A Kind of Justice (13 page)

“Oh God, Bobbi. I've been gone so long. I don't remember anything about marketing. Everything has changed. It's all Internet now.”

She rattles on as I comb her out and trim her bob. It won't be the precision masterpiece she usually wears, but she will look spectacular on her first day. As beautiful as she is, she would look spectacular in a fright wig and no makeup.

The noise of the blow-dryer wipes out conversation for a few minutes, and my mind selfishly gravitates back to my own problems. Surviving the day is one. I'm exhausted already. And trying to stay solvent is the constant problem. We are still running far below year-ago billings, though Samantha thinks we're stabilizing at that level. It's really too early to tell. September is a big month for our business and it has just started. We'll see.

Cecelia says I should sit down with my bank and see about modifying my mortgage payment plan. And she wants me to negotiate the same thing with Roger. I want to beg for mercy from a banker about as much as I want to wake up with body hair. As for leaning on Roger, I wouldn't do that until I was homeless and eating dog food.

Robbie toddles into the room as I finish the blow dry. She climbs
into Betsy's lap and hugs her. She cuddles for five minutes as if charging her batteries, then launches into a full-speed assault on the potential of the day.

All toddlers are cute and she's even cuter than that. She has shoulder-length light brown hair, lively brown eyes, a pixie face, and an endless assortment of expressions that convey anything from anger to glee, but always with a mischievous glint.

She peeks at me from across the room. I mime a kiss. She blows back a kiss and smiles. When I finish Betsy's hair, she asks me to do hers. I lift her on the stool, brush out her hair, and do a quick round-brush blow-dry. She glows with pleasure. She loves getting her hair done. She loves dressing in her princess gowns, wearing lipstick, trying on her mother's heels. Or mine. She is so like me in that way it's almost as if we are genetically related.

For the millionth time, I think, if only I had had that acceptance and support. If only I had been born in the right body. But my next thought always puts an end to that fantasy. If I had been born a girl, or if I had been born trans to a family who accepted me, I would not be here now. Betsy and Robbie would not be in my life. I wouldn't change anything that would mean losing them.

*    *    *

T
UESDAY
, S
EPTEMBER
9

Wilkins takes the seat offered to him, pops a couple breath mints, offers the packet to Ike Schmidt. He declines. Ike's wife brings them coffee while they settle in. Ike is an older white man, seventies, maybe, alert and brimming with energy. Wilkins figures him for the type who still hand-shovels snow in the winter. He is rambling on about neighborhood crime, Wilkins looking out the picture window, thinking Ike has a commanding view of the street.

When Ike's wife leaves, Wilkins gets down to business. “I understand you run the Neighborhood Watch committee here,” he says.

“Someone's gotta do it,” says Ike. “These people think nothing can happen to them, nice neighborhood like this, but that just makes us a target in this day and age.”

“Your neighbors say you don't miss much.”

“They think I'm crazy as hell, but it's true, I don't miss much.”

Wilkins leans forward toward Ike. “Mr. Schmidt, I'm investigating a five-year-old murder that took place just down the street from here.”

“Strand murder,” Ike says. He goes to his roll-top desk and removes a file from a lower drawer. “Remember it well. Big shot lawyer liked to shack up with trannies and girly boys. And they call me crazy.”

“I'm trying to find out if anyone saw anything unusual that night, or in the time leading up to that night.”

Ike leafs through the file. “Well, every once in a while I'd see one of those lady-boys stroll through here. Gave me the creeps, goddamn queers.”

“How did you know they were lady-boys?”

“Their size, mainly. Plus they seemed to hang around Strand's place.”

Wilkins tries to keep it conversational. “They go in and out?”

“Some did. One I saw just kind of hung out on the other side of the street. Strange one. Couldn't tell if it was a lady-boy or a real swishy fag.”

Wilkins' eyes widen ever so slightly. He passes Ike the doctored photo of the male Bobbi Logan. “Did he look anything like this?”

“Could be. Big shoulders. Prissy face. I couldn't say for sure. But it's possible.”

“How long was he there?”

“Must have been fifteen minutes or so. I thought he was waiting for a cab or something,” says Ike.

“Ever see him again?

Ike snaps his fingers. “A few times, now that you mention it. He'd just be walking down the block, slow like. Didn't really set off any alarms. I figured he had a friend hereabouts.”

Wilkins returns the photo to his file. “Do you remember any others in particular?”

Ike smiles a little. “I saw a real beauty come out of Strand's building a couple of different mornings. Blond, great body, gorgeous. I figured her for a woman-woman until the news broke about Strand and his trannies. Boy, if they all looked like her, we'd all want one.” He laughs. Wilkins laughs with him, trying to perpetuate the good mood.

“Do you remember anything else out of place around that time?” Wilkins leans forward again as he asks the question, letting Ike know it's important.

Ike goes through his file. “Seems like it, but it's not coming right to mind,” he says. “Just give me a second.”

“One of your neighbors said you reported a spy working in the neighborhood,” Wilkins says, trying to prod the man's memory.

“You heard that from old Russell. He thinks I'm off my rocker.” Ike pulls a sheet from the file. “Here it is, April 15, one a.m. I didn't think the guy was a spy, more like he was stalking someone, you know, a girlfriend, or maybe a guy he got paid to rough up. He was parked out in front of my place in the middle of the night when I walked the dog. Didn't look right. He sat there for a long time. I figured he might be up to no good, so I called it in. Of course, he was gone by the time the cops got here—only took 'em an hour or so. Good goddamn thing we didn't have some jihadi lunatic blowing himself up on the porch or something.”

Wilkins thinks for a minute, trying to visualize what Ike saw. “Could it have been a police stakeout?”

“Not unless the cops are using BMWs for stakeouts these days.”

“Ever see the car again?”

Ike scratches his head. “Can't say for sure. Lots of BMWs floated through here. Every yuppie sonofabitch in America had a BMW back then. Not so many today, though, eh? The ol' recession knocked a lot of those know-it-alls right on their asses.”

“Did you see anyone or anything on the street the night Strand was murdered?”

“I was up around four that morning, peed, walked my dog just out front. I saw a man walking east down this street. Kind of odd. That's usually a dead time of night.”

“What can you tell me about the man?”

“Not much. It was dark. Seemed youngish, a little spring in his step. Walked kinda like a fag.”

“Long hair, short?”

“Longish, I think. It's been a while. Kind of like the early Beatles.”

Wilkins scans his question list to make sure he'd covered everything, then stands and thanks Ike for his time.

“Always glad to help out,” says Ike. “You want the license number of that BMW?”

“Is it in the police report?”

Crazy Ike snorts as he transcribes the number to a notepad. “No way. They never asked me about it. They figured I was crazy, but I'm not. He hands his note to Wilkins. “Just in case, Detective. Just in case.”

*    *    *

F
RIDAY
, S
EPTEMBER
12

It's Friday, and even though I have a full day of work tomorrow, I feel Saturday beckoning like a warm fire on a cold day. For one whole day, all I'll be doing is dressing hair. I hope. That prospect looms in my
imagination like an erotic fantasy as I maneuver through the crowd on the El station platform with Robbie.

It is six thirty p.m. and I have been running between Chicago and Northbrook for two hours, since Betsy called, hysterical, wanting to know if I could get Robbie at day care. Her boss had just called an emergency meeting and warned that it would go late.

I only had one service left and my client was happy to reschedule. I took the El to the train station, the train to Northbrook, a cab to the day-care center, scooped up Robbie, and reversed everything. When I got to the day-care place—actually, they don't like that term, it's more like the Harvard of preschools—Robbie was the last kid there. She was playing happily, but my heart sank miles into the ground, weighted by guilt and a sense of failure. I never want this child to feel abandoned or alone. Of course, she doesn't, but when I saw her there, the last kid, I pasted my own fears and prejudices into the picture and have been running with an aching heart ever since. It goes with my acid stomach, but not that well.

I try to assuage my guilt by putting Robbie on my lap on the El so I can hug her and coddle her, but she isn't interested. In fact, she thinks the El is the coolest playground she's ever seen and spends her time making eyes at the various specimens of humanity who travel by that conveyance in our fair city. The suit people aren't much fun—bankers, traders, lawyers, and other members of the yuppie elite. A few of them do double takes. It's not every day you see a transwoman with a child, even on the El. But none of them want to play peek-a-boo with Robbie. Fortunately, the less pretentious people on board are far more accommodating, and Robbie has a great time on the run from the train station to the north side.

We duck into a grocery store on the way to my apartment so I can get food Robbie will eat. This was an impromptu call, and I had no time to get things ready for my niece and sister to come calling. I fed
her a bag of pretzels on the train, but that won't buy much more time. I'm frazzled as I try to keep Robbie entertained and check off all the things I need to do to finish this day. Robbie is in a phase where she eats only hot dogs or bologna, chips, and cottage cheese. I snatch up these items and find a fish fillet for Betsy and me, along with a pre-mixed salad. On the way to the checkout I see a wine rack and select a nice red. I cradle it lovingly in my hands before placing it in the shopping basket; it is my lifeline to sanity.

At my place, I turn Robbie loose with a half dozen pots and pans and assorted utensils while I organize our meal. Thirty minutes later Betsy bursts into the apartment, face flushed after her brisk walk from the El station, her body radiating animation and anxiety. Robbie looks up from her meal, ketchup smeared from cheek to cheek, a happy smile on her face. It helps me that she's not drop-everything-ecstatic to see her mom. She was having a good time with Aunt Bobbi and not worried. Mom, on the other hand, is nearly frantic to hug and kiss her child and shelter her from the demons of the world.

When Betsy rises from the mother and child reunion, I use a damp paper towel to clean the ketchup from her lips and nose. She smiles and kisses me on the cheek and hugs me, venting a week's worth of pent-up emotions.

She brushes a strand of hair from my eyes, the kind of familiar gesture I love. “What's for dinner?” she asks. I take her through the menu and pour wine. We toast her first week back. Over dinner she tells me about the office. She's working as a staff person instead of a manager, but she's okay with that. It's a little harder taking supervision from someone younger than her, and her colleagues are a little standoffish, but she thinks things will be okay when the newness wears off.

It gets quiet suddenly.

“And . . .” I say, leading her.

“My boss. He's a little . . . I don't know . . .”

I gesture with my hands to keep talking.

“It's just . . . he's kind of touchy-feely, you know. He came up behind me at my desk once and put a hand on my shoulder while he talked to me. He calls me ‘honey' sometimes, which frosts me.”

The more I draw her out, the more the guy sounds like a creep. He's always smiling and syrupy, but it sounds like an act. He sounds like a small-dick alpha male trying to put Betsy in her place, or get in her pants. Or both.

“That meeting tonight?” she says. “I tore up your day and got a heart attack to make myself available for it, and it was nothing. Everyone else was gone. He calls me in his office, closes the door, and says he just wanted to know how my first week went, how I like the office, the other people, him. We could have had that conversation in the hallway in two minutes.”

Just what I was thinking.

“He told me I was great this week, even better than he thought I'd be, and if I play my cards right I'll be getting raises and promotions.” Betsy has a worried set to her mouth when she says this. “I'm really afraid that means he's going to want me to work late a lot.”

I nod in agreement, trying to will myself to keep my mouth shut. I can't.

“I don't think it's work he has in mind,” I say.

The anxiety on Betsy's face tells me she's thinking the same thing.

“I'll take care of it.” She says it with a sharp note in her voice. I've gotten too close. She's telling me to back off.

M
ONDAY
, S
EPTEMBER
15

“Y
OU WERE ALWAYS
a stand-up guy, Pavlik.” Wilkins locks eyes with Phil. “That's why I want to give you a heads-up.”

Phil stares at the detective, not sure of what to say. Finally he shrugs.

“I've got a ways to go for an indictment in the Strand case,” Wilkins says, “but it's going to happen pretty fast now.”