‘It was lovely meeting you,’ I told Delores Phelps.
‘Likewise, I’m sure.’
‘You, too,’ I said to the guard, but he made no move to step away. We walked back to the mansion, me in front, him a close two steps behind.
Amanda was talking to her father on the terrace. ‘What have you been telling my daughter, Elstrom?’ he asked, when I walked up.
‘That you’ve not been forthcoming, and nothing else.’
‘We’ll discuss your ignorance privately.’ Then, to Amanda, ‘Just he and I, my dear.’
‘I’m part of this,’ she said.
‘I’ll explain later,’ he said.
For a moment he stood silent, I stood silent, and she glared. Finally, she shrugged and walked away.
Wendell led us across the lawn, a small parade with him in the lead, me in the middle, and three body guards bringing up the rear. We entered the house through a side door and passed a laundry room with a porcelain-topped table for folding clothes and a kitchen fitted out, wall-to-wall, with stainless steel. A right turn down another hall brought us to the passage that led to his study door. We didn’t go in. The three guards moved up close behind me as Wendell continued marching us through the long dark foyer to the front of the house.
‘What are you hiding, Wendell?’ I asked the back of his head.
He opened the front door. ‘Why call the police?’
‘I didn’t call any cops.’
He stepped back, and two of the three guards came up on either side of me. I took the hint. I pressed Wendell’s refund check onto the guard at my right, and stepped outside. The door slammed.
A valet had been alerted to bring up the Jeep. I got in and drove through the gates. I pulled over fifty yards from the house and called Amanda. Her phone went automatically to voice mail. I didn’t leave a message because by then I noticed the glint of a familiar bumper parked just past a copse of trees alongside the road ahead. I started up, motored past without looking directly at the driver. It didn’t take long to be sure. The car, a black junior-grade BMW, pulled out and stayed far back at every turn, from Lake Forest all the way south and into Evanston.
I found the sort of cul-de-sac I was looking for just before I got to the outskirts of Chicago. I turned in, spun around fast, and was waiting for him when he eased into the cul-de-sac. He slammed on his brakes but he was too late; I’d pulled sideways to block him in. I jumped out of my car.
His window was open, and so was his collar. I reached in and grabbed it.
It was Jason, or Brad. I couldn’t tell because they’d been so similarly barbered.
‘Tell Mrs Barberi that I’ll report when I’m ready,’ I shouted. ‘And tell yourself that if I see you again, I’ll break your snout.’
As I got back into the Jeep and drove away, I realized I’d misspoken. I’d meant to say nose, not snout.
It had been that sort of day.
TWENTY-FOUR
The fellow flashing a badge early the next afternoon had to be one of the cops Wendell accused me of calling. He didn’t look like a cop. Blond and fresh-faced, he wore a gray herringbone sport coat, charcoal slacks, a white shirt and a blue-striped tie. Right down to his highly polished burgundy penny loafers, he looked bound for the Ivy League, Princeton perhaps. He said his name was Delmar. I asked if that was a first name or a last name. He said his first name was Delray.
‘Delray Delmar?’
‘I figured a guy named Vlodek would understand.’
‘Like we were joined at the hip.’ I invited him in.
‘Nifty,’ he said, looking around the bare limestone room. First-time visitors are always impressed with the craggy, curved limestone walls and the beamed wood ceiling, though typically they offer up more than one word of architectural praise.
I motioned for us to sit in the two white plastic chairs. Except for those, two cans of varnish and my table saw, the first floor is unfurnished.
‘I know how it is, starting out,’ he said.
I was old enough to be his father, almost. Mature enough, certainly, to control my temper.
‘I’m saving up for furniture, too,’ he added after another beat, as if that helped.
I fought the urge to ask if he’d like some chocolate milk. He might have said yes, and I didn’t have any. Milk. Or chocolate. So I stayed silent, and stared at the knot of his striped tie.
He cleared his throat. ‘You were hired by Mr Wendell Phelps to investigate the recent deaths of three prominent businessmen?’
He was asking two troublesome questions. He wanted me to confirm the identity of a client, something I wouldn’t do. And he was asking me to admit to running an investigation, terminology I had to tiptoe around, because ‘investigate’ is a touchy verb in official Illinois. Investigators – private detectives – are required to be licensed, and that in turn requires law enforcement experience or a law degree. I had neither. But there’s a loophole, as there usually is in Illinois laws: a person can operate as an investigator if he’s working for a lawyer. It’s a gray line, but it’s a mile wide. I knew several lawyers, including the Bohemian, who would cover for me if I ever got in trouble. Still, I like to dodge the word ‘investigate.’
‘Did Wendell Phelps tell you that?’ I said, instead of answering.
‘I got your name from Debbie Goring, who was delighted to talk to me. It didn’t take much Internet research to learn that you nibble at investigating. I also learned you are Mr Phelps’s son-in-law.’
‘Former son-in-law,’ I said.
‘Mr Phelps is a friend to many powerful people, including Arthur Lamm,’ he said, floating the name while watching my eyes.
The kid had a contact in the IRS. ‘I went to see Mr Phelps,’ he went on. ‘One of his guards said he wasn’t home. So now I’ve come to see you.’
‘I’m a records researcher,’ I told the lad. ‘Mostly I work for insurance companies, though I chase down information for law firms as well.’
‘And for Wendell Phelps?’
‘I agree with Debbie Goring. I’m troubled by where Jim Whitman got the pills to kill himself.’
‘I believe you’re also bothered by the timing of the deaths of Benno Barberi and Grant Carson because they, like Jim Whitman, died on or just after the second Tuesdays of even-numbered months.’ Young Delray Delmar had also talked to Barberi’s and Carson’s secretaries.
‘Therefore,’ he went on, ‘you’ve probably deduced that the three dead men spent those Tuesday evenings together.’
I liked the way he applied the word ‘deduced’ to my thinking. It made me sound like something other than a schlump who couldn’t hang a kitchen cabinet straight.
‘By Jove, Holmes, it’s an interesting puzzle,’ I said.
‘Work with me, Mr Elstrom. I’m not interested in Wendell Phelps. You can continue to protect Mr Phelps and perhaps help Debbie Goring. She might even part with some large dollars if you help her gain insurance money.’
‘Who are you really interested in?’
He leaned forward. ‘Arthur Lamm. What do you know about him?’
‘If he’s not gone fishing, then he’s gone missing,’ I said, rhythmically.
‘I think he’s on the run,’ he said.
‘From the IRS?’ I asked.
‘Surely from them, but I’m wondering if he’s running from something more. I want to question him about those deaths. Do you know where he might be?’
‘No. Do you think he killed Whitman and Carson?’
‘All I think right now is he travels in the same circles as the dead men and now he’s disappeared.’
‘Do you think he’s part of that Tuesday evening group?’ I asked.
‘He’s wealthy enough. Do you have any idea where they hold their get-togethers?’
‘No idea.’ It was true enough. All I had was the letter ‘C,’ and I wasn’t going to share that without Wendell’s permission.