Touch and Go (A Mercy Watts Short) (2 page)

Claire stopped typing, took off the headset, and turned to me. “Did you find anything out?”

“Not much. Have you gotten rid of anything? Thrown stuff away?”

“No. Why would I?”

“Didn’t think so, but I had to ask. Is that all Evan had? There wasn’t much there.”

“He’d only been back in the country for a few months. His things are being shipped.”

“Where was he living before?”

“Paris.”

“Doing what?”

“Selling medical equipment.”

“Why’d he move back?”

Claire’s eyes teared up and she said, “There was a terrible accident. His wife was killed in a boating accident. It was hard for him to talk about. He moved back because he couldn’t take the memories in Paris.”

Very romantic. “What kind of boating accident?”

“She was waterskiing and another boat hit her.”

Somehow I never imagined the French to be big waterskiers. “How long ago was this?”

“Six months.”

“And he married you two months ago?”

“I know what you’re thinking. We just fell in love. I made him forget what happened. Evan didn’t want to waste precious time waiting.”

I bet he didn’t.

I showed her the picture and credit card statements.
 

“I want you to call your credit card companies.”

“Why?” A flush crept up her neck.

“I need to know if your cards have been maxed.”

“You think Evan ran up my cards?”

“I think it’s a good possibility.”

“Evan has money. He doesn’t need to take mine.”

“I could be wrong. What else do you know about him?”

“I told you.”

“You didn’t say much. Where did he grow up? How well do you know his family? Have you called them?”

“He doesn’t have anyone, but me. He was alone.”

“Nobody?”

“No.”

“Not even a second cousin, a great aunt?”

“No.”

“Where’s he from?”

“New York.”

“New York City? Which borough?”
 

The flush crept farther up her neck and into her cheeks. “He didn’t mention it.”

Great.

“Look, I’m gonna make some calls. When will you be finished?”

“Half hour.”

I went back to the kitchen and reheated my cocoa. Quite against my will, I picked up the phone and called Chuck. Chuck was my cousin by marriage and a detective on the St. Louis police force. He was good for information, but he usually attached a price. Chuck was the guy they warn about in sexual harassment training, but he was also my father's protégé. Once Dad had ideas of my following him onto the job and then into the business. One year when I was ten, Dad fell asleep in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner for fifteen minutes. We all ate and talked like he wasn’t sitting there, mouth open, fork in hand. Food was passed in front of him. Mom buttered him another roll. He woke up, popped it in his mouth and started talking about snow tires. I knew right then and there I wanted no part of that life.
 

A couple of years later, Dad’s brother, John the accountant, married Chuck’s Mom and it was love. For Dad and Chuck, I mean. John and Vicky got divorced, but there was no getting rid of Chuck. He followed in the footsteps Dad had mapped out for me. Everyone calls him, “Tommy’s boy.” He was a good detective as far as I knew, but no one’s as good as Dad. He was a legend, but Chuck was working on it.
 

“Chuck, its Mercy.”

“Hey, sweet cheeks.”

Gag.

“I need you to do something.”

“For you?”

“Actually, it’s more for Dad’s new transcriptionist.”

“Since when does he have a transcriptionist?”

“Since he does.”

“What does she look like?”

“What does it matter?”

“I like to know who I’m helping.”

“She’s old, lots of extra skin. You’d like her.”

“Pass. What’s her deal?”

“Her husband split. I want you to check and see if he’s got any warrants, that kinda thing.”

“Dinner,” he said.

“Why do you want to have dinner? You’ll just end up pissing me off.”

“That’s why I want to have dinner and I need some help.”

“Oh really?”

“Mom’s getting married again.”

“Jeez, how many times is that?” I asked.

“Five…no, six. Christ.”

“Pick me up at Dad’s around six.”

Chuck showed up at six on the dot and he wasn’t alone. He had an enormous frizzy fur ball sitting on his feet and a paper bag in his hands.

“I had to bring him,” he said.

“Oh yeah. Why’s that?”

“He ate some birds.”

Chuck unclipped the leash and his dog, Pickpocket, trotted in and started the required all-over sniff. Pickpocket was one of Vicky’s castoffs. Nobody imagined Chuck would keep a black standard poodle no matter who gave it to him, but he claimed the dog was a chick magnet.
 

“I didn’t know Pick could catch birds,” I said.

“He can’t unless they’re in a cage.”

“Oh shit.”

“Tell me about it. Mrs. Ferguson is having fits. He ate five of her prize pigeons. I was afraid she’d come over and shoot him while I was gone.”

“Don’t tell me that woman has a gun.”

“Several.”

“Scary.”

We left Pickpocket rooting around in Mom’s ficus and went to the kitchen. At least Chuck had thought to bring Chinese.
 

What did you find out about what’s his name?” I asked as I unpacked the bag.

He pulled out his notebook, started flipping through pages while simultaneously cramming Mongolian beef in his mouth.

“Here you go. Evan’s been a good boy. He had a speeding ticket two years ago, but nothing since. I did a national trace. No arrests, nothing.”

“Damn. Where was the ticket?”

“St. Sebastian. Gonna take a drive? I’ve got a contact out there.”

 
“Guess I have to.”

“I hear they have a good flea market. Want some company? We could make a weekend of it. Go to some cozy B and B. Get lost in each other’s eyes.”

“Stop. I’m getting queasy.”

“Could be the lemon chicken.”

“It’s not the chicken.”

Chuck snickered and got up for a beer. He looked good. I thanked God that he was sort of my cousin and obnoxious, so I’d never be tempted. Chuck had dated every friend I’d ever had. He’s just one of those guys. The appeal was hard to pin down. He didn’t have looks that would get him onscreen, but he had something that defied his receding hairline and oversized facial features. He did have incredible blue eyes that made you feel as though he really knew you and liked what he saw. His body sculpted by Michelangelo didn’t hurt either.
 

Pick came in and started begging for handouts. He looked like a dog that would eat prize pigeons, despite his pedigree. The dog was definitely pet quality, if you used the term loosely. Chuck had had dreams of the show ring, blue ribbons and stud fees. What he got was a fence-jumping, pigeon-eating, butt-licking, crotch-sniffing, leg-humping rocket scientist. Pick was easily the smartest dog I’d ever known, not that it did Chuck any good. He was just glad not to have been sued so far.
 

Chuck left two hours later after Pick stole the paper napkin off my lap and yarked it up in the living room. As well as being smart, Pickpocket was a thief with a passion for paper products. Fifteen minutes after Chuck left I found Pick, rummaging around the pantry, looking for more napkins no doubt. I pulled him out of the pantry and called Chuck on his cell phone. No answer. I called his house and, in desperation, I called his partner. Tony told me that Chuck was undercover. I heard him snorting with laughter as he hung up. What a sucker! I should have known he was up to something. He’d been too nice. He hadn’t touched me once. It was a record.
 

I couldn’t leave Pick or throw him in the yard as much as I wanted to. He’d be frozen stiff by morning and I couldn’t leave him with Mom’s cats (they’d freak out), so I took him home. My cat, Skanky, was asleep on the sofa. When I walked in he turned himself into an arch, unhinged his jaw, and gave a huge yawn. Then he saw Pick and Pick saw him. Skanky took off like he’d been shot out of a bottle. Pick gave a halfhearted chase. I guess he was exhausted from his bird hunt. Skanky holed up in a closet and Pick took over the living room. I went to bed pretending that this wasn’t my life.

I woke up early the next morning grateful that my status as a dog owner wasn’t permanent after Pick nearly dislocated my arm when he saw a squirrel on our walk. The worst thing Skanky had ever done was poop on my bath mat. That in mind, I scooped his pan before I left for St. Sebastian. I got my neighbor, Mrs. Jackson, to take out Pick at noon and hoped for the best. It was an hour drive to St. Sebastian, made shorter since all the commuters were coming into St. Louis and I was going out.
 

I went straight to the tiny police station and looked up the contact that Chuck had given me. Rupert Haas was a big guy with rosy cheeks and a ready smile.
 

“So you’re Mercy. You know you’re just what the doctor ordered. Boring as all get out around here today. Wanna donut?” Rupert said.

“Don’t mind if I do. Thanks for helping me out.”

“No problemo.” He handed me a donut from his sack and kicked his heels up on his battered desk.
 

“I don’t suppose you know anything about Evan Sorbeck?”

“Nope, can’t say that I do. He’s only had that one ticket. He paid it and we don’t even have an address. I asked Jon Haas, no relation, about him, but he didn’t ring a bell.”

“Jon Haas?”

“Gave him the ticket.”

“Do you have a phone book?”
 

“Already checked. No Sorbecks listed. Sorry. What’d this dude do anyway? Chuck didn’t mention it.”

“Skipped out on his wife and left her with thirty-three thousand dollars of credit card debt.” Claire had called me with the bad news late the night before. What she thought about this development, I couldn’t have guessed.

“Bastard.”

“You know it. Guess I’ll head to the courthouse. Point me in the right direction?”

“I’ll do better and help sift through the records. As you can see, we ain’t exactly in the middle of a crime wave here.”

We spent three hours at the computer, looking through birth certificates. I treated Haas to lunch and we both swooned over a couple of cheese steak sandwiches. Then it was back to the courthouse and marriage certificates. We should have started there because Evan Sorbeck got married in 2000 to a local girl, Christina Strattman. Somehow I doubted that she’d found her tragic end in France. Haas got beeped and had to leave me to my own devices. Somebody was stealing bikes at the high school.

I left the courthouse and checked out both addresses. One no longer existed and nobody at the other had heard of Strattman or Sorbeck. Square one and it was nearing five o’clock. I went back to the station. I found Haas back at his desk with a kid sobbing into a box of Kleenex.

“I didn’t mean to do it! It’s not my fault!” he wailed.

“Yeah, well, I’m still calling your mother,” Haas said with his chin propped in his hand.

“Having fun?” I asked.

“More than you, looks like.”

“Could be. Can I use your phone book?”

Haas gave me a phone book that was mercifully thin and I looked up Strattman. There had to be at least thirty, no Christinas.
 

I started dialing. After five calls, I got Christina’s cousin Beth, who apparently didn’t like her because she readily gave me her address. I wouldn’t have given me an address, but maybe I sounded more innocent than I thought. Christina Booker lived in a little town called Columbia. She had a small ranch with a porch that ran the length of the front. The front yard had a lot of dirt, but it looked well-kept. Someone had troubled to paint over the peeling paint on the wood trim, leaving a bark-like texture that might come into vogue someday. Christina wasn’t home, but her neighbor to the right was.
 

Mrs. Meyer let me in and fed me coffee and cookies. Both were delicious. Mrs. Meyer told me that Christina had lived in the house since before Mrs. Meyer had moved in three years ago. She was recently remarried and her first husband had died in a car accident. Mrs. Meyer had never met him. I thanked her and went to the county courthouse in the next town over. Lo and behold, Evan Sorbeck had a death certificate on file. He died, supposedly, in 2002 and the cause of death was accidental. I wasn’t ready for that. I was ready for Sorbeck to be a con man, a grifter, and for Christina Strattman to be one of his victims. I wasn’t ready for him to be dead.

I went back to Christina’s, parked in front and waited. At six-thirty, a brand-new dually truck pulled up and a couple got out.
 

I walked over and tried to look respectable. “Excuse me. I’m sorry to bother you. I’m a private detective. Could I ask you a couple of questions?” Lying comes easy when you’re Tommy Watts’s daughter, but I felt bad. They’d probably never dealt with someone of my ilk before.
 

“Sure, I guess. Would you like to come in?” she said. The husband followed us silently and disappeared when we entered the front door. I hoped he wasn’t sharpening his buck knife. Thank goodness Haas knew where I was.

“I’m really sorry to do this, but can I ask you about your first husband, Evan Sorbeck?”

“Evan?” Christina walked around the room and seemed at a loss what to do. It gave me an opportunity to check out the surroundings. The room was messy, but clean. A bunch of wedding photos were framed and hung on the wall behind the TV. Her house looked comfortable and at home with itself not unlike my apartment.
 

Christina was on the heavy side, but she looked like she’d recently lost a lot of weight. Skin hung around her face like a curtain. Beneath the folds I could see a young woman looking out at me. She had rosy cheeks and happy eyes. Even the mention of her dead husband didn’t dull the sparkle.
 

“Why do you want to know about Evan?” she said.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but I have a friend who recently married a man named Evan Sorbeck. The information he used to marry her, his social security number, birth date, matches your late husband’s.”