Borrowed Time

by Tracy Clark

“The hospital was the first date, so when we go out again, hopefully, someplace nice with white tablecloths and overpriced valet parking, that’ll be our second.”

  “You’re counting the ER as a date?”

  “I had a good time, didn’t you?”

  “My knee was wrecked. I was half out of my head on pain meds.”

  “We can skip all that next time.”

  I searched his face. I didn’t know him well. Maybe he was playing around. He had to be. “I don’t date cops.” It was my fallback response. Eli Weber looked complicated and I wasn’t up for it.

  “You went out with Detective Marcus Jones.”

  I balked. “How do you know?”

  “I know how to run a decent investigation, but I only got the high points. I figured I’d wait and get the rest from you.” He backed up, headed for the car as smooth as anything, irritatingly unruffled, like he owned the street and every brick on it. “I’ll call. We’ll set something up for when you’re not so busy.”

  “I didn’t say yes. Did you hear me say ‘yes’?”

  He opened the driver’s door, held it. “You’re still standing there. That’s my ‘yes.’”

  Chapter 4

  Earlene Skipper owned Speedy Cleaners. She was also being sued for damages to Loretta Kenton’s five-thousand-dollar mink coat, which Speedy had not only failed to service correctly, but had, in fact, ruined, separating a good portion of the expensive fur from its pelt. I was the lucky so-and-so chosen to give Skipper the sorry news in the form of legal paper.

  On my way over there the next morning, I stopped at a card and novelty shop for six helium balloons tied together with colorful ribbon, which I stuffed, with great difficulty, into the backseat of my compact Nissan. Pulling up in front of Skipper’s business on the Far South Side, I took the summons and wrapped the tail end of the balloon streamers around it, like a present, then walked inside, an official-looking clipboard under my arm.

  There was a short black girl behind the counter, who couldn’t have been older than twenty. She eyed the balloons, though it didn’t appear they impressed her much. The cleaners was hot, oppressively so, and smelled of spray starch and toxic chemicals. I could almost feel my lungs fold in on themselves in an act of self-preservation. I smiled politely. “Hello, is Earlene Skipper here?”

  The girl, popping gum, eyed the balloons again, sighed, and then turned and bellowed toward the back. “Miz Skipper? Something for you up here.”

  I held my fake smile and waited, trying not to breathe too deeply. The girl watched me wait. As I waited, the balloons hovering over my head, I thought of ways to increase my client base so that I wouldn’t have to do things like this anymore. Maybe an open house? Get some potential clients through the door. Come in, grab a fresh-baked cookie, watch me frisk a guy. I need to work on it.

  About a minute later, a rotund black woman, wearing a shirtdress bulging at the seams, padded up to the counter. She was middle-aged, very settled in, and by the disagreeable scowl on her face, it didn’t appear that the balloons were doing anything for her, either.

  Faded tats ran along the side of her wide neck and down both arms—fire-breathing dragons, elaborate lotus flowers in bloom, and on her right wrist, for some inexplicable reason, a rendering of Yosemite Sam. I could only imagine what kind of life she’d led up to this point.

  “Earlene Skipper?”

  “So?”

  Skipper was a rough one. I handed her the balloons, took a step back, and pointed at the summons dangling at the end of the streamers. “There’s a note attached.”

  Skipper yanked the summons free, and then thrust the balloons at her startled counter girl. Just like with Big Percy, my job was done, but this time, I had no desire to stick around hoping for a good time. This was an easy job, in and out, and that’s how I was going to play it.

  “Have a good one,” I said, making for the door.

  Halfway there, the cussing started, followed by the scrape of fast-moving feet across the dirty floor. I turned to confirm my suspicions, and saw Earlene Skipper, half-crazed, coming after me at full throttle. I flew through the door, ran for my car, slid over the top of the hood, Starsky and Hutch style, and then jumped in and peeled away from the curb. No shame in that. Live to fight another day, yada yada yada. I glanced in my rearview to see Earlene charging up the sidewalk after me, brandishing a handful of wire hangers, as though she had a chance of catching me. I rounded the corner and left her to it. “Yep. That’s somebody I’d trust with a mink.”

  * * *

  “Balloons?”

  I turned to Ben. “It worked, didn’t it?”

  We were in the second-floor apartment of my building, empty since the Kallishes, my previous tenants, moved away. The place needed painting, and I was here to get it done. I’d have to rent the place soon. After the drive-by, it was obvious that Stuart, Marie, and little Nate weren’t coming back. Besides, I needed the income the apartment would bring in.

  Ben picked his way gingerly around the splotchy drop cloths. “Only because she didn’t catch you.”

  I slid him a sideways glance. “She had zero chance of that.”

  Ben looked around. He was off duty, dressed in fancy duds, freshly shaven, smelling of cologne. That meant he had a date, one of many. He’d divorced while we were still working together, and ever since then, he kept it light, casual, and frequent. He was not one to hide his burly cop light under a bushel.

  “Never been down here before.” He rapped beefy knuckles against one of the walls I hadn’t gotten to yet. “High ceilings, crown molding, solid wood floors, good light—mirror image of your place upstairs. You lined up new tenants yet?”

  I went back to the wall, running the roller over the latest coat, eggshell, matte finish. The painting was going slowly, mainly because I didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to turn the apartment over, didn’t want to have someone new living under my roof. “Getting around to it.”

  Ben walked around, tapping walls, side-kicking baseboards, stalling. I’d ridden with him in a squad car for five years. I knew when he had something to say. “Spill it, or pick up a brush and hit a wall.”

  He looked down at his clothes, sharp, neat, well fitted to his linebacker frame. He’d even gone in for a haircut, his sandy hair shorn close, parted on the side. “Eli Weber. What’s up with you two? There, I said it.”

  I stopped the roller, peered down at him from the top of the ladder. “What?”

  His steady blue eyes met mine. “Don’t cop stare me. You? Weber? You interested? Because he sure is. Know how I know? He’s hitting me up for information on you almost every second. What’s she like to eat? Who’s she hang out with? My lips are sealed, of course. I’ve got my loyalties, but, just letting you know, he’s got a thing, and I want to know if you got a thing, too. . . I think you do. You two have been flitting around each other for months. So what gives?” He slid his hands into his front pockets, his eyes glued to the roller brush in my hand as though it might jump down and roll all over him. He cleared his throat nervously. “That’s right. I said it. We’re family. Family can ask.”

  I dropped the brush into a paint tray, climbed down off the ladder, my sweatshirt, jeans, and hands smudged with damp paint. As though I had the plague, Ben backed away from me, his hands outstretched, as if to ward off an attack. “Watch that paint, will ya? These are new shoes.”

  I fisted my hands on my hips. “Since when are you and Weber bosom buddies?”

  He shrugged, paused. “He’s around. I’m around. Cops talk. He says you took a pass on that drowning case. Ayers? Good. Clear case of rich-kid suicide.”

  “You all came to that conclusion awful quick. Was it really that easy?”

  Ben rolled his eyes. “Stepped right into that one. Go back to your wall. The burning issue here is how you want me to handle Weber.”

  “I know we’re close, but I don’t need you this close. My bedroom’s my business, yours is yours. Got it?”

  “So you
are interested,” Ben said.

  I picked up the roller and brandished it in his direction, which sent him backpedaling. “One more word about Weber and I go full-on Jackson Pollock.”

  He flicked his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. “I could pass him a note in study hall.”

  “And I could paint your new shoes.”

  “Gotta go.” He hightailed it out, slamming the door behind him. What I like to eat?

  Chapter 5

  Friday morning, I stared at the ad I’d just written for the apartment I needed to rent. It was propped up on my office desk, leaning against an old pencil box that only held ballpoint pens.

  It read simply: Two bedrooms/full bath/hardwood floors/full kitchen/close to U of C campus and public transportation/no pets. It was all I had so far. I flashed on little Nate’s face as he cowered in a niche clinging to his mother, and then drew a pen out of the box and scribbled an addition: no children. I held the ad in my hand, read it over, then balled it up and threw it in the wastebasket at my feet.

  I rose from my squeaky chair, restless. I’d tried sleeping on Jung’s problem, but hadn’t been able to. My thoughts kept coming back to the wounded look on his face. Why did I feel so guilty? I hardly knew him. We weren’t friends. I ordered the sandwich; he delivered the sandwich. It was a fair exchange, and I always tipped well. What did I have to prove?

  I stared out the window at the apartment building across the street. Sometimes a few of the blinds were open and I got a show—today no dice. Deek’s was three doors down at the corner. If I craned my neck just so, I could barely make out the front door. My building, the one I owned and lived in, was four blocks farther south, two blocks north. Living so close was one of the benefits of renting space here. The four-story building wasn’t much otherwise. It was old, temperamental, and the plumbing iffy, but I could walk or ride my bike to work. Plus, from this exact spot, I could smell hot food sizzling on Deek’s griddle.

  There was a dentist across the hall from me—Dr. Gupta—whose drill often set my teeth on edge, but even that wasn’t enough to get me looking for better digs. I was a nester, and once I found a nest I liked, I tended to stay put. I had no idea who owned the building now, ownership turned over on the regular. I sent my rent check to a faceless management company somewhere I didn’t care about. As long as they didn’t bother me, I had no reason to bother them.

  There was a mess on my desk: newspapers, contracts I needed to file, bills I needed to pay, and invoices I had to send out so that I would have something to pay the bills with. It was a soul-sucking, never-ending cycle. And then there was Weber looming. I had backed away, sure, but dead-bolted the door? Maybe. I made it a point to keep out of people’s marriages, both personally and professionally. I didn’t take domestic cases and I didn’t waste time with men who were separated from their wives. But now the ring was in a sock drawer and Weber was counting every encounter we had as a bona fide date. And Ben for some strange reason figured he had a stake in how it all turned out. What was that about?

  I sat down again, drumming fidgety fingers on my desk blotter, then reached down and plucked the ad out of the trash and called it into the newspaper. It took all of five minutes, and I breathed a sigh of relief when it was done. I held the receiver in my hand. Maybe I could make one call about the Ayers case. What could it hurt? If I had more information, I reasoned, I might convince Jung to let things drop. Detective Marta Pena knew her stuff and she also knew I could be a pain in the ass, so I wouldn’t even have to make nice and pretend I didn’t have it in me. I eyed the invoices. I eyed the phone. I thought of Jung racing off, Lord knows where, half-cocked and stupid, and dialed Marta’s cell phone.

  She answered on the second ring. “Cass Raines, PI,” she chuckled. “Where’ve you been hiding yourself?”

  I slid back in my swivel chair, all easy, propped my legs up on the desk. “I’ve been around.”

  “Last I heard, you were wearing a pair of Farraday’s cuffs and headed for the women’s lockup. I knew he’d never get you there, though. You’re like a feral alley cat, wily, slippery.”

  I frowned, not sure if I should feel insulted or not. Who wanted to be likened to a feral alley cat? “Yeah, okay. Look, Marta, I need a favor. The drowning at the lake? Tim Ayers? Can you tell me anything about that?” I listened hard, squinting, as if that would help me pick up stray sounds from her end. “You still there?”

  “I closed that case.” Marta’s voice was tight, all the friendliness sucked out of it. “Go sniff around someone else’s alley.”

  Again with the cat thing? I frowned, braced myself for more heat. “You’re sure it was accidental, that it couldn’t have been anything else?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a push instead of a slip? A shove instead of a jump?”

  She let a beat pass. “The only push is the one Ayers gave himself. He either jumped or slipped, either way he was the only one there. Now it’s done. We released the body to the family. You’re too late to try and poach.”

  I dropped my legs, leaned forward. “I do not poach.”

  “You poached Farraday. He’s a prick, but you poached the hell out of him.”

  “That was personal, and you know it . . . and I was right. Don’t leave that part out.”

  “Right, wrong, I don’t give a shit. A poach is a poach.”

  “You’re sure nothing smelled a little off, a little weird? You’re certain he either jumped or fell?”

  “Everything smelled just fine to me,” Marta said. “But what’s any of this got to do with you?”

  “I’m asking for a friend of Ayers’s.”

  “A friend? What friend? . . . Oh, no. It’s that spacey guy—the dopey one with the kooky name. Something dumb . . . Byson . . . Jung Byson. That’s him, isn’t it?”

  “He’s taking his friend’s death hard. Toss him a bone.”

  “I see him again I’ll toss him into a cell. How’s that?” I could hear Marta breathing heavily on her end. She didn’t like to share. She also didn’t like to be questioned or second-guessed. I knew all this going in, which made dealing with her, especially on something like this, not a lot of fun.

  “Marta, I can almost hear the steam flooding out of your ears. I’m not checking over your shoulder. I just want to know what you think happened. For old times’ sake, just a little info, and I’m out of your rapidly graying hair.”

  “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re working for Mr. Dippy Boots?”

  “Marta, please, give me some credit. I told him straight out that if you were on the case, then you ran it like it should be run. But if Mr. Dippy . . . ugh . . . Jung can get a grip on what happened, he can start to put this whole thing behind him. Five minutes. Just the highlights, and I’m a ghost.”

  “Until next time you want a favor,” Marta groused.

  “Just remember, that door swings both ways,” I said.

  She let out the mother of all exasperated sighs, followed by the sounds of muffled footsteps and a door opening and closing. “You get this on one condition. You keep whatsahoozits away from me. Deal?” Marta’s voice carried with it an echo, like she was standing in a wind tunnel. I figured she’d gone looking for a private spot, and had ended up in a stairwell or the women’s bathroom.

  “Easiest one I’ll make all day.”

  “Listen good, because you’re only getting one pass, and I’m not diving deep. You’re also not getting a look at any departmental files. Understood?”

  I rolled my eyes. So much drama. “Got it.”

  “First off, Ayers was wasted. His blood alcohol was off the charts, and if that weren’t enough, he had enough prescription meds in him to kill a moose. All kinds—I won’t bore you with the Latin. We bagged a ton of med bottles for the ME, most of them almost empty. Ayers really went to town. We left almost as many duplicate bottles as we took away, which shows the volume we were dealing with. ME puts time of death betwee
n nine PM Sunday and midnight.”

  “No signs of force?”

  “Contusion on the right side of his head, likely banged himself going over, unsteady on his feet. No evidence of trespass, nothing stolen. Nobody saw him take the boat out and nobody saw anybody come anywhere near it the night he died.

  “We got nothing from the marina’s security cameras. The storm obscured everything for the time window we looked at. We couldn’t have made out Jack the Ripper in that downpour. The cabin was clean. Immaculate, in fact, every surface polished, the carpet freshly vacuumed. It was like Ayers cleaned up for company, and then decided not to wait for it. The marine unit found the boat drifting ten miles out, like a ghost ship. Bottom line, one minute Ayers is on it, the next he’s off it, and the boat floats away like it had a mind of its own. We didn’t find a single print.”

  “How’d you get tox screens back so fast? It’s only been a couple days.”

  Marta didn’t say anything for a bit. “He’s an Ayers. They rub elbows with the mayor. You know what that means, don’t depress me by making me say it.”

  “And you don’t find the lack of prints or any of that other stuff a little odd? How do you not leave a single print behind on your own boat?”

  All I heard was quiet from Marta’s end.

  “Marta, I’m good for it,” I said, jumping in. “You know whatever you tell me stays with me, but give me something that wasn’t already in the papers, will you?”

  “We weren’t dealing with some ordinary guy, apparently,” she said, her voice lower than before. “According to the victim’s brother, Ayers was seriously OCD. He went bonkers over the slightest mess.”

  “But you can’t determine his intent,” I said. It was not a question.

  “My feeling is this is a self-termination, but for the family’s sake . . .” Her words trailed away. “Word came down from the top to pretty this up and do it fast. Since we couldn’t conclusively say he meant to kill himself, we didn’t. There’s still a stigma to suicide. Besides, the family’s apparently been dealing with some rocky shit for a long time with this kid, and wanted it all put to bed.”