The Dead Caller from Chicago

Forty-four

Right after I landed, I used a nicely anonymous prepaid cell phone to call each of the two divorce lawyers named in the National Enquirer. I gave each receptionist the same message: “This evening only, I’m in town to see if you’re interested in a daisy.”

Each receptionist asked me to hold. Neither lawyer surprised me by then picking up the phone himself. Each agreed to meet immediately, accompanied by his principal.

Neither had pretended even a moment’s confusion, and I took that behavior as ambiguous news. Both knew the painting was about to become available; likely each had already been in contact with someone looking to sell a flower. It meant, too, that neither had sent one of his own to kidnap Amanda. Whoever had been hired to grab her was local to Chicago.

I called Jarobi to update him with the latest news. He didn’t answer. I let myself dare to hope that perhaps the kidnapper was calling at that very moment, and that was why he couldn’t answer his phone.

I also let myself dare to hope that the kidnapper knew Wendell Phelps had the resources to unleash every hound in hell if even one of the hairs on his daughter’s head was harmed.

I rented the cheapest thing Hertz had, a tiny Korean car that looked to have been assembled from shrunken parts. It was twice as expensive and just as small as the last car I’d rented, a minuscule concoction from a place named Swifty’s outside the airport in Minneapolis. The swiftest thing about that operation had been the speed with which they’d distanced themselves after I’d run their car into a truckload of pigs. Those seemed like golden days now. I’d only been hunting an heiress then, not someone who’d kidnapped a woman with whom I’d shared part of my life.

Hunger started abrading the nerves that were twisting in my stomach. I hadn’t eaten since the handful of Cheerios I’d swallowed on the way to the airport. I pulled into a fast food place named In-N-Out, assuming that the name portended nothing of intestinal velocity but simply the speed of their service; my gut was already knotted enough. I ordered a burger and a chocolate shake. I tried to eat while I drove, but after two bites, it was no good. My nerves were more anxious than hungry.

Mindy Bennett’s lawyer had offices in a low-rise stucco building three miles from the airport. It appeared to be a one-lawyer firm, but perhaps to compensate for that, it had very large furniture in its waiting room. A tidy little man sat in one of the huge chairs.

I was not asked to sit. The receptionist immediately ushered me into a large inner office. I supposed her speed could have been due to the In-N-Out onions that were most certainly in their Out mode by then, no matter the mints I’d stuffed in my mouth. More likely, her boss was anxious to buy a painting.

The soon-to-be ex-Mrs. Bennett wore a tight red dress, a blond wig that was slightly askew on her forehead, and too much real tan that had cut deep lines around her eyes and mouth. She was out of breath. She must have rushed to her lawyer’s office from getting tanned somewhere.

Her lawyer, a fellow named Smilt, wore an open-collared striped shirt, a gold neck chain, and carefully sprayed-up hair that reminded me of the little hair wall that Rivertown’s own Elvis Derbil, late of the Building and Zoning Department, had constructed to hide the bald patch at the back of his head.

“You’ve brought the painting?” he asked, as I sat down.

“Not exactly,” I said. I looked over at Mrs. Bennett. She was examining her fingernails.

Her lawyer cleared his throat loudly. “As I told your partner, I’ll be doing the negotiating, on behalf of Mrs. Bennett.”

I turned back around. “I understand you had a satisfying conversation.” It seemed like a safe thing to say.

Before he could answer, my prepaid cell phone rang. It was Mr. Bennett’s lawyer, and he was nervous. “You’re on your way?”

“I’m with Mrs. Bennett now,” I said affably and clicked him away.

I smiled at the sprayed-up Smilt. “I’m seeing Mr. Bennett’s lawyer next, of course.”

His skin had gone pale beneath the tan. “I told your partner that there’s no need. We’re ready to close the deal now, in cash.”

I snuck a glance behind me. Mrs. Bennett still hadn’t looked up from her fingernails. I understood, then. The lawyer was running the deal, fronting for the sorts of investors who could deal in cash. Mindy Bennett was only along for the ride, and a commission for the use of her claim on Henny Bennett’s assets.

“You’ll want to inspect the painting,” I said.

“The appraiser is outside,” he said, meaning the little man in the big chair I’d seen on the way in. “As soon as we examine the painting, we can agree on a final amount.”

“Soon,” I said.

“Soon?” The sprayed-up lawyer leaned across his desk. “Let’s stop this shit, shall we? As you well know, we’ve received calls from two individuals other than you. One said he owned the painting, that it had been stolen, and that it cannot be sold without his approval. He is not our concern. Your partner is. He called not two hours ago, stating that he is ready to complete the transaction and would get back to us. Now you’re here, so very promptly. We have the cash ready. I rushed an authenticator over. Yet you’ve not brought the painting to be authenticated? What’s going on?”

“One must be careful.” I stood up. The lawyer’s eyes had narrowed almost to closing. He was on the verge of realizing I’d come into his office breathing not just onions but lies.

On the sofa, Mrs. Bennett was still inspecting her nails.

I turned for the door.

“When will you contact me?” the lawyer asked.

“Soon,” I said and beat it out to the car.

Someone had called, saying he was ready to complete the deal. I called Jarobi and again got routed to voice mail. “I assume you have news,” I said. “Call me.”

I hoped it meant the exchange was taking place, right about then. I decided to continue on anyway.

Henny Bennett’s lawyer, one Mickey Gare, had offices in a considerably taller and flashier building on Wilshire Boulevard. The reception area opened to a hall with many doors, a lot of chrome and leather guest furniture, and two beautiful women. One was a stylish blond receptionist, no more than thirty, concentrating on a computer screen. The other was younger, no more than twenty-five. She, too, was blond and concentrating, on a magazine that looked to contain small pictures of big movie stars.

The blond receptionist looked up. She escorted me into a private office, where the man behind the desk stood to introduce himself. “Mickey Gare,” he said, “and you are…?”

“Not Mickey Gare.”

The lawyer winced. The man sitting on one of the guest chairs did not. Nor did he get up. I recognized him from his Internet photos. Henny Bennett wore a suit and an open-collared shirt like his lawyer, though his was unbuttoned halfway past his heavily tanned abs.

We sat down. “I’m here to make sure your interest in the Daisy is substantial,” I said.

The man on the chair nodded. The lawyer did not.

“What?” Gare had a faint smudge of white powder under his nose that reminded me of the ever-present sugar residue on Benny Fittle, Rivertown’s traffic enforcement person.

“On whose behalf are you here?” Henny Bennett asked.

“Meaning do I represent the seller or the man who is attempting to block the sale?”

“That would be it exactly,” Bennett said.

“I represent the person who has the painting,” I said. “I believe you spoke to him just a couple of hours ago?”

“I told him we’ll take our chances with a disputed title, if that’s what you mean,” Mickey Gare said.

“You have cash?”

“You’ve brought the painting?” Bennett asked.

“What?” Mickey Gare asked.

“All seems satisfactory,” I said and left.

Out in the reception room, the sweet young thing on the couch looked as though she’d made little progress in the magazine she was reading, but then, pictures can sometimes take a long time. I suspected she was to be a future Mrs. Bennett, once Henny got rid of the previous, sun-damaged model.

“Don’t,” I said, as I headed for the outer door.

“Don’t?” she asked, looking up, confused. She was gorgeous.

“Just don’t,” I said.

I called Jarobi’s phone as soon as I got to the car. He didn’t answer. I didn’t leave a message.

Two hours later, I was on a plane, more nervous and confused than when I’d arrived. Perhaps the kidnapper had gotten the painting-but no one had called to say what Wendell got in return.