by Tracy Clark
“And he never made good?”
Ganz picked up the cutter, fiddled with it, retracting the blade, displaying it. “We shook on it, set it all up, how much, when, how I’d pay him back, but Tim’s check was always in the mail. I eventually found the money I needed on my own . . . I’d prefer not to tell you how . . . but I’m dancing on a tightrope. Of course, that didn’t stop Tim from ‘throwing business my way.’ That’s how he put it. Sophie’s provided bartending and entertainment for a few of his parties, no fee, of course, the whole time the money’s supposedly on its way. He played me.”
I watched as he got hold of his anger, or tried to. Apparently, there was still quite a lot of emotion tied up in Ganz’s so-called business arrangement with Tim Ayers. Where had he been the night Tim died? “Entertainment?” I asked.
“Dancers, lip-syncers.” He shrugged. “It’s a niche. The bar’s limping along, just making it. Some weeks, I can’t even pay Mutt. Last time I saw Tim was at one of his parties. I went to plead my case again, but he wasn’t in any shape to hear me.”
“Why not?”
“He’d been drinking—a lot, it appeared. Add to that someone crashed the party, and it was clear from the way he was acting, he didn’t want the guy there. I heard them arguing below deck.”
I moved around the boxes so I was closer to Ganz. “What’d they argue about?”
“I only heard bits and pieces. Tim accused the guy of crowding him, not letting him die in peace. He warned the guy to leave him alone, or else he’d be sorry.”
“He actually said or else the guy would be sorry?”
Ganz nodded. “The guy told Tim he was missing the big picture. Their voices stayed low after that. Besides, I didn’t really want to hear any more. I had my own problems, so I left them to it. I figured whatever it was, Tim had it coming.”
An argument? A crasher who hadn’t allowed Tim to die in peace? What “big picture”? And had Tim’s failure to grasp the big picture been enough to drive him to suicide, or, worse, propel this mystery crasher to help him along? Either way, it was a lead, a thread.
“Any idea who the crasher was?”
Ganz shook his head, and there was an air of finality in it. “I’ve said more than I should have already. And I don’t need you or the cops hovering around with more questions. The long and short of it is, I wasn’t there when he died and I’ve got witnesses who can back me up.”
From where I stood, Ganz had a good reason for wanting to get back at Tim. He’d nearly cost him his dream of owning Sophie’s and making it a success, leading him to fantasize about killing him. But the argument added a wrinkle. It meant there was someone else out there who might also have had a good reason for wanting Tim dead. The big picture?
“Can you at least describe the crasher? Height? Build? White? Black?”
“I said I’m out of it. Whatever Tim got into was his bad luck.”
“So your stonewalling me is payback for getting stiffed on a business investment?”
C.D.’s look soured. “I’d like to think I’m not that petty.”
“So would I.”
“White, average, good looking, but a little rough, unpolished. And I wasn’t the only one there. Maybe somebody else saw more than I did. Why don’t you go hound some of them? Try that weird guy—midtwenties, blond hair spiked all over, a real character. It looked like he and Tim were kind of chummy. Ask him what he saw.”
Blond, twenties, a real character? That sounded a lot like Jung. But it couldn’t be Jung, could it? Wouldn’t Jung have thought it important to mention that he’d attended a party on Tim’s boat days before Tim ended up dead? Why hadn’t I heard about the crasher or the argument from him? Wasn’t he my client? Hadn’t he paid for my valuable time with a yin and yang check? I swept my hands through my hair, my frustration level rising. Hadn’t I pointedly asked Jung in my office if he’d given me all the information he had? And hadn’t he answered yes? “I’ll do that,” I said, glowering, “but in the meantime, the crasher?”
“You just will not let this go, will you?”
I didn’t answer. I assumed the question was rhetorical.
He reached into his back pocket, drew out his wallet, and opened it. “Here. You want the crasher?” He pulled out a business card, thrust it at me. “He handed these out like favors. Tim didn’t look too happy about that, either.”
I read the card: VINCENT DARBY. STERLING ASSOCIATES. INSURERS. “You ever see him before?”
“Not before or since, but check the marina. When I left, I stood outside getting some air, kicking myself for letting it go with Tim. This guy breezes out a few minutes after me, walks right past, and climbs aboard a boat a few slips down.”
I turned the card over in my hand. “Which one?”
“They all look the same to me.”
“Left or right of Tim’s?”
“Left. Blue canopy. That’s all I got. Satisfied now?”
I tried handing the card back to Ganz, but he waved it away. “I don’t need it. It’s not like I can afford insurance anymore.”
I slid the card into my pocket. “One more question. How did you hear Tim’s case was closed?”
His expression hardened and he turned and walked away. “Mutt’ll see you out.”
Chapter 14
Vincent Darby was an insurance man. Tim Ayers was living off an insurance policy, after being disinherited by his brother. That had to be more than a coincidence. Had Darby been the one to arrange the whole thing? Was that the deal they argued about? Why, when the whole purpose of the settlement was to give those who took advantage of it a financial cushion so that they could literally die in peace?
And Jung? I was tired of him dropping bits of information like bread crumbs through a fairy-tale forest, giving me only one tiny piece at a time, holding back the rest. He hadn’t said anything about being at a party at Tim’s or an argument between Tim and Darby. When I asked him if Tim had any possible enemies, he steered me toward Teo Cantu, making no mention of Darby at all. Jung and I needed to talk.
I started the car, ready to pull away from the curb, but stopped when my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but answered it, anyway.
“Cassandra Raines?”
The voice was male, tight, snappish, and immediately put me on the defensive. I cut the ignition, upsetting the driver behind me who’d been waiting for the spot. The driver honked to get me moving. I rolled my window up instead, to block out the distraction. “This is Cassandra Raines.”
“Robert V. Felton, Esquire. Stephen Ayers’s legal representation.”
I rolled my eyes, sighed. I hated lawyers. Not like I hated broccoli or cod liver oil, not like an aversion, but like how I hated sand in my bikini bottoms or a fly in my kitchen. Like an irritant. Like a rash. And why did lawyers always use five-dollar words when a two-dollar one worked just as well? Legal representation. Please.
“How may I help you, Mr. Felton?”
“You’ve made several attempts to contact Mr. Stephen Ayers. Might I ask why?”
There was a haughty arrogance in his tone that set me on edge. I took a moment to let that settle, peering out of my windshield at the busy street. “Might I ask why?” I shrugged. Sure. People can ask anything they want. That doesn’t obligate me to give an answer. My questions were for Ayers, not his “legal representation,” but I could play nice. It was a tactic that didn’t come naturally to me for some reason, but I was no quitter.
“I’ve been hired to look into his brother’s death. I was hoping Mr. Ayers could answer a few questions.”
“Questions? And hired by whom?”
“Can’t say ‘by whom,’ but the questions are general ones about his brother’s personality, habits, acquaintances, enemies—if Mr. Ayers knew of any—also his mental state, which Mr. Ayers seems to know quite a bit about.”
Felton heaved out an aggrieved breath. The kind those who thought themselves above it all gave to those they’d placed several rungs below
them on the ladder for mere mortals. “Mr. Ayers does not wish to speak about his brother, certainly not to a private detective who has no business asking questions in the first place. I insist on knowing who hired you.”
I shrugged again. People can also insist on knowing all kinds of things. That doesn’t compel me to supply the information. “I understand Mr. Ayers was estranged from his brother. Yet, he conducted a wellness check at the marina a few days before Tim died. He left his card in the office. He must have had some concerns about his brother to make the effort?”
Felton didn’t answer. He was probably leaning back in a leather chair that cost more than the car I was sitting in, staring at the head of an ambushed moose hanging on his wall. “Why is this information of interest to you? Timothy Ayers’s death was an accident. The family is in mourning. What they do not need is to be badgered by a one-woman investigations agency out to make a name for itself.”
I pulled the phone away from my ear, looked at it. Mr. Robert V. Felton, Esquire, knows how to Google, too? Go on with your bad self, Felton. I pulled the phone back and narrowed my eyes, though he couldn’t see that. The driver behind me honked again, more insistent this time. “There are inconsistencies that should be explored,” I said. “I think the reason the family is so anxious to put this to bed is because they fear Tim may have killed himself, but there’s another possibility.” I listened, but Felton said nothing. “That possibility being that Tim Ayers got on someone’s bad side and they decided to do something about it.”
My words landed like an A-bomb, with Felton’s silence hanging in the air like a mushroom cloud. “If you dare to repeat such a scurrilous claim anywhere, believe me, you’ll regret it. You are not to contact Mr. Ayers again regarding this matter . . . or any other. Your ‘investigation,’ if that is what you’re calling it, stops now.”
I stuck my tongue out at the phone, but Felton couldn’t see that, either. “As Mr. Ayers’s legal representation, you, no doubt, know that no one in the Ayers family hired me.” I listened to Felton wheeze in and out on the other end of the line. “And, therefore, you cannot fire me.”
“Listen, here, whoever you are. You are to stop what you’re doing. Immediately.” His words came out in a low, snakelike hiss. Felton, apparently, was unaccustomed to having to threaten peons twice. “Am I understood?”
“You’re lawyer to the Ayers family,” I said. “Did you also handle things for Tim, even after he was cut off from the family money?”
I could have sworn the phone in my hand was heating up from all the fuming Felton was doing on his end. “Drop this. Drop it today, or I will bury you.”
“I’ll drop it,” I said, trying and failing to take his threat seriously. “When I find out what happened to Tim. If Mr. Ayers agrees to talk, I can certainly meet him in his office and make myself available at whatever time is convenient.”
Felton chortled derisively. “His office? You’d never make it past security. In fact, I’ll see to it.”
“I accept that challenge.”
“I’ll have your license.”
“You know what? When I make it past security, I’ll give you a copy.”
He hung up without another word. I grinned, tossed the phone on the passenger seat, started the car, and gave the driver behind me the spot. I had ruffled enough feathers for one day. I was going home.
Chapter 15
“What you don’t want is a lawyer on your ass,” Whip said. We were at Creole’s, a small restaurant on the West Side, where Whip was the cook. The place was packed, lively, and surprisingly loud for noon on a Tuesday. It was nothing like Deek’s place. Whip had set me up at a special table near the kitchen and I was midway through my second bowl of seafood gumbo.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“My bet’s on the brother,” Whip said, his massive forearms resting on the checked tablecloth. The table wobbled a bit. “It’s the money. There’s always a fight over the money. The older one figures out a way so he doesn’t have to share it. That’s how the rich operate.” He drummed his fingers on the table, shook his head. “Greed’s a dangerous affliction, especially in a family. See? I made you lunch and solved your case for you. You’re welcome.”
“Then what about the argument on the boat?” I asked.
Whip waved a dismissive hand. “C’mon, when is there ever not a drunken argument at a party?”
“There’s that weird insurance thing, the settlement. I looked it up. Jung’s right, it’s legal. But whenever money’s in play . . .”
Whip’s mouth twisted. “Don’t see much of a score, though. Insurance practices are locked down tight, regulated to the hilt. And complicated. That’s why I stayed away from white-collar crime. Too much homework.”
“Okay, then what about the investment Tim backed out of? Ganz seems really committed to that bar.”
Whip shook his head. “Nope. It’s the family. No one loves you like family, and nobody hates you like family. Trust me.”
I eyed him quizzically. “What evidence are you basing your conclusion on?”
Whip patted his paunchy middle. “Gut instinct, Bean. It never misses.”
I chuckled at his use of my childhood nickname, short for String Bean. When we were growing up, everybody had a nickname, some that honored a skill, a talent, like Hoops or Three-Point, some that described them physically, like Bean or Whip. His real name, the one his mama gave him, was Charles Mayo Jr., but no one close to him ever called him that. I smiled at the delight he exhibited in solving my problem so quickly and, in his mind, so definitively. I slowly drew in the aroma of spicy andouille sausage and warm corn bread. “Yeah, well, as much as I respect your gut, I’m going to need a little bit more than that.”
He eyed my bowl, the remnants of his culinary efforts smeared over his white apron. “It’s good, right? You like it?”
“It’s delicious. You definitely know what you’re doing.”
He beamed, his wide mouth stretching out into a grin that went from ear to ear. “Told you. It took you long enough to get your skinny tail over here.”
“Been busy.” There’d been Pop, and other things.
“I know what it was,” Whip said, almost as though he’d heard me. He reached across the table to pat my free hand, his dark eyes tracking my progress as I finished my gumbo, pride on his face. “Want pie? I got sweet potato, pecan, apple.”
I looked up from the bowl, impressed. “Shut up. You can make pie?”
He let out the warmest belly laugh, like Santa high on sugar cookies. It was almost as comforting as the gumbo. Whip. Here. This was my family. “Bean, I can make whatever you got a taste for.”
He’d spent nearly half his life in prison, I thought as I watched him, but he’d finally found something he was good at, besides stealing cars and sticking people up. We’d lost touch for a while, but we were back, and he was doing okay. I was glad. He hadn’t had the easiest start: a father who was a mean drunk, a mother who died around the same time mine had. Luckily, at twelve, we’d had Pop to guide us through. It still hurt that Whip somehow got lost halfway there. “I’m proud of you. You know that?”
His face lit up. “Took me long enough, didn’t it?”
This time, I placed my hand on his, and squeezed all my love into it. “It took as long as it was meant to.”
He nodded, grinning. “Guess you’re right about that. It’s just too bad he’s not here to see it.”
It was too bad Pop was missing this, and it always would be. I finished the bowl, pushed it away. I had a redhead and a hooker, or a redheaded hooker, who liked to play office, to track down. Plus, I still hadn’t spoken to Stephen Ayers or the insurance guy, Vincent Darby. Yet, friendship and gumbo kept me anchored to the spot. I angled my head, smiled devilishly. “Sweet potato, you said?”
Whip shot up from the table. “Yes, ma’am, coming right up. I got to get you fueled up to catch that murdering brother.”
* * *
I’d eaten enoug
h to fortify me for a month and decided to work it off back at the marina. I turned left at the Safe Passage, looking for a boat with a blue canopy, and found at least half a dozen of them all in the same area. I scanned them all from the walkway, but didn’t see anyone sitting on them. I had no way of knowing if anyone was camped out below, of course. It was almost six PM when I trudged up to the marina office, tried the door, and found it locked, the blinds drawn. No Cap, either. I spotted the security cameras that had captured little to nothing the night Tim had died. It’d do no good trying to see the tapes myself. Marta had already examined them and found nothing of value. Dead end there. Besides, even asking to see them at this point would seriously damage our friendship and likely land me in a holding cell.
I went back to my car and made a call to a source I had at the phone company. After a simple lookup and a fair exchange, I had the number and address for a Vincent R. Darby. What had Darby been doing to harass Tim in his last days? It had to be harassment, or Tim wouldn’t have had to ask to be left alone. What had been going on between the two? It was also possible that Ganz had lied to me about the argument to get me looking in another direction. He was angry with Tim about the money that never materialized. If that turned out to be the case, he wouldn’t find me so amiable when we met again. Meanwhile, I’d keep going, check out Darby, and see what I could learn from him.
He lived off Wabash in the South Loop in a two-story Painted Lady with flower boxes at the windows. I rang the bell and the bright red door opened seconds later, revealing a chiseled Adonis with dark, curly hair and sleepy eyes the color of Chinese jade. There was a deep, healed-over scar on his dimpled chin, but that only made him look all the more rugged and capable, like he could start a fire without matches or wrestle an alligator with his bare hands. His eyes quickly scanned over me, and his easy smile revealed a legion of pearly white teeth, perfectly aligned.