“I have an idea asking for a cease and desist order isn’t what you have in mind.”
Becky shook her head quickly, almost a vibration. “I’d have to go to court. Coming out like that would ruin my career.”
“You sure? A little scandal, secret identities, some salacious letters? Could be just the kind of publicity a writer of…” I thought hard. “Paranormal urban vampire erotica couldn’t buy if she wanted to.”
“You don’t get it. Look at me.” She swept her hands down along her sides. Attractive in a cute way, with her rosy cheeks and round chin. Probably a little heavier than she’d like, or used to be. A little sister grown up. “This is not the persona that sells these kinds of books. I couldn’t present myself as Desiree if I wanted to, and I don’t want to. I’m Becky, and Becky is all I ever wanted to be. The books are fun to write, and I’ll admit my husband and I have fun with what’s in them sometimes. I’m hoping to put Sammie and A.J. through school with the royalties. But only Desiree can do that. Becky can’t.” Came up for air, indecision and what might be fear on her face. “He knows where I live. He knows where my kids live.”
“What do you want me to do?”
She didn’t have to say for me to know she had no idea. “Get him to stop. I don’t know how. I asked about you. You…have a reputation for handling things with discretion.”
That was one way to put it. Some would say I had a reputation for killing people. “Where did you hear that?”
“I went to school with Michelle Finnegan.”
“Who’s Michelle Finnegan?”
“You did some work for her mother-in-law a few years ago.” She must have seen that didn’t help me. “Michelle’s married name was Mitchell.”
I sat back as deflated as if she’d butt-ended me with a hockey stick. I’d worked a cold case for Michelle Finnegan Mitchell’s mother-in-law that achieved justice: The men who’d killed her grandson were dead. What I uncovered tore apart what was left of Michelle’s family. Yeah, I was discreet as hell.
“Michelle told me how you kept things quiet so they could live as normal a life as could be expected. You know, after.”
“Did she mention that among the reasons we were able to keep things so quiet was because those responsible were dead?”
Becky might as well have had a glass forehead for all the better it concealed her thoughts. “I don’t want you to kill anyone. Or even hurt them. I just thought someone with your reputation for handling…bad things…if you talked to him…”
“I might scare him off.” I was sorry as soon as I said it.
“No no no no no. Not like that.” She looked at her hands cradled in her lap. “I don’t know what to do. I thought you might. My husband…” She paused. Considered options. ”He doesn’t know how to act, he’s so mad and frustrated.”
“About your husband. I half expected to see him here today. Any reason he’s not?”
Becky looked down. Might have blushed. “He doesn’t know. After the third letter he got so I never told him about the fourth. Or that I called you. He says he wants to find this guy and take care of it himself. I don’t know how. I don’t think he does. Beat him up, or something. But he has no idea how to find him, and he’s not a violent man. I’m half sorry I ever said anything to him in the first place. He feels impotent. That’s the word he used: impotent.”
At least she didn’t think I was impotent. “Can I have the letters? I doubt they’ll tell us anything, but you never know.” She nodded and nothing else stood between me and the worst part of such a visit. “I hate to mention this, but you need to come up with an idea of how much you’re willing to spend. You don’t have to decide right now, but think about it.” I told her my rates and the kinds of expenses likely to accrue. “Don’t let yourself in for too open-ended a commitment. You should have a number in mind. Spend that and it’s time to cut your losses.”
Becky fussed with her hands a few seconds. Made the first solid eye contact since she told me why she’d called me. “It has to stop.”
2.
Downers Grove Detective Kurt B. Delauter was one of those cops who tried to pass as a nice guy. Big smile, firm and enthusiastic handshake, profound interest in why I was there, all phony as a whore’s orgasm. Loved his middle initial. Displayed it on his desk’s name plate, the security badge hung around his neck, and the business card he handed me before I had a chance to sit down. A lesser man would have asked what it stood for. I believe a person who wants anything that transparently doesn’t deserve it.
“Sure, Becky Tuttle came to me. Couple weeks ago. Brought me some letters. She show them to you?”
I laid a Ziploc bag holding the letters on his desk. He asked if I’d read them. “Browsed.”
“See anything actionable?” He went on before I could answer. “Even she admits everything in there came right out of some books this other woman wrote. What’s her name? d’Arnaud?”
“You don’t think they’re a little risqué to send to a woman anonymously?”
“You ever see the nasty shit kids text to each other? This is no big deal.”
“Easily identifiable text messages between consenting adolescents is one thing. These are sexually explicit letters from an unknown source. You don’t think there’s an implied threat there?”
Delauter gave me the condescending look he must have shown Becky. “I guess I can see where someone of a certain personality might. For all we know, her husband could be sending them to spice up their sex life.”
“I just left her. It’s a safe bet these are not spicing up their sex life.”
“No argument. I didn’t talk to her in that kind of detail.” He brandished the business card I’d given him. “You’re a PI that does field work. Were you a cop, or military?”
“Both. My military service wasn’t in law enforcement.”
“So, a cop. Look at those letters again, as a cop. Show me anything that’s actionable. There’s no, ‘I’m watching you,’ or, ‘I know what you like.’ No threats of any kind. What am I supposed to do?”
The shock of sitting in a room with a man who didn’t see anything wrong here delayed my response. Delauter didn’t wait. “I know what you’re thinking. Even if I did take a liberal definition of one of those violence against women statutes, I don’t have jurisdiction. We have no idea where those letters are written.”
“So if someone reports a dead body in McCollum Park you don’t investigate unless they can prove he was killed there? That’s bullshit and you know it.”
Delauter didn’t like my appraisal of his skyscraper in the swamp. “If there’s a criminal threat—not that I agree, just saying for the sake of argument—the crime—if there is one—occurs when the letters are mailed.” He raised a hand to block my interruption. “It’s no crime to write anything you want. Sending it’s the crime. He mailed the letters in Chicago. That’s where the crime took place. Chicago.”
His train of thought didn’t just insult my intelligence. It hurt my feelings. “Really? That’s the argument you want to make?”
“That’s the argument you’re making. I don’t think there’s a crime at all. You’re going to come back with how there’s no threat until it’s delivered. Well, it’s delivered to her mail box by the Postal Service.”
“So the mailman’s an accomplice.”
Delauter made a great show of forbearance. “Using the mail makes it federal. She needs to talk to the Postals. Or the FBI. Hell, Homeland Security, it’ll make her feel better. There’s two big-ass federal buildings downtown. They’ll all be there.” He pushed the bag of letters toward me. “As far as this office is concerned, no crime has been committed over which we have jurisdiction. Now tell your story walking.”
3.
I looked at the place where Tony’s garage used to be as I walked past on my way to work. For almost ten years I parked my car there. Broke balls with Tony coming and going each time. Semi-adopted his assistant, Joey, a good-hearted Baby Huey lookalike with an IQ less than his height
in inches. Tony cashed out six months ago, sold to a developer who wanted to build…something. Condos, probably, given the location. Girders rose over temporary construction fences, cranes already attached. The old parking structure was on its way down before Tony got home from the closing.
It still struck me odd how busy things seemed when I came into the office with the work day in progress. Not how busy things were—lots of small businesses had more ongoing activity. How busy it seemed, with as many as five or six people getting around each other in a space intended for two, expanded to fit three.
Sharon Summers and I were Forte Investigations for most of its checkered existence. Sharon greeted the visitors, kept the books, and took care of everything in the category of “overhead.” I investigated. Over time she got her own license and came to handle most of the computer-based work. Turned down a job as a full-time investigator a year ago. Said most of the people who came to see us would rather be anywhere else—root canal, colonoscopy, used car dealer—than here. She enjoyed putting them at ease.
No argument from me; that was her gift. She had a soothing quality that made talking to her, even sitting near her while waiting, as stress-reducing as a laughing baby. Looks to take the breath away when we first met. Now small laugh lines showed, her jaw not as taut. Face and figure both a little fuller. No longer a beautiful girl; a beautiful woman. We held positions in each other’s lives friends rarely do and lovers never can.
Delbert McCall was a former Texas Ranger brought in to help out part-time and became a fixture. Since then we’d promoted Andrew Burke to full-time and had half a dozen cops moonlighting as our needs and their schedules allowed. The busywork of running what had become a successful business now consumed three-quarters of my time. Had Becky come to the office, someone else would have drawn her case. Sammie’s virus and my house’s Bolingbrook proximity to Becky’s in Downers Grove aligned to give me something to investigate. I might have taken her case for that reason alone.
Sharon had a handful of pink message slips. “Nothing urgent. Dan Hayes called about that extra space.” Dan managed the building. He’d been trying to move us into bigger digs for almost a year. Nothing that came open suited us, and I didn’t want to take the time to look elsewhere.
“Did he talk to that jackhole Abercrombie?” Eric Abercrombie’s office was twice the size of ours. His business had fallen off and Dan wanted to arrange a straight-up swap.
“Yes, he did. Apparently Mr. Abercrombie wants us to pay his moving expenses.”
“We already said we would. Christ, we’re on the same floor, not fifty feet apart. All he needs is a hand truck and he wants a hand job.”
“And to pay less rent for our space than we’re paying now.”
“Dan and I already agreed to split the difference.”
“And he wants the suite to be renovated.”
“Dan promised to paint and change the carpets for both of us. Told me it was cheaper than having to find a new tenant.”
“Apparently Mr. Abercrombie wants some interior walls moved and improvements made to the plumbing and wiring. ‘Substantial improvements’ was how Dan said he put it.”
“Such as? And stop calling him ‘mister.’ The little swindler doesn’t deserve that much respect.”
“He wants an open floor plan, where everyone can see everyone else.”
“He doesn’t have that now. Besides, have you seen him and his staff? They don’t want to be able to see each other. What else?”
She looked at her note. “More internet jacks.”
“Only three people work there.”
Sharon was still reading. “Plumbing for the coffee maker, a refrigerator with an ice maker and filtered water dispenser…”
“No one in the building has any of that.”
She shrugged. “That’s what he wants. And he reminded Dan he has two option years left on the lease after this one, so he’s not going anywhere.”
I flipped through the rest of the slips, slapped the sheaf against my thigh. “The extortion will come any day now. He’s made demands Dan can’t accommodate, but Abercrombie doesn’t want to queer the deal altogether because he can’t afford to stay where he is. It’s only a question of whether he asks Dan for the cash—knowing I’ll make it right—or comes to me directly. I’ll call Dan.” I held up one of the messages. “What’s this from Diane? Is Caroline all right?”
Sharon stifled her lips. Her eyes gave away the smile. “I should be mad at you for not knowing I’d tell you anything about Caroline right away, but this is too good. Diane called to thank you for paying all of the talented and gifted summer program expenses. She said that should have been a fifty-fifty split.”
“We had a good month.” Any divorced father with a clue knows there are a million little things he misses or can’t help out with. Some are financial—incidental expenses lumped into “child support—but still add up. Diane and I signed our child support agreement when Forte Investigations was me working alone out of whatever vacancy Dan had at the time. She’d watched the business grow and never asked for a penny more. “So long as she doesn’t start expecting it all the time.” I winked and went into my office.
The seat hadn’t warmed before Andy Burke knocked on the door jamb. “You got a minute?”
I waved him in, gestured to one of the two visitors’ chairs. Nice chairs now, not the wooden maidens that made potential clients wonder where I kept the rubber hose. All the thrift store shit was gone, replaced by real office furniture from Steelcase. Not their top of the line, but good stuff, as it reminded me every time I had to move something and wondered if Aluminumcase sold a similar item. “What’s up?”
“I need a favor. I’m supposed to work tonight, but my kid made the all-stars and there’s a tournament game at seven o’clock. I’m here if you need me, but I’d love to catch that game.”
“What are you working on?”
“Paul McConnell.”
“Refresh my memory.” A weird feeling, having more business than I could keep in my head at once.
“It’s a custody case. Wife got a divorce because the husband drinks. The agreement specifically states he cannot drink—at all—or he loses his unsupervised visitation. I’m supposed to pick up his tail when he leaves for work.”
I’m the last guy who wants to deny a father access to his kids. Barbara McConnell’s appeal for their safety wore me down. Agreement in place, she heard a story that led her to believe Paul was not only drinking again, but had been driving under the influence with the kids in the car. We made her understand the limits of what we could do and agreed to keep an eye on him from the time he left work until he got home. “I’m free tonight. Go to the game.”
“Thanks, boss. I owe you one.”
“We’re even if the kid gets a hit.” Andy gave me the particulars on McConnell and went off to do whatever else he had going on.
I asked Sharon to let me know when Delbert got in and got out my fingerprint kit to work on Becky’s letters.
Halfway into buying Cubs tickets online for Caroline and me when Sharon buzzed to tell me Delbert was here. The kid and I were both Sox fans. Drove her yuppie mother crazy. The Pirates coming to town gave me an excuse to go to Wrigley. I told Sharon to send him in after he’d returned any calls and to come in with him. Bought a pair in the nosebleed tier off the first base line.
Delbert came in carrying a sweating can of Dr. Pepper, Stetson tilted back on his head. Six-three and rangy as a young Clint Eastwood—not as skinny—he’d been scheduled to appear in a Ranger recruiting ad as soon as he got back from a simple fugitive collection. The con’s partners tried to bust him loose. They hurt Delbert bad enough to stop Rangering. He hurt three of them bad enough to stop breathing. Met a nurse in rehab who made Chicago winters more comfortable than Texas summers, and here he was.
Sharon came in, asked the question with her expression, and closed the door. There weren’t many women I’d discuss these letters with in graphic detail. I hadn
’t even read them aloud with Becky Tuttle. I’m no prude, but I see no reason to offend people unnecessarily when there are so many opportunities to do so with cause. Sharon’s job here made her privy to things that would make a biker blush. I needed an unvarnished opinion as to how a woman might reasonably react. Sharon kept no varnish anywhere near the shelf where she stored her opinions, so here she was.
I gave them copies of the letters, the originals scanned and filed and blackened with fingerprint powder. Focused most of my attention on Sharon. Someone who didn’t know her as well as I did would have missed what little she gave away. One word came to mind: appalled.
They finished at almost the same time and looked to me for what came next. “It gets worse.” I told them the story of Becky Tuttle and Desiree d’Arnaud and the elaborate measures intended to keep them separate. Without authorization, I had expanded the number of people who knew by forty percent. So it goes. I needed their help. The Rangers had given Delbert their highest clearance. Sharon had kept my middle name to herself for years.
“I wondered if that might be who we were working for.” Sharon not yet over her distaste. “My friend Elaine reads all her books. Got me to read one last year. I recognized something in the third letter.”
“What’s the job?” Delbert said.
“She wants us to put a stop to it.”
“Doesn’t sound like she wants us to build a court case. The way you put it.”
“It’s more delicate than that.”
He nodded. Let things percolate for half a minute. “You got any ideas how to find this degenerate? Can’t get him to stop less we know who he is.”
“I thought about posting an operative at every drop box in that ZIP Code on Monday mornings until we got a hit. I doubt even the leading author of paranormal urban vampire erotica could afford that. So I dusted them for prints.”
“Who’s gonna run them for you?”
“I thought I’d ask Sonny Ng.”
“Not Jan?” Sharon said. A detective who worked for Sonny with whom I’d had a brief romantic relationship.
Second Story Man Page 28