Borrowed Time

by Tracy Clark

  Felton’s ears turned red first; then his cheeks blossomed. “As I’ve just done.”

  I chuckled. “Hardly. Like you said, I’m tenacious.”

  I moved over and hit the intercom button again. “I don’t think Tim slipped from his boat, and I don’t think he jumped. I think someone killed him. I don’t know why yet, or who, but I’m working on it. I’d like to know why Stephen Ayers lied to the police about his brother’s mental state. I’d like to know where he was the night Tim died.” I slid a look at the fuming lawyer. “Robert V. Felton, Esquire, can bury me in orders to cease and desist, but I’ll keep digging. There’s nothing I hate more than someone who likes to play God by taking a life he’s not entitled to. If you decide you want to talk, I’m in the book.” I let the button go.

  “Mr. Ayers died as the result of a tragic boating accident,” Felton said, his jaw clenched. “Nothing more.”

  I smiled, but there wasn’t an ounce of good humor in it. “We’ll see. Good day, Mr. Felton.” I turned to the cops. “Let’s go, officers. I want to miss the midday traffic.”

  The SUV followed me all the way to the feeder ramp of the Eisenhower. I waved at the cops before they peeled off and headed back to Fairyland. They both missed the middle finger that followed it up.

  Chapter 17

  It was after two when I got back to civilization. The traffic had been horrendous, some pileup somewhere along the line, and my nerves were shot. I scanned the lakefront as I sped down the Drive headed south, looking for a little calming action. The beach at Fifty-seventh was teeming with sweaty city dwellers hoping to cool down in the murky water. Someone was probably getting their beach bag pinched while they were off wading hip deep in the lake, but I breathed in deeply, happy to be home. Even the air smelled different this side of the horse trails and tennis clubs; it was grittier, heavier, like it had attitude, like it was bad enough to slink down your throat and pull your kidneys out through your nostrils.

  Felton sure knew how to earn his keep, I thought, but why had the Ayerses felt it necessary to warn me off before I’d even really started? Were they that averse to having their family talked about? Or were they hiding something? I hoped it was Elizabeth Ayers or Stephen on the other end of that intercom. If it had only been the butler, I’d wasted a good, badass speech.

  I pulled up in front of Deek’s, exhausted from sitting too long in the car, in search of refueling and commiseration. I needed to suck in the smell of griddle grease and Deek’s familiar acrimony. I needed to get back to normal. Quick through the door, I glanced over at my booth and pulled up short. Detective Eli Weber was sitting there, bold as you please. In my spot.

  Of course, I knew the booth didn’t belong exclusively to me, but my preference for it, and the fact that I’d broken in the vinyl seats, in my mind, sort of made it mine. And now there was Weber sitting in it, reading the newspaper, his blazer off, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the forearms. I gave it a moment to see how I felt about that, decided I didn’t know, and lightly padded over to the counter, trying not to make noise or draw attention to myself. I slid onto a stool, my back to the booth. I knew he knew I was there. He didn’t miss a thing. Muna walked over. I cocked a thumb toward the booth, looked a question.

  “What?” she said. “We’re supposed to rope it off when you’re not here? He came in and was looking for you. I sat him over there, and I don’t think he’s here to talk business.” Her gaze lifted over my shoulder. “Oh, he’s straightening his tie. Lovely. What I couldn’t do with a man like that. How’d you hook him?”

  “I did not ‘hook him.’ We’re not hooked. We’re . . .” I took a moment to search for the right word, coming up empty. I smiled instead. I was an idiot, a grown-ass woman, too old for the flutter in my belly.

  Muna grinned. “Well, if you’re not hooked, and want to be, you’d better get on it. Men like that don’t stay on the market long.”

  “I need a cheeseburger,” I said.

  Muna’s eyebrows flicked up. “Nobody needs a cheeseburger.”

  “And fries.”

  Muna peered over her half-glasses. “Who shot your dog?”

  “My day didn’t go well, now there’s a dangerous man sitting in my spot, and, frankly, I’m not up for it today, all right?”

  She looked at me like I was crazy. “And by ‘dangerous’ you mean?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “You know what I mean.”

  “And you’re thinking indigestion’s going to fix that?”

  I ran my fingers through my hair. Tough day getting tougher. “Ham on rye and a kosher pickle, then.”

  “That’s more like it. What’s your beef with Mr. Just My Type?”

  “I don’t have one.” I didn’t. There was absolutely nothing wrong with Weber, not that I could see. He was smart and quick and easy to talk to—funny, in a dry sort of way. And he unnerved the hell out of me. “But he has designs.”

  Muna blinked, waited for more, but there was no more. “And what do you have?”

  “I . . . It’s . . .”

  She smirked. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Get over there and talk to the nice man, before I do.”

  I could almost feel Weber breathing behind me and he was half a diner away. There was something there, something I wanted, but would I want it when I got it? We could be completely incompatible, oil and water, night and day. I drummed my fingers on the counter, Muna watching.

  “Oh, this is ridiculous.” I lifted off the stool.

  Muna smiled, eyes sly. “I was just thinking that.”

  I headed over, my shoulders squared. “You’re in my booth.” Weber smiled up at me. “I know. And it’s bugging the hell out of you.”

  I slid in across from him, grumpy, but present. “That’s what you’re trying to do? Bug me?”

  “I’ll add ‘territorial’ to the list of things I’m learning about you.”

  “You have a list?”

  “You’ve got one, too.”

  I slid a sideways glance at Muna. She was watching from the counter as though this was an Ibsen play and she’d paid good money for front-row seats. He was right, of course. Every woman had a list. I watched as he folded his newspaper and pushed it aside, giving me his full attention. His piercing eyes, the color of almonds, lasered in, and I held the gaze for way longer than I should have. He smelled nice. The graying at his temples, the crinkling around his eyes, were Mother Nature’s low blows.

  “Look, Weber . . .”

  “Eli. Around the district, some of the guys call me Fish, but I don’t think I want you calling me that.”

  I angled my head, smiled, forgetting about the cheeseburger I’d craved when I walked in. “Fish?”

  “That’s third date information. This is date two.” He eyed the plastic tablecloth and Deek’s flimsy silverware. “Not exactly four-star, but we’re working our way up, considering we started in the hospital.”

  I leaned back, took all of him in. “You’re overestimating my level of interest.”

  He shrugged. He took nonchalance to championship level. “I don’t think so. You’re still sitting there.”

  We sat quietly for a time and the silence didn’t feel at all strained or awkward. I couldn’t catch a break. I leaned forward again, prepared to rebuff, but lost the will, and leaned back again.

  “I ordered lunch,” he said finally. “Let’s eat.”

  “I’ve got a sandwich coming. I planned to eat at my desk.” I raised my wrist to show my watch. “Still on the clock.”

  Muna popped up at the table, silently like a stealth drone, and placed a meat loaf platter in front of Weber and the ham sandwich I’d ordered by default in front of me.

  “I gave you two pickles,” she said, grinning wide. “In case y’all wanted to share.”

  I watched her move away again, a scowl on my face. With friends like these . . .

  Weber unfolded a paper napkin, spreading it across his lap, as though preparing to while away the afternoon. “You’re backtracking
on the Ayers case, even though it’s ours, and by ‘ours,’ I mean CPD, and more specifically Pena’s.”

  I covered my lap in napkins, too. “Who told you that?”

  “You did. With the look you just gave me. Have you found anything we didn’t?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet, but I think there’s something there. I can feel it. You guys, Marta, think Ayers committed suicide.”

  He forked a morsel of meat loaf into his mouth. “We suspected it, but couldn’t say for sure. Ruling accidental, spares the family.”

  “I think they’d want the truth, whatever it is, don’t you?”

  He nodded slowly, turning suddenly serious. “Sometimes the truth hurts. Sometimes not having it does more good than harm.” He let his words hang there for a moment while he watched me across the table. “You don’t agree?”

  “Booze and prescription meds,” I said. “Why not just stick with that? Why jump into the lake? Why opt for an agonizing end, when a more peaceful one was available?”

  Weber didn’t answer, just watched.

  “What?” I said.

  “If Marta could have moved the needle, she would have.”

  “Maybe.” I picked up my sandwich, took a bite. It’d been hours since my morning cereal. “Actually, not maybe, I know she would have. Your nickname’s really Fish?”

  He raised his glass and took a sip of water, swallowed. “Yep.”

  “And you’re not going to tell me how that came about.”

  The devilish look he gave me made me smile. “It’s called keeping the mystery alive. Did you find that kid, the one on the bike?”

  Still chewing, I nodded.

  “He wasn’t your client before, but he is now?”

  “He is.”

  Weber looked baffled. “And he handed over real money?”

  “He wrote a check.”

  “Huh. Go figure. And you think you’ve got a shot at turning something up, even though we worked it and found what we found?”

  “I might have a shot. There’s nothing competing for my time at the moment.”

  He dug into his mashed potatoes, his eyes locked on mine. “Are there any windmills you won’t tilt at?”

  I thought about it. “I don’t think so. My turn. What are we doing? You keep showing up. I push you away. But you don’t stay gone.”

  He wiped his lips with his napkin, took his time with it. “I noticed that. But there aren’t any windmills I won’t tilt at, either.”

  I bit into my pickle. “And I’m the windmill in this scenario?”

  He chuckled. What a nice sound it made. “You interest me. I think I interest you. I like the way you handle yourself. You’re smart, ballsy. You don’t give an inch. Even right now. I have no clue why you keep pushing me away, but that’s you, not me. We could talk about it, if you want?”

  I shook my head. “That’s okay. I got it.”

  “It takes a lot getting to know somebody,” he said. “It’s a leap. You have a lot going on.”

  I went back to my sandwich, listening to him reason it out. “There’s something else, too, something I’m drawn to. I saw it the first time we met in your yard. You told me to take a hike, as I recall.”

  I held up a finger. “I told your partner to take a hike.”

  “Right. Okay . . . I saw that something again in the ER. I see a little of it now.”

  I bristled, waited, but Weber let the silence hang there. “Is that something extreme irritation?”

  He pushed his plate away, folded his napkin neatly on the table beside it. “How’s some hippie kid afford a PI?”

  “I don’t care. Answer the question.”

  “I’d rather wait until you decide you like me.”

  I took a sip of water, peering at him over the glass. The smile came slowly. “Neither of us has that kind of time.”

  Weber laughed full-out this time, the sound of it filling the entire diner. I checked again for Muna, and caught her at the counter, fluttering her eyes, her hands over her heart. She wasn’t getting a tip from me today.

  “I was separated from my wife for two years before we finally divorced,” Weber said. “That’s just me letting you know I’m beyond the rebound stage.”

  “Good to know. Still waiting.”

  He scanned the diner, turned back to me; the smile was gone now. “I shot a kid, too. He did not survive. We did a search warrant on a crack house on the West Side.” He stopped talking for a moment, and I knew he was back in the crack house. “I guess it doesn’t matter much where. He was sixteen, same age as my kid now. Jarrod Wigham was his name. He’d be twenty-two next month.”

  I felt myself close down, but I couldn’t make myself turn away or get up and leave. Instead, I stared at him, really looked deep, searching for the something we shared. And there it was, in the eyes, that familiar shadow I’d somehow missed before. I hadn’t paid much attention, not going too far below the surface packaging. I’d been too busy closing the door, dead-bolting it, but there it was. In an instant, I knew him; he knew me. He hadn’t said “I killed a kid.” I had a difficult time saying it, too, even now. I shot a kid . . . he did not survive.

  “I don’t talk about it. Neither do you. It’s something you hold on to yourself, live with, isn’t it? Something you haul around on your back, like a bag of wet sand.” He leaned back against the booth. “I’ve learned not to pick at the scab, to just let it be. The something I saw, I guess, was the trace of what that leaves behind. I’m telling you so you’ll know who and what I am. It hasn’t broken me. It hasn’t broken you. It just is.” He nodded, slid me a knowing smile. “You want to run for the door right now, but you won’t.”

  I straightened, stared at him defiantly. “I don’t run.”

  “Except from me.” He leaned forward again. “That’s it. I’ve made my play. Next move’s yours. I hope you don’t wait too long to make it, though. I’m not getting any younger.” The heat off the grin he gave me felt as warm as sunshine. “And make it good. I’m no pushover.”

  “What if I choose not to?”

  “I’m choosing not to think about that.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

  “You’re not going to finish your sandwich, are you?” Weber said.

  I shook my head. The diner disappeared: Muna, the din, the people around us. There was just the booth, and me and Weber. And the next move was mine.

  Chapter 18

  I stopped Jimmy Pick before he could shoot Ben. He was my partner, my responsibility, and I was his. Stopped? Killed. I leaned back in my swivel chair, closed my eyes, tried to keep my breathing steady. It was the only thing I could have done. The only thing I knew to do. Now I had to live with it, carry it around “like a bag of wet sand,” like Weber said. Two years and counting, an entire lifetime to go.

  I looked around my office as though seeing it for the first time. How compact it was, how utilitarian: the gunmetal file cabinets, the scarred desk, the computer, and the two client chairs. There was an Annie Lee print on the wall, the one titled Rebirth. Pop had given it to me, wrapped up nice, the day I was discharged from the hospital I nearly died in. It gave the place some class. The office wouldn’t win any awards for interior design, but I didn’t need things fussy. I just needed them to work.

  I glanced at the coatrack near the door, at the battered, crook-handled umbrella hanging on it. Pop’s umbrella. I’d insisted on having it, and I kept it close, here where I spent most of my time. I liked being able to look up and see it; it grounded me, even though it would always be an inadequate substitute, and a sad reminder of what I’d lost. The print, the umbrella, there seemed to be more of Pop in here than there was of me, but I was okay with that, too.

  Weber was under my skin now, in my head. It felt like I’d somehow boarded a runaway train with zero chance of getting off it. I could shut it down, I thought, shut him down. Is that what I want? I wasn’t sure. I straightened, shook it off. That was enough. Tim Ayers. That’s who I need
ed to focus on now. That was my job.

  I scooted up to the computer, booted it up, and logged into the databases I subscribed to, running Darby’s name through, looking for anything I could find on him. I subscribed to several online resources that allowed me to check court records, vital stats, news archives, vehicle data through the State of Illinois. Access cost me dearly every month, but it cut down on the running around.

  I needed to know more about Darby. Who was he? Who was he connected to? What was he hiding? After about an hour of fine-tuning the search, I got several hits on the name. I then narrowed my parameters by approximate age and race, and there he was. I slid back from the computer, my eyes glued to the screen. He was an ex-con, just a year and a half out of prison. Well, if that doesn’t just beat all? I read through what was there: Vincent Ronald Darby, DOB April 6, 1978. There was nothing violent, at least not on paper: mainly petty theft, minor offenses, passing bad checks. He served a four-year stint for the checks. Darby had no one listed as next of kin, but the address came back funky. The house he was living in, the Painted Lady, didn’t belong to him. The owner was listed as a Peter Langham, deceased.

  I leaned in, grabbing a pen and paper to jot down the information. No known associates. So Darby didn’t run with a crew, or if he did, he kept it low-key. No employer listed, but then why was he handing out business cards for Sterling Associates? Why was he claiming Tim as a client? The plates on the Mercedes didn’t come back to Darby, either. The car was owned by a Nicholas Spada. Who was he? I was curious about Langham and searched him first. Date of death, January 12, 2019. Just three months ago. He was seventy-eight. No criminal record, no liens, no lawsuits, no family, no nothing.

  “Not so much as a parking ticket,” I muttered. Was Langham related to Darby? An old uncle who left him the house in his will? I fished around a little more, looking for a boat linked to Darby, but didn’t find one. He doesn’t own a boat. He doesn’t own the house he’s living in. I then clicked over and searched for Nicholas Spada, surprised when a hit came back almost immediately. Spada owned Sterling Associates. Darby’s driving Spada’s car, handing out cards to Spada’s business? That kind of confirmed his connection. I checked further, but Spada came back clean, just like Latham. He was married. His wife’s name was Anne.