“Slow down, Stanley, and tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know squat.” In the halogen lights of the garage, his knuckles were white on the wheel as he steered the big van down the tight curve of the exit ramp. “Just that Mr. Ballsard seems so sure it’s over.”
At the bottom, he shot across several lanes without looking, rocking to a stop at an open pay gate. I told him to pull over after he paid, so we could talk. And live. He steered off to the side and put the van in neutral.
“Start with what you heard from the police.”
“Mr. Ballsard got a heads-up from Chief Morris that the Feds were going to arrest Mr. Chernek on a charge of embezzlement.”
“Who made the charge?”
“Miss Terrado. She used to live at Crystal Waters with her parents. She sold the house after they died.” He reached for a folded newspaper on the floor between the front seats and handed it to me. “This morning’s Tribune. It says Miss Terrado is accusing Mr. Chernek of stealing two hundred thousand dollars from her accounts by putting it into a phony investment.”
“Could it be true?”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know about things like that.”
“Take a guess.”
“We should get going. I need to be home.” He put the van into drive and pulled out of the garage exit. I held my questions, deciding my chances of survival were greater if I didn’t interrupt while he drove.
He didn’t speak again until after he’d turned onto Fifty-fifth Street. “You can imagine, in my job, I hear stuff.” He sounded reluctant, like he felt he was ratting out his own brother. “Most of it’s baloney, just gossip, but did you notice the empty desks at Mr. Chernek’s office?”
“Hard to miss. I heard he was losing clients, and that his staff was leaving, but I also heard that’s normal when the stock market is rocky.”
“I’ve been at that office plenty, Mr. Elstrom, and I can tell you, there used to be people crawling all over those offices, crowding the aisles.” He looked over at me. “You notice his reception room?” The van drifted toward the shoulder.
“Watch the road, Stanley. Yes, I noticed.”
“Anybody ever waiting when you went in?”
“I came late in the day, both times.”
“Doesn’t matter. That reception room used to be packed with people waiting to see Mr. Chernek or one of the associates. No more. And then there’s the mail.”
“The mail?”
“You know we inspect the mail at Crystal Waters? Examine the envelopes, and irradiate anything that looks suspicious?”
“For anthrax?”
“That, and other stuff. We got a service that picks up every day, nukes anything we don’t like the look of. I can’t help noticing a lot of the Members have started getting envelopes from new investment companies like Paine Webber, Salomon, Merrill Lynch. Places that do what Mr. Chernek does. And people from those places have started coming to Crystal Waters for appointments at night, too, with the Members that used to use Mr. Chernek.”
“People blame their investment advisors when their portfolios tumble. They look for a change.” I shifted on the seat to look at him. “Do you really think losing clients gives Chernek a motive for extortion?” I remembered when I’d asked the same question of Leo.
Stanley kept his eyes straight ahead, his mouth closed. He wasn’t ready to take that step. But his silence was loud.
I turned back to look out the windshield at the taillights speeding past Stanley’s now-sedate thirty-five miles an hour. We drove in silence for several minutes until he turned north toward Rivertown.
“What am I going to do, Mr. Elstrom? What if Mr. Ballsard is wrong, what if it’s not Mr. Chernek, what if there’s another bomb?”
“Have you talked to Till?”
“All this just happened yesterday afternoon.”
“Call him. Ask if we can come in for an update.”
“Then what?”
“That depends on Till. Where’s Chernek now?”
“I suppose at home.” Stanley pulled up in front of the turret. “I almost forgot. How was California?”
It was only that morning that I’d drunk peppermint tea with Lucy Vesuvius. It seemed like it had been a year ago.
“I found Nadine Reynolds. She goes by the name Lucy Vesuvius now. Michael Jaynes has been sending her bits of money ever since he left California in 1970, but she says she hasn’t seen him.”
“Do you believe her?”
“There’s more. The lady at the store in Clarinda told me that a man named Michael, or somebody else, calls every few months, inquiring about Nadine Reynolds. Lucy didn’t admit that.”
He cut the engine. “What do you mean, ‘or somebody else’?”
“Something about the Michael Jaynes lead doesn’t add up.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, Stanley.”
“So you think it could be Mr. Chernek, too?”
I opened the van door, grabbed my duffel, and got out. “I think your bomber could be Michael Jaynes. And yes, it could conceivably be Anton Chernek. But I also think it could be Bob Ballsard, some other Member, or anybody else who’s gotten into Crystal Waters in the past few months. So I also like ‘or somebody else.’ Call me when you get us set up with Till.” I gave him a wave as he started the engine and pulled away.
I pulled out my mail from the tin box, unlocked the door, and went in. The turret smelled like the inside of a varnish can. I opened a couple of the slit windows, turned on a fan, and ate a peanut butter sandwich standing up while I read through my mail. An unstamped City of Rivertown envelope smelling of coconut was under the electric bill. On city stationery, Elvis had written, “Absolutely no pink roof will be allowed,” and had drawn two quick circles around the rendering of the turret in the upper right-hand corner. I wadded it up and threw it toward the garbage can. I missed.
With the Bohemian a suspect, and Ballsard convinced the matter had ended, I was probably out of a job. Maybe that was a good thing.
I finished the sandwich, washed my hands twice to get rid of most of the smell of coconut, and went up to the third floor. As I opened windows, I noticed a dark sedan parked down on the street, in the shadows past the streetlamp. Lovers, I thought, watching the submarine races on the river.
I needed that kind of youth, that kind of optimism. I sat on the cot, threw my clothes toward the chair, and dropped my crowded head onto the pillow. I’d had too much to think.
Till’s office was on the fourth floor of a beige box on South Canal Street in Chicago. Stanley and I were escorted to a beige conference room at the end of a beige hall at ten the next morning. A splash of real color in that place probably would have caused a stampede.
Till was already there, in his brown suit. “Tell me about Nadine Reynolds,” he said, his face its usual scowl.
I’d put the blank sheet of paper and the envelope addressed to Nadine Reynolds in a plastic bag. I set it on the table.
“She was Michael Jaynes’s girlfriend when he took off for the Midwest late in 1969. Ever since, I think he’s been sending her small bits of money in envelopes like that one. Notice the postmark and the computer font.”
He held the bag up and examined the envelope and the blank sheet of paper. “She says these are from Michael Jaynes?”
“She likes that idea.”
“Never a letter?”
“Just a blank piece of paper, like that one, wrapped around the money.”
“You believe her?”
“About that part, yes, but she says she hasn’t seen nor spoken to him since he left California.”
“You don’t believe her about that?”
“The lady at the general store in Clarinda told me a guy named Michael—he doesn’t leave a last name—calls every once in a while, asking about Nadine Reynolds.”
Till straightened up in his chair. “What did this Lucy say about that?”
“She didn’t. She just shook her head.�
��
“And that was enough to stop you from asking anything more?”
“Nadine changed her name to Lucy Vesuvius years ago. She’s been living the hippie dream in the hills north of San Francisco since Michael Jaynes took off, giving card readings, getting by with a small garden, probably growing her own weed. I don’t think she’s seen him since. If they’d been communicating, he’d know about her name change. He wouldn’t be sending cash to her, or calling the local store asking about her, using her old name.”
“Why does he send her money?”
I shook my head. “She doesn’t question. She’s just grateful.”
“For a ten or a twenty?”
“For the contact.”
“Did she say why he’s hiding?”
“I didn’t tell her he disappeared. She said they were both on the fringe of a group that set off a bomb that blinded a bystander, but she swears neither she nor Michael was involved, and that Michael didn’t go into hiding.”
“What else did you learn from Lucy Vesuvius?”
“She grows her own tea.”
Till smiled a little twitch of a smile. “What kind?”
“Peppermint.”
“Did you get high?”
“Not that I noticed.”
The little smile disappeared. “Then how can you believe Michael Jaynes has had no communication with her other than to send her bits of money, or to call once in a while, asking somebody else about her?”
“I didn’t say I believe anything. I said she believes it.”
“Did you stop to think maybe he’s sending her some sort of prearranged signal?”
“Send your own guy to interview her, Till. Someone more cunning.”
He shrugged. “She said all the payments have been postmarked from Chicago?”
“Just like that one,” I said, pointing to the envelope in the bag.
“I don’t suppose you thought to get that twenty he sent?”
“I thought fingerprints on paper money …”
“It would have been a remote chance, but it would have been nice to try. I’d feel a lot better if we could tie Michael Jaynes to these with a fingerprint.” He tapped the plastic bag containing the blank sheet of paper and the envelope.
“What about Chernek?” I asked.
Till leaned back and clasped his hands together behind his neck. “Chernek’s not my case. That’s F.B.I.”
“Come on, Till.”
He dropped his hands. “I’ve been briefed, that’s all. Over the past year and a half, the value of the funds Chernek manages for his clients has declined substantially. A big chunk of his client base left him to go to other money managers. His business is down, he’s lost many of his associates, he’s having personal money problems. And he likes to live big. Nice office, nice house, nice things. So when one of his clients contacted the Bureau, accusing Chernek of diverting funds, they looked into it. Funny accounting gets immediate attention these days. And the Bureau saw enough to get a warrant for his arrest.”
“You had nothing to do with that?”
“Ask me what you really want to know, Elstrom. Ask me if Chernek’s money problems give him a motive. Only an idiot wouldn’t see that. And though I’ll deny it, it’s why we grabbed him as quick as we did. If he’s got potential, we need him neutralized.”
“He’s out on bail now?”
“They had him less than two hours. The kind of connections he’s got, they did real good having him that long.” He turned to Stanley, who hadn’t said one word so far. “What’s going on at your end?”
“Mr. Ballsard will be the chief contact for the investigation instead of Mr. Chernek.”
“I meant about evacuating Crystal Waters.”
“I don’t think Mr. Ballsard has made up his mind.”
“Jesus, Novak.”
“I’ll tell him you’re concerned, Agent Till.”
Till leaned forward in his chair. “Tell Ballsard to quit dodging my calls, or I’ll have him brought down here. Tell him Chernek’s arrest means nothing. He must get his people out of Crystal Waters, send them to their summer homes or wherever people like that go, until we know what we’re doing. Tell him if he doesn’t get those people out of there, I’ll call the press and spread the word like I’m ringing a bell.”
Perspiration beaded across Stanley’s scalp.
“You don’t think it’s Chernek,” I said to Till.
Till turned to look at me. “I’m ruling nobody out.”
“Then why don’t you act like it? Don’t you think you should be investigating anybody who’s had access to Crystal Waters in the last six months?”
“Like the people who plant the shrubs and cut the grass?”
“Among others, certainly.”
“I work with what I’ve got, Elstrom.”
“We’ll still pursue Jaynes?” I said.
“You mean the A.T.F. should still pursue Jaynes.”
“Exactly.”
“Our computer artist is doing an aging of his Army photo, to get some ideas of what he might look like now. We’ll send it to San Francisco and to our offices in the Midwest. They’ll send it on to electrical suppliers and contractors. Maybe we’ll shake something loose.”
“Like you did with Nadine Reynolds?”
Till stood up. We were done.
“I think Mr. Chernek is an honorable man,” Stanley said.
“One can hope,” Agent Till said.
In the elevator, I told Stanley I was finished with the case.
He was surprised. “Why?”
“I’ve been working for Anton Chernek, who is now a prime suspect. You’ve got the attention of the F.B.I. and A.T.F. They need to check out this Michael sighting, sweat Lucy like I can’t. And they need to open up the investigation, start considering others beyond the missing Michael Jaynes and Anton Chernek. I can’t do any of that, Stanley. It’s got to come from A.T.F.”
“I’ll talk to Mr. Ballsard. I need you to stay involved.”
“Ballsard and I …”
“I’m sure he no longer thinks about last Halloween. Let me talk to Mr. Ballsard.”
In the parking lot, he told me he’d be in touch.
I called Leo from the car and suggested fine dining at Kutz’s. The coarse onions Kutz dropped like carpet bombs on his hot dogs would scour away any lingering effects of the California granola cakes with raspberry. And I wanted to bounce an update off Leo’s head.
Traffic outbound on the Eisenhower was light, and I got from downtown Chicago to Kutz’s while the line of construction workers and truckers was still a dozen deep outside the order window. I parked at the far end of the lot to wait for Leo and fell asleep.
Stan Getz’s saxophone backing Astrud Gilberto woke me up. Leo had pulled up next to me, wearing a Panama hat and the kind of big plastic sunglasses they give to old people after cataract exams. In his enormous purple Hawaiian shirt, he would have looked like a retired jeweler who had wandered away from an assisted living facility in Miami Beach, except that he was driving a brand-new Porsche Carrera convertible with the top down.
“How many miles did last year’s Porsche have on it, Leo?” I asked out the open window of the Jeep.
He grinned up at me. “Fifty-four hundred. But Endora saw this color and said I ought to snap it up before they discontinued it.”
I stepped down from the Jeep and walked around Leo’s new car. It was silver, with a pinkish cast to it. I looked at Leo, still seated behind the steering wheel, in his ridiculous straw hat and black septuagenarian sunglasses and smiled.
“Endora said I’d grow to love the color,” he grinned.
I nodded. One of the many reasons I liked Endora was that she melded her eccentricities with Leo’s, encouraging Leo to be Leo, only more so. If that meant a pink Porsche once in a while, so be it.
Leo was buying, so I ordered two hot dogs. “My billing client may go under indictment, so you might have to feed me until I collect Social Security,” I said
as we waited by the window.
“Makes sense.” Leo slid the sagging tray carefully off the counter and carried it to a table in the shade of the viaduct. “Tell me what you learned about Michael Jaynes,” he said, shooing away a pigeon and sitting down.
“Don’t you want to talk about the Bohemian?”
“In due time. First Jaynes.” He picked up a hot dog.
“He calls.”
That stopped him. He set down the hot dog.
I told him about Nadine who became Lucy Vesuvius, about the random arrivals of the ten- and twenty-dollar bills over the years, and about the man named Michael who called the store in Clarinda every few months.
“No telling, though, whether it is your Mr. Jaynes?”
“Nor, if it is, if he ever gets up to Lucy’s place.”
“There’s never a letter with the cash?”
“And such a modest amount, at that.”
Leo took a bite. “Meaning?”
“Meaning once again this case is defined by 1970 dollars. Dollars that don’t make sense.”
Leo’s eyebrows inched up from behind his cataract glasses, waiting.
I went on. “I believe the money demands—the ten thousand, the fifty thousand, the five hundred thousand—were written back then.”
Leo nodded. “You’ve said that.”
“Why use those old notes at all, Leo? Why not write new letters—letters demanding much larger dollars?”
“You’ve said that, too.” He started on his second hot dog.
“Then there’s the money Nadine’s been getting all along. Ten or twenty bucks would have bought a big bag of groceries back in 1970, but it’s not even a tank of gas today.”
“It’s all he can spare.”
“Could spare, Leo. The last envelope was postmarked three days after the half million was left behind Ann Sather’s. If Jaynes had just come into half a million dollars, wouldn’t he have stuffed a lot more into the latest envelope?”
Leo’s dark eyebrows were all the way up now, poised just under the brim of his straw hat. “Unless?” he prompted.
“Unless the bombings are not about money at all.”
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