But that time had not yet come. ‘That kills the deal for me, Delray,’ I said. ‘You wreck Wendell Phelps, you wreck me.’
‘Because of loyalty to your ex-wife?’
‘I put her in the newspapers once. I’m not going to do it again. I’ll call Krantz, give him a heads-up on the graystone.’
He stared at me for a long minute, judging whether I’d carry out the threat. He knew as well as I that the Feds always trumped local cops. They’d chase Delray and the homicide cops right off the case.
‘OK; no Phelps and no IRS, for now,’ he said, backing down. ‘I’ll go to Homicide, but my way, and on my time schedule.’
‘You don’t have a schedule anymore.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Arthur Lamm might have another insurance policy we know nothing about. He might kill again.’ I took a last sip to finish my whiskey and stood up. ‘You’ve got seventy-two hours before the Confessors’ Club meets again,’ I said.
FORTY-ONE
Sunday went calmly before it went to hell.
I awoke late that morning, well rested from knowing that Delray Delmar had alerted homicide cops to the links between Arthur Lamm and the deaths of Whitman and Carson. I had no doubt they’d be all over the Confessors’ Club on Tuesday, to stop whatever killing was meant to go down.
And by the early afternoon, I’d achieved success with my troublesome tilting kitchen cabinet at last. I’d loosened every screw, re-shimmed, and re-tightened to get it to hang perfectly straight and level.
Even the butchered ash seemed to stand victorious, out the window, a headless man with both of his arms raised in triumph.
So I was feeling good, sipping coffee and more than occasionally sneaking admiring glances at my perfectly aligned cabinet, when Debbie Goring called.
‘Elstrom, you son of a bitch,’ she said, sounding almost jovial as she exhaled smoky carcinogens into her mouthpiece. ‘Guess what?’
Surely she was phoning about Delray’s call, trumpeting my worthiness, but I waited so she could say it and I could act pleasantly surprised.
‘I just opened yesterday’s mail,’ she went on. ‘Know what was in it?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘A cashier’s check for a hundred thousand dollars.’
‘From whom?’ I asked.
‘Come on, Elstrom. No need to be coy.’
‘Doesn’t the check show the remitter?’
‘No.’
‘It wasn’t because of me.’
‘A deal’s a deal. You shook some big bucks loose. I owe you five per cent, five grand.’
‘Hold the dough. It wasn’t my work. There’s no clue who sent it?’
‘One of my father’s rich friends, someone you made feel guilty. Stop by and pick up your check. Oh, and Elstrom?’
‘Yes?’
‘That cop who called me last night? Total unnecessary, pal. I’m good for paying you a commission on everything I get. I got faith that more is coming for both of us, Elstrom. You and the cops will prove my father was murdered.’
A faint squeak came from across the would-be kitchen. I spun around. And froze. The cabinet I’d just tightened so perfectly was starting to tilt.
‘Keep plugging, Elstrom; there’s big money-’
The cabinet gave up a mighty screech, a horrible, wood-ripping sound, and let go from the wall. I dropped the phone and ran but I did not get there in time. It slammed to the floor and split into a dozen pieces.
Some seconds later, I thought to pick up the phone from the floor and put it back to my ear. Debbie had hung up.
Coherent thoughts about anything in that kitchen were out of the question. I left the cabinet kindling on the floor and went across the hall to my computer and the numbing diversion of the Internet. I started off by Googling hardware sites, searching for miraculous advances in wall-mounting technology. Nothing wondrous appeared. I’d used the right anchors; they just hadn’t been right enough.
My mind wandered, then, to Wendell and what sort of investigator he’d hired before he hired me. As I expected, Edward Small was a common name, and there were many of them. A toymaker, a guy who studied earthworms, and another who offered to repair Disney collectibles were just some of those listed. There was no mention of any being a private investigator.
I thought back. Mickey Rosen at the Newberry had said the first name could have been Edwin. I keyed in the new first name, found three different salesmen, an antique car enthusiast, four college professors, and at least two Rotarians – though in different parts of the country – and still no private detective.
I wanted coffee, but not bad enough to face the carnage in the kitchen. I typed in a new first name – Eugene – to delay getting up. My computer screen lit up with listings of lurid stories from the Chicago Tribune and the Chicago Sun-Times, dating back only several weeks, to the beginning of March.
Eugene Small had been murdered.
The Tribune’s website tersely summarized: ‘Eugene Small, a local private detective, was found shot to death in an alley on Chicago’s north side. His wristwatch and wallet were missing, leading Chicago police to theorize that Small had been robbed.’
Plenty of people get killed in Chicago: dope distributors arguing over deals; gang bangers fighting for turf; addicts slumped too far into a fix; and kids, lots of kids, and other just plain folks dropped by drooling morons shooting wild, not aiming so much as looking to simply make a cry in the night. The robbery and death of a private dick didn’t need to mean anything.
Unless it came from the Confessors’ Club.
Delray could find out more. I called but got his voice mail. I figured he was still huddled with Homicide. I left a lie for a message, saying I’d known Small from another case, had just heard of his death, and wanted him to find out what he could.
The Internet gave me Small’s business address. Being Sunday, mid-morning, I breezed into the Chicago Loop in twenty minutes.
South Wabash struggles to find the sun even more than South Michigan Avenue, one block to the east. Tall buildings still smudged from Chicago’s sootiest days a century earlier line both sides of the narrow street, and the elevated train that gave the Loop its name runs high on rusting old scaffolding down its center, casting the pavement in ever changing grids of shadow. Even at midday, when the sun is directly overhead, South Wabash Avenue is perpetually in gloom.
It is a street of ancient enterprises. Second- and third-generation diamond merchants, beef restaurateurs, and seedy clothing merchants operate behind dark doorways. Eugene Small’s building was a rickety old warren of tiny offices, catty-corner and down from what used to be Marshall Field’s before Macy’s bought it, cluttering its aisles and dimming its lights.
The door to the faded gilt lobby was open. The directory on the wall just past a small pharmacy said Small’s office was on the fifth floor. I pressed the elevator button, unsure whether the rumbling I then heard came from the elevator or a train passing high on the tracks outside. I waited for a few minutes, then gave it up and took the stairs.
The fifth floor was hushed. Everybody was at home for the weekend. My footsteps slapped loud and alone at green-and-black tiles dulled by too few waxings and too many decades of shuffling feet. The lettering on the frosted glass door panels was old and chipped and hard to read; no lights burned behind them. Another elevated train rumbled outside, shutting out the sound of my footfalls. And then it had gone and the building went silent again.
‘Small Detective Agency’ was lettered on a door halfway down. The office to the right advertised loans for people who had no credit; the glass on the door to the left was blank.
I remembered how easy it had been for Delray to pop the lock at the Confessors’ Club, and realized I’d forgotten to give him back his picks. They wouldn’t have done me any good even if I’d thought to bring them. I was strictly zero-tech when it came to illicit entering; all I was packing that morning was a Visa card.