The Unspoken: An Ashe Cayne Novel

by Ian K. Smith

  “That’s why doctors have an answering service. The operators take the messages and get them to me in a timely fashion. That’s not my husband’s job.”

  “Do you give patients your home number? You know, just in case there’s something really urgent.”

  “That would be the purpose of 911. There needs to be some separation. I work very hard at keeping my homelife separate from my professional life. It’s as much for my own sanity as it is for the patient’s.”

  I gave her a friendly nod and a smile, then walked out the door. I knew that wasn’t the last I’d be seeing of Dr. Gunjan Patel.

  10

  MECHANIC AND I WERE SITTING in my office not doing much of anything and saying even less. I had just finished telling him about my meeting with Dr. Patel. Now I was nursing a cold root beer, counting the boats sailing by on Lake Michigan. Mechanic was doing handstand push-ups in the corner. I lost count at two hundred.

  “Uh-oh, looks like we’re gonna have some visitors,” I said. “Time to get out the Sunday china.”

  A long black tinted-window Cadillac Escalade with shiny chrome rims parked confidently across the street in front of a fire hydrant. Four men got out. The smallest one was well over three hundred pounds. Black suits, white shirts, and black ties that looked like shoelaces against their massive chests. I could tell by the bulges on their hips that they were all carrying. A fifth man got out. He was much younger and not in uniform. He looked like a stick figure standing next to them. They huddled around him like the Secret Service does around the president and hustled across the street toward my door, indiscriminately moving other pedestrians out of the way.

  Mechanic checked to make sure his Beretta 92 FS was loaded. He also checked his SIG P239. He put one on each hip, then took a position in the far corner where you couldn’t see him when the door opened. He had just gotten settled when there was a firm knock.

  “Come in before you break it,” I called out. With my right hand I held the Ruger P57 on my lap. I left the Smith & Wesson .500 Magnum revolver sitting on the desk so that it was immediately visible when they entered.

  The muscle entered first. They stood just inside the door and surveyed my palatial surroundings. Once they had deemed it safe, the principal stepped through. I recognized Chopper McNair immediately. The first thing to catch my attention was that he was exceedingly handsome. He wore slim-fit dark jeans and a blue long-sleeved rugby shirt that had a large polo horse logo stitched against the left chest. He walked confidently into my office. Two of the security guys stuffed into the office with him. The other two stayed in the anteroom, posted by my front door like twin sentries.

  “Welcome to my castle,” I said, waving my free hand toward the chair in front of me for Chopper to take a seat. He accepted my offer. I didn’t bother with his security detail. They wouldn’t have fit anyway.

  “My uncle said you wanted to talk to me,” Chopper said. “Something to do with Butterfly.”

  “Butterfly?”

  “That’s what I call Tinsley.”

  “Puppy love.” I smiled. “Brings back memories.”

  Chopper looked at one of his security guys and grinned. His teeth were big and perfect. “The guy’s got jokes,” he said.

  “Too many,” the lead goon said. I looked at his meaty face, which was covered in a thin film of sweat. I wondered what an unpleasant chore it must be to clean his laundry.

  “What’s life if you can’t laugh a little?” I said. “Helps to keep things moving. So, tell me about Monarch.”

  Chopper looked puzzled.

  “Monarch as in monarch butterfly,” I said. “Those beautiful large orange-and-black ones. Best known of all the North American butterflies.”

  He shook his head dismissively. “Spare me the nature class,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

  “How about her whereabouts for starters?”

  Chopper looked at the two goons who were standing behind him and jerked his head toward the door for them to leave. Mechanic remained in the shadows in the corner as if he were falling asleep.

  “Chairman don’t want you out of our sight,” the lead goon said. “Somethin’ happen and we as good as dead.”

  “Nothing’s gonna happen,” Chopper said. “We’re just having a little conversation. I’ll be fine.”

  The lead goon looked at me, and I gave him my high-kilowatt smile. He mumbled something, then lumbered out of the office with his goon compadre. Chopper got up to close the door.

  “He goes too,” Chopper said, nodding at Mechanic, who hadn’t changed his position for the last five minutes. His resting pulse rate was probably dipping somewhere in the low forties. “You and me one on one.”

  “Sounds fair,” I said. I didn’t have to say anything to Mechanic. He came to life, holstered his gun, and walked out the door without saying anything as he closed it behind him.

  When Chopper was back in his seat, he said, “So, it’s just you and me. Where do you wanna start?”

  “The beginning is as good a place as any,” I said, kicking my feet up on the desk and leaning back. “I have all day.”

  “Butterfly and I met last year at the Seven Ten Lanes on Fifty-Fifth Street in Hyde Park,” he said. “She was with a bunch of her girls. I was with my boys. She was looking for a ball that would fit her fingers and not weigh too much. I was looking for a ball for one of my boys. I have my own ball. When I looked over and saw her, I noticed she was putting the wrong fingers in the holes. So, I stopped and explained to her the right way to pick up and hold a ball; otherwise, she was gonna hurt herself. She asked me if I wanted to bowl with her and her friends. I told her that wouldn’t work. My boys and I had a serious match and we bowled for serious dough. But she was real fine and nice. I didn’t want to just let her go like that. So, I told her that if she wanted to really learn how to bowl, she and I could hook up later in the week and throw a few. She agreed. No hesitation. She gave me her number and told me to call her. Our first date was the following Saturday. We’ve been going strong since.”

  “You charming devil,” I said. “Irresistible.”

  “Don’t give me that shit, man. She’s the one who made the first move. I just closed the deal.”

  Seemed plausible enough. “Did you know who Tinsley was when you met her?” I asked.

  “Nope,” he said. “All I knew she was just real nice looking with a crazy body. And she was real sweet. No pretense or anything like that.”

  “And when did she tell you that her father was one of the richest men in the city?”

  “She didn’t,” he said. “That’s not Butterfly’s style. She doesn’t care about her old man’s money. Butterfly’s a free spirit. That’s why I gave her that nickname. I didn’t find out who her dad was for a long time. Hunter was the one who told me.”

  “And how did Tinsley find out your pedigree?”

  “As in?”

  “Your uncle.”

  “I told her myself. Nothing to hide. And she didn’t care. She knew I wasn’t my uncle, just like I knew she wasn’t her father. I work in a graphics design firm in the West Loop. I lead my own life.”

  “So, it’s true love?”

  “You got a problem with that?”

  I smiled. “‘Whoever loved that loved not at first sight.’”

  Chopper nodded, then said, “‘She loved me for the dangers I had passed, and I loved her that she did pity them.’ You’re not the only muthafuckah that reads Shakespeare.”

  “Touché.” I really liked this kid.

  “You act like people where I come from can’t like some rich girl and vice versa.”

  I shrugged. “It’s just a little unconventional, all things considered,” I said. “But to each his own.”

  “Butterfly is a special girl,” he said. “She’s not a phony like most people. She really cares about stuff. Lots of people who have what she has would be worried about their own shit. Butterfly’s just the opposite. She’s the most selfless person I’ve e
ver met.”

  “Speaking of meeting, how did your little meet and greet go with her parents?”

  “I haven’t met her parents,” Chopper said. “Yet. She’s asked me to go to her house several times, but I just don’t feel it’s the right time. I’m not stupid. I know I’m not what they had in mind for their daughter. There’s definitely gonna be some drama, and I don’t want any drama right now. Things are going too good for that shit.”

  “So, they know about you?”

  “Tinsley never hid me. She didn’t think her parents would be too thrilled, especially the way she describes them. Her mother wants Tinsley to date some rich tennis player from their country club. Her father is some big-time Republican worth a bazillion dollars. Can you imagine him standing up in a room full of his friends and introducing me as his son-in-law?”

  I had to stop myself from laughing at the thought of Chopper McNair and Randolph Gerrigan sharing pleasantries over tea and cucumber sandwiches.

  “You ever hear of a Dr. Patel?” I asked.

  “Her shrink.”

  “Why does she need a shrink?”

  “Lots of people need ’em,” Chopper said. “People with money do a good job of making things look perfect on the outside, but on the inside, they’re really fucked up.”

  “And what was fucking up Tinsley?” I asked. “Present company excluded, of course.”

  Chopper shook his head in disapproval of my little joke. “She and her mother have real issues,” he said.

  “Such as?”

  “It’s simple. Her mother’s too possessive. Treats her like she’s still a kid. Tinsley likes to be independent, make her own decisions.”

  I shrugged. “It’s her only daughter,” I said. “I’d think most mothers would have good reason to be possessive. Even more so when you have a daughter as good looking as Tinsley.”

  “Yeah, but she’s to the extreme, man,” Chopper said. “She pretends like she wants Butterfly to become her own person and be independent, but then she does things to show that she’s still in control.”

  “Things?”

  “She messes with her money so that sometimes she has to go to her to buy things. Or she blocks her credit cards if they get into an argument over something. Stupid shit like that. She can’t control Butterfly other ways, so she does it with money.”

  I nodded. “The money yo-yo trick,” I said. I wondered if Violet had been entirely honest about the $2 million trust Tinsley had just received. She’d led me to believe it was solely under Tinsley’s control. Maybe that wasn’t the case.

  We sat silent for a minute. Chopper was taking in my lake view. I could see his face softening.

  “Was the shrink shrinking her problems?” I asked.

  “Butterfly didn’t talk about that much, but she did say she was starting to understand her mother and what was behind all the problems they had. She said she was learning how to forgive her for the way she treats her.”

  “Why would Tinsley be talking to Zachary Russell from the Chicago Bulls?” I asked.

  “Because they’re friends.”

  “Nothing more than that?”

  “They went out a couple of times when he got traded here a while ago,” Chopper said. “Nothing happened. Now they’re friends. He’s cool people. We’ve hung out a few times. He’s gotten us tickets before. No big deal.”

  He had no reason to lie about something that could easily be verified. I leaned forward in my chair and looked directly into his eyes. “Do you know where she is, Chopper?” I asked.

  “No idea,” he said, shrugging.

  I believed him.

  “When’s the last time you heard from her?”

  “Five days ago.”

  He’d been counting. That put another mark in his innocent column. “Did she say she was going anywhere?”

  “She was spending the night at Hunter’s house. I texted her that night and told her to give me a call when she got up if she wanted to grab breakfast.”

  “Did she call?”

  “Nope, and she didn’t respond to my text. But I figured she slept in late. I gave her a call around lunchtime, but her phone went straight to voice mail. I called her later that afternoon. Went straight to voice mail again. I thought that was strange. She must’ve turned her phone off, but she never turns it off unless she’s flying or the battery’s dead. So, I called Hunter. Hunter said she never came over to her house, and she hadn’t heard from her since their last phone call.”

  “What do you think about Hunter?”

  “She’s Butterfly’s best friend.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Very protective of Butterfly. Real tough. She don’t take a lotta shit from people. She’s rich, too, but she don’t act like it.”

  “So, where do you think Tinsley might be?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” Chopper said. “Butterfly sometimes goes off on her own for a couple of days or a weekend and takes some time to herself. She’s like that. But even this is a long time for her.”

  “You think she’s hurt?”

  Chopper looked down and shook his head. “Butterfly can handle herself,” he said. “She’s a tough girl.” He paused abruptly. I could see his eyes getting wet. “I know she’ll be home soon.”

  “Why are you so sure?”

  “Because we made plans on spending our lives together.”

  “As in getting married?”

  Chopper’s face opened up into a wide, knowing smile. “Butterfly is definitely the one,” he said. “That girl has my heart.”

  11

  THE GERRIGAN REAL ESTATE Corp. occupied the top ten floors of 333 West Wacker, a sweeping arc of blue-green glass facing the Chicago River and grandly reflecting the passing boats and skyscrapers on the opposite bank. It was intentionally built to bend along the curve of the river, its surface seeming to change as the sun and clouds shifted patterns, transforming the building’s appearance throughout the day. Not the tallest or most expensive structure piercing the skyline, but it remained impressive and a favorite sighting on the Chicago Architecture Boat Tour.

  Not surprisingly, Randolph Gerrigan’s office sat in the northeast wing of the top floor with audacious views of downtown to the north and the lake to the east. He had allotted me fifteen minutes of his time, and that was only because his wife was becoming, in his words, “slightly hysterical” about their missing daughter. His secretary promptly led me to his inner sanctum, then closed the door. Chopper’s revelation that Violet controlled her daughter through finances, and Violet’s admission that Tinsley was close to her father, made me very interested in how Gerrigan viewed the entire matter.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked, standing up from his enormous glass-and-chrome desk and walking across the thick carpet to a bar set up along the wall. He was a fit man, nattily dressed in gabardine wool trousers, blue houndstooth-patterned shirt, and navy tie. A gold Rolex peeked from underneath his french cuff.

  “Nothing for me,” I said, waving him off. “It’s a little too early.”

  Gerrigan poured himself a tall gin and tonic, then mixed it with his finger and dropped a lime wedge in it. He walked over to a circular desk that faced the wall of windows and beckoned me to join him. I had seen many vistas of the Chicago skyline, but next to the one at the top of the Wrigley Building, this was one of the most stunning.

  “So, this is what success looks like,” I said.

  “Depends on your definition of success,” he said, taking a sip of his cocktail. “But from where I sit, this is pretty damn good.”

  “Amen to that,” I said. “You ever just find yourself in the middle of the day, looking over the skyline, just counting how many buildings you’ve collected?”

  Gerrigan took another generous pull of his drink, squinting slightly as he surveyed the city landscape. “I avoid looking at it in those terms,” he finally said. “Trying to keep score like that can be a distraction from the real work.”

  �
�Which is?”

  “Transformation. Growth. Service.”

  “Ah, of course,” I said, as if I understood what he meant.

  I looked at the snarled traffic below, inching its way along Wacker, then farther west to the expressway, where a line of trucks had come to a complete stop.

  “It must be a long commute to get here every day all the way from the North Shore,” I said.

  “I’m in very early; I leave early,” he said. “Helps me beat the traffic when the weather is cooperating. But this is Chicago, and like many other things in this city, traffic patterns can be quite unpredictable.”

  “But in a pinch, there’s always the good old helicopter, I guess.”

  “You say that with a tone of disapproval,” he said.

  “Not at all,” I replied. “‘To the victor belong the spoils.’”

  “Andrew Jackson,” he said.

  “Actually, it was William Learned Marcy, former governor and US senator from New York. But who’s keeping score?”

  Gerrigan nodded his approval.

  I looked around his spacious office. The wall opposite the window had been decorated with the heads of large game conquered on safari. In between the requisite photographs of the hard-hat-and-shovel groundbreakings, Oval Office photo ops with US presidents, and fundraisers with stiff senators, there were family photographs scattered through the years. It was immediately obvious the Gerrigan genes ran strong. I already knew Connor looked like his sister, but so did the much older brother, who lived with his own family in Seattle. Thick blond hair, strong jawline, and not an ounce of fat to be pinched on anyone. Tinsley stood on one side of her father, while her mother stood on the other. There wasn’t one picture where she and her mother stood next to each other.

  “So, what can I do for you, Mr. Cayne?” he said.

  “Just trying to help find your daughter,” I said.

  “You say that as if something has happened to her,” he replied.

  “Your wife definitely thinks so.”

  “Violet has always been a little sensitive when it comes to Tinsley.”

  “Sensitive how?”

  “She’s her only daughter. She wants what’s best for her.”