Borrowed Time

by Tracy Clark

  I logged out, let the information sink in, then worked it through using the Annie Lee print as a sounding board. “Okay. Darby connects to Sterling, the company Tim worked his settlement deal through, which is owned by Spada, whose car Darby was driving when he busted my tail. Coincidence? Don’t think so. In fact, Annie Lee, it creates a tight little circle, doesn’t it? Yes, it does.”

  That left Langham as the odd piece. Who was he and why was Darby, an ex-con with dreamy green eyes, living in the dead man’s house? And how’d an ex-con get a job with a legitimate company like Sterling right out of prison? Hadn’t Spada bothered to do even a routine background check?

  I’d compiled the newspaper clippings from Ayers’s case into a file, and went through them again. The news stories simply stated the facts—suspected impairment, an unfortunate fall—nothing on Tim’s autopsy results or anything about physical evidence. That’s as good as the family wanted, apparently. Short, sweet: “Nothing to see here, folks, move along.”

  I folded my notes, my mind on Darby’s checkered past. It would certainly account for the roughness under all that hotness. Four years in prison will do that to you. Peter Langham, I mused, deceased.

  “You left half your sandwich. Muna packed it up for you.” I looked up to see Jung standing in the doorway, rocking back and forth on his motorcycle boot heels, a white deli bag banging against his knees. I hadn’t heard him come in. “This is wild, huh? I’m delivering your dinner, but you work for me? It’s mind-blowing.”

  I stood and began straightening up my desk. “I thought Deek fired you?”

  “He hired me back. He’s got a soft spot.”

  I eyed him quizzically. The idea of Deek having a soft spot wasn’t computing. Jung held the bag up.

  “I don’t have time for it now. I’ve got a lead, and though I technically work for you, in every way that really matters to me, I work for me.”

  Jung gave me a long, probing stare.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Muna wanted me to see if you were okay, something about a guy in your booth earlier?”

  “Tell her I’m fine. And then tell her she owes me a cheeseburger. . . and fries.”

  “Okay.” Jung stood there, rocking. “How’s the case going?”

  I banged desk drawers shut, locked them. “Jung, seriously, I’ve got to go.”

  “But aren’t I entitled to a report? The contract says so. I read it. Upon request, it said.”

  He returned a guileless look, his eyes as big as Bambi’s, as innocent as a two-year-old’s. I sighed and waved him toward a chair. “Sit. Five minutes.” I gave him a quick rundown of my time so far, my conversations with Cantu and Ganz, my ride out to Barrington Hills, my database searches.

  “And Vince Darby,” I said. “A witness reported hearing him argue with Tim aboard his boat during a party . . . a party you allegedly attended, by the way. So why didn’t I hear about it from you?”

  Jung’s eyes widened. “I should have mentioned it, right? I didn’t think it was important. It was just a party. Tim had them all the time. Darby? Yeah, I remember seeing him, but I don’t know anything about any argument. We were all there having a good time, Darby showed, the party was in full swing. I looked up, and he was gone. I remember Tim got pissed about something at one point, but whatever he was pissed about blew over. He asked for a drink, a hit, and he was all good.”

  “Was Tim depressed that night?”

  “Hell no. He was the life of the party till that Darby walked in. After he left, Tim looked like he got buzzkilled, but he bounced back quick. You sure they had it out?”

  “No, I’m not sure. Darby says he was there to buy one of Tim’s paintings, decided to give it some more thought, then left. He said that’s the last he saw of Tim.” I ran my fingers over the card. “Darby’s handing these out for Sterling Associates. He connects to Sterling’s owner, Nicholas Spada. Do you recognize the name?”

  “Spada, yeah, he was a friend of Tim’s dad and handled some of the family’s business. That’s why Tim went to him.” Jung pointed at the card. “I got one of those, too. That’s why I remember the dude. I trashed mine, though. It’s like you’re tempting fate, or something. And Darby seemed to always hang too close. I never did find out what that was all about.”

  “Did Tim ever find out why?”

  Jung shook his head, held his arms out in a gesture of frustration. “Never did. I don’t think the guy would say. But that’s hinky, right?”

  “It’s worth following up on.”

  “What about Stephen? What’d Tim’s mother say?”

  “What about Stephen? He won’t return my calls. And the family lawyer met me at their front gate to run interference between me and Tim’s mother, after he called the cops.”

  Jung frowned. “I knew you needed me. They’re not used to seeing people like you up there.”

  “Wrong color?” I asked bitingly.

  Jung folded his hands in his lap, shot me a gloomy look. “Wrong color, wrong sex, wrong socioeconomic background, wrong politics. . . I could go on. Life’s a lot better outside the bubble than inside it. What’d the police do?”

  I held out my hand for the bag with my sandwich in it. As long as I had three and a half minutes left, I might as well start it. “They escorted me out of the neighborhood.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  I leaned back in my chair, unwrapped the wax paper. “Do you know Felton?”

  Jung nodded. “Back when we were kids, he got Tim out of a few scrapes like it was nothing. One call to him, and bam, problem solved. He’s a real bulldog.” Jung brushed his hands together, universal sign for “done deal.”

  I grimaced, recalling my encounter with the bulldog. “Does your family have a bulldog?”

  Jung smiled slyly. “Michael Greenleaf, Esquire.”

  I tossed down the pickle. “Peter Langham. Ring any bells?”

  Jung shook his head. “Who is he?”

  “Who was he—he’s dead. How could Stephen disinherit Tim? His father would have had a will. Stephen couldn’t have held back anything their father left him, unless he was cut off from that completely.”

  Jung shrugged. “When old man Ayers died, he left Stephen as executor. By then, Tim had gotten a reputation as a screwup and a major disappointment. I guess leaving everything in Stephen’s hands made sense to him from a business standpoint. It didn’t take long for Stephen to work out his childhood issues by holding up the cash. He held the money over Tim, and enjoyed it. He wanted everything Tim had, freedom, friends, all of it, and the money was his control. That is, until Tim got sick of it and said the hell with it.” Jung shook his head woefully. “Maybe Stephen wanted the boat? It was their father’s. Maybe he thought he should have gotten that, too? I don’t want to believe he’d kill Tim for it.”

  I nodded. “Ganz said he saw Darby board a boat at the marina. What if he lives there?”

  “I never heard Tim talk about any Ganz. Maybe he heard it wrong?” He held the card up, and then stood to pace. “But this Darby. They argued, you said, so maybe he comes back, kills Tim? He thinks he got away with it, but then you show up and he gets nervous. That’s why he made that call? Why he rushed out? That’s a good theory, right? Or try this on. Maybe this Ganz pulls a fake. Maybe he’s the one who has it out with Tim, but he points the finger at Darby instead. One of them, not sure which, could be on the run right now. We need to make a move.” Jung turned, saw me still sitting there. “Well?”

  “I don’t know enough yet,” I said calmly. “Neither do you.”

  “But if Darby was hanging out at the marina, he was right there, right under Tim’s nose.”

  “I’ve only got one man’s word on that so far.” I stood. Jung’s five minutes were up. “Go back to Deek’s. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  “Just like that?”

  I padded over to the door, opened it. “Bye, Jung. Thanks for the sandwich.”

  He stepped out into the hall,
turned back. “But the contract says . . .”

  I pushed the door closed and locked it. This hadn’t been my most productive day. I’d been given the heave-ho, and warned off by Stephen Ayers, albeit it was a warning once removed, coming from his lawyer as it did, but it was a warning just the same. And I was nowhere close to proving anything. I wondered about C.D. Ganz. He seemed forthcoming enough, up to a point, but he was definitely holding something back. Maybe he had concocted that argument to run me around? And, seriously, how did he know Tim’s case had been closed?

  I stood in the middle of my office, not knowing what thread to pull first. It was after seven. I’d have no luck at Sterling until morning. I stood at the window, my mind trying to order disparate bits of detail. I took a deep breath, let it out, then took another, watching as the seven-eighteen Metra local, two minutes behind schedule, rattled by at the corner. When it disappeared from view, my tired eyes shifted to the street to track a tall man with a short dog on a leash making their way up the block. Slow and steady, picking through one lead after another, that’s how the work is done. Someone was lying. I had to figure out who and why, but not tonight. I closed the blinds, tossed my notes into a folder, and headed home.

  Chapter 19

  I parked a block from my building and walked around to the back stairs, up to the third floor, treading lightly so as not to disturb Mrs. Vincent. I didn’t want a repeat of this morning’s encounter. I’d been doing all I could lately not to lead trouble back to my doorstep, to my family. It was a lesson learned the hard way.

  Mrs. Vincent’s windows were dark when I crept past them. At seven-thirty PM, she was likely in bed watching television, locked in for the night. Still, I checked to make sure her windows and door were secured before moving on. I avoided looking at the second-floor windows, but thought of little Nate all the same. Up on the third floor, I eased my key into my door, slipped inside, and flicked on the kitchen lights. I was startled to see blue light shining in from the living room, the sound of my television blaring. Not a burglar. No self-respecting thief was going to ransack your place, then sit down to watch Survivor, unless he or she was a complete idiot.

  Halfway down the hall, I spotted a bedraggled travel sack leaning against the front door, and knew who it belonged to. Barb. I relaxed. What was she doing here? She and her jungle pack were supposed to be in Tanzania teaching English to little kids. I turned the corner, expecting to see her sitting on my couch, but found instead Mrs. Vincent, her nimble hands knitting their way through a lap full of lavender yarn.

  “I brought you a bowl of red beans and rice,” she said, not bothering to look up. “It’s in the fridge.” She peered up at me through thick bifocals hanging from a chain. I looked around the room; no one else in it. This felt like a setup, an ambush.

  “Why’s Barb’s bag here?”

  She balled up the yarn she hadn’t yet gotten to and stuffed it into the embroidered bag she kept it in. “She’s in the guest room sleeping. It’s a long way from Africa.”

  “Everything okay?” Maybe there’d been a death in the Covey family. Her mom? One of her brothers? No, if that were the case, she’d have called to tell me, and then she’d have gone straight home; she wouldn’t be here, asleep in my spare room.

  Mrs. Vincent smiled. “She’s fine. But you and me need to talk.”

  I stepped farther in, confident now no one was going to jump out at me. I kicked my shoes off, wiggled my toes. “About?”

  “You’ve been sneaking around here like Mata Hari, using the back door when the front door works just fine.” She waggled a finger at me. “Caught you this morning, didn’t I?” She folded plump arms across her chest. “I know what you’re doing. We’re about to talk about that.”

  No, it wasn’t a setup or an ambush, it was an intervention, and I was hemmed in tight, like a jumpy steer squeezed into a rodeo pen. I took a step backward, eyeing the hall, the back door at the end of it. I reasoned I could likely hit that door long before the old lady could mount a decent pursuit.

  She huffed. “Don’t even think about it. Everybody’s worried—Benjamin, Charles, Barbara. They started calling me when they couldn’t get you, which might explain why she’s here and not there. Follow me into the kitchen. I’ll heat up those beans for you. I brought corn bread, too. Hope you’re hungry. Even if you aren’t, you’re going to eat.”

  She took off on spongy heels, her crepe soles nearly silent on the hardwood floor as she padded down the hall, heading back toward the kitchen. I followed dutifully. There was no getting away.

  “I know what I’m doing,” I told her.

  She scoffed. “Here’s what I know. You’re working yourself into the ground. I can’t remember the last time I saw you for more than a quick hello. I decided you needed the time to get things settled—that when you were settled, you’d be back same as you were.” She turned to face me. “Well, it’s been long enough. You think trouble goes where you do, but, child, trouble’s out there whether it comes riding in on your coattails or not. I know. I’ve seen it all and done about half of it.” She grabbed the Pyrex dish with her homemade beans in it out of the fridge and slipped it into the microwave. “Sit,” she said, pointing to one of the barstools pulled up to the center island. “You need people. You’ve got people. That’s it, plain and simple.” Her eyes met mine. “Act like it.”

  She moved around my kitchen like it was hers, pulling down a bowl, grabbing a spoon.

  “You don’t know what’s at stake here, what could happen. I—”

  She cut me off with a mother’s glare, part loving, part terrifying. “You were an obstinate child, as I recall, and you’re an obstinate woman. Call your friends. Come in through your front door. All this sneaking around is rattling my nerves.” She pulled the dish out of the microwave, spooned a good helping of the beans in a bowl in front of me, and topped it off with a generous slice of warm corn bread. “Now, what’re you working on that’s got you so het-up?” Her warm, dark eyes lasered in. “This is where you do the talking.”

  I was a bit shell-shocked, but also very hungry. I dug into the bowl. “A drowning case. I’m being given the business at the moment. I have no idea what’s going on.” I peered up at her, my eyes narrowed. “If you were a killer, would you waste your time killing a dying man?”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “Me? A killer? Lord Jesus.”

  I waved it off. It was ludicrous. Mrs. Vincent was a churchgoing woman. She sang in the choir, never missed a service. How could she put herself in the mind of a cold-blooded killer? I chuckled. “Never mind. I forgot who I was talking to.” I went back to my bowl. The beans were good, spicy, and the corn bread was sweet and melted in my mouth.

  “If I was hell-bent on killing a person,” Mrs. Vincent mused, a faraway look in her eyes, “there wouldn’t be anything that’d turn me from it. I’d have evil in my heart, and my soul would be black as pitch. All I’d be thinking about is how much I wanted the person to crawl and suffer and beg for mercy.” I watched her, my mouth hanging open. “Would I care if the person was already dying?” She stopped, gave it some thought. “I don’t think so. Whatever they did to make me want to kill them would be all I’d be thinking about. I’d want to be the one to make the light go out of their eyes. It’d be the power and control I was after, wouldn’t it?” She shook her head, tidied up the counter, gathering up corn bread crumbs. “Killing is a very selfish act, Cassandra. It’s ‘me, me, me,’ not ‘you, you, you.’”

  My spoon held suspended between my bowl and my mouth, the beans going cold. The old woman’s words sent a shiver down my spine and I watched, a little creeped out, as a mischievous grin spread across her face.

  “But you’d know more about that than I would.” She wiped her hands on the towel, folded it neatly, and then placed it on the counter. “Two more things, unrelated to me being a killer. One, you’re going to rent that apartment downstairs. It’s been vacant too long. Two, the letters from your daddy have been piling up in that
bowl in the foyer for weeks now. You haven’t opened a one. You’re going to open those letters and read them, and then you’re going to come to some kind of peace with that man.”

  I sighed. “I’ve nothing to say to him.”

  “Your brain’s working, isn’t it? You’re a college graduate? You’ll think of something. Now I’m going on home. Tonight’s Dancing with the Stars.” She eyed me closely. “Is there anything else I need to set straight?”

  I swallowed hard. “No, ma’am, I think this about covers everything.”

  She reached out and gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Good, then. Make sure that back door’s locked. See? Looking out for folks goes two ways.”

  She padded out of the kitchen. I listened as she flicked off the television and gathered up her things. When I heard the front door open and close, I breathed easy. I’d just been schooled by a master. I went back to the beans, vowing never to get on Mrs. Vincent’s bad side.

  Chapter 20

  I woke in a dark room, reaching for the ringing phone. It was four in the morning. “H’lo?”

  “You have to get down there. The marina. I didn’t do it. Whatever they tell you, the cops, it wasn’t me.”

  The words spilled out in a rush, one crashing over the other, and my brain, still foggy from sleep, only deciphered half of them. I made out that it was Jung, though. He sounded frantic, talking a mile a minute. I bolted up in bed, flicked the lamp on. “Jung? What are you talking about? Didn’t do what?”

  “I was there, but I didn’t do it. I’ll explain later, but right now you have to get down to Tim’s boat. It’s swarming with cops. But it wasn’t me, just remember that.”