The Dead Caller from Chicago

Thirty-eight

I watched Jarobi drive away, but not so a man in a black Chevy Impala. He was parked across the spit of land on Thompson Avenue. He might have been a guy taking a break in his car, or an innocent, of sorts, readying to murmur desire to one of Rivertown’s noontime belles. He might have been Wozanga’s successor, sent by Cassone to find the right time to storm into the turret, or he might even have been Cassone himself. The car windows were tinted just enough to obscure the driver.

I wondered if there was another possibility. The man could have been a Chicago cop, left behind by Jarobi to keep an eye on me. The captain’s story about a security audit was a fairy tale. I’d been out of Wendell’s life too long, and the cop had asked too few good questions. What I couldn’t imagine was why I’d matter to a cop.

I called Amanda’s office. Her direct line sent me to voice mail. I tried her assistant, Vicki, and got voice mail there, too. Finally, I called Amanda’s cell phone. I clicked off when her recorded voice asked me to leave a message. Amanda’s life had gotten busy since she’d gone to work for her father.

I switched on my computer. I’d received three new e-mails. The first was from a pharmaceutical organization, offering me enhancement pills that would make me a bigger man than I’d ever been known to be. The second was from a Nigerian prince, offering the opportunity to become a wealthier man than I’d ever been known to be. The third was from Jenny, saying Rudy Cassone had never filed a police report for burglary.

I went to Google. The Hollywood couple battling for control of the three extant flower paintings was named Bennett. The producer was Henny; she was Mindy. She was a foot taller, but he was the titan. He’d produced a couple of thrillers I’d watched on late-night television, after I’d gotten tired of infomercials about effortless miracle polishes, sticky things that attracted lint, and Lester Lance Leamington, before he’d gone big-time. I remembered Henny Bennett’s films as being cheesy, though I supposed it was unfair to judge the quality of anything viewed on a four-inch screen, where film artistry rarely registers without magnification.

Both Bennetts were very tan and had extremely white teeth. Her lips were plumper than most, as though she’d been exercising them by sucking on eels. Her chest was plumper than most, too, but I didn’t think that had anything to do with eels.

They looked happy in their online photos. That could have been because, allegedly, they’d each been getting damp with others. The bottom line, though, was the bottom line: She wanted half of what he had. He wanted to give her two hundred thousand a month, flat. She said she couldn’t live on that. He said she’d have to learn. Lawyers and accountants were called in. All agreed, billably, that there was much to discuss.

Two of the online sites mentioned that the couple’s Velvet Brueghel Rose, when combined with the purchase options they jointly controlled on the other two Flowers known to exist, constituted a princely asset. The lawyers and the accountants disagreed, also billably, about which Bennett should retain control of the painting and the options.

Only one account mentioned, and then only in passing, that the combined value of the three Flowers would multiply exponentially if ever the long-lost Daisy was combined with the others into one collection. Nothing in the account pointed to such a likelihood.

I called Robinson at city hall. “That floater they pulled out of the Willahock?”

“Bad business,” he said. His voice was shaky. “He’d been in the water for some time.”

“There’s been no mention of it on the radio or in the papers. Any ID?”

“His teeth were hammered out. Why are you asking?” His own teeth had started chattering.

“Curiosity. Are you all right, Mr. Robinson?”

“The floater’s a… he’s a John Doe.”

“Are you all right, Mr. Robinson?”

“No, damn it,” he said, his voice rising. “Someone is following me.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea. I’m just a building inspector. All I can think is it might have something to do with Tebbins. He got into something here, then he got murdered, or…”

“Or what?”

“Or it has something to do with you and your questions, supposedly on behalf of Leo Brumsky.”

My cell phone beeped. A call was waiting. I pulled the phone from my ear to check the screen, hoping it was Amanda, but it was an unfamiliar number.

“You’re sure you’re being followed?”

“Too much is happening in Rivertown.” He clicked me away.

I thumbed on the new call. “Elstrom?” the new voice whispered, perhaps through a cloth.

“I’ve been expecting you.” Indeed I had, the whole of the previous night.

“We’ll meet. Public place.”

It was a surprise; he was being too refined. I told him six thirty, before things in Rivertown got too rowdy, and named a bar.