by Jim Stevens
“Hello.”
“This is my assistant, Tiffany.”
Heffelfinger gives her a cursory glance.
“What can we help you with?” Millie speaks softly, as if a grandmother to her grandkids.
“We missed you at the reading of the will,” I say.
“Somebody has to do some work in the family,” Heffelfinger says curtly.
I get right to the point. “When did you know that Alvin was bursting faster than the dot-com bubble?”
“I tried to warn the old curmudgeon, but he wouldn’t listen to me.” Heffelfinger calling his boss a curmudgeon is the kettle calling the pot hot.
“When did he begin converting his holdings into cash?”
“Who said he did that?” Heffelfinger asks.
“I read the will.”
“We started selling the properties about a year ago,” Millie says. “Alvin thought the market had topped.”
“He sell everything?” I ask.
“Why do you want to know?” Heffelfinger keeps the tension at a maximum height.
“I’m curious,” I confess. “And where did the proceeds end up?”
Neither answers.
“You’re his accountants…”
“We’re not sure,” Millie says in an apologetic voice.
Millie reminds me of my aunt from my mother’s side of the family. Her name was Gladys Pleasant, a misnomer if there ever was one.
“Shall we say that Alvin took greater control of his funds during the past year or so?” I ask.
“For being so smart with money,” Heffelfinger says, “the man could be a real idiot.”
“Let’s go into his office.” I walk out the door and down the way to Alvin’s corner. The three follow.
“Tell me how this all works.” I stand in front of the TV screens between the computer terminals.
Millie takes the remote, and the screens come alive with lists of trading quotes, blinking changes faster than a winking eye. “Alvin would sit at his desk, watch the ticks, and tell the trader what he wanted.”
“Somebody would sit and punch in the trades on these computers?”
“Yep.” Millie was enjoying her financial show-and-tell. “The top screen is the S&P’s, the middle are commodities, and the bottom, treasury bills.”
“Alvin did this as if he were playing three hands of poker at the same time?”
“Pretty much.”
“What does all this have to do with who killed him?” Mr. Curmudgeon asks.
“I don’t know.”
Heffelfinger coughed up some phlegm. Standing, one leg slightly bent, his right wingtip shoe was worn down on the inside of the sole. This malady undoubtedly had something to do with his choice of careers.
“When did Alvin start trading electronically?” I ask.
“It was about a year ago,” Millie answers.
“Worst mistake he ever made,” Heffelfinger says. “Nobody was better than him in the pits.”
“So, why did he change?”
“God only knows. I tried to reason with him, but the man was hopeless.”
I slow the cadence in my delivery. “How long did you work with Alvin?”
“Thirty-eight years,” he says.
I look to Millie.
“Twenty-nine.”
“That’s both longer than I’ve been alive,” Tiffany puts it into her perspective.
“Painful, after all that time to see the place go down in flames; isn’t it?”
“I’ve seen worse.”
“When?”
He refuses to provide examples. “What do you want from us? I gave all the financials to the FBI.”
“So, how could you be busy now?” Tiffany asks a very good question.
Her question goes unanswered.
Heffelfinger leans against Alvin’s desk. “There is nothing more we can do; we’ve cooperated to the best of our abilities.”
“We really have.” Millie and Heffelfnger must have some interesting sex.
“Did you like Alvin?” I throw out.
“Of course not, nobody liked Alvin,” she smirks as she speaks. “And he didn’t like us,” she adds.
“Did you kill him?”
“Don’t be silly.” Millie laughs.
“Who do you think killed him?” I ask.
“Some guy that Alvin blew off the floor, I’d guess. But what really killed him was the thinning of his wallet,” Heffelfinger says.
“The most feared form of anorexia,” Tiffany declares.
“He hated to lose,” Millie says. “He was on a losing streak and there was nothing he could do to stop.”
“All he would have to do is quit trading, right?” I ask.
“Alvin, stop?” Heffelfinger says, “Never happen.”
“We tried,” Millie says, “but he wouldn’t listen.
“Stupid old coot,” he says.
“Mister Augustus also entered into a number of business ventures that we warned him about.”
Heffelfinger harrumphed again hearing Millie’s disclosure.
“Such as?”
Millie didn’t speak.
“What?” I pry, “Was he investing in worm farming?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
No answers.
“Clayton’s business?”
“I warned him about that,” Heffelfinger answers.
“Brewster’s trading?”
“It is difficult following in a father’s footsteps,” Millie says.
Heffelfinger straightens up as best as he can. “I still have work to do, as does Miss Millie.”
“What?” Tiffany asks. “You’re already broke.”
“This meeting is finished,” Heffelfinger says. “Come on, Millie.”
They leave the room together.
On our way out, it didn’t take a detective to see the receptionist had moved out. The stack of celebrity magazines was missing from beneath the desk. I’ll bet she took the stapler, too.
___
There is a Starbucks on every corner in the financial district in downtown Chicago. We pick the closest one. I order a small coffee of the day and Tiffany orders a grandé with soy milk, no froth, loaded, flavored latté in a cup-cone or whatever. The clerk repeats her order to the coffee chef. I couldn’t pronounce it, let alone remember it.
I sit, sip the coffee, and a cold chill goes up my spine.
There is always a point in any case where you feel overwhelmed, the same approximate feeling of dumping the contents of a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle in front of you while gazing at the Jackson Pollock painting on the cover of the box.
“A penny for your thoughts, Mister Sherlock.”
“This coffee is bitter. You would think with all the Starbucks in the world, they could make a cup of coffee that tastes better.”
“That’s how they get you to buy all the extras.” Tiffany has a valid point.
“Well, not me, I’d rather suffer.” I am as sour and bitter as the overpriced coffee.
“You know what I think, Mister Sherlock?”
“No.”
Tiffany sips whatever is in her cup. “If it was up to me, I’d get rid of all pennies; what’s their point?”
I see a bit of milk on her lip. “I thought you ordered no froth?”
Tiffany wipes her upper lip dry. “Don’t tell me I’m looking like one of those “drink-your-milk” ads.”
In a very strange way, Tiffany’s overt fear of appearing less than perfect makes her charming.
I sit, the picture of gloom.
“You’re not having any fun; are you?” she asks.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I hate my job.”
“I think it’s really fun, running all over town, seeing dead bodies, trying to unravel a mystery.”
“I could do that at home playing Clue with my kids.”
“Colonel Mustard, in the study, with the candlestick,” Tiffany says.
“I’d love to.”
My mind must be turning in bizarre circles to give Tiffany an assignment.
I remove the Augustus corporate check out of my pocket. “I want you to call the bank, tell them you have a check from this account.” I show her the number on the check, “For eighty-three-thousand dollars. Ask if it will clear.” I hand over the check. She reads the printed name and address.
“How did you get this?”
“I lifted it the other day when I was in Alvin’s office.”
“You’re not supposed to do that, are you?”
I ignore her question. “If the bank won’t tell you, use that feminine charm of yours. I need to know if there is money in the account.”
“I thought he was broke.”
“First rule of life, assume nothing.”
“Next,” I say, “pick up what financials Norbert’s got and take them over to this guy.” I scribble down an address on North Ashland. “Knock on the door and if Herman’s home, don’t get too close, the guy is a little creepy.”
“Don’t worry, Mister Sherlock, I’m used to creepy.”
“Then, go home, take a nap, eat a good dinner, and go out drinking at all the clubs where I’d look like an idiot. Start asking around about the two brothers. What they’re like, friends, enemies, who they sleep with, the kind of money they waste. See if you can find out anything good, sleazy, or if either gets out of town on a regular basis. And if anybody saw them the Friday night before the murder.”
“Why?”
“Because one of us deserves a night on the town.”
“That would be me,” she says, “but besides that, why?”
“I want to see if they are following in their father’s footsteps.”
“Why?”
“Because don’t you think it is odd that nobody will tell us anything about anything? Nobody cares who killed their father, husband, employer, or business partner.”
“That never entered my mind,” Tiffany confesses.
“The lack of remorse in this case is frightening.”
“I’ll do my best, Mister Sherlock.”
“There is no one better-suited for this assignment than you, Tiffany.”
“I can’t wait to pick out what I’m going to wear.”
“And one other thing, the four hundred dollars I was going to spend on the hooker -- I’ll need it for petty cash.”
“You know,” she says, “I forgot all about that.”
I pull away from the table. “Good luck.”
“Hey, if I’m on assignment, what are you going to do the rest of the day?”
“It’s Tuesday, my kid day.”
13
If you can't be good, be clever...
Kelly is in a snit as she steps into the Toyota.
“What’s the matter with your sister?” I ask Carolyn.
“She’s table-challenged.”
“Shut up!” Kelly yells at her sister. “Last time I tell you anything.”
“What’s the problem, Kel?”
She doesn’t speak, sulks instead. I know she wants to talk and only have to wait before she spills her guts. “How was your day, Care?”
“It sucked.”
“Did you learn anything new at school?”
“No.”
“Good, glad to hear my tax dollars are at work.”
I pull the car out of the circular pickup area and head for home.
“I have a chance to sit at the better lunch table; but if I do, my friends at the old table will think I’m stuck-up like the people at the better table.” Kelly has to stop and take a breath. “I want to go; but if I go and they end up not liking me, then I won’t be able to go back to my old table, and I’ll have to sit in a bathroom stall and eat my lunch because everybody will know I’m a loser that nobody wants to sit with.”
“Where did you sit today?” I ask calmly to slow the crisis down.
“I sat with my old table, but on the edge closest to the girls at the better table.”
“That was clever.” I have tried to teach my girls, if you can’t be good, be clever.
“But I can’t do that forever, Dad.”
“How long have you been in the middle of this conundrum?”
“What’s a con-un-der-um?” Care, my inquisitive one, asks.
“It’s like a problem you can’t figure out,” I explain.
“Two days,” Kelly says. “The worst two days of my life.”
“Oh, the horror of it all,” I say with a slight chuckle.
“Dad, it’s not funny.”
“I’m not making light of your situation, Kel, I’m just warning you it gets a lot worse than this.”
Kelly goes back into a funk.
“I take it this table of new girls is the most popular?”
“Ah, yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because they are.”
“I need a better reason.” I pause. “Is it because more boys hang around that table?”
Kelly doesn’t have to answer.
“What does your mother say to do?” I should never ask this question, but I do, because the answer usually will make my life easier.
“She says I should go for it.”
“What do you think you should do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want my advice?”
“Not really.” She does, but can’t admit it-a code of pre-teenage behavior.
“Do you want mine?” Care asks.
“No, twerp.”
“Try sitting with the people you like and the people that like you. Better yet, sit with people you respect and respect you.” I talk slowly, she might not get it right away; but if she hears it, she’ll get it sooner or later. “If you have to try to be liked, you won’t be yourself and one of the worst things you can ever do is not be yourself.”
“Gee, Dad,” Care says, “you sound like the dad on one of those Full House re-runs.”
“My God, that show is so lame!” Kelly almost screams. “The Olsen twins are like forty and all weird-looking now.”
“I like that show.”
“How lame.”
“You get what I’m trying to say, Kel?”
“No.”
She does; she just won’t admit it (keeping in code).
___
The rest of the time spent with dad goes pretty much according to plan. Snacks, TV, hating my cooking, homework, baths, more TV, and lights out.
I tuck Care in the left side of my bed and give her a kiss. On the right, I sit. “The best way to be liked by others is to like yourself. That’s what Shakespeare was talking about when he said ‘To thine own self be true.’” I secretly hope Care is listening in on all this, so I won’t have to repeat it in a couple of years.
“Dad, seventh-graders don’t study Shakespeare,” Kelly informs me.
“Well, they should.” I lean over and give my oldest a kiss. “And if you ever find yourself needing someone to eat lunch with, you give your old dad a call and I’ll be there in no time.”
“Oh, would that be hurl-worthy.”
“Goodnight, Kelly. I love you.”
___
Herman McFadden resembles a gnome gone wrong. He’s short, maybe five-feet-four in heels, with a scraggly white beard and a patch of thinning, greasy, gray hair plastered across his head in a comb-over. Herman is one of those obese people whose eighty-or-so unneeded pounds starts sticking out at his sternum and doesn’t stop until reaching his crotch. I bet he has to pee sitting down.
Herman is at his computer all day and, when he is not watching porn, he takes time to be a financial genius.
“That chick who brought over the stuff was really hot,” Herman says, opening his apartment door. “Are you doing her?”
“No, Herman, I’m not.”
“I’d like to.”
“Fine, Herman, I’ll find out if she feels the same way about you.”
“And tell her if she ever wants to do any porn, I know a lot of people.”
“I’m sure that fact will improve your chances of dating her.”
“I don’t want to date her, Sherlock. I want to have sex with her.” He paused to be sure, “She is legal, isn’t she?”
“Yes, Herman, but that will be the least of your problems with her.”
It was over six years ago, when Herman was implicated in a case involving the kidnapping and murder of a runaway teenager, later found six-feet under in an Iowa cornfield. There was enough incriminating evidence against Herman to send him to the joint for about six life terms. Photos of the girl on his computer, emails linking him to the site where she was featured, and he had no alibi the night she disappeared from the corner she was working. There was also an eyewitness account of the girl climbing into a black Caddy, the exact year and model Herman owned.
I sat in an interrogation room questioning Herman for more than three hours, which wasn’t easy because Herman smells bad. I came to the conclusion that Herman might be a truly disgusting human being, but he was no murderer. What bothered me about the case was there was too much evidence against him, all of which was unsubstantiated. I went to work, asked questions, surveyed the neighborhood, and kept asking questions. It took me about one week to figure it all out. A neighbor of Herman set him up perfectly, except for one little mistake: the dirt under his fingernails matched the dirt from the cornfield. It pays to get a manicure.
Ever since, Herman is beholding to yours truly. He even does my taxes.
The apartment is good size, two bedrooms, a full dining room, but filthy. I wish I had a pair of latex gloves to put on. “What did you find out?”
He clears a spot at the table. “Alvin was either the smartest dude on the street or the dumbest. A year ago, he’s got more money than God, but in the next twelve months, goes into a tailspin that sucks every dime out of his coffers.”
“Isn’t that the way of the trader?”
“Not a guy who has done it for twenty years. The idiot mortgages a house he’s owned free and clear with a checkbook loan, and runs it to the max in three weeks. Naw, this guy’s dick ain’t shooting straight.”
“Interesting analogy, Herman.”
“He’s got all these pieces of corporations and not one of them makes any money. That’s not kosher.” Herman becomes more animated, he loves being able to sneak-peek into the lives of others. “He runs his credit cards to the limit, cashes out his personal IRA. He must be giving his wife cash, because she ceases to be an employee of his company.”