Windy City Knights

by Michael A. Black

  The truck had warmed up enough to actually start blowing hot air though the vents. I shifted into drive, scanned for any obvious signs that someone was watching us, and headed down to Clark Street. The pre-rush-hour traffic was just beginning to get heavy. About three cars back I noticed a black limo taking basically the same route we had, but then it turned off. Was I being too paranoid? At this stage of the game everybody looked like a potential suspect, especially if you didn’t know who you were looking for.

  Which was one reason why I wanted to get a look at this guy Peeps. His damn accent was another. I strained my memory trying to remember the voice of Mr. Webber, the guy who’d called me and sent me on that wild-goose chase. They sounded pretty much the same, but I just couldn’t be sure. Of course, the caller could have been changing his voice or even affecting an accent. But it was yet another of the many coincidences that kept popping up in this case.

  The Dearborn address turned out to be one of those nondescript gray office buildings in the Loop with an exclusive view of the El tracks. I circled the block, pulled into an alley, and inserted the parking ticket under the windshield wiper again.

  “You’re sure getting a lot of use out of that thing,” Laurie said.

  “I’m trying to cut down on your expense fees.” I handed her my cellular phone as we dodged several cars crossing the street to a Starbucks Coffee shop. “Okay, any sign of trouble with the truck, like a cop and a tow truck, and you beep me 811. Any personal trouble, like some creep bothering you, use 911. Got it?”

  “Roger wilco,” she said, giving me a quick, left-handed salute. “That’s what you’re supposed to say, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but you’re supposed to salute with your right arm.”

  “Well I’m holding the phone in that hand.”

  An El train clattered by overhead.

  I trotted back across the street and went inside the building. The lobby was typical downtown: long marble floors and walls, with a series of elevators to the left. Several doors, with pebbled glass fronts, were opposite. I checked the rectangular legend on the wall between the elevators. White letters against a black background indicated that Samuel Peeps Photography was located in room 1207. I pressed the button again, figuring that it would be easier and quicker to ride up twelve floors than take the stairs and maybe find that the stairwell door wouldn’t open from the inside. When the doors popped open on twelve, I saw more of the same pebbled glass doors, set in heavy wooden frames. I followed the numbers around to 1207 and twisted the knob. It opened into a small waiting room with several chairs and a coat rack. A buzzer sounded inside the office, which was evidently behind another door on the far end of the waiting-room wall. No pretty secretary to welcome me inside. A shadow moved on the other side of the frosted glass and the inside door was opened by a heavyset man around fifty with grayish hair and a mustache. He had, as Mr. Turner would have said, the puffy look of a drinker.

  “May I help you?” he said in perfect Queen’s English.

  “I’m Lewis Van Tillworth the Third.”

  “Funny, you don’t look like the male model type,” he said. “Don’t sound much the same either.” I couldn’t figure whether his voice contained alarm or amusement. He waited for my reply, his eyes scanning me, trying to read me.

  “Actually, I’m a private detective,” I said. “I’m looking into the death of a young woman. She was one of your clients.”

  “Oh,” Peeps said, moving forward and taking out a pack of cigarettes. He put one in his mouth, fired up a lighter, and said, with a smoky breath, “And who might that be?”

  “Paula Kittermann.”

  He tried crinkling his brow, then shaking his head. “Doesn’t sound familiar. What makes you think she was one of my clients?”

  “You did a portfolio for her,” I said. “She was a model. Recently went abroad to do some shoots. Sounding more familiar yet?”

  Peeps blew out a plume of smoke and leaned against the doorframe. “Not really,” he said. “You say she was one of mine?” He inhaled on the cigarette thoughtfully, then said, “I’m afraid I really can’t be of help to you. I do work with a great many prospective models, setting up portfolios and the like. Sometimes things take off, sometimes they don’t. And sometimes they hook up with somebody else.” He shrugged. “But her name doesn’t ring a bell. Now, Mister…Van Tillworth, if you’ll excuse me. I’m a very busy man.”

  “I can see that,” I said, glancing around the empty office.

  “Looks can be deceiving.”

  “Yes, they can.” I moved forward, closing the distance between us, then smiled. “Mr. Peeps, I have a confession to make. My name isn’t really Van Tillworth. It’s Shade. Ron Shade.”

  I waited to see if the James Bond technique would cause any reaction. If it did, he didn’t show it. “And I happen to know that you had a relationship with Paula and I’d really like to hear about it.”

  Peeps swallowed hard. Then, squinting through the smoke, he said, “I don’t have to talk to you. Now get out of my bloody office.”

  “Didn’t you ever hear that smoking was hazardous to your health?” I asked. Peeps just stared at me. I think it unnerved him that I’d violated his personal space a bit. He was as tall as I was, but not in shape, and he obviously knew it. I reached up quickly and snatched the cigarette from between his lips. “And so is lying to me.”

  “Get out of here or I’ll call the police,” he said, trying to imbue some authority into his voice. It didn’t work.

  “I’m gonna ask you one more time politely about your relationship with Paula,” I said slowly. I felt the anger that I’d experienced with old Mr. Turner starting to resurface here. And Peeps wasn’t an old man.

  He must have sensed my hostility because he tried to make a move inside his office and slam the door. I caught it with the flat of my palm just as he ducked in and I shoved all my weight forward. Peeps, both his hands on the edge of the door, tried to shift his weight to push against me, but he was a couple beats too slow. My legs drove forward and shoved him back. We were in a smaller office area, with several file cabinets and a lot of photographic and video equipment.

  I shoved him and he stumbled backward until his hip hit against a big metal desk in the center of the room. He picked up an ashtray in his right hand, but I seized his wrist, and slammed my fist into his substantial gut. The air whooshed out of him as he sagged forward. I pulled his arm down and outward, using my left hand to bend his elbow and apply a hammerlock. The ashtray fell to the carpet, dumping its contents over the desk and floor.

  I clucked sympathetically.

  “Too bad,” I said. “Looks like the house keeper’s gonna have some extra work to do. But I warned you about those cigarettes, didn’t I?”

  He struggled to catch his breath, his left hand holding his stomach.

  “You do have a house keeper here, don’t you?” I said, then added, “Take shallow breaths. It’ll hurt less.”

  “Let go of my arm,” he said, his teeth clenching in pain.

  “Not till we come to a little understanding. Now, you got a file on Paula?”

  “What if I do?” he grunted. I tightened the pressure on his arm a notch. “All right! All right! I do. So what?”

  “I want it. Now,” I said. “Where is it?”

  He managed to point and grunt at two gunmetal filing cabinets against the far wall.

  I walked him over to the cabinets, still pinning his arm behind his back, exerting just enough force to keep him up on his toes. His breath was still coming in savage rasps. The oval lock at the top had been pressed in, indicating that it was locked. Peeps had one of those metal rings of keys on his belt with the retractable chain. I wedged my left arm between his forearm and back, with my hand gripping his biceps. That left my right hand free to grab the keys. “Which one opens it?”

  His mouth twisted downward at the edges as he told me. I inserted it into the lock, popped it open, and let the keys snap back into the metal shell on
his belt.

  “Always wanted one of those things,” I said. “Now, where’s that file?”

  “I can’t get it with you holding my arm,” he said.

  “Pretend you’re handicapped,” I said, leaning forward to exert slightly more pressure. He grunted and grabbed one of the drawer handles with his left hand. He pulled the drawer open and I backed him away for a moment so I could peek inside. I didn’t want him reaching in and coming out with a weapon. All I saw were files so I pushed him back. “Okay, you’re a southpaw again. Get me that file.” His fingers sorted through the hanging file envelopes, pulling out some, then tossing them onto the floor. That cleaning lady was going to have more than cigarette butts to pick up. Finally he withdrew a thick file and set it on top of the cabinet.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  “You’re sure?” I tightened the pressure on his arm a notch.

  “Yes, yes. Now let me go. Please.”

  “Since you were so polite.” I released him then picked up the file and glanced at it. There were pictures galore of Paula in a variety of outfits, and without anything at all. Some of the nudes were tastefully done. Others looked progressively more tawdry. Some were soft-core porn shots of her with a variety of both male and female sex partners. Some were group shots. They looked like they’d been staged for some men’s magazine fantasy. A videocassette was also among the sheaves of pictures.

  Modeling, huh? I wondered what her parents, who thought I wasn’t good enough for her way back when, would think now. But that was counterproductive. I concentrated on the task at hand. “Is this it?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he grunted.

  “Are you sure?” I clenched my right hand into a fist. Peeps looked at it, then at my face. From his expression I could tell he didn’t want any part of me.

  “Yes, yes. There was some hard-core stuff, but I got rid of that.” His voice sounded worn and empty, his tone deflated. “Satisfied?” he said, massaging his arm. “She was nothing but a fucking slut.”

  “Oh yeah? I heard you were going out with her.”

  “What? Hardly. It was strictly a business arrangement between us. Nothing more.”

  “Then why’d you lie to me before?”

  “I didn’t want to show you any of that stuff.” The veins in his neck pulsed as he spoke. “Look at it from my perspective. For all I knew you might have been her ex-boyfriend or something.”

  “You ever go over to her apartment?”

  “Sure. We did shoots over there sometimes.”

  “You ever call yourself Mr. Webber?” I asked, trying to gauge his reaction when I mentioned the name.

  “No. Why would I?” I figured he was lying and thought about roughing him up a bit more, but decided against it. I didn’t want him calling the cops and saying that I’d beaten the crap out of him. I’d let George do that when he pulled him in for questioning about my burglary.

  “Never mind,” I said. “How long did you know Paula?”

  “About six months. Look, it’s just like I told you before. It was just a business thing between us. Nothing more.”

  I held up my fist.

  “I can think of two good reasons why you shouldn’t be lying to me.”

  “I’m not,” he said, staring at my callused knuckles. I caught the glimmer of fear in his eyes. “I can see you’re a pro. Look, I didn’t even know she’d gotten herself killed till I read it in the papers.”

  “I figured Regis would’ve told you,” I said on a lark.

  “Who? Never heard of him,” Peeps said.

  I glanced at my watch. Four fifteen. I still had a lot to do before I hit the hotel to night.

  “Okay. I’m taking this with me,” I said, picking up the file. “Now I intend to check on a few things you told me, Mr. Peeps. And if I find out that you’ve been less than truthful with me, I’ll be back.” Peeps looked so mad I figured he wanted to spit at me. But he knew better. I walked slowly through the inner office, pausing to pick up a couple of his business cards as I went out.

  We sat in the truck at the mouth of the alley with the engine idling. Laurie’s reaction was about what I expected as I watched with surreptitious glances as she paged through the pictures. When she’d finished, she closed the file and sat with it on her lap. A tear trickled down her cheek.

  “Oh, God,” she said. “I’d hate for her mom and dad to see them.” Her fist raised up and then descended, smacking the green folder. “I mean, how could she pose for some of those?”

  For the money, I was going to say. But I remained silent. I’d already had a feeling that the more we found out, the less we’d like it. What I was mostly worried about was its cumulative effect on Laurie. After all, Paula was beyond hurting now. But my gut was suddenly tightening as I began thinking about the unprotected sex we’d had. Silently I wondered again what that HIV test would show. I’d been doing my best to push it out of my mind. Still, it was never far from my conscious thoughts.

  “Detective Grieves said that she had heroin in her system,” Laurie said. “Do you really think she was on drugs? I mean, could that have been why she’d do things like this?”

  “It’d probably be better if we didn’t jump to conclusions right now,” I said. But I thought, it’s a long way from Ludington. “Why don’t you go through the file to night and separate the pictures that you want from those you don’t? Then, when this is finished, I’ll help you destroy the others.”

  She nodded. I didn’t envy her task.

  “I’m not so sure I even want to see what’s on this,” Laurie said, holding up the videocassette.

  “It’d be better not to toss anything until we’ve had a chance to sort things out,” I said. “Sometimes you can overlook clues.”

  She mustered a smile. “Right. I guess that’s what we’re paying you for, isn’t it?”

  When we got to the Second District, I parked George’s truck in the circular drive and went inside with Laurie. The desk sergeant sat behind the chest-high barrier with a cup of coffee and a Sun-Times. He glanced up idly, and went back to his reading as a young female officer came over.

  “May I help you?” she asked. She had skin the color of light caramel and her black hair was pulled back tightly from her face. I told her we were there to see Detective Grieves. She asked my name, made a quick call, then told us to go right up. On the second floor I proceeded quickly to the section of offices where George hung his hat. I had to be careful because his boss, Lieutenant Bielmaster, and I were old enemies and I knew he’d take my appearance as a chance to berate George. But it went as smoothly as a commando operation, and we found George and Doug sitting at their desks doing reports. The big room was full of other detectives typing, talking on the phone, or poring over files. It almost looked like the research section of some library.

  “Things looking pretty quiet this afternoon, gentlemen?” I asked as we walked over to George’s desk. He looked up and grinned, then did a double take when he saw Laurie. I introduced them right away.

  “You remember George from the old neighborhood, don’t you?” I asked Laurie.

  “Actually, I remember hearing about you,” she said, smiling and shaking his hand. “I think you were away in the Army or something.”

  “Marines,” he corrected.

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “Don’t make that mistake. I was in the Army.”

  We sat down and George asked if we wanted coffee. I told him we did and he grabbed an eight-by-ten manila envelope from a three-sectioned plastic tray before we left for the breakroom. Downstairs he popped several quarters into the machine and said, “Pick your poison.” Laurie had cream and sugar. George and I had black.

  “I can’t think of a finer person to look over this case than Ron here,” George said as we sat at one of the tables. He held up the manila envelope. “These are the MUD records that our buddy Irwin faxed over.” He winked at me, then said, “I’ll have to thank him for that.” Taking the MUD record sheets out of the manila envelope he ran a
big finger down the page, stopping at a highlighted section. “This one here’s for a taxi,” he said pointing to a printed number. “Island Cab, which is about ten minutes from your house, made about five forty. The next two are nonpublished.” He took a sip of his coffee, then added, “I got a buddy in Ameritech security gonna call me back with that one.”

  I studied the numbers to see if any were familiar to me. One was Paula’s apartment telephone number. Probably to check her answering machine for messages. The second one was totally unfamiliar. I took out my notebook and went through it, finding the number that I’d gotten off the impression of the note that Paula had left. But I couldn’t match up the number to any on the sheet.

  “Think you can find out about this number, too?” I asked, handing it to George. “And here’s a present for you.” I gave him the cellular phone that I’d taken from old man Turner. George raised his eyebrows then stripped the battery off again.

  “Hot?”

  “It’s got to be cloned. The serial number’s been scratched off,” I said. “Some dude gave it to the super at Paula’s building to keep tabs on us when we came back to the apartment. A white guy with red hair. Sound familiar?”

  George squinted for a moment, then shook his head.

  “It sounds like the guy I had trouble with at the hotel when I met Paula,” I said. “I nicknamed him Red, for lack of a better name. Don’t you see that it’s all starting to tie together?”

  He nodded, glanced at Laurie, and stood. “I’ll see what I can find out. Well, I gotta be getting back upstairs. Ah, you are gonna be able to cover that evening shift for me to night, aren’t you?”

  “Sure I am,” I said, grinning. “Have I ever let you down?”

  “Like I told you, Laurie,” George said, patting me on the back and grinning broadly, “there ain’t nobody finer than Ron to look into something like this.” His face turned toward me. “I need you there by six fifteen, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, taking out the parking ticket and handing it to him.

  “What’s this?” he grunted. “Another one? Oh, no, dammit. I ain’t gonna take care of this one for you.”