Runner, p.23
Runner, page 23
“Not too late,” I said, smiling. “It’s a nice place.”
“One of these days, maybe. We had some folks from up your way a few months ago, though.” She scanned the walls where photos were hanging in between all the red and green stuff. “Hold on.” She walked over to the wall. “We take pictures of all our summer guests, that’s if they let us. Some folks are camera shy. I think the photographs are a nice thing to have from year to year. We have some customers who get theirs taken every year they come. You get to see the same kids grow up, then they come back with their own kids, and it starts all over again. It’s the best thing ever.”
“You don’t look old enough to have been here long enough to see the generations change over.”
She laughed. “My grandmother opened this shop in 1947. She left it to my mother, my mother left it to me. That’s when I came back to town, I’d moved out on my own after community college. To Belleville, the big city.” She glanced around the place. “But family is family. This place has been mine outright for the past nine years. Even as a kid, I worked the register, swept the floors, made the sundaes, waited on the customers—learning the family business.” She winked. “Just like the farms.”
I licked my cone, stared at the photos. “You know, you might have seen a friend of mine come through here from Chicago. Her name’s Deloris. She’s about five-six, black, average build. She would have come through with her girls.”
She plucked a photo off the wall and turned to face me. “Sure, I remember her. Sadly, we don’t get a lot of diversity down here, so when I get it, I remember it. She’s been down here a few times. Nice. The kids too. You won’t find her up there, though. She never wanted her photo taken and wouldn’t let me take one of the girls. Said she needed to protect their privacy. I respected that. Funny, even their driver was camera shy.”
Driver? “Was that Carlton?” I chuckled. “Her brother. Short, a little chubby, wild hair?”
“Oh no. This man was tall, average, short hair, black. The nervous type. He sweat the whole time. Kept asking for glasses of water. I thought maybe he was sick, or something, but he eventually calmed down. We don’t see a lot of keyed-up people down this way. Things move a lot slower here.”
That sounded like Ronald Shaw. The bell over the door chimed as the female cop from before strolled in. I watched as she walked over to the candy jars and scooped out a few licorice bites and tossed them into a bag, then dropped a dollar on the counter. My time was up.
The cop glanced around the place, then back at Mrs. Claus and me. “Hey, there, Doreen.”
“Patsy. Help you with anything else? Maybe take a few salted caramels to your father out there in the car?”
I glanced out the window at the SUV. “He’s your father?”
“Sure, he is,” Doreen said. “Everything here in Pittston’s a family business.”
Officer Patsy rested a hand on her gun belt, where she, no doubt, felt most comfortable putting it. “Thought our visitor here might need directions back to the interstate.”
“Actually, no,” I said. “I’ve got GPS that works just fine. Doreen and I were just standing here jawing about Pittston’s summer visitors. Didn’t realize Sally’s had such an interesting tradition of documenting their visits. What a great idea.” I slurped the last of my scoop and nibbled a bit on the cone before tossing the rest into a trash can, also pink, but with a paper candy cane taped to the front.
“Oh, I was going to show you this,” Doreen said, holding up the photo she’d taken from the wall. “They’re from Chicago. Nice family. They were down here to do some fishing last July.”
I took the photo, looked at it, smiled. “No,” I said. “I don’t know these people, but you’re right, they do look like a nice family.” I handed it back, my heart racing. “Thanks so much for the cone. Love your shop.”
Doreen beamed. “Come back anytime. I’ll put your photo up on the wall.”
Patsy walked me out. The SUV with her father behind the wheel followed me to the on-ramp of the interstate before it turned around and went back.
Two hours and change back to Chicago. That was plenty of time to think about Frank Martini’s family photo on the wall at Sally Sweet’s Sweets.
Chapter 31
I slid into the city at a little after six, but turned away from my house and office and instead drove to Shaw’s. Peering through his garage window, I saw that his death car was still parked inside, its doors open, chemical powder used to check for fingerprints all over the hood, doors, and windows. My mind flashed back to the moment I’d found him, gray, still, dead. Had he killed himself because he felt the walls closing in around him? Had he killed Tonya? Had he stolen girls to profit from them, with the help of Poole and Martini? Or was I trying to shoehorn a man’s unfortunate end into something bigger than it was? Why didn’t Tonya have a file at Bettle House? Why move Ramona from the Knowleses when she’d finally found a home where she was wanted and loved? Why had both girls ended up at Poole’s? Shaw was the link. Shaw, who had a connection to Martini. Money? Is that what they’d done it all for? If so, where was the evidence? If so, what had turned Poole, Shaw, and Martini so far from decency? Poole had been fostering for years. Where were the other girls?
The police wouldn’t have done much if Shaw’s death looked like it looked, unless there was some other information that made them suspect foul play, and Hogan all but said that hadn’t been the case. But I still wondered how Shaw got into the garage without leaving his footprints in the snow. Why had he gotten only half dressed for the last time? What had been in that medicine bottle? I burrowed into my jacket, pulled my cap down on my head. My eyes landed on a security camera attached to a garage across the alley, its lens covering the door. When I looked, I found several cameras up and down the alley, even one over Shaw’s own garage. Had the police even bothered to check the footage?
I slipped through Shaw’s back gate and up to his back door. It was locked, but the lock was laughable and the door flimsy. Hadn’t Shaw worried about break-ins? This was the North Side, sure, but no neighborhood in the city was immune to crime these days, petty or otherwise. I put my back to the door, scanned the yard, the buildings next door, then back-kicked the door with the heel of my boot, and goosed it with a full-on body push. It took three quick tries, but the door finally popped open and I slid inside.
I was taking quite a few liberties on this case, busting into places without a scintilla of legal standing—Ramona’s grandmother’s house, Sunshine Bread, that farm, now Shaw’s place. Maybe it should worry me that I was so unbothered by it. And did it even count if they didn’t catch me at it?
The lights were off inside. I took out my flashlight. This had been a home, now it was just four walls and stuff left behind that somebody was going to have to pack up and clear away. Nothing appeared out of place; the kitchen, dining room, and living room were all neat and tidy, as though Shaw had just left for work for the day and was coming back at dinnertime—only he wasn’t.
In his bedroom, I found the same, except for a carry-on suitcase pushed against a wall. When I lifted it, it felt empty; opening it confirmed that to be true. Had Shaw always kept the bag there, or had he been planning a trip, or an escape? His drawers were a mess, clothes stuffed in willy-nilly. I smiled. Willy-nilly had been one of my grandmother’s favorite expressions.
Underwear, socks, shirts, all crammed in like Shaw had done a fast, down-and-dirty laundry day. I took a moment before opening the closet, bracing myself, flashing back to the time I opened one of these suckers and nearly got strangled to death by a man hiding inside. I eased the door open a bit at a time, ready to bolt if I needed, but there was no one lying in wait, and nothing inside of much interest. Clothes on the hangers, no big whoop, expected; ditto the shoes lined up on the floor. My eyes landed on another suitcase, this one bigger than the carry-on, this one heavy. I rolled it out, opened it. It was packed with clothes, shoes, toiletries, underwear. Shaw was going somewhere, and I doubted it was for the weekend. It looked like he’d packed for a move, not a jaunt. What did he do, change his mind? Instead of Vegas or an escape to the Dominican Republic, he’d decided instead on an eternity in a graveyard?
Nothing in the house pointed to Poole or Pittston or any van, and I didn’t find any computers or a cell phone anywhere, which nixed my plans to access his security camera. The police would have taken those, of course, hoping to piece together Shaw’s last days. There’d been only one toothbrush in the bathroom, one shaver, one can of shaving cream, one washcloth, and no women’s things, so if he was seeing anyone, male or female, they had kept it tight. It would take a good-sized duffel to cart home all the stuff I had at Eli’s place—makeup, bath salts, lingerie, T-shirts, my favorite ice cream in his fridge—and we were just fooling around.
* * *
When I eased out of Shaw’s, I pulled the door closed behind me. The cleaning up, the clearing out, would be left for any family members left behind. My attention was focused now on the other cameras in the alley. They didn’t stop the break-ins, of course—the best that homeowners could hope for was to capture the thieves in the act. The police didn’t even bother looking for your stuff half the time, but it was some satisfaction taping the lowlife scumbag running away with your lawn mower or flat-screen.
The house directly across the alley from Shaw’s was my target. I drove around the front and rang the bell. The door opened after a few seconds to a twentysomething white guy in sweats and a faded fleece jacket. His dark hair was rumpled, like he’d just gotten up from a late-Saturday nap, and his green eyes were bleary and bloodshot. He said nothing, just stared at me. Apparently, he was expecting me to start things off.
I held up my card. “Hi. Hate to bother you, but I’d like to ask you about your neighbor across the alley? There was an incident the other day . . .”
He cracked open the door, took the card, and read it. “Yeah. Crazy bastard gassed himself. All the cop cars tied up the alley for hours. Nobody could get in or out.”
I stared at him, at the eyes, the whole rumpled package. Nope. There was nothing there that told me he realized how insensitive his remark had been. “I noticed you have a security camera on your garage. Did the police ask you about it?”
He frowned, confused. “No, why would they?”
“I wonder if I might take a look at any video you might have from that day? Specifically, from that day, but maybe a couple days prior, too? I’m looking for any unusual foot or car traffic around your neighbor’s home, anything out of the ordinary, really.”
He gave me the full-body sweep, then gave the card another look. “What for? You looking for the guy’s ghost?” He grinned, satisfied with his own joke.
Maybe it was the age. Death didn’t resonate with a lot of twentysomethings. It hadn’t yet touched them personally in a lot of cases, or anyone they knew, so it was easy to make light of it, to see it as something far removed, like Mars or Machu Picchu. Or maybe he was just a nimrod. “Like I said, traffic, unusual activity around the time of . . . the incident. Mr. . . . ?”
He left me hanging on his name. He seemed adamant about not filling in one single blank. He was going to make me work for it.
“The cops didn’t ask. What’s it to you?”
“The deceased was related to a case I’m working. Sorry. I can’t say more than that.”
He held the card up, squinted at it. “Is this for real?”
I dug into my bag and pulled out my PI license, showed it to him. “Yes. I could really use your cooperation.”
He grinned. “Why not, huh?” He stepped back and held the door open. “But don’t do anything funny. I took three tae kwon do lessons last year.”
I slid him a look. Three whole lessons? The place was a dude sty, a point hammered home by the two sloppy Millennials lounging on a saggy couch in the front room enthralled by video game action on a thousand-inch television screen.
“My roommates.”
Neither guy looked away from the screen, their fingers assaulting controllers as characters in fatigues raced over hills with big guns in their hands shooting at Lord knew what. I didn’t bother saying hello, neither knew I was there, anyway. The place smelled of guy feet, dirty dishes, and burritos. Guaranteed no woman lived here or would even consider it.
“Follow me,” he said, pointing toward the back.
“Would you mind giving me your name first?” I asked.
“Why? What are you going to do with it?”
“Use it when addressing you. Or do you prefer The White Guy Who Opened the Door?”
He wagged a finger at me. “I like your vibe, Cassandra Raines, PI. Saucy.” He leered at me. “You seeing anybody? If not, you want to?” He flicked his brows up and down suggestively.
I stood there, saying nothing, staring at him, letting the silence between us hang there just long enough for it to do its work. A duet of groans flew up from the couch as the pair of gamers suffered some kind of digital defeat, but, otherwise, nada.
He cleared his throat nervously. “Sorry.” He smoothed down his hair, looked embarrassed. “Ben. Ben Lassner. This way.”
He led me to a back room cluttered with textbooks stacked in unsteady piles on a rippled gray carpet. Economics and business appeared to be Lassner’s field of study. There was a laptop on a small table, a folding chair behind it, like a work desk, but not a desk, like an office for a twentysomething who had no concept of what an office should be. The rest of the room was empty.
He sat down, booted up the computer. “Give me a minute to cue things up.”
His fingers flew across the keyboard, the click of the keys the only sound in the room. He turned the laptop to face me. “There you go. Two days before, you said?”
“It’s a good start. Do you have anything that goes back further?”
“I have a week out. You plan on going through all of it?”
I leaned in to see, my eyes on the screen, noting the time stamp. “It’s good to have the option.”
Lassner stood. “Take the chair. Get you something? A beer? Water? Doritos?” I looked up at him. “It’s our go-to in the house.”
I smiled. “No, thanks. Just this.”
He backed away, perched a haunch on the lip of the bare windowsill, his arms crossed, legs too, as he peeked over my shoulder. A testosterone-fueled roar went up from the front room, where Heckle and Jeckle had apparently smoked an adversarial avatar in a virtual universe. Just a game, I knew, but joystick killing made the act of real killing look far too easy, far too clean.
“What’s the case?”
I turned around to look at Lassner. “What?”
“You said the guy was involved in a case you were working.” He shrugged. “What’s the case?”
I turned back to the laptop. “Sorry. Appreciate your help, though.” My eyes scanned the video. Lassner had been right. The alley appeared to get very little traffic compared to some others in the city. Quiet. Clean enough to eat a meal off the pavement, even the city’s black trash carts looked new, not gnawed half to useless by rats and raccoons like they were on the South Side. But that was the North Side for you. Whole other world.
Lassner wouldn’t let up. “Some kind of fraud, I’d guess. An insurance scam, or something like that?”
It was as good a guess as any, I thought, but I said nothing in response. The back of Shaw’s garage came in clear. I could even see his back gate, and a sliver of his back walk. There was a good chance that Lassner’s camera would have picked up anything unusual around Shaw’s place, anyone coming or going out of the back; so, fingers figuratively crossed, I let the footage play through.
“A lot of that going on these days,” he said, “insurance fraud, and why not? It’s easy money, until you get caught.”
“Guess so,” I answered absently.
“I mean, I didn’t know him personally, but he looked like an everyday guy with a nine-to-five job. He put his trash out on time. Kept his yard up. You’d never know he was a Tesla Roadster guy. He just didn’t have that vibe. And if you’ve got that kind of money, what do you have to be depressed about? Try living on ramen in a house with two other guys. Now that’s depressing.”
I turned. “Excuse me? What’s that about a Tesla?”
“The dead guy owned one. Matte black. Sleek as hell. Two hundred fifty thousand easy, but it’s like he didn’t match it, you know? It was like seeing Homer Simpson driving around in the Batmobile.”
I found Shaw in a beat-up old clunker with a dodgy exhaust, a Porsche keychain dangling from the ignition. No sign of a Tesla. Anyway, how could Shaw afford one on his salary? You didn’t own a $250,000 car and dress as messily as he had, and you didn’t park it just anywhere with only a couple of low-end security cameras and a flimsy lock to keep joyriders at bay. “When did you last see it?”
Lassner shrugged. “I don’t know. It didn’t get out of the garage much. Shame too. It’s sweet. I figured it was the reason he put the cameras up in the first place. You don’t drive that kind of flash without putting eyes on it 24/7.”
“It’s December,” I said. “That’s not the kind of car you’d drive in this weather or leave in a garage until spring.”
“Hell no,” Lassner said. “I mean, I wouldn’t. I’d board that baby somewhere dry, clean, and temperature controlled. But maybe he was getting around to it? He hadn’t had it long. Less than a year?”
I eyed the laptop. I’d started with video taken a week prior to my finding Shaw, and hadn’t yet seen a Tesla go in or out of his garage. Where was it? I looked over at Lassner. “Did you ever see a Porsche over there?”
“Porsche? Who was the guy, Elon Musk?” He laughed, but cut it off when he saw me staring at him. He cleared his throat. “Sorry. No, just the Tesla and that piece of crap he drove most of the time. I called it his decoy car. Drive the old car during the day to fool everybody, then sneak off at night and live the Tesla life when nobody’s looking. Maybe he was going through a midlife crisis. Grabbing one last thrill before it all goes south.”
