Dead Ringer Page 4

  “Best of luck in your new position, William,” she said with an air-kiss near his cheek. “I can only imagine how hard it’s going to be for you . . . starting over in a new city where you don’t know anybody.”

  Score one for Jordan.

  William turned red. But I was enjoying the show.

  “Thanks,” he said. As she left, he called to her back, “Let’s keep in touch.”

  With Jordan gone, and the rest of the gatherers seated and eating, I had no choice but to talk with William.

  “I’m glad you came,” he said.

  I answered, with just the right amount of insouciance, “Of course I came.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you would.”

  I pretended to miss his underlying meaning. “Yeah,” I said, feigning weariness, “Bass has got me running around for that homeless story.”

  “Now that you’re a big-time television celebrity, you get all the big stories.”

  I laughed. “Some celebrity. My face is plastered on billboards throughout the city, and I still have to show my driver’s license at the bank.”

  He laughed. Took a drink of punch. Looked around. “I wish there was something stronger here.”

  “The sugar will have to hold you for now.”

  “Want to go out for a drink after work?”

  I was about to reply that I wouldn’t have time, when he said, “I’ll miss working with you.”

  Deflecting, I said, “At least you’re getting out before you have to do any homeless research. I’m really not looking forward to this one.”

  “Bass is a shit for dumping this one on you.”

  I shrugged. “I’m stuck with it.”

  “I made some notes,” he said. “I’ll get them to you later today.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve already got plans.” That was a lie, but I didn’t want to prolong our collaboration beyond this party.

  William swallowed twice. “This is harder than I thought it would be—” he stopped himself. “I mean . . .”

  “When do you leave?”

  The puzzled tilt of his head made me realize that I’d probably asked him that before. “Friday morning.”

  “What airline?”

  “I’m driving. I told you that.”

  “Did you?” I reached to ladle myself some punch. “Oh, wait . . .” I suddenly remembered. “That’s right. You and umm—Tricia—are sharing the driving, aren’t you?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “No?”

  William’s blue eyes, the eyes that formerly had the power to weaken my knees, stared into mine as though he were trying to send some silent message to me via his gaze. “She’s been transferred. To Las Vegas.”

  “And you’re still going to San Francisco?”

  He nodded.

  “That’s terrible. What will you do?”

  He shook his head, moved a little closer and spoke quietly. “This was a mistake.”

  I could have told him that back when he and Tricia “reconnected” during his business trip out to San Fran. A trip I should’ve taken, but couldn’t. As it was, he came back filled with excitement about the city and about his new-old flame.

  “Yeah,” I said, “you worked so hard to get transferred. Now you have to do it all over again. But I’ve heard that Vegas is one of the fastest-growing cities. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a position there.”

  He shook his head. “You misunderstand. She—Tricia—requested the transfer.”

  “She did? Why?”

  He gazed out at the people gathered to see him off. They were happy to have gotten a free meal, sorry to see a friend go, but tomorrow they’d all wake up and head back to work and within a week or so no one would care that William had once worked here. “She said I was moving too fast.”

  I held my tongue. Too fast? That hadn’t been my impression when William and I came close to having a romantic relationship. Close. Yeah, but no cigar.

  I smiled at that thought—sometimes a cigar isn’t just a cigar—but as far as I was concerned, William could keep his stogie to himself.

  “That’s too bad,” I said. I couldn’t resist adding, “But things change when we least expect them to, don’t they?” I glanced at the far table, where an unwrapped box sat, tissue paper spewing out around something bulky. “Did you like your gift?”

  “Very much.”

  “That’s good.”

  He gave me a look. If I had to characterize it, I’d say it held regret, sorrow, and just a little bit of anger. “You don’t even know what they got me, do you?”

  It was time for me to get out of there. “As long as you’re happy, nothing else matters,” I said with a shrug. “Right?”

  He opened his mouth to answer, but I stopped him by grabbing hold of his upper arm, leaning forward and dropping an air-kiss that was even more chaste than Jordan’s had been. “Good luck. Wherever you wind up.”

  “Call me sometime,” he said as I left.

  “Sure,” I said over my shoulder.

  Yeah. Right.

  When I got to my office doorway I stopped. The fat plastic bag of thrift store–junk hunkering next to my desk reminded me of the homeless plight—the feature story, yes, but my own plight as well, now that I was stuck with the assignment.

  I dropped into my leather chair and stared out the window. The conversation with William left me feeling testy. I hated being a bitch, although I could be very good at it. The truth was, I did wish him well. He’d been a good friend. But nothing more.

  Right about now, I was thanking goodness for that.

  Sun sparkled on the river below. Almost summer. Chicagoans and tourists alike bustled across the Wabash Avenue and Michigan Avenue bridges. Right now I’d rather be shopping for shoes at Nordstrom than donning second-hand clothing and interviewing indigents.

  I made a face at the bag.

  My assignment could’ve been worse, I supposed, if this were February instead of June. Of course, then Bass would have had to provide me with a big cardboard box to sleep in.

  There had to be some way to get the good story without risking life, limb, and personal hygiene. We’d tried this feature before—although never undercover—and every homeless person we’d encountered refused to be interviewed. They wouldn’t even let us get close. I’d had garbage and expletives flung at me, and once I’d even been threatened with a swinging two-by-four.

  Since then I’d been careful to keep my distance, only coming close to those less-fortunate folks when I shoved dollars into their paper cups.

  I stood. Symbolic, maybe, but I wasn’t about to sit and let the world trample over me like this. Between Bass and William—and let’s not leave out Larry Farnsworth—it seemed that the males in my world were conspiring to keep me off balance.

  Time to take matters into my own hands.

  Staring out over the river, over the happily shopping tourists, I smiled. I knew exactly what to do.

  Bass wanted a killer story on the homeless, but it was up to me to find the right angle. And when Larry Farnsworth had left me and Nicky to chitchat over dessert, the guy rambled on and on about himself. I’d let him. It was easier than investing myself fully in the conversation.

  Nicky had talked a great deal about his many successes. Tucked in there was a tidbit I could use now—Nicky’s pro bono funeral work kept him in close contact with a priest who ran a homeless shelter up on the North Side.

  A homeless shelter.

  I wanted information from Larry Farnsworth about my adoption. Larry Farnsworth wanted me to express some interest in his son. I’d show interest all right. Just not the romantic kind.

  With a silent nod to whomever had coined the phrase “One hand washes the other,” I picked up the phone.

  Chapter 3

  Ron Shade

  Both Herbert Winthrope and Dick MacKenzie showed their irritation with me as I sauntered into the plush MWO facility about two minutes after nine. Dick pursed his lips and pointed to his wat
ch.

  “Christ, Ron. Poor Herb’s been waiting here for over an hour,” he said. “I thought we’d agreed on eight o’clock?” His breath smelled particularly foul this morning.

  I was sure the son-of-a-bitch had said nine, but to get in an argument with a client on your second day is not good business. Still, I hate it when somebody’s wrong and they’re an asshole about it, and I don’t get to tell them. “I could have sworn you said nine, but I’m sorry about the misunderstanding.”

  I glanced at my watch and the sudden expression I saw flicker in Dick’s eyes told me he realized his mistake. Getting him to admit it would be a different matter, however, and I needed this interview to get off on the right foot. Plus, it was good to know that I could score as a counterpuncher once in a while. I extended my hand toward Herb, who had kind of a pudgy, soft look to him. I put him in his mid- to late- forties, carrying about fifty more pounds than he needed around his belly. His hair was clipped short in the type of crewcut that used to be big in the early sixties.

  “You must be Mr. Winthrope,” I said as we shook. His handshake wasn’t much firmer than his gut, and when he felt mine his sour look transformed into a salesman’s smile.

  “Man, you got one hell of a grip, buddy,” he said. Then added, “Call me Herb.”

  “Come on,” Dick said, turning toward a row of elevators. “I’ve reserved the conference room on the third floor.”

  I resisted my urge to suggest we take the stairs, and let Herb and Dick lead me to a nicely furnished room lined with leather-bound volumes of books. As we walked in, I found myself imagining they were reference books of some kind, used to look up the proper insurance codes when underwriting a policy. But their artful arrangement had me revising that assessment seconds later when I realized they weren’t actual books at all, but rather a one-piece display. They were decorative. Just for show. Like the rest of the MWO. All glitz and no substance. Everybody’s friend until they had to pay out some dough, then there was only one book they pulled out: How to Screw Your Policyholder.

  I was hoping that my host would offer to get me some coffee or maybe some ice-cold bottled water, but no such luck. Dick plopped himself down in a chair and leaned forward with his forearms resting on the table. I was reminded of a dog who’s fixated on the dinner table, waiting for scraps. His breath wasn’t getting any better, either.

  The interview got off to a slow start, with Herb Winthrope sitting on the right side of the table, and Big Dick leaning in from the left. I took out my yellow legal pad so I could take notes. The lesson of the room hadn’t been lost on me. Look like a professional, and they’ll treat you like one.

  “Let’s talk about Robert Bayless,” I said. “How well did you know him?”

  Herb shrugged. “I was his insurance man.”

  I resisted the temptation to make a wisecrack. “About how many times did you meet with him?”

  Herb leaned back in his leather chair and stroked his chin. Both of them. “Maybe half a dozen, over the course of four or five years. Most of our business dealings were done over the phone.”

  He must have read the skepticism in my expression, because he quickly added, “But it was him in Vegas. I’m positive of that.”

  I nodded, scribbling down some notes. “I’m just trying to get a view of the big picture here. Trying to put together all the information.”

  He pursed his lips. “You don’t believe me?”

  I tried a reassuring smile. “Look, it doesn’t matter if I believe you, or not. I need to get a basic idea of how much proof we have. So don’t get disturbed if it seems like I’m playing the devil’s advocate once in a while, okay?”

  He frowned and nodded.

  “About how many times did you speak to him on the phone?” I asked. “Was it a regular thing?”

  “Not really,” he said, his voice trailing off. “But that’s just the point, don’t you see? It was his voice I heard. His laugh. It was a very distinctive kind of laugh.” He lolled his head back and gave an imitation of a big, horsy-sounding guffaw. “I always used to hate laughing along at his stupid jokes, but what the hell. It was business.”

  Yeah, I thought. An insurance salesman’s life was fraught with little difficulties.

  “And I’d just finished his upgrade,” Herb continued. “Who’da thought that we’d end up paying out the ass on that one not six months later?” He shook his head and looked at Dick. Dick shook his, too. I almost felt obligated to join in. “I mean, if we wouldn’t have been able to save some money on all those jerks who didn’t have flood coverage . . .”

  Dick nodded again, toeing the company line. It was easier than thinking.

  “Yeah,” I chimed in, mustering as much false sincerity as I could manage, “who plans for a flood if you live in a city?” Mentally I reminded myself why insurance adjustors ranked just below defense attorneys and crooked politicians on my scale of worthless humanity.

  Dick gave me a rather squinty look. Maybe he was more perceptive than I gave him credit for.

  “Let’s get back to Bayless,” I said. “Tell me about the last time you talked to him.”

  Herb leaned back in his chair again. “He called me twice. The first time it sounded like he was drunk. Wanted to know if he could switch the beneficiary on his life insurance policy to his son and somebody else.”

  “Somebody else?”

  “Yeah, said he was getting divorced. He gave me a woman’s name. I asked for the particulars, you know, full name, how to spell it, date of birth, address, and all of a sudden he balked. Said he’d get back to me.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yeah, he did. About three weeks later. Told me to leave things the way they were. I laughed it off. Like I said, he’d sounded blitzed.”

  “You remember the woman’s name he gave you?”

  Herb frowned. I could see he was trying hard. It was a matter of pride for him. He shook his head. “Shit, it was something cutesy-poopsy, like Sandy or Candy, or some kind of weird nickname like that.”

  “Last name?”

  “Christ, I don’t know. It was some kind of Lithuanian name. That I do remember.”

  “How did Bayless explain things when you saw him next?”

  “Well, like I told you, he called me back a few days later, said to disregard what he’d said before. In fact, he wanted to upgrade his policy to one million. Asked how much more the premium would be. Said his company wanted extra coverage on him, too. Five million—plus that indemnity clause.”

  “How much were the premiums?”

  “Plenty,” Herb said. He cast a nervous glance at Big Dick. “Our standard percentage of the principal averaged by our standard rates. I got it drawn up right away, but told him he’d have to submit to a physical for that much of an upgrade.”

  “Did he?”

  Herb nodded again. “It’s company policy. The doctor passed him with no trouble. Said he looked good for a man his age.”

  “The exam include any X-rays?”

  He shrugged. “A chest X-ray probably.”

  “The doctor still have it?”

  “He should.” Herb’s mouth puckered with the rectitude of the righteous. “Company policy requires that they hold on to all exam reports for a minimum of three and a half years, even in cases where the insured is deceased.”

  I turned to Dick. “See if you can verify that he kept them, will you?”

  Dick looked annoyed at having to leave. Like he would be missing the conclusion of his favorite TV show. “Is it important?”

  Like I would have asked if it wasn’t. “It could be, for comparative purposes.”

  He got up slowly, the chair giving off what sounded like an ease of relief. “I’m on it.” He strode to the door, opened it, and stepped out. I was glad to see him leave. I could sense Herb’s slight relaxation, too. He leaned back and began talking in a more matter-of-fact tone.

  “Little did I realize that the company would be paying out so much money so soon.” He shook
his head again. Without Dick there to mirror his condolences, the gesture seemed more pathetic. “We took our customary ninety-day grace period, of course.”

  “Okay.” I raised my eyebrows. “Tell me about the sighting in Vegas.”

  Herb nodded. “We were out there for the insurance underwriters’ convention. You know how those things are. Half the time everybody’s either drunk or gambling or both.”

  I gave a commiserating nod. “What time of the day was this?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. After dinner sometime. Maybe eight, nine at night. You know how that fucking place is. No clocks on the walls.”

  “Did you have anything to drink at dinner? Alcohol-wise?”

  “You trying to insinuate that I was drunk?”

  “I’m asking if you’d been drinking.” What a great witness this guy would be. He couldn’t even handle my little interview.

  Herb’s lips pinched together. “Look, I know what I seen, and I wasn’t drunk, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “I’m playing the devil’s advocate, remember?”

  He frowned and said, “I might’ve had a couple of martinis, but that’s all. I was sober.”

  “Okay, where did you see him?”

  “We were in the Mirage. I was walking through the casino and I heard it. That stupid sounding laugh.” He paused and gave me his imitation again. “I mean, I froze. It was like a ghost whispering in my ear. I started looking around, and then I heard it again, and saw him at the blackjack tables. He’d changed a little, grown a mustache, but it still looked like him. I couldn’t believe it and wasn’t real sure at first. I mean, we’d just closed out the file on him three months ago. Had some stacked blond chick hanging all over him, too.” He frowned and cupped his palms in front of his chest indicating big boobs.

  “So I found an empty spot at the slots and moved around so I could keep watching him.” He leaned forward, acting like he was peering through a narrow opening. “The more I did, the surer I got. It was Bob Bayless, all right. That I do know. I kept watching, waiting, wondering what to do. How to handle it. Finally, I decided on a little test and crouched down where I could see his reaction and yelled, ‘Hey, Bob’ real loud.”