant to call and thank you for sitting with me in the ER. That was nice. I guess I got busy.”

  He nodded, the eyes never once wavering. “Mickerson said you’ve been busy.”

  My eyes narrowed. Since when did Weber and my ex-partner start hanging out together? And why was I the topic of conversation when they did? Weber chuckled, but the eyes, more chestnut than true brown, clamped on and wouldn’t let up. What was he trying to do, take an X-ray? I checked my watch, feeling my face flush.

  He grinned. “Relax. I asked him how you were. He told me to ask for myself. So this is me asking.”

  I was relaxed. Didn’t I look relaxed? I shot Weber a look. Who’d he think he was impressing? “Yeah, okay. Well, it’s been a slice . . .” I turned to break it off. I had stuff to do.

  “What’s going on with the bike kid? Don’t tell me you’re working for him.”

  “He’s the delivery guy here, and I’m not.” I glanced surreptitiously at his ring finger. When I found nothing on it, I took a second to let that register. The last time I’d seen Weber, he said he was separated, and I’d given him the widest berth a human person could give another. Now the ring was gone. There was only a faint band of lighter skin where it
used to be.

  “Do you know anything about the drowning at DuSable Marina a couple days ago?” I asked. “Timothy Ayers?”

  Weber folded his arms across his chest. “Rich kid. Too much alcohol, not enough common sense. Accidental. What about it?”

  “He was a friend of the bike kid’s. He thinks someone may have killed him. He wants me to find out who.”

  Weber laughed, then figured out I was serious and stopped. “And you turned him down. That’s why he lit out?”

  “I don’t think I’d be any use to him.”

  “You’re right. You’d be spinning your wheels. The kid was tanked. He either slipped or jumped, either way nothing says he had help doing it.”

  “Who was lead on it?” That information hadn’t been in the papers.

  Weber’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you said you couldn’t help?”

  “I’m just curious.”

  The slight grin he gave me told me he didn’t believe me. He slid his hands into his pockets, cocked his head. “Marta Pena.”

  I knew Marta. She was good. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  We stood there and watched the street traffic whiz by.

  “Where’s your wedding ring?”

  Weber’s brows lifted. “Just like that?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I told you I was separated.”

  “Men say that all the time.”

  “In my case, it was true. Divorce came through six weeks ago. The ring’s in a box in my sock drawer, if you want to see it.”

  I said nothing, but I was thinking a whole lot of things.

  “My ring didn’t stop anybody but you. You took one look at it and not only closed the door, you dead-bolted it and walked away like you never even met me.”

  Dead bolt? What was he talking about? “I have a rule about getting in the middle of marriages.” He looked at me expectantly, waiting for more. “I don’t do it.”

  He nodded. “I can respect that. But now the ring’s gone. What do you say to a second date?”

  “Second?”