by Tracy Clark
“Did he tell you he was estranged from his family?”
Cantu pulled a face. “I didn’t even know he had a family until the big reveal.”
“And the day he walked out on you is the last time you saw him?”
“No such luck. I saw him a couple months ago at a bash. We didn’t speak, at least I didn’t. He may have mouthed a hello or something from across the dance floor, but I didn’t pick it up. Like I said, I don’t rehash.”
“Sounds like you’re still angry enough to want to strangle him.”
“Wouldn’t you be? I always imagined I was destined for wealth, and here I was cohabitating with it and didn’t know it. He robbed me of my dream, that’s all I can say. Then he up and falls off the yacht and drowns. God, that’s such a rich-kid way to go.” He shot me a sly smile. “Isn’t karma a bitch? What’s all this about, anyway, now that you’ve gotten all my secrets?”
“Do you know anyone who’d have wanted to hurt Tim?”
“Not off hand, but keep at it, I’m sure you’ll find somebody. All I know is that I never laid a hand on him. It was a clean break. Fini. I’ve got a new guy now, and I was at his place the night Tim drowned, so don’t bother asking. I believe that’s an alibi. If I were you, I’d tag Ganz. He’s the last one Tim was into. Maybe Tim dumped him, too.”
I opened the door. “Thanks.”
“You’re satisfied, right? We’re cool? No cops?”
I took a good look at him. He was half-buzzed now, but I didn’t think he had what it took to sell or distribute the stuff on any major level, but I could be wrong. Bottom line, I didn’t have the authority to roust him on it. That was someone else’s job. “Yeah, sure,” I said. “Cool.”
I was barely out the door before Cantu slammed it shut and locked it. He was probably busy moving his stash. The last thing I heard before I stepped into the elevator was the sound of Slinkys hitting the wall.
* * *
I had three minutes left on my meter, but River North was not an area where you could kick back in your car and eat up the time. The second I slid my key into the lock, there was a Bimmer at my rear bumper waiting to snag the spot. I started up, but apparently took too long with it because the Bimmer driver honked impatiently. I sighed, checked the dashboard clock, and then pulled out. Just past four PM. I’d been working for Jung for only six hours. Felt like longer.
Since I was up north, anyway, I decided to take Teo’s advice and see if I could tag Ganz. After a quick search on my phone, I headed for crowded, bar-heavy Clark Street. I found Sophie’s in the middle of the lively block, parked, and stepped inside a dim, deep room that felt dense, skittish, close, as though the place hadn’t had a door open or fresh air circulating since the Capone era. I stood at the door and waited for my eyes to adjust, breathing in the left-behind trace of old Cosmos and Manhattans. There was no music playing, and strangely no talking, but when the room came into focus, I understood why. There were men dressed in women’s clothing sitting at a few of the cocktail tables set up in the middle of the room, and all eyes were on me. For a moment, I stood in the doorway and watched them as they watched me back; then I walked over to the long bar.
The bartender grinned. “Can I get you something?” He was a middle-aged white guy with pink hair pulled back in a man bun. When he spoke, I could see that his tongue was pierced, as were both ears and his right nipple, which peeked out from underneath a woolly bearskin vest, the kind Sonny Bono used to wear before he went political. I flicked a look over the bar to see what his bottom half was wearing, but found nothing more interesting than a beat-up pair of jeans and running shoes.
I took a seat on a well-worn barstool. “Diet Coke, please.”
“That it?” he asked, looking a bit disappointed, like he’d been prepared to whip up something frothy in a cold glass and I’d denied him the pleasure.
“Ice in the glass?”
I watched as he sauntered down the bar to the soft-drink spigots before I turned my attention to the clientele. The bar wasn’t that busy, but it was early yet. Besides me, there were maybe five or six men at the small, intimate tables. The crescent-shaped booths along the wall were empty. Toward the rear, a large platform of parquet flooring marked off an empty dance area. I glanced up, looking for the disco ball, but Sophie’s had gone against convention and had installed instead a series of gel lights, now dormant. There were large boxes stacked toward the back. Looked like Sophie’s had gotten some new equipment or furniture or something. One of the boxes had a picture of an electronic amp on it. I felt eyes at my back and swiveled around to see that I was still all the rage, despite being woefully underdressed. I swiveled back around to the bar, watching as Pink Hair strolled back with my pop.
“Diet Coke.” He dropped a cocktail napkin on the bar and placed my glass on it. “Ice in the glass.”
I grinned. “See? Easy.”
He turned to leave. I stopped him. “I’m looking for C.D. Ganz. Does he work here?”
“You could say that. He owns the place. You’re here for C.D.?”
I waited a beat. “If he’s available.”
“Shoulda said. I figured you for a walk-in.” He read the confusion on my face and explained. “Off-the-streeters coming in because the name sounds cute. They don’t stay long. We mostly get the regulars.”
“That would be the well-dressed gentlemen staring at me right now?”
He chuckled. “That’s them. Trying to figure you out is all. You’re underdressed.”
I looked down at myself, taking the survey. I looked fine to me, dressed in my usual knockabout PI uniform: jeans, shirt, Nikes, disarming smile. “But still as cute as a bug’s ear.”
“You also look like heat.”
I shook my head. “Not heat, and even if I were, I don’t see anything illegal going on in here.”
Pink Hair made an axing motion across his neck with his right hand for the benefit of the gawkers. In an instant, I felt all the eyes that had been boring holes in my back turn away en masse, as quickly as if someone had turned off a light switch. I swiveled around again in time to witness the tail end of the exodus. Absolutely everyone had lost interest. I turned back to the bar.
“That was cold.”
He slowly polished the bar top with a damp rag taken from his waist. “They’re used to being hassled. It doesn’t look like that’s what you’re here for, so they’re leaving you alone, and hoping you do the same. And, believe me, I’ve seen colder.”
“Still . . .” I checked behind me again, nada. I went back to my drink. “So. Ganz?”
“Oh, yeah, I’ll get him for you. Name’s Mutt, by the way.” He flicked his chin up, grinned.
“Your mother named you Mutt?”
He laughed. “It’s short for Mutter. First name’s Henry. But around here? It’s Mutt.”
I raised my glass to him. “Nice to meet you, Mutt.”
He headed off toward a back room. While I waited, curiosity got the better of me and I glanced at the tables again to see if I was still persona non grata. I was. Big-time. I felt as popular as a vegan at a Texas barbecue. I went back to my glass and tried not to take it personally. When my phone dinged, I dug it out of my pocket and read the e-mail. It was from Dr. Sue. She’d had a chance to look over the photos I’d taken of Tim’s med bottles. The prescriptions, she said, were for pain, nausea, and iron deficiency, nothing a doctor would prescribe for cancer, OCD, or bipolar disorder. Sue concluded that Tim was likely no longer being treated, but merely made comfortable, which made perfect sense when you thought about it. The man was dying with no hope of recovery. What more could the doctors do for him? I e-mailed a thank-you to Sue and put the phone away. Maybe Jung was right. Maybe Stephen Ayers was a lying bastard. Or maybe he wasn’t and Tim had mental issues, which, given his dire prognosis, he’d chosen not to treat. The meds I’d found, taken in large quantities and paired with alcohol, would have been enough to put Tim in an altered state. Who’s to say he didn’t plan it that way? Bu
t now, I had to deal with Jung and his puppy dog eyes, Jung who couldn’t accept what looked to be the truth of the thing. Tim could have wiped his boat clean and done away with the rag he’d used. All he had to do was toss the thing into the lake and jump in after it. But he’d have had to touch the boat’s railing to get over the side, wouldn’t he? Or could he have rolled himself over? Maybe Marta was right. Gloves? Also a possibility. Same deal. Hoist yourself over the side, ditch the gloves in the water. But all of that took a certain presence of mind, which the drugs and alcohol would have altered. Tim wouldn’t have been thinking clearly, if at all. And what about the storm? The pounding rain? The rocking boat? That would have been an awful lot for a dying man, half out of his head, to navigate. And why go to all that trouble in the end? Weren’t there easier ways to kill yourself, if you had a mind to do it? Something wasn’t right.
When Mutt came back out, he was trailed by a whippet-thin man of medium height dressed in tan trousers and an oversize shirt with pineapples on the breast pockets. I assumed the second man was Ganz. They stopped toward the rear of the bar, and Mutt gestured for me to join them, so I picked up my glass and napkin and headed back.
“This is C.D.,” Mutt said when I reached them.
I held out a hand for a shake, which Ganz accepted with a smile. “Mr. Ganz, I’m Cass Raines. I’m a private investigator looking into the death of Tim Ayers. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Ganz gave me a peculiar look, the kind you might give an IRS agent right after he or she uttered the word “audit”—part shock, part oh, shit. Ganz tried holding on to his smile, but it disappeared quickly as he drew his hand away.
Mutt folded his arms across his chest and eyed me appraisingly. “Huh. I did not see that coming.”
I took a quick sip of Coke, watching them both over the rim of my glass. Just then, the front door opened and the three of us turned to look. Two young women who appeared to have started a night of barhopping way too early swayed in and slid themselves onto stools at the bar. Their backs arched, they lasered in on the room, looking for prospective dates for the evening. Mutt turned and headed back to the bar. “Gotta go.”
Ganz pointed at the stack of boxes I’d noticed earlier. “Mind if I break these down while we talk?”
I didn’t mind and told him so. I watched as he pulled a box cutter out of his back pocket and started in on the first box. “Get you another drink?”
I held up my Coke, the glass half-full. “Still working on this one. But thanks.”
He pulled a martini glass out of the box, checked it for cracks, and then set it on an empty table behind him. “Questions about Tim Ayers, you said?”
“You knew him. He’d been here a few times. What can you tell me about him?”
Ganz plucked out another glass, checked it, moved it to the table. “Not much. We were acquaintances, not friends. He’d come in for a drink now and then. It’s sad what happened to him, but—and don’t get the wrong idea—it was kind of a blessing, considering what he had to look forward to. Cancer’s a slow and miserable way to go.”
I rattled the melting ice in my glass, our eyes holding. “What’d you two talk about . . . when he came in now and then?”
I heard giddy shrieks coming from the bar and turned, just as the two women leapt up and hit the door running. Ganz tracked their exit, shaking his head. “They assume all cross-dressers are gay, they’re not.”
“I’ve heard that,” I said. “Still, a sign might help.”
Ganz smiled, went back to the glasses. “And ruin Mutt’s fun?”
I eyed the boxes. There were six of them stacked up. At the speed Ganz was going, he’d be here till midnight. “I met Tim in a cancer support group. Sometimes he just needed to talk, and I had no problem listening.” My eyes wandered over Ganz’s thin frame; he caught the tail end of my survey. “Remission,” he offered, in answer to my unasked question. “Nothing I can take credit for. I just got lucky. Tim didn’t. Why’re you asking about him?”
“I’m looking into his accident,” I said. “Making sure nothing got missed.”
Ganz’s eyes narrowed. “For his family?”
“You knew about his family?”
Ganz nodded. “It just goes to prove the rich are just as messed up as the rest of us. It makes me feel at least a little better about my own crappy upbringing. But you still haven’t said what Tim’s death has to do with me or Sophie’s.”
“I didn’t know Tim. I’m just trying to get a feel. When was the last time you saw him? How’d he seem?”
“Not for a while. He seemed okay, but I’m no shrink. Honestly, when I heard he’d died, I thought for sure he’d killed himself. Easy way out. Cut your losses. It sounded plausible to me. It’s what I would have done.”
I sighed. It sounded plausible to me, too. The alcohol, the meds, the death sentence—who says it didn’t all pile up on him? So he was planning his own funeral with friends, that didn’t mean that in the dark of night, at a low point, he hadn’t suddenly said the hell with it. Maybe he reasoned his friends, Jung particularly, would understand and forgive? He’d have been wrong in Jung’s case.
The first box emptied, Ganz broke it down, tossed it aside, and started on the box beneath it. A swipe of the box cutter shredded the packing tape into ribbons. Ganz pulled the flaps back. More glasses—this time, wine, not martini. “But they’re done investigating it, aren’t they? It’s a done deal.” He slid me a sideways glance. “What’s there to look into?”
My eyebrows flicked upward. “Who told you it was a ‘done deal’?” That hadn’t been announced in the news. In fact, I hadn’t found that out for sure until I’d spoken to Marta. So how did Ganz know?
He stared down at the box, the box cutter idle in his hand. “I thought I heard it somewhere. Or maybe it was something I read.”
He was lying. The proof was in the way he wouldn’t look at me for long, in the way he kept his hands busy and his tone light, but guarded. I set my glass down on the table next to the ones he’d unpacked. “Here’s my problem, C.D. I can tell you’re lying.” He opened his mouth to speak, but I stopped him. “It’s in your eyes and in the way you’re keeping yourself busy with those glasses.” I held my hand out, palm down. “See? Steady as a rock. Let’s see yours.” Ganz palmed the cutter, and then slid his hands into his front pockets. “So now, I have to figure out what you’re lying about. Maybe you and Tim were more than acquaintances. Maybe there was some bad blood between you.”
“I told you,” he muttered. “I hardly knew him.”
“Yep, okay, that’s even less convincing than it was the first time you said it. Want to try again?” He said nothing. “Where were you the night Tim died?”
His head popped up, shock blanketing his worried face. “Me? If you’re thinking I had anything to do with that, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “Convince me.”
“I don’t have to. This is my place. I can ask you to leave.”
I dropped my arms, stared at him. I’d heard the quaver in his voice. He heard it, too. “You could do that, sure.”
“But you’d be back,” he said, “and you’d hassle everybody here till you got what you wanted. It doesn’t matter to you that I’m trying to create a safe place here. You’d make it unsafe.”
His words rankled, but I tried not to show it. He had a legit fear. Cops didn’t often tiptoe into a place on little cat paws. Instead, they made noise. They blew in like a gale wind. And even though I was no longer a cop, I often covered the same ground, knocked on the same doors. But Ganz didn’t know me.
“I’ll just tell you straight up,” I said, “I don’t operate that way.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket. “If you don’t believe me, if you need to check, call the police and have them verify who I am.” I held the phone out for him to take. “You want to dial, or do you want me to do it?”
Slowly Ganz’s face fell and his whole body soon followed suit; it w
as like someone had slowly let the air out of a life-size helium balloon. “I just want him behind me.”
I pulled the phone back and held it, just in case I needed it again. “Then start with the truth.”
Ganz’s eyes scanned the bar as though taking a last look, as though it might all disappear in a puff of genie smoke. Then he blew out a breath and faced me, his eyes meeting mine. “We did meet in the group, that wasn’t a lie, and we weren’t friends. It was business, settled business. I was angry enough to want to kill him, but I didn’t.” He let a moment slide by, then squeezed his eyes shut. “Don’t look at me like I’m a murderer. Would I admit to that, if I’d killed him?”
If you are a psychopath, sure, I thought. “What kind of settled business? Bar business?”
He frowned. “It’s the only business I’ve got. Tim was my investor, or at least I thought he was . . . I found out too late that he liked to dangle his money like a carrot on a stick.” Ganz’s eyes settled on something behind my left shoulder. I turned to see he’d been watching Mutt at the bar. “And I didn’t ask for the money, not once. He offered it.”
“When?”
“Months ago. This place used to be called Lou’s. I was working a dead-end job, dreading every minute of it, and happened to see an ad in the paper from the owner who was looking to unload it. I came to look. It was a real dive bar, not much to it, but I saw some potential. I wanted to create a safe, no-judgment zone for people who are different. I gutted my savings, but it still wasn’t enough.” His eyes settled on the tops of his shoes. “I guess I talked about owning the bar too much, Tim must have been listening. One day, he offers to back me. He pledged enough to close the deal, promising more to get things up and running. It was to be business, not a handout, not a gift. I made sure he knew that.”