Dead Ringer Page 6

  “I don’t understand. Wasn’t all this done before?”

  “Checks and balances,” I said, trying for nonchalance again. “Your husband was driving downstate near Peyton when he was killed, right?” I figured reciting the facts, as she thought she knew them, would be a good groundbreaker.

  She nodded.

  “He was driving his own car?”

  “No,” she said. “A rental.”

  “You had more than one car?”

  “Of course.” Her words were a little bit clipped on that one. I was still tiptoeing through the minefield.

  “Why would he rent a car then?”

  She shrugged. “His Lexus was in the body shop.”

  “Accident?”

  “A hit and run.”

  “Do you know why he was down in that area?”

  She frowned and licked her lips. Her hands fidgeted. She had the look of a reformed smoker who really wanted to light one up bad.

  “I believe he said it was a business trip,” she said. There was something more in her tone, but I wasn’t sure what. “He kept pretty much to himself about his work.”

  “He was in sales?”

  She frowned again. “No, he’d been promoted to CEO. He still had accounts that he had to keep happy. But, for the most part, he kept overall control on finances.”

  “That was for the Manus Corporation?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long had he worked for them?”

  She seemed about to answer, then the corners of her eyes tightened. “Mr. Shade, I’m certain you must have all this information. Is it really necessary to go over it like this?”

  I smiled again. “Just trying to get an overall picture of things. How was it between you two before he died?”

  “What makes you think that’s any of your business?”

  “He’d contacted one of our agents and said he was getting divorced. I wondered if it was troubled between you and him at the end?”

  “Why are you asking me this?” The fire was growing in her tone. “What can you possibly gain by it?”

  Her mouth puckered and I was certain she was getting ready to ask me to leave. Actually, I wouldn’t have minded. Beating up on widows wasn’t my idea of a fun afternoon. But I figured I’d try a different tactic. Angles, use angles, Chappie would always yell at me.

  “Was he depressed?” I asked. “Do you think he could have intentionally run his car off the road?”

  That brought a quick but bitter-sounding laugh. “Robert? Do something as noble as take his own life? Hardly.”

  “How would that be noble?”

  The frown came back. “Mr. Shade, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave. My son will be home soon, and I don’t want you upsetting him.”

  I saw the opening and took it, even though I didn’t feel good about it.

  “That’s one of the reasons I figured I’d approach you first,” I said. I let it hang there while the realization washed over her. Her response was as sharp as a blade.

  “You stay away from him with all this shit.” The corners of her mouth twisted downward.

  “I’ll do my best,” I said, pressing slightly. “But I do need a few more answers.”

  “What then. Hurry up.”

  “Your marriage. How was it at the time of his death?”

  “Pathetic,” she said. “He was seeing someone. His secretary, of all people.” Her mouth twisted again, this time going from anger to disgust.

  “He admitted this to you?”

  “He didn’t have to.” She gave another harsh little laugh. “I walked in on them at the company picnic. Caught her giving him—the bitch.”

  I tried for a commiserating look. “I take it that caused a scene?”

  The laugh again, caustic and bitter. “Did it ever. She left, and I started screaming at him. He practically dragged me to the car, tossed me in, and drove home. It continued once we got here. It got pretty ugly.”

  “Did he harm you?”

  She shook her head. “Only by his callousness. He kept refusing to talk to me, and I was calling him every name in the book. Luckily, Chad wasn’t home. Bob tried to leave and I wouldn’t let him. I tried to stop him, scratched his face. He called the police.”

  “Sounds like it was pretty hard for you.” I wanted her to feel like I saw her as the victim, and after all, in a way, she was.

  She nodded, really into telling the story now. All thoughts of reticence blown away by the winds of emotion. “They came, saw his face, and asked what happened. He said he just wanted to leave. The police asked if he’d touched me. When I said no, they let him drive off.”

  “How long was this before his accident?”

  “A few months.” She sighed. “He stayed away for three days, then crawled back, all apologetic. Told me he’d stayed in a motel and showed me the receipts. Said it had been a one-time lapse in judgment at the picnic. Said they’d fired her at Manus. Told me to call to check if I didn’t believe him.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. He convinced me that we should put it all behind us. For Chad’s sake.” Her hands fidgeted again. “You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you?”

  I shook my head.

  “I quit three months ago,” she said, “but every now and then I just crave the feeling.”

  “It’s good you quit,” I said. “So did things get better between you?”

  She shook her head, wringing her hands again. “Yes and no. He seemed like he became more focused on work. Spent time here, but always brought the company papers and reports with him.” A solitary tear wound its way down her cheek. We heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway and Ms. Bayless looked up. “You’ve got to go. It’s Chad. I won’t have him upset by this.”

  Since I figured asking her to agree to an exhumation order at this point was pushing it, I got up and handed her one of my cards.

  “In case you want to get in touch with me,” I said.

  She crinkled the card, crushing it in her palm as she stood up. “Just leave. Now.”

  We walked to the front door and were met by the tall kid in the picture. He looked to be about seventeen or eighteen with the rangy build of a jock. A trace of reddish acne formed an uneven line along the side of his chin. His expression was perplexed as he looked from me to his mother.

  “Mom? What’s going on? Who’s this?”

  “The gentleman’s just leaving,” she said. It must have been the strain of holding it in, because her voice cracked as she said it. She brought her hand to her face and tried in vain to hold back the flow of tears.

  I started to move by him and out the door.

  “Hey.” His fingers grabbed at my arm. “What’d you do to my mom?”

  “Nothing,” I said, brushing his hand away. “We were just talking.”

  “Talking? Bullshit. I’m not through with you yet, asshole.” He tried to grab my arm again, with both hands this time.

  “Chad, no!” his mother shouted.

  “Who is this asshole?” he yelled.

  I took this opportunity to pivot slightly, pushing on his elbow and pulling my arm out of his grasp. “Excuse me.” I stepped onto the cement sidewalk, but the kid came after me, balling up his fist.

  I’d had enough of beating up on Robert Bayless’s family today, and didn’t want to hurt him. On the other hand, the thought of catching one and having my still-tender eyebrow ripped open didn’t enter into the realm of options, either. I reached out and caught his arm, pushing him back toward the door.

  “Look, kid, I was just leaving. Now back off.”

  He rebounded off the door and came at me again, trying to grab me with his left and cocking his right arm back like he wanted to throw a roundhouse. I didn’t wait to find out. Reaching out, I seized his extended left, encircling the wrist and bringing it down sharply. His mother screamed. I shifted my superior weight and used my right forearm as a brace, securing him in what they used to call the clamp in the ar
my. Keeping my eye out for Ms. Bayless, I walked him to the brick wall and held him there, my face inches from his ear.

  “Look, kid, I don’t want to hurt you.” I exerted a little pressure on his trapped arm, letting him feel that I could break it if I wanted. The pain made him stop. “Now I’m going to let you go in a second, when you’ve calmed down. But if you keep coming at me, I’ll have no other choice but to drop you. Get it?”

  “Suck my dick, motherfucker,” he said.

  The kid had been watching too many rap videos. I ratcheted up the pressure slightly. “One more time.”

  Ms. Bayless was pounding at me now, imploring me to let him go. I said I would, as long as he agreed not to come at me again. “Like I said, ma’am. I don’t want to hurt him.”

  “Chad, leave it alone,” Ms. Bayless said. “Please. Come in the house.”

  “We agreed, Chad?” I asked.

  “Don’t say my fucking name, asshole.” His tone was still defiant, but I sensed a weakening that told me he realized he was way overmatched.

  “We agreed?”

  He started to mumble some more profane threats, so I exerted just a little bit more pressure. He rose onto his toes.

  “I can’t hear you,” I said, using an old line from my basic training days.

  “Yeah.” It came out with a grunting breath. “Just get in your fucking, piece of shit car and get outta here, asshole. You ever come back bothering my mom again, I’ll kill you. Understand?”

  I let the irony slip by that he was threatening to kill me from a totally helpless position. But, hell, I probably would have done the same thing if the positions had been reversed.

  I kept the armlock on him, backed up, instructing Ms. Bayless to open her screen door. When she did, I walked Chad inside, gave him a healthy, but subdued shove forward, and then backed away. He came to the edge of the door, his face still a picture of rage, but stopped. “If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you,” he said, raising his finger and pointing at me.

  I figured if things had reached the woofin’ stage, it was safe enough for me to walk to the Beater and leave.

  “Have a nice day,” I said over my shoulder as I walked across their thick lawn.

  Chapter 5

  Alex St. James

  When Bass handed me the Taser instructor’s card, he’d told me to “Call this guy to set up a lesson or two.” I’d left several voice mails on an automated machine with a synthesized greeting, so I was surprised by the female voice when I finally got through. “Terry Hewitt?” I asked, just to be sure.

  “That’s me.”

  We talked a bit about the lessons I’d need. She asked, “Do you have an FOID card?”

  I did. My last investigative skirmish left me knowing that I was sorely lacking in firearms knowledge and I’d vowed to correct that. I’d applied for and received my Firearms Owners Identification Card—required to shoot or own a gun in Illinois—despite the fact I didn’t own any guns myself.

  Terry and I set up private lessons at her range. One for later today and another tomorrow. She told me that this would be enough to carry me through my Taser-carrying needs while undercover, but cautioned that I should continue lessons until I felt comfortable with firearm handling.

  As I hung up the phone, Bass strode in. “What are you still doing here? Shouldn’t you be out on the streets?”

  I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. He seemed to enjoy needling me and drew particular pleasure when his attacks provoked a rise. Today I just didn’t feel like playing along. “You want a good story?” I asked. “Then let me take care of this in my own good time.”

  “I got a question for you. About the car I bought.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What did the guy tell you about it? I mean,” Bass swagged his head from side to side. “I’ve been thinking about how much I paid for it. Something’s wrong. Maybe it’s one of those flood cars from New Orleans.”

  “The guy lives around here.”

  “Yeah, but how do you know he isn’t trafficking flood cars?”

  “Is it giving you any trouble?”

  “No, but what happens a month from now, if it does?”

  I rolled my eyes. This was so not my problem. “If it makes you feel better, you should call the guy and ask him.”

  He gave me a pointed look. “He probably wouldn’t tell me the truth.”

  “I’m not getting involved here.”

  “Come on. He’d tell you the truth.”

  “Give it a rest, Bass. Enjoy the car. Quit looking for trouble.”

  “I’ll give you his number.”

  “I have his number. I gave it to you, remember?” I pointed to my Rolodex. “But I don’t intend to use it.”

  “Five-minute conversation. That’s it. Ask him what’s wrong with the car. Smile and look cute. He won’t be able to resist.”

  Sexist comments aside, I couldn’t let this one go. “And how is he supposed to appreciate my smile and batting eyes—” I demonstrated “—if I’m talking with him over the phone?”

  “Take him out for lunch. He seemed like one of those macho guys who’d hate it if a girl paid her own way. I’ll pop for lunch and you quiz him about the car. That’ll make him feel indebted to you, and he’ll tell you everything. How’s that sound?”

  “Do it yourself.” I boosted myself to my feet. “I’m out to hit the streets.”

  He frowned, but started for the door.

  “Hey, Bass,” I called. “What’re you doing later?”

  He turned. “I don’t know. Why?”

  I fixed him with a bright smile. “I’m heading out for my first Taser lesson. When I get back I might need someone to practice on.”

  Ron Shade

  As I drove out of the subdivision, I mulled over exactly where things had started to go awry and how I could have handled them better. It had turned out badly, that was for sure, and I kind of sensed things were going from bad to worse when I saw the police car swing around and fall in behind me. I watched the rearview mirror and saw the cop talking on his radio. Seconds later, the overhead red-and-blue lights came on, and I pulled over to the right shoulder, rolled the window down, and waited.

  We were in a long stretch of pleasant-looking roadway, with a grassy park on one side and a strip mall on the other. The door of the squad car opened and the cop got out. He was a young guy, short and squat, with the build of a weightlifter. At first glance his hair looked blond, but then I saw that it was dark at the roots.

  Oh, great, I thought. A frosted cop.

  His hand dropped down and rested on the butt of the semiauto jutting out from his holster as he walked up to my driver’s-side window. I made sure to keep both of my hands on the top of the steering wheel.

  “Good afternoon, officer,” I said, trying to sound as pleasant as I could.

  “All right, buddy, out of the car.”

  I nodded and flashed a grin. “You mind telling me what I’m being stopped for?”

  “I said, get out of the fucking car. Now.”

  The profanity convinced me that he was something of a hothead. I’d been there myself and knew that my question shouldn’t have ratcheted things up to the next level so quickly. I figured I’d better play it cautious.

  “Look,” I said, “before I do, I should probably let you know I’m wearing a gun.”

  That was all he needed. His fingers tightened around the handle of the big semiauto, a Glock 21 from the looks of it, and he brought the gun up level with my face.

  “Get out of the car now!”

  His finger was inside the trigger guard.

  I slowly reached out through the window and used my left hand to open the Beater’s door. Keeping both palms outward and elevated, I eased my legs out and started to get out with very slow deliberation. I thought about mentioning that I was a licensed private investigator, but decided too many words might confuse him, and I didn’t want him to tighten that trigger finger. But I didn’t want to get shot, either.


  “Look, I’m a PI,” I said, straightening up. The sound of another squad car approaching, the siren bleating intermittently, drifted in the still air. I only hoped the backup wasn’t another rookie.

  “Shut the fuck up and keep your hands where I can see ’em,” the young cop said.

  I complied, still watching that finger inside the trigger guard.

  The second squad pulled behind the first one, and the officer got out. He looked older, slightly more shopworn, and hopefully more experienced. He did a quick-step to the rear of the Beater and sized things up.

  “What you got, Eddie?” the second cop asked.

  “Fucker’s got a gun.”

  The older cop’s eyebrows raised and he drew his own weapon, but kept it down by his leg. “That right, buddy?”

  “Yeah, it is,” I said. “It’s on my belt, rear right side. My PI license and tan card are in my inside coat pocket.”

  I saw the older cop’s eyes drift toward his partner’s Glock. His head ticked back slightly, then he brought his own gun up. His was a Glock as well. Popular gun in this area. But he kept his index finger out of the trigger guard.

  “Eddie,” the older cop said, “holster your piece and pat him down when I tell you.”

  “But—”

  “I got him,” the older cop said. “Do like I tell ya.”

  Eddie did as he was told, and I breathed a slight sigh of relief. It could have been worse. He could have shot himself in the leg as he holstered it. Or worse yet, shot me in the leg.

  I turned and placed my palms on the roof of the Beater, feeling Eddie’s hands gliding over me.

  “A little bit more to the right,” I said, trying to inject a little levity into the situation. That turned out to be a mistake. He shoved me forward, bouncing my chest into the door post.

  “When I want some shit out of you, asshole, I’ll squeeze your head.”

  I grinned. “You think that one up all by yourself?”

  He punched me in the right side. I was used to taking punches, so I kind of let my body roll slightly to minimize the impact. It was just an arm punch, anyway, and hardly affected me at all. But I didn’t want him to know that. I grunted like it really hurt. Better to feign injury than risk embarrassing him.