by DC Brod
Later that afternoon Pam dropped the keys and the electronic garage door opener off in my office along with written instructions on the care and feeding of Ms. Kluszewski’s plants.
Before driving to my temporary residence, I brought the letters Hauser had given me to a guy I used to work with when I was on the force. Harry didn’t owe me any favors or anything. In fact, I am probably indebted to him for the rest of my natural life for a lot of reasons. The main one, I guess, is the way he and his wife, Carol, took care of me after Joan and I split up. I was pretty lost for a while there and they kept inviting me over for dinner. After a while,
they started playing the matchmaker games. I think it was Carol’s idea mostly. I never knew what to expect when I’d knock on the door of their apartment with a box of chocolates, or, if Carol was dieting, flowers. Then one week I brought chocolate-covered cherries, and Maggie was there. She loved chocolate-covered cherries—and me for a while.
Let’s not get maudlin, Quintus, I mentally kicked myself.
Anyway, Harry was good when it came to pulling something out of nothing. He used to be a pathologist with the department and now he had his own research lab and contracted his work out. He also taught part-time at Loyola. The department was sorry to lose him. He was good. If there was anything to be told from these pictures, he would find it. Harry wasn’t in the lab, and I debated whether to leave the pictures for him. I decided against it, leaving him a note instead. I’d call him later.
Driving over to the condo, I kept thinking how good it would feel to put my feet up, and I wanted to get started on the files Hauser had given me.
I slid the garage card into the machine and the door lifted like I had said Open Sesame. I pulled into the underground garage and followed the numbers labeling each tenant’s space until I got to 1240. It wasn’t possible. It was occupied by a yellow Mustang convertible. News of an empty parking space in this city spreads faster than a flash flood.
I had to park about three blocks from the building, and by the time I walked the distance, carrying a bag of groceries and a suitcase, my hands were freezing because I hadn’t the foresight to put on my gloves and was too stubborn to put down my packages and dig into my pockets and get them. I decided that my first official act as temporary tenant in the building would be to call a towing company.
I had trouble getting the key to work in the apartment door, partly because my hands were freezing and partly because I was trying to juggle all the stuff I was carrying. When the lock finally stopped fighting me, I was so relieved to be in the apartment that it didn’t immediately occur to me there was something wrong. Then, several things registered at once. An empty apartment shouldn’t have this many lights on. It shouldn’t smell like popcorn. And it should be empty.
I won’t soon forget my first glimpse of Elaine Kluszewski. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, swaying slightly, stockinged feet firmly planted on the tile floor. Even without shoes she was tall. Her hair was reddish brown and pulled back behind her neck. She wore a dark green skirt that looked like it was part of a suit and one of those white, professional blouses with an ascot and a pin. In her left hand she held a whiskey Collins glass filled with what appeared to be only slightly diluted scotch or bourbon. In her right hand, pointed in the general direction of my chest, she held a .38 automatic. It swayed, along with Elaine, from side to side a little. I froze, gripping the groceries with one hand and my suitcase with the other.
“Drop your luggage.” Her words were slurred and as she spoke, she closed one eye and tilted her head back, as if trying to get me into better focus.
I let my suitcase fall and raised my hand, palm toward her, in a gesture of surrender.
“Don’t move.” She was still swaying and her words had that clipped, overly distinct quality that characterizes someone trying very hard to appear sober. “I don’t want to kill you.” She lowered the gun so that it was aimed about a foot lower. I swallowed hard. “I am not aiming at a vital organ.”
“Look,” I said, “there has been a misunderstanding.”
“Don’t interrupt me.” She took three healthy swallows from her glass, teetered backward and caught herself.
Scrunching up her eyebrows, she said, “Explain that.”
“Pam Richards gave me the keys. I’m a friend of hers.”
Her posture relaxed a bit, but I still felt I was being judged and found wanting. Either she was waiting for me to continue or was on the verge of passing out.
“Are you Elaine Kluszewski?”
She nodded.
“Pam said you were leaving the country for a while and were looking for someone to rent the place while you were gone.” A horrible thought smacked me upside the head. I laughed tentatively. “Either that or one of us has really irritated Pam and this is her idea of getting even.”
“What’s your name?”
“Quint McCauley.”
Her mouth dropped. “You’re Quint McCauley?” I nodded, not sure whether I should dig my toe into the carpet or tell her I had identified myself incorrectly. “You’re”—she searched for the right word—“scum.” That was what I was afraid of.
“You dumped Pammy for some twenty-year-old legal-eagle, pseudointellectual nymphomaniac.”
I didn’t want to respond to that. It was easier to call her bluff. “Look,” I said, dropping my hand to my side. “One of three things is going to happen now. A, you’re going to shoot me. B, I’m going to place your keys on this table, pick up my suitcase, and leave this apartment, never to return. Or C, one of us is going to call Pam and verify my story. It’s up to you. Personally, I would prefer ? or C. But, please. If you’re leaning toward A, I’d appreciate it if you would aim for a kneecap. I’d feel a lot better.”
She didn’t respond right away, just swayed back and forth. Her eyes were beginning to droop.
I smiled and played my trump card. “Your popcorn is burning.”
Her eyes flew open. “Oh, shit.”
She took the two steps to the stove and, without hesitating, put the gun on the stove and grabbed the smoking pot from the burner. The fact that the pot had a metal handle did not immediately register. When it did, she let out a yelp and dropped the pot, sending charred popcorn flying. She stood there, staring at her hand as if she were trying to figure out where it came from.
I put my groceries on the counter and, taking her by the arm, directed her to the sink. Her hand was already bright red when I pushed it under cold running water. She looked at me, nodded her thanks, and took a long drink from her glass.
5
ASIDE FROM THE scotch, Elaine didn’t stock much in the way of first-aid remedies. I found some petroleum jelly in the back corner of a shelf in her linen closet. I spread some of that on her hand, wrapped it in gauze, and sat her down on the couch in the living room. She kept muttering something about her life going from bad to worse and I decided the time was ripe for my exit. But she looked so lost and miserable that I wanted to do something for her. “I’ll make you some coffee before I go.”
She looked up at me, startled. “You’re going? Don’t go.”
I shrugged. “There obviously has been a major misunderstanding here. I think I’ve caused you enough grief for one night.”
“No.” She shook her head. Long wisps of hair, more red than brown, were escaping the elastic band that held them against the nape of her neck. “It’s not you.” She stood slowly as if balancing on a high wire. “You stay here tonight. We’ll talk in the morning.” Then she walked down the hallway, steadying herself against the wall with her good hand. When she reached the door at the end of the hall she said without turning toward me, “This may work out for both of us.”
I considered my options. I could take my suitcase and groceries, leave this warm, comfortable apartment, walk the four blocks to my car, and spend the night in another hotel. Or I could unpack my groceries, spend the night on a reasonably inviting couch, and leave in the morning before
Elaine reg
ained consciousness.
Not one part of the first scenario appealed to me so I put the groceries away and poured myself some medicine. Then I made a sandwich and ate it in her dining room at a table that was old but probably not old enough to be an antique. It was dark wood with matching chairs. The seats of the chairs looked and felt like they were handsewn in a kind of crewel stitch. The background was lilac with large multicolored flowers at the center of each seat.
Compared to the dining room set, the living room was ultramodern. Teak and chrome dominated the large room, and the focal point was a large shelving unit along one wall. The titles on the shelves were as varied as her furniture. A set of Encyclopaedia Britannica looked like it had been given a lot of use. There was some popular fiction, self-help books, and business titles like Marketing Strategies for the Executive and Dress for Success, also several natural-science books with topics varying from animals to astronomy. I noted the telescope in front of the big picture window and wondered how much star gazing one can do from a high-rise in Chicago.
I wanted to look over the files Hauser had given me, but I decided to call Harry first. Carol answered and she reprimanded me for not doing a better job of keeping in touch. Then she invited me and Maggie over for dinner. I evaded a response by telling her I’d let her know. I was relieved when she finally put Harry on.
“Hey, Quint, how’s it going?”
“Couldn’t be better,” I said, not in the least convinced.
Apparently Harry wasn’t either. “Oh, yeah, you sound great. Everything okay?”
“Sure,” I said and hurried into the purpose of the call. “I’ve got some pictures I’d like you to go over with your fine-tooth comb.”
“Yeah. I saw your note, and I have to admit you’ve got my curiosity going.”
I smiled. Harry was like an old coonhound on a scent when it came to cryptic notes. “How about I bring what I’ve got by the lab in the morning.”
“I’ll be there at seven,” Harry said and added, “I hope you’re not getting yourself mixed up in anything that’s going to be trouble.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. Harry could play the mother role better than his wife sometimes. “Is Carl Maddox still with Chicago PD?”
“Yeah. The Twenty-first Precinct, last I heard. Why?”
“I’ll explain tomorrow. See you then.” I hung up.
I didn’t have a lot of contacts from the Chicago police department anymore and I had never known Maddox all that well. But, as I remembered, he was a decent guy and might not mind checking on Keller’s death for me. If the guy did step out of a bar with so much to drink that he walked straight into a car that didn’t bother to stop, that was one thing. But if it might have been more than an accident, I wanted to know. I understand what it’s like to leave a bar with too many under the belt. Whatever god it is that protects small children usually sees that drunks don’t go wading into oncoming traffic. Just a hunch.
I called the Twenty-first and lucked out Not only was Maddox still assigned there, he was in and he remembered me.
“How ya been, Quint?”
“Not bad,” I replied.
“How long is it since you left the force anyway?” “About three years,” I said. “What’s goin’ on?”
I told him where I was working and about the Keller hit-and-run incident. When he asked me why I wanted to know more, I gave him as few of the particulars as possible and, fortunately, he didn’t press. He promised to call back soon. He wasn’t kidding. He returned my call before I was able to finish my drink.
“It went down as a hit-and-run, all right. But you never know. I guess the guy could barely walk when he left the bar. There was one witness, if you want to call him that. He said he thought it was a pretty big car, either green or blue. Really narrows it down, huh? Didn’t see any of the license plate. And sobriety-wise the witness wasn’t in much better shape than the victim.”
“Not much to go on.”
“Yeah. They followed up a couple leads, but nothing came of it. So, officially it’s a hit-and-run. Unofficially, I’d be careful if I were you.”
“I will. And thanks a lot, Carl.”
As I freshened my drink, I couldn’t help but wonder if Hauser was really convinced that Keller’s death was an accident.
I grabbed Hauser’s collection of undesirables and, kicking my shoes off, stretched out on the couch to go through them. I soon came to admire Hauser’s or Keller’s information-gathering techniques. The men in the six files had committed or been accused of crimes ranging from assault and battery and statutory rape to running a dogfighting ring. Some had committed no crime per se but had been involved in relationships they wouldn’t be inclined to publicize.
Frank Griffin, Hauser’s purposeful store manager, had made the lineup. His file didn’t contain much except for a note of his periodic visits to an apartment building on Sheridan Road. Keller hadn’t been able to get a lead on whom Griffin was visiting, but it didn’t require a huge leap from credibility to picture Griffin with a mistress. Griffin was married, but he could very well be the sort of man who feels that limiting himself to one woman would place an undue hardship on the rest of the species.
I guess I don’t shock easily, because only one of the files caused a momentary jaw drop. Arthur Judson, Hauser’s
public relations manager, who was invariably turning up at the opening of a new night spot or art exhibit with at least one impossibly gorgeous woman draped over his arm, was in hock up to his bedroom eyes to loan sharks.
The information in the file surprised me for a couple reasons. For one, it meant that I’d misjudged the guy in the first place and that maybe I was getting a little naive about people. Judson seemed to have everything going for him. He wasn’t exceptionally bright, but he was pleasant enough. He had an easygoing charm that was as effective with beautiful women as it was with his professional contacts. So here was this guy whom I considered something more than an acquaintance but less than a close friend, and I guess I was both surprised and a little disappointed to learn that he owed upward of twenty grand to some very unsavory characters who didn’t care if he could charm birds out of trees in flocks.
But what surprised me even more was the existence of the file for Art Judson and the fact that, for some reason, Preston considered him a suspect at all. It was no secret that Art Judson was Preston’s golden boy. He’d hired Art out of college and treated him more like family than an employee. What had Art done to rate an investigation? Is that any way to treat a protégé? Maybe it had something to do with Art’s penchant for beautiful women and his habit of displaying them. Still, it didn’t make sense for Judson to send Hauser threatening letters unless he was planning to extort him later. If you were trying to come by a large amount of money illegally, there had to be easier ways to do it.
I wondered if Hauser might be blackmailing these people with this information. Then any one of them would logically want him dead, but blackmail wasn’t Hauser’s style. Even if it was, he sure as hell wasn’t stupid enough to dump the evidence in my lap.
I guess it was a combination of being tired from the
previous night and the scotch that went down with surprising ease. It wasn’t long before I found myself blinking my eyes to keep the pages in focus. I leaned back into the sofa cushions and let nature take its course.
When I woke up I felt that sudden grip of panic you get when the setting you are in doesn’t fit into the places-I-have-been part of your consciousness. There was a person squatting next to me at my eye level who did not immediately register in the known part of my mind either.
“Sorry I woke you,” she murmured. “I thought maybe I’d dreamed you.”
“That makes two of us,” I said. In the dim light from the hall I could barely make out Elaine’s shape. She switched on the lamp next to the sofa. It must have had an automatic timer because I didn’t remember turning it off.
I rubbed my eyes and ran my hands through my hair. “What time is i
t?” I yawned.
“Four a.m.”
She was studying me as if for the first time. I did the same. She wore a short robe, fastened at her waist. It was blue terry cloth and slightly worn. Her hair fell loose against her shoulders and her eyes were a serious shade of brown. They matched her expression.
“What did we decide last night?” She took a cigarette from the pack I had set on the coffee table and lit it with my lighter. Then she sat back on the floor, legs crossed in front of her.
“I believe we were going to discuss it in the morning. But I assumed it would be when it looked more like day than night.” I hesitated then continued, realizing, to my consternation, that there was an earnest quality about this woman that would not allow me to lie. “I was planning to be out of here before you got up.”
Her mouth, set in a firm straight line, didn’t give me a clue. She might have been relieved or disappointed. “I was
going to leave my groceries,” I added.
She smiled for the first time. It was unforced and warm, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a smile do so much for a person’s looks.
“I guess I can’t blame you.” She picked at the gauze on her burned hand. “You must have thought you’d stepped into another dimension.”
My mind replayed some of the highlights from last night. She must have been thinking the same thing because we both laughed a little. Then I decided it was time to get the whole mess straightened out. “Aren’t you supposed to be in a foreign country?”
“I was,” she said. “England.” She sat cross-legged and picked at the carpet, making a pile of tiny lint balls. Finally she continued. “I was riffed.”
“I’m sorry.” What could I say? “You were what?”
She looked up at me. “Reduction in force.” She pounded the pile of lint with her injured hand. “Damn.”
She was bitter, and as she explained I could understand that emotion. She’d been with the company for ten years, starting out in data entry and working her way up to manager of customer education. As she talked, her voice rose and she had trouble keeping it even. But she tried. The company had a couple bad years and started cutting staff. Her position was one of the first they eliminated.