by Jim Stevens
“Sure doesn’t look like someone who suffers from ED to me.”
I turn around again, and see Tiffany covering Care and Kelly’s eyes. Thank you, Tiffany.
“Would you care to comment on these photos, Mr. Stroup?”
Ralph quits coughing. “That’s not me.”
“Then who is it?”
“My twin brother.”
Judge Hopkins’ head thumps unto the top of his desk.
“Fraternal or identical?” Dewey asks.
“Both,” Ralph answers.
The gavel comes down. “Mr. Stroup, you have five days to produce your twin brother, or the case will be dismissed.”
“He’s in Peru, Your Honor.”
“Five days.” The judge tells Ralph. “Next case.”
The moment the gavel comes down, Mrs. Stroup seizes the oxygen tank and begins clubbing her husband repeatedly. Ralph finds a sudden burst of energy, to fend off the blows, and skedaddle, as the bailiff restrains the woman.
“Order, Order!”
Mrs. Stroup grabs the photos from Dewey and presents them to the Judge, “I want a divorce.”
I hurry up the aisle to collect Kelly and Care. “Come on, we’re done here.”
“Can we see the pictures, Dad?” Kelly asks.
“Yeah, can we?” Tiffany adds.
“Absolutely not.”
I come face-to-face with Leonard at the door of the courtroom. He has a big smile on his face, as he points to Mrs. Stroup being led away in handcuffs. “Yep,” he says. “Another satisfied customer.”
_____
The question now is not what to do, but what to do next? The seventy-two hour window on Schnook’s kidnapping is up, so the chances of solving this case decrease, at least, three-fold.
If ya don’t catch ´em quick, it gets harder and harder to catch ΄em.
I should probably hook-up with Oland to see how he’s doing, but he’s not real thrilled with me to begin with, so maybe things are better left unsaid for the time being.
I consider questioning the family members one by one, but that’s too depressing. I still have questions for Moomah, but none concern Oz. I could check in with Herman, but his apartment would be the last place on earth I’d ever take my kids.
The reason for my indecision is that I’m having a very difficult time getting my head around a number of aspects of this case: the ease with which Kennard was able to secure the million in cash, the way the ransom was delivered, the family’s reaction, the missing diamond necklace, Schnook’s story of confinement, Gigolo Johnny Spaccone, and why Moomah is so cheap. If these things weren’t enough to confuse me, I also have two most troubling problems: what do I do with my two kids while I beat the bushes, and why anyone as classy and attractive as Anthea Andrews would want to date me? I can’t get the woman out of my head.
I tell myself I can’t solve the puzzle until I have all the pieces of the puzzle.
“Tiffany,” I say to my so-called assistant. “How well do you remember Moomah’s missing necklace?”
“As if it were my own,” she says without hesitation.
“Come on, we’re leaving,” I tell my crew.
“Where are we going?”
“Shopping?” Kelly asks hopefully.
“No, we’re going to see the Mona Lisa.”
“Oh, Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany says. “I hate culture, except for cultured pearls.”
“And I hate art,” Kelly adds. “It is like so boring.”
CHAPTER 13
Mona Studebaker, the Lisa was added later as a marketing ploy, once upon a time showed great promise as “the next significant artiste of the twentieth century.” She attended the Rhode Island School of Art, spent time in Paris sketching the Seine, and had her own studio in Soho, New York. Her only problem was she could never sell any of her paintings. For some unknown reason, art collectors never responded to her life-size renditions of disco-dancing gargoyles painted in glow-in-the-dark colors.
As the twenty-first century rolled in, Mona found herself reduced to being a street artist, attempting to sell her creations to lost tourists, drunks, and female entrepreneurs dressed in hot-pants. Good corners are hard to find in NYC. After months of maintaining her streak of “no sales,” Mona decided to relocate to Chicago, where she heard they had “a better appreciation for real art,” and set up her paintings on a corner adjacent to the famous Art Institute. As luck would have it, on her first day, she was arrested for peddling without a license, taken to the downtown station, and booked for a stay in the “sin bin.” Getting busted turned out to be her dark cloud’s silver lining, because while she was wasting away behind bars she overheard a couple of detectives trying to squeeze a description out of a snitch with very little luck. Mona offered her services, and her new career was born.
As a sketch artist, Mona was pretty good. She amazed even herself. Mona would ask the eyewitness questions like “Did he look mean?”, “Did his nose fit his face?”, and “Would you put him in the Brad Pitt or the Danny DeVito category?” As the witness spewed forth with point, after pointless point, Mona would sketch, rub, erase, fix, re-fix, lengthen, narrow, thin-out, and fill out the drawing until her talents brought the perpetrator to life. “Wow, that looks just like him,” the witness always said.
Mona’s renditions of wanted criminals were hanging in Post Offices, on telephone poles, and on Police Station bulletin boards. Better yet, her work was being seen on local television news shows, always preceded by the words “If you have seen this person, call the Chicago Police Tip Line immediately.” To make herself more marketable, she began to sign her work Mona Lisa Studebaker, for art collectors who might be watching the broadcasts, or waiting in line to buy stamps.
Mona Lisa had her studio in her studio apartment in a crummy neighborhood on the near West Side. It was filled with easels, mattes, canvases, and enough paint drippings on the wood floor to pass for a Jackson Pollack rip-off. The facility was also her home, but it was difficult to tell where the living space ended and the art space began. There had to be a kitchenette and a bathroom in the place somewhere, But at first glance, they were impossible to find.
“Mona, this is Kelly, Care, and Tiffany.”
“You want a glow-in-the-dark, family portrait, Sherlock?” she asks.
“No, I need you to do a necklace.”
“I’m a painter, not a jeweler.”
Kelly and Care wander off to take in the atmosphere. “This place is so cool,” Kelly says. “I want to become a painter, Dad.”
“You can be first after me, Kelly.” I turn back to Mona. “Tiffany will describe the item and you draw it up.”
“I can do that.”
As those two get settled across from each other, Kelly remarks on what she sees. “You paint all these?”
“Yep.”
“I like this one,” Care tells her.
“That’s a spill from yesterday,” Mona admits.
“What are these?” Kelly asks, standing between two yellow and green cosmic characters doing the rumba.
“Gargoyles,” Mona says. “Sometimes you see them on buildings or in movies like Ghostbusters.”
Tiffany starts to hum the movie theme song.
“I didn’t know they danced?” Care says.
“That’s what makes mine unique,” Mona says with pride. “Wanna buy one?”
“No thanks.”
“As if I haven’t heard that before.”
It’s time we got down to business. “Tiffany,” I say. “Describe Moomah’s necklace for Mona.”
“It’s expensive.”
“You might want to concentrate a little more on the details.”
“Okay, it’s really expensive.”
“How big?” Mona asks.
Tiffany spreads out her hands, as if she’s lying about a fish she caught. “Huge,” she says.
“Shape?”
“Excellent. I have a personal trainer.”
“She’s referring to the neckla
ce, Tiffany.”
“Well,” Tiffany says. “It’s kinda like this.” Tiffany starts to move her hands like a swami putting on a spell.
“If it was that big, wouldn’t it be awfully heavy to hang on your neck?” Mona asks.
“Moomah’s got the bulk to support it.”
“What kind of chain?”
“Gold, 24-carat. Enough to melt down into a bar.”
“Diamonds?”
“Plenty.”
“Tiffany, I’m not sure you’re supplying enough facts for Mona to work with.”
Mona interrupts, “Let me handle this, Sherlock.” Evidently, she’s been in this situation before. “Go over there, find a blank canvas, and you and your kids paint a fruit bowl.”
Admonished to the far corner of the room, I say, “Get a brush, girls, we’re going to find our inner Picasso’s.”
Fifty minutes later, Mona is coloring in the rubies and sapphires, as Tiffany stands over her shoulder. “Could you put more sparkle on the diamonds?”
Mona complies and holds the picture up for approval. “Bueno?”
“It looks good enough to wear,” I tell her.
“I only wish I was wearing it,” Tiffany says.
Mona shoots a digital rendition of the sketch and gives me the copy, explaining that she never parts with her originals, just in case she’s finally recognized as the next Marc Chagall.
“What do you think of our fruit?” Care asks the artist in residence, holding up our creation.
“Wormy.”
_____
Tiffany’s drives her Lexus 430 through the streets of Berwyn, Illinois, up one block and down the next. I sit shotgun. The girls ride in the back.
“Why don’t you just give me the address?” Tiffany says. “I’ll punch it into my GPS and we’ll get there in no time.”
“I can’t remember the address,” I tell her. “When I see the house, I’ll recognize it.”
“With gas prices what they are today,” Tiffany informs me, “this is not an economical way to travel.”
“Do you pay for your own gas, Tiffany?”
“Of course not. It’s a company car.”
“Just keep driving. We’re getting close.”
It doesn’t help that Berwyn is made up of one bungalow house after another, one street after another, and one block after another, that all look exactly the same, but with my odd-ball memory, I’ll know the house when I see it.
“Dad, this is like really boring,” Kelly says.
We traverse a few more streets and lo and behold, “That’s it, pull up and park.”
Tiffany parks on the wrong side of the street, “Don’t worry, I don’t pay for parking tickets either.”
I unbuckle and hit the car door latch. “You people wait in the car.”
“No way. We hate waiting in the car.”
The four of us traipse up the short sidewalk. I knock on the door.
A woman, who saw better years, years ago, opens the door, “I don’t want to buy anything.”
“Is Shervy home?”
“Who should I say is calling?”
“Richard Sherlock,” I say. The plump, dour woman stares at my companions. “And friends.”
Shervy Reckless was, and maybe still is, one of the best second-story men in the business. In his career, he’s stolen more jewels than Tiffany’s displays in their main store in NYC. With the nimble fingers of a composer playing piano by ear, door locks, padlocks, wall safes became melodious instruments in Shervy’s hands. They haven’t made one yet that Shervy couldn’t unlock. When electronics entered the industry, Shervy treated it as a new and exciting challenge. A number of security companies, as well as safe manufacturers have tried to recruit Shervy, but he’s always declined. Some guys just can’t cross over to the other side of the fence.
Today, he sits in front of the TV watching The Price is Right.
“I didn’t do it,” is his reaction to seeing me.
“Shervy, I thought you’d be glad to see me.”
“No such luck, Sherlock.” Shervy looks at my group. “This your posse?”
I introduce my girls, then Tiffany.
“Tiffany Richmond?” Shervy asks, as his eyebrows rise slightly. “You any relation to the guy who owns the insurance company?”
“Yes, he’s my daddy.”
“Tell your Daddy I didn’t do it.”
“Which time, Shervy?” I ask.
“All the times.”
Mrs. Shervy proves to be a very nice host, offering the girls cookies, as they watch the TV.
“Thank you very much.”
“I’m out of the business, Sherlock. How many times do I have to tell you?”
On the TV, a housewife from Iowa is playing the Pachinko game.
Without further ado, I pull out the photo of Mona’s rendition of Moomah’s necklace and hold it into the light for Shervy to take a good look. “You steal this?”
“No, but I wish I did.” His eyes open wide, as if he’s perusing a multiple item, dessert tray.
“Do you know who did?”
“No.”
“Would you tell me if you did know?”
“No.”
Shervy takes a longer look at the photo and asks, “Where was it snatched?”
“The Block.”
“The building, where Ann Landers used to live?” Shervy asks.
“So, you know it?”
“Never been there.”
Shervy admires the picture of the necklace.
“If you were to steal something like this,” I ask. “What would you do with it?”
“The Arabs and the Chinese love this stuff.”
“They do?”
“Once it’s stolen, it’s on a plane to Shanghai or Arabia that night.”
“This is not what I want to hear, Shervy.”
“What did you want to hear?”
“Here’s the necklace,” I say. “You can have it back.”
“Yeah, Sherlock, like that’s gonna happen.”
I retrieve Mona’s picture, fold it carefully, and put it in my pocket. It’s time to go. “Thanks for the help, Shervy.”
“My pleasure.”
Mrs. Shervy gives me a smile.
Tiffany says, “Nice to meet you Mr. Reckless, but could I ask you a favor?”
“You can ask.”
“Could you try not to steal stuff my Dad insures?”
“I’ll try my best.”
_____
Next stop on the “Investigation Express” is the security department of Northern Trust. The offices are housed in a non-descript building adjacent to the main branch of the bank. There’s no name on the door, no address numbers, no welcome mat, and no doorbell. The four of us stand beneath a security camera and wait until we hear a buzz. The door opens and a guard, carrying a very large, black, mean gun, steps out to greet us.
“Yes?”
Arriving unannounced was not a good idea, but the mention of Anthea Andrews allows my entrance. Tiffany and the girls have to wait outside.
“That’s not fair,” Kelly argues. “We want to go in.”
“Life isn’t fair,” I tell my oldest. “Get used to it.”
After being frisked, scanned, and debugged I am accompanied to an elevator which only goes down. When the doors open on what may or may not be the bottom floor, the guard and I step out into a small foyer where we are met by a man who looks like he hasn’t seen the first floor in years.
“Richard Sherlock, I presume?”
“Yes.”
No intro, no name, no handshake. I feel like I’m visiting my ex-wife’s family. He leads me down a hallway, flanked by one office after another, each filled with computer screens, keyboards, modems, and a large server console pushed up against the back walls. The people working the computers are all men who wear thick glasses and are pale in skin and demeanor. No one speaks. This must be where computer geeks end up after they don’t develop the next, big iPhone application.
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We end up in a large room with more monitor screens than the control room used to broadcast the Super Bowl. All the pictures are live, if you consider watching the inside of a vault “lively.” There are real time feeds of teller drawers, hallways, counting rooms, ATM’s, entrances, and exits. It’s a bit mind boggling, not to mention horribly boring. Not much of a plot in this TV movie. One guy sits behind a table in the middle of the room, monitoring the monitors. I’ll bet this guy is a real chatterbox in the office lunchroom.
“Mrs. Richmond, correct?” The guy reminds me of Lurch the butler from The Addams Family.
“Yes. I need to see who comes with her when she visits her money.”
Lurch’s fingers fly across the keys. The monitor does flip-flops and in a few seconds pages with four-by-four pictures flash on the screen. “You want a printout?”
“Please.”
“I don’t know if it’s allowed,” he says.
“Me neither, but could you do it anyway?”
One click of the mouse and the printer on the other side of the room begins to whir.
“I’ll give you two months’ worth.”
“Thanks.”
As the printer spews out the pages, I ask Lurch, “You like working here?”
“Anyone who’s got four kids under ten would like working here.”
To assure my memory for the way out is intact, the guard with the big gun leads me back to the door from which I entered. “Thanks for the tour,” I tell him. “Now, can you direct me to the gift shop?”
I chuckle at my wit. He doesn’t. You try to brighten someone’s day and this is the thanks you receive.
I step out onto the sidewalk, clutching my stack of photo prints, and hear: “Oh, Mr. Sherlock.”
I look towards the voice coming from across the street and see Tiffany seated at an outdoor table at Starbucks with my girls. I jaywalk across the street as any native Chicagoan would do.
Kelly and Care are sipping buckets of some frothy concoction.
“What are you drinking?”
“Grande Mocha Cappuccino Espresso, with extra vanilla, a touch of cinnamon, and low-calorie whipped cream,” Tiffany explains.
“I’ll have to scrape them off the ceiling after they drink those.”
“Dad, they’re really good.” Kelly speaks faster than Bugs Bunny on speed. “You should try one.”