Dead Ringer

by Michael A. Black

  He paused, smiling in a self-satisfied way.

  “And?”

  “And the son-of-a-bitch didn’t even blink. But I could tell he heard me, though.”

  “How so?”

  “The prick won the next hand and laughed that dumb laugh again. He tipped the dealer, then he told the blond chick to scoop ’em up. They started to go toward the cashier’s booth, so I went on a parallel course.” He frowned again. “There were so many goddamn people in the way, that by the time I got over there, Bayless and the bitch were gone.” He leaned forward with an almost fervid gleam in his eyes. “But don’t you see, that proves it. If he hadn’t heard me yell his name, why wouldn’t he have cashed in his chips? They beat feet outta there instead.”

  “You try to locate him?”

  “Of course, but what could I do?” He shrugged, as if we shared the opinion that it would have been a Herculean task. “Christ, I even went back to the blackjack table and tried to ask the dealer if he knew him.”

  “What did he say?”

  Herb shook his head and pursed his lips disgustedly. “I think the bastard was paid off. I saw Bayless tip him good. Anyway, he just shakes his head and says deals with too many people to know anybody.”

  “You believe him?”

  “Hell, no. I demanded to see security.” His face reddened. “When they came, I asked them about their surveillance tapes. Told him who I was, but they said, no dice.”

  “You take any other action?”

  “I asked them to call the cops.” His face started to look more flaccid. “When they got there, I talked to them. They took all my information and said they’d get back to me.” He finished the sentence with a smirk. “They never did. We left the next day, so I reported the sighting to Dick, first thing, when I got back. But it was him. I’m sure of it.” He made the big, horsy laugh imitation again. “You don’t forget a stupid laugh like that.”

  “Do you know if the police checked the surveillance tapes?”

  He shook his head. “If they did, they never told us. They probably ran a check on the info I gave them, found out it wasn’t an open investigation, and filed my complaint under C, for crap.”

  I agreed with his assessment but didn’t say so. “I’ll look into that, as well.”

  Alex St. James

  “But Alex,” Larry said, “why did you call me? I’m sure Nicky would prefer to hear from you directly.”

  “That’s the thing, Uncle Larry. When Nick and I were at lunch he seemed rather reluctant to talk about all his charity work.”

  Larry let loose a sigh. “Isn’t that just like my son? Doesn’t want to blow his own horn.”

  “I thought you might run interference for me. This homeless story I’m working on needs heart. If Nick would be willing to introduce me to the priest who runs the shelter, and maybe put in a good word—”

  “Absolutely. I know he’ll be delighted to help you.”

  “I hope so. And . . .” I licked my lips before I dropped the rest of my request. “I hope you’ll be able to help me, too. With my adoption information.”

  Long silence.

  In the background I heard a news anchor’s unmistakable cadence as he recited the morning’s headlines. Larry was watching television. A quick glance at the clock told me it wasn’t our station he had on right now. We didn’t broadcast our midday news for another twenty minutes. Great. Not only was he distracted while he had me on the phone—he was distracted by a competitor.

  “You know,” he said finally, “Nicky’s work with the homeless could make a great addition to your feature.”

  “I’m sure it would, but for this story—”

  “I mean . . .” he drifted out of the conversation for a long moment. I waited. When he spoke again, I sensed resolve in his tone. “I’ll level with you, Alex. Nicky’s finally got his act together. We had some rough times there after his mother died. It took Nicky—Nick—a long time to come to terms with that. He got in with some rough crowds—did some things a father is not proud to talk about.”

  A little alarm chimed in my head. I remembered my parents discussing a troubled kid and their shock at his criminal activities. I’d eavesdropped as much as possible, but they were careful never to say the kid’s name out loud. Despite my best efforts, I’d never discovered who they’d been talking about. Right about now I’d have to bet it’d been Nicky.

  Larry was still talking. “If you were able to pull some strings and include Nicky in your story, it’d do a lot for his self-esteem.”

  My job was to develop and broadcast gripping features for Midwest Focus NewsMagazine, not wet-nurse a timid undertaker through an acute case of arrested development. I’d expected Larry to encourage me to go to lunch or for drinks with Nicky, not feature him in one of my stories.

  I made a noncommittal noise. Bass wanted a story on live homeless people. Nick’s work only came into play once they were dead.

  “You’d be doing me a favor, Alex.”

  “And if I do you this favor, you’ll be more inclined to look into my adoption information. Is that it?”

  I thought I heard him chuckle. “You always were direct.”

  “Listen, Larry,” I began, purposely leaving off the affectionate “uncle” title, “you have to understand that my first responsibility is to my station. I can’t let personal interests interfere with that. Right now I’m simply looking to feature a homeless shelter with a reputation for helping get people off the streets.”

  “Nicky does that.”

  I resisted the urge to say, “Yeah, off the streets and six feet under.”

  “Tell you what, Alex,” Larry said, desperation talking now. “Just give him a chance, okay? Just take a look. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. But just promise me you’ll think about interviewing Nicky for your show. I can’t tell you what that would do for him.”

  “I can’t promise—”

  “Okay, bad choice of words. Just consider it. That’s all I’m asking.”

  I tried to interrupt, but Larry wouldn’t stop wheedling. “No pressure, Alex. Just give him a shot. Talk to him and I promise I’ll take a look at your file and give you what I can. That fair enough?”

  Chapter 4

  Ron Shade

  After the meeting was over, I made a beeline for the first Panera Bread I could find and sat at a corner table with a small coffee. I’d come to the conclusion long ago that it made no sense to buy a large size when you could go back for as many refills as you wanted. I guessed they were confident in the American public’s short attention spans. A couple of giggly teenage girls sat in the opposite corner laughing and occasionally talking to each other when they weren’t on their cell phones. The only other long-term customer was a guy in a Polo shirt, busy at the keyboard of his laptop. I had a small laptop myself, but I usually saved it for trips. Most of my work was done mentally or scribbling notes on paper.

  My own cell phone rang and I answered it.

  “Ron, Dick MacKenzie here.”

  I realized I’d left before tagging up with him after I asked him to trace down the X-ray thing. “What’s up?”

  “What’s up?” His voice was petulant. “I thought you’d at least wait for me to get back before you took off. Godammit.”

  The swear word had come in as an afterthought. Like a guy who has to constantly remind other people that he’s tough. That’s usually a sure sign that the person isn’t. Still, I was working for him, so I restrained my impulse to make a snappy comeback. “Sorry about that. What did you find out?”

  “Nothing yet. I’m waiting on the damn doctor to call me back.” He sighed. “You know how hard it is to get ahold of those bastards.”

  Almost as hard as a flood victim to get his house fixed after a hurricane. I longed to use the line, but for the moment, I had to stay on his good side.

  “Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep working on it for me,” I said.

  “Hey, isn’t that what the company’s paying you fo
r?”

  The Company again. “My time is your time, Dick. You want me to run it down, I will. Just trying to keep those expenses down for you.”

  He snorted. “That’ll be the day. Anyway, I was a bit perturbed at the way you’ve been going about this.”

  “Meaning?”

  He sighed again. I’m sure it was for effect. He was trying to push his tough-guy act a bit further.

  “Look, Ron, I requested your services on this because I thought you could really move this thing. Our security department handles fraud stuff and collections, but they’re way out of their element trying to run down a missing person.”

  “Especially when he’s been declared dead.” It was my turn to add something for effect.

  “Exactly.” The bluster in his voice dipped a bit. “Like I told you, we got a lot riding on this one. How long before you get some results?”

  “Dick,” I put particular emphasis on the word, trying to sound as commiserating as I could under the circumstances. “I’ve got to be systematic when I investigate this thing, otherwise I’ll just end up chasing my tail. Plus, in order to find something solid, something we can use in court, I have to make sure I’ve thoroughly checked the foundation. Make sure it’s sound. Understand?” He started to mumble something, but I jumped in again. “Whatever happened has its roots here, and I want to be damn sure I’ve checked out all the angles before I start making first-class reservations to go to Las Vegas with the company’s money.”

  I figured the last part would get him. It did.

  “First class!”

  “Just kidding,” I said with a laugh. “I wouldn’t know what to do if I was flying anything but coach. Plus, I’d never jack up the expenses on you.”

  “Well,” he said, his voice almost a stutter, “I appreciate that.”

  “Okay, buddy.” I grinned to myself as I stole his line. “Show me how much you appreciate it by running down that X-ray thing.” We shuffled over a few more minor details and I hung up. The coffee in my Styrofoam cup had gotten cold so I took advantage of the free refill.

  I tried not to let Big Dick’s whining get to me as I sipped the new coffee and evaluated just how credible Herb Winthrope had seemed. His rendition of the horsy-sounding laugh danced in my memory. If Bayless’s laugh was half as distinctive as Herb’s imitation, it might just stand out in a busy Vegas casino. As far as solid proof, we were still a whole lot more than six bits short of a dollar. Plus, he’d admitted he’d been drinking, which had to be factored into the identification. But Herb’s description of Bayless’s behavior toward the end of their association was another crack in the wall. It sounded like a man on the brink of something, but what? A midlife crisis? Maybe he was always a flip-flopper. Maybe he’d had too much booze one night and called his insurance man with an alcohol-laced solution to his unhappy life. Maybe he’d been banging Sandy or Candy or whatever the hell her name was, and maybe they’d broken it off. The increase in the policies was interesting. If you were going to die, it was good planning to up the amount of your life insurance. Herb Winthrope’s Vegas sighting was a starting point. I’d have to work my way through a few more aspects of Bob Bayless’s life before I could form a solid opinion, one way or another, if it was really him Herb Winthrope had seen in Sin City, or if it was just another booze-fueled desert apparition. After all, he’d said they’d been in the Mirage.

  Since I was up in the northwest suburbs anyway, the next logical stop seemed to be the merry widow. I glanced at my watch. It was closing in on eleven. The girls giggled more vigorously on their cell phones. It seemed to disturb the guy with the laptop. He shot them an angry look, then continued his fixated stare at the screen. I got up. The giggling was starting to get to me, too. It was definitely time to leave.

  After consulting my atlas, I managed to find my way to the Bayless residence on Eucalyptus Lane in nearby Oakton Hillside. It sounded like an appropriate address for a man presumed dead.

  Before I rode by, I wanted to make sure there was someone home. I found the private detective’s best friend, a row of pay phones, on the rear side of a Mobil gas station. Pulling up next to one, I dug the listing of Bayless’s home phone out of the insurance file. Even though it cost me a couple of quarters just to get a dial tone, I didn’t want my cell phone number showing up on any Caller ID screen the widow Bayless might have. It rang three times before a female voice said a tentative hello.

  “Si, ah, Yes.” I said, using my best fake Hispanic accent. “I call about el caro, ah de car.”

  “What car?”

  “Ah, de for sale. In de paper.”

  “Sir, I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”

  “Es dis . . .” I recited the phone number, intentionally transposing the last two digits in Spanish.

  “No, I’m sorry. You have the wrong number.”

  “Lo siento,” I said, and hung up.

  The quick conversation had told me two things. Someone, presumably Ms. Bayless, was home, and she was the type who was polite enough to be easily manipulated. Or maybe she just had a soft spot for Hispanics. I’d have to see how I did without the accent.

  The house itself was an impressive-looking structure with a base of gray bricks and topped with a second story, covered in aluminum siding. I parked the Beater in front of it and got out slowly. No sense alarming the neighborhood. But they had to know that no self-respecting Jehovah’s Witness would be seen driving around in a ride like that. With my sport coat covering my Beretta, and my necktie properly knotted and hanging at belt level, I hoped I looked like your typical Midwestern Olympia Insurance agent.

  On my way up the walk I reminded myself of one of Chappie’s maxims: go slow when you’re feeling out a new opponent. Not that I had any intention of going a few rounds with the merry widow, but in a metaphorical sense, I couldn’t afford to come on like gangbusters, either. I had to be delicate, judicious. I might need to persuade her later to okay an exhumation order.

  I could hear the doorbell echoing in the house. Presently the solid inner door opened and I saw an attractive, forty-something woman looking through the glass of the screen door at me. She had light brown hair framing her face and wore a tan sweatshirt and blue jeans. She brushed an errant strand away from her face and asked if she could help me.

  “Mrs. Linda Bayless?” I asked, remembering her name from the file.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Ron Shade,” I said, holding up my private investigator’s ID. “I’m working for Midwestern Olympia Insurance on a follow-up investigation. Mr. MacKenzie can verify my employment status if you want to check.” I held out one of Big Dick’s cards.

  She opened the door a fraction and took the card. As she looked at it, a slight crease appeared between her eyebrows.

  “Midwestern Olympia? They were the ones who paid the claim on my husband’s death.”

  I smiled. “That’s right, ma’am. I need to ask you a few more questions.”

  “I don’t understand.” Her tone was worried, confused. “I thought everything was settled. You people said you had that stupid ninety-day clause, and now I thought it was all settled.”

  “We have to do a follow-up on a few matters, and make sure everything is all right,” I said. I flashed the smile again, hoping I looked as benign as possible. “I’ll just need a few minutes of your time.”

  She exhaled hard and held the screen door open for me. I stepped inside, and she led me to a modestly furnished living room. It had blue carpeting, a long sofa, coffee table, and a pair of matching chairs. An artificial fireplace flanked the sofa. On the mantel above she had two pictures, one of a young boy and another of the same boy, a few years older in a football uniform. There didn’t seem to be any photos of the dearly departed Robert anywhere. By design or necessity, I wondered.

  “Please,” she said, indicating the sofa, “sit down, Mr. Shade.”

  I pointed to the mantel. “Nice-looking kid. Your son?”

  “Yes,” she said.

/>   “So how have you been?” I asked. “Any problems or anything we could assist you with?” It was one of those general, I’m-here-to-help questions. She wasn’t offering me much and would probably toss me out in a second once she found out why I was here. Or would she?

  “Everything is as good as can be expected.” Her tone was tentative. The lady was cautious.

  I popped a few more innocuous questions her way, then gradually worked my way to the meat of the matter.

  “How about the funeral home expenses?” I asked. “Any problems there?”

  She shook her head. “Actually, the company paid for everything. They even made the arrangements for us.”

  “The company? Midwestern Olympia?”

  She stared at me momentarily, the area between her eyebrows creasing slightly. “No, the Manus Corporation. Where Bob worked.”

  “Oh, of course,” I said, trying to cover. I’d been so bombarded by Dick and Herb’s use of the company moniker, I’d assumed she was subscribing, too. Dumb. Perhaps it was time for a bolder move.

  “I assume it was a closed casket funeral,” I said. “Did you view the remains?”

  She shook her head, the crease growing a bit deeper. “Mr. Shade, that seems like an odd question. Just exactly what is your assignment again?”

  I smiled as gently as I could. “I’ll get right to the point, Ms. Bayless. I’ve been engaged to look over the circumstances of your husband’s death.”

  “Why?” The alarm was sounding. I had to try to allay her fears. For the moment.

  “Actually, a lot of it’s routine.” I kept my voice calm. Matter-of-fact. “The company normally does a follow-up investigation in cases where a very large principal was paid out. In this case we had two double-indemnity claims.” I regretted falling to Dick’s level and resorting to dragging out “The Company.”