Dead Ringer Read online

  “Ron Shade.” I shook his hand, noticing that he’d turned his wrist slightly, so my hand rotated on to the top of our handshake. It was a strange gesture. “You’re the county coroner, right?”

  “That I am.” He began to look past me at someone else coming in the door. “Howdy-do, Bruce. Here to pick up a few bales?”

  Behind me Bruce grunted what I guessed was a “yeah,” and Brunger whisked away from me, his arm around Bruce’s shoulders, guiding him toward the long wooden counter. I busied myself glancing around, studying the store. Everything was farm related, from magazines to shiny green equipment. Barrels of seed and stacked packages of nitrates lined the walls. Brunger and Bruce were leaning over the counter talking about prices. From what I gathered, Bruce wasn’t too happy with the deal he got offered.

  “Christ, Thad, I can’t afford that,” he said. “You’re running me into the poor house.”

  Thad flashed his politician’s smile again and said, “Bruce, I gotta pay my costs. Things keep going up. It ain’t my fault them camel jockeys in the Middle East keep acting stingy with the spigot.” He made one of the hissing laughs again, but when the other man didn’t smile, Brunger lifted a hand and placed it on his shoulder. “Look, I got no problem running you a line of credit till things improve.”

  This seemed to satisfy Bruce slightly, and he leaned his elbows down on the counter again. After a few more minutes, he signed something and Brunger straightened up and offered his hand. He curled it under, just like he’d done mine, and I realized it was his way of seeming less threatening. Ingratiating. Everybody’s friend. I was always leery of guys like that, even when they didn’t look like an ersatz Elvis. Brunger came sauntering over to me, talking over his shoulder to Bruce about pulling his car around the back. When he stopped in front of me he grinned.

  “Sorry. Busy time. These old farmers go by their own timetable. Now, what did you say I could do for you?”

  I explained to him briefly why I was there, leaving out any mention that I was backtracking to check if Bayless could still be alive.

  Brunger shook his head slowly. “I do remember that one. Bad accident. Tragic case.”

  “Get many of those down here?”

  He shrugged. “Now and again. That stretch of road where he crashed has got a real bad curve to it. Carved out of the rocks so the road could go through. He wasn’t the first to smack into it.”

  I took out the picture of Bayless, but Brunger held up his palms. “Whoa . . . He didn’t look like that when I saw him. Burned to a crisp.”

  “How’d you make the ID?”

  “How did we do that?” His eyes moved toward the ceiling as his fingers tugged at the waddle of skin beneath his chin. Then he snapped his fingers. “Dental records. Came down right away. Overnight mail. Actually,” he took a half step closer to me and lowered his voice, even though there was no one else around, “the oral cavity was pretty well preserved, considering the extent of the burning. Good thing, too. His own mother wouldn’t have recognized him.”

  “Any signs that it wasn’t an accident?”

  His dark eyebrows rose, and he got a sly smile on his face. “You thinking suicide, maybe? That affect the payout?”

  It was my turn to shrug. “I suppose the double-indemnity clause might be called into question.”

  “How much you guys pay out? Just outta curiosity.”

  “About twelve million.”

  Brunger puckered his lips and gave a low whistle. “Shit, that’s a whole ton of money, ain’t it? I see now why you’re looking into things.” The door jingled behind me, and he emitted that cough-like laugh again. “Excuse me again.”

  I watched from the sidelines as Brunger made an almost identical pitch to this farmer, who had a good-sized lad with him that looked to be his son. They looked less appeased than Bruce had, and as they shuffled past me I heard the younger one mutter, “That fucker won’t be satisfied till he owns this whole county.”

  Brunger had apparently heard it, too, and shook his head sadly.

  “Time was, my father had the only mortician’s business in this whole area,” he said. “Population increased, and a few more sprung up. And lately, with modern medicine helping people live longer, they just ain’t dying the way they used to.”

  “So you branched out into the feed business?”

  He nodded, smiling wistfully. “These old farmers don’t understand modern economics, neither. The price of gas is driving everything up.”

  “Hence your third hat as county coroner.”

  He nodded again, the smile fading. “Don’t get too much outta that one, though. Unless it’s something like that accident, where I can bill the county for my time and services.”

  Not a bad gig for a guy already in the death business. I resisted the temptation to say that maybe the stress of high gas prices would spark a few heart attacks. “Speaking of the Bayless case, I saw you did an autopsy on that one.”

  “Yep. Had to, since it wasn’t no natural death.”

  “Dr. Boyd assisted you?”

  He shook his head. “Yep. Well, actually, she done the whole thing herself. Just reported back to me.” He pointed upward and whirled his finger. “I’m at the store a lot, you know.”

  “I understand. How long did you have Bayless’s body?”

  “Let me see.” He grabbed the waddle of his double chin again. “Must have been two, three days at the most.”

  “The body was transported back up to Chicago for the funeral?”

  “Yeah, the company he worked for sent some guys down. Paid for everything, even my storage fees.”

  I wondered if he’d double billed the county on that one. “Who were these guys?”

  “They worked for the funeral home. Someplace up north. Had a nice-looking hearse, anyway.” He huffed out the hissing laugh and accompanying grin again. “Nice-looking, big black Caddie.”

  “They say which funeral home they worked for?”

  Brunger shook his head. “I got the card someplace in my office. Guess I could go look for it when I get some time.”

  I wasn’t expecting that would be anytime soon. “You remember anything else about the guys?”

  “Bunch of foreigners. Russkies, I think. One bossman and two gofers. They did all the grunt work.”

  “How do you know they were Russians?”

  “The boss, kind of a big guy, had them high cheekbones and real pale eyes.” He brought his own fingers to his face and cupped his hands. “Kind of a scary-looking guy. Talked with an accent. Ordered the others around in some kind of foreign language. I just assumed it was Russian.”

  I heard the familiar jingling of the door and saw Brunger’s eyes move toward the door. “Howdie-do, Clem.” As he started to move away I snared his arm.

  “Here’s my card,” I said, handing him one. “If you can find the card for that funeral home I’d appreciate it.”

  He accepted the card and stuck it in his shirt pocket.

  “Call me when you find it,” I said, “and make sure to send me an invoice for your time.”

  That perked him up and he stopped. “Yeah, I suppose I could do that, all right.”

  “I’ll just submit it with my expenses,” I said, forcing a smile. Of course, knowing that Big Dick would be paying for it, I added, “And I’m sure it’s probably gonna take at least the better part of a day, right?”

  “Sure enough.” He exhaled the prolonged laugh, and I got another whiff of his sour breath. He extended his hand. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Shade. I’ll be in touch.”

  Alex St. James

  Bass stood in the doorway to my office. “So?”

  I had to bite the insides of my cheeks before answering him. By the time I’d gotten home last night, it had been near midnight and the worry gremlins that prowl uneasy minds had kept me awake with all the terrible possibilities that Father Morales’ tour had illuminated. I knew this homeless story was a bad idea. I knew it in my gut. And I also knew that following up on How
ard Rybak’s success story was the best angle for me. But Bass had shot me down when I suggested it to him first thing this morning.

  “So,” I said now, hoping he’d pick up on the bitterness in my tone. “I’m all set. I have a Taser and handgun lesson in about an hour, and then I’m coming back here to pick up Jesse San Miguel. He and I are going out to the viaduct this afternoon for a little reconnaissance before the big sleepover tonight.”

  “I wasn’t asking about that,” he said, frowning. Now at my desk, he pressed his fingertips on its edge and leaned forward. In a low voice he said, “I meant about the car. Did you get ahold of that Shade character yet?”

  “No.”

  “I told you this was important.”

  “I think my safety is important,” I said, standing. “And you’re not doing anything about that.”

  “San Miguel is going with you. And you’ve got your Taser. These homeless people are harmless. They’re going to keep to themselves. All I want is for you to get down and dirty with them enough for some killer footage.”

  “Killer footage,” I repeated. “And if I’m the one who’s killed, that’ll really shoot the ratings through the roof, huh?”

  “God, you overexaggerate. Since when did you get to be such a scaredy-cat?”

  I ignored that. “Tell you what, Bass,” I said. “Let me hire this Shade investigator guy as a bodyguard. He’s a big guy, and I get the feeling he’ll know what he’s doing—it can’t cost you all that much to hire him for one night.”

  “It’s going to cost me a whole lot more if I find out that this car I bought from him is a lemon. I swear, if he sold me one of those flood cars—”

  “Do you even care?” I was exasperated, and it showed. I hated the desperation in my voice, but even Bass—with his lack of compassion and his drive to beat our rival, UpClose Issues—shouldn’t be so glib about sending his reporter out into danger.

  “I care that we get this story. And I care that I wasn’t taken by a crook when I bought this car. You have your job to do. So do it.”

  Maybe I’d hire the guy on my own. How much could one night’s protection cost?

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll take your buddy out to lunch after my handgun lessons and I’ll find out about your damn car.”

  “It’s about time.”

  “You’re paying,” I reminded him. “But I pick the place.”

  Placated by my acquiescence, he waved my stipulation away. “Whatever.”

  I picked up the phone as Bass turned to leave. “I’ll call him right now.”

  But Ron Shade wasn’t available today. His answering service let me know that the private investigator was out of town. Maybe this was an omen.

  I left a message and decided to touch base with Jesse San Miguel to confirm our plans for the afternoon. As far as personal safety went, Jesse and I would just have to watch each other’s backs. He wasn’t a big guy. Though tall, he was very skinny. I could probably arm-wrestle him to the floor. But, he and I would have to make the best of it. I didn’t have time to interview bodyguards, and Jesse and I needed to head out to the homeless gathering place early, while we had time to prepare.

  Before I left, though, I had one more phone call I wanted to make.

  “Lulinski,” he answered.

  “Hi, George, it’s Alex.”

  The laconic detective surprised me by expressing pleasure at the call. He and I had worked together on a couple of our investigations that overlapped, much to his initial chagrin. Over time we’d developed a mutual respect. I trusted George with my life. More than once. And I’d do it again.

  “Quick question for you,” I said.

  “Shoot.”

  “Let’s say someone was going undercover . . .”

  He groaned. “What are you up to now?”

  “Come on,” I said. “Hypothetically . . .”

  “Okay, hypothetically.”

  “If someone was going undercover into a potentially dangerous situation . . .”

  “Alex.” His tone got suddenly sharp.

  “Just listen. How bad would it be if she took a Taser with her?” I suddenly remembered to add, “This is within the Chicago city limits.”

  A long silence from the other end. It sounded like he rubbed his face. “Have you been trained in how to use a Taser?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know it’s illegal to carry one in Chicago.”

  “I know.”

  “How likely is it that you’ll be searched?”

  “Unlikely.”

  A couple more beats before he asked, “How dangerous, Alex? And I don’t want generalities. Give me specifics.”

  I sighed. “I’m going undercover as a homeless person.”

  His exclamation was about what I’d expected.

  “Listen,” I said, explaining. “I don’t have any choice. Bass is convinced it’ll bring home a Davis Award.”

  “That’s not all it’ll bring you. You ever hear of hepatitis?”

  “I’m not planning to get that close to any of these people.”

  “Where are you going to be? And when?”

  I told him.

  “Shit. That’s real scum. Out of my area, too. But I’ll try to swing by and check on you.”

  “No, please don’t.”

  He didn’t reply. I quickly added, “It would tip everybody off. Besides, there’ll be a sound truck out there with a couple of extra folks. And I’m taking a cameraman with me.”

  “And a Taser?”

  I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “And a Taser.”

  He smacked his lips. “Listen. You didn’t hear this from me, but you be sure to keep that Taser handy. I hope you won’t have to use it, but I’d rather have you facing charges of carrying an illegal Taser, than not here at all.”

  I swallowed. I’d expected him to say I probably wouldn’t need it.

  “So I’ve got your blessing?” I asked.

  “No. But I will come check on you.”

  The viaduct was almost deserted. The unseasonably hot sun high above cast crisp shadows on the baking pavement. I fanned myself and hoped for the promised rain to cool things off.

  As far as I could tell, there were only two people in the vicinity. One was a black man and the other was . . . hard to tell. Short and slim, the person wore so many layers of clothing that it took me five minutes of watching before I decided he was male, too. He walked bent in half, so that his upper body was nearly parallel to the ground. I finally spied a beard, which convinced me of his gender, and I could only imagine how hot he must be with all those clothes and a striped knit cap pulled tightly over his long silver hair.

  I had to wonder about the rituals these people observed. According to Father Morales, they spent their days wandering, but came back here at night to sleep. Did they follow routines, have set habits, like most people did? Living with them might give me another angle for the story. At least I hoped it would.

  Other than cardboard boxes, a few crates, and wooden pallets that one of the two men was pushing across the cement with his foot, I saw very little in terms of personal property. You kept only what you could carry, I guessed.

  “God, the smell,” Jesse said, keeping his voice low.

  “This is nothing,” I said, “wait till the rest of the residents show up. The combination is . . .” I struggled for the word, “intense.”

  “Where are we setting up?”

  “Got any suggestions?” I circled the area, maintaining plenty of distance from the two men. I half expected one of them to come over and ask for money, but it was either too far for them to walk, or too hot for them to leave the viaduct’s shade.

  Jesse was curly haired and tall, with a tennis player’s wiry build. For this adventure, I would’ve preferred the company of a wide receiver, but our pool of camera-wielding personnel was limited. Tonight we’d be accompanied by one of our sound techs and another camera person, but they’d be safely ensconced in a truck a thousand feet awa
y.

  “This sucks,” he said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

  I wondered how many nights I’d have to spend out here before I’d have enough to fill the feature. “Tell me about it.”

  “What’d you do to Mr. Bassett to get him so pissed off at you?”

  I laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “I don’t know. Breathe, I guess.”

  Jesse had a miniature camera with him and he trotted up the embankment that led to the expressway above. I followed both his steps and his logic. Traffic whipped by, just above our heads, blanketing us with hot exhaust fumes. The background hum of racing cars and the lumbering power of semis reminded me how close we were to our familiar lives. And my glance back down—at the wasteland the indigent called home—reminded me of how far.

  “It’s not a bad view from here. I can zoom in and keep you on camera the whole time—if you’re able to stay on this side of the viaduct, that is. Plus, I’ll be able to get shots of the whole area.”

  I shook my head. “You and I will be too far apart. I think we need to stick closer together.”

  “Getting nervous?”

  “Yeah,” I admitted, “but that’s not it. Bass wants up close and personal. I don’t intend to sit out here any longer than I absolutely have to. I want to hear them. Listen to what they have to say.” I pointed. “See that spot, right next to the battered pillar?”

  Jesse nodded. The cement column I indicated looked like someone had taken a bite out of its base. Four feet up from the ground, the four-foot-wide support was crumbled, rocks and rebar poked out—but only on one side. The side that faced the street. “Looks like a bad accident,” he said.

  “That’s exactly what it was.” I made my way down the embankment. “They’ve had a couple of drunken drivers nail that pillar. And in the process two of the inhabitants down there have been killed. Father Morales said that the people here avoid that spot now. It seems like the logical choice for me.”

  “Oh, yeah. That sounds real safe.”

  “If we hang in here for one night, I think we’ll have enough film for background and to show what life is really like on the streets.” I shuddered thinking about the zombie-like atmosphere that permeated the area last night. I knew one night’s worth of undercover filming wasn’t going to cut it, but I couldn’t consider the possibility of being out here longer than that. We’d have to take it one night at a time.