Dead Ringer

by Michael A. Black

  “Listen, we gave you this chance to be on-screen. You don’t want it, fine. We’ll send you back to your desk to do research with your tail between your legs.”

  I laughed. Really laughed. “This is my desk, Bass. I haven’t moved an inch. I still do my own research. You’re getting a two-fer here. And you know it. You want to ‘send me back’ to my old position? Fine.” I sat. “Here I am. Now find somebody else to go play campout for your award-winning story.”

  He sat in the chair opposite me. We stared at one other. I couldn’t figure out why Bass hadn’t stormed out of my office. Until he said, “So, what’s the rest of the story on my car?”

  The car. Of course.

  “First—”

  “No,” he said. “I watched the clip. Now you give me the information.”

  I shook my head. “The reason you watched the clip was because I want to change the focus of the feature.”

  He wisely kept quiet.

  “I told you there’s no story here,” I said. “But I can make this one work. If you give me a little leeway.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “I’ll go back out there,” I said, then amended, “Just once. I want to follow up on the homeless guy who made it. Howard Rybak. He’s the one that got out of the gutter and broke into the middle class. The success story.”

  Bass looked skeptical. But not as skeptical as usual.

  I hurried to continue. “It could work. And if he talks to me, maybe he’ll get some of his cohorts to open up, too.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “What do you want, an answer on an engraved platter?” He settled himself in the chair. “Now, your turn. And this better be worth it.”

  I thought he’d go crazy when he heard about the car’s history: the drug money; the original owner’s demise; the manner in which Shade had earned the car as payment. But all he said was, “The trunk was punched?”

  When I answered in the affirmative, he stood. “Damn it.”

  “What’s wrong? It’s been fixed, or you would’ve noticed it by now.”

  “I wanted a pristine car.”

  “It’s used, what did you expect?”

  “Not one with a punched trunk.”

  “Yesterday you were worried that it was a flood car. It’s not.”

  He headed for the door, muttering.

  I was about to call after him, to argue that he should be happy that the news wasn’t worse, but I stopped myself before inserting the foot in my mouth. I’d gotten what I wanted. The feature focus was right where I wanted. It was time to call Nicky and find out how to reach the elusive Mr. Rybak.

  Chapter 12

  Ron Shade

  It was getting way past lunchtime, and I was feeling it. I turned into the first decent restaurant I saw and went in. The place was bright and cheery, with pseudo chandeliers and big windows that let the sunshine in. I settled in a booth and ordered an iced tea and a chicken delight, substituting cottage cheese for the fries. After the waitress brought the tea and left, I mulled over where to go next. Obviously, both Manus and Dr. Colon had been stonewalling, but was it because they had something to hide, or because they suspected I was working to take their big payoffs back? That argument might have worked for Manus, but not the good doctor. He hadn’t received any hefty insurance payoff. Or had he? Substitution of dental records to ID a badly burned corpse would have to carry a heavy price tag. Plus, whose records were they? The man in the car, I told myself. If I could find out who he actually was, I might be on my way to cracking this thing wide open.

  I sipped the iced tea and thought. I needed leverage to get inside their defenses. In the ring, Chappie would tell me to either bore in on a reticent fighter or make him come to me. One thing was certain. I had a lot more of the pieces for this jigsaw, but was still missing the overall picture. Once I could determine who all was involved, I’d pick them off, one by one, starting with the weakest link first. My gut told me that might just be Colon. He had the look of someone who’s overextended and in up to his neck. If I could figure out who that damn body actually was, I’d have enough to persuade him to sing to the state’s attorney. Then the house would start to collapse. I needed to check him out on the sly. Get the financial scoop. And nobody had better access to the kind of databases that contained all that than my buddy, Big Rich.

  Rich Stafford was a reporter for the third largest newspaper in the city, The Chicago Metro. He and I had been fast friends for a number of years, and I had steered more than one juicy story his way. He returned the favor by using his newspaper sources to look into things from a whole different angle. Usually, he got back to me real quick, too. I took out my cell and called his office number. It rang several times and I checked my watch. It was Friday, and he should have been there getting the weekend edition ready for the printers. Instead, I got his voice message system. I left a quick one, telling him to call me and left my cell number, even though I knew he already had it.

  Just as I was slapping the phone shut the waitress brought my food and I tore into it, finishing the whole thing, except for some slices of cantaloupe, which I despise. I tried Big Rich again, hoping that he’d just been on a trip to the men’s room before, but got the same voice mail message. This time I didn’t leave any message. I thought for a minute and debated whether or not to call George.

  Whenever I needed a favor done on the side, George was there for me as well, but lately he’d been complaining more. He mentioned that they’d started checking on “unauthorized use of certain departmental equipment.” As one of the premier detectives they had, I knew he would be beyond any watchdog’s eyes, but he had also been studying hard for the sergeant’s test. He’d taken and passed it several times, but promotions came in waves, and the political process tended to rear its ugly head from time to time. I knew he’d pass it again, and maybe this time the promotion would come through for him. I hoped so. He deserved it. Still, I didn’t want to give his boss, and my nemesis, Lieutenant Bielmaster, any reason whatsoever to go after George. In the end, though, I knew I needed his help. I dialed his cell number, vowing to keep my request small and insignificant.

  He answered on the second ring with a cheery, “Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon? What the hell kind of way is that to answer the phone?”

  “You know,” I heard him sigh, “I’m in such a great fucking mood today, that even a smart-ass comment from my favorite boy wonder ain’t gonna shake me. Now what can I do for you?”

  It was uncharacteristic of him to be so forthright. And sound so happy. “Everything okay?”

  “Sure. Couldn’t be better, buddy.”

  Buddy? Now I had the feeling that something was really amiss. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Ron, buddy, friend, world champ, what do you need?” A bit of heavy dramatic inflection set off the last part. “Just tell me. Because whatever it is, I’m here for you.”

  Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I answered. “I was working a case and wondered if you had time to run a couple plates.”

  “Sure. What are they?”

  Something was definitely off kilter. He never ran plates for me without a lecture on how much I owed him, how much I was going to owe him, and how he could get in real trouble if Bielmaster ever caught him doing unauthorized favors for me. I read off the two plates from in back of Colon’s place. I still had the ones from Manus, but planned to save those for next time.

  “Got ’em,” he said. “Any more you want me to check on for you, my liege? How about CQHs on them?”

  This stunned me. It was as if he was doing a parody of Jeeves the butler, or something. I’d had about enough. “You gonna tell me what the fuck’s going on with you, or what?”

  His deep laugh came over the phone like the ticking of a bass clock. “Well, I guess since you are responsible for my good fortune,” he said, “it is only right that I share the news with you.” He paused, and I heard him yell to somebody else. �
�Hey, Pers, it’s Ron-boy on the phone.”

  “Tell him thanks from me,” I heard a distant Doug Percy yell back.

  “You hear that?” he asked. “Pers says thanks, too.”

  “I heard it, now tell me what he’s thanking me for.”

  More deep laughter. “Everybody in the squad’s on cloud nine. In fact, we’re all thinking of knocking off a little early and going out drinking in your honor.”

  “Well, if somebody’s wife had a kid, just remember, I ain’t responsible.”

  “Nah, nothing like that. We just got word today that old Bielmaster’s pulling the pin. He’s been off for the last two months recovering from that bypass, and that mini heart attack you put him through, and we were expecting him to return next week.” He laughed again. “Then they made the announcement at roll call today and passed the envelope. He’s putting in for retirement.”

  “Wow. I sort of never expected him to leave. Figured they’d carry him out on a stretcher someday.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.” The glee in his voice was unmistakable. “Everybody in the division’s happier than a pig in shit, and we owe it all to you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Well, you blew the lid off the crock of shit he’d been sitting on regarding his innocent little daughter. I think he was so embarrassed the way that one turned out, that he ain’t got the guts to face anybody around here no more.”

  I’d found Bielmaster’s supposedly abducted daughter and brought her back, safe and sound. He’d fired me, but not before it was revealed that she’d been a willing participant in the scheme. It also called into question some criminal sexual assault charges that Bielmaster had trumped up against her boyfriend years before. I’d handled it as best I could, trying to make sure that no one got hurt. Bielmaster had seen it differently, and refused to pay my fee.

  “And then when your collection agency put a garner on his paycheck and word got out about that,” George continued, “it’s been like laugh central around here. He’s lost face. Totally.”

  It was also something that I’d never intended. “How’s his heart condition?”

  “Who cares? Word is that he’s up for having another stent put in, or something. All that matters is, he’s outta our hair. Right, Pers?”

  “Thanks again, Ron!” I heard Pers shout.

  “Look, I’ll run these and see what I can find out. Do the criminal histories, too. Is tomorrow soon enough to get back to you?”

  “Yeah.” I was still stunned. “Fine.”

  “I mean, for you, I’ll try to have them tonight, if you want to stop by the bar.”

  Bars were places I took particular pains to stay away from. “Can’t. Got a date at the gym tonight.”

  “This is going to be a night of major celebration. I can tell. And if I’m able to still drive, I just might come banging on your door at three in the morning with the info.”

  “Don’t wake the neighbors,” I said. “Just leave it in the mailbox instead.”

  We chatted for a few more minutes as I left a tip, got up, and paid my bill. I still had that dumbfounded feeling. An institution was toppling. Not that I’d be sorry to see Bielmaster go, but he’d been such a regular fixture when I went to see George, that it felt somehow unnerving.

  I guess I should be rejoicing, I thought. Like the building falling on the wicked witch, or something.

  Since I was still on the North Side, and had the beginnings of the afternoon rush about forty minutes away, I decided to take a detour downtown and stop by to see Big Rich in person. If I could get him working on Dr. Colon and Manus, and maybe ask George to run a couple more plates from there, while we were still in the honeymoon period, I could hit the ground running after the weekend. It would also give me time to work that bodyguard thing for Alex St. James. I started saying “Mo’ money, mo’ money, mo’ money” like they did on the old In Living Color TV show when the homeboys ripped off the ATM machine. Plus, Bielmaster would have to pay off the lien the collection agency put on him before he could start getting his retirement checks. Maybe there was some justice, after all.

  After finding a parking lot close to the Metro’s building, which was no easy trick downtown just north of the river, I walked at a nice clip up to the front doors. They’d instituted a restricted entry system, and I gave my card to the security guard at the front desk.

  “Ron Shade to see Rich Stafford, please,” I said, smiling.

  The guard nodded and picked up his phone. He dialed a number and I could tell he’d gotten the same voice mail message that I’d gotten earlier.

  “Looks like he ain’t in,” he said.

  “He’s gotta be. I just talked to him last week. He was working on a story and he never leaves the building. He’s like Nero Wolfe.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. Is there anybody else up there I could talk to, to leave a handwritten note for him. It’s real important.”

  He glanced down at my card again, pursed his lips, and made another call. After speaking into the receiver to at least three different people, he finally had a semi-long conversation with someone. Holding the phone out toward me, he said, “This is Mr. Foley, his editor.”

  I took the phone and greeted Mr. Foley as warmly as I could, ending with, “Big Rich around up there?”

  “Actually,” I heard the voice say, “uh, what did you say your name was again?”

  I told him. “The big guy and I go way back.”

  “Yeah, he did mention you. You’re the boxer, right? Just won a championship?”

  “That’s me.” I didn’t want to break rhythm and tell him I was a kickboxer.

  “Okay, well, I guess it’s all right to tell you then. Rich is in the hospital. Had open-heart surgery Tuesday.”

  The news hit me like a body shot. “What? Is he okay?”

  “He actually died on the operating table three times,” Foley said. “They managed to bring him back, but his blood was so thin from all the damn aspirins he’s been taking, that they had a helluva time getting the bleeding stopped.”

  This was sounding bad. Very bad. “How’s he doing now?”

  “He’s in cardiac recovery at St. Francis. Should be there another week or so. I have a number if you’d like to call him.”

  “Please,” I said.

  As soon as I walked outside I went to the Michigan Avenue Bridge. Cell phone reception was generally sporadic in the Loop, but you could usually get a signal by the river. The call went through and I asked for his room. It rang about five or six times before he answered, sounding weaker than I’d ever heard him.

  “Hey, you son-of-a-gun, how are you?” he said. It seemed to take all his breath just to get the sentence out.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “How about you?”

  “Could be better.”

  “I’ll bet.” We chatted for a minute or so, and I could tell the conversation was weakening him more. “You up for visitors yet?”

  “Sure,” he said. “But maybe tomorrow, okay?”

  “Sure thing, buddy.” I told him I’d be by at eleven.

  Alex St. James

  “Nicky,” I said, working a smile into my voice as he answered, “It’s Alex. I just wanted to call and thank you again for your help the other night.”

  “Oh,” he said with an aw-shucks so deep that even the telephone line couldn’t disguise his pride, “I’m just glad that we happened to be there when we were.”

  I’ll bet.

  I said, “But I have to admit, I’m disappointed that I didn’t get more accomplished. One of the main reasons I went out was to talk with the homeless and get their take on Howard Rybak.”

  “Rybak? Why?”

  “He’s the success story,” I said as if that explained everything. “He’d make a great feature for the program, and if I’m able to interview him—get his insights into how life on the street affected him—I might be able to give up my homeless disguise.”

  “You aren’t going back out there?”
r />   “I wish I could say I wasn’t.” I said to gauge his reaction.

  “Alex, come on, you had a close call yesterday. Too close. If I hadn’t been there . . .”

  “You and your friend, Viktor,” I added.

  “Yeah. If we hadn’t shown up when we did, you could’ve been in real trouble.”

  “I was pretty lucky.”

  “You were,” he said. “Very lucky. I wouldn’t attempt it again if I were you. It’s too dangerous for a woman to be out there alone.” His voice rose. “You understand?”

  “You’ve got a point,” I said as I doodled the words “set up” on my blotter. “The problem is, Father Morales lost contact with Rybak. And you did, too, right?” I didn’t wait for him to answer. “So I have to rely on his former colleagues to get my story.”

  “No,” he said sharply. “Listen, you can’t keep going out there.”

  “Believe me, I don’t want to.”

  I waited for him to offer to double-check Rybak’s contact information, to say he’d try to hunt him down, to promise me he’d look into it, but what he said was, “You know I can’t be out there every night to watch over you.”

  I pulled the receiver away from my ear and frowned at it. Jordan appeared at my door just then and shot me a quizzical look. I motioned her to sit while I returned to the conversation.

  “And I couldn’t ask you to put yourself out that way,” I said, in my best grateful-damsel voice. “In fact, you’re right about how lucky I was . . . I have to tell you, it scares me to think what could have happened if you were just a few minutes later.”