by Jim Stevens
“Did he have a tweed sport coat?”
“Yeah, but he wasn’t from England. He was a Jew.”
“Work in the building?”
Bruno nods.
“The other guy about thirty, dark hair, about this tall,” I raise my hand a little less than my height, “dressed to impress the ladies?”
“Not my kind of ladies.”
“He’s the one who gave you the twenty?”
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“I’m smart.”
There is one whooshing sound, then another.
“It always picks up after lunch,” Bruno says.
___
I am hardly euphoric, but I have made a connection; my first in the case. I can’t wait to go home and rearrange the index cards on the Original Carlo.
24
Bare witness
The elevator doors open on the lobby level. I step out and find myself in a sea of look-alikes. Each man is in a blue plastic jacket, white shirt, and tightly-tied, striped tie. They flood into the building like a swarm of Smurfs, flashing their badges high for identification. The well-dressed platoon is led by none other than Agent Romo Simpson.
Commoners, such as I, are caught in the lobby during the rush, parting like the Red Sea, allowing the squad to commandeer the elevators.
Romo picks me out of the crowd. “What are you doing here?”
“Just visiting.”
“Well, you’re in the middle of an official FBI operation,” he says, as he waves cohorts into an elevator.
“I would have never guessed.”
Next, through the front doors come a gaggle of TV news crews, one from each of the stations. All have lights blazing, video cameras recording, and reporters announcing into microphones that they are “live at the scene.”
I wonder who tipped them off?
“By the way, did you ever find out who that guy was in the picture?” I ask Romo.
“I am not at liberty to say,” he says, and crowds into the car as if he were the last man jumping on a boat leaving the dock.
Figuring I will see all this on the news, I decide not to hang around. I have better things to do.
___
Tuesday night’s feast is macaroni surprise. Kelly and Care are not only not surprised, but not too thrilled as it sits in front of them at the table.
“This is gross.”
“It’s good, if you just taste it,” I say. “You can’t judge a book by its cover.”
Care asks, “You got this out of a cookbook?”
“Dad, this looks like one of those flesh-eating diseases,” Kelly says.
Maybe mixing tomato tuna casserole with mac and cheese wasn’t the best menu choice, but I am thinking nutrition for my girls.
“All four basic food groups are represented,” I tell them and take a bite to back up my “try it you’ll like it” argument. The ploy doesn’t work, so I add a cup-and-a-half of guilt. “You know people that are starving in Africa would die for a dinner this nutritious.”
“Then let’s put it in a baggie and send it to them,” Kelly suggests.
I boil the girls tube steaks, aka hot dogs, which they devour. They may have been right about the surprise; it was pretty bad.
“How is the number-one table, Kel?”
“How did you know I got picked?”
“Your dad’s a detective.”
“Did you tell him, Care?”
“No.”
“I knew because you didn’t tell me,” I explain to my eldest. “Teenage avoidance is always a great clue.”
“See,” Care says, pretending to understand.
“So far, it’s awesome,” Kelly says.
“Why?
“Because it just is. Everybody in school sees me sitting there.”
“And?”
“That’s awesome.”
“You should have known that, Dad,” Care says. “You’re a detective.”
“How long has it been?”
“One day.”
“Well, don’t be surprised if the glow fades fast.”
“It won’t,” Kelly argues.
“I don’t want my daughters getting their self-respect from the way others view them,” I lecture. “You should get your self-esteem from the way you view yourself.”
“Like in a mirror?” Care asks.
“No. Self-worth should come from within,” I speak slowly, fatherly. “If you are proud and happy about yourself, you won’t care what others think.”
“Dad,” Kelly says, “I’m beginning to understand why you don’t date.”
___
The BOARD OF TRADE RAIDED BY FEDS headline in the Sun Times is twice the size of the Tribune’s BOARD OF TRADE INVESTIGATED. Romo Simpson’s picture isn’t on either cover. You have to go all the way to page twenty-three and thirty-one, respectively, to see him in all his glory. Pity. The corresponding story in each is mostly flash and trash on how the FBI has been secretly recording conversations, and about their going undercover to weed out the dastardly criminals taking advantage of the honor policy on the trading floor.
Once, when I was still with the CPD, there was an investigation of illegal dog breeding in a number of kennels. At the Monday morning detective’s meeting I offered to go undercover as a cocker spaniel to help bust the bad breeders. My offer was refused.
___
In a day or two the RAID will disappear from the media, a few low-level doofusses will be charged and OPERATION FUNNY MONEY will fade into the FBI files of yore. It is obvious that Agent Romo spent months of taxpayer money and found little malfeasance. Failing in his investigation he does the next best thing, which is to stage a big bust, get on TV, get his name in the newspapers, and hopefully be promoted for his quick-thinking actions. If anyone has the audacity to see through his cleverly press-agented scam, and make a case of it, Romo will claim it was all done to put the fear of God into anyone trying to manipulate the hollowed tradition of the Board of Trade’s honor system. I can picture Agent Romo on TV, saying, “Future prevention is just as important as past indiscretion.”
___
I meet Steve and Norbert at Al’s Italian Beef on Wells Street. We sit at an outdoor table.
“So what do you know, Sherlock?” Steve asks.
“It’s not what I know at this point, it’s what I don’t know.”
Steve says, “You sound like a game show host.”
Norbert finishes one sandwich; but before starting on his next, says, “I got this feeling you got a list.”
Norbert is correct. What a sleuth.
Every good detective I have ever met or worked with is an incessant list-maker. To-do, What’s Missing, Don’t Understand, Doesn’t Fit, Probables, Improbables, Longshots, People, Places, Things -- lists, lists, and more lists. On each you’ll see cross-outs, additions, notes, memory floggers, arrows, phone numbers, directions, reminders, whatever. Lists are the only way to keep it all straight. I keep most of my lists in my head, a scary place no doubt; but with my memory, it works. Most other dicks keep them on their pocket writing tablets or on one of those yellow legal pads, although the latter is a pain to carry around all day. I guess you could put a list into one of those Blackberry or iPhone things, but I can barely figure out the phone part, much less the rest of their high-tech applications. My memory works. Why not use it?
Steve pushes his plate to the side, takes out his tablet and pen. “What do you need?”
“I still need the identity of the mystery man in the photo.”
Norbert speaks through a mouthful of fries, “Sent out a copy to every major department in the country, somebody has got to recognize the guy sooner or later.”
“I think Romo knows who it is,” I tell them.
“Romo doesn’t know his ass from his elbow,” Steve says.
“Anything on the two escorts who were servicing the family?”
“Nothing yet,” Steve says, “I got a friend in Vice who said he’d help.”
; “Those two are hooked into this somehow,” I say. “Pardon the pun.” I eye the fries on my plate, but decide against grease, and push them toward Norbert. “Heffelfinger is gone, I suspect out of the country. Can you find out where?”
“No.”
Norbert follows his partner’s answer with, “You know how long that would take?”
“Just check the flights to bank account islands,” I say. “Bahamas, Aruba, Cayman, wherever; he’s visiting one of ’em.”
“You’re sure Alvin’s money’s there?”
“It’s got to be somewhere.”
“You don’t think he was broke?”
“I know he wasn’t broke.” I don’t want to get into a discussion of how I know, so I quickly say, “I want you to run a history on Christina’s partner, Lizzy.”
“You’re stretching.”
“There is something about her that isn’t Kosher.”
“Sherlock, you’re being homophobic and possibly anti-Semitic.”
“Not I, not I.”
“By the way where is the lovely junior detective?” Norbert asks.
“On assignment.”
“You were right about the kid in the chest,” Steve says.
“Joey Villano, the trader Alvin used.”
“Drunk, bopped on the noggin and stuffed in the trunk. What a way to go.”
“Do you think he was killed in the condo?”
“I don’t,” Steve says. “Norbert does.”
Norbert lifts one finger, as if to cast his vote. “Carpet fibers on his body,” he says, taking another bite of barbeque.
“There were too many fibers on his clothing. I think he was dragged in,” Steve says
“Fits with Alvin.” I surprise my colleges with this thought.
“It does?” Steve asks for the two of them.
“I’m next to positive he was killed then dragged to the rock garden.”
“The coroner said a rock did him in.”
“I’m not debating that,” I say.
“You don’t think the final blow was part of the avalanche?”
“No. It seems that was more of an exclamation point.”
“Then why bother doing it?”
“Got me.” I pause. “The more I get into this case, the more screwed up I get. I don’t know how Alvin was scamming the Board, or even if he was. Or why the two sons hated their father who was bankrolling each in business. He has a wife he hates, ex-wives that hate him, a daughter he treats as a second class citizen, two accountants who have to know what the hell he was doing, a couple of hookers he refuses to pay, major cash withdrawals the week before his death … and why anyone would wear a linen suit on a Saturday morning in the summer is beyond me.”
Norbert eats my fries during my litany. “You guys going to have dessert?” he asks after I conclude.
Steve ignores Norbert. “Conway Waddy, the lawyer called yesterday.”
“He wants the insurance money released?”
“Immediately.”
“Good luck on that,” I say. “Old man Richmond will hold out until their lawsuits grow mold.”
“Could Joey Villano have killed him?” Steve asks. “Then somebody kills him?”
“Downward spiral theory?” Norbert asks his partner.
“I’m not even sure Joey knew what was going on,” I admit, “and he was in the office with Alvin every day.”
“So were Millie and Heffelfinger,” Steve says. “A lot of good they’ve done us.”
“Just as I thought we were getting somewhere,” I say, “we’re back to floating around in detective netherworld.”
“We’re running out of time,” Steve says.
I’m not sure what he means.
“I got an idea,” Norbert says before scooping his vanilla ice cream. “Let’s shake the tree.”
“How?”
“Announce a break in the case.”
“Do you have one?” I ask.
“No.”
“You got an idea for one?” I ask again.
“Not yet,” Norbert says, “but we’re smart guys; we should be able to come up with something.”
___
“I sat at that desk over eight hours, Mister Sherlock,” Tiffany informs me. “The last thing I want to get out of this case is secretarial spread.”
“What did you find out?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I didn’t find one clue. I checked every property, account, trust, investment, car, house, gold bar, and piggy bank; and each and every one was held in the Alvin Augustus Revocable Trust. And every one was either broke or disappeared in the last six months.”
“That’s good.”
“Didn’t we already know that?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“I called every hotel, medical clinic, plastic surgeon and boob doctor in Palm Springs and Palm Desert. I checked personal physicians, dermatologists, personal trainers, even yoga instructors, and nobody has ever heard of a Doris Augustus.”
“She’s probably using another name.”
“I didn’t think of that,” Tiffany says.
“How about the boys?”
“I got a slew of paperwork on Clayton -- numbers, tax stuff, corporate junk. My eyes were going blue going over that crap.”
“And?”
“Clayton’s leveraged.”
I’m impressed at a business acumen that I didn’t believe she possessed. “Please, do tell.”
“Well, you know, leveraged.”
“You know what leveraged means?”
“Not really.”
“You got your dad to help you?”
“I certainly wasn’t going to ask Herman.”
“How leveraged is he?”
“My dad says he’s a house of cards waiting to be blown away.”
“Brewster?”
“Coming from me, this might sound a bit strange, but after talking to a number of Brewster’s schoolmates, so-called friends, enemies, and hangers-on, I’d say Brewster isn’t the sharpest dresser on the runway. And momma chokes him daily with her apron strings.”
“And the sister?”
“The best thing I can say about Christina is that, even for a lesbian, she’s past dull. She likes to read, go antiquing, takes night classes in foreign languages, drives a Chrysler Le Baron and is a member of the Audubon Society. Totally boring.”
“Tiffany,” I say, “you did good.”
“But I didn’t find out anything that could crack the case.”
“And neither have I, so don’t feel bad.”
“What happens next, Mister Sherlock?”
“A witness is going to come forward and blow the case apart.”
“You’re kidding,” Tiffany perks up, “that’s fantastic.”
“Yeah, I’m making him up right now.”
25
Pity there's no school for scoundrels
Norbert leaked the info to a friend of mine at the Sun Times in exchange for getting on page three as the lead story.
The story read like a promo for one of those over-plotted, too-many-twists, caper movies that star Julia Roberts or George Clooney. It mentioned a non-identified witness to the murder of Alvin Augustus, the Friday raid at the Board of Trade, missing funds, Clayton, Brewster, Doris, Joan, Joey, sex, drugs, and rock- and-roll. It actually didn’t mention music; but it would a have a perfect spot for hyping a hip urban soundtrack available for download tomorrow.
No actual name mentioned, but the mystery man who came forward had valuable information, which could break the case wide open. His statement would be heard by the Grand Jury as soon as his story could be thoroughly investigated by the Chicago PD, Kenilworth detectives and agents from the FBI. Rumor has it, the article said, the witness may be testifying in exchange for immunity from prosecution. The item ended with: “Police had been waiting for a break in the case and now may have the information needed to move toward arrests.”
Any cop or crimina
l worth his salt would read the article and conclude “it was a bunch of crap.” But one thing a good detective always keeps in mind is that most criminals are stupid. The vast majority are totally uneducated in the business of wrongdoing. Why? Because colleges don’t offer curriculums in fraud, classes in money-laundering or night school degrees in pimping and prostitution. Unless you’re from a crime family, you pretty much have to learn the business by yourself. And that can be tough. The stuff seen on TV rarely helps, because no crime gets planned, executed, and resolved within one hour, with timeouts for commercials. There is quite a bit of ‘true crime” non-fiction out there to study, but most criminals are either too lazy or just not the reading types.
Criminals, for the most part, are either plain stupid or rank amateurs when it comes to malfeasance. Not only do they all believe they can get away with it, but think they are above and beyond all those other run-of-the-mill felons. Operating on this ill-advised thought pattern is not a strong basis for the carrying out of successful illegal endeavors. They make mistakes, plan poorly, don’t synchronize watches, tell lousy lies, vary from their original plan and, more often than not, panic at the first bump in the road.
A good detective will always operate on the basis that the criminal mind is beneath his. Sounds easy, but actually it can be tricky because sometimes it is difficult to think that dumb.
Consider the guy who placed a 911 call, frantically screaming a robbery was taking place in Fifth Avenue liquor store, when in actuality the robbery was happening in a Twenty-second Avenue liquor store -- a clever ruse to get the cops three miles away, while his buddies “did the deed.” Problem was the guy who came up with this plan forgot to disable the caller i.d. on his phone when he made the call and the police arrived just as his buddies were returning with six-hundred in cash and three bottles of Chivas Regal. Most would believe that anyone couldn’t be that dumb, but there is no underestimating the idiocy of the common criminal.