After showering and dressing, I fed Fleur her breakfast of Albacore tuna and took my coffee in the library. The answering machine’s red light flashed with urgency. A look at the digital display told me I had eleven messages. I pressed the play button and waited for the tape to rewind. It took quite a while.
The first message was from Detective Velez. His call must have been the one I ignored shortly after arriving home yesterday evening. He wanted me to call him as soon as possible.
My next caller was Sunny Livermore. In public we kissed cheeks like the best of friends, but in truth we shared an unhealthy rivalry. She was pure parvenu, and insanely jealous of people such as I who came from the East, attended all the right schools, and had families of social standing. Her husband Nat traded at the Mercantile and was obscenely wealthy. They had catapulted into the social scene years ago by attending fundraisers and putting one more zero on their checks than everyone else. Sunny reeked of nouveau, from her ridiculously expensive clothes, to her opulent house, to her vulgar parties. At Nat’s birthday celebration at the Saddle and Cycle last fall, Comtes de Champagne ran in the fountain, Beluga was served up in tubs, and guests were handed Lalique figurines as party favors. Some might think I was jealous of her, but as I told Ethan, I simply hated to see money squandered. He replied by telling me that Sunny planned to rent out the Field Museum for Nat’s next birthday. I shuddered to think what they would do when their daughter married.
Sunny’s name reflected neither her coloring nor her disposition. It was bestowed upon her by her Italian father when his sixth child turned out to be his sixth daughter, and his wife shut down the baby facility. So instead of a son he settled for a Sunny. She was extremely insecure and covered it with a tough veneer. Nat Livermore was a short, squat, bald man with swollen fingers and and a face to match, who more often than not had a large cigar clenched between his teeth. Though he had married a short brunette, he had a penchant for both tall women and redheads, so do the math: Sunny was a basketcase whenever he and I were in the same place. Though she really needn’t have wasted the negative energy. Nat held no more appeal to me than a weekend in the Poconos. Even though his bank account was quite impressive, it was not impressive enough for me to ever consider soiling the sheets with him.
Sunny’s nasal voice showed no evidence of the elocution classes Ethan told me she was taking to temper her Midwestern twang. “Pauline, the police just left. I can’t believe it. Our Ethan. What do you think happened? Please call me first chance you get.”
Our Ethan, indeed. Sunny hadn’t seen fit to give him the time of day until the Gloria book came out. After that she was on him like a call girl on a commodities broker. He was her leg up into the literary world without having to actually read a book. I wondered why the police had seen fit to pay her a visit. Did they really think that she could tell them more about Ethan than I, his best friend? Then I remembered their lunch date in his appointment book. They must have wanted to know his frame of mind Tuesday afternoon. Then a delicious thought occurred to me. Perhaps they suspected she killed him.
The next message was from Marjorie Wilcock, who had watched me wait for an already dead Ethan in the Cape Cod Room, that is when she hadn’t been riveted to Franklin or her martini glass. She expressed her surprise in a contained and proper voice. “Darling, I just saw it on the news. No wonder he stood you up. The newscaster made it sound most mysterious. Call me when you know the arrangements.”
The news? Ethan had made the news? Then I thought about what she said about the arrangements. Things were as I had feared. People would look to me for the funeral plans.
A string of messages expressing condolences followed, the callers’ voices ranging from shocked to saddened: Susanne Free, the sweet young concierge from the Drake; Raoul Simone and Bharrie Williams, Ethan’s decorator friends who hung on his coattails and managed to garner more than a few good commissions along the way; Elsa Tower, who wrote the society column for the Gold Coast’s bible, Pipeline; Sarah Page from the Goodman Theater; Carkey Bunting from Barney’s. All lamented his death and losing him as a part of their lives.
Message nine took me by surprise. Tribune columnist Connie Chan, the one who gave Ethan bad press, made a wry attempt to sound saddened about Ethan’s passing, saying he would have appreciated the spot on the ten o’clock news. Then she asked me to call her with details. I hoped she wasn’t waiting near the phone. She wouldn’t be receiving any fodder for her column from me.
Message ten had been left earlier this morning while I was still sleeping. Detective once again Velez entreated me to call adding it was urgent.
The final message was from Whitney Armstrong. Though Ethan always treated her civilly to her face, behind her back he called her all kinds of names, the gentlest of them being riffraff. One would have thought he would have been fonder of her since she fell into his beloved category of those who reinvent themselves. The former coat check girl from Gibson’s met her husband Jack Armstrong, president and CEO of Verry Lingerie, while moonlighting as a lingerie model in a gentlemen’s lunch club. The story goes he took one look at what Whitney did for his thong and his wife didn’t stand a chance.
Whitney’s figure was drop-dead gorgeous, despite her oversized implants, honed to perfection through the combined efforts of body building and technology. Never shy about showing it off, she nearly always wore something tight, low-cut, slit, short, or a combination of all the aforementioned. Needless to say she was a great devotee of Jean Paul Gaultier. Her face was a scientific marvel, as well, with a suspicious resemblance to a young Bo Derek, her hair golden blond, her cheeks as implanted as her breasts. She spoke in a breathy delicate voice reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe, causing me to wonder if it was manufactured, too. But oddly enough, despite her plebeian origins and Ethan’s disdain for her, I found myself genuinely drawn to Whitney for reasons even I didn’t understand.
“Pauline, is it true about Ethan, that he killed himself? I simply can’t believe it. How terrible it must have been for you to find the body. I…I…well, I can’t really say what I want to. Please call me.”
My machine clicked off with a loud beep. Whitney had sounded truly devastated, more so than anyone at the news of Ethan’s death. But I didn’t understand why she said he had killed himself. That had yet to be proven. I still didn’t believe Ethan took his own life. Which reminded me of Detective Velez and his two messages. I decided I best get back to him.
“Mrs. Cook, where have you been?” he demanded in a voice colored with impatience. In my mind’s eye, I could picture him drumming his fingers restlessly on top of a desk. Evidently, he had forgotten the way he had left me cooling my heels for the better part of the previous afternoon in an airless hallway with an uncivilized cretin. Quid pro quo.
“I’ve been incognito, Detective. I decided to recuse myself from civilization for a bit.”
“Well, something important has come up regarding your friend. There’s something we’d like you to take a look at. Can you come down here as soon as possible?”
“Where might ‘here’ be?”
“Area Three Headquarters, Belmont and Clybourne.”
The location he was referring to, this Area Three, was a tedious drive over dozens of congested city blocks. There were still so many calls to return. “Perhaps this afternoon…” I started to say.
“Look, if transportation is a problem, we can send a car for you. I’d come over by you, except I’m in it up to my neck at the moment.”
I toyed with asking him what exactly he was into “up to his neck” but let it go. The thought of a police car picking me up did have its appeal. My building is renowned for being particularly highbrow. Any potential buyer must go through a rigorous background check and the slightest hint of impropriety in either their life or their portfolio is grounds for rejection. My being seen getting into a police car might raise a few blood pressures. I did have my impish side. “You won’t hold me hostage like you did yesterday, will you?”
&nb
sp; “You’ll be my first priority.”
“All right then, Detective. I think I can be ready within the half hour. You may send a car for me then.”
The big question now was what to wear. I wondered if peach Escada would be a bit much for a trip to the police station.
5
A Letter from the Grave
Edgar rang from downstairs to tell me that I had a visitor. At nearly eighty years old, Edgar had a longer tenure at 213 East Lake Shore Drive than any of its residents. He had been employed at the building for more than fifty years. The board had tried to get him to retire on his golden anniversary, but he was a widower without any children and probably would have died of loneliness if he stopped working. Though he still maintained a professional appearance, his uniform always neatly pressed and his cap worn squarely upon his silver head, he was slipping mentally. The board was alarmed at the increasing frequency with which he dialed up the wrong apartment when announcing guests.
“Good morning, Mrs. Cook,” he greeted me, waiting dutifully as I stepped out of the elevator. “Your gentleman caller is out front.”
“Thank you, Edgar,” I replied, wondering if perhaps he really was losing it. “But that is no gentleman caller. That is a cop.”
“I see, Mrs. Cook,” he said unfazed.
I followed his stooped figure out the entrance and saw that Edgar had made an honest mistake. To my great disappointment, the carriage awaiting me was a nondescript white sedan in dire need of washing. I had expected a standard police car with the stack of blue lights on top and bold letters spelling out CHICAGO POLICE on the side. My disposition was further tested upon seeing who had been sent to collect me. It was Detective Malloy, the butcher of the English tongue. He leaned against the car smoking a cigarette, flicking its ashes into the wind. When he saw me he straightened up and crushed his cigarette out on the drive.
“Sorry to inconvenience you like dis,” he said. “A couple a things come up, and Velez thought it’d be better if he spoke to you in person.”
“That’s quite all right. I am happy to do anything that might help solve Ethan’s death,” I said generously. Edgar opened the car’s rear door and reached in to brush off the seat for me. Detective Malloy stared at him strangely.
“Is there something wrong, detective?” I asked.
“Well, most a’ my passengers ride in the back seat, but then again, most a’ dem are wearing bracelets and, well, they’re kind a nervous if you know what I mean. You never know what’s been on the seat back der. I mean with what you’re wearing and all, you might be more comfortable riding shotgun.”
Not wanting to expose peach silk to Lord only knew what, I took the front seat. Edgar had barely closed the door before we were on our way, Detective Malloy reminding me to put on my seat belt. He drove erratically, taking a route I always avoid, down Division Street through the housing project of Cabrini Green. The exterior staircases and halls of the blighted high-rises were wrapped in mesh barriers—presumably to prevent the tossing of something or someone from their heights. It was general knowledge that the buildings were coming down soon, though as I stared at the population of dark faces on the street, I wondered where all these people were going to go.
“Pretty fancy digs you live in over der,” he said, cutting in and out of traffic with the confident authority of being the law. “What’cho got up der, a two-bedroom?”
“Actually, I have three.”
“Tree. Must be nice. Which way you facin’? The lake?”
“My salon and dining rooms face the lake, two of the bedrooms face west, and the third faces south—as does my library.”
He was silent as he drew himself a floor plan. “Wait a minute. Lemme get this straight. You got north, west, and south views? What do’ya got? Half the floor?”
“Well, actually I have the entire floor. My kitchen faces east.”
He whistled. “Whoowee. Bet that set you back a pretty penny.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I fibbed. “My husband bought it before we were married.”
“Wow, he must be loaded. What’s he do?”
“He doesn’t do anything now, I’m afraid. He’s dead.”
One would think that would have stopped Jerry Malloy’s prying, but it didn’t. I suppose one who sees the more unseemly sides of life isn’t much bothered by conventional social graces such as tact. He continued, saying what most people think, but don’t have the nerve to ask.
“Bet’ya he left you a bundle.”
Unwilling to inform him he would be betting wrong, I changed the subject. “So what is this all about, detective?”
“Velez has got a couple of issues he want to talk to you about concerning your friend. Now in all likelihood, your friend’s death was most likely a suicide. But there’s something kind of strange the M.E. come up with. With most gunshot suicides, the shooter holds da weapon right up against his head like dis.” He pantomimed a gun with his forefinger and thumb and pressed it to his temple, flicking his thumb as if it were a trigger. “Or the shooter eats it.”
He started to put his hand into his mouth. “That’s not necessary, Detective Malloy. I get the picture.”
“Yeah, well, in the case of Mr. Campbell, the M.E. is saying it looks like he shot himself from about six to eight inches away. Dat’s what we call an intermediate range wound. Dat’s kind a unusual. True suicides don’t want to miss. Den again, maybe he wasn’t really sure he wanted to kill himself, was changing his mind at da last minute.”
“I’ve already made it clear, I don’t believe Ethan killed himself. What’s the other issue Detective Velez wants to talk about?”
He was uncharacteristically quiet before saying, “I better let him tell you himself.”
Area Three Headquarters at Belmont and Clybourne was quite unlike anything I had ever seen in my life. Not the building itself, which was a drab, low-slung brick structure resembling an institution, but rather the chaos surrounding it. The parking lot overflowed with people milling about and cars were parked all along the sidewalk in front of the building despite signs that read NO PARKING. When we pulled into the fenced-off section marked DETECTIVES ONLY all the spaces were filled drawing Detective Malloy’s ire.
“Motherfuckers! Dey come here for court and dey park wherever the hell dey please. Those ain’t police cars. Show’s how much respect dey have for da system.”
He pondered for a moment before parallel parking behind two cars, blocking them in. “Don’ worry. Dey’ll find me if dey wanna leave,” he said. I didn’t bother telling him I wasn’t worried about his parking. I was more worried about what might lay inside this center of justice if no one obeyed the laws outside.
The interior of the building turned out to be an introduction to a side of life I had heard but had never seen. Just inside the glass doors, we were met by a series of metal detectors like those in an airport. Several lines of slouchy, untidily dressed people were waiting to pass through, the majority of them young black males. Nearly all wore baseball caps turned backward and pants so enormous that the crotch hung down near their knees. This called to mind the story of Eleanor McFardle’s Jamaican fling several years ago, causing me to wonder if they wore the baggy trousers because they needed the space.
Detective Malloy nodded to a female police officer with a very large derriere, and we moved to the front of her line. I passed uneventfully through the metal detector, but this was not enough to satisfy the somber-faced woman. Clearly a stickler for details, she wanted to search my purse. The detective let out a stream of angry air and rolled his eyes at her.
“For Chrissake, she’s a witness,” he said.
“I don’t care if she’s the Virgin Mary coming to testify against Judas. All purses get searched. If she’s got a gun in there and decides to become Missus Vigilante, I’m the one who’s gotta answer.”
He looked at me apologetically. “Ya mind?”
Though I wasn’t terribly keen on the idea of someone’s greasy hand rummaging th
rough my Ferragamo bag, I played the good sport and did not make a fuss. The woman sifted through my personal belongings, commenting on my gold compact, before declaring me “clean.”
Detective Malloy and I proceeded into a large open lobby teeming with people, the sort who might set me to running were I to encounter any of them on a quiet street at night. They were people with tattoos and facial scars and hard-looking eyes. Studying the faces of this assembled humanity, I saw desperation and hopelessness, as well as anger. I found myself both fearing and pitying them at the same time, reminding myself I was in a police station, so that meant I was safe. Still, I kept close on the heels of the detective, afraid of bumping into one of the aimless bodies, unsure of what might rub off on me if I did. There was an underlying sense of danger, of something dark, in the air.
“What exactly happens here?” I inquired.
“This is where preliminary hearings are held,” my escort replied. “Most a dese scumbags are waitin’ to get der murder cases continued or der armed robberies trone out. Sometimes I don’t even know why we bother to arrest ’em.”
He led me past a bank of elevators and up a flight of dismal concrete stairs. “The elevators ain’t worth waitin’ for,” he explained. On the second floor, we passed through a pair of swinging doors into a large room filled with gray metal desks, all facing forward so that it looked like a classroom for adults. Fluorescent lighting exacerbated the putrid green shade of paint. Most of the desks were empty, but those that were occupied were occupied by men. The majority of them were on the phone except for a few speaking with people whom I took to be victims, their voices flaring occasionally, their faces twisted in anger or woe.
Well Bred and Dead Page 5