A Bullet Apiece (2 page)

“Jerri Hanady.”

“Right. When Mrs. Hanady returns, will you give her the other?” I smiled at her, then I turned to the officers. “I suppose you want to take a statement from us?”

Officer High-and-Tight spoke. “I'd like to interview Miss Reyes here. Officer Hamilton will talk to you.”

Hamilton stepped forward, expression impassive with his shades on, and touched my arm. Suave. Non-threatening but meaningful.

“Where are we going?” I asked. He seemed to be aiming me towards the squad car. I'd had about enough. “Listen. Kid. Why don't we sit in my office? I've got two chairs, air conditioning even. Coffee in a thermos.”

He regarded me, still keeping his hand on my arm. I tried a grin. What the hell, I have nice teeth.

“All right.”

I removed my arm from his loose grip and gestured across the street. He followed me, two paces behind. Department protocol all the way.

Officer Hamilton let up with the threatening manner in my office. Must have been
 
my soothing décor. Or maybe his repertoire is limited to an early campaign of intimidation, followed by standard questions and a notebook. Without the uniform, he'd have the makings of a cub reporter. He had soft hazel eyes without the sunglasses, too.

I gave him all I knew. His note-taking was assiduous. Maybe he was using independent clauses and everything. When he clicked the top of his pen and put it behind his ear, he flipped back to study what he had written. I smoked through the silence.

“You work for the
Police Gazette
, too?” I finally asked. He reddened slightly.

“I was in J-School before the academy. I did an internship with the
Gazette
,

and …” He shrugged a little.

“You were hooked.”

“Line and sinker.” He brightened, happy to complete the expression. I was reluctantly starting to like him.

“Well, if we're finished, I'd like to see about Miss Reyes.”

He was business again. “How well do you know her?”

“Just met her today.”

“This is a police matter now. If we need anything further from you, we'll call.” He took a card from my desk.

“Sure. I just want to see she's all right.”

“Mr. Darvis, let the police handle this. We can do this best without interference from outside agencies.”

“And what page of your cadet manual is that on?” I pulled out a cigarette and lit it. When I exhaled he waved a hand in front of his face in an effeminate gesture.

“We'll be in touch later in the investigation, Mr. Darvis.” He stood up, pushed his chair in, and put on the soulless sunglasses. I watched him leave without a word and then concentrated on the smoke of my cigarette swirling above my head. Officer High-and-Tight was still outside talking to Miss Reyes. Hell, he was probably asking her out at this point. She was looking shyly away. At the approach of Officer Hamilton, she unfolded her arms and turned her head sideways, as if to hide her tears. The first cop had given her a handkerchief to wipe her face, and she made a gesture to give it back to him. He declined, chest out, all gentleman. This tableau was too pretty for me. I opened my bottom drawer and pulled out the remainder of the scotch.

While I sipped at a mug, the cops sat in their car and compared notes. I could see the engine was running from the exhaust. Marni Reyes had gone back inside, accompanied by a grey-haired woman. I finished the scotch and then watched the squad car pull away. As they backed up, they both looked my way, stone-faced. Maybe I should put out balloons.

I waited a minute and then went out the door. Soon, the afternoon pickup would begin, and cars would start lining up. I had a small window to talk to Miss Reyes. A little Sen Sen might not be a bad idea.

I opened the darkened door to the daycare. Inside it was brighter than I'd imagined. Wide, clean florescent lights hung abundantly from the high ceiling. The walls were all done up in different colors. Immediately in front of me was a cubby with a few little shoes. Next to it, a bulletin board hung with sloppy fingerpaint jobs and smiling suns, blue skies clinging dearly to the top margins of the papers. To my right, a reception desk curved into a yellow wall. A heavy, older woman sat behind it, munching chips and looking at a paperback. The latest Agatha Christie. She looked up.

“Yes?” There was demand in her tone.

“My name is Ed Darvis; my office is across the street.” I searched for recognition in her face.

“May I help you?” Same tone. I couldn't tell if it was just me or if I interrupted her book, or both. Maybe it was guilt because she was diving into a big bag of chips.

“I'd like to speak with Marni Reyes. I saw what happened earlier with Mrs., uh, Hanady.”

“Just a moment.” She lay her book down and wiped her hands on a paper napkin. She picked up the desk phone and pushed a button. “Marni? Yes, there's a man here to see you. A mister… ?” She looked at me again. I made a show of mouthing
Ed Darvis
. She returned unamused to the mouthpiece. “Ed Darvis. Yes. Yes, that's him. You
will
? Okay.” The receptionist hung up and looked at me incredulously. “Go down this hallway”—she pointed with a finger still greasy from the chips—“and turn into the second room on the right.” She over-enunciated, like I was four.

“Thank you.”
 
I bowed slightly and flashed her a smile. I could feel her watch me over her book as I walked down the hallway. The second doorframe was plastered with two name placards that bore more smiling suns,bright rainbows, and the names: “Miss Reyes” and “Mrs. Simpkins.” I entered.

Marni Reyes was seated at a low table with another woman whom I made for Mrs. Simpkins. Detective work.

“Mr. Darvis. Come in.” Miss Reyes smiled weakly and gestured towards a little chair. There are little chairs and then there are
little
chairs; this one would make a six-year-old fidgety. Seeing my face, she quickly amended, “Sorry. You can stand if you like.” I sat anyway, scrunched down, knees practically touching my collar bone. I noticed she had a freshly painted ladybug on her cheek.

“Miss Reyes, I just wanted to come back to see if everything was okay. I mean, with you, first off.”

“I'm okay, I guess. Oh! This is Mrs. Simpkins.” We shook hands under hellos. “This is Mr. Ed Darvis. From across the street.” She turned back to me. “Well, I'm just concentrating on getting through today. Mary—Mrs. Simpkins—offered to take over the afternoon class, but I think I'd better stay. I don't know what I'd do at home except fret.” She chewed tentatively at a peanut butter sandwich. With her eyes drawn down and her body curved into the little chair, she looked too young to be a teacher. I bet she wasn't older than twenty-two.

“That makes sense. Keep with the kids here and all.” I scratched the back of my neck. “Listen. I'd like to ask you a few questions. I won't take much of your time.”

“Are you involved with the case?” The question was innocent, but her eyes lent it astuteness.

“Only as far as I'm a witness and concerned about what happened. Also, I'll be honest, the police will want to find out two things: first, where the child is, and second, what happened to Mrs. Hanady's husband. After that, they'll consider whether to press charges, who wants to press 'em, and who to press 'em against. They're not paid to unearth a deeper story.”

“Are you?”

I smiled. “Generally, yes. People don't act without reasons, even if they're loaded with emotions.”

She looked at me expectantly.

 
“Mrs. Hanady was clearly upset. You said her husband had died, yet apparently, he picked up their daughter. That doesn't figure, obviously. The most important thing is to make sure the child is safe. If Mrs. Hanady is telling the truth about her husband, then we might be dealing with an abduction by an impostor.”

“You don't think she's telling the truth?”
 
Miss Reyes teared up again.

“I can't say. I need to talk with her myself. If she's telling the truth as far as she knows, her husband may still be alive. Even then it might not have been him who picked up the kid. Then again, if it was him, why did he fake his death? Why did he decide to appear now to get his daughter? If he's alive and it's his child, too, did he break any law? That's a grey area. I also have a friend on the force who can check out Mr. Hanady.” I paused. Although I didn't look directly at her, I knew Mrs. Simpkins was appraising me.

“Look, I see I'm upsetting you. I just have a few questions and then I'll go.”

Mrs. Simpkins patted Marni's hand. Marni sniffled and then smiled, her lips trembling. She didn't break though, and said, “Okay.”

“Thank you, Miss Reyes, may I call you Marni?” When she nodded I said, “First question: Did you see Mr. Hanady pick up his daughter today? And what's her name, by the way?”

“Rachel. Yes, I saw him pick her up. We hold the children in the classroom. The parents come to the door to get them.”

“When did you say was the last time you saw him?”

“Last fall.”

“And you're sure this is the same man?”

She grinned despite herself. “I'm sure. He's—“ She glanced at Mrs. Simpkins. “He's quite good looking.”

“I see. What kind of car does he drive?”

“A Jaguar. I wouldn't forget that. Sort of a silvery green. Two-door, V-8.”

Interesting. Both parents drive two-seaters. That doesn't exactly add up to pleasant family drives in the country.

“You know your cars,” I said, wanting to keep her at ease.

“My brothers and I used to work on them. That is, I used to help them.”

“So, did you see the car today?”

“No. Since the parents come to the room, I generally don't.”

“Have you ever seen the Hanadys together?”

“No, not in person. Oh! But I do have a photograph. All of the children brought them in at the start of the year.” She sprang up and went to a bulletin board. When she returned, she handed me the photo.

It was an outside shot. Nice estate in the background, full summer, flowers, different shades of grey in the foreground. That was Mrs. Hanady all right, this time without sunglasses. Her eyes were greyish, mirth in the crinkles around their edges. I bet they were baby blue in real life. She stood with her arm around a tall man with dark features and a toothy grin—toothy in a capped and pretty way. He wore a coat and tie, and a porkpie hat cocked back on his head. Marni was right; the guy was handsome. Together the couple looked like The First Family. What surprised me, though, was the young girl who stood between them. She wore a floral dress and a big grin devoid of two front teeth. Her skin was tanned dark, darker than the father. Her hair was held back with barrettes. And her dark eyes were barely visible through the squinting folds of flesh. If she wasn't Central or South American, then I'm not a detective.

“This is Rachel?”

“Yes. She's adopted.”

“I can see that. How old was she when she was adopted?”

“Two. The Hanadys adopted her from Colombia. They had to go at night, with an armed guard and everything. Apparently, there's some unrest.”

“How old is she now?”

“She's five.”

“How has she adjusted?”

“Pretty well, I think. She's well-behaved in class and shares with the other kids. She doesn't speak much, but when she does she's very articulate.” Mrs. Simpkins nodded over half an apple.

“Any Spanish left?”

“No.”

“And the parents? Are they fluent?”

“I don't know. I think Mr. Hanady is. He has investments in Colombia.”

“Do you know what kind?”

“I'm afraid not.” She glanced up at the wall clock. “Um, Mr. Darvis, the afternoon children will be here soon and we must get ready.” Marni smoothed her skirt, which had ridden above the knees.

“Of course. And I've already taken more time than I promised. Miss Reyes, I'd like to help get to the bottom of this. When you see Mrs. Hanady again, will you be sure to give her my card?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Thank you. I'll be in touch.” I shook her hand, and then the limp hand of Mrs. Simpkins.

As I opened the door to leave, I almost smacked into the receptionist, who hovered just outside the door. She grimaced and walked towards her desk. I tipped an imaginary hat at her and grinned as I left.

Back in my office I put in a call to Bertie. He wasn't in, but I got a half-hearted promise from the desk sergeant to have him call me. If I hustled to the park, I might see him there at the end of his lunch.

I got the Chevy going and pulled out of the industrial court. Heading towards Forest Park, I turned over some ideas about this case. My bet was Mr. Hanady was alive and had picked up the daughter. Mrs. Hanady may have covered and said he died, but that was far-fetched. Wouldn't Rachel have spoken up about it? My guess was they were separated and, to spare embarrassment, Mrs. Hanady had popped out with a lame story. None of that meant Rachel was okay. That kind of upset on a mother's face is hard to manufacture.

Turning onto Skinker, I thought about Mr. Hanady. Smiling, successful. Business interests in Colombia. Bet there's some shady doings on his end, or the wife's. Or both. I intended to find out. I didn't have anything better to do.

I parked near the tennis courts and walked towards the chess tables. A small fountain splashed with the tiny urgency of a child in a wading pool. Two old men were huddled over a table, eyeglasses thick as the German gutturals dropping out of their mouths. A mother and her son walked around the fountain. No sign of Bertie. I sat on a bench to wait.

“You know I could bring you in on vagrancy.” I turned around to the voice behind me, and there he was.

I relaxed. “ Can't say I'd blame you."

“What's new, Detective?” he asked. He set a foot on the bench and leaned his forearm on his knee.

“I'm late for a chess date.”

“We don't have one today. What is it? A girl?”

“You know me. Always on the make.”

“Have you made it with a queen yet?”

“Nope. But I met a gorgeous girl today. You'd like her.”

“You're not trying to pawn her off on me, are you?”

“Nix. She won't stand before the bishop with just anyone.”

“Ah. And you're her new knight?”

“Yep. Wait'll she sees my sword.”

 

“Seriously, I'm glad I found you. I need some information.”

“What's up?”

I related the morning incident to him. His casual posture left him. He took his leg off the park bench, and his face hardened.

“Listen. Let me see what I can find out about Mr. Hanady. Got a first name?”

“No. He shouldn't be hard to find, though. Start with the daughter's or wife's names maybe. There ought to be adoption records, right?”

“Sure. I can also call the preschool.”

“No wonder you're chief inspector.”

“That's me.” He stood up, straightening his grey pants, his gold wedding band flashing momentarily. “Look. Ed, don't make any moves until I get back to you, okay?”

I made an innocent face and raised my hands, palms up, as if to disavow any history of trouble with one shrug.

 
“Where're you going to be later?” he asked.

“In my office. You know, always sort of on the job.”

“I'll call you there later.”

We shook hands. Bertie departed with a confident stride. He's tall, slender, but his shoulders are powerful. Been married three years to an absolute doll. They're gonna make a beautiful baby some day.

I stopped off for a hamburger and coffee at the Eat-Rite before returning to my office. A little sleepy, I pulled into the court and brought the car to rest in my reserved spot. I leaned over the wheel and looked through the windshield. The sky had gotten overcast. By the end of the day it would probably storm, turn sunshiny and humid, and then be followed by a cold front. Expect snow tomorrow. Who says the Midwest doesn't have its charms?

I unlocked the door to the sound of the phone ringing. I hurried in and grabbed the receiver. “Ed Darvis Investigations."

“Ed? Bertie.”

“Goddamn, you're fast. What have you got for me?”

“Listen up. You got a pen?”

“Somewhere. Got a memory like some animal. I forget which. Shoot.”

“Okay, here's the deets. Hanady's first name is Thomas. He's thirty-four years old and chief executive of Limited Imports.”

“Trinkets?”

“Naw. Bananas. Has a midwest distribution.”

“Ah. I noticed you're using the present tense.”

“That's because there's no record of Hanady's death. In fact, he hasn't even been to a hospital in the last year.”

“Okay. Back to the bananas. Is that all? Guy makes a fortune on bananas?”

“Judging from the IRS's interest in him, I'd say it could be something else he's importing.”

“Drugs?”

“Why not? Hep cats gotta get their tea from somebody.”

“What else you got?”

“He's been married to Jerri Hanady for five years. One daughter, Rachel, age five. She was adopted at age two—“

“From Colombia. I know that. No mention of divorce?”

“No.”

“Any idea of how often he's in Colombia?”

“Not from what I have so far.”

“You got a number for the import shop?”

There was a pause on the line.

“Look, Ed, where's this going?”

“What do you mean? I'll give Mrs. Hanady the privilege of hiring me to recover her daughter. She'll give me a nice retainer, I'll return her bundle of joy, she'll leave her sap of a husband for me—"

“Listen. Those two officers dispatched this morning may be green, but they've already proven themselves capable.”

“Sure, Bertie. And I appreciate the show you're putting on for me. Who's listening over your shoulder?”

“Just don't get in their way.”

“You know I won't. I'll play very nice and we might even cooperate on the investigation. Now, may I pretty please have that number?”

Bertie gave me the number, as well as the Hanadys' address. These I did write down. “Thanks, buddy, you're a peach.” I hung up.

Soon it would be time for the early afternoon pickup across the street; some of the kids stayed until five, and even six o'clock. A rush of wind shook the Bradford pear in front of my window, and the sky turned greyer. Any minute now. The deluge.

I picked up the phone and dialed Limited Imports. A secretary with a perfunctory pleasantness in her voice answered.

“Limited Imports. How may I direct your call?”

“Tom Hanady,” I said evenly.

“I'm sorry, he's away. May I take a message?”

“No, thank you. Do you know when he'll be back in the office?'

“I can't say. He's been on a business trip.”

“Really? For how long?”

“Who may I ask is calling?”

“This is Barry Whitworth, from Sunny's Grocery, you know? We had some bad bananas last shipment.”

“I'm sorry. If you'll wait a minute I'll pull your file.” Fat drops began to strike my front window.

“That won't be necessary. If you could just tell me when you expect Mr. Hanady to return, I'd like to speak with him myself.”

“Mr. Whitworth, Mr. Hanady is often called out of the country at a day's notice. He should be in touch with us shortly about a return date. I can connect you with our southern district distributor.”

I could see this was going nowhere.

“That's okay. Say, how's Mr. Hanady to work for?”

There was a pause on the line during which I could hear typewriters clacking in the background. The rain complemented the sporadic tattoo of the keys.

“He's a fine man, Mr. Whitworth.”

“Well, that's good to know. Hey, I need to get back on the floor.”

“Are you sure I can't take a message for you?”

At that moment something outside the rain-streaked window caught my eye. My pulse quickened.

“That won't be necessary, Miss. But thanks anyway.”

“Goodbye. Mr. Whitworth.”

I hung up and squinted to be sure I was seeing right. A Cadillac had just pulled up into the space next to my car. The driver's door opened and a woman, covering her head with a large purse, emerged.
 

I hustled to the glass door and pushed it open. She rushed in without looking up. She shivered, her back to me. Rivulets of water dropped onto the linoleum.

“Mrs. Hanady?”

I expected, with a little thrill, to see blue eyes. Instead, as she turned around, I saw beautiful green eyes, sternly examining the office. Her face was nearly expressionless when she returned her gaze to me, but her verdant eyes were penetrating. Then she nodded.

“Please, take a seat. Can I offer you some coffee? I'm afraid I don't have a towel here or anything. Would you like my coat?” I gestured to the rack that held a navy sports coat. This time, she shook her head. She sat slowly, and then she spoke. I was surprised at how clear and resonant her voice was.

“Yes, please. To the coffee, I mean. I don't need a coat.”

I unscrewed the cap to the thermos. Luckily, I had a clean, albeit chipped, mug on the shelf behind me. I poured the lukewarm liquid, handed her the mug, and sat down.

“Mrs. Hanady, thank you for coming to my office. I've spoken with Marni Reyes. Did she give you my card?”

She looked at me, her eyes scrutinizing me from an otherwise impassive face. “No. I haven't talked to Miss Reyes. Not since … this morning.” She sipped at the mug.

So, she came here of her own accord. That was a surprise. “I spoke with Officer Frederick,” she continued. “He said he took a statement from Miss Reyes.”
Frederick. Officer High-and-Tight
.

“So, I take it the police don't have any leads?”

“I don't think so. He wasn't very reassuring, either.”

“Mrs. Hanady, I have a friend on the force, a chief inspector, who gave me some information on your husband. I'd like to ask you some questions for corroboration.”

She took the news of my poking around with a nod and clung to the mug. “Of course.”

“I witnessed what happened this morning. That's how I got involved.” I watched her expressionless face. “I'm not
technically
involved with this case unless I'm hired.”

I paused a moment, thinking she would give me the go-ahead. She just seemed to examine the tired grain of my second-hand desk, so I continued. “However, having spoken to Miss Reyes, I suspect something more delicate might be going on. Something that maybe you don't want to tell the police? Or, that they might not be able to help with?”

“I'm sitting here, aren't I?”

“Yes, ma'am, you are. Are you seeking outside assistance in finding your daughter?”

She smiled ruefully. “Yes. And that would be you.”

“Okay. Before we go on, I'm afraid I need to discuss fees.” I wasn't afraid at all. But the rich like to hear that money pains some people.

“I'll pay any price to get my daughter back.”

 
“My normal fee is fifty dollars a day, plus expenses. That's it. In some cases, the client has to pony up reward money, from which I might get a percentage, but I don't think that's what we're talking about here.” I meant to imply ransom, too, and my percentage from that, but I didn't figure she'd handle it well. “Since we're near the end of the day, and if you choose to hire me, I'll waive today's fee and start the clock tomorrow.” I smiled to cover the crassness of my last statement. She didn't seem to care. I passed her a sheet of paper scrawled over in turgid legalese. She signed it dispassionately.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hanady. Now, if you don't mind?”

“I'm ready …
 
anytime. But first,” she held up her coffee mug and said, “do you have anything to put in this coffee?” I knew she didn't mean milk.

Damn. I had killed the scotch.

“I'm afraid not. But look, I can run to the package liquor down the street.”

“No, please don't. I shouldn't anyway. I quit last year. Tom hasn't, though.”

“Hasn't? Or didn't?”

She blanched.

“Mrs. Hanady, my buddy on the force said that there was no death certificate for your husband.”

“No, there wouldn't be. He's alive.”

“Did you not tell Miss Reyes that your husband had died?”

“I did. At the time, I couldn't think on my feet.” Although I found this hard to believe, I let her continue. “Besides, he might as well be dead.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because the bum is always off somewhere. He's barely in Rachel's life. Not to mention mine.”