The Dead Caller from Chicago (28 page)

Wendell, the great man himself, shared an umbrella with a slick, silver-haired man. Though we'd never been introduced, because we'd never travel in the same circles, I knew him. He was a wealthy commodities trader named Richard Rudolph, and he always seemed to be at Amanda's side every time a newspaper photographer ran pictures of her at a charity event.

After I slid slightly to a stop, it was Rudolph who hurried to open Amanda's door. Her breathing had stabilized, and she appeared to have regained her focus. She looked over at me looking at the silver-maned snake. She might have given me a smile, but I don't know; Rudolph slid her out so quickly I couldn't be sure. Her father came up then, and together the six-legged creature of affluence, joined in ways I could only imagine, walked under the canopy and through the door, trailed by the doctor, security men, and cops that would keep her safe.

Not even Jarobi came over to say anything.

It was just as well. I turned around and drove back onto Lake Shore Drive. I wanted to be absolutely alone.

I drove north on Lake Shore Drive, putting more miles between Amanda and me. There was little traffic, no ice, and, despite my incessant checking, no Escalades.

My cell phone rang. It was Jarobi. “Care to share before the Rivertown police pick you up for arson?”

“There's a fire?”

“Apparently a house belonging to Rivertown's chief building inspector caught fire early this morning. Reports are sketchy, other than it appears the fire originated in the basement. There are persons of interest. A rather shabby-looking fellow and a disheveled woman were seen leaving the bungalow in a rusted red Jeep adorned with much silver tape.”

“That's the problem with those eyesore Jeeps. There are hundreds of them. Too many are red, and most have been patched with silver tape.”

“Mr. Phelps whisked his daughter up into her condo. She needed medical attention, so I did not intrude.”

“If Robinson's basement hasn't been totally destroyed, you'll find traces of Amanda being held hostage there.”

“Speaking of that painting…?”

“There might be traces of it, or he might have grabbed it on his way out.”

“Where is he?”

“West Side, in a bad place, likely dead of gunshot.”

Suddenly, I was numb with fatigue. Other than snatches on the plane, returning from L.A., I couldn't remember when I'd last slept.

Jarobi must have heard it in my voice. “Where are you?”

“North Avenue Beach.”

“Pull into the parking lot. I'll send a blue-and-white to escort you home. And Elstrom?”

“Yes?”

“Keep that Peacemaker handy until we find Robinson.”

“Peacemaker?” I asked, too tired for puzzles.

“That old Colt you were waving, the first time I came to your place. It's a variation of the old single-action Colts they used in the Wild, Wild West. They called them Peacemakers. Keep it handy until we find Robinson.”

“It was stolen,” I managed to offer up. It was better than saying I'd dropped the gun in Robinson's basement, where someone was sure to find it, a cop or a fireman, and trace it to a man lying under loose stones.

It was a worry for a more alert man. I needed sleep.

An officer pulled up in a marked Chicago car then and followed me back to Rivertown. He settled back in the driver's seat as I walked up to my door. He was going to stay.

I supposed I should call Jarobi, to thank him for the bodyguard, but though it wasn't much past noon, the thought of trying to do anything except crawl into bed was too complicated to consider.

 

Fifty

In the middle of the afternoon, Henny Bennett's lawyer sent me fishing for the prepaid cell phone I'd brought to L.A. It was chirping in the pocket of my khakis, buried under a thin layer of other clothes on the chair next to my bed. I keep my duds close, so I don't have far to sprint in the cold. Also because I don't yet have a closet.

It was two thirty, Chicago time, which meant it was lunchtime in L.A.

“You were a bit cryptic yesterday,” Mickey Gare said, oozing affability. Cryptic was hardly the word for the lies I'd spun, but I was too groggy to quibble.

“How's the weather out there? Sunny and around seventy-two?” I ventured my other hand from beneath the blankets to grab for the trio of sweatshirts.

“There's no need to play games. We've heard nothing from you, and Mr. Bennett remains most interested in acquiring the Daisy.”

“As is the equally lovable Mrs. Bennett.”

He snorted, and I remembered the slight dusting of powder I'd seen under his nose. I'd wanted to dismiss it as a bit of sugar doughnut residue, such were my sensibilities, but L.A., being a land of tight abs and loose nostrils, demanded other interpretations.

“We'd like to offer an enticement.”

“A bribe? Bribes are always fun.” I rubbed my legs with my free hand, to warm them.

He snorted again, and I became certain he was enjoying a lunch of power powder.

“What's that clicking sound?” he asked.

It was my teeth, chattering. “Hold, please.” I set the phone down and put on the first of my sweatshirts, the XL, in gray. Then, picking up the phone, “How much of a bribe?”

“An enticement to make the final offer.”

The man was a sleazy ass, and my chin was still quivering from the cold. I reached for the second sweatshirt, the plain dark blue XXL. “Last look has already been promised to Mrs. Bennett,” I said, still talking as I slipped in one arm, then the other, as agile as a python.

Two snorts came this time, one loud, one more distant. Gare must have been having lunch with Henny Bennett.

“Hiya, Henny,” I called out.

“No one has contacted us,” Gare bleated. “Not you, not your principal. We'll pay the highest dollar.”

“You already said that.”

“Rudy Cassone? You do know that name, Mr. Elstrom?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I presume you know he's the one who claimed the Daisy was stolen from him and threatened to sue anyone who has possession of the picture. We did some research. So far as we can tell, no one has owned that painting since before World War II, and even then its provenance is cloudy.” He paused. “And now he's dead.” He took a deep sniff that sounded like a tornado sucking a tree out of hard ground.

“Why are you calling?”

“Damn it: Will this Rudy Cassone business wreck things?”

“It certainly did for Rudy Cassone,” I said affably. Cradling the cell phone against my ear, I eased into my thickest jeans, made even thicker in spots by dried paint, and reached for the last of my sweatshirts. It was an XXXL in blaze orange with
DEPARTMENT OF PRISONS
printed on the back. Leo bought it for me, saying that although he only paid two dollars for it, the owner of the Discount Den assured him it went for more when it was new.

“What?” Gare shouted through the tiny speaker of my cell. “You sound like you're talking through a pillow.”

And a cloud of cocaine, I wanted to say, but I'd had a better inspiration, born of too little sleep and too much Mickey Gare. “Things have gotten more complicated,” I said.

“Speak up! I can't hear you.”

I took a moment to enjoy his quickened breathing before whispering, “A third bidder.”

A horrific sound, akin to an entire forest being ripped loose, came through the phone. “You—you—there'll be an enticement. Huge money for you alone.”

I clicked him away. Amanda was safe, and mending. Leo was mending, too, I hoped. I had other things to resume worrying about. A worthless canvas might have been destroyed in Bruno Robinson's basement, but a gun most certainly had not—a gun that had been used to kill a man who lay under too little gravel. That gravel would have to be swept again, before the walls and the slab could be poured. Sweeping meant dislodging, and that meant discovering. Likely enough, Robert Wozanga would again see the light of day.

I walked to the window. Jarobi's guard detail was gone.

I grabbed my regular cell phone. I'd gotten no messages, especially one from Jarobi saying Robinson had been found dead.

“Oh, boy,” I said to myself. Then, realizing that talking to one's self is a sign of deteriorating mental health, I went down to talk to the coffeemaker.

While I waited for Mr. Coffee to embrace the day, I switched on the little kitchen radio I keep tuned to the news. I listened for ten minutes. There was no account of a building inspector being found shot to death on the West Side.

I called Amanda's cell phone. I got jettisoned right to voice mail. Understandably, she was not taking calls.

I then tried the never effervescent Wendell Phelps at his office. His secretary said she'd have to take a message.

Finally, I called Jenny. Dinner with her seemed like the most important thing I could do, even though she'd have questions, not the least of which would be why I'd taken twelve hours to return her call. I got routed to her voice mail, too.

As I poured coffee, my phone rang.

“Good afternoon, buckaroo,” Jarobi said.

“Buckaroo,” I repeated, clueless.

“Buckaroos are cowboys, remember?”

“No.”

“Buckaroos carried Colt Peacemakers like yours. Got it?”

“All of life is about loss.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” I said. “How's Amanda?”

“Her father put a wall around her. Without a complaint, I can't get a warrant issued on Robinson.” He cleared his throat. “That is, if he's still alive.”

I was awake now, and fully nervous. “He's got to be dead.”

“You're sure it was Robinson following you?”

“I recognized his burgundy Escalade.”

“And him? You recognized him?”

“I think so. He had a towel…”

“What are you saying?”

“He must have gotten burned in his basement and grabbed a towel to stanch the bleeding. I didn't actually see his face.”

“The car, we found. The windshield was smashed in, and there was blood on the steering wheel and the front seat. No Robinson.”

“What's Rivertown City Hall saying?”

“The Escalade was stolen. They don't know when.”

“They're covering up,” I said.

“You hope.”

“You bet. I don't want Robinson alive anymore. We have issues.”

“If you were sure it was Robinson chasing you, I could summon up some actionable charge, here in Chicago. If all you saw was someone holding a towel to his head…”

“No corpses, no Caprice in that alley, either?”

“Some fresh scrapes on a garage but that's all. Be careful, buckaroo.”

I put on my coats and went out. The sun was bright; the day had warmed into the low forties. No ice glistened anywhere.

On my way to Leo's, I called Endora. “Amanda is safe,” I said.

“Thank goodness,” she said. Then, “It's over?”

“Not by a long shot.” I braced for anger. She must have been going crazy, cooped up in some discount motel with Ma Brumsky and her own mother, sweating whether Leo would ever summon his head back to full life.

She said nothing. There was no anger, no rage.

“I'm going by his place to pick up some of his most outrageous clothes and a few CDs,” I said. “They might prod some memories.”

She forced a laugh that came out flat and hung up.

Leo's neighbor was on her front porch with a broom. “About time,” she called out.

“For what? The snow is melting.”

“About time anyway,” she said.

I stepped through the slush to the back.

Grabbing clothes to bring to Leo took no time at all, because any combination of patterns and colors, no matter how unharmonious, always made him look normal. I grabbed shockingly colored shirts and pants from his closet, and a shockingly endowed Brazilian songstress's CD from the Bose system on his dresser, and went back out to the Jeep.

Before heading north, I swung past Robinson's bungalow. A Rivertown police cruiser and the fire marshal's red sedan were parked in front. No fire damage was visible on the outside. I supposed that meant little had been destroyed inside, either, especially not the fingerprints on a revolver.

I drove to the tollway. As I was about to get on, I chanced a look in the rearview and saw an older green Chrysler minivan. It had been a hundred yards behind me on Thompson Avenue and was lagging the same hundred yards now.

Paranoia, I told myself. Paranoia from a hellish few days. Still, I drove past the northbound entrance ramp and headed west.

I passed Crystal Waters just as I had the morning I'd driven to Falling Star to deliver a canvas to Rudy Cassone. Now, though, the latest snow had made the gated community's ruined grounds pristine and white. Even the enormous husks of the few houses that remained, waiting for last inspections by explosives experts before they could be torn down, looked whole and livable, as though their owners were snugged up safe inside. It was an illusion. Those houses sat on ground riddled deep with live explosives. Perhaps that's what Crystal Waters had always been, a facade, an illusion of a good life that could be exquisitely and securely lived. It had certainly been that for the months Amanda and I had been married. Until we, and it, blew up.

The minivan was still behind me, and gaining. The gap between us was less than fifty yards.

Spider feet prickled up my neck. Only one hand gripped the steering wheel. The other held a white terry towel pressed to his face. It was splotched all over with red.

The driver was leaking. He was from hell.

 

Fifty-one

He followed my every turn, not caring if he was noticed. Even tipped into crazy, his head a wet mess oozing red into a towel, he was Superman. He survived fire and, somehow, an alley full of guns. Now he wanted only me. He wanted revenge.

I made more turns, and so did he. I pulled onto a main highway, three lanes running north, and so did he. He had to be thinking about a big move. So was I.