Smeraldi’s eyes narrowed. “What are you looking for?”
I lifted my shoulders. “Not sure. I’ll know it if I find it. And . . .” I thought fast. “If I find anything I want to take, I’ll pay you for it.”
He didn’t seem convinced.
“It’ll be easier than you having to take the whole bunch to the flea market.”
“And you said something about me getting on TV about all this, huh?”
I hadn’t said that, exactly. But it wasn’t impossible. “Could be.”
“With that Gabriela?”
I couldn’t lie this time. “No. This one’s my story. If you’re on at all, it’ll be with me. Sorry.”
With a grudging nod, he stood. “Eh, you’re a babe, too. Just in a different way. Come on. I have his stuff in boxes in the basement.”
Scant light filtered in from the dank basement’s tiny aboveground windows, the sunshine marred by dirt and criss-crossing spider webs. There were four coin-operated washing machines and dryers at the room’s far end and a series of padlocked wooden stalls at the other, each numbered to correspond to an apartment. The area was surprisingly free of clutter, except for some dilapidated furniture that took up most of one corner. Piled there so as to take up minimal floor space, the stuff was pressboard-cheap and covered with gray dust.
“I keep Rybak’s stuff in my locker,” Smeraldi said as he moved to one of the big doors and pulled out his keys. “Had to empty the one for Rybak’s apartment so the new people could load their stuff.”
The door swung open, scraping against the concrete floor. Smeraldi walked in and tugged at a pull-chain light bulb. Not nearly enough illumination to see into the stall’s far corners. But it’d have to do.
“Is all of this his?”
He started to pull boxes from the right side. “Nope. My brother and I keep stuff down here we don’t want the wives to see.” I expected some self-conscious gesture, but he offered none. “Nothing terrible. Just some girlie magazines. I got a bunch of Playboys down here that’re collectors’ items. Worth big bucks.”
“Isn’t it a little damp down here for paper?”
“Yeah, I know. But I got them protected. I check ’em every so often. Here . . .” He tugged at a capped brown box with built-in handles. “Here’s one of Rybak’s boxes. He’s got maybe two . . . three more. His furniture’s the stuff we passed in the other part of the basement. Too big to fit in here and too junky to worry about anybody stealing it. But if you see something you like . . .”
I doubted I would.
Taking the box from Smeraldi, I lifted the lid and rearranged myself so I wasn’t blocking the solitary light bulb’s glow. While I scavenged, he pulled out another box and several plastic garbage bags.
“You want a chair to sit while you go through this stuff?”
Chalk one up for the gallant Joe Smeraldi.
“Thanks,” I said.
He pulled up two and sat next to me. Whether to help me search, or to ensure I didn’t steal anything, I didn’t know and didn’t care.
A half hour later, I wiped sweaty dust off my forehead. As I’d expected of a formerly homeless guy, Howard Rybak hadn’t accumulated much clothing. Blue jeans and work shirts mostly. But then I found an open three-pack of men’s briefs. Polo by Ralph Lauren. One pair missing. I held the package up. “He wore designer underwear?”
Smeraldi held up both hands. “Don’t ask me.”
Further digging unearthed an opened pack of matching designer undershirts. One missing. “You’d think he’d spend his money on the basics before he’d start buying designer stuff,” I said, half to myself.
Smeraldi took the packages. “These’d be too small on me.” He patted his beer belly again and it dawned on me that he was proud of it. “I wear forty-eights. You want ’em? Maybe your boyfriend fits in a thirty-six.”
Thinking about my feature story, I said, “Yeah, I’ll take them.” Who would’ve expected a homeless fellow to shop for high-end stuff? Designer underwear that, presumably, few would ever see. It was odd and quirky, but it was just the sort of detail that viewers might like. “How much do you want for them?”
He made a so-so shake of his head and suggested we keep looking and hammer out a final agreement once I picked through the whole stash.
An hour later I decided I’d gotten all I could from this venture. There wasn’t a lot of personality here, and no indication of where Howard Rybak may have run to. Why would a man who had been homeless for years, who’d been given a chance at a more normal lifestyle, give it all up? It didn’t make sense. Nor did the fact that when he took off, he left his belongings. Then again, maybe he took as much as he could carry.
But I didn’t think so. He’d left his toiletries: his shaver, toothbrush, comb, nail clippers. The argument could be made that if he was returning to the street, he wouldn’t need all that, but he’d left a five-dollar bill in one jeans’ pocket, a couple of singles in another pocket, and the pocket of a spring jacket had a ten. Would he really leave the money here?
Joe Smeraldi’s eyes lit up when we uncovered the cash. I had no doubt that the moment I left, he’d be back down here, scrounging it and calling it fair play.
There was one item in one of the jeans’ pockets that I decided was worth keeping. It was a dental appointment card, reminding Rybak that he had a six-month cleaning scheduled for this month. Dr. Keith Colon. This meant that Dr. Colon had seen Rybak in December. Just about the time he disappeared. Maybe he could offer a clue.
I knew my feature story was supposed to be about the homeless. I knew that I’d strong-armed Bass into letting me focus on Rybak’s “success.” Right about now, however, this investigation had morphed from a second-string feature into a much bigger story. What I had here was a solid missing-persons case.
Chapter 16
Alex St. James
Monday morning, I pulled into the small asphalt parking lot that served a strip mall in Rogers Park. Dr. Keith Colon’s business took up one of the smaller storefronts of the shopping area, its generic “Dental Practice” sign in unlit red neon above the door. Just after nine in the morning, the place should’ve been open.
I tugged at the glass door, but it didn’t budge. Cupping my hands over my eyes, I peered in and caught sight of a young woman walking around in the back of the office, behind a reception window. I knocked.
She glanced up, startled, then took a look at her watch and frowned. Coming to the door, she turned the deadbolt with a loud metallic click and held the door open for me. “Sorry,” she said. “I forgot to open up. Do you have an appointment?”
“Actually, I’m just here to talk with Dr. Colon. Is he in?”
Looking perplexed, she shook her head. “His first appointment’s at nine-thirty, but he usually comes in a little early. What’s this about?” The way she sized me up, I bet she thought I was here to apply for her job.
“You know,” I said, affecting my new lie-all-the-time persona, “a friend of mine has his dental work done here. But before I switch over, I thought I’d stop by and talk with the doctor . . .”
I let the thought hang there, hoping she’d pick up. She didn’t. But at least the suspicious glares were gone.
“You say he’ll be in soon?” I asked.
“Who’s the friend who recommended us?” she asked.
This girl was sharper than I gave her credit for.
We were still standing in the doorway, and I gave a sideways look into the waiting room. “Can I come in?”
“Sure,” she said, stepping out of my path.
Once inside, I meandered toward the near corner. Taking a seat here would put me in position to see into the back office. When Dr. Colon arrived, I’d know it. “Nice magazine selection,” I said. I picked up a copy of Entertainment Weekly, sat and opened it as though ready to read.
The girl bit her lip, but smiled. “I have some filing to catch up on, so I’ll leave you here.”
“Thanks.”
She started away, t
hen stopped. Definitely something on her mind. “While I’m filing, maybe I should pull your friend’s chart for Dr. Colon to refer to before you talk with him.” Her forced smile left me no option.
“Sure,” I said, wondering why this was such a big deal. “His name is Howard Rybak.”
“Oh.” She smiled.
“Do you know him?”
“No. Well, I’m sure I met him when he’s been in. I just don’t remember him.”
“What’s your name?”
“Mine?” Suddenly happy as a clam to talk with me, she produced a genuine smile. “Janet.”
Acting on a hunch, I decided to push my luck just a bit. I affected a conspiratorial tone. “You expected me to say something else, didn’t you?”
She laughed like we were girlfriends now. “No, it’s just weird, is all. The other day some guy came in here asking about somebody, too. I thought maybe you were here for the same guy.”
“Guess not,” I said.
“I hope Dr. Colon doesn’t get all shook up about it like he did with the other guy.”
“Shook up?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I guess it’s hard though, you know, to know what to say and what not to say when there’s all these privacy laws.”
“Yeah,” I said. When Janet moved toward the files I hit her with another question. “Does Dr. Colon do a lot of work for the homeless?”
“Oh!” she said, her eyes wide. “Okay, I remember Howard Rybak now. He’s a friend of yours?”
“Sort of,” I lied. “I work for a television program and we’re doing a story on his success getting off the street and into mainstream America.”
“Wow,” she said. “Cool.”
“I understand he’s been here for his dental work. I assume that means Dr. Colon takes care of other indigent people.”
She shrugged. “Some. He doesn’t really like to, but it’s good for business. Goodwill and all that.” Wrinkling her nose, she said, “But some of the homeless really stink. Usually they try to clean them up a bit before they bring them here.”
“They?” I asked. “Who’s they?”
She canted her head. “I don’t know exactly who they are. Helpers, I guess. Maybe workers from a soup kitchen.”
I thought about Nicky’s friend Viktor. He didn’t strike me as the type to volunteer helping with the homeless out of the goodness of his heart. “Was one of them a big guy?” I asked, describing Viktor as I remembered him, “With a Russian accent?”
“I think so. Could be.”
“Does Nick Farnsworth come here, too?”
“Oh sure, all the time. He’s one of our patients.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Shoot,” she said between her fingers. “That’s probably against the law to tell you.”
I waved away her worry. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Thanks.”
The waiting room wasn’t exactly bustling with people, so I decided to find out how many indigent people Dr. Colon treated in a given month, when a back door slammed.
“Janet?”
His voice boomed, and before Janet could answer him, the dentist himself appeared from around a back corner. He was about my age, but looked like someone caught in the disco age, with an allover tan and shiny blow-dried hair. His quick assessing glance convinced me that if we’d been standing under a revolving mirrored ball and flashing colored lights, this guy would’ve asked me to do the hustle.
“Oh, hello,” he said, masquerading his surprise. Shooting a furious glance at Janet, he smiled in my direction and tried for smooth. “I didn’t realize I had a new patient. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“No problem. I’m not here for an appointment,” I said. “I just stopped by to ask you about one of your clients.”
His face went from placid to stricken.
“Not Bob Bayless,” Janet said quietly. “She’s here about someone else.”
Bob Bayless. So that was the name that had “shaken up” Dr. Colon. I wondered if this Mr. Bayless filed a malpractice suit.
“You want to talk with me about a patient?” Dr. Colon asked. “Why? Who are you?”
Janet ran her hand down Dr. Colon’s upper arm. “It’s okay. She’s from a TV show. Her name is . . .”
At that moment, I realized I hadn’t introduced myself. “Alex St. James,” I said, moving forward, hand extended.
Dr. Colon seemed unwilling to touch me, but he relented. “Who are you here to ask me about?”
“I’m doing a story on the homeless,” I started to say.
Dr. Colon’s tanned face blanched.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“No, why? What do you mean you’re doing a story on the homeless? Why are you talking with me then? I’m not homeless. Do I look homeless?”
Janet seemed as taken aback as I was.
I switched to my soothing voice and worked up a smile. “No, of course not. I just know that you help so many homeless people by offering them free dental care.”
“Who told you that?”
This man was as jumpy as a patient anticipating a root canal.
“You do help the indigent, don’t you?” I asked. “For the good of the community?”
He nodded.
Janet piped in to help. “She’s doing a story on one of the people we treated here.” Turning to me, she continued, “Didn’t you say he made a new life for himself? That he got a job and everything?” Addressing Dr. Colon again, she said, “I think that if Ms. St. James does a story on how you help others, it could be really good for business.”
“What’s wrong with business? We have plenty of patients.”
“Keith,” Janet said very quietly.
He snapped out of whatever paranoid fever he was in and said, “I’m sorry, Ms. St. James, but I just don’t have time to spend discussing my patients. They have rights, you know. Privacy rights. Even my indigent patients.”
I knew I wasn’t getting anywhere with this guy so I shot him my best conciliatory smile, and shrugged dramatically. “Sorry to bother you.”
He nodded and followed me to the door.
Just as I grabbed the handle, in a Columbo-type move, I turned around. “Here,” I said, digging out a business card from my purse, “just in case.”
He took it. “Just in case of what?”
“Well, maybe you can tell your Russian friend that I’d like to talk with him,” I said, then remembered the appointment card I’d found among Rybak’s possessions. My elusive quarry was scheduled for a cleaning in a couple of weeks. “And I have a feeling you’ll be seeing Howard Rybak before I will,” I said.
Dr. Keith Colon backed up. His voice was just above a whisper. “Get out of here.”
Ron Shade
I turned into the restaurant parking lot on 79th Street and looked for the little white Ford Escort that Alex St. James had been driving when I’d first bumped into her in that gas station a few months back. When I had finally gotten ahold of her on her cell phone, she’d seemed as anxious to meet with me as I was with her. Maybe that old Shade charm was taking hold . . . Sort of a delayed reaction on her part. It wouldn’t be the first time some pretty girl had done a flip-flop. But my hopes of this dissolved as I caught sight of her tiny little wave to me as she paced behind her car, talking on her cell. She looked about as excited as the morgue attendant when he sees the funeral hearse coming.
I pulled the Beater up next to her and caught a glimpse of her stare. I’d forgotten that she hadn’t seen my working ride before. Of course, since I’d gotten rid of the Firebird by selling it to her boss, it was also my only ride until my next big paycheck arrived.
“Hi,” I said, getting out of the car.
Still on the phone, she nodded fractionally and continued to talk to someone. I gathered it was her boss.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, Bass,” she said. “I’m meeting with Mr. Shade now. He just pulled up, in fact.”
Back to “Mr. Shade” again, I thought. Nothing personal, just
business. But that was okay. I needed her to use her reporter databases to do some behind-the-scenes corporate digging, since Big Rich was down for the count. Maybe if she needed something as well, one hand could sort of wash the other.
Now wasn’t that a pleasant thought . . .
She hung up and placed the phone in the back pocket of her pants. She was wearing jeans, and although she filled them out quite nicely, I was a little surprised she’d dressed so casually. She must have read my face and said, “Doing some field work today.”
I grunted an approval. “Hungry?”
She shrugged. “I could go for a salad, maybe. Coffee for sure.”
She almost smiled, and I silently admired the contour of her cheeks. I even dug the spray of freckles.
A hostess took one look at us as we walked in and gave us a booth near a row of windows. When the waitress came by we both ordered coffee. I offered to spring for the salad she mentioned, but she shook her head.
“Let’s wait on that,” she said. She took hers with just a small shot of cream. I kept mine black. “You said you had something on your mind, Mr. Shade?”
“You can call me Ron.”
She smiled and sipped her coffee. Judging from her expression, if I was waiting for her to mention my name, my coffee was gonna get mighty cold.
“Well,” I said, “I did have something to ask you. Why did you ask me if I knew a guy named Nick Farnsworth the other night?”
The question seemed to catch her interest, and she considered it for a moment. “I was having a conversation with him. When I mentioned your name he had this . . .” She paused to consider her response, then shrugged. “Reaction. Like he knew you, or something. Why?”
I ignored her inquiry for the moment. “And your relationship to him is . . . ?”
She smiled. “None of your business.”
I smiled back. This was a girl after my own heart. Never tell anybody anything, if you don’t have to. “Look, I’ll level with you, okay? I just need to know if you’re going out with him, or something.”
She rolled her eyes. “No, no, no, not ever. His father’s an old family friend, and he tried to fix us up.”
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