Dead Ringer Read online

  It had been just over two months ago that the bullets had ripped apart his body and spirit. Three bullets, all meant for me, but because he’d been in my Firebird, the assassination attempt had turned even more tragic. It was one of the reasons I’d let the Firebird go at such a steal. Bad memories.

  Ken’s memories had deserted him. It was probably best that he couldn’t recall the shooting. The third shot had pierced his skull, sending the projectile through the left side of his brain. He was relearning the basics now. Speech, movement, talking. It was rough to see such a young guy so debilitated.

  It was rougher on his parents. Through their lawyer, they’d let George and me know that it would be “better” if we stopped coming around to see him. That was as they served us with the lawsuit, suing our insurance carrier for Windy City Knights Security. Ken had been working for us when he’d been shot. His family had little choice if they wanted him to have the best therapists, but our carrier dropped us as part of the settlement, and Windy City Knights was blown away with the early summer winds. After that, we couldn’t have gotten bonded with Lloyd’s of London. Neither of us blamed Ken nor his family for the lawsuit. He was trapped in some netherworld, his clear blue eyes sometimes looking like there was an intelligent thought trapped behind them, waiting to get out. Traumatic brain injuries were like that. It wasn’t like we hadn’t seen things coming, either, and deep down we knew there was no choice. But I still felt a twinge of regret knowing that George’s post-retirement plans had vanished as well.

  So I had an arrangement with the nurses to get updates on Ken’s progress without showing my face while he was there. At some future point, I hoped he’d recover enough that we could talk. But I was at a loss as to what to tell him. Maybe just to keep his strength and live on. Saying anything else would be the cheap way out.

  I finished packing my gear in the bag and stood up. The Bayless mysteries would have to be pondered in the morning. But the main question still lingered in my mind.

  If it was Bob Bayless that Herbie had seen, and he hadn’t perished in the downstate traffic accident, just whose body was it that had burned to death in Bayless’s crashed car? And where the hell did it come from?

  Alex St. James

  It was late by the time we got to the church, and I’d expected to be told to come back the next day, but Father Morales’ face broke into a wide smile the moment he spied me and Nicky in the doorway. “Nicholas!” he called across the crowded room. There had to be at least three dozen homeless people gathered in the church basement, all taking part in some sort of lecture. It made me wonder if they all chose browns and grays to wear because it allowed them to blend in to the scenery, or if the bland clothing was all that was available to them. I’d been in enough thrift stores to know that they sold electric blue and hot pink clothing. Maybe these people’s clothing had been bright and colorful at one time. Maybe it was dirt that made them all the same shade of drab.

  Large, ceiling-mounted fans did an admirable job of keeping the aroma of stale humans at bay, but the rancid stench from that last embalming room was still with me. I wondered if I’d ever forget that smell.

  We made our way to the priest, a large-nosed fellow with olive skin and a full head of dark hair. With his donkey-brown hooded tunic, ropes at his waist, and his indeterminate age he would’ve made a great Friar Tuck.

  After Nicky made introductions, I said, “You’re Franciscan.”

  Father Morales’ beefy hands came out in a gesture of subjugation. “Guilty as charged. You sound surprised.”

  “When Nicky—er—Nick said ‘Father Morales’ I assumed you were diocesan.”

  He shook his head, called out a request to another man to take over for him, and led us to one of the few vacant tables. “I dedicated myself to the order of St. Francis when I was eighteen. But I am ordained.”

  “Do you prefer to be called Father, or Brother?”

  His face was wide, and when he smiled it seemed to get bigger, though not unpleasantly so. “I’ll answer to either. And whichever title will get me more donations for my shelter is the one I like best.” He took Nick’s hand in both of his, shaking it with genuine warmth. “It’s been too long. I was so pleased to get your call.” He held Nick’s hand a moment longer before letting go as he turned to me. “This man has been very good to our ministry,” he said. “His name, Nicholas, is precisely right for someone who gives so much. Like St. Nicholas, my good friend here has come bearing gifts more times than I can count.”

  That surprised me. Nicky hadn’t struck me as a philanthropist. I acknowledged and congratulated him on his good deeds.

  He shrugged. “I do what I can.” And then Nicky gave me the floor. “Father,” he began, “my good friend, Alex, needs some help with a project and I believe you’d be her best source.”

  I took my cue. “I work for Midwest Focus NewsMagazine—”

  “Yes, I recognize you.”

  That took me aback. “You do?”

  “Just because I took a vow of celibacy doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate loveliness. It is one of many gifts God has given you.” He smiled. “And I’d venture to say you’ve been blessed with intelligence as well. I’ve seen several of your broadcasts. Quite impressive.”

  “Thank you,” I said, but my words were nearly lost as the lecture behind me wound up and the room’s murmur level grew.

  “I’ll take any loose change ya got.” The harsh voice came from behind, as did the nudge at my shoulder. “You got some, ain’t ya? Paper’s welcome, too.”

  I turned, getting hit full face with stale body odor from an emaciated woman who looked to be at least ninety years old. Her voice, however, sounded much younger.

  Father Morales’ voice was a warning. “Vicki.”

  “I don’t know how much I have—” I said, starting to dig.

  “Put your money away, Alex. Vicki here doesn’t need it.”

  If anyone needed it, this woman did. Her eyes were a watery shade of brown—nearly colorless—and her face, pockmarked and uneven, was drawn in tight, like an ugly puppet’s. “I might have—” I began again.

  The woman sidled closer; I instinctively pulled my purse nearer to my chest. I got the feeling that Vicki would reach in and take whatever she darn well pleased, thank you very much, and I didn’t want to provide her the opportunity.

  “I know you mean well, Alex, but you can’t,” Morales said. “Vicki, it’s time for your meeting with the counselor, isn’t it?”

  Her eyes narrowed as Morales’ arm reached around to try to turn her away from me. Before he tugged, she shot hot acrid breath into my ear. “I don’t like your boyfriend,” she whispered. “If you give me something, I’ll like you.”

  Vicki winced, showing black-crusted teeth. Morales’ grip had apparently gotten a little bit tighter. “These are my guests,” he said. “I’ll talk with you later.”

  The woman scuttled away, still muttering.

  Morales watched her leave, apologizing for the interruption. “They’re so much like little children,” he said. “You have to tell them the same thing, over and over. They constantly push for more.”

  “I could’ve given her something,” I said. “I feel terrible letting an old lady like that go out without helping her.”

  “Old lady?” Morales shook his head. “Vicki’s about thirty-eight. Maybe thirty-nine. Can’t remember exactly.”

  I stared after her. “No way.”

  “That’s what methamphetamine will do to a body.”

  “My God.” Horrified, I watched her make her way to the counselor who sat at one end of a long table. He pointed to an empty folding chair and Vicki sat. Before turning her attention to him however, she gave me a pointed look, rubbing her thumb and fingers together in the international sign of “give me cash.”

  I turned away.

  “If you would have given her money,” Nicky said, “she just would have gone out and gotten herself more crystal meth. She’s got food and a place to slee
p here. She doesn’t need anything else until she’s clean.”

  “Wow,” I said. “This is a tough job.”

  Morales stared after the woman. “It’s a calling.”

  The idea of spending my nights living among people like Vicki was giving me second thoughts upon second thoughts. Bass had some interesting ideas, all right. As long as he wasn’t risking life and limb, they all sounded great. To him. “I guess if I’m going to get up close and personal with these folks, I should learn the rules.”

  “What are you talking about?” Morales asked.

  Nicky spoke first. “Alex is going undercover. Living among the homeless. For a story.”

  Morales started shaking his head almost as soon as Nicky began. “No. No. No,” he said. “This is a terrible idea. Nicholas, why are you supporting this?”

  “I’m not,” Nicky said.

  I interrupted. “He tried to talk me out of it, but I really don’t have any choice.”

  Morales wrinkled his bulbous nose. His big head swagged side to side. “I’ve taken a vow of poverty and I wouldn’t live among them. Don’t get me wrong, they need our assistance and I would never forsake them, but . . .” His eyes clenched. “They can be dangerous. Many of them suffer from mental illness. That makes them unpredictable. They are crazy—in the truest sense of the word. They harbor thoughts you and I can’t even imagine. If you inadvertently make them angry, they attack. They develop animalistic tendencies. There’s no reasoning with them.”

  The holy man’s warning gave me ever more reason not to follow through with this homeless adventure. The fact remained, however, I was the new kid on the block—TV-wise—and I couldn’t afford to pitch a fit so early on. Right now, I was a nobody.

  In my old job, I investigated stories for Gabriela to discuss on TV. In my new job, I was still doing investigations, but they were for my own television appearances. So far, less than half a dozen. The only difference I could see was that Bass was getting a researcher and a part-time anchor for the price of one. Leave it to Bass to try to squeeze three nickels together to make twenty cents.

  Truth was, I wanted to be a household name. And this story could set me apart from Gabriela. Give me my own little niche.

  “I understand,” I said to Morales. “I’m planning to—” I’d been on the verge of telling him about my Taser, when I remembered they were illegal in the city. “Planning to bring along a cameraman.”

  Nicky and Morales gave me twin looks of doubt. “What’s he going to do?” Nicky asked.

  “At least there will be two of us,” I said, feeling a mite defensive. “He’s going to film surreptitiously, and if I get into trouble, he’ll have a cell phone. Plus I don’t intend to carry any valuables or anything.” My voice drifted off, and I realized I sounded a whole lot less convinced of the workability of this plan than I should have.

  “Alex,” Morales said, rubbing his temples. “There’s so much more at stake here than you getting robbed.”

  “When I get some of these people at the funeral home, they’re diseased,” Nicky said to me. “You smelled how bad it can be, remember?” I glanced around, hoping none of the local residents could hear him, but his voice rose. “Not just drug addicts like Vicki back there, but they’ve got AIDS and hepatitis and who knows what else. Christ, you can get bed bugs just walking in here.” He gestured about the wide room, and then suddenly seemed to remember where we were. “Well,” he added, quieting, “you know what I mean.”

  Nicky fidgeted after his little speech, making faces as though squeamish. This was a guy who pumped blood out of dead bodies for a living?

  Morales was studying me. “There’s no dissuading you, is there?”

  I shook my head.

  “When are you planning your little campout?”

  “As soon as possible. I’ve got a cameraman on call.” I shrugged. “Tomorrow, probably.”

  He heaved a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his tunic. “All right then, let’s take a walk.” He started for the door. Nicky and I followed.

  “Where are we going?”

  The man from the mission had turned into a man on a mission. “The counseling sessions are nearing completion. Dinner’s been over for some time. Shortly, the homeless folks you see here will be dispersed into the night.”

  “Dispersed?”

  He grinned. “Sounds better than ‘shoved out the door,’ don’t you think?” He kept a brisk pace, stopping only briefly at the basement’s sign-in table at the entrance to let someone know he’d be gone for a while.

  “They don’t sleep here?”

  We climbed metal-edged tile steps to the church’s lobby—my shoes and the brother’s were quiet but Nicky’s clicked hollowly, echoing against the faux-marble walls.

  Morales waited to answer me until we made it outside into the humid evening. Sweating profusely, he pulled a long white kerchief from his sleeve to mop his dripping face. “We can’t let them sleep here,” he said. “They’d never leave. We ease the rules in the winter, of course, but we don’t have the facilities, or the funding to maintain a full-time transient . . . hotel.” He turned to Nicky. “What do you think? Howard’s corner?”

  Nicky shot him a look of disbelief. “You want to walk there? At this time of day? In this weather?”

  Morales’ hands came up. “What choice do I have?”

  Nicky gave the brother a rueful look. “I’ll drive.”

  Howard’s corner, as I came to discover was the former home of Howard Rybak. It turned out to be a wide underpass that teemed with nocturnal activity. According to Morales, Howard was the shining example of a wretched life turned around—proof that it could be done—hope for the masses.

  “Here we are,” Morales said shortly. “Home of the crazies.”

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  “I know,” he said, “it’s not politically correct to use that term, but I’ve come to know these people better than most. It’s an accurate assessment. One you should not forget.” He turned to Nicky as we exited the black Cadillac, about two blocks from the corner. “Have you seen Howard lately?”

  “He moved,” Nicky answered. “About six months ago. The temporary placement office found him a full-time job.”

  Morales slammed the car’s door and beamed. “I knew it. I’m so proud of him. And you, too, Nicky. You gave him a lot of personal attention. You made all the difference for him.”

  Nicky had come around, as though to help me with my car door, but I beat him to it. He shrugged away Morales’ adulation. “Where do you want to start, Alex?” he asked.

  “I’d like to get in touch with Howard,” Morales continued. “Where’s he living now?”

  Nicky scratched his head. “I’ve got his address written down somewhere.”

  “Is he still local?”

  “Uh . . . not sure.” Nick turned to me again. “Is this really what you want to do, Alex? Look. See those folks? If you try to encroach on their space, they’re going to have you for breakfast. And I mean that literally.”

  We made our way to the collection of people under the overpass. High above us, traffic sped by on the six-lane expressway under bright lights and reflective signs, guiding happy people on their way out for the evening, or home for the night. All of them up there had somewhere they’d been, and somewhere they were going. These people underneath weren’t going anywhere.

  This was a very old, very large overpass. Grisham Avenue, where we were parked, crossed perpendicularly beneath it. I’d lived in the city my entire life, and I’d never known this street existed.

  There were industrial-type buildings to the west, behind us, all of which had seen better days. Farther down, past an alleyway, were a liquor store and an old gas station. This intersection was rife with dirt plots of land, broken glass. Dead trees. Debris everywhere. Streetlights at this level were nonexistent and only the remaining twilight allowed me to see the people sleeping in boxes or wandering under the viaduct. As we drew closer, I c
ould make out at least ten people turning their attention to our approach.

  “If I’m going to be undercover here, I don’t think I should introduce myself,” I said when Morales didn’t seem to be inclined to slow down.

  He threw a terse comment over his shoulder. “I’m still hoping to talk you out of this nonsense.”

  “This is a long way to your shelter,” I said, my lungs wet with heavy air. I could only imagine what it would be like to walk the distance wearing every bit of clothing I owned.

  Morales shrugged, but didn’t stop. “It’s only a few miles.”

  I didn’t get it. “There’s not a lot of opportunity for panhandling,” I said, glancing around. “Why here? Why not closer to the hustle and bustle of the city?” We passed an old-fashioned mesh garbage can and I pointed. “There’s not even any good garbage out here.”

  He stopped walking and turned to face me. Sweat streamed down his face, dripping from his eyebrows, slicing dark streaks down the front of his garment. “This is where they come to sleep, Alex. They’re safe here at night.” He panted as he spoke. “What with all the cleanup going on—the gentrification of the neighborhoods where these people have made their homes—they risk getting rousted every night.” He threw his arms wide. “No one cares that they’ve taken over this area. Not yet anyway.”

  He resumed walking. Nicky and I followed.

  “Where do you think I should position myself?” I asked, mentally scoping out the vicinity with an eye to where my cameraman could set up. Despite the heat, I shivered. The collection of humanity before us, swaying as they stared, reminded me of an old zombie movie, just before an attack.

  “I don’t think you should position yourself at all,” Morales said, with more than a little spirit. “Have I not made that clear?”

  “Abundantly,” I murmured.

  “You’ll be disguised?” Morales asked.

  “Yes. I have some clothes my boss picked up at the thrift store.”

  “Not good enough. You won’t smell right. You’ll be too clean.”

  I hadn’t considered that. “Any suggestions?”