“You’ve been under a lot of strain lately,” Bertie said in what she hoped was a calming tone of voice. “Perhaps you should lie down and rest.”
“You don’t believe me,” Mabel said sadly. “Nevertheless, my guidance was clear. You need to stay indoors for the next ten days.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” Bertie said. “I’ve got to go to work, you know.”
“Okay, I get that, but don’t go out unnecessarily. And especially don’t go out at night. That’s the most dangerous time of all.”
Bertie shook her head sadly. “Get some rest, Mabel. Mac and I are doing everything we can to help you beat this thing. Meanwhile, do what the doctors tell you, and please try to stay out of trouble.”
Perhaps Mac would be better off building an insanity defense, Bertie thought as she pulled on her coat and stepped outside. Mabel Howard had gone completely ’round the bend.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Tuesday, November 7—7:20 PM
The zoning board was located downtown in a large modern tower at the north end of the Loop. In normal circumstances, it would have taken Bertie no more than forty-five minutes to get there, but at that time of the night, traffic was terrible. Worse still, she had to circle the block three times before she was able to find a parking space.
The reception room was empty by the time Bertie walked into Commissioner Jefferson’s office. No one manned the two large desks positioned at the front of the room, and no one sat in the row of leather-backed wooden chairs along the wall.
Muttering under her breath, Bertie checked her watch. It was now seven thirty. She was half an hour late, but perhaps the commissioner had not yet left for the day.
“Hello,” Bertie called out. “I have an appointment to see Commissioner Jefferson. Is anyone here?”
She continued to call out as she stepped around the receptionist’s station and walked past the rows of empty cubicles, but all she heard in reply was the sound of her heels clicking against the polished marble floor.
Just as she was about to give up, Commissioner Leroy T. Jefferson—wearing a tan three-piece suit, tasseled loafers, and a pink bowtie—emerged from a door at the end of the corridor.
“Ah! There you are, Missus Bigelow. I was afraid you were not going to be joining me this evening.”
“I’m sorry to be so late,” Bertie said. “Traffic was terrible on the Outer Drive.”
“These things happen,” the commissioner said grandly, holding open the door to his office. “The important thing is that you are here. Please come in.”
As a teacher of singers, Bertie couldn’t help but notice Jefferson’s flawless diction. It’s downright uncanny, she thought. Almost like listening to a machine.
A large oak desk dominated the room. The wall behind it was lined with the pictures of previous zoning commissioners—beefy men of power with broad smiles and shiny suits. To the right of the desk, a set of glass bookshelves held pictures of Jefferson, his hulking wife Alvitra, and their two pudgy children. To the left, a Japanese samurai sword in a decorative lacquer scabbard hung suspended from a hook on the wall.
Commissioner Jefferson closed the door and lowered himself delicately into the leather chair behind his desk. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said and gestured toward the armchair across the desk from him.
“Will your assistant be joining us? Your secretary indicated that he would be present.”
“I’m afraid my secretary misspoke, Missus Bigelow. There will be only two of us this evening. I hope that’s all right.”
It was definitely not what Bertie had expected. But unless she was willing to walk out of the meeting, there was nothing she could do about it. Taking her seat, she put her handbag in her lap, clasped her hands over it, and smiled.
“I’m sure you must be very busy,” she said. “I appreciate your taking the time to see me.”
“About the psychic you mentioned last night,” Jefferson said. “This Sister Destina person. Can you tell me anything more?”
“I don’t know much more than you do,” Bertie said. “Sister Destina was running a protection racket. She gave one of your interns two hundred dollars to sprinkle rotten meat in your food. She knew that, if you got sick in Charley’s restaurant, the place would be shut down immediately.”
The commissioner steepled his fingers and studied her thoughtfully. “And this Destina person told you I owned property on Argyle Avenue?”
Bertie nodded. “She wrote about it in a document she mailed to me the day before she died.”
“Destina must have been mistaken,” Jefferson said in his high, precise voice. “More likely, it was a deliberate lie. The crazy he-she had already tried to kill me.”
The commissioner had a point. Given all the other nonsense in Destina’s thesis, the “unspeakable evil” at Argyle Avenue might just be another paranoid fantasy. But Bertie had a hunch. An intuition that, in spite of his prim language and self-righteous demeanor, Commissioner Leroy T. Jefferson was hiding something.
“Destina was working for Max Sweetwater,” she said. “Perhaps he told her about your property.”
“Sweetwater knew nothing about me.” Pursing his lips disapprovingly, the commissioner leaned forward in his seat. “The man was a loathsome opportunist. He sucked our community dry in order to line his pockets. His death was tragic, of course. But at the risk of sounding callous, I think he got what he deserved.”
“Your antipathy appears to have been reciprocated,” Bertie said mildly. “Sweetwater referred to you as a ‘rule-bound paper-pusher.’”
“Point taken,” Jefferson said with a thin smile. “Are you familiar with the Washington Park area?”
“I live in Hyde Park. Just a couple of miles away.”
“A couple of miles and at least five income brackets,” Jefferson said tartly. “Believe me, Missus Bigelow, Max Sweetwater’s so-called development company is the worst thing to happen to Washington Park in years.”
“Perhaps,” Bertie said. “But what does any of this have to do with Sister Destina? Argyle Avenue is nowhere near Washington Park. Can you explain why she would refer to your property as a place of ‘unspeakable evil’?”
“The woman was a complete and total fraud. She wasn’t even a real woman. Surely, you’re not going to believe anything she had to say.”
“But you do own a condo on Argyle Avenue,” Bertie said. “It’s a matter of public record. I looked up the deed myself.”
“You don’t understand,” Jefferson said softly. “My wife doesn’t know about the Argyle Avenue condo. There’d be hell to pay if she found out.”
Surprised at the commissioner’s swift change from pompous bureaucrat to terrified husband, Bertie decided to press her advantage. “Who are Kolab and Maly? Do they live there?”
Jefferson’s eyes narrowed. “Where did you get those names?”
“The more relevant question is, where did Sister Destina get them?”
“I do not appreciate people poking around in my private affairs. Kolab and Maly are none of your damn business.”
“But Sister Destina made it her business. Didn’t she, Commissioner? Was she blackmailing you?”
Jefferson’s mouth tightened in a grim line. “You are making a big mistake, Missus Bigelow. Don’t push your luck with me.”
Confident that she now had the commissioner on the run, Bertie was about to ask her next question when something silver caught her eye. For a moment, her brain failed to comprehend the meaning of the strange object. But then time stopped.
Commissioner Leroy T. Jefferson was holding a revolver in his right hand.
“My attorney is aware of my whereabouts,” Bertie said, struggling to keep her voice steady. It was a lie, of course, but perhaps Jefferson wouldn’t realize it. “If I do not return home by nine o’clock, he will call the police.”
Jefferson studied Bertie across his desk for a long moment without speaking. “No, Missus Bigelow. No one knows you’re here. You’re the only one who’s
discovered my little secret.”
“Put the gun down,” Bertie said quietly. “I won’t tell your wife about your second home. I promise.”
Jefferson leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. While he considered her proposal, Bertie clutched her purse and shifted to the edge of her seat. If the commissioner could be distracted for even one minute, she might be able to escape. The door to the outside corridor was directly behind her and only six feet away.
As if he had read her mind, Jefferson sat erect and steadied the gun with both hands.
“I’m afraid it is far too late for negotiation,” he said. “However, I am a generous man. Before you die, I am going to tell you a story. Have you ever been to Thailand?”
Bertie shook her head. Though her heart was hammering against her ribcage, it would not be wise to let the commissioner see how frightened she was. As though making polite conversation at a dinner party, she said, “I hear it’s a beautiful country. I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“The women in Thailand are nothing like the pushy broads you find over here. Thai women know how to make a man feel like a king. Especially the young ones.”
“Are Kolab and Maly from Thailand?” Bertie asked, starting to put the pieces together.
“They came from Cambodia originally,” Jefferson said. “And now they are mine. Two beautiful virgin brides, each just twelve years old.”
“Virgin brides?” Bertie felt a rush of anger. “Those girls are far too young to be anybody’s bride. What you are doing is wrong, Commissioner. Surely you can see that.”
“Think you can stop me? I am a king, Missus Bigelow. The King of Argyle Avenue. No one is going to keep me from enjoying my little peaches. Not the immigration authorities. Not my gold-digging shrew of a wife. And certainly not a nosey bitch like you.” The commissioner eyed her coldly. “I have to say, I’ve never shot anyone before. I’m much better with a sword. But I doubt you’d hold still long enough for me to retrieve my weapon of choice from the wall.”
Bertie willed herself to stay calm. “Is that how you killed Sister Destina? With a sword?”
“What else could I do? She’d had some kind of prophetic vision. She called to say she’d been watching my condo for weeks, that she knew all about Kolab and Maly. She demanded I come out to the house to see her. She even threatened to tell the police.” The commissioner smiled thinly. “I’ve been collecting swords for years, but I never thought I’d actually get to use one.”
As Bertie sat clutching her purse, she realized that Commissioner Leroy T. Jefferson was stark raving crazy. At this point, her only hope was to keep him talking.
“There was music playing on the CD player when I got there,” she said.
“A nice touch of staging, don’t you agree? If there had been time, I would have selected music for Sweetwater’s chastisement as well. ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’ by the Beatles might have been nice. But I had to be quick. I could already hear Mabel Howard moving around in the main office.”
“But why did you kill him?” Bertie said. “What did Max Sweetwater ever do to hurt you?”
“I did the world a service, removing that greedy bastard from the planet. The man was a pox on society. When Sweetwater realized I was not going to allow the commission to approve his monstrous tower on Wabash Avenue, he went berserk. The man actually slapped me. Me, Leroy T. Jefferson, the King of Argyle Avenue! He really shouldn’t have done that. Not in his office late at night with no one else around. And especially not with that fancy samurai sword hanging within easy reach. I mean really, Missus Bigelow. What would you have done if someone had disrespected you like that?”
“But I’m not being disrespectful,” Bertie said. “There is absolutely no reason in the world for you to kill me. What will Kolab and Maly do if you get caught? Your virgin brides will be orphaned with no one to take care of them. Surely, you wouldn’t want that to happen?”
“Nice try, Missus Bigelow,” Jefferson said with a thin smile. “But you and I both know that, if I let you live, you’ll go straight to the police. I can see it in your eyes.”
“I would never do that,” Bertie said, arranging her face in the most guileless expression she could muster. “You can trust me.”
“Tisk tisk, Missus Bigelow. Don’t you know lying is a sin?” Jefferson’s egg-shaped face twisted in an ugly leer. “Didn’t your mother teach you anything? You remind me of my lovely wife, Alvitra. Have I told you about her?”
“I met her at the meeting last night,” Bertie said. “Is that her picture on the shelf behind you? She’s lovely.”
Jefferson’s laugh was as humorless and dry as sandpaper. “Let me enlighten you, Missus Bigelow. My wife is a stupid, petty, materialistic pea brain. If Saks Fifth Avenue were to close tomorrow, her life would end. I only married Alvitra because her daddy was rich.”
“How fascinating,” Bertie said. Noticing that Jefferson had lowered his gun slightly, she gave an encouraging nod. If she could keep Jefferson talking long enough, perhaps she could persuade him to put away his gun. “So you got your start in Chicago political circles when you married Alvitra?”
“So I did,” Jefferson said. “But once I became commissioner, I no longer needed her. I was a big man in my own right. And do you think my wife ever acknowledged my achievements?”
“I’m sure she did,” Bertie said gently.
“For a college professor, you are awfully stupid,” Jefferson snapped. “To this day, Alvitra treats me like a retarded ten-year-old. She orders me around, yells at me as if I were deaf. She gives me no respect, Missus Bigelow. No respect at all.” Suddenly, the commissioner whirled and fired a bullet into his wife’s picture on the shelf next to his desk. As the glass exploded and splinters flew, Bertie flinched in terror.
“Damn, that feels good,” he said. The commissioner’s jubilant grin was horrifying. “I was a little concerned about using the gun, but I needn’t have worried. Killing you is going to be fun.”
“But you haven’t finished your story,” Bertie said. If anyone else was working late in the zoning office, they would have heard the gunshots. Perhaps someone was hurrying down the hallway to investigate that very moment. “You told me about your wife, but you haven’t told me about how you met Maly and Kolab.”
Jefferson’s expression softened. “Yes. You should learn about my beautiful flower children before you die. It’s been hard keeping that secret. It truly has. Every time I’m sitting in a meeting. Every time my pea-brained wife harangues me. Every time one of my tiresome constituents starts a new complaint, I smile inside. Why? Because I know I have a secret identity. I may look like just another bureaucrat, but on Argyle Avenue, I am a king. Do you hear me? What I say goes. No arguments, no talking back. My word is law in my kingdom, Missus Bigelow. Law.”
I bet it is, Bertie thought grimly. Two young girls, trapped in a foreign country over eight thousand miles from home, were not in a position to complain about much of anything.
“How did you get the girls over here in the first place?”
Jefferson waved a dismissive hand. “That was the easy part. There are plenty of folks in Asia just hungry enough to sell their children. Maly and Kolab were a bargain, in fact. Even with airfare, they cost me less than fifty grand, the both of them.”
“Have you thought about what you will do when they get older? You can’t keep them locked up on Argyle Avenue forever.”
“Can’t I?” Jefferson smirked. “My flower children will stay with me as long as it pleases me to keep them. After that, I can always buy new brides to replace them. Like I said, Missus Bigelow, on Argyle Avenue, my word is law.” The commissioner stood and began to pace back and forth behind his desk. The more he talked, the louder his voice became. “Life and death are mine!” he thundered. “I am the king!”
As Jefferson continued to shout in this vein, his gestures became more erratic. A tic had sprouted underneath his right eyelid, and the pulse near his temple throbbed angrily. Though
he still held the gun, it was no longer focused on Bertie. Instead, he was waving it wildly, stabbing it into the air to emphasize his point.
“I am Leroy T. Jefferson, the King of Argyle Avenue!” he bellowed. “Mine is the kingdom! Mine is the glory!”
Slowly, Bertie slid her hand into her purse. Thank God her iPhone was near the top of her bag for once. She kept her eyes fastened on Jefferson as she swiped her fingers frantically across the phone’s surface. Praying she had unlocked the device, Bertie felt along the bottom and pressed what she hoped was the emergency button. The salesman at the Apple Store had assured her that this button would allow her to call 911, even if she were physically unable to punch in the correct digits. The likelihood of that happening had seemed ludicrously far-fetched at the time. But at the moment, the phone’s emergency button was the only thing standing between Bertie Bigelow and certain death.
Jefferson laughed deliriously and pointed his gun at his wife’s portrait. “Take that, you greedy, ballbusting whore,” he shouted and fired his pistol. “No one will take my flower brides away. No one. They are mine—my jewels, my miniatures, my temples of pleasure.”
As Jefferson fired another bullet in the general direction of his wife’s now shattered portrait, Bertie heard a tiny voice speaking inside her purse. Hopefully, the commissioner was too deep in his mania to notice. The prissy, fussbudget bureaucrat who had met her in this office thirty minutes ago had unraveled completely. Globs of spittle formed on Jefferson’s thin lips as he continued to rant in staccato phrases.
After firing another shot at Alvitra’s picture, he stepped around his desk and began to walk purposefully toward Bertie.
“The time has come, Missus Bigelow,” he said. The sudden absence of emotion in his voice was chilling. “Now that you know my story, you will understand that I have no choice but to kill you. The king has spoken.”
Bertie dug frantically into her purse. Somewhere in there was the can of pepper spray Ellen had given her. Okay, girlfriend. It’s now or never.
“Down on your knees, worthless female,” Jefferson said and pointed the gun at her head.
Mojo for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery Page 17