The Dead Caller from Chicago

Seventeen

Tebbins had lived in one of the modestly upgraded bungalows in Rivertown. Its bricks were glazed and beige instead of the usual smudgy brown, and the roof was covered with green barrel tiles instead of curling asphalt shingles. In spite of what Benny had said, I’d still expected a swarm of cops, but Benny had been telling the truth. Only one Escalade was parked in front.

A lieutenant in a beige suit that almost matched the bricks opened the door a crack. I told him I was expected. He looked at me like I was nuts.

“My name’s Elstrom,” I said. “I live in the turret across from city-”

He slammed the door.

I waited so they could take a good look at me from a window. After they realized I wasn’t going away, the door was opened again, this time by another cop. This one I knew.

“Are you having a mental episode?” he asked.

“A fit of good citizenry,” I said. “I heard you think I might know something about the murder of Mr. Tebbins.”

He stepped out onto the brick porch and looked up and down the street. “We already checked out your little shouting match. You’re clear.”

“The secretary overheard?”

“The secretary is hysterical. She said you and Tebbins got into it, screaming about a Leo Brumsky and someone named Shark.”

“That would be Snark, not Shark. And we weren’t screaming.”

“Whatever. We already checked out Brumsky. He’s off on vacation, and besides, a shouting match doesn’t mean murder.”

“Tebbins was upset,” I said. “Red faced and sweating. Something agitated him before I got there.”

“You can run along.”

“What happened here?”

He looked up and down the street again. “A burglary gone bad. Tebbins caught a bullet, right to the head.”

“A burglary, really?” Like murder, burglary was unheard of in Rivertown. Out-of-town thugs knew to stay clear of the locally connected cadre of car boosters, dope peddlers, hookers, and pimps who kicked back to the lizards like franchise operators.

When I didn’t turn to leave, the cop said, “Look, Elstrom, we’re figuring some itinerant, probably a druggie, was passing by on foot and broke in. Tebbins caught him; the burglar shot him.”

“Isn’t it unusual, an itinerant burgling a place, then hanging around to torture the homeowner?”

“We know where you live,” he said, “like everybody knows where you live. If we need you, we’ll find you.” He took a last look up and down the street and stepped back inside.

It was a relief. And not. Not only did the cop not suspect me of the killing, he hadn’t pressed me about anything Tebbins and I had been shouting about. One thing was certain: It wasn’t some drifter the lieutenant’s eyes had been nervously looking for, up and down the street. The cop had been looking over my shoulder for someone else.

Someone who he feared was coming back.

I drove to Leo’s bungalow, thinking I’d give the place another once-over. I wasn’t optimistic about finding something I’d missed earlier. I needed something to do.

Once again, Leo’s back door yielded to my thin scraper. I walked in and immediately saw different.

The wide ribbon of pistachio shells that had been dragged from the front room toward the kitchen looked pretty much the same, but the trail from the kitchen and out the back door had been almost pulverized. What had been a trail of solid shells was now, in spots, little more than thick beige dust. Someone had broken in and walked over the shells since I’d last been in the house.

Leo’s bedroom looked the same. His closet door remained wide open; his shirts and slacks still hung neatly inside. Ditto, Ma’s bedroom. Her closet was in the same order, and the same two drawers remained tugged out as before. I quickly checked the dining room and the front room. They were unchanged as well. Whoever had broken in hadn’t disturbed anything but the floor in the kitchen and the path to the back door.

I went down to the basement. No shells at all had been dragged down there. I thought that odd: Someone prowling a house would surely explore down there as well.

I went into Leo’s office and sat behind his desk. Every piece of furniture was in its proper place. Bo Derek was as wet and beautiful as when I’d first laid eyes on her. Leo’s childhood ideal of a bucolic farm scene, done up in lavenders, pinks, and greens, still brightened the wall, half obscured, above the light table.

Nothing had changed in the house, except everything. New footfalls had ground the shells lying between the back door and into the kitchen.

Bo Derek smiled back, wet and ripe and taunting.

“Well, damn it all,” I said to her and to Leo, suddenly inspired. I hustled up the stairs to the kitchen to be sure. I opened the refrigerator door. I always remembered food.

There was new disarray. Certainly there was less milk.

I left, savoring the possibility of relief.