People would pay a lot of money to keep their dirty laundry out of the news.
Forty minutes later I was pulling into a handicapped parking spot in front of the Salieri Academy on Irving Park Road. Last year, I'd bought a handicapped parking sticker from a one-legged man in line at the DMV. It only cost me ten dollars. He had demanded five hundred, but I simply grabbed the sticker and strolled away at a leisurely pace. Guy shouldn't be driving with only one leg anyway.
The Academy was a large, ivy-covered brick building, four stories high, in the middle of a residential area. As I was reaching for the front door it began to open. A woman exited, holding the hand of a small boy. She was smartly dressed in skirt and blazer, high heels, long brown hair, maybe in her mid-thirties. The boy looked like a honey-baked ham stuffed into a school uniform, right down to the bright pink face and greasy complexion. When God was dishing out the ugly, this kid got seconds.
I played it smooth. “Wouldn't let you in, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
I pointed my chin at the child.
“Wilbur, here. All he's missing is the curly tail. The Academy won't take fatties, right?”
The boy squinted up at me.
“Mother, is this stupid man insinuating that I have piggish attributes?”
I made a face. “Who are you calling stupid? And what does insinuating mean?”
“Just ignore him, Jasper. We can't be bothered by plebeians.”
“Hey lady, I'm 100% American.”
“You're 100% ignoramus.”
“What do dinosaurs have to do with this?”
She ushered the little porker past me—no doubt off to build a house of straw—and I slipped through the doorway and into the lobby. There were busts of dead white guys on marble pedestals all around the room, and the artwork adorning the walls was so ugly it had to be expensive. I crossed the carpeted floor to the welcoming desk, set on a riser so the secretary looked down on everyone. This particular secretary was smoking hot, with big sensuous lips and a top drawer pulled all the way out. Also, large breasts.
“May I help you, Sir?”
Her voice was sultry, but her smile hinted that help was the last thing she wanted to give me. I got that look a lot, from people who thought they were superior somehow due to their looks, education, wealth, or upbringing. It never failed to unimpress me.
“I called earlier, Miss Janice. I'm here to see Mikey.”
Her smile dropped a fraction. “I informed Mr. Sousse that you were coming, and he regrets to inform you that—”
“Cork up that gas leak, sweetheart. I'm really a private detective. I'd like a chance to talk with Mr. Sousse about some embarrassing facts I've uncovered about one of your teachers here,” I said, referring to that incident I'd Googled. “Of course, if he doesn't want to talk with me, he can hear about it on the ten o'clock news. But I doubt it will do much for enrollment, especially after that last unfortunate episode.”
Miss Janice played it coy. “Whom on our staff are you referring to?”
“Are you Mr. Sousse? I can avert my eyes if you want to lift your skirt and check.”
She blushed, then picked up the phone. I gave her a placating smile similar to the one she greeted me with.
“Do you have ID?” she asked, still holding the receiver.
I flashed my PI license. She did some whispering, then hung up.
“Mr. Sousse will see you now.”
“How lucky for me.”
She stared. I stared back.
“You gonna tell me where his office is, or should I just wander around, yelling his name?”
She frowned. “Room 315. The elevator is down the hall, on the left.”
I hated to leave with an attractive woman annoyed with me, so I decided to disarm her with wit.
“You know, my father was an elevator operator. His career had a lot of ups and downs.”
Miss Janice kept frowning.
“He hated how people used to push his buttons,” I said.
No response at all.
“Then, one day, he got the shaft.”
She crossed her arms. “That's not funny.”
“You're telling me. He fell six floors to his death.”
Her frown deepened.
“Tell me, do they have heat on your planet?” I asked.
“Mr. Sousse is expecting you.”
I nodded, my work here done. Then it was into the elevator and up to the third floor.
Sousse's office was decorated in 1960's Norman Bates, with low lighting that threw shadows on the stuffed owls and bear heads and antlers hanging on the walls. Sousse, a stern-looking man with glasses and a bald head, sat behind a desk the size of a small car shaped like a desk, and he was sneering at me when I entered.
“Miss Janice said you're a private investigator.” His nostrils flared. “I don't care for that profession.”
“Don't take it literally. I'm not here to investigate your privates. I just need to ask you a few questions.”
A stuffed duck—of all things—was propped on his desktop, making it impossible for me to get a clear shot of his face with my cleverly concealed camera tie. I moved a few steps to the left.
“Which of my staff are you inquiring about?”
“That's confidential.”
“If you can't tell me who we're discussing, why is it you wanted to see me?”
“That's confidential too.”
I shifted right, touched the tie bar, heard the shutter click. But the lighting was pretty low.
“I don't understand how I'm supposed to—”
“Does this office have better lights?” I interrupted. “I'm having trouble seeing you. I'm getting older, and got cadillacs in my eyes.”
“Cadillacs?”
I squinted. “Who said that?”
“Do you mean cataracts?”
“I don't like your tone,” I said, intentionally pointing at a moose head.
Sousse sighed, all drama queen, and switched on the overhead track lighting.
Click click went my little camera.
“Did you hear something?” he asked.
I snapped a few more pics, getting him with his mouth open. My tech geek should be able to Photoshop that into something particularly rude.
“Does your tie have a camera in it?” he asked.
I reflexively covered up the tie and hit the button for the mp3 player. Tori Amos began to sing about her mother being a cornflake girl in that whiney, petulant way that made her a superstar. I fussed with the controls, and only succeeded in turning up the volume.
Sousse folded his arms.
“I think this interview is over.”
“Fine,” I said, loud to be heard over Tori. “But you'll be hearing from me and Morribund again.”
“Who?”
“Don't play coy. People like you disgust me, Mr. Sousse. Sure, I'm a carnivore. But I don't get my jollies hunting down ducks and mooses and deers and squirrels.” I pointed to a squirrel hanging on the wall, dressed up in a little cowboy outfit. “What kind of maniac hunts squirrels?”
“I'm not a hunter, you idiot. I abhor hunting. I'm a taxidermist.”
“Well, then I'm sure the IRS would love to hear about your little operation. You better hope you have a good accountant and that your taxidermist is in perfect order.”
I spun on my heels and got out of there.
Mission accomplished. I should have felt happy, but something was nagging at me. Several somethings, in fact.
On my way through the lobby, I stopped by Miss Janice's desk again.
“When Sousse fired that teacher a few weeks ago, what was the reason?”
“That's none of your business, Mr. McGlade.”
“Some sex thing?”
“Certainly not!”
“Inappropriate behavior?”