Dead Ringer Read online

  “For Christ’s sake, Eddie,” the older cop said. “Knock it off.”

  I felt my sport coat being lifted, my Beretta grabbed from the pancake holster.

  “A nine mil,” Eddie said.

  “Give it here and cuff him,” the older cop said.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Beretta being handed over. Then I felt Eddie roughly twisting my arms behind my back. He ratcheted the first cuff on my left wrist and tried to bring my right arm around but found it difficult.

  “Cooperate, asshole,” he yelled. “Or I’ll knock the fuck out of you some more.”

  This guy was a piece of work. “I am cooperating.”

  “Take it easy,” the older cop said. I turned my head and saw he’d lowered his gun again. “Use two sets of cuffs. He’s too big.”

  “Shit,” Eddie muttered. I heard him lift the flap of his second handcuff holder and felt a second cuff slip over my right wrist. Seconds later, I felt the tension and knew that he’d secured the remaining two cuffs together. He’d left my palms facing each other, instead of using the proper technique of keeping the palms facing outward. The kid had a lot to learn. The older guy holstered his Glock but still had my Beretta in his left hand. He brought it up and ran the serial number with his radio. While we waited for the dispatcher’s response, I cocked my head toward him.

  “How about checking my inside breast pocket? My ID and PI license are inside it.”

  Eddie shoved me harder against the car. The older guy told him to back off and check for the ID.

  “And the license,” I said, trying to sound as placid as possible. To my knowledge, I hadn’t done anything wrong, but I didn’t know what kind of story the Baylesses had told the cops. Probably that I’d beat up poor little Chad. I should have seen this one coming.

  “So why am I being rousted, anyway?” I asked, as matter-of-factly as I could.

  “Shut up,” Eddie said. I felt his palm hit me squarely in the back. His other hand reached inside my coat and withdrew the black leather wallet with my PI license.

  “That it?” the older guy asked.

  “Yeah.”

  He held out his hand and Eddie gave it to him. After opening it and glancing at my name, his brow furrowed.

  “You Ron Shade the fighter?”

  “That’s me. You been to any of my fights?”

  He shook his head, glancing from the picture to my face, and back again. “Saw a few on TV.”

  “Good old ESPN.” Suddenly I heard the approaching wail of another squad car. I was obviously the remedy for a particularly boring day shift. I said as much.

  The new squad car pulled up and a big guy got out wearing a white shirt with blue chevrons, outlined in gold, on the short sleeves. He paused to place his hat on his head before he walked over to us. As he approached I silently hoped he knew what he was doing. His name tag said GILLESPE.

  “This the suspect?” the supervisor asked.

  “Sure is, sarge,” Eddie said, twisting me around to face them. “And look what he had on him.” He pointed to the Beretta the other guy was holding.

  “Licensed PI,” the older cop said, handing my ID to the sergeant.

  “Mr. Shade,” Sergeant Gillespe said, “you want to tell me your version of what happened over at the Bayless household?”

  “Be glad to. But if I don’t say what you want to hear, is your boy Eddie gonna punch me while I have the cuffs on again?”

  The sergeant’s mouth twisted downward. He looked to both of the patrolmen, then back to me. His eyes were a very pale brown.

  “What were you doing around here?” It was directed toward me.

  “Working a case,” I said.

  “What kind of case?”

  It was technically none of his business, but most likely he already knew it anyway. He’d mentioned the Baylesses. I figured I might get out of the cuffs faster if I played ball.

  “I’m working on an insurance investigation. Robert Bayless was killed about six months ago.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” he said. “What happened over at their house?”

  I tried to shrug. Not an easy move when your hands are cuffed behind your back. “It’s a difficult subject to broach. The widow got upset, I got up to leave, and the kid came home. He thought I’d upset his mother, and he jumped me.”

  Sergeant Gillespe’s face tightened. “I heard you roughed him up.”

  I shook my head. “Not really. I got him in an armlock to keep from having to hurt him.”

  “You know he’s a minor, right?”

  I nodded. “He’s big for his age.”

  “Sarge,” the older cop said, “if this guy wanted to hurt the kid, he could have. He’s a professional fighter. I seen him fight on TV.”

  The sergeant’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized me. “Is that a fact?”

  I nodded again, figuring now was not the time to bring up the fact that I was heavyweight kickboxing champion of the world. That and a buck sixty would get me a small coffee at most Dunkin’ Donuts. I’d been rousted before and had a hunch from the feel of things this one was winding down. I didn’t really want to bring up George’s name but figured it might end this sooner rather than later.

  “If you call Detective George Grieves, CPD Violent Crimes,” I said, “he can vouch for me.” I rattled off the number for them.

  The mention of another cop affected them. Especially a homicide dick from the big city. Gillespe handed my ID back to the older guy and told him to check on it.

  “If he’s not there,” I called after him, “ask for his partner, Doug Percy.”

  The sergeant turned toward me. “What was that you said about Officer Scott punching you?”

  I shot a quick glance at Eddie, whose face had turned bright red.

  “Aww, sarge, he was resisting arrest,” he said.

  Gillespe ignored him and continued to look at me. “Well?”

  “Hell, it wasn’t much of a punch anyway,” I said.

  This must have tripped some little button inside Eddie’s head because he reached out and grabbed the lapels of my sport coat. The sergeant yelled at him and he let me go, but not before shoving me back into the Beater. It looked worse than it felt.

  “That’s it,” Gillespe said, leveling a finger at Eddie. “Go back to the station and wait for me in my office.”

  “But . . . He started it.”

  “Get outta here. Go’wan.” The sarge pointed at his cruiser. The older cop was running up to us now, a worried look on his face. Eddie turned in a huff and waddled back to his car, his broad shoulders and overdeveloped traps giving him the appearance of a bowling ball with arms and legs. The sergeant watched him go, then turned to the older copper. “Anything?”

  “That Grieves guy wasn’t there, but his partner did vouch for Shade.”

  Gillespe heaved a sigh and slipped a handcuff key off a clip on his belt. “Mr. Shade, we’re going to have to make a report of this incident. It’ll reflect both sides of the story of what happened.”

  I felt the pressure on my wrists ease as he took the first cuff off.

  “Just out of curiosity,” I said, “what did the Baylesses say?”

  I heard him give an extended exhale through his nostrils as he was unlocking the second cuff. My other arm was free and I brought my hands up and started massaging my wrists.

  “Mrs. Bayless called nine-one-one. Said you’d beat up her son. The dispatch came out giving your description and license plate number.”

  I grinned. “And a car like this is not hard to spot, right?”

  He smirked.

  “We need to go back over there to get this straightened out?” I asked.

  Gillespe considered this for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. Since her husband’s death, Mrs. Bayless has been a bit . . . emotional.”

  “I kinda sensed that.” I rubbed my wrist some more. “Sorry if I upset her, but there were some things the company needed verification on.” The
re I was using “the company,” just like Herb and Dick. Surprisingly, I found a modicum of comfort in it. Like having a standard fall guy to blame things on when it all turned to shit.

  “It would probably be best, if you need to get more information, to come back another time,” Gillespe said. “Or maybe send another one of your operatives.”

  “This is a contract case for me,” I said. “I am the other operatives. But I’m through for the moment.”

  His lips tightened. “Now, about this stop with my officers . . .”

  I raised my eyebrows slightly and waited for him to finish. Counterpuncher.

  “It seems Officer Scott may have overreacted a bit,” he said.

  I gave my other wrist a slight rub. “You could say that.”

  The sarge and the older cop exchanged glances. A hint of worry floated in the air between them.

  “Mr. Shade, do you wish to make a citizen’s complaint against Officer Scott?” Gillespe asked.

  I considered my options, trying to figure if there was some mileage that could be gained here.

  “Nah. But it’d probably be a good idea to send him to some anger management classes. And have your range officer talk to him about keeping his finger out of the trigger guard until he’s ready to shoot. Sympathetic grasp reflex. Either that, or get a good civil attorney on retainer.” I grinned. “I can recommend one or two, if you want.”

  Gillespe nodded and extended his hand. “I appreciate it. And I will speak to Officer Scott about this.”

  “Sounds like a good solution,” I said. “Now, if I could get my gun and IDs back?”

  The older cop handed me my license and turned to go back to his car. “I’ll get his piece,” he said, walking away.

  I took one of my cards out of my badge case and handed it to the sergeant. “How about a favor?”

  He looked at me quizzically.

  “I need any records and reports you might have on the Baylesses,” I said. “Domestics, accidents, all that stuff.”

  He stared at me for a moment and said, “You’ll have to file a Freedom of Information Act request.”

  “Sarge, come on. That could take weeks. I operate on a strict timetable.” I pushed the card closer, trying to estimate if I should play the indebtedness card yet. I figured it was as good a time as any. “I mean, I’m overlooking Officer Scott’s . . . overzealousness, ain’t I?”

  After a few seconds, he took the card and smiled. “You like to push things, don’t you?”

  Actually, I thought, sometimes I prefer counterpunching.

  Alex St. James

  The place wasn’t very big, and every inch of its musty closeness was covered with some sort of gun or accessory. There were a couple of racks of camouflage clothing and camping stuff in one corner, but the rest of the place was all rifles, revolvers and semiautomatics.

  Terry grimaced when she saw the weapon Bass gave me. “Older version,” she said. “The new ones are lighter, easier to conceal, and have a lot better pulse.”

  “My boss is a cheapskate.”

  She grinned. A few years older than I, she was blond, petite and full of smiling energy. Not at all what I would have pictured for a championship target shooter. I guess I expected her to have weathered skin and cowboy boots. Terry here could mingle among Chicago’s glitterati without earning a second glance.

  No, I amended. With a shape and face like hers, she’d garner plenty of second glances.

  “This isn’t a bad weapon,” she said. “It’s sturdy. It’ll get the job done. And it’s a good one to use for training. You master this clunker, you’ll be a champ with the one of the newer models.”

  “I hope I’m never in the market for a newer version.”

  Terry gestured me around one of the glass cases. “Ned,” she said to a grungy-looking man near the cash register, “we’ll be in back.”

  Busy cleaning a weapon, he didn’t look up, but just nodded.

  She led me through a small corridor to a garage-like structure attached to the back of the building. Much deeper than a garage, this had to be the range. It was a lot less impressive than I’d expected. I guess I’d imagined a shiny ultra-modern structure, like where TV cops go to practice. This place was old, its far recesses very dark. It smelled of sweat, metal and something else—gunpowder, probably.

  “What about a handgun?” Terry asked. “You ever consider owning one?”

  “I’m not the weapon-carrying type,” I said.

  “First lesson: we don’t say ‘weapon,’ we say firearm or gun.”

  “Why?”

  “Think about it. You pick up a hammer, a stapler, a box cutter . . .” she gave me a meaningful look, “. . . any one of them can be a weapon. We try to avoid the negative connotation by being more precise.”

  Uh-oh, I thought. Here comes the NRA lecture. I waited for her to launch into a speech about “types” who carry guns.

  She surprised me by changing the subject. “So, why’s your boss buying you a Taser? Are you his bodyguard or something?”

  I laughed and explained about my homeless project.

  “Hang on a minute,” she said. “These things are illegal in Chicago.”

  “I thought only handguns—”

  “Nope. Tasers, too. And if you’re not in law enforcement, you can’t even own this model in Illinois.” She tapped the weapon Bass had given me. “Makes me wonder how he got ahold of one of these.”

  “Probably in some back alley.”

  Terry scratched her head. “I’m not sure what to do here.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, disappointed. I realized how much I wanted to try out the little gizmo. It looked like my chances were fading fast.

  “Listen,” Terry said, sounding genuinely concerned, “you can’t go out unarmed if you plan to live on the streets.”

  “I guess I’ll depend on my pepper spray.”

  She thought about it for a moment. “Be right back.”

  While she was gone, I looked around. A “wall” of sorts was split into five separate stations, looking like horse stalls. Beyond were targets, some placed near the shooting stalls, some farther away. To my right was a large plastic garbage can, about three-quarters full of brass-colored shells. Behind it was a broom and dustpan.

  Terry came back, carrying a leather pouch. “The State of Illinois allows you to transport your Taser, as long as it’s kept in a manner where it can’t be used.” She pulled the leather pouch around her waist—it was a fanny pack—and zipped it open. “If you carry the Taser like this, but keep the cartridge in your pocket . . .” she demonstrated, “then you’re within Illinois law guidelines.”

  “But not Chicago’s?”

  She winced. “No. City ordinance. You’d be breaking the law to have possession of a Taser within city limits. But . . .”

  “But?”

  “If you stay out of the city on your homeless project, and you keep the pieces separate, like I have them here, and you were ever stopped and searched,” she made a face that made me doubt that she really believed what she was telling me, “you could make a good argument for simply transporting your Taser.”

  “Transporting it while impersonating a homeless person.”

  “Listen, I’m not about to advise you to break the law. And I’m about as far from being sexist as you’re going to get. I know that just because you’re female doesn’t mean that you can’t take care of yourself—but you’re relatively small, like me.” She shrugged. “I wouldn’t hang out with a bunch of unpredictable people without some sort of backup.”

  I decided she was right. “When do we begin?”

  Terry nodded. “Good girl.”

  She headed to the second stall, and turned a crank that brought the paper target zipping forward till she could reach up and unclip it from its perch. The whole setup was so low-tech, it amazed me. But then again, we’d been shooting projectiles at bad guys since David nailed Goliath—maybe we had come a long way after all.

  “We won’t u
se targets for this?”

  “Different ones.” She rummaged through a cabinet built below the shelf and came out with another printed paper target, but this time instead of a black-and-white photograph, the bad guy was silver.

  “We’re targeting aliens now?”

  She laughed as she replaced the silver silhouette on the clips above our head and cranked it out.

  “That’s not very far,” I said.

  “Your Taser’s only got a twenty-one-foot reach. If you shoot, you better make sure your target’s close.” She picked up the disruptor-looking instrument and walked me through some of the specifics, pointing out the battery indicator, the sights, and the safety. “When you’re in trouble, you get one shot, Alex. You got that? One.”

  “And if I miss?”

  “Two options.” She held her fingers up. “Well, three, I guess. If you fire your Taser at an attacker, and you miss, you can still use this as a stun gun. But you have to drive forward to do so—you have to make contact with the attacker. At a minimum you can’t be more than two inches away for the stun to have any effect. If you don’t think that’s your style, you could change your cartridge.” Her lips pulled to one side. “Of course, that’s hard to do in a hurry, especially when you’re feeling threatened.”

  “What’s the third option?”

  “Run like hell.”

  I laughed, but it began to dawn on me that I was learning how to handle a weapon—and I did think of it as a weapon—because I intended to put myself in harm’s way. I shifted my weight, and fought the sudden flip in my stomach. Time to pay attention.

  “Taser technology works by causing muscular-skeletal disruption.”

  This thing really was a disruptor. Just like Star Trek.

  Terry clicked the cartridge, a plastic boxlike piece with a yellow facing, into the front of the Taser. “This is what you’ll have to replace—in a hurry—if you miss your man. But you’re not going to miss, right?”

  “Right,” I said, feeling less confident than I sounded.

  “You aim this just like you would a firearm, but you have to remember that if your subject is wearing thick clothing, this Taser won’t have any effect. Newer models do a better job of getting through clothes, but if your subject is wearing three or four layers, you might as well use pepper spray.”