As she got out of her car, Bertie was met by a clipboard-toting white girl in her mid-twenties. With her faded jeans, University of Chicago T-shirt, and earnest expression, the girl’s job could not have been more obvious if she’d had the words “Student Intern” tattooed across her forehead.
“Right this way, Missus Bigelow,” she said. “Mister Sweetwater’s expecting you.”
As Bertie followed the intern through the warren-like maze of cubicles, she couldn’t help but notice that, unlike the rest of the neighborhood, Gilded Lily’s office hummed with purpose and activity. Men and women of all shapes, colors, and sizes hunched over their computer terminals or whispered into headsets attached to their ears. Mounted on a wall in the center of a nest of cubicles was a huge map of the neighborhood stuck through with colored pins. Next to the map, an architect’s model of a twenty-story building stood on a low wooden table.
Bertie stopped and pointed to the model. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Oh yes,” the intern said proudly. “Wabash Towers. Gilded Lily’s next project. It will have nineteen floors of luxury residences, with a Gap and a Starbucks at street level.” She pointed to an elaborate Styrofoam parking structure filled with colored Styrofoam cars next to the building. “There will be a completely secure parking area and twenty-four-hour security on the building as a whole.”
All the better to exclude the locals, Bertie thought wryly. She gave the intern a bland smile. “This will certainly change the neighborhood.”
“Absolutely,” the intern said without a trace of irony. “That’s what Mister Sweetwater is all about—opening up the South Side and connecting it to the rest of the city. Creating new zones of opportunity for forward-looking corporations and their investors.” She blushed and then added, “I get carried away sometimes. Sorry to be blabbing at you like this. If I’m not careful, Mister Sweetwater will be wondering what’s become of us.”
She led Bertie past another row of desks to the back of the building where a makeshift room had been partitioned off from the surrounding area. No doubt, this had been the store manager’s office back when the building had been used as a supermarket. The intern knocked discreetly on the door and, after a suitable interval, ushered Bertie into an office as utilitarian as the cheap plywood paneling on the walls. Sweetwater may have been designing and building luxury properties, but his nerve center was far plainer than Bertie expected. Boxes bulging with manila folders lay stacked in piles on the floor. Cardboard tubes stuffed with maps and blueprints leaned in haphazard piles between the boxes.
“Good evening, Missus Bigelow,” Max Sweetwater said. He was a hefty brown-skinned man who looked like he might have played football in college. Dressed in a rumpled brown suit, the real estate mogul’s collar was unbuttoned, his tie hung loosely, and his feet rested on the edge of his desk. As Bertie entered, the intern practically genuflected on her way out, closing the door softly behind her.
“Have a seat,” he boomed, waving grandly to a battered folding chair positioned across from his desk. “Sorry for the mess in here. My secretary can’t keep up with the filing, I’m afraid.”
As she perched on the edge of the chair, Bertie smiled. “Right now, the floor in my office is covered with sheet music. I can totally relate.”
“Organized chaos,” Sweetwater said. “The key to creativity.” He tapped his index finger to his forehead. “It’s all up here, Missus Bigelow. It may look like a mess, but it’s my mess, and believe me, my dear, I don’t miss a trick.”
Of that, Bertie had no doubt.
“Quite some operation you have here,” she said. “Are those students from the university you’ve got working for you?”
Sweetwater grinned proudly. “Grad students from the sociology department. I’m giving them a world-class lesson in urban planning, up-close and personal. Chicago is changing. If it is to survive, the South Side is going to need to change right along with it.” Excited, he stood up and pointed to a map taped to the wall.
“You see this area here? Right now, it’s a war zone filled with gangs, drugs, poverty, and violence. But in five years? In five years, Missus Bigelow, the Washington Park neighborhood will be on its way up. Did you know Obama’s going to build his library here? Investors who have the foresight to see beneath the surface of things stand to reap a significant reward for their courage, believe me. The U of C knows it. That’s why they’re sending me these kids. The mayor knows it. That’s why he’s pushing to green-light my Wabash Towers project.”
Bertie squirmed in her chair. The fact that its narrow bottom did not comfortably accommodate her generous rear end was only part of the problem. She was also having a hard time swallowing Max Sweetwater’s relentless propaganda campaign.
“What about the people who already live here, Mister Sweetwater? They can’t afford to drink five-dollar lattes or buy their clothes from the Gap. Aren’t you worried they’ll be priced out of their own neighborhood?”
Sweetwater’s laugh reminded Bertie of the Jolly Green Giant. “Have you been talking to Leroy Jefferson down at the zoning board? He tells me the exact same thing. But listen—since the gangs moved up here, those precious neighborhood institutions everyone is screaming about have become nonexistent. Do you know how many shootings we had in Washington Park this year?”
Although Bertie did not like to admit it, the developer had a point.
“If you’re living in Washington Park these days,” Sweetwater continued, “you might as well be living in Baghdad. I am doing this neighborhood a favor.” He pointed to a sword encased in an elaborate lacquer scabbard and mounted on the wall next to the map. “See this? It’s a samurai sword—a gift from my Japanese investors. The world is coming to Washington Park, Professor Bigelow. No matter what those shortsighted knuckleheads on the commission think.”
Bertie suppressed a smile. One thing was certain—the man was passionate about his work. “I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll get right to the point,” she said. She extracted a pen and a small notebook from her purse. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Sister Destina. Charley Howard has hired me to investigate her operation.”
Sweetwater’s eyes narrowed, giving Bertie the impression of a bird dog on point. “You’re working for Charley Howard? How do I know you’re not in the Mafia?”
“I assume that is a joke,” Bertie said curtly. “Mabel Howard is a friend of mine. Now that she’s got herself mixed up in a murder investigation, Charley’s asked me to talk to all of Destina’s regular clients.”
“I get it,” Sweetwater said with a grin. “The cops think Mabel did it, and Charley’s trying to dig up evidence to prove she didn’t. Sorry, Missus Bigelow. I’ve already spoken to the police. At this point, I’ve got nothing more to say.”
When Sweetwater pushed himself up from his chair to signal the end of their interview, Bertie remained in her seat.
“Mabel Howard could be arrested any day now,” she said. “But I believe she is innocent, and I think you do too. Anything you can remember, no matter how small, could really help her case.”
After a pause, Sweetwater sighed and dropped back into his chair. “I do not admit this to many people, but Sister Destina was my lucky charm. She’d do a reading to ask the spirits if I should buy a piece of property or not.”
“You trusted her? She was ripping off Mabel, you know. Predicting dire consequences unless Mabel ponied up for expensive remedies.”
Max Sweetwater shrugged. “Don’t know anything about that. When Sister Destina read for me, her advice was always on the money.”
“Can you think of anyone else among the psychic’s inner circle who might have had a reason to kill her?”
Again, the developer shrugged. “Not really. But I will say this much. I don’t believe Mabel Howard is capable of that kind of violence. The woman is about as harmless as they come. But that husband of hers? He’s another matter entirely.” He leaned forward and looked Bertie in the eye. “You seem like a
nice lady, so let me give you some free advice. I’d be very careful what you say around that man. He’s got a hell of a temper. I would not want to cross him.”
As Bertie gathered herself to make an appropriate response, Max Sweetwater’s telephone rang.
The developer’s expression darkened as he listened intently to the voice on the other end of the phone. “Leroy Jefferson did what?” he shouted. “He can’t deny my permit! We’re due to break ground next month.” Sweetwater listened intently for a minute, then exploded. “Christ, Beverly. This idiot is going to cost me a fortune. I’ve already booked a contractor, for Christ’s sake. I oughta smack the daylights outta that creep.” He slammed down the phone and glared into space.
Bertie cleared her throat gently. “Sounds like you’ve run into a problem.”
“Damn right, there’s a problem,” Sweetwater said. “Leroy Jefferson has persuaded the zoning board to block construction on my Wabash Towers project.”
“Can he do that?”
“Not for long,” the developer growled. “That little SOB is going to regret this day, believe me.”
“Really?” Bertie said sweetly. “How are you planning to retaliate?”
Max Sweetwater gave Bertie a startled look, as though just now becoming aware of her presence in the room. “Don’t be silly, Missus Bigelow,” he said smoothly. “Commissioner Jefferson and I are old friends. I am sure we can work it out.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few phone calls I need to make.”
“Just one more thing,” Bertie said. “Penny Swift told me that Jabarion Coutze is one of your employees. Is that true?”
A strange expression flitted across the developer’s face. Was it irritation? Anxiety? Before Bertie could fully identify it, the look had been replaced by a bland smile.
“Is that what Penny said?” Sweetwater’s booming laugh felt just a bit over the top. “I wouldn’t pay too much attention to anything she says, to tell you the truth. You know how people are, Missus Bigelow. They tend to read things into situations they don’t fully understand.”
“So Jabarion Coutze does not work for you?”
“I may have slipped the kid a few bucks now and then to be my eyes and ears in the neighborhood, but it was more charity than anything else,” Sweetwater said. “His daddy’s in jail, you know. Poor kid’s got murder in his DNA. I was simply trying to steer the boy in a more legitimate direction.”
No doubt about it. Max Sweetwater was hiding something.
As Bertie Bigelow said her goodbyes and wove her way through the maze of cubicles to the front door of Gilded Lily Development, Inc., she made a mental note to speak with Jabarion Coutze as soon as possible.
There was only one problem. Coutze’s father was Chicago’s most notorious drug lord—a latter-day Al Capone, responsible for the deaths of at least eleven rivals. Still, if Bertie was going to dig any deeper into the mystery of Destina’s murder, she was going to have to speak with the boy.
When Bertie phoned David Mackenzie at home later that evening, the burly lawyer answered his phone on the second ring.
“I’ve been to see Max Sweetwater,” she said. “I think he was lying to me about working with Jabarion Coutze.”
“Funny you should mention that kid,” Mac said. “I’m supposed to meet with him tomorrow. The kid lives on the North Side near Lincoln Park. Want to come along?”
“You bet, counselor,” Bertie said. “There are a few questions I’d like to ask him.”
As she poured herself a celebratory brandy before going to bed that night, Bertie caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She was grinning from ear to ear. Her relationship with Mac was strictly business, of course. But she had to admit the idea of sitting at his side while he fired incisive questions at a possible murderer excited her. To be honest, the prospect of doing just about anything with David Mackenzie excited Bertie. More than she was willing to admit.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Wednesday, October 25—4:00 PM
As David Mackenzie’s BMW inched along North Fullerton Avenue, Bertie looked out the window at the profusion of sights and sounds around her. Though it was only four o’clock, the sun hung low in the sky, backlighting the trees in Lincoln Park in a wash of autumnal color. It seemed to Bertie that everyone had chosen that very minute to savor the last remaining days of Indian summer. Purposeful professionals made their way through an obstacle course of joggers, nannies wielding oversized strollers, and elderly couples taking their poodles for a stroll. After circling the block several times in search of a parking space, Bertie and Mac got lucky when a green MINI Cooper pulled out of a space two blocks from Jabarion Coutze’s brownstone.
After being buzzed into an elegant foyer and clambering up two flights of stairs, Bertie and Mac arrived at Jabarion’s apartment. The door was made of polished wood and adorned with a heavy brass knocker that reminded Bertie of the ones she had seen on her last trip to London. Just as she prepared to use it, Jabarion—wearing a silk do-rag, low-slung jeans, and a sleeveless white undershirt—opened the door and waved them inside.
“Sister Destina was one of the few people who cared about me,” he said in a soft, high-pitched voice. “I can’t believe she’s gone. Please, come in.”
Jabarion’s apartment featured twelve-foot ceilings and a large bay window overlooking Lincoln Park. The walls in his living room were painted a soft tangerine and lined with miniature paintings of men embracing in various positions. As Bertie sat down next to Mac on the sleek leather couch facing the window, a whip-thin white man glided into the room and placed a protective hand on Jabarion’s shoulder.
“This is Roddy Frazier,” Jabarion said, giving the man’s hand a squeeze, “my roommate.”
“And lawyer,” Roddy said. His tone was light, but his eyes were hard. From the gray hair showing at his temples, Bertie guessed the man was in his mid-forties. Unlike Jabarion, he was elegantly dressed in a pair of Italian loafers, Calvin Klein jeans, and a lavender cashmere sweater. “I told Jabarion that he was not legally obligated to speak with you people, but he insisted. I am here to make sure his good will is not abused.”
Mac nodded. “Not to worry, Mister Frazier. I represent Mabel Howard, one of Sister Destina’s clients. I’d like to ask Mister Coutze a few questions.”
“Fire away,” Jabarion said. He took a seat in the low-slung armchair across from them and lit a cigarette. “Pay no attention to Roddy. He’s just an old mother hen. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Very well, Mister Coutze,” Mac said. “Tell me about the nature of your relationship with Sister Destina.”
“She was my friend,” Jabarion said simply. “When your father is doing time for murder, people automatically make assumptions. But Sister Destina understood me. She accepted me on my own terms.”
Bertie nodded sympathetically. “It must be difficult having such a famous name.”
“It’s hell,” Jabarion said. “People automatically assume the worst about you.”
Mac leaned forward and gave the boy an appraising look. “But Sister Destina was more than a friend, Mister Coutze. She was also your employer. What kind of work did you do for her?”
“Do you like movies, Mister Mackenzie? Perhaps I can explain it this way. Batman is the star—the main attraction, the superhero—but he can’t do his thing without Robin. Count Dracula has Igor. Captain Kirk’s got Mister Spock. You get the idea.”
“So you served as Destina’s lieutenant, making sure her business ran smoothly?”
“Something like that. I kept the appointment book. I showed the clients in and ushered them out,” Jabarion said. “It was high theater—quite camp, really. Not meant to be taken seriously.”
“Several of Sister Destina’s clients took it quite seriously,” Mac said sharply. “They paid thousands of dollars for phony psychic treatments. And here’s something you might want to take seriously. The DA is likely to have you arrested for fraud.”
&
nbsp; Jabarion laughed. “You don’t scare me, Mister Mackenzie. Sister Destina was a very private person. She did not tell me about her treatments, and I did not ask. What she did inside that inner sanctum of hers was her own business.”
“You mean to say that you knew absolutely nothing about Sister Destina’s business practices?” Mac said.
“Nothing whatever,” Jabarion said, ignoring a cautionary look from Roddy Frazier. “I kept her appointments. Nothing more.”
Bertie leaned forward and cleared her throat gently. “But Sister Destina wasn’t the only person you were working for, was she, Mister Coutze? There’s a rumor going around that you and Max Sweetwater had some kind of business arrangement.”
“Who in the world could have given you that idea?” Jabarion said. “Did Sweets tell you that? My, my. Well, if anyone would know, I guess it would be him. Just bear in mind, the man has a tendency to exaggerate.”
“He certainly does,” Bertie said mildly. “He told me to stay away from you. Said you had murder in your DNA.”
“The muthafucka said what?” Jabarion’s hand shook as he ground out his cigarette and lunged to his feet. “That crooked bastard has got some nerve. Ask Max Sweetwater about the Home Hoodoo Program, Missus Bigelow. Ask him!”
Moving with the nimbleness of a dancer, Roddy Frazier positioned himself between Jabarion and his guests. “It’s been oh-so-lovely chatting with you folks,” Frazier said, “but my client has nothing further to say. Don’t even think about coming back here without a subpoena.”
It was after five o’clock by the time Bertie and Mac left Jabarion’s apartment. Although the traffic on Outer Drive had slowed to its customary rush hour crawl, the two were in excellent spirits.
Mojo for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery Page 10