The Man Who Understood Cats

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  “Vincent Margolis. Forty-eight. Moved here fifteen years ago from the East Coast. Millionaire real estate mogul, philanthropist, art collector. Contributes heavily to local politicians. Never been in trouble with the law—at least since he came here.” He put the notebook away and looked at Thinnes. “Another thing. Besides his office suite here, he has a condo.”

  “I wonder what that costs?”

  “If you have to ask…”

  “…you can’t afford it,” Thinnes finished with him.

  They waited in front of the bank of stainless steel elevators. One of them opened. Thinnes and Crowne entered; Crowne pushed the appropriate button. “Oh yeah,” he added as the doors closed them in, “guy in traffic said Margolis isn’t above getting tickets fixed.”

  The office of Margolis Enterprises was very plush, with glossy, expensive brochures on the tables and contemporary art on the walls. The receptionist was also glossy and expensive, and her expression said plainly that Crowne and Thinnes were not her idea of prospective clients. She said, “May I help you?” Her tone was disapproving.

  Thinnes handed her his card. “We’d like to speak with Mr. Margolis.”

  She was startled by what she read on the card and gave Thinnes another look, then picked up her phone. “Mr. Margolis, there’s a…” she read from the card, “Detective John Thinnes, Chicago Police Department, Area Six—Violent Crimes division, here.” After listening to Margolis, she said, “Yes, sir,” and told Thinnes, “You can go right in.” She pointed to a doorway behind her. Thinnes and Crowne went through.

  Margolis’s inner office had an outstanding view of the river, expensive wood paneling, deep carpets, and more art. Margolis was seated behind a mile-wide walnut desk, with his fingers laced in front of him. Everything about him was smooth, urbane, professionally civilized, from his expensive suit and diamond cuff links, to his carefully manicured hands. His thick dark hair, a distinguished gray at the temples, was conservatively cut. His face was unlined—carefully lifted, Thinnes would’ve bet. He had a plastic-perfect nose and a mouth that gave the impression of sincerity and confidence. Success was the expensive perfume that covered up his natural odors. But he wore designer glasses through which no distortion showed when he turned his head; they were camouflage, designed to disguise his eyes, like the tinted glass of car windows that is outlawed in Illinois because it hides the occupants from view.

  He didn’t stand to greet them but sat looking at a point in space between them. “Detective Thinnes.” He indicated Crowne. “And this is…?”

  “Crowne,” Crowne said tersely.

  Thinnes felt his back-hairs rising. This was a man it would be easy to dislike. It wasn’t that he resented Margolis being rich. He just hated the attitude that seemed to go with having money—that it made you God’s gift to the world, put the title to the road in your glove box, and made your shit cleaner than anybody else’s. Some of ’em, like Dr. Caleb, managed to hide it pretty well, but it always seemed to leak out under pressure. Thinnes didn’t think it would take much pressure to squeeze it out of Margolis. How much pressure would it take to get Caleb to show his true colors?

  Margolis brought Thinnes’s thoughts back to the issue by indicating chairs on the other side of the desk. “Won’t you sit down?” They sat. Crowne took out his pen and notebook. Margolis asked, “What can I do for you?”

  Thinnes answered. “We’re inquiring into the death of Allan Finley.”

  “The name is familiar, but I don’t…”

  “Your accountant?”

  “My accountant is the firm of Wilson, Reynolds and Close.”

  “And one of their senior accountants—who worked on your books the day he died—was Allan Finley.”

  “I see. Then of course you would want to speak with someone here. Unfortunately, I can’t help you; I never met Finley. But you’re free to speak with my office manager.” Margolis picked up his phone and said into it, “Miss Ellis, these gentlemen would like to speak to Mr. Winters. Would you find him for them?” He put the phone down. “Winters will have dealt with him.”

  “I came here to speak to you,” Thinnes said.

  Margolis was amused. “Really, Detective. What an absurd waste of time—mine and yours. I didn’t know Finley so can’t tell you why he might want to kill himself. What possible reason can you have for wanting to speak to me?”

  “I don’t recall saying he killed himself.”

  “I read the papers. But you investigate murders.”

  “Among other things,” Thinnes said.

  “Well, that being the case, you’re looking for someone far more subtle than myself. Someone with a taste for the bizarre. Like my ex-wife, for instance.” Thinnes raised an eyebrow. “Anita Margolis, Margolis Gallery. Wilson, Reynolds and Close also does her accounting. Miss Ellis will give you the address.” Margolis got up and opened the door for them. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting.”

  Crowne looked ready to stay all month, but Thinnes shrugged and got up. As they went past Margolis, Crowne couldn’t resist saying, “We’ll be in touch.”

  “Winters was a lot of help,” Crowne said as they came out of the building. “Yeah,” Thinnes said. They got in the car and Thinnes pulled into traffic.

  “Evanger made it pretty clear he doesn’t want us making a federal case of this, so we’d better not both talk to this Margolis woman.”

  “She’s all yours. This isn’t my type of people.” Crowne had another thought. “Close told you he never found any irregularities in Margolis’s books?”

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it? But you know and I know, and Close undoubtedly knows, that there’s no law that he has to tell us the truth unless he’s under oath.”

  Nineteen

  The Margolis Gallery on North Michigan Avenue catered to the Gold Coast, wealthy people of expensive tastes and nearly unlimited means. Thinnes felt underdressed just walking in the door, but it gave him a delicious feeling of thumbing his nose at the gentry. He hadn’t gotten far when an artsy saleswoman, with a severe hair style and fashionable but ugly clothes, intercepted him. “May I help you?” she said haughtily.

  Thinnes flashed his star. “Ms. Margolis?”

  Only a blink revealed the woman’s surprise. She shook her head and pointed to the rear of the gallery. “Back there. On the ladder.”

  The showroom—he was not naive enough to think they called it that—was broken by fabric-covered panels into small display areas containing pieces Thinnes didn’t understand. No prices were evident. He made his way through the maze to the rear, where a petite brunette stood on a ladder, adjusting a painting suspended from the ceiling. She moved—and from behind, looked—like a teenager. About thirty-three, Thinnes guessed, five two, dressed in designer jeans and sweatshirt.

  She was being helped by a young black man, five eleven and clean-shaven, with a neat natural and amateur tattoos on biceps as big around as Anita Margolis’s thighs. He had the large hands and still-thin frame of adolescence, with a promise of future size. He was dressed in stone-washed jeans and a sleeveless tee shirt that made his shoulders broader.

  Thinnes had been—from his first awareness of sex—unequivocally and inalterably straight. His first reaction to homosexuality had been bewilderment—why’d anyone want to do that? Terms like cock-sucker, butt-fucker, and faggot had never held for him the rage and loathing they have for the sexually insecure. They’d had no more meaning than mother-fucker or son of a bitch, and were less satisfying as insults than asshole. He’d been a child of the Aquarian age, at least intellectually openminded, and if his later biases had been formed by the police culture and the scum he’d encountered as a cop, the first “guppie” he arrested in flagrante delicto had been an education. The man had been polite, articulate, and indistinguishable from the dozens of johns he’d busted hustling females. Except for the young pains in the ass with the log-size chips on their shoulders, Thinnes didn’t have anything against gays. Still, when Anita Margolis’s assi
stant moved to the other side of the ladder, the diamond Thinnes spotted in his right ear surprised him.

  He watched them for several minutes without announcing himself. After a final adjustment, Anita said, “What do you think, Mark?”

  Mark shrugged. “You could hang this honkey shit backward—it’d pro’ly look better.”

  Anita Margolis laughed without looking at him and swung her foot sideways against his chest. “Seriously!” Mark shook his head.

  Keeping her eyes on the picture, she jumped off the ladder and backed up until she bumped into Thinnes. She was startled, but said, “I’m sorry!” like a reflex. “Where did you come from?”

  Thinnes showed her his star, and her eyes widened. “Are you with customs?”

  “No. Homicide. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  She sighed. “Well, I haven’t murdered anyone lately, so ask away.”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

  Her office at the back of the gallery was a large room with two desks, one supporting a personal computer system, the other devoted to traditional paperwork. On a table against the wall were coffee supplies and a copy machine; crates had been shoved underneath. Papers and junk covered every flat surface, and paintings and wall hangings covered the walls. Post-its were stuck on everything, including the PC. Thinnes followed as Anita swept into the room, waiting while she cleared two of the chairs.

  “How may I help you, Detective Thinnes?” she asked when they were seated.

  She was Gigi or Audrey Hepburn or Mario Thomas as the girl next door. Effervescent wasn’t the word—that brought Alka-Seltzer to mind. Everything about her reminded Thinnes of the best champagne, the expensive kind that could make you very drunk without making you sick. She raised his blood pressure at least a dozen points.

  He took an unobtrusive deep breath and said, “Is the name Allan Finley familiar?”

  “Yes but…” She looked away, trying to remember, then shook her head and looked back at Thinnes.

  “Wilson, Reynolds and Close?”

  “Oh yes. The very serious young man with the red hair.” Thinnes nodded. “Is he in trouble?”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “Exactly?” He nodded. “I’ll have to look it up.” She walked over to turn on the computer. At the prompt, she typed in several words, and the name FINLEY, ALLAN came on the screen, along with WILSON, REYNOLDS & CLOSE; “WATER FOWL #37”; LITHOGRAPH; JASON ROGUE; $3700 (EMP DISC), and a date.

  Thinnes read over her shoulder. “What’s EMP DISC?”

  “Employee discount. I gave him ten percent off because he works for my accounting firm. The last time I saw him was…” She pointed to the date on the screen. “…the day he bought that print.”

  Thinnes pointed to WILSON, REYNOLDS & CLOSE on the screen. “When was the last time they worked on your books?”

  She made a face. “Last week.”

  Thinnes responded to the face. “What?”

  “My ex-husband’s idea. He owns forty percent—just enough to demand an audit when he wants to annoy me.”

  “The gallery pays for that?”

  “Just the first one each year. Vincent pays for any subsequent, unscheduled work, but he’s the sort who’ll spare no expense for revenge.” She looked very directly at him. “What’s this about?”

  “Do you know a Dr. James Caleb?”

  She seemed mildly alarmed. “Jack? Of course.”

  “That’s his nickname?” Thinnes figured out the answer before he finished asking the question. “Of course—from his initials.”

  Anita nodded. “He’s a close friend, and one of my best customers. Why?”

  “Dr. Caleb’s a collector too?”

  “Too?”

  “I understand Mr. Margolis collects art.”

  “If you can call it that,” she said dryly. Thinnes raised an eyebrow and waited for an explanation. “He has me import oils for him by a dreadfully inept expatriate American who lives on the Rive gauche and plays at being a bohemian.”

  Thinnes smiled in spite of himself. He found her very attractive.

  She responded, subtly, in kind. “Honestly, this man’s paintings are so awful, I wouldn’t hang them in an outhouse.”

  “So why does your ex buy them?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve never seen him display one—what is this all about?”

  Thinnes sobered. “Allan Finley was found dead in his apartment Friday.”

  Her face registered dismay. She started to say something, paused, then asked quietly and deliberately, “What has that to do with Jack?”

  “Caleb was Finley’s psychiatrist.”

  “Poor Jack…”

  Thinnes responded by waiting for an explanation.

  “To have lost a patient. Did he kill himself?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “Jack’s specialty, and he was—Finley was young and seemed healthy. If he was seeing a psychiatrist…”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  She shrugged. “He had to save for the print. He put down a deposit to hold it and paid cash for it three months later.”

  Thinnes looked at the PC screen. “Thirty-seven hundred dollars. Is that a lot?”

  “Not for a Jason Rogue. It’s really a good investment.”

  “Was Finley your regular bookkeeper?”

  “Wilson, Reynolds and Close usually sent whoever was available. Once Mr. Close came himself.” She gave him a dazzling smile; he took another subtle deep breath. She giggled and continued, “Vincent insisted on an immediate audit, and they were shorthanded.”

  “Have you ever had any trouble with the firm?”

  She was startled by the suggestion. “No.”

  “One more question. Do you know if Dr. Caleb uses Wilson, Reynolds and Close?”

  She seemed astonished by the question but answered with apparent honesty. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  Twenty

  Crowne and Ferris were hard at work on reports when Thinnes got back to Area Six. Crowne was using a department-issue manual typewriter, Ferris his own electric portable. Karsch came out of his office, heading for the coffee pot, and Ferris raised his voice enough for Karsch to hear.

  “Hey Crowne, what’s the difference between a psychologist and a psychiatrist?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure you’re going to tell us,” Crowne said without looking up.

  “About forty grand a year.”

  Thinnes glanced at Ferris, who grinned, then at his intended victim. Karsch looked moderately annoyed. Thinnes wondered if it was the remark about money that hurt or if Ferris had finally succeeded in getting Karsch’s goat.

  The psychologist disguised his irritation and ambled over to stand near Ferris. To aggravate him, Thinnes guessed. Ferris didn’t like having anyone who wasn’t a cop in on things.

  “You’d make more in private practice, Karsch,” Ferris told him. “You’ll never get rich working here.”

  “Oh, working here has its compensations,” Karsch said. “How would I ever meet someone like you in private practice?”

  However Ferris interpreted it—either that he was uniquely weird or too poor to pay the going rates—it was an insult. Thinnes chuckled.

  Crown laughed explosively and said, “Yeah Ferris, he’s probably writing a paper about you.”

  It seemed to Thinnes that Karsch looked smug as Ferris changed the subject. “Thinnes,” he said, “Marshall Close called. He’s arranging a memorial service for Finley, and he wants the names out of Finley’s address book so he can notify any interested parties. Is that what you call a Close call?”

  Thinnes and Crowne looked at him; neither bothered to hide his annoyance. Crowne said, “Why doesn’t he just put a notice in the obituary pages?”

  “Either he killed Finley,” Ferris said, “and he wants the names of his associates, or…”

  “Or he thinks Finley’s friends are too young to read obits,�
� Crowne finished.

  “It’d be a hell of a wake if nobody showed.”

  “Finley’ll be there,” Crowne said. “The ME just signed him off as a suicide.”

  Thinnes laughed humorlessly. “There goes your hit-man theory, Ray. Insurance won’t pay off on suicide, so odds are it wasn’t the sister.”

  “Finley did it, Thinnes.”

  “If you say so.”

  “’Least somebody’ll be at the wake, Crowne.” Ferris snapped the typewriter case shut and gathered up his paperwork. “Thinnes’ll be there.”

  Ignoring Ferris, Thinnes looked around the squad room. Half a dozen detectives were doing their respective things. Karsch walked into the property crimes office and looked out at the parking lot below. Ferris handed his report to the operations sergeant and did a little two-step as he left to avoid hitting a visitor coming through the doorway.

  “Well, well, well,” Crowne said as he recognized the visitor; Thinnes stood as he approached.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Caleb.”

  Caleb said, “My receptionist said you were looking for me.”

  Thinnes sat down and pointed to the chair next to his. “Have a seat, Doctor.”

  Caleb sat. To Thinnes’s surprise, he wasn’t the least nervous. Thinnes waited, but finally had to come to the point. “You’ve been playing detective. One of Allan Finley’s neighbors called to complain about all the people asking questions, so I checked and found you talked to the super and half the tenants in the building. And Alicia Baynes said you talked to her.”

  “I’ve been trying to find out what I can about Allan’s death.”

  “My job. It makes it more difficult if the people I have to question are prepared for me. It gives them time to think up alibis.”

  “I’m sorry. My impression, from the news, was that you were treating his death as a suicide.”