The Dead Caller from Chicago (23 page)

I had three of the olives and three of the cupcakes for dinner and went across the hall. I propped Leo's painting up at the back of the card table and put together the wood stretchers I'd had the craft store people disassemble. I now had a canvas the same size as Leo's.

I glued another piece of canvas to the back, careful to leave a slightly opened seam like Leo's original. I laid out all the tubes of acrylic colors and unscrewed their little caps.

Beyond primitive, Amanda had called Leo's repainting of the supposed Velvet Brueghel. I wished he were there at that moment, so I could laugh at him, but things had gone to hell. He was in an institution, fumbling to unscramble his brain.

I painted a new lavender barn and pink, green-spotted cows. I dabbed red leaves all over spindly black trunks and limbs, and I made orange rolling hills. I tried to work fast, but I had to work carefully, measuring everything on Leo's original before doing my own. There was no way of knowing how closely Cassone had looked at Leo's painting.

The person at the craft store said the acrylics would dry quickly. To make sure, I aimed a box fan at the painting before I went up to bed.

Though I was dead tired, sleep wouldn't come. I kept imagining a black Impala and a colorless Crown Victoria parked along Thompson Avenue. If they hadn't belonged to Cassone or Jarobi, one or both might have been a rental, picked up at Midway or O'Hare by someone fresh off a plane from L.A.

 

Forty

I sat for a time the next morning looking at the painting I'd faked the night before. What had seemed like a smart idea, copying Leo's farm scene, now seemed destined only to bring more trouble. Even if Cassone didn't recognize the poor copy right off, he would as soon as he sponged away the water-soluble acrylics and saw there was nothing underneath. Yet any decision to turn over something worth tens of millions wasn't mine; it was Leo's, and he wasn't communicating except with crayons.

At nine thirty, I threw the fake in the back of the Jeep and drove west to Falling Star, feeling not at all optimistic about anything.

A man in a private security uniform, looking as worried as me, stepped out of the guard shack when I pulled up to the gate.

“Dek Elstrom to see Mr. Cassone,” I said.

His face got even more pinched. He stepped back and tugged the door tightly shut, as though I had anthrax on my nose and was about to sneeze. He picked up a phone and spoke for only a second or two. Then, most oddly of all, instead of opening the door to tell me how to proceed, he mimed the number fifteen with his right hand behind the glass—one finger, then five fingers—and pushed a button to raise the gate.

I've long enjoyed the belief that possessing big money offers the option of indulging behavioral aberrations that ordinary incomes keep in check. Furthermore, I fear such nuttiness can easily spread to the paid help. The guard's behavior seemed to go well beyond that. Finger miming was not something any class of grown-ups did. I let the thought recede as I motored in.

Tall arborvitae concealed a set-back eight-foot chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Inside, big-buck brick houses with shake or slate roofs and perfectly manicured evergreens were laid out along gently curving streets. Driveways were filled with Cadillacs and Lexi, Beemers and Benzes, and absolutely no trace of the people who lived behind all the bricks.

Number fifteen was a splendid, rambling multilevel with small windows and a big, four-car attached garage. Framing the front doorway, though, were two huge cement pots filled with cheap plastic daisies. It might have been a whimsical touch: Daisies, like the one he'd lost in a theft. That morning, the whimsy was spoiled by the two sheriff's cruisers parked on the street.

A deputy waited by the curb. He used the barrel of his automatic to motion me to pull over. It was more compelling than using his hand.

He was alongside the driver's side window in an instant. “Hands on the steering wheel,” he shouted, then, “Now, slide out real slow.”

I slid out real slow.

He told me to put my hands behind me and snapped handcuffs around my wrists.

“Got time for a quick question?” I asked.

“You're a person of interest,” he said.

“I've always thought so, but in what regard this time?”

“In whatever my superiors are interested in, smart-ass. My job is to encourage you to not run off.”

“Your superiors will be pleased. I feel encouraged. I need to make a call.”

“In due time.”

“Where's Cassone?”

“Unavailable.”

“Inside?”

“Unavailable.”

“I'll sit in the car. It's cold.”

“You'll stand outside, freezing your ass off, same as me.”

So it went for more minutes than were necessary, until a captain came out of the house and walked up to the officer watching me.

“Aren't you cold?” he asked the cop.

“No, sir.”

“I am,” I offered.

The captain didn't even look at me.

“I need to make a call,” I said. The Bohemian was the only one who could quickly get a lawyer in between the cops and me.

“In due time,” the captain said.

So it went. I spent another hour stomping my feet to keep warm, yelling my fool head off about making a call.

“No chance,” the freezing cop kept saying.

“I'm entitled to a phone call.”

“After you're questioned.”

“What's happened to Cassone?”

“Later.”

“At least let me get back inside my car and run the heater.”

“It's a Jeep,” he said finally.

I must have looked confused.

“Not a car,” he added.

“It's certainly not a truck,” I said, ripening for any warming confrontation.

“It's not a truck,” he said.

By then, I'd deciphered the rhythm of his logic. “Because it's a Jeep?”

He nodded.

“You're crazy. You know that?”

He shrugged, accepting. I gave him credit for not succumbing to self-doubt.

Twenty minutes later, incredibly, Jarobi showed up.

He barely acknowledged me as he went in the house. Fifteen minutes later, he came out with the captain, who ordered the deputy to remove my handcuffs.

Jarobi motioned for me to get in the Jeep. “If you don't stay right behind me, I'll have squad cars surround you in less than five minutes.”

“What's going on?”

“We'll stop, have coffee.”

“What's going on?”

“Coffee,” he said.

 

Forty-one

Jarobi led me to a Denny's just north of Rivertown. After he parked, he came up to peer between the strips of silver tape keeping my back window together.

“I noticed this painting, back at Cassone's,” he said.

“What's going on, Jarobi?”

“Is it Leo Brumsky's painting?”

I looked at him, a cop in a green coat, short and gray and too wise to what was going on in my life. “Why is Cassone's house crawling with sheriff's deputies?”

“How about I lock it up while we eat?” He fingered a loose curl of tape. One soft tug and he'd have the painting in his hands anyway.

I nodded; anything to speed him up. I got it out, he aimed a remote to pop his trunk and locked it up, and we went into the restaurant.

The hostess asked where we wanted to sit. I said any damned place. She gave me a harsh look and led us to a booth by the window.

“What's going on, Jarobi?” I asked again.

“Amanda,” he said.

The waitress came over with a Thermos pitcher.

“Leave the coffee,” I said to her, keeping my eyes on Jarobi.

She banged down the Thermos.

“We'll eat,” Jarobi said.

“Cheerios, then, small bowl, skim milk,” I said.

Jarobi took too long to tell her that no, we'd have pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage, and thick Greek toast.

“You must keep your strength,” he said, after she huffed away.

The blades were out now, fencing inside my gut. “What about Amanda?”

“And calm,” he added. “You must be calm.”

He looked around. Midway between the breakfast and lunch rushes, the restaurant was practically deserted.

“She's been kidnapped,” he said.

I pushed up out of the booth fast, going nowhere but needing to tower over him.

“Sit down, or you'll hear nothing.” He lifted his coffee cup like he had hours to kill before catching a bus.

I dropped back down. “Everything. Now.”

“Near as we can figure, she was grabbed just a few minutes after she left your place. Someone bumped her car, left a scrape. Most likely, he got out, waving what she must have thought was insurance information. It's an old carjacking trick.”

I wanted to smash his face. “You came to me yesterday morning, just hours after she was abducted, and said nothing?”

“Mr. Phelps is running the show. You're broke; you live in a turret. He thinks you're involved. I came to check you out.”

“She's my wife—” I stopped myself. “My ex-wife, but we're on good terms. She's safe? The kidnapper's called? Why the hell are we just sitting here?”

“I just got the painting, Elstrom. Now we're going to think.”

I must have slumped back in the booth. For sure, I remember going blank for a moment, unable to think. He was talking gibberish.

“The painting?” I asked, finally. “Amanda wasn't grabbed for her father's money?”

“Money? Sure, two million, but the bastard's endgame is a painting.” He cocked a thumb toward the parking lot. “He didn't specify, but it's that painting? That purple barn? Those pink cows? Really?”

“Camouflage. Why are we here if the cops are at Cassone's? He's your man.”

“Because we're going to think. Go slow. Don't talk in riddles.”

“Cassone's your man.”

“It's a voice on the phone that wants two million in cash and that Brumsky painting. For now, we consider everything.”

“You're sure Amanda's not at Cassone's?”

He nodded. “We don't know where she is, which is why we're going to think. Tell me about the picture, from the beginning.”

The waitress came with our plates. She set Jarobi's down carefully. Mine, she dropped from an inch up. Jarobi dug right in.

When she left, I said, “A punk named Snark Evans stole the painting from Cassone years ago. Evans gave it to Leo Brumsky. Not knowing it was stolen, Leo kept it down in his basement ever since. Leo's away. I've been watching his house. I stuck signs in the lawn, advertising residential security systems, to see who got nervous. Cassone came around, sniffing. I played along, gave him a tour, telling him about a system I was supposedly installing. He left, but not for long. Middle of the night, day before yesterday, I drove past Leo's house and saw someone prowling inside. I waited by the back door. A burglar came out carrying something. I clubbed him and took what he had. It was that painting.”

“It was Cassone you clubbed?”

“Yes.”

“With what?”

“What does it matter?”

“With what?”

“A baseball bat.”

“Go on.”

“We're wasting time, Jarobi.”

“Just go on.”

“I called Amanda because she knows art.”

“And because you knew she'd come to your place without question.”

“Yeah, and then I followed her to abduct her on the street, instead of just holding her at my place. Man, if I had that kind of genius I could be a cop.”

“Continue.”

“Later on, that evening, Amanda came over to my place. She'd already been working with Leo, researching the painting. She studied it, told me it was valuable, and left around ten. And none of this makes any sense.”

“Why?” He'd paused with a forkful of sausage halfway to his mouth.

“Because your people saw Cassone and me last night, talking calmly, having a beer. Cassone wanted his painting back and told me to deliver it this morning. No muscle, and no gun, and sure as hell no mention he was holding Amanda hostage.”

“Maybe you made it so easy he didn't need any of that. Why cave so quickly? You clubbed Cassone to take the painting away, then overnight became willing to give it up? All before you knew Ms. Phelps was kidnapped?”

He'd cleaned his plate. He pushed it away. “Boy, if I had that kind of genius, I could live in a stone … whatever it is.”

“I had second thoughts. I realized I was in over my head with a guy like Cassone. I wanted to be rid of the painting and rid of him.” It was a lame lie, the best I could think up without telling him about Leo or that I wasn't yet ready to trust an arrogant peacock like Wendell Phelps to engineer the safe return of his daughter. For now, Jarobi could think the painting in his trunk was the real thing.

“You're lying, Elstrom, about a lot of things.”

“Go back to Falling Star, help the sheriff sweat Cassone, and keep your eyes open for somebody else. You know Cassone doesn't need two million. He only wants the painting.” I made to get up. “Let's go back to Falling Star.”

“Cassone's dead.”

I searched his face for any hint that he was toying with me. “That can't be,” I finally managed.

“He was found early this morning lying behind a used car lot halfway between Rivertown and Falling Star. He was shot four times and then beaten so brutally his face was hamburger, super rare. Both his shoulders were smashed and his kneecaps pulverized.”

“He was beaten postmortem?”

“I surely hope so. The sheriff's deputies are scratching for a motive. That's why they're going through his house. They don't know about Amanda or the fancy painting. Or, for that matter, the baseball bat you used on Cassone to get the painting back. If they did, they'd be real interested in you, Elstrom, because someone needed real rage to beat Cassone so badly after he was already dead.”