Dead Ringer

by Michael A. Black

Lucy ran for my parents.

  The Farnsworths trundled down the stairs again and this time Nicky worked up tears, telling how I went wild and hurt him, giving his parents the wide-eyed innocent look and explanation that shouldn’t have fooled them, but did.

  My dad came over and I told him what really happened.

  Larry Farnsworth glared at me with a look intended to induce shame for ratting on his son. Mrs. Farnsworth started to move toward us, but her husband said, “It’s time we went home.”

  They left. And our families never got together again. I think my mom and Mrs. Farnsworth might’ve kept in touch. But when she died, our families lost touch completely.

  Until I called Larry Farnsworth about my adoption.

  And it seemed that Nicky hadn’t changed, after all.

  Chapter 17

  Ron Shade

  I’d used my last bit of the goodwill from the Bielmaster situation by calling George on my cell as soon as I was out the door from my lunch date with Alex. Luckily, the streak still had a little more play in it.

  “A fucking homeless guy?” he said. I could hear the irritation beginning to creep into his voice more and more. Pretty soon we’d be back to normal.

  “I know it’s a big favor, buddy,” I said.

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “But I’m on the way over to Bridgeport Sam’s to get that thick steak sandwich on the griddle for you.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “As we speak,” I lied. “In fact, I’m risking a ticket from one of Chicago’s finest because I didn’t even take the time to put my earpiece in my cell phone before I called.”

  I heard him sigh, then punctuate it with a laugh. “Make sure you order fries for me, too. I’ll see you over there.” He hung up.

  In reality, I knew the computer check on Rybak wouldn’t take more than a few minutes, but I was hoping it would turn up something. The prospect of searching through a bunch of shelters and other Grisham Avenue viaducts had me holding my nose already. I cut back east on 79th Street until I got to Halsted, then headed north to Bridgeport. It had been Mayor Daley’s neighborhood, and that of his father, the first Mayor Daley. Richard J. and Richard M. Both had done a lot for the city, and both were pure Chicago. My father, who had been a dental technician, had worked on the original Mayor’s bridgework and knew him personally. I’d never met either one.

  When I got to Sam’s place, one of the original greasy spoons for the working-class area, I saw George’s unmarked squad-car already sitting in the parking lot. I parked the Beater next to it and went in. Sam’s hostess, a tough-looking gal named Wendi, nodded to me. “He’s over in a booth.”

  I went down the narrow aisle toward the back. George was already working on a long steak sandwich and a heap of fried potatoes. I sat across from him and nodded.

  “Took you long enough,” he said.

  “I was meeting somebody over by Ford City.”

  He shrugged and shoved some fries into his mouth. “I figured you weren’t that interested.”

  I grinned. “You would be so wrong.”

  “Norris and Cate called me. No word yet on your armed robbery case. They’re still checking all the hospitals.”

  “Maybe he’s treating it himself.”

  He shook his head as he chewed. “Not with the amount of blood he left in the car. That puppy’s gonna need a doctor, for sure. Or else he’s dead, in which case, we’ll eventually find the dumped body.”

  “Unless he’s cooling his heels in good old Sunset Manor Funeral Home,” I said. “They looking into that?”

  “That Farnsworth asshole’s booked up. Funeral home’s closed and he ain’t been home.” He shrugged. “We’ll find him. We put the word out in the district.”

  “Be nice to check that place out.”

  “No PC for a warrant.”

  “Well, I got something on those Russkies that work for Farnsworth,” I said. “One of them is a big guy named Viktor.”

  “Last name?”

  “Something Russian-sounding.”

  “Well, shit.” He smirked. “That narrows it down.”

  “You get that other stuff I asked you for?”

  He grinned and took an enormous bite of the sandwich. His mouth full, he set the sandwich on his plate, held up a finger, wiped his hand on a paper napkin, and picked up a nine-by-twelve envelope.

  “It’s all in here,” he managed to say after shifting a load of food to one cheek.

  The waitress came by with a menu for me, but I told her, “Just coffee.”

  “He’s gotta pay for all this,” George added, holding his hand above his plate. “And I ain’t even thought about what I want for dessert yet.”

  “If there is a dessert,” I said, grinning. “I’ll base that decision on the quality of the information herein.”

  “Then tell the chef to start preparing cherries jubilee,” he said.

  The girl smiled, but the look in her eyes told me she thought we were nuts. When she left to get my coffee, I undid the prongs of the metal clasp and opened the flap. Inside were several sheets of paper. The first two were full-page color reproductions of Robert Bayless’s and Candice Prokovis’s Illinois driver’s license photos. The third one was a printout of Candice’s driver’s license listing from the Secretary of State. The address matched the one I’d had in my notebook, but it was the last line that was the most important. It read, Surrendered to foreign state—NV, and listed an address in Henderson.

  “This is fantastic,” I said. The waitress set a mug down in front of me and filled it with hot coffee. I waved off cream and sugar but told her, “Tell the chef that’s got to be nonalcoholic brandy on that dessert.”

  She gave me a questioning look, then glanced at George, who laughed.

  As she walked away, he said, “What the fuck are you talking about now? Nonalcoholic brandy?”

  “You’re on duty, right?”

  He nodded. “Technically, yeah.”

  “Well, cherries jubilee is a flaming dessert. They light the brandy after they pour it over the ice cream.”

  “It is? That’s news to me. Maybe I’ll just have a milk shake instead.”

  “Had your cholesterol checked lately?”

  “Nah,” he said, stuffing his mouth with fries before picking up the sandwich again. “Been too busy doing favors for a friend.”

  I smiled as I watched him eat. When he had done a little more chewing, I ran my fingers over the papers still inside the envelope and asked, “She live there alone?”

  “With her significant other, I assume.” George smirked. “Unless it’s her brother and they changed their name.” He pointed to the envelope and I withdrew another sheet and started to read it. “His name is Robert Barstow. Looks to be about fifteen years older than her. No Illinois record for him.”

  I was getting a lot for that steak sandwich. This would probably be all I needed to run down the elusive quarry. Bob Bayless, won’t you please come home, I hummed silently to myself.

  George must have sensed my feeling of triumphant satisfaction because he said, “Ain’t you gonna look at what else is in there?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Rybak?”

  He licked his lips and nodded.

  I sorted through the next few sheets and skimmed them.

  “He’s dead?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Found him yesterday in a dumpster behind a 7-Eleven on Grisham. At least what was left of him.”

  “No IDs?”

  “Plenty of IDs,” he said. “In a jacket just laying there next to the dumpster. The body inside had been burned beyond recognition.”

  “Set on fire?”

  “Yep. They conjectured that he was trying to ignite some debris, maybe to cook something, or maybe just to stay warm. Got some lighter fluid on his pants. Went up like a Roman candle.”

  “They confirmed the ID?”

  He nodded. “Dental records.”

  This was beginning to sound like déjà vu all ove
r again. “Who was the dentist?”

  He reached over and plucked the paper from my hands. Now I was going to have to worry about being able to read it around the grease stains. His big finger moved down the report. “A Doctor Colon.” He read off the familiar address.

  “They do an autopsy?”

  “Sure, this morning. Had to. No way it was a natural death.”

  “And lemme guess. I’ll bet they found he was alive when he started on fire, right?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Very good. You must be what they call, physic.”

  “That’s psychic,” I said, “and am I right?”

  He looked at me for a moment, then grinned. “Sure are. How’d you know?”

  “I’m physic, remember?” I said. “Anybody claimed the body yet?”

  “Probably not.” He looked on the report and shook his head. “Nah, says here they turned it over to someplace that buries a lot of the homeless. County contract, or something.”

  “What do you want to bet it was Sunset Manor?”

  That got his attention. “Sunset Manor?”

  “Can you check?”

  His nostrils flared and I knew he was following me. He took out his cell phone, punched in a number with rote quickness, and waited. When someone answered, he read off the ME number and asked what funeral home had picked up the body. From his expression, I knew it was good old Sunset Manor.

  I was right. It was just like déjà vu, all over again.

  Alex St. James

  Bass had come up with a couple of interesting pieces of information on Manus, information that I couldn’t wait to share with Shade. I called him and arranged to meet him at Home Run Inn Pizza on Archer, after work. I doubted he’d have found Howard Rybak this soon, but I thought I had enough on Manus to warrant a meeting of the minds.

  Because I was early, I kept an eye on the front of the restaurant, but he showed up only about five minutes after I’d settled into one of the tall wooden booths. He was wearing the same outfit from this morning, jeans, a black T-shirt and a beige camouflage flak jacket that I knew covered his gun. “Hi,” I said, waving.

  His chin lifted in acknowledgment, and he made his way toward me.

  He stopped and glanced at the booth’s open seat. “Do you mind if we switch sides?”

  “How come?” I asked, but I already knew the answer.

  “I don’t like sitting with my back to the door.”

  “Figured as much,” I said, gathering my purse. I didn’t like sitting with my back to the door, either, but this seemed more important to him than it was to me. At least at this juncture. “Sure.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What do you like on your pizza? Or would you prefer to do the buffet?”

  His face lit up. “They’ve got a buffet?”

  “I guess that’s settled.”

  The waitress came up just then. We both ordered iced tea and she invited us to help ourselves at the buffet whenever we felt like it. Shade got up immediately. I followed.

  When we were both settled again, I pulled out my notes on Manus. “You aren’t going to believe this,” I said, then stopped. This wasn’t good dinner conversation.

  He’d taken a big mouthful of mostaccioli. “What?”

  “Maybe this ought to wait till we’re finished eating.”

  He gave me a quizzical look, wiped his mouth, then pulled an envelope out of his flak jacket. His movements were heavy with reluctance. “Here,” he said.

  I tried to take the envelope, but he held fast. He had blue eyes, I noticed, and they were boring into mine.

  “Howard Rybak,” he said.

  “You found him?” When I heard the excitement in my voice, I realized that until this minute I hadn’t actually expected to find Rybak anywhere. Shade still held tight to his end of the envelope. “Wow, are you quick! This is unbelievable. I didn’t think that—”

  I stopped when I saw his face.

  “This may not be what you wanted to hear,” he said.

  “What is it?” I asked. He finally let go, and I dug in to grab the envelope’s contents. I shook my head. “You didn’t find him?”

  “I’m sorry, Alex,” Shade said.

  By the time I pulled out the police report, I knew what it would say. “Oh,” I whispered softly, running my fingers over Howard Rybak’s name. “He’s dead.”

  “You didn’t know him, did you?”

  “I never met the man, and despite my best efforts, I didn’t get to know him, not one little bit.” I shook my head. “This is all wrong. Things aren’t supposed to work this way.” I stared down at the report. “What happened?”

  Shade told me.

  “A fire?” I asked. My tone was incredulous. “But he had an apartment. He had a place to live. Why would he take refuge in a Dumpster?”

  “Sometimes the homeless are unpredictable.”

  “He wasn’t homeless!” My voice came out too loud, too strident. I had no idea why I felt so strongly. I tried to calm myself by focusing on the report’s findings but something caught my eye. “He had smoke in his lungs?”

  Shade nodded.

  “He was . . . alive when he burned?”

  “Don’t get too worked up,” Shade said, “because I don’t think that was really him.”

  “But it says that the ID—”

  “I know what it says, and I know what my instincts are telling me. Rybak turned up dead two days after you started asking about him.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “In a fire . . .”

  I kept silent.

  “Take a guess which illustrious dentist did the identification.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.”

  “We need to go talk with him,” I said. I looked down at my plate and realized I’d stopped eating. I was starving and the pizza here was the best in the city. I grabbed one of the squares of sausage and mushroom that I’d heaped on my plate and took a big bite.

  “I agree,” Shade said. “But before you get your hopes up about your story and Rybak’s well-being, I have to tell you I think it was his body they placed in the car to take Bob Bayless’s place.”

  I shook my head as I finished chewing. When I swallowed, I said, “That’s a stretch.”

  “Think about it. Rybak’s missing, right? For just about the same amount of time that Bayless has been ‘dead.’ Bayless, who worked for Manus, needed a body to take his place if his disappearing act was going to work.” Shade had become more animated, but his voice had gone lower. I had to lean forward to hear him.

  “Don’t you think that’s too much of a coincidence?”

  “Not when you factor in the common denominators.” He held up his index finger. “Sunset Manor, your buddy’s funeral home, recovered Bayless’s body from downstate.” Holding up another finger, he continued, “Both Bayless and Rybak have been identified by the same dentist, Dr. Colon, a guy who gets very shaky when you ask questions about his patients.”

  “I’ve noticed that.” I felt confused. “But, come on. What are the chances that the guy I’m looking to find is the same guy who winds up dead in your investigation?”

  “Pretty good, when you consider that Sunset Manor is the common denominator. You told me you heard about Rybak from Nick Farnsworth, right?” Shade ticked off another finger. “Sunset Manor is picking up the ‘current’ Howard Rybak’s body when he’s cleared by the Medical Examiner for burial.”

  I sat back in the booth. “Wow. So you’re saying Nicky Farnsworth is in on all this. That he helped engineer Robert Bayless’s fake death.”

  “Yeah. And he and his Russian friends have been killing people in the process, to cover their tracks. They probably took poor homeless Rybak in, gave him a few bucks—”

  I jumped in. “Set him up in an apartment. Gave him a job—at Sunset Manor.”

  Shade looked surprised, but pleased that I was following along. “Yeah. And they took him to the dentist to set the wheels in motion for the big switcheroo.”
>
  “But why? What’s in it for Nicky?”

  Shade shrugged. “Follow the money.”

  “The money,” I repeated. “This is starting to make sense.”

  It was Shade’s turn to look confused.

  “Look at what I found.” I pulled out the information I’d gathered on Manus, and the information Bass had gotten me, as well. My mind started to put the pieces together, even as I spread the papers out before Shade. “Hey,” I said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “What brand of underwear did Bayless wear?”

  Shade made a face. “How the hell should I know?” He immediately softened his tone. “Why?”

  “When I was going through Howard Rybak’s things, I found designer underwear. I mean, what homeless guy is going to go out and buy Ralph Lauren underpants and shirts with his first paycheck? I thought it was weird at the time . . .” The poor guy. He thought he’d hit the lottery of good luck. Instead, he’d been set up. “There was a set missing. I bet they made him wear it the day they put him in Bayless’s place.”

  The thought depressed me. I looked down at my favorite pizza and suddenly had no appetite.

  Shade seemed to sense that. “What were you going to show me?” he asked.

  I glanced over at his plate. “You finished eating?” I asked.

  “More or less.”

  “This may seal it for you.” I showed him the market Manus cornered. “Body parts,” I said. “And who would have the best access to them?”

  “A funeral home?”

  “That’s not the worst of it,” I said. “Over a dozen times in the past two years, the company was cited for providing ‘less than perfect’ specimens. My boss, Bass, uncovered this tidbit. It’s off the record. He tapped into his cache of cohorts to find out the dirt.” I licked my lips, finally putting it together. “Donors are usually young, healthy people who’ve had a terrible accident. But some of the bones and organs provided to the research labs and to hopeful patients have been—diseased.” I looked up at Shade who was sitting in rapt attention. “There’s a lot of money here. A lot. How much you want to bet that they’re taking donations from homeless people—without their consent?”