Dead Ringer

by Michael A. Black

  The drive north went relatively well, despite the lane closures that the Illinois Department of Transportation had so thoughtfully provided. George liked to say we had two seasons in Chicago: winter and construction. Luckily, I fit in between the rush hour of people getting to work and would hopefully beat the rush of those same people coming home. I used the rationale as another reason to have cut my workout short. Plus, I didn’t want to be totally worn out in case things went well on this date tonight. But maybe I was reading more into it than I should. Still, I had a date with an angel, and if I kept my expectations low, I wouldn’t have to worry about being disappointed. I resolved that all I would hope for would be a pleasant dinner, with equally pleasant company. Still, I did make a silent vow to work out even harder tomorrow night.

  I circled the block around Francis’s North Side neighborhood for fifteen minutes before a space finally opened up, and that was by an alley. I gambled that the stickers might buy me enough time to make the quick pickup and be gone. Most of the garbage bins looked empty, so I didn’t have to worry about it being pick-up day. Francis lived on the top floor of a brick three-flat and it took me another five to dash down there. Inside the foyer I rang the bell and waited, looking up at the small, black plastic half moon that I knew was a camera he’d installed. When his voice came over the speaker and asked who it was, I yelled, “Take a look at your goddamn camera.”

  The buzzer sounded a few seconds later and I pushed through the door, taking the stairs two at a time until I got to the top. I was pleased that I wasn’t even winded when I got to the third floor. But I was feeling a bit hot under the collar having to rap on Francis’s door again.

  “May I have your password, please?” the voice on the other side said.

  I swore under my breath and was about to pound my fist on the door again, when it opened and Francis stood there with a simper on his face. He was wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt and looked like a refugee from one of those old Revenge of the Nerds movies, except that he wore wire-rimmed glasses without any duct tape holding them together and his hair hung down around his shoulders.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t resist.” He stepped aside and ushered me in, glancing in the hallway before shutting the door. “You know, of course, that neither I, nor any of my staff will ever ask you to repeat your password in public.”

  “Staff? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Never mind. It’s a computer thing.” He walked briskly through a narrow hallway that was stacked with books, reams of paper, old magazines, and tons of comic books. A large-screen plasma TV sat on top of its cardboard box, a DVD player hooked up and on the floor next to it. Stacks of plastic slipcases were piled on a coffee table next to a comfortably distorted easy chair.

  “Excuse the mess,” he muttered.

  “Man, I thought I was a pack rat.”

  He turned to frown as he stopped by his desk. It looked like a smaller version of the living room, except his monitor and computer weren’t stacked on cardboard.

  “I’m a bit concerned about this invoice you wanted,” he said. “I don’t like to do anything traceable.”

  I took a deep breath. “Look, I just need it to turn in for expenses. You can put anything you want on it. You got my numbers?”

  He frowned again and bumped up his glasses on his nose. “Of course.” He dug through a stack of papers next to his printer. “I worked really hard on these, Ron.”

  “I’m sure you did.” I reached out and he gave me the pile. I shuffled through the sections of papers on top and scanned them until I found the one I knew was for Bayless’s cell phone. It had numerous calls to what I recognized as his office, an occasional one to his house, some scattered other repeated numbers, but the one that stood out the most had an 847 area code. “You run down these phone numbers like I told you?”

  The question seemed to wound him. “I told you I worked hard, didn’t I?”

  Now it was my turn to frown. “Then work a little harder and show me where they’re at, will ya?”

  He peeled back the tops of a few pages and inserted a slim index finger into the sheaf. “Right here.”

  I looked up the 847 number and saw it came back to one Candice Prokovis. Francis had been thoughtful enough to list her address as well.

  “Can you get me the records of this number, too?”

  “I can,” he said, “but I wish you would have asked me that before.”

  “How could I ask you before when I just got the number now?”

  He licked his lips and bumped up his sagging glasses again. “That cell phone number you gave me was no longer in service. Neither is this one.”

  “You already checked it?”

  He shook his head, causing his shaggy bangs to fall on top of the glasses. “I just wanted to see if it was still active. It wasn’t.”

  I glanced at my watch. No telling how long I had before someone pitched a bitch about the Beater partially blocking the alley. “Can you put a rush job on it and do it now?”

  “I suppose.” He scratched his chin. “You’re going to pay me extra, right?”

  “I’ll pay you double if you can get it for me before my car gets towed out of that no parking zone.”

  “Oh, okay.” He scurried around behind the desk and sat down. His fingers flew over the keyboard and he looked up. “What did this chick do, anyway?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  More finger flying. “There must be some reason why you’re so hot to trot in finding out about her.”

  I couldn’t believe the little bastard was trying to pump me for information. The fewer people who knew my business, the better I liked it.

  “Well,” I said, “there is.”

  “Oh yeah? What is it?”

  “You check out the last name?”

  “Prokovis? What about it?”

  “It’s a Lithuanian name.”

  “Yeah, so what? Mine is, too.”

  Griggas Lithuanian? I bought a few seconds with a nonchalant shrug before I figured out a reply. “Well, you know what they say about those Lithuanian girls . . .”

  Alex St. James

  Deciding on what to wear for my meeting with Ron Shade was easy. After having spent too many hours in disgusting duds, I was ready to sparkle. This wasn’t a date—far from it—but I needed to feel feminine again. Not to mention clean. As I walked my fingers over the tops of my “nice clothes” I decided that tonight, I’d be dressing for me.

  So it didn’t take long to choose the black sleeveless number I’d only worn twice before, to a Christmas party and a New Year’s Eve bash. Same year, different gentleman callers. Although I could hardly use the term “gentleman” to describe either. I held out the princess-cut garment and smiled. A bad-luck-date outfit if there ever was one. Which made it ideal for the business dinner tonight.

  Sleeveless meant I’d have to carry a shawl or sweater in case the restaurant’s air-conditioning was set to frigid, but the sleek lines of this dress always made the most of my rather buxom shape.

  The four-hour nap I’d gotten was plenty to make me feel refreshed, but not enough to jolt me into insomnia later. I felt good. I showered, and, not wanting to bother with hair frustration tonight, twisted my wet locks into a quick French braid.

  I called Edgewater Hospital and learned that Jesse had been released. When I called his house, his mother reamed me out in fast Spanish, and hung up on me when I tried to apologize. It wasn’t my fault, but try telling a distraught mother that.

  Shaking off the sourness from the phone call to the San Miguel residence, I got dressed, added some of my favorite jewelry to the mix, splashed on a bit of Heavenly cologne and with a few minutes to spare, I gave George a quick ring.

  “Violent crimes,” he answered.

  “I hope not,” I said. “What happened to your ever-cheerful ‘Lulinski’?”

  He chuffed. Half annoyance, half laugh. “Where were you last night? I drove by about ten-thirty and couldn’
t find you. I thought you said you’d be out there late.”

  “Yeah,” I said, drawing the word out, “that was the plan.”

  I told him all about the three big guys—their taunts, their attack, my Taser response, and Nicky’s welcome appearance just in the nick of time—and I could tell he was scribbling notes. “What time?” he asked.

  “Geez,” I said, thinking. “Had to be around nine, I guess. I’m not sure. I wasn’t wearing a watch.” Right now I was wearing one. I needed to be out the door in the next three minutes.

  “I’ll see what the report says.”

  “I don’t think there was a report.” I grabbed my shoes, slipping on the black sling-backs as I cradled the cell phone and hopped.

  “You didn’t call the police?”

  “No,” I said, feeling defensive. “What was the point?”

  His exasperation shot out in a noisy exhale. “The point, Alex, is that maybe the guys who bothered you have a sheet. Or a warrant.” The next noise I heard sounded like angry scratches—a furious pen obliterating notes. He sighed, more gently this time. A squeak—as though he leaned back in his chair. “Tell me again about your ‘rescue’?”

  When I explained about Nicky and Viktor showing up just as I nailed the guy with the Taser, he asked, “How did they know you were out there?”

  “I think Father Morales tipped them off.”

  Now he said, “Hmph,” and then, “The timing’s a little too perfect, don’t you think?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, but by the time the words left my mouth, I understood. “You think Nicky and Viktor were watching, just waiting for me to get into trouble?”

  “You said the three big guys didn’t look like your average homeless people, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And that they seemed to single you out.”

  I’d just reached for my purse. Now my stomach dropped as Lulinski’s inference became clear. “You think Nicky arranged for them to bother me?”

  “I think it’s worth considering.”

  “But . . . why would he do something like that?”

  “Good question. You said he made it clear he didn’t want you going out there.”

  “I can’t see Nicky putting me in danger.”

  “If he arranged this—then you never were in danger.”

  I thought about that. “No,” I said, gathering my purse up again. “That doesn’t seem to be in his character. He’s been trying to get a date with me, not scare me off.”

  Lulinski laughed. “And you, Alex, are much too trusting. You were the damsel in distress and he was the knight in shining armor.”

  “Shining Cadillac, you mean.”

  “You like him?”

  “Like? You mean—to date the guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Eeyoo.”

  He laughed again. “Well, there is one good thing about you not filing a police report.”

  “What’s that?”

  “At least you weren’t arrested for carrying the damn Taser.”

  Chapter 10

  Ron Shade

  When I got back to the Beater I was delighted to find that it had totally escaped the vigilance of the city’s meter maid force. I patted the dashboard and made a mental note to buy Doug a beer or something the next time we all got together. It had been less frequent now that Windy City Knights Security had gone belly-up. I kind of missed the old days of working the hotel security job whenever it suited me. I’m sure Doug did, too.

  After finding the nearest coffee shop I double-parked and bought myself a medium to-go cup. Using the steering wheel as a desk, I sorted through the calls Bayless had made in the last month before his untimely demise. Most were to Candy, whom I had pegged as the secretary, and his work number. Which meant he either spent a lot of time out of the office, or he’d called for some other reason. I looked at the last day and saw the same pattern of numbers called. The girlfriend, the office, the girlfriend again, and a couple to another number I didn’t recognize. It had a 773 area code, which meant it was in the city proper. I jotted it down on a piece of paper and checked out Candice’s cell phone records. They pretty much mirrored Bayless’s, except in reverse order. But there was one on the day of Bayless’s accident that looked familiar. It was the same one Bayless had called with the 773 preface. Deciding against coincidence, I punched in the numbers on my own cell phone. I missed the days when all you had to do was dial the old 696-9600 and the free service would give you the name and address of the listing. But that service had gone the way of so many other good things, brought down by the ubiquity of the Internet. I hit the SEND button and listened to the rings. After two, one of those computerized menu things answered and reassured me, in a very calming voice, that my needs in this time of crisis would be well attended to because I had reached the Sunset Manor Funeral Home, “Where we treat the dead with the dignity they deserve.”

  It took me about fifteen minutes to get to Edgewater and find the place. Sunset Manor was one of those big, sprawling buildings that had probably been built in the 1920s using decorative flagstones and an artful, but solemn, two-story design. There had obviously been an expansion recently, judging from the newer-looking brick section along the back of the place adjacent to the parking lot. As it was, the place took up damn near the whole block, dwarfing the grocery store across the street and the video rental shop farther down. The sign in front was big, metallic, and in need of a retouch job, if you looked close. The windows hadn’t been washed recently, either. At least the two long black Caddies that sat in the lot looked shiny and clean, though. A nice-looking red Corvette, equally immaculate, sat alongside them. I parked in the lot, which was almost empty, and wondered what kind of procession would be led by a Stingray. A fast one, no doubt.

  The front of the place had an awning spread out over a set of double doors, which were locked. Undeterred after ringing the bell several times, I tried a few substantial pounds with the meat of my hand. Just as I was about to give up, one of the front doors whipped open and I saw a paunchy-looking guy with an angry expression on his face. He had slicked-back brown hair and a long nose. His lips twitched like a frustrated rabbit’s and I caught a whiff of overapplied aftershave.

  “What the hell you want?” he growled.

  It was times like this that I wished I wore a pork-pie hat. I could have set it back on my head in an ingratiating, friendly gesture.

  But since I was hatless, I mumbled a greeting and took one of my cards out of my pocket and handed it to the man. He made no move to accept it.

  “What the hell were you pounding on the door like that for?” His voice hadn’t lost any of its irritation.

  “My apologies,” I said. “My name’s Shade. I’m working an insurance investigation and I was looking for the proprietor.”

  My explanation seemed to confuse him. The lips twitched again and his eyes narrowed. “Insurance?” He drew the pronunciation out into the three syllables. “What kind of insurance?”

  “We had a client who died back in November. He was killed in an accident and the wake was held here.”

  His head bobbled slightly and canted to the side. “Six months ago? What are you doing coming back after all this time?”

  “Just routine stuff,” I said, trying my best to look ingratiating without the hat. “Are you the owner, sir?”

  The “sir” must have got him. His head straightened up and his lips curled back into an almost cocky sort of look.

  “Yeah.”

  “And may I ask your name?”

  The eyes narrowed again. “Nick. Why?”

  “Nick?” I asked, leaving the rest of the implied sentence hanging there. He made no move to answer so I had to ask it. “What’s your last name?”

  He rolled his tongue over his teeth and squinted. “Jones,” he said. “Let me see that card again.”

  I handed him my card and he read it, lips moving over each word, and stuck it in his pocket. “Who you asking about again?”


  “Our client was named Robert Bayless.” This time his eyes stayed focused, but I saw a small twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  He shook his head. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “You had to go downstate to pick up his body. He was in a car crash. His employer picked up the transport tab. The Manus Corporation.”

  The tip of his tongue protruded ever so slightly out of the corner of his mouth and he licked his lips, making a fair pass at looking thoughtful. Like he was actually trying to recall the transport, then shook his head. “We do a lot of services here. Sorry. It doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “I can understand that. Lots of dead people, eh?”

  He shrugged again. “Everybody dies.”

  I tried a smile again, not thinking it would do much good. “I just need to verify some details. I promise it won’t take much of your time at all.”

  He took a half step back and pulled the door toward his retreating figure. “Yeah, well, look . . . I’m kinda busy right now. In fact, I was just on my way out. Business.”

  I nodded, still trying to be as ingratiating as hell. I stretched and looked toward the parking lot. “No problem. I can come back another time. Say, that your Corvette?”

  His eyes flicked toward the parking lot. “Yeah.”

  “Nice car. Always wished I could afford one.”

  I saw his gaze drift out toward the Beater. He smirked. “Looks like you need one. That piece of shit yours?”

  “My other car used to be a Firebird,” I said.

  His smirk got bigger and he stepped back again, starting to close the door. “Call me for an appointment.”