Table of Contents

The Case of Moomah's Moolah

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

A Note from the Author

About Jim Stevens

The Case of

Moomah’s

Moolah

By Jim Stevens

©2013 by Jim Stevens

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except for a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

The final approval of this literary material is granted by the author.

First Printing

All the characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-9849247-5-2

For Joanna

CHAPTER 1

Never shoot a man sitting down. It’s pointless. Worthless. Doesn’t prove a thing. Shoot him standing up. Better yet, get him in motion, moving from one place to another. There’s absolutely nothing better than nailing a guy moving furniture.

My job is to shoot him dead to rights. Leave him no way out. End this madness right here and right now.

I’m in a back alley between a pair of dumpsters. I’m alone. Not a witness in sight. There’s a wall with razor wire right above me. I’m not going to get any closer. The angle I have into the first floor motel window isn’t the best. If I was up a few more feet it would help, but do I really want to try to balance myself on top of these two dumpsters? What happens if my weight pushes the wheels outward and I end up doing pavement splits like a bad break dancer? Yeah, that would be great for my bad back.

I’ve been on this guy’s tail for two days. He’s good. He knows he’s got to be careful — and how to be careful. He limps around with a cane, never dropping his guard, constantly looking for someone trying to spoil his free ride into the future. I’ve got less than a week before he goes in front of the judge. No time to miss. My boss’ instructions were simple. Shoot him so he doesn’t have a leg to stand on.

I’ve been here for almost a half-hour. It must be a hundred degrees, with the humidity at ninety-nine. I couldn’t be sweating any more than if I was one of those idiots in a sweat lodge attempting to find the meaning of life. People talk about Chicago’s winters. Well the summers aren’t too pleasant either. My dry cleaning bill goes up six-fold starting Memorial Day.

As I peer through the telescopic sight, I can see the heat rising up from the walkway that leads to my quarry’s room. The smell from the trash curls my nose. I consider breathing through my mouth, but the chance of ingesting some fatal organism stops me. Luckily, the motel room curtain remains open, but it will be tough getting a good shot. Glare, I hate glare.

My prey is inside, lying on the bed. Really dumb to shoot him now. The angle still sucks. I’ve got to get a better shot. I close the lid on the left dumpster. The one on the right doesn’t have a lid. I can hear rats scurrying around inside. I must be disrupting their lunch. I skoogie up the sides of trash bins and balance myself with one foot on each. Standing on top, I twist my body to face the motel, lift my arms, and aim through the razor wire. There he is. I got him in my sights. I freeze. I wait.

From the left a woman enters the frame. A little dumpy, cherry-red lipstick, with platinum blonde hair wrapped high in a ‘50’s beehive. You’d think a guy paying for it would find a better looking woman, but since he hasn’t received his payout yet he’s obviously still shopping the discount racks. I got her perfectly in my sight. Maybe when he opens the door to let her in I can get him.

She knocks. I see movement from the man. The door opens slightly, closes, and then opens all the way. Damn! He’s behind the door. Come on, buddy, stand up. Say hello. Welcome her with open arms. Dance a jig. The woman enters. The door closes. She pulls the curtains shut. Double damn! Now I got to wait until they’re done.

Why can’t anything go right in my life?

I’m balancing on top of two dumpsters, in an alley behind a seedy motel, in a lousy Westside Chicago neighborhood, on a hot, humid, miserable scorcher of a summer day. I’m not religious, but I pray for a quickie. I take my eye from the viewfinder, rest my hands and arms, and wipe the sweat from my face. The stench from the trash makes me nauseous. The realization that I am actually here, in this position, doing this, makes me depressed beyond belief. I ask myself what has happened to my life, how did it ever come to this?

And from out of nowhere, this guy, whom I instantly recognize, walks hurriedly down the aisle to the motel door, like he’s going to drop in and surprise them with a check from the Publisher’s Clearing House. He’s a shooter, too. He carries the same weapon as me. I got competition. I watch closely. He’s doing what I’m doing, but doing it with a hell of a lot more panache than me. I hate this guy. He knocks on the door, waits, and then pounds on the door. I can almost hear him count to three. He takes one step back, lowers his shoulder, and crashes inside like a disturbed linebacker. I hear him scream, “That’s my wife,” and he starts firing off shots faster than Wyatt Earp at the O.K. Corral — exactly what I should be doing.

I pull my arms and hands forward, reset, take careful aim, and just as I’m ready to shoot, I hear the three little words that have become the bane of my pathetic existence.

“Oh, Mr. Sherlock!”

My quarry comes running out of the motel. I try to ignore the voice. This is my last chance to get him. I try to focus and take careful aim. I quickly squeeze my finger, but my balance is thrown off by my nemeses below me who slightly pushes the dumpster to get my attention.

“Oh, Mr. Sherlock.”

The bins wobble and separate. I do an impromptu version of the splits and fall backwards into a week’s worth of enough filth to start an impetigo epidemic.

“What are you doing, Mr. Sherlock?”

I rise up to see my prey running out of the room, dressed only in striped boxer shorts, and a wife-beater t-shirt, his pants and shoes clutched in his hands. He takes off down the outer corridor as if he’s an Olympic sprinter pursued by a track official with an empty urine cup. I aim and squeeze, blindly shooting shot after shot. I finally get my eye back into the sight, but it’s all black. I got no shot. Why? A piece of moldy cheese pizza stuck to the viewfinder.

I look around. The man is gone, high-tailed it to parts unknown.

“Mr. Sherlock, you have to come quick.”

“Tiffany…”

“It’s an emergency.” She sounds like a third grader in need of a rest room.

“I’m working right now.”

“This is more important.”

_____

My name is Richard Sherlock. I spent nineteen years on the Chicago Police Force, sixteen as a detective. I’ve shot at seven men. Hit four and killed two.

Today, I can’t even shoot a guy with a camera.

I blew twenty-year’s worth of pension benefits with one punch to the jaw of my commanding officer. Since then, I’m forced to work for the Richmond Insurance Company as their on-call detective, assigned to investigate any settlement fraud, or any suspected fraud, or any settlements which can be proven fraudulent in front of a judge.

I hate my job.

_____

“Tiffany, I have to get pictures of that guy, on his feet, without a cane, for the judge next week.” I pull myself up and out of the dumpster with my cheesy camera hanging from my neck. “Or, your daddy is going to shoot me.”

“This is totally more important.”

“I doubt if Jamison Wentworth Richmond will echo that sentiment.”

I’m out of the bin. My shirt is covered in some greasy slop that would sicken a pig. I take it off and toss it back into the bin. I only wore it twice. The front of my jeans resemble a sloppy car mechanic’s overalls after one too many lube jobs. The back has something yellow and brown running up the butt. I wish I could shuck the jeans too, but I’m way too modest.

“Tiffany, what are you doing here?”

She answers in a rap-like staccato. “Kinda Uncle Kenno’s SO’s been napped and Moomah’s shelling out a mil for the switch-er-roo.”

I stop wiping the pizza sauce off my camera’s lens. “Could you translate that into English for me?”

“Not now, we have to hurry.”

Tiffany heads out the alley towards the street and I have no choice but to follow. I must be upwind because she stops after a few paces. “You did drive, didn’t you? Because you in my car, right now, would not be the hot tip. No amount of new car aroma could ever cover you up, Mr. Sherlock.”

Tiffany drives a new Lexus 430. I drive an ancient Toyota Tercel.

“Where are we going?”

“Kenno’s condo.”

“Where?”

“Hurry.”

My Toyota has been locked up in the sun for the past two hours and is now hotter than a Thanksgiving oven. I am hit by a sauna blast as I open the door to spread a stack of yesterday’s newspapers on the front seat to protect the remaining faux leather upholstery not yet stained or split open, as if I could actually cause any more harm to a car that should have gone to the auto graveyard years ago when Toyota got smart and discontinued the model. I squish when I sit. The steering wheel is fresh, molten steel. Ouch! It takes me three tries to turn over the engine, and once it kicks over it sputters like a hacking chain-smoker. I’m sure there’s some engine part not working to full capacity, but why fix something when it’s not totally broken?

Tiffany honks her horn, beckoning me to be quick about it.

Tiffany is the daughter of aforementioned Mr. Richmond, the president and CEO of Richmond Insurance, my boss. She has been assigned to me as a protégé for two reasons: 1. to try to teach her some other useful life skill beyond speaking housekeeper Spanish and figuring out ways of accumulating the optimum amount of points on her numerous gold and platinum credit cards. And 2: to get her out of her daddy’s hair for as long as possible.

On the surface Tiffany is a vapid, spoiled-rotten, rich, self-centered, egotistical twenty-something who will never experience an “I can’t afford it” moment in her life. Down deep Tiffany is a vapid, spoiled-rotten, rich, self-centered, egotistical twenty-something — but with a good heart. I’ve found in life if you have one of those, all other frailties diminish. Plus, my kids think the world of her. I suspect they like her more than they like me.

Although made by the same company, my Toyota has a hard time keeping up with Tiffany’s Lexus. I’m surprised when the 430 pulls into a self-service car wash and parks in front of the middle bay. She’s out of her car and waiting as I pull up.

“What are we doing here?” I ask.

Tiffany ignores my question and asks her own, “Do you know how one of these things work?”

“They work with quarters, Tiffany.”

“I don’t do change,” she tells me. “Walking around jingling would diminish my aura.” She pulls out one of the many credit cards in her purse. “I wonder if it takes Neiman-Marcus.”

“I would doubt it.”

She removes the entire stack of credit cards from her DKNY wallet, fans them out like a hand of gin rummy, and picks a favorite. She is about to swipe it through the reader on the instruction panel. “You’re going to put a dollar, seventy-five on your credit card?” I ask.

“I’ll get credit for one and three-quarters of a mile,” Tiffany says and swipes an American Express Gold Card through the reader. “Stand over there, please.”

As the light goes on, Tiffany grabs the sprayer mechanism, depresses the trigger, and water shoots out. It hits me like a Selma, Alabama fire hose, but actually feels pretty good. I’m a kid again, playing in a sprouting fire hydrant.

“Pirouette, please,” Tiffany orders and I whirl my dervish.

As the spray turns soapy, I close my eyes, but I peek out to see my pants, undershirt, shoes and socks covered in thick, white foam. I could probably pass for a sudsy, Pillsbury Doughboy, if I were plump.

Before the spray returns to clean water, Tiffany reads the instructions. “Would you like to get jet-waxed?”

“Not today, thanks.”

“I got waxed on Tuesday,” Tiffany says. “But not like this.”

“Thank you for sharing.”

I spin around, as the sprayer rinses the soap and scum from my body and clothing. The sprayer shuts off with my feet sopping in soap. Tiffany returns it to its rightful place and comes to my side to take a whiff. “You’re not Chanel No. 5, but you’re much better than Eau de Dumpster.”

“Tiffany, you’ve destroyed my surveillance of an insurance cheat, plunged me into a trash dumpster exposing me to untold filth and pestilence, ruined my second best shirt, and soaped and sprayed me like a dirty Buick, would you please tell me what’s going on.”

“My kinda uncle’s significant other has been kidnapped and held for ransom.”

CHAPTER 2

By the time we get to a high-rise condo building on the Inner Drive, park our cars, check in with the doorman on duty, and head into the eighth floor I might be steam-cleaned, but hardly dripped-dry. It doesn’t help when we step out of the elevator and a waft of humidity attacks us like mustard gas.

“In my building the hallways are air-conditioned,” Tiffany informs me.

“Lucky you.”

“Humidity is your hair’s worst enemy.”

“Not male pattern baldness?”

“Not since they invented plugs.”

Tiffany heads straight for number 806 at the end of the hall, opens the door without knocking, and walks right in.

The fifty-something man and a much younger woman freeze as we enter. Tiffany dressed in a breezy, floral-print mini-dress, and me with my undershirt sticking to my skin must look like the professional and the first contestant that were voted off Dancing with the Stars.

“Say hello to Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany announces. “He’s here to crack the case.”

I smile. The two, Mr. Dumpy and his little dumpling, stare at me, as if I deserve to be on a leash. There’s a small suitcase on the dining room table where a suitcase doesn’t belong. I approach the couple and put out my hand to shake. “Richard Sherlock.”

“Get my wife back, please.” The man says, ignoring my outstretched hand. The words sound like a bad punch line to an even worse joke.

“Mr. Sherlock, meet Kennard Horsley,” Tiffany makes the introduction. “He’s my Kinda Uncle.”

“What’s a Kinda Uncle?” I ask.

“Uncle Kenno is my daddy’s half-brother from Moomah’s second marriage to Harry Horsley,” Tiffany informs me as the man slumps into a high-backed dining room chair that would fit nicely around King Arthur’s Round Table.

“What’s a Moomah?”

“Moomah is Daddy’s ma and my grand-mama.”

My shaking hand hangs in mid-air as if it’s a bare branch on the Richmond family tree, until Kennard gives it a shake and then wipes his hand on the back of his pants.

Kennard is pudgy with a couple of extra neck and belly fat folds. He wears a blue blazer, a purple silk shirt, and a pointed handkerchief in his breast pocket. He gives me a sniff before saying, “They said they were going to put her on a torture rack, and stretch her until she’s tall enough to play for the Bulls if they don’t get a million in cash.”

I should ask for the woman’s height before she was kidnapped. Instead I settle for “Who said that?”

“The kidnappers,” the pair blurt out as if insulted by someone asking an incredibly stupid question.

“When?”

“Last night.”

“They called you?”

“No. It was on my phone,” Kennard says.

“I thought you said they didn’t call you.”

“It was a text.”

“A text?” I ask.

“Sure it wasn’t a tweet, Uncle Kenno?”

“I know a tweet from a text, Tiffany.”

“What’s a tweet?” I ask.

“A tweet is kinda like a text, but on Twitter,” Tiffany explains.

“What’s a Twitter?”

“Twitter is where to text tweets,” Kennard explains.

I look around the room, and see no one else has a problem with the description except me. “I’m confused. The call from the kidnappers came as a tweeted text on Twitter?”

“It was a text on my Android!” Kennard yells.

“What’s an Android?”

“You have to excuse Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany interrupts. “He’s not very phone-tech savvy.”

“I thought you said you were bringing a detective over?” the thirty-something woman, who desperately attempts to look twenty-something, says.

“Mr. Sherlock is the best,” Tiffany tells her in no uncertain terms.

“He better be,” the woman says with a snarl on her lip worthy of Snidely Whiplash.

I turn to the woman and counter her snarl with a Crest Toothpaste commercial smile. “We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting,” I say.

“I’m Boo.”

“Boo who?” I can’t resist asking.

“Boo Horsley,” she snaps back. “Short for Bouvier.”

“Her mother had a Jackie Kennedy thing,” Kennard mumbles.

“Nice meeting you.”

Boo gives me a wave, as if she doesn’t do employees. “Kennard’s my father from his first marriage. Moomah’s my grandmother.”

“Boo’s my second kinda cousin,” Tiffany explains.

“So nice of you to be here for moral support,” I tell her.

“I wasn’t busy.”

“By the way,” I ask. “Has anyone called the police?”

Kennard’s head comes up from the table and out of his hands, “No.”

“Why not?”

“They said if I called the police they’d slice her up into tiny, bite-sized pieces and grind her up in the garbage disposal.”

“Was that in a tweet, text or Twittered to you?” I ask.

Tiffany silently counts on her fingers. “Nope. It couldn’t have been in a tweet,” she says. “You can only have 140 characters in a tweet.”

“It could have been in two tweets,” Boo says.

“Tweet, tweet?” I ask.

Kennard removes his carefully folded handkerchief and wipes the perspiration off his wrinkled brow. He re-folds the material not as well as it was folded before. Kennard will never be an Origami master. “You have to help me get back the love of my life.”

“Are you sure, Daddy?” Boo interrupts. “Because you said Mom was the love of your life, and also the wife after her. Plus, you can’t forget Moomah.”

“There’s no rule that says you can only have one love of your life,” Tiffany informs all.

Boo turns to Tiffany. “You probably have one every Friday night.”

“The only guy who wants to take you home is a cabdriver,” Tiffany disses back.

I suspect Tiffany and Boo have never been close.

I pull out one of the regal chairs and sit. This could take a while. “Could we go back to the beginning?”

Kennard sighs and clears some phlegm from his throat. “Schnooks was at Rose Nails on Lincoln…”

“Your wife’s name is Schnooks?”

“Nickname.”

I exert a slight, “Whew.”

“We usually go together for the mani-pedi, but I had a meeting at the yacht club. That’s why I think this could be an inside job.”

“An inside kidnapping?” I ask one of the million questions already on my list.

“They knew our Thursday morning M.O.”

“M.O.?” I ask. “Wouldn’t a mani-pedi be an M.P?”

“What kind of detective are you if you don’t know what a modus operandi is?” Boo interrupts.

“Let me guess, you watch a lot of Law and Order?”

“Do you want to hear what happened, or not?” Kennard interrupts the interruptions.

I really don’t, but I have to make a living. “Continue.”

“She told me she’d call while she was drying, but I didn’t hear from her.”

“What were you doing?”

“I was at the yacht club.”

“Yachting?”

“I was in a meeting.”

“On a yacht?”

“No, in the bar.”

“So you were meeting someone in the bar?”

“Yes.”

“Daddy has a drinking problem,” Boo fills in a salient fact.

“I do not.”

“I stand corrected, Daddy,” his daughter says. “You have no problem drinking.”

“How did Schnooks get to the nail salon?”

“A cab.”

“Are you sure?”

“How else would she get there?”

“Bus, subway?”

“Schnooks is allergic to public transportation.”

“What time did she leave?”

“Her appointment was at ten.”

“When you were already in your meeting?”

“And on his second Bloody Mary,” Boo says.

I try to get Kennard back on track. “What happened next?”

“I called her.”

“And…?”

“She didn’t answer.”

“Is that odd?”

“Yes. She always takes my calls. We’re in love.”

I pause to consider any holes in the story thus far. “If she’s getting a manicure and a pedicure how would she be able to hold the phone?”

“Good question, Mr. Sherlock.” Tiffany scores one for the detective.

Kennard’s voice rises. “You’re making jokes? My wife’s been kidnapped, being held against her will. They could be torturing her by pushing bamboo shoots under her fingernails.”

“That would certainly ruin a set of French Tips.” Tiffany has a way of putting everything into her own personal perspective.

“Now your wife,” I try to begin a new line of questioning, but I’m once again interrupted.

“They haven’t made it official.” Boo keeps the facts coming.

“Why not?”

“The fourth time is seldom the charm.” Boo completes the topic with her not-so-subtle opinion.

I revert back to my original list of questions. “What happened next?”

“I called three times, and she still doesn’t answer, so…”

“You had another Bloody Mary?” Once Boo gets on a roll, she stays on a roll.

“No.”

Evidently, Kennard didn’t stress a lot of parental respect during Boo’s upbringing.

“No, I called the nail salon’s main number.”

“And what did they say?”

“As close as I can figure, they said she walked out with wet nails.”

“And…?”

“Schnooks vanished into thin air.” Kennard flips his hands upward like a fisherman lying about the size of a fish and says, “Poof.”

“Poof,” I repeat. “And when did the kidnappers contact you?”

“Three hours later.”

I’m uncomfortable with what Kennard has told me, especially sitting in damp pants and boxer shorts glued to my skin. I stand and pace around the dining room, squishing the still-wet socks inside my shoes. I stop at the window which looks directly into the eighth floor of the newer high rise next door. I turn and notice the wheelie suitcase on the table.

“Going on a trip?” I ask, this being a day away from the Independence Day holiday.

“No,” Kennard says.

“Then what’s with the suitcase?”

“It’s the ransom money. Duh.”

CHAPTER 3

“I’m sitting less than ten feet from a million dollars?”

“Double duh,” Boo disses.

“It’s no big deal, Mr. Sherlock. A million dollars isn’t what it used to be,” Tiffany explains.

“It is if you’ve never had a million dollars.”

“A million will barely buy a walk-in closet in a penthouse in my neighborhood.” Tiffany finishes her thought.

I do not argue on my lack of knowledge of the upper-end real estate market. I move back to the table and place my hand on the suitcase. “Where’d you come up with a million in cash so quickly?”

“Moomah,” Kennard says.

I remember asking my mother for a dollar once — and not getting it.

“She keeps it in her safety deposit box,” Boo says.

“Must be an awfully big box.” I try to picture it in my head. “Does it slide out?”

“Moomah has more of a safety deposit section,” Tiffany exclaims.

I could fit all my assets in a #10 envelope and still have room for my passport, three birth certificates, and this month’s Smart Shopper Money Saver Coupon Mailer.

“When did you get the money?”

“This morning.”

“And you’re keeping it here, on the dining room table?”

“Where else am I going to keep it?” Kennard answers my question with a question, which I hate. “I’ve got to be ready when they call.” His cheeks have taken on a purplish glow which does little to improve his everyday reddish tint.

I have plenty of comments, but none would be well received in the current situation. “Have any of the texts or tweets given you any instructions?”

“Not yet.”

I look over at the suitcase. “Must be really heavy.”

“It is.”

“A cashier’s check would have been much easier,” Tiffany says.

“What are we going to do, Mr. Detective?” Boo asks in her inimitable, snarky tone.

“I’d like to call a friend of mine,” I tell her, which elicits an immediate breath-only guffaw.

“This is no time to be making other plans,” Tiffany informs me.

“No, it’s a guy who handles kidnappings.”

“Oh, great,” Boo says. “Let’s bring in a specialist.”

“May I borrow your phone?” I ask because I left mine in my car. I do that a lot.

Tiffany hands me her cell phone and I punch some numbers.

“You know your kidnapper friend’s number?” Kennard seems amazed.

“What’s so strange about that?”

“Nobody remembers phone numbers anymore,” Tiffany says. “We have iPhones instead.”

I wait as the phone rings, hoping my ex-compatriot has not taken an early exit for the holiday. He finally picks up. “Yeah, Oland here.”

“It’s Sherlock.”

There’s a slight pause for recognition before he says, “Call from Sherlock before holiday is omen for lousy holiday weekend.”

Lester Oland 6’2”, blonde hair and blue eyes, grew up the son of a Methodist Minister and a Jewish mother in Alton, Illinois. He attended Southern Illinois University on a wrestling scholarship, graduated with a degree in Asian Art History, and quickly realized his education made him unemployable. So, he did what any self-respecting guy in this situation would do. He became a Chicago cop. We both signed up about the same time. He got handed a kidnapping case early in his detective career and solved it, which allowed him to carve out a nice little niche for himself. Now when someone gets ’napped in Chicagoland, Oland gets the call.

By birthright he’s also a self-proclaimed expert on anything Charlie Chan. He’s read all the books and seen every movie so many times he recites the dialog ahead of the actors. All this because Lester Oland is the son of a man who claims to be the illegitimate son of Warner Oland the Swedish actor of the 1930’s who played the Asian detective in a number of the films. Due to his heritage and his self-taught education in the matter, there’s a lot of Charlie Chan in Lester Oland.

Oland arrives at Kennard’s condo in less than twenty minutes, bows as he enters, and takes off his shoes.

“I thought I told you no cops,” is Kennard’s first reaction to Oland’s badge.

“I don’t follow directions well,” I confess.

“He who doesn’t want help of police, has criminals in family,” Oland says.

“Why does it not surprise me that this guy is a buddy of yours?” Boo says.

Oland walks around the room, stops at the table, pats the suitcase as if it is the head of a small child, and says, “After bullshit talk, money usually walk.”

I get everyone to sit and force Kennard to go through the particulars again. Three of us are bored. Oland seems only half-bored.

“Do you have a picture of the victim?” Oland asks.

Kennard goes into the bedroom and returns with a small stack of photos which he spreads out on the dining room table as if he’s dealing over-sized playing cards. We all get to see Schnooks driving a go-kart, riding a pony, and standing next to the world’s largest ball of twine. The only good close-up of Schnooks is of her at Disneyland — if you ignore the Mickey Mouse ears.

Tiffany picks up the picture and gives it a long look. “That hat makes her look fat.”

“She is fat,” Boo responds.

“You’re not going to put one of those APB’s out on her, are you?” Kennard asks. “If the kidnappers find out, they’ll slice her up like sushi.”

“Don’t worry,” I tell him.

Oland asks Kennard, “How do you think the kidnappers got your cell phone number?”

“I don’t know,” Kennard says. “That’s why I suspect an inside job.”

I ask Oland, “Have you seen a lot of inside kidnappings over the years?”

“Not that I recall.” Oland turns to Kennard. “Do you have close friends or relatives that would want to hold your wife hostage?”

“I can assure you none of my family would want to spend any more time with Schnooks than is absolutely necessary.” Boo speaks as if she is auditioning for the job of “family spokesperson”, a roll which will be needed for the duration of the case.

“Even if she was tied up and gagged?”

“Schnooks would be obnoxious if she were in a coma.”

“You and Step-mom are not close?” Oland asks.

“Actually Schnooks is Boo’s Step-Significant Other,” Tiffany says.

“May I remind everyone that Schnooks’ life is at stake!” Kennard shouts out.

“Oh, yeah.” Boo somewhat agrees with her father.

“What we need is an action plan,” Tiffany says.

“We could put a tap on your phone,” I suggest.

“Tapping a cell phone takes forever,” Oland explains, being a bit on the negative side. “Easier just to listen in.”

“I thought there was some satellite in the sky that records every cell phone conversation on earth,” Tiffany says.

“Yes,” Oland says. “But like stars in sky, very difficult to find just one.”

“Should we canvass the area where she was picked up?” I ask.

“You can if you want,” Oland says. “But I doubt if it would do any good.”

“Know any snitches that could help?”

“Snitch in time, seldom save anything,” Oland says not helping my cause.

I try again. “How about putting her picture out city-wide?”

“The one with the mouse ears?” Tiffany asks. “Knowing everyone would see a picture of me as a rodent, I’d choose to stay kidnapped.”

“Call the F.B.I.,” Boo chimes in.

“Those guys are already home firing up their Smokey-Joes,” I tell her.

“Then what?” Boo asks.

Oland rises from the couch. “When there is little you can do, patience is best virtue.”

Kennard turns to me. “If we sit around and not do anything, Schnooks’ head will come back in a burlap sack.”

“Decapitation’s a Mexican drug cartel thing,” Oland explains. “It hasn’t really caught on here yet.”

“So, that’s good news.” I try to put a more positive spin on the situation.

“We have to do something,” Kennard pleads.

“Much to do. Little time to do it,” Oland says as he walks toward the front door. “One of you has to stay.” Oland faces the group as if waiting for volunteer hands to rise. It doesn’t happen.

Tiffany gives me an odd glance and whispers, “No can do. I got plans.”

“Boo, can you stick around?” I ask.

“Sorry, I have a hair appointment.”

“That leaves you, Sherlock,” Oland says, as if happy that he’s ruining my holiday, as well as I’ve ruined his.

“I can’t.”

“You have to,” Kennard says in a threatening tone. “Or, I’ll tell my half-brother and your ass will be out on the street.”

“If I don’t pick up my kids, my ex-wife will have my ass in a much worse place than the street.”

Everyone avoids eye contact with everyone else as if they were kids playing a dumb game.

“Tiffany, could you stay until I get back?”

Tiffany sighs like a bad actress. “If I have to.”

“Good.”

Oland and I leave together. We wait at the elevator. He’s not a happy guy.

“What do you think?”

Oland gives me a “Why couldn’t you wait until after the holiday to call me in?”

look.

I shrug back at him, as if to say “Hey, it wasn’t me who snatched Schnooks.”

Oland’s right hand rises to gently pinch the end of his chin, as if he were contemplating a Confucius saying. Then he moves slowly to the small hallway window, peers into the building next door, turns back to me, and says, “He who live on eighth floor of sixty-story high rise have crummy view of life.”

CHAPTER 4

“The car smells funny,” Care, my ten-year-old, says climbing into the back seat.

Her sister, Kelly, twelve, puts it more succinctly. “Gross.”

I tell them, “Your father had an unfortunate incident in a dumpster today.”

“Somebody else throw you out?” Kelly asks.

“No, Tiffany threw me in.”

“Dad, you should really rethink the way you deal with women,” Kelly says. She’s made herself my self-appointed life coach.

“Okay, I’ll start with you.” I turn around and notice something’s missing. “Where are your suitcases?”

“Mom said we didn’t need them.”

“You’re coming for almost two weeks. What are you going to wear?”

“Mom said that was your responsibility,” Care says.

My ex-wife strikes again. She knows full well the girls have a very limited wardrobe at my apartment, hardly enough to get them through their court-allotted summer vacation time with Daddy.

“We want to go to Water Tower Place to shop,” Kelly says. “With Tiffany.”

“How about Wal-Mart with Daddy?”

“No way.”

I pull out of the driveway of what used to be my house.

“What are we going to do on our vacation, Dad?” Care asks.

“Yeah,” Kelly says. “Are we going on a trip?”

“To Disneyworld?” Care adds.

“We don’t want to get bored.”

“Let me tell you, girls. In life, you make your own good time.”

“Fine,” Care says. “Take us to Disneyworld.”

“How about Kiddieland?” It’s a tacky amusement park that’s located west of Chicago in Melrose Park. The perfect spot for three to five-year-old kids with cheap parents.

“It went broke years ago, Dad,” Kelly informs me.

“It did?” I don’t keep up with amusement park news.

“Mom takes us to Six Flags,” Care says.

“How about a swing set at the park?”

“Totally boring,” Kelly responds.

“You are going to take us to the fireworks?” Care asks.

“Fireworks I can do.”

“Because they’re free,” Kelly says.

“No, because they’re fun, as well as an excellent bonding experience for my daughters and me.”

“Yeah, right Dad.” Kelly has her father figured out and is, unfortunately, instructing Care how to do likewise.

Afternoon traffic is horrible as we putt-putt to my apartment.

“Here’s what we have to do,” I tell my pair, stopping the Toyota in front of my building. “Go in and get your toothbrushes, pajamas, and clean underwear.”

“Why?”

“Because you should always start the day in clean underwear.”

“Where are we going?” Care asks.

“Family sleepover.”

“Sounds gay, Dad.”

“It’s going to be fun.”

“Promise?” Care wants assurances.

“No.”

By the time the kids pack up and we’re on our way downtown to Kennard’s condo, it’s well past dinnertime.

“Are you going to tell us what’s going on?” Kelly asks as we exit Lakeshore Drive at North Avenue.

I answer as vaguely as possible. “Let’s just say crime never takes a vacation.”

“What kind of crime?” Care asks.

“Murder?” Kelly tacks on.

“No.”

“Robbery?”

“No.”

“Drug deal gone bad?”

“You kids watch too much TV.”

We pull into the underground garage of Kennard’s high- rise condo building. “Well, Dad, are you going to tell us or not?” Care asks.

“Kidnapping.”

“Oh, wow! I didn’t know you did kidnappings,” Care says.

“Unfortunately, I don’t have a choice.”

“Kidnapping’s not bad,” Kelly says. “I like kidnapping.”

What kind of children am I raising?

There are five levels of parking at Kennard’s condo, but only three spots designated Visitor. To have just three Visitor spots for sixty floors of condos seems a bit pointless to me. We park, check in, and make our way upward.

“This is better than your place, Dad,” Kelly says stepping out onto the eighth floor.

“That isn’t saying much,” I tell her as we proceed down the hallway.

Inside Kennard’s unit, Tiffany greets the girls with open arms. “Hey, little dudettes.”

“Is this like your place, Tiffany?” Care immediately asks.

“Oh, no, mine is much higher, and bigger, and has panoramic views.”

“That’s what I would have thought,” Kelly says.

“Anybody call, text, e-mail, whatever?” I ask Tiffany.

“That’s good, Mr. Sherlock. You’re learning.”

“Nothing,” Kennard says from the couch, where he lays with a compress across his forehead. “Not a peep.”

“Or, a tweet,” Tiffany adds.

“Kennard, these are my kids, Kelly and Care.” I pull the girls toward him. “Say hello to Mr. Horsley, girls.”

“Mr. Horsley,” Care asks. “Do you have a horse?” Care’s working on name recognition.

“No.” Kennard pulls the cloth away from one eye. “But my ex-wife did.”

“What’s her name?”

“Shoo-be-doo.”

“That’s a great name for a horse,” Care says.

“No,” Tiffany says. “Shoo-be-doo was his ex-wife.”

“Oh.”

“That’s what I used to call her,” Kennard says.

“What’s the horse’s name?” Care won’t give it up.

“I forget,” Kennard says, re-covering his one eye.

Before Care has a chance to ask, “Why did you name the horse ‘I Forget’,” the landline phone rings.

Everyone in the room freezes. I take out a small tape recorder, retrieved at my apartment, push the Record button; and place it close to where I will speak. Kennard comes off the couch like a rhino getting up after a nap. Tiffany moves closer to me. I put my finger to my lips for a silent “Shhhhhh,” and answer the phone on its third ring.

“Hello.” I listen as everyone in the room waits with bated breath. “Okay, send him up.”

Kennard rushes to me as I hang up the telephone. “The kidnapper, he’s coming up here?”

“Not unless he also delivers pizzas.”

When the kid from Uno’s Pizza, knocks on the door I look in my wallet and see emptiness. “Kennard?”

“Don’t look at me,” he says.

“We could borrow it from the million dollars in the suitcase?” I suggest.

“No,” Kennard says. “If we come up short, the kidnappers will be back for more.”

Tiffany reaches inside her Coach purse, which is probably worth more than my car, and pulls out a wad of bills. “I got it,” she says.

Tiffany tips the kid well and places the pizza on the kitchen’s laminate countertop. Kennard is first in line for a slice. He might be in the throes of anxiety over Schnook’s disappearance, but his appetite hasn’t been affected in the least. I shovel up slices for Kelly and Care and deposit the kids in front of the TV in the adjacent den. “Don’t watch anything where people aren’t wearing any clothes,” I tell them.

“Can we do pay-per-view?”

“No.”

“Gee, Dad,” Kelly says. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m a Dad. I’m not supposed to be fun.”

I return to the front room, where Kennard is devouring his third slice.

I serve myself. Uno’s is the best pizza on the planet. They’ve perfected a cornbread crust for a deep-dish pizza that makes life worthwhile. I notice Tiffany cutting out the veggies in her pizza like a surgeon removing colon polyps. “Tiffany, you’re missing the best part.”

“When it comes to crusts it’s a minute in your mouth, an hour in your stomach, and a lifetime on your hips.”

The three of us eat. I can hear one of those Hollywood gossip TV shows coming from the adjacent room.

“What happens if they don’t call?” Kennard asks as he chomps away, leaving dangling strands of cheese hanging from his chin.

“They will,” I answer.

“It’s standard kidnap procedure for the kidnappers to do the calling, Uncle Kenno,” Tiffany says. “Kinda like a first date thing with a guy.”

Kennard becomes a bit animated. “What if they’re softening her up?” Kennard says. “What if Schnooks is chained to a wall in an underground dungeon, undergoing some horrific torture, forced to do unmentionable acts of depravity?”

Tiffany somehow sees a silver lining in Kennard’s rain cloud. “That would be good because then we could narrow the suspects down to only known, kinky kidnappers.”

To calm Kennard down, I ask, “Are you sure no one at the nail spa saw anything strange when Schnooks left the place?”

“That’s what I think they said,” Kennard snaps back. “You go down there and see if you can make sense of that crowd. They all speak like they’re still in Mongolia.”

“By the way, how long does it take to get a mani-pedi?” I ask.

“It depends.”

“ FYI,” Tiffany says. “French Tips take a lot longer than just a buff and polish job.”

“How can I be so stupid?”

“You have so much to learn.”

“What was she wearing?” I continue.

“I don’t remember,” Kennard answers.

“Any phone calls that morning?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Anything odd happen in the few days before?”

“I don’t remember.”

Since I have an amnesia sufferer for a client I quit asking questions.

“I have to get going,” Tiffany says, leaving her half-eaten slice on the counter for someone else to clean up. Ingrained habit, no doubt. “Start of a big party weekend tonight.”

“Should I call if something happens?” I ask.

“Only if it’s a big break in the case or a twist that needs my deductive powers of reasoning.”

“How about if I leave you a voice-mail?”

“No, text me,” Tiffany says. “Nobody uses voice-mail anymore.”

“I don’t text, Tiffany.”

“Gonna have to start sometime,” Tiffany says, as she packs up to go. “Remember, the longest text message starts with the first letter.”

Tiffany exits after saying ciao to the girls. Kennard settles on the couch to nap and digest. Care and Kelly watch TV. I wander around the condo.

Amazing what you can learn snooping around someone’s home.

Kennard and Schnooks don’t have much sex. On one nightstand is a stack of self-help books. On the other a TV remote control. They have a bed with a lumpy mattress that sags horribly in the middle, but I doubt if this is from too much spooning. Each has a drawer in the chest of drawers for underwear. His has boxers. Hers, granny-panties. There are other drawers for his wool pajamas and her flannel nightgowns. On the small bedside nightstands, there are no candles, creams, oils, or lubricants. And no vial of Viagra.

“Whatcha doing, Dad?” Kelly startles me.

“Why aren’t you watching TV with your sister?”

“I can only watch so much Nickelodeon,” Kelly says as she comes to me. “So, what are you doing?”

“Detecting a lifestyle.”

“Can I help?”

“Sure.”

She follows me into the walk-in closet and stops when I stop. “Look around, what can you tell me about these people?”

Kelly glances at the full shelves, drawers, shoe racks, and the clothes on hangers. “That they’re not very stylish?”

“That I probably wouldn’t know,” I admit. “Look, this closet can tell you a lot about the couple sharing it.”

“Really?” Kelly takes another long gander.

“Think.”

She spins all the way around until she faces me again, “Give me a hint.”

“Don’t you think it’s odd that he uses triple the closet space as her?” I physically compare the space his clothes have to hers. “Look at the shoe difference. What does that tell you?”

“He has a foot fetish?”

I’m shocked. “What do you know about a foot fetish, Kelly?”

“Dad, that’s why the Internet was invented.”

“Leave the Internet alone.”

“I couldn’t live without the Internet.”

Kids these days.

I open a smaller drawer. “What does this tell you?”

Kelly sees a pile of jewelry. “She doesn’t take good care of her jewelry?”

“No.”

The drawer is filled with costume junk, tacky at best.

“It’s ugly?”

“Good.”

“Cheap?”

“Better. What else? Something much more important.”

Kelly tries, “I don’t know.”

“Try some on.”

Kelly pulls out a ring, a watch, and a gold chain, circa 1970 disco era. “It doesn’t fit me.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s ugly.”

“No,” I tell her. “Because it’s his and not hers.”

“That’s what I was going to say next.”

“Now, what else don’t you see?”

I give her a few seconds. She gets another “I have no clue” look on her face.

“I give up.”

“She only has one kind of clothing.”

“I said she wasn’t stylish.”

“But what does one kind of clothing tell you?”

“She doesn’t know how to shop?”

“No. It tells you, the rest of her clothes must be somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“I would guess her place.”

I make Kelly put the jewelry back in the drawer. “There’s something else missing in this closet. What?”

“Dad, this is hard.” Kelly adds a shoulder shrug and a forced sigh to make her point.

“There’s no plastic.”

“Credit cards?”

I’m ashamed of my daughter’s word association. “No, there’s no plastic wrapping around clothing.”

She still doesn’t get it.

“When dry cleaning is returned, it comes covered by thin plastic. This closet has none which tells me they’re either slobs or they can’t afford it.”

“Dad,” Kelly argues. “They live in a lakefront condo.”

“On the eighth floor.”

“That’s seven higher than you, Dad.”

Kelly has a point.

“Always remember, Kelly,” I tell her, “what may be on the surface is seldom reality.”

“Oh Dad, please don’t start with the life lessons.”

Bestowing wisdom upon your children is a difficult and thankless task.

Kelly follows me into the bathroom. “What does this room tell you?” I point to the blackened grout in the shower corners, the watermarks on the chrome, and the loose hairs decorating the floor tile.

“Mom’s house before we got a cleaning lady?”

“Your mother can afford a cleaning lady?”

“Yes.”

Kelly prowls around the small room. “I can’t think in a bathroom.”

“Your mother can afford a cleaning lady when she doesn’t have a job?”

“She said she had to be ready if a big offer came in and she had to report to work right away.”

Maybe I should be pleased their mother is teaching them to plan ahead.

We move into the master bedroom. The wood furniture surfaces are layered with dust, although some spots stand out, as if something was sitting there, but was recently removed. The vacuum has not reached all the way to the corners. I take a deep, exaggerated breath, “What does it smell like?”

“It doesn’t smell as bad as your car.”

“It’s musty.”

“So?”

“So, think.”

Kelly contemplates the evidence for a minute before giving me her final answer. “Mr. Horsley’s cleaning lady is very bad at her job.”

“Or?”

“They don’t have a cleaning lady?”

“Bravo, my daughter. Bravo.”

“I’m right?”

“Close enough.”

We make our way back to the den.

“Mr. Horsley snores,” Care informs us.

We stop to listen to a never-ending series of nasal eruptions, equal to those of Mt. St. Helens. Nothing we can do about that.

I find a deck of cards and the three of us play gin rummy for the next two hours. I win by thirty points.

The girls don’t argue when I tell them it is time for nighty-night. They use the dirty bathroom, while I fold down the guest room bed, which hasn’t been used in some time. I wonder about the sheets. I kiss the girls each “good night” as I tuck them in. “Love ya,” I say as I close the door behind me.

I quietly creep into the front room, check to see that Kennard is truly out cold and make my way to the suitcase. I hesitate and make a wish. Sitting before me represents past due balances, a house, two college educations, a new car, and saying “I quit” to Mr. Richmond. I place my fingers on the zipper and discover the suitcase is locked up tight. Here I sit so close to my financial brass ring of life and unable to grab. The story of my life.

To avoid being driven crazy by Kennard’s buzz saw snoring, I continue my detecting of the life lived in this file cabinet condo.

For being a trust fund baby, Kennard certainly doesn’t have much to show for it. No original artwork on the walls, no china in a cabinet, no silver service for twelve in a wooden case. He’s down to nine wine glasses. The bar is stocked with Popov, not some fancy imported brand. The carpets have stains to last for eternity, the furniture is tired, and the couch sags from too many naps, similar to the one Kennard’s presently taking.

There’s is a roll-top desk in the den, which I open and find a closed laptop. I pop up its lid and the screen illuminates. I play with the mouse until the Welcome wallpaper comes up and asks me for a password. I try “Schnooks, 12345”, and “Moomah”. All with the same result. I wish I knew Kennard’s date of birth. I give up on breaking in. A hacker I’ll never be.

I close the laptop and open a drawer. There’s a stack of bills, house stuff mostly. Gas, electric, cable TV. The only one more than thirty days past due is the condo association dues. $867.17. His checkbook has a balance of $1,513.87. Not much, but healthier than mine. I find no statements for investments in stocks, bonds, or savings accounts. Way, way back of the file drawer are two well-worn, dog-eared, porno magazines. Kennard is a breast man.

The landline phone rings. Kennard almost levitates off the couch.

“Don’t pick it up yet,” I order as I retrieve my hand-held tape recorder.

Kennard faces the phone and waits for it to ring a second time.

I depress the Record button, pick up the phone, and hold it between Kennard’s ear and the recording device.

“Hello,” Kennard says.

A voice speaks.

Then Kennard, “It’s for you.”

“Hello,” I say putting the receiver to my ear.

“Oland here.”

“Where are you?”

“Dinner and a movie make good couple.”

“Are you coming over here?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Boredom seldom need partner.”

“Gee thanks.”

“The phones are tapped, her picture’s distributed, and we went over the condo security camera tapes for the morning she left. I got my squad on alert. As soon as the call comes in we’re ready to roll.”

“Can’t wait.”

“Must wrap up case quicker than Chinese takeout. Pot stickers already made for July Fourth barbeque.”

I hang up the phone.

Kennard asks, “What did he say?”

“The egg rolls are ready for the steamer. All he’s waiting for is the customer to call.”

“Leaves quite a bit on the reassurance table.” Kennard says. “I’m going to bed. This kidnapping thing is exhausting.”

Kennard is probably tired from all the napping he’s done.

“Leave your cell phone,” I tell him.

He pulls it out of his coat pocket and hands it to me. It’s similar to Tiffany’s. I have no clue how it works and wonder why it doesn’t light up when I press the buttons at random.

I should really sit down and learn the ins and outs of a cell phone, but I’m afraid as soon as I do some genius will come up with a better device and render the cell phone obsolete. I’d be back in the same boat.

CHAPTER 5

The sun comes up over Lake Michigan and generates enough solar energy into the condo’s front room to power Las Vegas for a week.

I roll off the lumpy couch, my back tells me I should have slept on the floor. How Kennard can nap so well on a surface with more hills than Rome is beyond me. I hobble to the window and press my back against the warm pane to allow the heat to penetrate into my lumbar region. Next, I drop to my hands and knees, do a series of yoga cat cows, and finish with three down dogs, three upper back bends, and a forward fold. In the shower, I get the water as hot as I can stand it and let it attack my lower back with its own fury. The good news is that I can move much better. The bad news is I’ll need a skin graft for my fried epidermis.

I get dressed; then head straight for the kitchen where I load up Mr. Coffee, and hit Brew.

“What’s for breakfast, Dad?” Care asks, wiping the sleep out of her eyes.

“What do you want?”

“Donuts.”

“Care, donuts are bad for you.”

“Even the hole?”

“That’s the worst part. How about oatmeal?”

“I hate oatmeal. Pop Tarts?”

“Granola?”

“Goldfish?”

“Eggs Benedict on homemade muffins, with a side of fresh fruit?”

“How about a Fruit Roll-up?”

We’re talking menu items which may not exist in this kitchen. “Help me look.”

Like a lucky prospector, the first cabinet Care opens reveals a cornucopia of sugar-saturated junk food: Applejacks, Frosted Flakes, Sugar Smacks, Trix, Kit-Kats, Hostess Twinkies, and HoHo’s. Kennard and Schnooks must be on a special high fructose corn syrup diet.

“We’ll have toast.” I make the decision for the both of us.

Kelly joins us ten minutes later.

“You’re still half-asleep,” I tell her.

“More like three-quarters, Dad.”

A very faint, odd, buzzing sound perks her ears like a dog hearing an intruder. Kelly gets up, leaves the room. She returns carrying Kennard’s cell phone. “Somebody’s leaving a text,” she says as she hands the phone to me.

I look at the phone. “How do I get it out?”

Kelly grabs the phone back. “Dad, you are so lame.” She runs her thumb along the touchpad a few times, waits, and reads the message out loud. “If you want to see her alive, bring the money to the pay phone in front of the Grant Park Tennis Courts at nine p.m. Alone.” Kelly hands me the phone. “Is there anything for breakfast?”

I reread the message on the small screen, then answer. “Toast.”

“I hate toast.”

“How can anybody hate toast?”

“Have oatmeal,” Care suggests.

“I hate oatmeal more than I hate toast.”

“You’re having toast.” I make the second major decision of the day.

Oland arrives twenty minutes later, wearing a Hawaiian shirt festooned with bright orchids, a pair of shorts with the pockets on the sides, and green flip-flops.

“Casual day?” I ask.

“Important to see, not be seen,” Oland schools us.

“Ah, your Honolulu tourist outfit,” I tell him. “Good cover.”

We awaken Kennard around nine-thirty. He reads the message, walks into the kitchen, and devours a huge bowl of Fruit Loops. He reminds me of my ex-in-laws. They were all good sleepers — with excellent appetites.

“What are we going to do? What’s the plan?” He asks, after slurping the remaining milk from his bowl.

“So much to do, so little time,” Oland tells him.

_____

Tiffany is already in the chair with her feet soaking in some oily water when we arrive. She has reserved the three closest chairs around her for our use. Care and Kelly waste no time taking off their shoes and climbing into chairs lined up on a three-foot riser.

Luckily, the Rose Nail Salon isn’t busy. There’s only one other customer soaking her toes. There are twelve chairs in total, two of which are labeled Happy Finger Massager. I would think it would be difficult to have your nails painted while vibrating.

“This is so cool,” Care says.

Small Asian women sit at the girls’ feet and chatter away in a foreign tongue, I don’t, and never will, recognize.

“Here’s a chair for you too, Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany says, patting the armrest.

“I’ll pass.”

I personally believe people should clip his or her own toenails. Some necessary functions of life should not be left to the hands of others.

“Climb up,” Tiffany says beckoning me into the chair. “A pedicure will do wonders for your feet as well as your disposition. I really think you should consider making it a part of your weekly routine.”

I stand in the middle of the room. The chemical odor starts to make me dizzy. “Thank you so much for your suggestion, Tiffany. I’ll see if I can fit my mani-pedi in between my visits to the unemployment line and the food stamp office.”

“Dad, I’m going to need new sandals after this,” Kelly informs me.

“Me, too,” Care joins in.

“Excuse me,” I say to the Asian toenail specialist. “Do you know Eldora and Kennard Horsley?”

“Schnooks?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Not the answer I expected.

“Talk to boss,” she adds.

“They’re not like hair stylists. They know their place,” Tiffany informs me. I have evidently violated the nail salon rules of proper etiquette. Shame on me.

Another Asian woman, maybe four-foot-nine and eighty pounds dripping wet, comes over. She might be petite, but her presence sends fear into the workers eyes. “How you?”

“Fine, thanks. Do you remember Eldora or Schnooks Horsley being here yesterday?” I ask.

“Ruby Slipper Red.”

“That’s a yes.” Tiffany says. She prides herself in being able to translate any housekeeper or subservient worker’s tongue.

“Did anything seem different or strange while she was here?”

“Schnooks strange.”

I’m not sure if this is an answer or a question.

Tiffany helps out, “That’s a yes.”

“Was it strange when she left?”

“First card reject, second one too, third time charm.”

She might not be grammatically fluent in American English, but she has no trouble with our monetary system. “Do you remember seeing her get into a cab after she left?”

“No.”

“No, you didn’t see her, or no cab?”

“No, no.”

“That’s a ‘No, no’, Mr. Sherlock.” Tiffany chuckles at her own cleverness.

From an investigative standpoint, this sojourn so far is a waste of time and effort. My girls on the other hand (no pun intended), are having a wonderful experience. They especially like the spacers put in between their toes to insure proper drying of the Purple Passion Pastel on Care and the Hot Chick Pink on Kelly.

While the three females finish luxuriating in the comfy chairs, I go out onto Lincoln and walk south towards Fullerton. The closest cab stand is half-way down the block, in front of a Mexican restaurant; it’s empty. The street is busy even though the better restaurants and bars are not yet open for business. A door-to-door canvas would be total waste of time. I return to collect the three mani-pedi’d females.

“Dad, can we go shopping now?” Kelly asks.

“Only if there’s a ninety-nine cent store close by.”

“I wonder if they have price checks at a ninety-nine cent store?” Tiffany muses.

_____

Our next stop is the tennis facility in Grant Park.

It’s the worst day imaginable to visit. Not only is the Taste of Chicago, the city’s annual tribute to gluttony and overpriced small portions of food in full swing, it’s July third, the night of the Grant Park Fireworks Spectacular. Chicago either couldn’t read a calendar or just wanted to be different, so they decided to do their fireworks the night before everybody else. Maybe the politicians took bribes to “look the other way” when they first scheduled the event.

Tiffany parks her Lexus 430 in a handicapped spot, pulls a “gimp sticker” out of her glove compartment, and hangs it on the rear view mirror.

“When did you become handicapped, Tiffany?” I ask.

“My doctor got it for me when I had an in-grown toenail, but don’t tell anyone. I don’t want to let anyone know I’m not perfect.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

The one public pay phone, a gadget soon to become an urban relic, is located outside the building which is used for community programs and as an office for tennis court rentals. I pick up the receiver, put two quarters in the slot and dial. Some Lady Gaga song erupts out of Kelly’s pocket.

“Hello.”

I’m two feet away, staring right at her. “It’s Daddy, just called to say hello.”

“Very funny, Dad,” Kelly says and breaks the connection.

“You people go wander around,” I tell my troop.

“What are you going to do?” Tiffany asks, afraid she might miss something.

I memorize the pay phone’s number before answering her. “I’m going to wander around with a wandering eye.”

“I’ve seen you do that,” Tiffany says. “And it’s boring. Come on girls.”

Tiffany leads them in the direction of food and frolic, as I survey the scene.

I immediately conclude the ransom money will not be exchanged at this spot. Too congested with no hope of a quick getaway. This will merely be the starting place of a game of Ransom-a-go-go. There are high-rise balconies, rising eighty stories to the north of me. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m being watched right now. There’s also a stairway access to the underground street and parking area and a walkway to the boat docks at the end of the marina. Maybe we should equip Kennard with lanterns. One if by land, two if by sea.

I walk the entire perimeter, making notes in my head, and mapping out the possible exit scenarios. With a million people in Grant Park tonight, it’ll be next to impossible to keep Kennard in sight at all times. I’d have him wired with enough electrodes to enliven Frankenstein.

An hour later Tiffany returns with my girls, both of them eating corn dogs.

“Tiffany, I don’t want them to eat that junk,” I scold my so-called assistant. “If anyone, I would have thought you’d know better.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Sherlock. I’ve only learned to say ‘no’ to men.”

“These are great, Dad,” Care tells me. “You should try one.”

“Come on, we’re leaving.”

“Where are we going?”

“What difference does it make? You’re not going to like it anyway.”

_____

There’s more screaming going on inside Kennard’s condo than at one of those boy band concerts I won’t let my daughters attend.

“What do you mean she let you take the money?”

“That’s not your money. That’s our money.”

“You’re not even married to the woman.”

Kennard has a stack of mug shots in front of him, but he’s too busy fending off the verbal assaults to pick out anyone who might ring a bell. “What am I supposed to do? Leave her, and let the kidnappers water board her?” Kennard shouts back at the group huddled around him.

“Schnooks could use a good flushing.”

“We should wait until we get a body part. Isn’t that standard procedure?”

“I think we should see proof of real suffering before we fork over a million bucks.”

You can’t tell the players without a scorecard. “Stop!” I bellow out over the din of questions. “Who are you people?”

“Welcome to my kinda family,” Tiffany says.

It takes a while for the proper introductions to be made, but the group consists of: Boo, sporting a new flip-curl style that does wonders for her face; Safari Horsley, Kennard’s older brother; Elmhurst Cavendish, son by Moomah’s third or fourth husband (depends on who you ask), and Kennard’s youngest half-brother; and Venus Wickwire, the baby, half-sister of the family. The only genetic aspect they share is excellent lung capacity.

“If it was your wife, you’d want to ransom her.” Kennard throws this out to the group as a whole. I hope the women are not offended.

“If it was my ex-wife, I’d pay them to keep her,” Safari tells the group.

“I want to know how you got the money,” Elmhurst, the calmest of the rabble rousers, asks.

“I got it from Moomah.”

“Moomah is in no condition to shell out any cash.”

“It’s the only way to get Schnooks back safe and sound,” Kennard explains.

“We could send in the cavalry for less money!” Safari shouts.

“Moomah wanted me to have it!” Kennard shouts back.

“Explain exactly how she put it,” Venus says.

“She said she had, quote ‘every intention of granting my request.’”

“I don’t think that’s what she meant,” Safari says.

“She was speaking metaphorically.”

“I don’t remember Moomah using metaphors when she was sane,” Venus says.

Kennard is starting to weaken. The family onslaught is taking its toll. He lifts his muffin top and loosens his belt a few notches. He sighs before defending his position. “She would’ve done the same for you, Venus.”

“So, you scooped up the cash and walked out of the vault like John Dillinger?” Elmhurst asks.

“No.”

Venus rephrases her prior query. “You brought a suitcase into the bank, swooped up the money, and carried it out?”

“So to speak,” Kennard answers.

“I’m going to have a long talk with that lady at the bank,” Elmhurst says.

While all this is going on, Tiffany, Kelly, Care, and I stand to the side and watch the performance, as if it were a play with very bad actors. I ask Tiffany, “The bank would let Kennard withdraw a million dollars from his mother’s account?”

“It wasn’t in her account.”

“Where was it, the Preferred Customer ATM machine with the million dollar limit?”

“It was in her safe deposit box,” Elmhurst says.

“A million dollars in cash?”

“It’s Moomah’s mad money,” Tiffany explains.

And I have a hard time paying my rent most months. “Does your dad know about this?”

“Why do you think you’re here, Mr. Sherlock?”

All this time Oland and his crew do an excellent job ignoring the verbal idiocy. The three of them sit at the table preparing for the swap. There must be a couple hundred bound stacks of fifty-dollar bills. One guy marks bills. Another guy counts and Oland arranges them on the table like little soldiers in a row.

I don’t know why they even bother marking the bills. This never works because there are millions of notes in circulation. How many bank tellers have ever checked a serial number on a bill? Answer: None.

One of the techs fits a bug the size of a dime outside the suitcase, right between the metal of the case and the plastic plate holding the wheels in place. When the case is filled with the ransom money it will be one piece of luggage you’d never check at the gate.

Another tech places a bug in the heel of Kennard’s shoe. A wire is prepared to be strapped against Kennard’s body.

Safari, who sports a Panama hat with a leopard trim, announces, “The money’s coming out of your share of the estate, Kennard. If you would have asked us to vote on the expenditure it might be different, but since you didn’t, you lose.”

“How about if we vote now?” Kennard asks.

“Fine,” Safari says. “All in favor of spending a million dollars of Moomah’s money to ransom Kennard’s idiot girlfriend, Schnooks, raise your hand.”

It’s unanimous. The nays have it.

Kennard looks around the room, his eyes ending up on his daughter. “You’re not even voting for me?”

“I’ve never been real wild about Schnooks, Daddy,” Boo confesses.

Oland and I discuss the schematic of the Grant Park area. He’s marked the map with red dots on the spots his people will be stationed. One of his men gives me a not-so-happy stare. Oland says to me. “Many people not thrilled having to work on holiday.”

“You think I want to be here?”

I remind him of the underground routes and the path to the lake. He moves the red dots around on his map. Oland is positive the switch will be made in the crowd, and he positions his men on the west, south, and north sides of the tennis facility. I silently disagree, but since I know no one will listen to me, I don’t waste my breath.

There are a number of empty take-out containers resting on the counter in the kitchen. Cops not only eat well while on assignment, but also eat heartily. The family has scarfed up everything, so not a morsel of food is left for my consumption. I consider the breakfast selection in the cupboard, but decide starvation is a slower death than sugar overload.

At around five-thirty, the family members are exhausted from screaming and start in on Kennard’s liquor supply. Everyone pours their own, except Venus.

Kennard is escorted to the end of the dining room table where one of the techs pulls out some leads, some wire, and a roll of duct tape from his bag. “Take off your shirt,” he tells Kennard.

“Do I have to?”

“If you want, I can hide it in your pants, but I personally wouldn’t want this tape coming off my family jewels,” the cop tells him.

Kennard slowly unbuttons his shirt and removes it. I, and the rest of the assembled, take a quick glance and see the effects of Kennard’s diet. It isn’t pretty.

Time to go. I signal my troops to follow me into the hallway where Oland is waiting.

“What do you think, Oland?”

“The way to find hungry bunny is to put out carrot and watch.”

“You think it’s all a little screwy?”

“My money would never find its way into that case.”

“Why not?”

“Phony money work just as well as real money.”

“Then why are you using the real thing?”

“I try to talk him out of it, but Mr. Kennard insisted.”

“What would you do?”

“Wait for body part,” Oland admits.

“Really?”

“A toe would be nice,” Oland says. “Especially after a pedicure.”

CHAPTER 6

The unmarked police van, which looks exactly like a police van with no markings and will fool absolutely no one, is parked at the base of the stairway on the underground street. Oland is inside sitting before four TV monitors, wearing a headset with a microphone that connects him to everyone in the field. Everyone except me.

I look upward about twenty stories and pick out a guy on the condo balcony using a high powered set of binoculars. He’s supposed to be tracking Kennard, but I sense he’s scoping out the hot girls below him, of which there are many in the enormous crowd. There are so many tarps and blankets spread out on the ground that it’s hard to see any grass at all.

The pedestrian paths are a sea of moving people. Some walking, some walking bicycles, some pulling fully loaded, little red wagons, and others rollerblading at a snail’s pace. There are hawkers selling glow-in-the-dark plastic necklaces for two dollars, which will be one dollar by the end of the night. Standing on the small hill, I see an ocean of people stretching for a half-mile around the harbor. A million bodies may be too low an estimate.

I have deposited Tiffany, Kelly, and Care on a blanket about forty feet down from where I stand. I would feel a lot better if all three were tethered by chains to a mature tree, but no such luck.

It’s a few minutes before nine. The park lights go off. Anyone standing somehow finds a seat. The walkways suddenly clear. Everyone quiets in anticipation and looks to the sky.

The symphony orchestra in the band shell begins playing Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. The first volley of fireworks erupts as the orchestra hits the cannon fodder notes. The crowd responds in kind with the first of many “ohhs” and “ahhs.”

I move left a few feet to see Kennard pulling the wheelie suitcase along the walkway. He resembles a misguided tourist in search of a cheap hotel. He lumbers past the tennis office to the open pay phone and waits, watching the sky over the lake burst into a pyrotechnic display of phenomenal color and light. The lights, the sounds, and the dazzling swirls of gun powder exploding in mid-air are truly awe inspiring. Unfortunately, I am the only one in the crowd looking the other way.

Fifteen minutes in, with Anchors Aweigh finishing up the military tribute, I see Kennard bend over, and get down on his hands and knees. He reaches around the base of the phone stand and removes a cell phone from behind it. He straightens up, holds the cell phone to his ear, and waits. His lips don’t move. After a moment he lowers the cell phone, looks around, and does an entire three-sixty. He tosses the cell phone in a trash can. This is not good. Next, Kennard untucks his shirt, reaches underneath, and strips the wire and duct tape off his body. He winces in pain.

Just as the massive, final fireworks extravaganza erupts in the sky, lighting up not only the lakefront, but the entire downtown area, Kennard deposits his tracking device into another overflowing trash can, and wheels the suitcase down the path towards the lake. The minute he clears the tennis building, the crowd lets out a monstrous cheer and applause. The show is over and the race is on, as each spectator tries to beat the other million spectators home for the night. It’s a can of a million worms, all slithering in different directions. There’s no rhyme or reason or rational to this mass exodus. Kennard is literally engulfed in an ocean of humanity.

I give chase.

Trying to stay perpendicular to his movement, I bounce off people like an atom in a super collider. Kennard’s not more than five-eight and his head keeps disappearing in the ocean of people. I lose him, pick him up, and lose him again. I search towards Lakeshore Drive, which has been closed to traffic to allow the multitude of people quicker access to wherever they’re going or parked. It’s a tsunami of humanity. I stop, stand on a patch of grass, and jump up and down like a jack-in-the-box, trying to pick the Kennard needle out of the proverbial haystack.

I hear a familiar call from the urban wild: “Oh, Mr. Sherlock.”

Tiffany, with Care on her shoulders and Kelly ahead of her, are about one hundred feet north of me, running towards the Lake.

“Tiffany, I thought I told you…!”

“He went thataway.” Tiffany shouts to me, as Care and Kelly point east to Lakeshore Drive, which Kennard is fast approaching.

Again, I take chase.

City trash trucks and utility vehicles are now driving onto the grassy area of the park to start the clean-up, which also tells me Lakeshore Drive, which locals refer to as the Drive, will soon be open. I sprint as fast as I can, which I admit isn’t very fast, down the path to the street. I can see Kennard, moving quite rapidly, as if he’s being chased, toward the northbound ramp. The wheels on the bottom of the suitcase are certainly earning the Underwriters Seal of Approval.

Tiffany and the girls are now fifty feet ahead of me, maybe fifty yards from Kennard, who is moving up the on-ramp, panting like a stair-climbing chain smoker. Care is still on Tiffany’s shoulders pointing the way like General Sherman leading his men into battle. All she’s missing is a sword. Kelly I can’t see, but what I do see is a black or dark blue, late model sedan screech to a stop alongside Kennard and knock him to the pavement. The passenger’s side door opens. Kennard tosses the suitcase in first and himself next. A second or two later, the car takes off like a rocket onto the Drive.

Game over.

I catch up to Tiffany, who is now seated on the curb of the road, trying to catch her breath. “I need more cardio.”

“Where’s Kelly?”

“She was up in front of us,” Care says.

“Where?” I’m one beat away from panic as I frantically search the crowd.

“Dad,” Kelly says emerging from a gaggle of people.

I take her in my arms and hug her, then yell, “I told you three to stay put!”

“What fun would that be?”

“I got the license plate, Dad,” Kelly says triumphantly.

“Yeah,” Tiffany says to me. “Now, who’s the party-pooper?”

“What is it?”

“Ah…”

“Kelly?”

“Whoops,” Kelly says. “I forgot it.”

My oldest daughter has not inherited my memory gene.

_____

As was the plan, we rendezvous back at the police van. Oland sits in the director’s seat in front of the monitors, broadcasting four shots of a trashed Grant Park being swept up by the city’s sanitation workers. He’s not a happy camper.

“Girls, you should watch this,” I tell Kelly and Care. “It might give you some tips on cleaning your room.”

“Get them a cleaning lady,” Tiffany says.

“They already have one,” I inform Tiffany. “Me.”

Oland doesn’t laugh. I place my hand on his shoulder.

“I may have to retract my statement about rank amateurs or bad professionals.”

“Why?”

“He who cast aspersions on others, aspire to do the same.”

Kelly and Care have used the facilities and have found the snack drawer—yet another bonanza of phony fruit and fructose filled confections. They each motion to me as if asking, “Can we?”

I motion to Oland. He says, “Sure.”

Kelly and Care dig in.

“Now, what do we do?” Tiffany asks.

“Wait.”

“I hate waiting,” she says.

“You make me wait for you,” I tell her.

“That’s different, Mr. Sherlock. I do that out of principle.”

CHAPTER 7

Kennard’s shoes, which were equipped with a tracking device, show up in an alley behind Wrigley Field. The Cubs are out of town. I wish I was. Although the shoes and clothes were a couple of sizes too big, Kennard’s ensemble looks quite dashing on the homeless guy now wearing the outfit. He wasn’t real thrilled about giving up his new shoes to a couple of cops.

“Get your own, ya damn Nazis!”

The reverse-scavenger party reconvenes at Kennard’s condo. Joining Oland, Tiffany, my girls, and me are Boo, Safari, Elmhurst, and Venus. The family had taken in the fireworks show at Moomah’s place. It’s well past midnight.

“I was going to bring Moomah,” Venus says. “But it wasn’t a good night for her.”

“She thought a house was going to fall on her,” Safari explains.

Care and Kelly are hitting the exhaustion point, but I feel a bit strange putting them to bed in the guest room. I plop them in front of the TV in the adjacent den, and trust they will fall asleep soon.

“We want to know what happened,” Elmhurst says to Oland.

“We lost him in Grant Park.”

“Didn’t you have him wired?” Safari asks excitedly.

“He removed it when he received the ransom call,” Oland answers.

“Why’d he do that?” Elmhurst asks

“Maybe dog never liked color of collar,” Oland tries to explain.

“Did you put a helicopter on him?” Venus chimes in.

I suspect the whole family watches Law and Order.

“He was in the middle of a million people, impossible to follow. It would be like finding a pin in a haystack of needles,” I answer, relieving Oland.

“That’s why you should’ve had one of those orbiting eyes-in-the-sky tracking his every move,” Boo says.

“The problem with using an orbiting satellite in sky is that one doesn’t exist,” Oland is the bearer of more bad news.

“Then you should have used a drone,” Safari barks back.

Oland hangs his head. Even Charlie Chan wouldn’t have a comeback to that one.

“I have a question,” I interrupt to re-steer this absurd conversation. “How did you get the name Safari?”

“I like to travel off the beaten path.”

“I like to bowl,” I say. “But I don’t call myself Gutterball.”

“His name’s really Augustine,” Venus says. “Mine is really Clarissa.”

“You changed it to Venus?”

“The Goddess of Love.”

“It’s also the name of a woman’s shaving razor.” Boo’s attitude never seems to waver. “A man-eating flytrap.”

Beep, beep, beep.

Oland flips the switch on the communication device attached to his belt, presses the earpiece closer to his ear and speaks into the microphone clipped to his shirt collar. “What?”

He listens as he walks away from the group. They watch him intently. Oland speaks in hushed tones, listens again, breaks the connection, and turns back to his audience. “Kennard’s been found. He’ll be here in less than twenty minutes.”

There’s more of a gasp than a sigh of relief from the peanut gallery.

“How about the money?”

I would’ve thought either “Is he okay?” or “How about Schnooks?” would be the next question, but no such luck.

“Gone,” Oland says.

“Well,” Elmhurst says. “Subtract that from his share of the inheritance.”

“Bullshit,” Boo barks back.

“Why should we have to pay for his misfortune?” Safari asks.

“It’s the cost of being a part of the family,” Boo answers.

“I don’t buy that,” Elmhurst says.

“We’ll sue,” Boo says. “You can’t subtract from an estate not yet divided.”

Elmhurst says, “You’re going to have to prove that a ransom is a business expense. Good luck with that.”

“Can’t we all just get along and be happy?” Venus asks.

“No,” the group concludes in unison.

I take this family spat as an opportunity and go into the den to check on my girls. They are both sound asleep, although the number of empty candy and snack wrappers could mean they have overdosed on artificial sweeteners. I retrieve the bedspread from the second bedroom and use it to cover the two. I give them a kiss before returning to the reunion.

All families are dysfunctional, but dysfunctional in their own unique way. The Richmond/Horsley/Cavendish/Wickwire clan, the offspring of Moomah, seems to have it in spades. Safari and Kennard, although brothers, look and act nothing like each other. Safari is tall, thin, bald with a beard; a sort of modern day Grizzly Adams. Venus, who is closer in age to Boo than her half-brothers, is a throwback to the hippie generation. She wears long skirts with paisley patterns, sandals with soles made from old tires, tie-dyed t-shirts, and enough gold, iron-ore, shells, and ceramic neckwear to add ten pounds to her overall weight. Her hair is a tangle of Rastafarian weaves that hang down below her waist in the back. Elmhurst dresses as if he wants you to see him as studious: white shirts, tweed jackets and black, Clark Kent glasses. To me, he’s more of a nutty professor than university PhD. They all seem to be on the opposite ends of their own particular spectrum.

“Moomah would be livid,” Elmhurst says. “If she were sane.”

“If there’s anything that can get her livid, it’s losing her money,” Venus says.

“A million bucks down the drain,” Safari adds.

“Don’t worry, Uncle Safari,” Boo says. “The kidnappers give double miles for every ransom.”

Elmhurst approaches Oland. “Could you be specific on the plans to re-secure the funds?”

“I assure you we will do everything possible in returning both the woman and the money.”

“Forget the woman,” Safari says. “Get the money.”

“What is your ‘win and loss’ percentage in this type of case?” Elmhurst asks. “How much ransom money do you expect to retrieve?”

“I don’t have the figures off the top of my head,” Oland says.

“Could you give me an approximation?”

“Not good.”

Elmhurst turns indignant. The furrows on his brow remind me of a plowed field. “Not good is not good enough for us,” he exclaims in a superb, spoiled child inflection.

“What is good for gander is not always good for flock,” Oland says.

For the next ten minutes the family mills around, eats, plays with their cell phones, and takes verbal pot shots at one another. Oland goes out on the balcony where he takes and makes calls. I stand off to the side, observing the fun in dysfunction. Tiffany takes out a nail file and starts in on one of her pinkies.

Two minutes later Bozo the Clown walks in the front door, accompanied by two of Chicago’s finest.

“What the hell?” Elmhurst says for the entire group.

One cop squeezes the red nose he’s holding in his hand. Honk. He tosses it to Oland who has come in from outside.

“We found him clowning around a bus stop in Pilsen,” the other cop says.

“Thanks, guys,” Oland says. The two cops go directly into the kitchen to be disappointed at the dearth of snacks available.

“It was a nightmare.” Kennard’s voice comes from beneath the mask and costume.

“Sit down,” Oland tells him as the family rally round.

“I love the look,” Safari tells his brother.

“I don’t like clowns,” Tiffany says. “They’re creepy.”

Kennard collapses on the couch. “They forced me at gunpoint to take off all my clothes and put on this ridiculous suit. It was humiliating.”

“What part?” Safari asks.

“I feared for my life.” Kennard leans back and tries to get comfortable by resting his feet on the coffee table, but the size sixteen shoes make it difficult.

I glance up to see Care standing in the doorway, wiping the sleep out of her eyes. “Is that the clown that was supposed to show up at my birthday party last year?”

“No, Honey.”

“Does this one do balloon animals?”

“Go back to sleep, Care. It’s a dream caused by too much junk food.”

Care turns and heads back to the den.

“You can take off the mask,” Oland says to Kennard.

“I can’t get it off. They must have put it on with Super Glue.”

The orange hair, sticking out in pointed swirls from the sides of his head, doesn’t look bad on Kennard and the large polka-dot pattern on the billowing pantaloons really round out the ensemble.

“I need a drink,” Kennard says.

Boo shakes her head. “Gee, ya think?”

Venus finds a glass and a bottle of clear liquor, pours out a good long shot, and we all wait until Kennard downs the Popov in one gulp.

Kennard attempts to pour a second, but Oland stops him. “What happened?”

“The call didn’t come from the pay phone,” Kennard says, his adrenaline pumping. “It came from a cell phone taped underneath the phone stand.”

“We know that. What did they say?”

“They said they knew you were watching. They said they’d kill Schnooks if I didn’t remove my wire and do exactly what they told me to do.”

“Which was?”

Kennard grabs the bottle when Oland looks away, pours a refill, and downs the shot before Oland can intervene.

“He said to move towards the lake. When I get to the on-ramp to the Drive, walk up, and wait. Two seconds later this car comes up and knocks me flat on my ass. Then some guy pulls me and the money inside, and we take off down the Drive.”

“There were two of them?”

“Cars or people?” Kennard asks.

“People.”

“Two, one in the front and one in the back.”

“I think it looks so gay when one guy drives and the other guy sits in the back,” Tiffany says. “Unless the guy in the front is a limo driver.”

“What did they say?” Oland asks.

“What do you think I am, a tape recorder? I don’t remember. They had this big gun in my face. I thought I was going to die.”

“Then what happened?”

“They put a bag over my head.”

“Paper or plastic?” Tiffany asks.

“I thought I was going to suffocate,” Kennard yells.

“Plastic,” Tiffany concludes.

“They said they did the same thing to Schnooks.”

“What?”

“They put a bag over her head.”

“At least that is something Schnooks would be used to,” Boo says.

“Continue,” Oland says.

“They said if I didn’t take off all my clothes they’d slice me up like a chopped salad.”

“So you were in the back of their car naked?” Oland asks.

“As a jaybird.”

“Wow,” Tiffany says. “That is like way too much information.”

“It seems as if the kidnappers were quite clever and comical in their work,” Elmhurst says.

“Some people use humor to alleviate the tension in stressful situations,” Venus says.

“Are you a psychologist?” I ask her.

“No, but I read a lot.”

Kennard jumps back in. “They forced me to put on this suit.”

“What kind of car was it?” Oland asks.

“I don’t know. I had a bag over my head.”

“So, you didn’t have the mask on yet?”

“No.”

“It would’ve been hard trying to get a bag over the hair, sticking out of the side of his head,” Boo says.

“Thank you for helping,” Safari tells his half-niece.

“We drive around and park at someplace really dark,” Kennard says.

“If it was night, wouldn’t it already be dark?” Oland asks.

“No, this was really dark, like pitch-black dark.”

“But you had a bag over your head,” Tiffany says, trying like the rest of us to make sense of all this.

“That’s when they put on the mask.”

“If you already couldn’t see with a bag over your head,” Elmhurst says as if a professor questioning a colleague. “Why replace it with a mask which let you see?”

“I don’t know.”

“Since they paid for a full costume,” Venus explains. “They might as well get their money’s worth.”

“Anyone could see that Bozo the Clown with a bag over his head instead of a mask is a dead giveaway that something isn’t exactly kosher,” Tiffany says. “I would notice that, and I’m not Jewish.”

“I agree. Bozo without orange hair, isn’t Bozo,” Venus finishes rhetorically.

“Did they say anything about Schnooks?” Oland asks.

“They said she’d show up in the morning.”

“Where?”

“They didn’t say.”

“Did you ask?”

“I don’t remember. By that time I was on the floor of the car, my hands tied behind my back, and they were driving around God knows where. I’m lucky a knife wasn’t plunged into my vertebrae.”

“Then?”

Kennard now has rivers of pancake make-up sweat running down his face and neck, staining the collar of his costume. If this keeps up, the e-Bay value of the Bozo suit is going to be nil.

“Next thing I know, I’m dumped in an alley behind an L stop. I get to my feet, stumble out front, and try to get someone to untie my hands and call the police, but nobody would help.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a clown.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Safari says.

“I’ve always kind of liked clowns,” Venus says. “Did you know that clowns date back centuries?”

“They’re creepy,” Tiffany says. “Even you are creeping me out, Uncle Kenno, and I already know it’s you under that big red smile and goofy eye make-up.”

“Everybody thought it was part of an act. Three people threw quarters at my feet.”

“Did you keep the money?” Elmhurst asks.

“No.”

“Why not?” Safari says. “You earned it.”

Kennard pulls on his orange hair with both hands to relieve his frustration. It doesn’t seem to improve his situation or his looks.

“Was there anything about the two men you remember which would make them unique?” Oland presses on. “Their voices, accents, clothing, shoes, anything?”

“No.”

“Didn’t you get a good look at them when they pulled you into the car?” Venus asks a very good question.

“They had masks on.”

“You didn’t mention that before,” Oland points out.

“One guy was Ronald Reagan and the other guy was George Bush.”

“Which one?” Tiffany asks.

“Which one what?” Kennard seeks further information.

“Which Bush?”

“George!”

“W. or H.W.?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Kennard says, exasperated.

“That’s enough for now,” Oland says. “Would someone please help him get the mask off?”

Boo helps Kennard to his feet and escorts him into the master bath, leaving me, Oland, and the remaining family members.

Elmhurst speaks for the group. “Detective Oland, we expect you to get our mother’s money back.”

“Expectations in life seldom live up to expectation,” Oland tells him.

“We are very particular about Moomah’s money,” Safari adds.

“We will do what we can.”

“Don’t any of you care about Schnooks?” I ask.

Each family member looks at another family member, encouraging that member to speak.

Silence.

“Come on, somebody has got to care,” I say.

“No, we don’t,” Elmhurst says. “There’s no rule that says we have to care about anybody.”

“Let’s just say the woman is not our kind,” Safari speaks for the group.

“And what kind is that?” I ask.

“The kind we don’t care about,” Elmhurst says wrapping up the topic.

Ten minutes later, Safari, Venus, and Elmhurst disperse, go home or wherever. I can’t say I was sorry to see them leave.

Tiffany yawns. “Well, it’s lights out for me too.”

“Sure was nice visiting with your family, Tiffany.”

“It’s easy to see why we don’t do holidays together, isn’t it?” Tiffany says, grabbing her Coach purse and exiting the condo.

Boo and Kennard come back into the room. He has a hand towel hanging on his head covering his face. He has to remove it to pour himself another Popov and that’s when I see Kennard lost his eyebrows in the removal of the Bozo mask. Evidently there was some glue on the front, which kept the mask from riding up, and ruining the effect for the audience. The life of a clown is not all fun and games.

Kennard took a shower, put on an ugly pair of pj’s, had two more cocktails, and went to bed. Boo split a few minutes after her dad crapped out. Oland wished he could do the same.

I pick Care and Kelly up, and put them into the second bedroom without waking either. “You can have the couch in here,” I tell Oland as I return to the front room. “I’ll take the floor.”

Oland looks up at me from the couch where he sits with his arms folded across his chest. “Sherlock, there are more holes in story than Confucius have sayings.”

CHAPTER 8

“Happy Fourth of July,” I greet Care and Kelly, as they enter the kitchen the next morning.

“What are we going to do today, Dad?” Care asks.

“Can we go shopping?” Kelly hopes.

“It’s a holiday. All the stores are closed.”

“No, they’re not.”

“Well, they should be,” I tell my eldest.

“Well, they’re not.”

“I’m going to drop you two off at the apartment where you can find some new and exciting ways to amuse yourselves.”

“No way.”

“That’s totally boring.”

“Dad, if you’re working the case, we want to go with you,” Care says.

“Or, go shopping.”

“You can’t go with me. You two don’t have clean underwear.”

“Look who’s talking,” Kelly says.

I concede defeat.

I find a box of Bisquick in the back of a cupboard, use the two remaining eggs in the refrigerator, and whip up a batch of pancakes.

This isn’t IHOP, Dad,” the girls complain, as I serve the meal.

“How can you tell the difference? Your plates have so much syrup they look like oil slicks.”

I hear a series of sounds from the other room. Sounds similar to what is heard at the “All You Can Eat Crab Fest” at Red Lobster, the only seafood restaurant I can afford. Oland joins our breakfast nibble and nosh a few minutes later.

“Sleep well?”

He gives me an odd look, as if to say I should have told him about the lumps.

“Good morning, Detective Oland” Kelly says.

“All mornings good, some better, but not this one.” He aches out loud as he sits.

“We were discussing with Dad what our next moves would be in the case.”

“We were?” I interrupt, as I serve Oland two flapjacks.

“I think we should put an APB out on any woman seen with a bag over her head,” Care joins in.

“No,” Kelly says. “We should be dusting for prints, seeing if there is any DNA evidence.”

Oland takes a bite of pancake and looks over to me. “Apple doesn’t fall far from computer screen.”

We all hear the front door open, followed by the now all too familiar phrase, “Oh, Mr. Sherlock.”

“Pancakes, Tiffany?” I ask as she enters.

“No, thanks,” she says as she pats her flat stomach. “Dough sitting in tummy makes for bigger bummy.”

We’ve all been hanging around Oland for too long.

“Has Schnooks shown up yet?” Tiffany asks.

“No,” Oland answers.

“You know, today is a holiday,” Tiffany says. “Maybe she won’t show up until Friday.”

“Especially if the bad guys are card-carrying members of the American Association of Criminal Kidnappers, where members aren’t allowed to work on holidays,” I tell her.

“It might be wise to see whose dues aren’t paid up,” Tiffany suggests in all seriousness.

Oland cleans his plate and returns to the front room. He starts making phone calls. I make the girls go fix the bed they slept in, clean up whatever they messed up, wash up, and get dressed. I clean up the kitchen. Tiffany watches me.

“What’s the plan, Mr. Sherlock?”

“We don’t have a plan, Tiffany.”

“I hate that.”

“Patience is a virtue.”

“Maybe for you. It’s a waste of time for me.”

“There’s one thing I would like to do, Tiffany. And you could help me with it.”

“You want clothing, style, or relationship advice?”

“None of the above. I’d like you to introduce me to the source.”

“The source?”

“Moomah.”

“Sure, I could do that, but I have to warn you, you never know what you’re going to get when you go see Moomah.”

_____

The Block, as it is affectionately known in Chicago, is the one block of inner Lakeshore Drive as it angles to the east at the intersection of Oak Street. It’s the home of the Drake Hotel, horribly expensive restaurants, and a string of high-rise apartments and condos that are the most exclusive, and expensive, in the city. The people who live on the Block don’t just have money. They have money that can’t be counted. I should be so lucky.

It’s about a half-mile walk from Kennard’s, and the four of us marching along resemble a bad rendition of Donald Duck and his nephews Huey, Dewey, and Louie.

Moomah’s building is a classic turn-of-the-century, neo-classical structure. The only thing more staid than the edifice is the building’s doorman, who must be at least three hundred years old. “Yes…,” he says, in three elongated syllables upon our arrival.

“We’re here for Moomah Richmond.”

It takes the doorman a millennium to pick up the phone, dial, and speak. Then he slowly puts the receiver down, turns to us, and asks, “And you are…?

“Tell her it’s Tiffany.”

“Do you have a package?’

“No, I’m a girl. Girls don’t have packages.”

“Tiffany, her granddaughter,” I explain to the man, and hope my girls have no clue as to what Tiffany refers to as a package.

It takes another eternity for the doorman’s hand to go from hanging up the phone, to selecting a finger, and using that finger to push a button that opens the door to the inner sanctum of the building. “You may enter.”

We take the elevator to the penthouse floor.

A maid, who wears an outfit straight out of Masterpiece Theater, meets us at the elevator. “Good morning.” If this woman isn’t dating the doorman, she should. They’d make a perfect couple.

“Bertha,” Tiffany says. “This is Mr. Sherlock, Kelly, and Care.”

“My pleasure,” she says with a verve equal to the guy downstairs. The way Bertha moves, I wonder if there’s a large key in her back that winds her up each morning.

“Miss Moomah will see you now.”

We enter. The foyer is bigger than my apartment, with a fireplace, grandfather clock, and built-in secretary. It leads to a front room large enough for a political convention. There are views to the north, east, and south; each spectacular in its own right. It’s as if Lake Michigan is the unit’s personal swimming pool. Kelly and Care move closer to the leaded glass windows and peer out. I hear a very familiar song being played in the background.

“How is she?” Tiffany asks Bertha.

The woman shakes her head slowly.

“Bad night?”

“It was the Fireworks.”

“Oh, yeah, that must have been a killer.”

“She kept calling it a twister,” Bertha says.

I see the Grande Dame approach.

Mix two parts Auntie Mame, one part Queen Mum, and three parts Oprah (when fat), adorn her in an outfit suitable for dinner on the Titanic, age her around ninety, and you have Moomah Richmond. She doesn’t walk, she sways. She doesn’t approach, she encapsulates space with a presence superseding regality. When she finally halts before us, she peers down on us lesser human beings and says to Tiffany, “Are you a good witch or a bad witch?”

“Moomah, it’s Tiffany.”

“Are you sure your name isn’t Glinda?”

I turn to my left and peer down the hall to the open den and see Dorothy skipping down the Yellow Brick Road on the widescreen TV.

“It’s your granddaughter, Tiffany. Your son is my daddy.”

“Well, you’re not in Kansas anymore.”

The woman is somewhere over the rainbow.

“This is Mr. Sherlock and his two girls, Kelly and Care.”

The kids aren’t sure whether to shake hands, bow, or kneel in reverence. They each take a step back behind where I stand; so much for not needing dad anymore. “Nice to meet you,” they stammer.

“Munchkins. How delightful.”

“I’m telling you, she could snap out of it at any time.”

I look over at Bertha, who is shaking her head as if to say, “That’s not gonna happen.”

“Moomah, Uncle Kennard lost the million dollars he paid to get Schnooks back,” Tiffany says.

Moomah does seem to edge a little closer to coherence at the mention of money, but not much.

“Bertha,” I ask. “When Moomah had a problem before she moved to Oz, how would she handle it?”

Without hesitation, Bertha answers, “She’d ask Ann.”

“Ann who?” I ask.

“Ann Landers.”

“She would write Ann Landers?” I ask.

“She wouldn’t have to write,” Tiffany says. “Ann Landers used to live two floors down. Moomah would just walk downstairs for advice. Well, at least until Ann died.”

“What did she do after that, call Dear Abby?”

“She’s dead too,” Tiffany says. “Where have you been?”

“Did you know they were sisters?” I tell the sisters next to me.

Care answers, “We don’t know who you’re talking about, Dad.”

Tiffany takes Moomah’s hands into hers. She looks right into the old woman’s eyes. “Moomah, this is serious,” Tiffany pleads. “We’re talking a million bucks flying the coup.”

“Well, we better tell Uncle Henry,” Moomah says.

Bertha, who has been down this road more times than I’m sure she cares to mention, asks my girls, “Would you like a crumpet?”

“Go with the lady,” I say. “She wants to feed you.”

“Are crumpets anything like a Fruit Roll-Up?” I hear Care ask, as she follows Bertha out of the front room.

Tiffany sits Moomah down. She takes her hand into hers again. “Moomah, come on now. Concentrate. Think.”

“I can think of things I never thunk before, and then I’ll sit, and think some more.”

I leave the two to converse on their own. The fact that one of them has very little on her mind and the other has little mind left (you pick which is which), should not diminish the free flow exchange of ideas and comments between the two.

While they chit and chat, I wander around.

There are more framed photographs than the Kodak Museum. Moomah with mayors, Moomah with movie stars, Moomah with business leaders, Moomah with writers, Moomah with police chiefs, and politicians. Moomah holding a croquet mallet, Moomah on a polo pony, Moomah standing between race horses, and Moomah driving an Indy car. Moomah at the Great Wall, Moomah at the Taj Mahal, and Moomah at the Governor’s Ball. The pictures are arranged on the grand piano, mahogany book cases, and every other flat surface in the room except the floor. If one fell over, it would cause a domino cascade of cataclysmic collision.

I keep my hands in my pockets.

I search far and wide, but there’s one photo I do not see: A family portrait. A photo with Moomah front and center, flanked by her offspring, the offspring’s offspring, and the offsprings’ offspring’s offspring. These photos are usually taken at family reunions where the promise of the distribution of trust fund checks insures a one hundred percent attendance record.

As I wander down the hall, I count four different rooms with TV screens, all playing The Wizard of Oz.

I can’t help but listen to Tiffany and Moomah’s conversation. Tiffany talks of Kennard, Schnooks, Elmhurst and Venus; while Moomah discusses ruby-red slippers, broomsticks, her sister from the East, and the Lollipop Guild.

Lady Gaga’s Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah, ga-ga-ooh-la-la blasts out of my pocket like a Gen-X air raid siren. I have to talk to Kelly about fooling around with my phone.

“Hello.”

It’s Oland. “Schnooks has risen.”

CHAPTER 9

A transit cop found Schnooks asleep on a Blue Line train. He thought she was a homeless person. When he couldn’t wake her up, he was sure she was a homeless person. The motorman had to help the transit cop carry her off the train and lay her on a bench at the Madison Street station. There Schnooks snored so loud she ruined business for the subway musician singing Neil Diamond’s Cracklin’ Rosie.

She awoke in the ambulance on the way to Cook County. When she didn’t immediately ask for wine, somebody figured something was amiss and called the regular cops.

“Did she have a bag over her head when they found her?” Care asks on the way to our apartment.

“I didn’t ask.”

“You should, Dad. You’re the detective.”

“Thank you for reminding me.”

At our humble apartment abode, we take turns in the shower and sit around. I read the mail, the girls watch TV, and complain about stuff. I don’t listen, and then they complain about me not listening to their complaints. Tiffany calls to inform me she will be on a yacht, tied up in the inlet facing the beach, just northwest of Navy Pier, where the order of the day is to drink too much and wave at the other people on other anchored yachts, who are also drinking too much.

“Sounds like a swell time,” I tell her.

“It is,” she informs me. “If you’re on the biggest one.”

She makes me promise to call her when Schnooks returns to Kennard’s condo.

“But how are you going to get off the boat to get there?” I ask.

“It’s called a yacht.”

“Sorry.”

“Getting off is no big deal,” she says.

I silently pray she’s referring to the boat/yacht.

“I’ll call a water taxi.”

I know of a real cheap Chinese restaurant in Evanston, so I take the girls there for dinner, then we walk to the lake, where the Evanston fireworks are set to explode at nine. After the Chicago spectacular last night, this show will be like the view of Chicagoland from the second floor of the Sears Tower. I tell them this is like life. You take what’s given you, especially when it’s free.

Back at home the girls take the bedroom and I take the couch. They are asleep in minutes. Must have been the MSG in the egg rolls. I find an unused notebook and a pen. I open to the first page to write down my thoughts on the case thus far, but I can’t think of anything to write worth the ink in the pen. I lay back, rest my head on a small pillow, and drift off to sleep.

In the middle of the night I awaken, find the notebook and scribble: “Withdrawal.”

_____

“What do you want to do today, girls?” I ask, as I serve up French toast.

“Go shopping.”

“Kelly…”

“That’s a bad thing?”

“How about you, Care?”

“I want to ride Rascal.”

Little Rascal is the girls’ horse; their mother was so kind to buy it with my money. When we lived as a family we couldn’t afford a horse, so how I can afford one now is an expensive mystery to me.

“Not today,” I tell Care, “because I’m sending you to horse camp next week.”

“We’re not going anywhere on vacation?” Care asks. “Why not?”

“Ask the horse, or ask your mother,” I explain.

“You can send Care to horse camp,” Kelly says. “I’d rather go to shopping camp.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“Yes, there is. People like Tiffany are the camp counselors.”

“When I was a kid, we didn’t get to go to camp. We hung around and learned how to make our own good time.”

“Sounds boring, Dad,” Care says.

“At shopping camp, you get to go to a different mall every day,” Kelly says. “And there are people to help you try on clothes and carry all the stuff you bought so you don’t have to lug it around.”

This is a hopeless conversation.

The phone rings.

“Hello.”

It’s Tiffany.

“Now?” I ask.

I hang up the phone. “Get dressed, girls. We’re going to visit some money.”

_____

There’s no traffic on our way downtown. Most companies have the good sense to give the Friday after the Fourth of July off, since any employee worth his salt wouldn’t do a lick of work all day anyway. But banks are a different matter.

Northern Trust is a Chicago institution. It’s where the wealthiest of the wealthy stash their cash. Walking onto the Wealth Management Team floor, I feel like a sapling in a redwood forest. Tiffany is with Moomah, sitting in the plush office of Ms. Anthea Andrews, an unbelievably attractive, mid-thirty-something woman, dressed in a charcoal black suit that a Bible belt conservative would love to wear, if they could afford it.

“You remember Moomah?”

“Yes, Tiffany,” I reply. “You think she remembers me?”

“Ya never know.”

Moomah does not come off the couch, but she does offer her hand to shake. She’s dressed today more like the ‘50’s, rather than yesterday’s 1910’s.

“These are my children, Kelly and Care.”

Not sure what to expect, they each shake hands with Moomah.

“We did this yesterday,” Care says.

“Which one of you is from the East and which one is from the West?” Moomah asks.

Neither girl has a clue to the answer. “We’re not sure.”

“I’d watch for falling houses if I were you,” Moomah warns them.

“I’m Anthea Andrews,” the woman says, coming out from behind her massive desk. Standing, she looks even better than she did sitting down. “I’m the account manager for Mrs. Richmond.” She allows her hand to linger in mine for more time than necessary. It’s soft, smooth, and warm to the touch. “Shall we?” She asks, as she picks up a set of keys off her desk.

Tiffany helps Moomah to her feet. “Shouldn’t this road be yellow?” Moomah asks, as she leads us out the door, through the hallway, and to the elevator bank at the end of the hall, as if she owned the place. Maybe she does for all I know.

With the girls following behind, I manage to get to Ms. Andrew’s side and whisper, “Where are we going?”

“Ms. Richmond likes to visit her money.”

Moomah plus one is a group. Moomah plus the rest of us is a crowd, but we all squeeze into the elevator and proceed downward. When the doors open, we are hit by a blast of cold air. We step out into a small foyer.

“Is this the Bat Cave?” Care asks.

I don’t answer, because I’m not sure.

A uniformed guard greets Moomah, “Good day, Ms. Richmond.”

“In the vernacular of the peasantry, it’s gonna be a whopper,” Moomah tells the guard.

The bank employees all chuckle. It’s their job.

Elroy, the guard, punches a code into panel and a steel door swings open. “I didn’t know you’d be bringing so many guests.” He lifts the clipboard with silver pen attached to it, which he must carry all day, and hands it to Anthea.

“You have to sign in,” she informs us.

Tiffany signs her name and passes the board to me. I sign.

“Identification,” Elroy insists. I offer my driver’s license.

“We don’t have any,” Kelly speaks for herself and her sister.

“It’s okay,” Anthea tells Elroy and we proceed onward.

I look up to see an overhead camera recording our entrance. I turn and see another camera behind us which will record our exit. I smile for each.

The vault is open. Its thick, silver and gold door has enough cogs and tumblers to thwart any would-be lock picker or modern day Houdini.

Moomah slips one of the keys on her massive ring into its rightful place in a corner of the vault. Anthea matches the action with a key of her own. Elroy helps Anthea pull out a steel drawer that’s twice as big as a bread basket for French bread. The drawer is empty.

“Moomah used to keep a million dollars in cash handy,” Tiffany says. “She called it her silly stash.”

“Is this a play date?” Anthea asks.

“A what?” I ask.

Anthea rephrases her question. “Does she want to play today?”

“Definitely,” Tiffany says.

Elroy retrieves a cart from the opposite corner of the vault and wheels it slowly to where Moomah stands. Anthea takes her key and Moomah’s key and inserts both into another huge safety deposit box. The door opens slowly. Voila΄

Moomah inhales the aroma wafting out of the box.

“Moomah likes the smell of wealth,” Tiffany whispers to me.

“I wouldn’t know it,” I whisper in return.

“Shall we?” Anthea, with Elroy and the loot close behind, leads us like a tour guide out of the vault and down a short hallway to a room labeled Richmond Suite.

“Nice touch don’t you think? She asks as we enter a room with a large conference table, twelve chairs, and a built-in credenza in the rear. Once we are all inside, she stands at the door, as if a palace guard.

Moomah goes right for chair at the head of the table and sits down. Elroy rolls the cart toward her, stops, and lifts the box onto the table right in front of her. Moomah licks her lips in anticipation, as if ready to dig into a decadent dessert. Leaving the cart, Elroy walks back in the direction he entered. Anthea opens the door to allow his exit, then closes and locks the door.

Without having to be asked, Tiffany flips the latch on the steel box. “Okay Moomah,” she says, opening the box. “Go for it.”

I’m flabbergasted. It’s like a scene from some pirate movie where Captain Kidd or Johnny Depp lifts the barrel-shaped lid of an extremely heavy wooden chest to reveal a treasure trove of sparkling booty. I see jewels, upon jewels, upon jewels. I also see necklaces, broaches, watches, pendants, pearls, bands, and bracelets. The stash must be two feet wide and a foot deep, all tangled and mashed in together like a huge bowl of sparkling spaghetti. The only thing missing are those shiny gold doubloons, “pieces of eight” in pirate vernacular.

Care and Kelly, whose eyes are as wide as Frisbees, look on in disbelief.

“How many of these does she have?” I ask Tiffany in another whisper.

“I don’t know,” Tiffany says. “But you can never have enough.”

Moomah reaches into the multi-million dollar grab bag and starts pulling out items, fondling each as if she had warm putty in her palms.

“Can I help?” Tiffany asks, but she doesn’t wait for an answer. The two of them dip into the pile, pulling out and untangling items. “Is this what you want?” Tiffany asks, as she raises a diamond necklace for Moomah to see.

Moomah ignores her.

Tiffany offers a silver pendant for review. “How about this cheap old thing, Moomah?”

“Child, you cut me to the quick.”

That “cheap old thing” is probably worth ten times what I’m worth; no, make that a hundred times.

Moomah pulls out one item after another. A shiny gold something that looks like it would weigh you down if you ever put it around your neck and a diamond bracelet whose reflection in bright sunlight would blind you instantly.

I’m standing transfixed on the worth before me, when I hear a soft voice from behind me.

“Isn’t it fun to watch somebody really enjoy their money?”

I turn slightly, and Anthea continues her thought, “It’s tough to visit T-bills and Muni-bonds. This is so much more fun.”

“She do this often?”

“Maybe once a week,” Anthea says. “Some days she comes in and just sits with her money.”

“That’s why she has her own room?”

“We like to make our customers comfortable.”

“So, let me ask you,” I say to the nice lady. “You let Kennard, carrying an empty suitcase, come in here with Moomah, load up a million dollars, and walk out?”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“For starters, ask for a withdrawal slip.”

“The money is not coming out of her account,” she says. “I don’t have control of what she has in her safe deposit box.”

“The woman has both her feet in the funny farm.”

“I don’t make the rules.” Spoken like a true banker.

“Are her kids listed on her account?”

“Only Jamison. He’s the executor of the estate.”

“And he knows about this?”

“He does now.”

“Does he know she invites the family in here when she wants to fondle the merchandise?”

“I would assume so. It’s been going on for years,” Anthea says.

Not good. Assume nothing. That’s my first rule of life.

“I find it hard to believe you give guest passes to the inside of your vault.” I say to the knockout banker.

“It’s her money and her items. She can do what she wants,” Anthea says.

“Even if she’s singing ‘Ding dong, the witch is dead?’”

“When you have the amount of money she has in here, you can do anything you want.”

Tiffany reaches the bottom of the drawer and removes a felt-covered case, maybe six-by-six inches. “Wait ’til you see this,” she says to my kids. She smiles as she opens it slowly, but the smile vanishes from her face in an instant.

“Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany says. “We got a problem.”

“I’ve got lots of problems. I don’t need another.”

Tiffany turns the box over. It’s as empty as my IRA. “The necklace is gone,” she says.

“What necklace?”

“Moomah’s necklace.”

“Where did it go?”

“I don’t know,” Tiffany says. “That’s the problem.”

Anthea comes closer to see. “Look through the rest of the items. Maybe it’s mixed in.”

Tiffany does a quick search. “It’s not here.”

“Could she have taken it home?” I ask.

“Possibly,” Anthea says. “She could have worn it out and no one noticed.”

“What’s so special about this item?” I ask.

“It’s the crown jewel of Moomah’s collection,” Anthea tells us.

“My daddy finds out about this, he’s going to burst a blood vessel,” Tiffany says.

“You sure it’s not here?” I ask.

“It’s the one piece you can’t miss,” Anthea says.

“We have to find the necklace, and we have to find it soon,” Tiffany says with a hurried quiver in her voice. “Or, else.”

“Or, else, what?”

“Or, else I won’t be able to wear it to a wedding in September.” Tiffany starts to shake in a monetary Saint Vitus' dance.

“Tiffany, calm down.”

“This is like losing the Crown Jewels.”

“Tiffany, are you sure about this?”

“We’re talking millions. Millions!”

I look over to Anthea. She nods her head in the affirmative. Kelly and Care continue to watch as Moomah fondles her fortune. I’m not sure what to do, so I decide to do nothing. “We’re leaving.”

“Leaving? We can’t leave now!” Tiffany exclaims.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Find the thief.”

“Well, I doubt if he’s in here right now.”

I pull my girls to the side and push them towards the door. “Dad,” Kelly says. “Can we stay? This is really fun.”

“No.”

Tiffany reluctantly pulls Moomah up from her jewels. “We got to go, Moomah.”

“I’ll get those slippers if it’s the last thing I do,” Moomah cackles on her way out of the suite.

We have to wait until Elroy returns, and we can all witness the booty going back to its locked sleeping quarters. Our entourage then makes its way upstairs.

“I’m sorry we had to meet under such circumstances,” Anthea says to me. The woman has a pair of eyes that could captivate any male on the planet. “I assure you whatever help you may need Northern Trust will make any and all accommodations. Please do not hesitate to ask.”

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention the necklace being missing at this time.”

“Done.” She smiles flashing me her perfect teeth.

I can’t help it. I shudder a zing of machismo; and it’s been a long time since I shuddered one of those.

Outside the bank, we stand on the sidewalk waiting for Moomah’s limo to arrive. Tiffany is visibly upset. “This is not good, Mr. Sherlock.”

“How much could one necklace be worth?”

“More than me.”

Now, that’s a lot of moolah.

“This is awful. Not only because it’s gone, but because one of my family probably took it.”

“Tiffany, don’t go jumping to conclusions.”

“My family might be all jerks, but I don’t want any of them to be crooks.”

“It happens, Tiffany.”

“Well, it shouldn’t happen to me.”

Moomah’s limo pulls up and the chauffeur jumps out to open the door. “Take me to the Emerald City,” she tells the driver.

“Tiffany, not telling anyone about the necklace, goes for you too.”

“Really?”

“Don’t say a word to anyone. Or, text, tweet, e-mail, or shout out from the rooftops.”

“Do you realize what you’re asking me to do?”

“Yes, so don’t do it.”

Before Tiffany climbs in behind her grandmother I say, “We’re talking with Schnooks tonight at seven.”

“Why so late?”

“Oland has a bar-be-que this afternoon.”

“Moomah should be there,” Tiffany says.

“Why would Moomah want to go to Oland’s bar-be-que?” I ask.

“No. Moomah should be there when we talk to Schnooks.”

“Are you sure?”

“I know Moomah wouldn’t want to be around Schnooks. None of us do,” she says. “Except Uncle Kenno. But she should be in on the conversation.”

“I’m not so sure about that, Tiffany.”

“It’s her money.”

The limo is ready to move.

Tiffany has a final thought to relay to me. “And one other thing,”

“Yes?”

“You like that banker lady, don’t you?”

My face must turn three shades of embarrassed red.

“Congratulations on scoring, Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany says with a silly smile on her face. “The banker lady’s hot for you too.”

CHAPTER 10

A half-cheese/half-everything pizza, two videos, free use of the computer, and a promise of a movie tomorrow, convinces the kids to stay in for the night while I trek back downtown to Kennard’s.

When I arrive, it’s party time.

But first, I pull Tiffany aside. “Remember, don’t mention Moomah’s missing necklace.”

“Mr. Sherlock, you know how bad I am at keeping secrets.”

“Yes, I am well aware of your incapacity for concealment.”

“I mean, come on, what’s the point of knowing something if you can’t tell anybody?”

“Tiffany, don’t.”

“I can’t help it,” she says. “My lips won’t seal.”

The partiers consist of Tiffany, Elmhurst, Kennard, Boo, and Venus, who all stand around with cocktails in hand. Safari must be on safari. Moomah is decked out with enough jewelry to set off the O’Hare metal detectors from remote parking. She is fast asleep seated on one corner of the couch.

Oland sits on the coffee table, across from Schnooks and Kennard. “Why didn’t you run that day on Lincoln Avenue?” he asks.

“They shot me,” Schnooks answers.

“Where’s the bullet hole?” Elmhurst asks.

“It must have been one of those electric guns.”

“A taster?” Tiffany asks.

“If that’s the kind that doesn’t leave a hole,” Schnooks replies.

“It is, if it is a taser,” Safari corrects his half-niece.

“I got the T right,” Tiffany says.

“What’s the next thing you remember?” Oland asks.

“I wake up in some room, my hands are tied, there’s a hunk of cloth in my mouth, and I’m blinded by one of those sleeping masks.”

“If you couldn’t see, how would you know it was a sleeping mask?” Venus asks.

“Because I wear one at home,” Schnooks snaps back.

Elmhurst says to Venus, “You’d wear one too if you slept with Kennard.”

“Good point,” Venus admits.

Schnooks is a type of person who displays many personality traits you can immediately dislike. She’s crude, gruff, impolite, and sucks constantly on what I hope are her dentures. The only positive that stands out is how nice her nails are. Maybe I made a mistake not accepting Tiffany’s offer for a mani-pedi at Rose Nails.

Oland tries his best to keep a professional tone as he continues. “Did they speak to you?”

“They asked if I had to go to the bathroom.”

“And?”

“Of course, I had to go,” Schnooks says. “Do I look like a camel?”

Moomah wakes up to reply, “No, more like a horse of a different color,” and she falls right back asleep.

Boo asks, “Did they untie your hands?”

“No.”

“Then how were you able to…?”

“We’re getting too much information here,” Tiffany says, placing her palms over her ears.

“It seems odd to me that the kidnappers would go to such extremes as a taser, a blindfold, and a secret place to hide you. Are you sure about all this?” Elmhurst asks in a professorial tone.

Schnooks responds in no uncertain terms, “May I remind everyone I am the victim and not the criminal.”

Kennard pats her on the hand and says, “There, there, Honeybunch.”

“You people are treating me like O.J. Simpson.”

“If the “Juice” fits, drink it,” Venus says.

“While you were sitting there tied up, what did you do?” Oland asks.

“Watched TV.”

“You said you were blindfolded?” Boo questions.

“They had it on. I listened.”

“What did you hear?”

“Jerry Springer.”

“Oh my God,” Tiffany says. “That show is disgusting. I saw this one where two twins were going out with twins, got mixed up, had each other’s kids, but couldn’t tell them apart.”

“You watch Jerry Springer?” I ask my upper-echelon assistant.

“Just to see how the little people of the world live,” Tiffany explains.

“Did you hear any conversations, or pick up on anything the kidnappers said or did?” Oland keeps trying to steer the questions back to some semblance of relevancy.

“It was on too loud.”

“Jerry Springer isn’t on all the time, what else do you remember watching or hearing?” Boo asks.

“Family Feud.”

“Must have been an enlightening time in your life,” Elmhurst comments.

“It was hell,” Schnooks sums it all up.

“Do you remember which family won?” Venus asks.

“What difference would that make?” Schnooks yells.

“Was it a Richard Dawson Family Feud or a different guy?” Tiffany asks.

“My God, you people are insane!” Schnooks pulls at her hair the same way Kennard pulled on his Bozo wig the night he was kidnapped. Nice to see couples share.

“Were you drugged before you left the room, or on the way to the ‘L’?” Oland asks.

Schnooks takes a deep breath, calming herself, “I’m not sure, since I don’t remember anything until I woke up on the way to the hospital.”

“So, you don’t remember a needle?”

“No, but maybe they drugged my food and then shot me up.”

“Why would they do that?” Boo asks.

“I don’t know,” Schnooks shoots back. “Ask the kidnappers.”

“We would,” Elmhurst says. “But they’re currently out of town spending our money.”

“What did they feed you?” Venus asks.

“Spaghetti.”

“What kind of sauce?”

“Red.”

“I thought you said you were blindfolded?” Elmhurst asks.

“They didn’t blindfolded my taste buds,” Schnooks fires back.

“Did it come with garlic bread and a side salad?” Tiffany adds.

“What difference would that make?” Venus asks.

“I’m wondering if the kidnapping was catered.”

“Why are you asking me these idiotic questions?” Schnooks clutches two fistfuls of her hair and hangs her head between her wrists.

“Because we have to get our money back,” Elmhurst answers.

“I don’t have it,” Schnooks replies.

I enter the question fray. “Kennard, when you were in the vault with Moomah to get the money, did she dip into her jewelry box?”

“She was playing with it while I packed up the cash. Why?”

“Did she remove any of the items?”

“I don’t know. I was busy.”

“Did she take anything with her when you left?”

“Like what?” Kennard asks.

“Like the necklace with seven three-caret cut diamonds arranged in a circle with sapphire and rubies set on a gold-leaf chain,” Tiffany explains.

“Tiffany!” I raise my voice.

“What are you talking about, Tiffany?” Elmhurst asks.

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing to me,” Boo says.

“It’s nothing.”

“What’s going on, Tiffany?” Venus asks.

“Nothing.”

Each family member stares at Tiffany. Silence abounds.

“Tiffany, what did I tell you?”

“I haven’t said anything about Moomah’s necklace being missing.”

“Tiffany…”

“Whoops.”

Is it any wonder why I hate my job?

“I told you not to tell anybody,” I tell my protégé.

“Don’t snap at me. I hate that.”

“What is going on, Sherlock?” Elmhurst asks.

“Moomah’s version of the Hope Diamond is missing from her safe deposit box.”

There are gasps all around. One of them is probably phony, but I can’t tell which one.

“That piece is worth millions,” Elmhurst says.

“Somebody stole it,” Tiffany says.

“How could this happen?” Boo asks.

“We have to get it back,” Venus says.

“How?”

“Call out the flying monkeys!” Moomah offers her unique solution.

“Are you sure it’s gone?” Boo asks.

“It wasn’t there this morning,” Tiffany says.

“Positive?”

“Believe me,” Tiffany says. “I couldn’t miss that many diamonds.”

The entire family goes into a state of semi-shock, which they alleviate with Kennard’s cheap booze.

“Who was with her the last time she visited her money?” I ask. “Before Kennard I mean.”

“I went with her last week,” Venus says. “But we didn’t open the box.”

“Who remembers seeing it?” I ask.

“Not me,” Elmhurst answers, as if he wants to be first to defend herself.

The other family members are silent.

“It might be the man behind the curtain,” Moomah says, and falls back asleep.

Elmhurst turns to me, “Forget about the kidnapping, you have to find that necklace.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got it on my list.”

Oland who has been quiet during this part of the conversational festivities, motions to me to join him on the back patio.

I close the sliding glass door to assure our privacy.

“What do you think?” I ask.

“Many bees in hive, but only one queen.”

“You think the missing necklace and the kidnapping are related?”

“One incident, plus one incident, does not add up to one coincidence.”

“But when one shoe drops, don’t you always wait for the other?”

“Not if person has only one leg.”

“Oland everybody in the room has two legs.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s the problem.”

We take a minute, lean back on the balcony ledge, and watch the party inside.

“What did Schnook’s blood test tell you?” I ask.

“Ambien, or something like it. She was out cold at least six hours.”

“Schnooks say anything previous to tonight that you want to share?”

“No.”

“Is that ‘No, you don’t want to share,’ or ‘No, she didn’t say anything?’”

“What difference would it make?” Oland says. “She lies like a slimy defense expert.”

We both stare at our shoes for a few seconds.

“It’s interesting Kennard didn’t have much to add to the fun and frolic of the evening,” I mention. “Do you think he’s holding something back?”

“Possibly.”

“The way Kennard tells the story leads me to believe I can’t believe him.”

Oland looks out over Lake Michigan. “A man must be able to fool himself, before he can fool others.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not sure, but I thought it sounded good.” Oland turns to face me. “With so much to lose and so little to gain, why upset even a rotten apple cart?”

“Money.”

“She already supports the lot of them.”

“That doesn’t mean they don’t want more,” I add. “I’m sure before going to bed every night, each one of them says a prayer for Moomah’s demise.”

“There is nothing more frustrating than a rich old woman, who refuses to die.”

We take a few seconds to gather thoughts, pace around, and feel lousy about being involved in this mess.

“What do we do now?” I ask.

“Longest journey starts with first step. Longer journey starts with step backward.”

CHAPTER 11

On Saturday afternoon, I make good on my promise and I take the girls to see this incredibly stupid movie. The plot is as thin as an anorexic runway model. Something about a teenage girl who falls in puppy-love with a motorcycle-riding boy who’s actually a zombie disguised as a vampire. The movie is filled with sexual double entendres and close-up shots of projectiles headed straight for the crotches of the bad actors in the film. I suspect the movie is a comedy, although I’m not sure.

“I have a question,” I pose to the girls as we leave the theater. “If zombies are already dead, why do they wear motorcycle helmets?”

“Because the guys who made it are trying to set a good example,” Kelly answers.

“So, that’s the reason for so many fart jokes,” I say. “The director obviously wanted to encourage good digestion.

“If you didn’t think they were funny, why were you laughing?” Kelly asks me.

“I was laughing at you, not with you.”

Kelly gives me her “Yeah, right” look. “Sorry, but I don’t buy it.”

“I like fart jokes,” Care says.

“You would,” Kelly answers.

_____

On Sunday, we do errands in the morning. I take them to the Lincoln Park Zoo in the afternoon followed by a trek along the Fullerton Street Beach. On the way back to the bus stop, which we take to teach my daughters humility and save me money since the parking around the zoo is ridiculously expensive; we inadvertently pass by a small hill in the park that’s populated by gay men who are sunning themselves. My daughters find great interest in the scene.

“Gee, Dad, I didn’t know they made thongs for men,” Care says.

“Nor, was it my intention for you to know.”

“I hope my butt looks that good when I’m older,” Kelly says.

“I don’t,” I say.

“I think they use way too much sun block,” Care remarks. “They look all greasy.”

I take both of them by hand. “Walk faster girls.”

“Have you ever thought about getting a nipple ring, Dad?”

“No, and don’t you either.”

_____

On Monday morning I drop the kids off at a barn in Glenview. The girls refer to it as “The Barn.” It’s a massive structure made up of four walls and a pitched roof. It’s totally devoid of personality, architectural significance, or any redeeming building quality. It’s just a big, boring barn. The entrance is a huge, sliding wooden door at the end of a long gravel driveway, and between two massive piles of horse manure. “Have a good time. I’ll be back at five to pick you up.” Kelly and Care hop out of the car.

Before I drive away, a very chubby woman in jeans and cowboy hat runs in front of my Toyota and waves her arms signaling me to stop. She’s breathing quite hard. The stench of the manure doesn’t seem to bother her in the least.

“Excuse me,” she asks. “Are you the girl’s father?”

I roll down my window, try not to breathe, and answer, “Yes.”

“Can I speak to you a minute?”

“You already are.”

“Alone.”

I kill the ignition and exit the car. I see Kelly and Care pick up their pace as they walk towards the barn door. “What can I do for you?” I ask the woman.

“I’m Dutchy, the camp counselor. That’s Dutchy with a “y”.” She pauses to give me time to retain the spelling. “There’s a matter of payment you need to make before we can accept the girls into our camp.”

“My ex-wife didn’t pay?”

“No.”

Why does this not surprise me?

“How much?”

“Six hundred.”

“Six hundred?”

“Per rider.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Read my lips, pardner. Six hundred per rider. That covers the horse rental, feed, meals, instruction, and counselors for the week.”

“But they have their own horse.”

“They can’t ride the same horse at the same time.”

“Why not?”

“How would each of them learn how to ride?”

“They could take turns sitting in the front.”

“No. Our insurance doesn’t allow tandems.”

“Actually, they already know how to ride.”

“Then why’d you sign them up for camp?”

“I didn’t.”

“Yeah,” Dutchy says. “I knew that.”

As I follow her into the office, I can’t help but notice she walks bowlegged. If my kids both end up walking like Dutchy with a “y” after this week, I’m going to sue.

Inside the tacky office, which has a more of a stale horse manure reek than the outside stench, I write a check for twelve hundred dollars. “Do I at least get some kind of discount for providing one horse?”

“If you would’ve paid a month in advance, we would have given you ten-percent off.”

“Now you tell me.”

Before leaving, I see Kelly parade Rascal, an aging thoroughbred nag, in front of Care and other pre-teen girls, who are dressed in jodhpurs and riding helmets. Dutchy with a “y” must ride Western instead of English.

_____

At a few minutes past nine-thirty, I knock on the door of Herman McFadden’s apartment. I can hear him waddle to the door and unlatch the chain.

“I was just about ready to begin my mid-morning porn fix, Sherlock,” he admonishes me, as he opens the door.

“Glad I missed it.”

“Don’t worry, there’ll be another one tomorrow.”

I have to walk around him, which is a very long walk, just to get inside the filthy place.

“What do you want?”

Herman McFadden is an obese, unwashed, disgusting, porn-addicted, forty-something, financial genius who owes his freedom to yours truly. A few years back, Herman was up on a murder rap with enough evidence working against him to put him in the Joliet joint for six life terms. There were more fingers pointing at Herman than at Steve Bartman during a Cubs playoff game.

But to me, it didn’t make sense. No one could be that guilty of any crime. I questioned Herman for over three hours, which wasn’t pleasant since he smelled like a pair of often used and never washed sweat socks, but I came away convinced he didn’t do it. Two weeks later, I had it figured out and they arrested the real murderer —Herman’s next door neighbor.

“Maybe I just happened to be in the neighborhood and dropped in to say ‘hello.’”

“If you’re going to do that, the least you can do is bring Tiffany.”

Herman not only has a thing for my assistant, but also wants to be her agent in the porn business. He claims producers will pay big money for rich girl, ingénue types.

“Tiffany doesn’t get up until ten.”

“Tiffany is a ten,” Herman declares. “Does she ever ask about me?”

“Yes, she does, but not necessarily in the way you’d want her to.”

“I always leave a lasting impression on women.”

“Agreed, although I’m sure most shower it off.”

I open two of the windows in the apartment to encourage some cross ventilation and relief from Herman’s body odor. “I need you to do some hacking.”

“I don’t hack, Sherlock.”

“And I don’t pay too much alimony.” I tell him. I pull out a notebook-sized page with a list of names and hand it to him.

“Moomah Richmond,” Herman says, seeing the first name on the list. “She’s got more money than Bernie Madoff owes.”

“Recognize any of the other names?”

“There used to be a girl in porn named Schnooks. No, wait, her name was Snookered.”

“Find out what you can.”

“I’ll get to it, when I get to it.”

“And that will be today, Herman.”

_____

I leave Herman’s apartment hopefully before any air-borne viruses had taken up residence on my body. I stand leaning on the fender of my car, take out my “To Do List.” One item seems to jump off the page toward me. I wonder if Tiffany was right. There’s only one way to find out. I find my cell phone and dial.

The assistant answers. “Wealth Management. May I help you?”

“Is Miss Andrews available?” As soon as I say this I wonder if the person will think the call is personal and not business.

“May I say who’s calling?”

“Richard Sherlock.”

A few seconds elapse. My palms get a bit sweaty and not because of the humidity.

“Anthea Andrews.”

“It’s Sherlock, remember me?”

She laughs. “Vaguely.”

“I was wondering if you had time for lunch.”

“Is this business or personal?” she asks.

I didn’t expect this question. I swallow my next words, stop, and ask “Do I have to answer that question right now?”

_____

She waits in a back booth of an establishment that’s more like a restaurant than coffee shop, a block or two from Northern Trust. She’s still gorgeous. On my way back downtown I made the decision to first talk business, see how that goes, then decide on any additional topics.

“Let me see if I have this straight,” I say. “Each week Mrs. Richmond visits her money?”

“More or less.”

“She sits in the Richmond Suite like King Midas?”

“Good way of putting it.”

“Does she count it, let it flow through her fingers, throw it up in the air like graffiti?”

“Sometimes,” Anthea says, as if this is normal behavior. “Mostly she enjoys playing with the jewelry. She’ll lay it out, rearrange it, try some of it on, and fondle the diamonds.”

Anthea punctuates her words with cute, little smiles. My God, this woman is attractive.

“Is she lucid during these excursions?”

“Hard to tell.”

“Does she ever come by herself?”

“Seldom. It’s more fun to share the good times with a friend.”

“Is she always with one of her children?”

“I would assume so.”

I squirm a bit in the chair. My first rule of life is: Assume nothing.

“I can check the records if you want,” she offers, and gives me a little smile.

I try to return a cute smile of my own, but I’m pretty sure I fail miserably. Thankfully, the waitress arrives to take our orders.

Anthea has a salad. I order one too. I would usually order a sandwich in a place like this, but I fear crunching into a BLT might make me look like a slob.

The waitress leaves our table and I retreat back to Moomah. “How much money does she have in this bank?”

“I am not at liberty to say, but I will tell you that certain accounts are uncountable.”

So is my bank account, but for the opposite reason.

“Tell me how the trust fund works.”

“I’m not supposed to.”

“Please, make an exception.”

Anthea places her hands on the edge of the table as if she were in church praying. “Each child, except her first son Jamison, receives a monthly stipend of five thousand dollars.”

“That’s all?”

“She hasn’t changed the amount since 2005, although I am sure many requests have been made for her to do so.”

“Which does not make for a happy family?”

“Probably not.”

“What about Jamison, why isn’t he in this mix?”

“He’s in a class by himself.”

“So am I, but I doubt if it’s the same one.”

She chuckles at my honest wit.

“Moomah’s first husband, Jamison Wentworth the Second, sole owner of the insurance business, and she, had one child: Jamison Wentworth the Third. When JW died, his will specified fifty-one percent of the company pass directly to his only son and the remainder to his wife. On his twenty-first birthday, Jamison the Third, took control of the insurance business. In the next twenty years, he built it into one of the most successful in the country, while his mother spent her time marrying, and re-marrying. So, to answer your original question, five thousand dollars a month to Jamison Wentworth Richmond the Third would be shoe shine money.”

“Jamison is the Executive Trustee of her estate?”

“Yes.”

“And that doesn’t sit well with his half-siblings.”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“So, all the remaining siblings who came from the subsequent husbands of Moomah are waiting for the old lady to crap out so they can cash in?”

“I’ve never seen her will, but I would assume so.”

There she goes with another assumption. I let it ride. When you are as beautiful as Anthea, a lot of things get left to ride.

“It must be tough sitting on the edge of a fortune.”

“I do believe you get the gist of the situation,” Anthea says.

I pause, because I have an odd thought. I get a lot of these. “Does it bother you being around so much money all the time?”

“People who work in ice cream parlors seldom eat ice cream,” Anthea says with a cute, dimpled smile.

“But money tastes better, doesn’t add calories, and has a much longer, lingering effect.”

“Well, let me ask you this. You work with crime every day, do you ever get the urge to dip into that pot of gold?”

“Constantly.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Guilt.”

She chuckles. “Guilt can be a powerful motivator.”

“So can greed.”

Our food arrives. Anthea gingerly picks at her salad, while I inhale mine. I’m hungry. I ask a few more Moomah questions, but mostly we chit and chat. She takes every opportunity to smile. She’s got great teeth. Once she reaches over and touches my hand after I said something she either thought was clever or pretended it was clever.

Maybe Tiffany is correct. It’s been so long since a woman has shown an interest in me, I wouldn’t know it if it slapped me upside the head. The only question is: Why?

I decide it’s time to walk the plank. “May I ask you something?”

“You’ve been asking the entire lunch,” she says.

“This is different.”

She smiles again. “Ask away.”

I put down my fork, clear my throat. “Are you married, engaged, engaged to be engaged, living with someone, in love, or in like at the present time?” Before she can answer I continue. “And if the answer is ‘no’, do you have any interest in any of those?”

This time she laughs. “No, and yes.”

Anthea tells me of her two husbands, her choice not to have children, her banker daddy, her years at Sarah Lawrence, the fear of her upcoming fortieth birthday, her dream to have a business of her own, and her inability to find men of her caliber. The last one worries me. The only caliber I have is in the gun I refuse to wear.

I didn’t drown at the end of the plank the first time, so I throw all caution to the wind. “Would you like to go out on a date sometime?”

“Sure.”

I’m speechless. I don’t know what to suggest. Dinner and a movie?

Anthea saves me from my lack of preparation. “Actually,” she says, “I have a fundraiser for Feed the Needy this week. Would you care to join me?”

I hesitate. This has gone so well, she’s asking me out.

“Don’t worry, you won’t be asked to contribute,” she adds.

“I’d love to go, but only if I can sign up as a recipient?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The bill comes. I offer, but she picks up the tab, claiming, “Expense account.”

_____

I have never done well with women. My first crush was Mary Jane Mobley in the second grade. That ended in an embarrassing wetting of pants (mine, not hers). My high school girlfriend’s father told me if I ever got his daughter, Eden “in trouble” he’d shoot me. Then he pulled out a shotgun from the hall closet to emphasize his point. Ms. Brady and I parted company shortly thereafter. My college sweetheart felt free to fool around, especially if it was with someone more athletic, richer, or better looking than me, which was pretty much all the remaining males on campus. Relationships with the opposite sex have not been my strong suit. One look at my tenure with my ex-wife, our subsequent divorce, and the pain and suffering aftermath I continue to endure in its aftermath, further proves my point.

I turn my cell phone back on around one-thirty, and find two text messages from Tiffany. 1. “Where R U, Mr S?” 2.” My dad wants 2 talk 2U ASAP, Mr S.” There’s also one voice-mail from her. “I’m thinking about putting a slight curl in my hair. What do you think?” I certainly hope she hit the wrong speed-dial button for this last missive.

There’s also a message from my boss: “A private detective wants five hundred dollars for some incriminating photos of a litigant who’s suing us. What gives, Sherlock?”

Mr. Richmond never speaks to me directly. He has this uncanny knack of calling when I am not answering my phone and leaving messages on my voice-mail. I get very few voice-mails from my boss, and I can’t remember one I enjoyed hearing. He is, of course, speaking of the pictures of the philandering workers’ “comper” that I was paid to deliver, but instead I ended up in a dumpster, covered in pizza slime.

_____

In the small community of private dicks in Chicagoland Leonard Louie is “affectionately” known as Louie the Louse. Louie has no scruples. He’s a liar, a cheat, a backstabber, a thief, and an overall illegal manipulator of the highest order. Leonard Louie should have been a criminal. Instead he secured a PI’s license and has been legally breaking the law with unbridled abandon for years. Tales of Louie planting evidence, tapping phones, breaking and entering, bribing, and strong-arming witnesses are as widespread in Chicago as lying politicians.

Leonard Louie is also the most successful, profitable, and busiest private eye in Chicago. Three additional reasons why I hate him.

I sit in his palatial office. “Leonard, you can’t do this to me.”

“Sure I can, Sherlock.”

“I need those pictures.”

“That’s why I’m sure I can,” he tells me, as he leans back in his leather desk chair.

Leonard Louie was the guy who busted down the door at the motel on the Westside while I was swimming around in the dumpster dung. He has laid out a dozen 8x10 glossies of my guy jumping out of bed, clutching his pants, and running from the room.

“I couldn’t have gotten better pictures if I had the guy dancing a jig on St. Patty’s Day.”

“What the heck were you doing there, anyway?”

“Working. That motel is a gold mine. If I’m not busy, I hang around and take pictures of cheating husbands. It’s fun.”

“Don’t do this, Leonard.”

“Sorry, Sherlock, business is business.”

“Whatever happened to professional courtesy?” I ask.

“Beats me.”

Leonard is having a swell time; I’m not. So, I might as well get down to it, “How much?”

“Six hundred.”

“Mr. Richmond said you wanted five hundred.”

“He lied.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay, I lied. From you, I want six hundred.”

“That’s robbery, Leonard.”

“Seven hundred, that’s more like robbery.”

“Seven hundred?”

“Okay, six hundred. Consider it a professional courtesy discount.”

I give up, and write out a check for six hundred dollars.

“Don’t you have cash?”

“No.”

“I should charge you an extra fee for printing out the pictures,” he says. “Printer ink is expensive.”

“Cost of doing business, Leonard.”

Leonard lights up a cigar, a big fat cigar that came in a tin tube marked Made in Havana. He plops his lizard cowboy boots on the edge of the desk, takes a puff of the rancid tobacco, and blows the smoke my way. “They recover any of the money from the kidnapping the other night?” he asks.

“What kidnapping?” I try to play dumb.

He looks at me as if I’m an idiot, which in this situation I am.

“No,” I relent.

”Think they’d give me a piece of the action if I recovered the cash?”

“No.”

“So, if I recover it, I should just keep it for myself?” He asks in all seriousness.

“No.”

“Finders keepers.”

“I don’t think so, Leonard.”

“Ya know something, Sherlock,” he says, and doesn’t wait for my answer. “You’re in the wrong business.”

“Really, what business should I be in?”

“Have you ever thought of the priesthood?”

“After today, maybe it’s not such a bad idea.” I rise from the chair and reach for the pictures.

“Whoa, there cowboy,” Leonard says, scooping up the photos. “Not so fast.”

“I paid you. Give me the pictures.”

“You get the pictures. . .when your check clears.”

“I’m good for it.”

Leonard gives me his, “You can’t bullshit a bull shitter look.”

“Leonard. . .”

“I’ll bring the pictures to court. Don’t worry.”

Five minutes after leaving Leonard Louie Investigations, I return Tiffany’s calls.

“Mr. Sherlock. . .”

“Yes, Tiffany.”

“Guess what?”

“You’ve decided on a slight curl in your hair?”

“How did you know that?”

“I’m a detective, remember?”

“Wow, you’re good.”

“What’s up?”

“Mr. Sherlock, are you going ghetto on me?”

“What?”

“You asked me, ‘Whasup.’”

“I did?”

“That’s ghetto.”

“Tiffany, what did you call me about?”

“Right now, or when I called you before?”

“You pick.”

“Oh, yeah, I have some news for you.” Tiffany giggles.

“Which is…”

“Moomah’s engaged.”

CHAPTER 12

I meet Tiffany at Starbucks.

“What’s his name?”

“Johnny Spaccone.”

“How did they meet?” I ask as she sips a cup of coffee. With so many extras added, I don’t know how they can still call it coffee.

“I’m not sure, probably Match.com,” she says, licking the white froth off her upper lip. “That’s how a lot of old people meet these days. You should try it.”

“I’m not that good in person, Tiffany. How good could I be on the Internet?”

“You can be anybody you want on the Internet. That’s why I’d never use it.”

I sip the bitter coffee. How Starbucks can become a multi-million dollar corporation serving bitter, foul tasting coffee, proves I have the same propensity for understanding business as I have for women. “Have you met this guy?”

“No, Bertha told me about him,” Tiffany says. “She thinks he’s a gigolo.”

“Gigolo Johnny Spaccone?”

“Sounds about right. How are we going to bust him?”

“Bust him for what?”

“Bertha says he’s much younger than Moomah.”

“So is ninety-nine percent of the population.”

“We can’t be too careful.”

“It’s not a crime to be young, Tiffany.” I have a thought. “Maybe Moomah’s one of those cougar women, preying on younger men?”

“Moomah doesn’t go to church.”

The American educational system is failing its youth.

“We have to get to the bottom of this before they get to the altar.”

“I tell you what, Tiffany. You be in charge of investigating Johnny Spaccone.”

“Me? That’s a big step up. It must mean you have faith in me.”

I don’t dispute her assumption. Why bother? “All I know is there isn’t anyone more qualified to spot a gigolo than you, Tiffany.”

She beams with pride.

I leave ninety percent of my coffee on the table and get up to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got to pick up my kids at horse camp.”

“You mean you’re not going with me to investigate Johnny?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why would I? You’re in charge.”

“But you have to come with me.”

“No. You have to do this on your own.”

“I hate that.”

“Tiffany, time to put on your big girl pants.”

“Mr. Sherlock,” she says flustered. “This reminds me of when I tried to run away from home, but the chauffeur refused to drive me.”

_____

As I pull up between the manure piles, Kelly and Care are sitting on a hay bale. They look depressed.

“Sorry, I’m late.”

They get up and slowly walk to the car. “You’re always late, Dad,” Kelly says as she slides into the back seat.

“So, what’s new?”

“We got kicked out of camp,” Care says.

“What?”

“We got booted,” Kelly concurs.

I stop the car and pull over to the side of the gravel driveway. “What?”

“Rascal bit Janine Bactine on the leg.”

I turn around and face the girls. “Why?”

Care says, “We don’t know. You’d have to ask Rascal.”

“The girl who got bit, her name is Janine Bactine?”

“No,” Kelly says. “But that’s what I call her behind her back.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. The name just seems to fit,” Kelly says.

My next thought is financial. “Did they give you a refund?”

“No.”

“Wait here.”

I jump out and make a bee-line for the stinking office. Dutchy with a “y” is sitting at the desk, probably counting my money like an insomniac counts sheep. “Excuse me,” I say. “My girls told me they got kicked out of camp.”

“That’s the word, pardner.”

“Why?”

“Biting.”

“They didn’t bite anyone, the horse did.”

“It’s their horse.”

“So?”

“You haven’t taught them about responsibility, have you?” Dutchy takes off her cowboy hat to wipe the sweat from her brow. The circular indentation on her forehead where the hat rested makes her look like a cowgirl angel with a broken halo.

“I’ve taught them, but I haven’t gotten around to the horse yet. I thought etiquette lessons were included in the class fees.”

“You thought wrong.”

“This is absurd.”

Dutchy with a “y” flicks pieces of dried manure off her hat with her index finger. “I guess the girls didn’t mention that the attack was provoked,” she says.

“What did they do, tape a carrot to the kid’s leg, and told Rascal to ‘fetch?’”

“We have strict rules about biting.”

“Well, then take Rascal’s horseshoes away for thirty days, but leave my kids out of it.”

“No can do.”

“They didn’t bite anybody.”

“They didn’t do anything to stop the assault, either.”

“What did you expect them to do, jump into the line of incisor fire?”

“Kelly should have pulled up on the reins the moment the horse made a move.”

“Maybe she didn’t know, probably because horse biting hasn’t been covered in horse camp yet. It’s only the first day.”

“Sorry, pard. But rules are rules.”

This is nuts, but maybe there’s a silver lining somewhere in all this bullshit. “I want my money back.”

“No refunds. It says so on the brochure.”

“I didn’t see the brochure.”

“You should catch up on your reading.”

“I want my money back.”

“Sorry, no can do.” Dutchy with a “y” licks the tips of her thumb and forefinger, puts her hat back on, and runs her wet digits across the tip of the brim. “Evenin’, Mr. Sherlock.” Dutchy leans to the left, reaches underneath her right butt cheek, gives herself a scratch, and says “Aaaah.”

Back in the car, the girls wait impatiently.

“What happened, Dad?”

“No, you tell me what happened. She said you provoked the horse.”

Care speaks first, which tells me something immediately.

“Rascal barely bit her. There wasn’t even any blood.”

“What happened, Kelly?” I ask, determined to get to the bottom of the situation.

“Janine is a real bitch.”

“Kelly, you’re not allowed to say ‘bitch’, especially around your father.”

“She says it around me all the time,” Care says.

“Shit, Dad. That’s what Janine is.”

I yell, “You’re not allowed to say ‘shit’ either!”

“I’m only trying to be honest,” Kelly raises her voice an octave higher than mine. “Janine Bactine is a shitty bitch.”

“Kelly!”

“What? Just because her dad has a lot of money and bought her a Kentucky thoroughbred horse, doesn’t mean she can diss Rascal anytime she wants to.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Janine Bactine said Rascal had more flies buzzing around him than a kid on the Save the Children TV commercial. So, I said her horse wasn’t good enough to walk in Rascal’s road apples.”

“And?”

“Rascal must have picked up on my vibe. He went over and bit Janine in her designer jodhpurs.”

“So, it was provoked?”

“Not by me, Dad.”

I don’t know what to do. I better think this thing through, before I get mad and bite someone myself. I start the car and pull out of the driveway.

“What are we going to do, Dad?” Care asks.

“Cancel the check I wrote to this place.”

“No, I mean about the rest of our vacation time with you,” Care qualifies her point.

Kelly jumps in. “Yeah, Dad, what other fun things do you have planned?”

I shudder to think I am raising two more Tiffanys.

_____

First thing Tuesday morning I call the bank. I must push three hundred different prompts, follow the directions of a computerized voice, and try my best to stop payment on Dutchy’s check, but I end up in a “phone hell” worse than any Dante could have imagined. A few times I yell back at the voice in frustration, but it ignores my anger. I hit the O numerous times in hopes of speaking to a human being, but each time I get bounced back into the pit of “phone hell.” Alexander Graham Bell, what have thou wrought?

I wake the girls at eight, yet another unpleasant experience.

“Why are we getting up so early?” Care says through her sleepiness. “We’re on vacation.”

“We have to go to court.”

“Is Mom suing you for more money?”

“Yes, but not today,” I tell them. “Get up, get dressed, and get something to eat.”

“Gee, Dad, you’re no fun.”

“Someday, Kelly, you’ll be a parent, and you’ll be no fun either.”

“Not anytime soon, Dad,” she tells me.

I certainly hope that’s the case.

_____

America is a litigious society. When we have a problem or feel malfeasance has been perpetrated upon us, we have the right to sue in a court of law. The fact that we have this right is a good thing. The fact that everybody seems to sue everyone for anything and everything is a bad thing. To be a good American, you have to take the good with the bad.

Daley Center is packed. With the holiday last week, tons of cases got backed up due to vacation days, sick days being taken, and criminals leaving early to get a jump on holiday wrongdoing. At nine-thirty the court is already an hour behind schedule.

As the three of us sit in the back row, two idiots stand before the judge. The guy on the left is suing the guy on the right because he claims the guy’s dogs bark so loud, and so much, that he can’t sleep, which in turn caused him to nod off at work, which in turn was the reason for him being fired from his job as a night watchman.

“What’s taking so long, Dad?” Care asks.

“The wheels of justice can be slow to turn.”

We get “shushed” by the bailiff.

Now the guy on the right is getting his turn, countering with the argument that his dog only barks during the day, when provoked by sirens, traffic, kids, and other dogs; all normal, run of the mill everyday reasons to arf, arf. He’s counter-suing the guy on the left for animal cruelty, claiming he uses a BB gun on Jekyll and Hyde, his two basset hounds.

I am intently following the case, only to be surprised to hear the words I’ve come to loath. “Oh, Mr. Sherlock.”

“Tiffany, what are you doing here?”

“Hi, Tiffany,” my girls call out in unison.

“Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“No.”

And the bailiff throws the lot of us out of the courtroom.

In the hallway, I ask, “Tiffany how’d you know I was here?”

“My dad told me.”

“Did he say you were getting on his nerves?”

“Yes. How’d you know?”

“I’m a detective.”

“It’s like you have a sixth detective sense.”

“Tiffany, will you take us shopping?” Kelly asks.

“Later maybe. Right now your dad has given me an assignment on the case we’re working on together.”

“Can I help?” Care asks.

“I don’t see why not.” Tiffany says. “I like working as a team, better than by myself.”

At that moment, the bailiff comes out the courtroom door. “Stroup versus Richmond Insurance,” he announces loudly.

I tell the girls, “You people stay out here.”

From the opposite direction I hear, “You got the pictures, Sherlock?”

I look to my left, and see Dewey Didier, Esq. in his thousand dollar suit, standing in the aisle with Leonard Louis. “Is he trying to sell you some pictures?” I ask.

“How’d you know?” Dewey says.

“Mr. Sherlock is a detective,” Tiffany answers.

Leonard gives me a “hello there” smile.

“Hand ΄em over, Leonard.”

Leonard Louis separates his stack of photos, and hands me the top half.

“Don’t I get all of them?” I ask.

“No.”

“Why not? I paid for them.”

“I never said you got all of them,” Leonard says. “I need enough to go around for everyone.”

It is pointless to argue. Why bother?

I follow Dewey into the courtroom, and the three girls follow me. So much for staying behind.

Judge Hopkins must have ruled in favor of the guy on the left, because he jumps up and down, and points his index finger at his nemesis, “I told you, you were going down.”

Woof, woof.

Now it’s our turn.

Dewey and I proceed through the swinging half-gate into the inner sanctum of the courtroom. The girls take a seat in the front row.

Dewey Didier is one of the many attorneys employed by Richmond Insurance. He was hired not due to his law school pedigree, or his background in civil law, but mainly on the basis of the “It takes one to know one” theory of law. Dewey is as dishonest as a jailhouse snitch. He has no problem lying, cheating, avoiding the truth, or stretching it. His biggest problem is trying to remember which lie he just told, so he doesn’t tell another lie that may or may not negate his previous whopper. He and Leonard Louie make perfect bookends.

I sit at the defense table. Dewey approaches the bench.

Ralph Stroup, the Plaintiff in the case, slowly makes his way up the aisle with the use of a walker. His wife, a plus-sized older woman who wears what resembles a flowered tent, follows closely behind. This dumpy, dour woman with a built-in bad demeanor wheels Ralph’s portable oxygen tank, the tubes of which run from the top of the tank to Ralph’s belt, up his back, around his head, and into his nostrils. Ralph’s face resembles a sick catfish. He wears a pair of stained slacks that haven’t met a hot iron and one of those dress shirts that has a square bottom ending at the beltline. Every time Ralph moves, a flash of white pasty stomach or back fat is revealed. He has no attorney present, but does carry a copy of Lawyering for Dummies on the top of his walker.

Ralph Stroup sure looks a whole lot different than the last time I saw him.

The bailiff reads the spiff on the case. Ralph moans. Dewey shuffles his papers. Judge Hopkins tries to look interested, and I keep the photos of Ralph at the motel hidden for maximum dramatic courtroom effect. The gavel comes down. “Proceed,” the judge orders.

Ralph calls his only witness to the stand — himself.

“Mind if I stand on the stand, Your Honor?” he asks after he is sworn in. “The pain, Your Honor. The pain.”

“Whatever.”

“I was severely injured in the performance of my duties as the night janitor while working at the Groupon Corporation.”

“What happened?” the judge asks, although he’s not supposed to.

“I was plunging the number three toilet in the ladies bathroom, when I was crippled for life. The sign clearly says, Do not flush tampons in toilet, but these uppity, cyber-spaced-out women don’t pay attention. Just when I thought I had the clog cleared, the pressure backed up and the toilet exploded like a volcano, knocking me back into the stall like a circus clown shot out of a cannon.”

I turn around to see Tiffany holding her hands over Care’s ears.

“Due to the incidence, I suffer from sciatica, gout, lower back pain, COPD, nerve damage, and ED. That’s erectile dysfunction, Your Honor.”

“Thank you for the added explanation, Mr. Stroup,” the judge says. “I’m sure the last remaining person on earth who hasn’t seen a Viagra commercial is appreciative. Continue.”

Ralph takes as deep a breath as he can. “And although I have given them ample proof, along with doctors’ statements and test results, the Richmond Insurance Company refuses to pay out on my disability policy.”

The bailiff takes a folder filled with papers and notes from Ralph.

“Your Honor,” Dewey interrupts. “The defense in this case has not been privy to the contents of the file, Plaintiff is offering as evidence.”

The judge opens the file carefully. He picks up one sheet from the pile, and holds it up by the tip of the right hand corner for all to see. It’s covered with enough bodily fluids to fill a research facility.

“Why don’t you take the originals, Mr. Didier, and make me copies.”

Dewey takes a long look at the moist pages and refuses the file. “On second thought, Your Honor, I’m good.”

“Let’s move on.” The judge is losing patience.

Ralph continues to give unneeded details concerning his ailments. The comments describing his current phlegm are especially graphic. His story is punctuated by grunts, groans, and verbal disclosers including “I’m not sure I can go on any longer,” and “I’m living in a torture chamber.” He finishes by trashing Richmond Insurance as a part of an evil conspiracy of big business intent on cheating the little man in America out of what he’s due.

If I’m grossed out, I can only imagine what my kids are thinking, listening to all this. I turn around and see Tiffany totally engrossed and hanging on every Stroup description as if it were a plot point in a soap opera. Kelly couldn’t care less, and Care is busily preparing to give her sister a wet willie.

“Mr. Stroup, do you rest?”

“No, not very well, Your Honor.”

“I meant your case.”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Didier, your witness.”

Dewey approaches Ralph and asks, “Mr. Stroup, are you forced to use your walker on a twenty-four hour basis.”

“No.”

“No? You don’t use it twenty-four-seven?”

“I don’t take it to bed with me,” Ralph explains. “Although I might as well since I can’t sleep.”

“I thought you might be a sleepwalker.” Dewey’s attempt at humor falls flat.

“You can’t be a sleepwalker if you can’t get to sleep,” Ralph counters.

I see to my left Leonard Louis is speaking in hushed tones with Ralph’s wife.

Dewey moves on. “Mr. Stroup, one week ago did you register as a guest at the Sleepy Hollow Motor Motel on West Madison Street in Chicago?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Ralph, in a fit of panic, sneezes out a nose-full of snot, backing up the oxygen tube.

The entire audience in the courtroom literally pushes back in their seats to avoid the spray.

Dewey repeats the question.

“I really couldn’t say,” Ralph responds.

“Did you, or didn’t you?”

“I can’t say because I also have memory lapses. . . on account of the accident.”

“Why didn’t you mention that in your list of ailments, Mr. Stroup?”

“I forgot.” Ralph smiles, thinking he may have won on this point.

I pull out the stack of eight-by-tens from the envelope Leonard gave me and hand them to Dewey, who carefully keeps the photos out of Ralph’s line of sight, until he begins to reveal them one by one.

“This sure looks like you entering the Sleepy Hollow, and checking in for their Nooner special,” Dewey says, holding the picture up for all to see, including Mrs. Stroup.

Ralph coughs. Mrs. Stroup and Leonard Louis shake hands, as if settling on a price.

“And this looks like you in the room you rented.”

Ralph keeps coughing. Mrs. Stroup waits impatiently for the next photo to be revealed.

“And your friend, who joined you at the motel…” Dewey says pointing her out in the next photo. “Please tell her I love her beehive hair-do.”

Judge Hopkins has already had enough, but he allows Dewey to go through the rest of his show and tell, ending with the last photo of a naked Ralph in manly splendor.

“Sure doesn’t look like someone who suffers from ED to me.”

I turn around again, and see Tiffany covering Care and Kelly’s eyes. Thank you, Tiffany.

“Would you care to comment on these photos, Mr. Stroup?”

Ralph quits coughing. “That’s not me.”

“Then who is it?”

“My twin brother.”

Judge Hopkins’ head thumps unto the top of his desk.

“Fraternal or identical?” Dewey asks.

“Both,” Ralph answers.

The gavel comes down. “Mr. Stroup, you have five days to produce your twin brother, or the case will be dismissed.”

“He’s in Peru, Your Honor.”

“Five days.” The judge tells Ralph. “Next case.”

The moment the gavel comes down, Mrs. Stroup seizes the oxygen tank and begins clubbing her husband repeatedly. Ralph finds a sudden burst of energy, to fend off the blows, and skedaddle, as the bailiff restrains the woman.

“Order, Order!”

Mrs. Stroup grabs the photos from Dewey and presents them to the Judge, “I want a divorce.”

I hurry up the aisle to collect Kelly and Care. “Come on, we’re done here.”

“Can we see the pictures, Dad?” Kelly asks.

“Yeah, can we?” Tiffany adds.

“Absolutely not.”

I come face-to-face with Leonard at the door of the courtroom. He has a big smile on his face, as he points to Mrs. Stroup being led away in handcuffs. “Yep,” he says. “Another satisfied customer.”

_____

The question now is not what to do, but what to do next? The seventy-two hour window on Schnook’s kidnapping is up, so the chances of solving this case decrease, at least, three-fold.

If ya don’t catch ´em quick, it gets harder and harder to catch ΄em.

I should probably hook-up with Oland to see how he’s doing, but he’s not real thrilled with me to begin with, so maybe things are better left unsaid for the time being.

I consider questioning the family members one by one, but that’s too depressing. I still have questions for Moomah, but none concern Oz. I could check in with Herman, but his apartment would be the last place on earth I’d ever take my kids.

The reason for my indecision is that I’m having a very difficult time getting my head around a number of aspects of this case: the ease with which Kennard was able to secure the million in cash, the way the ransom was delivered, the family’s reaction, the missing diamond necklace, Schnook’s story of confinement, Gigolo Johnny Spaccone, and why Moomah is so cheap. If these things weren’t enough to confuse me, I also have two most troubling problems: what do I do with my two kids while I beat the bushes, and why anyone as classy and attractive as Anthea Andrews would want to date me? I can’t get the woman out of my head.

I tell myself I can’t solve the puzzle until I have all the pieces of the puzzle.

“Tiffany,” I say to my so-called assistant. “How well do you remember Moomah’s missing necklace?”

“As if it were my own,” she says without hesitation.

“Come on, we’re leaving,” I tell my crew.

“Where are we going?”

“Shopping?” Kelly asks hopefully.

“No, we’re going to see the Mona Lisa.”

“Oh, Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany says. “I hate culture, except for cultured pearls.”

“And I hate art,” Kelly adds. “It is like so boring.”

CHAPTER 13

Mona Studebaker, the Lisa was added later as a marketing ploy, once upon a time showed great promise as “the next significant artiste of the twentieth century.” She attended the Rhode Island School of Art, spent time in Paris sketching the Seine, and had her own studio in Soho, New York. Her only problem was she could never sell any of her paintings. For some unknown reason, art collectors never responded to her life-size renditions of disco-dancing gargoyles painted in glow-in-the-dark colors.

As the twenty-first century rolled in, Mona found herself reduced to being a street artist, attempting to sell her creations to lost tourists, drunks, and female entrepreneurs dressed in hot-pants. Good corners are hard to find in NYC. After months of maintaining her streak of “no sales,” Mona decided to relocate to Chicago, where she heard they had “a better appreciation for real art,” and set up her paintings on a corner adjacent to the famous Art Institute. As luck would have it, on her first day, she was arrested for peddling without a license, taken to the downtown station, and booked for a stay in the “sin bin.” Getting busted turned out to be her dark cloud’s silver lining, because while she was wasting away behind bars she overheard a couple of detectives trying to squeeze a description out of a snitch with very little luck. Mona offered her services, and her new career was born.

As a sketch artist, Mona was pretty good. She amazed even herself. Mona would ask the eyewitness questions like “Did he look mean?”, “Did his nose fit his face?”, and “Would you put him in the Brad Pitt or the Danny DeVito category?” As the witness spewed forth with point, after pointless point, Mona would sketch, rub, erase, fix, re-fix, lengthen, narrow, thin-out, and fill out the drawing until her talents brought the perpetrator to life. “Wow, that looks just like him,” the witness always said.

Mona’s renditions of wanted criminals were hanging in Post Offices, on telephone poles, and on Police Station bulletin boards. Better yet, her work was being seen on local television news shows, always preceded by the words “If you have seen this person, call the Chicago Police Tip Line immediately.” To make herself more marketable, she began to sign her work Mona Lisa Studebaker, for art collectors who might be watching the broadcasts, or waiting in line to buy stamps.

Mona Lisa had her studio in her studio apartment in a crummy neighborhood on the near West Side. It was filled with easels, mattes, canvases, and enough paint drippings on the wood floor to pass for a Jackson Pollack rip-off. The facility was also her home, but it was difficult to tell where the living space ended and the art space began. There had to be a kitchenette and a bathroom in the place somewhere, But at first glance, they were impossible to find.

“Mona, this is Kelly, Care, and Tiffany.”

“You want a glow-in-the-dark, family portrait, Sherlock?” she asks.

“No, I need you to do a necklace.”

“I’m a painter, not a jeweler.”

Kelly and Care wander off to take in the atmosphere. “This place is so cool,” Kelly says. “I want to become a painter, Dad.”

“You can be first after me, Kelly.” I turn back to Mona. “Tiffany will describe the item and you draw it up.”

“I can do that.”

As those two get settled across from each other, Kelly remarks on what she sees. “You paint all these?”

“Yep.”

“I like this one,” Care tells her.

“That’s a spill from yesterday,” Mona admits.

“What are these?” Kelly asks, standing between two yellow and green cosmic characters doing the rumba.

“Gargoyles,” Mona says. “Sometimes you see them on buildings or in movies like Ghostbusters.”

Tiffany starts to hum the movie theme song.

“I didn’t know they danced?” Care says.

“That’s what makes mine unique,” Mona says with pride. “Wanna buy one?”

“No thanks.”

“As if I haven’t heard that before.”

It’s time we got down to business. “Tiffany,” I say. “Describe Moomah’s necklace for Mona.”

“It’s expensive.”

“You might want to concentrate a little more on the details.”

“Okay, it’s really expensive.”

“How big?” Mona asks.

Tiffany spreads out her hands, as if she’s lying about a fish she caught. “Huge,” she says.

“Shape?”

“Excellent. I have a personal trainer.”

“She’s referring to the necklace, Tiffany.”

“Well,” Tiffany says. “It’s kinda like this.” Tiffany starts to move her hands like a swami putting on a spell.

“If it was that big, wouldn’t it be awfully heavy to hang on your neck?” Mona asks.

“Moomah’s got the bulk to support it.”

“What kind of chain?”

“Gold, 24-carat. Enough to melt down into a bar.”

“Diamonds?”

“Plenty.”

“Tiffany, I’m not sure you’re supplying enough facts for Mona to work with.”

Mona interrupts, “Let me handle this, Sherlock.” Evidently, she’s been in this situation before. “Go over there, find a blank canvas, and you and your kids paint a fruit bowl.”

Admonished to the far corner of the room, I say, “Get a brush, girls, we’re going to find our inner Picasso’s.”

Fifty minutes later, Mona is coloring in the rubies and sapphires, as Tiffany stands over her shoulder. “Could you put more sparkle on the diamonds?”

Mona complies and holds the picture up for approval. “Bueno?”

“It looks good enough to wear,” I tell her.

“I only wish I was wearing it,” Tiffany says.

Mona shoots a digital rendition of the sketch and gives me the copy, explaining that she never parts with her originals, just in case she’s finally recognized as the next Marc Chagall.

“What do you think of our fruit?” Care asks the artist in residence, holding up our creation.

“Wormy.”

_____

Tiffany’s drives her Lexus 430 through the streets of Berwyn, Illinois, up one block and down the next. I sit shotgun. The girls ride in the back.

“Why don’t you just give me the address?” Tiffany says. “I’ll punch it into my GPS and we’ll get there in no time.”

“I can’t remember the address,” I tell her. “When I see the house, I’ll recognize it.”

“With gas prices what they are today,” Tiffany informs me, “this is not an economical way to travel.”

“Do you pay for your own gas, Tiffany?”

“Of course not. It’s a company car.”

“Just keep driving. We’re getting close.”

It doesn’t help that Berwyn is made up of one bungalow house after another, one street after another, and one block after another, that all look exactly the same, but with my odd-ball memory, I’ll know the house when I see it.

“Dad, this is like really boring,” Kelly says.

We traverse a few more streets and lo and behold, “That’s it, pull up and park.”

Tiffany parks on the wrong side of the street, “Don’t worry, I don’t pay for parking tickets either.”

I unbuckle and hit the car door latch. “You people wait in the car.”

“No way. We hate waiting in the car.”

The four of us traipse up the short sidewalk. I knock on the door.

A woman, who saw better years, years ago, opens the door, “I don’t want to buy anything.”

“Is Shervy home?”

“Who should I say is calling?”

“Richard Sherlock,” I say. The plump, dour woman stares at my companions. “And friends.”

Shervy Reckless was, and maybe still is, one of the best second-story men in the business. In his career, he’s stolen more jewels than Tiffany’s displays in their main store in NYC. With the nimble fingers of a composer playing piano by ear, door locks, padlocks, wall safes became melodious instruments in Shervy’s hands. They haven’t made one yet that Shervy couldn’t unlock. When electronics entered the industry, Shervy treated it as a new and exciting challenge. A number of security companies, as well as safe manufacturers have tried to recruit Shervy, but he’s always declined. Some guys just can’t cross over to the other side of the fence.

Today, he sits in front of the TV watching The Price is Right.

“I didn’t do it,” is his reaction to seeing me.

“Shervy, I thought you’d be glad to see me.”

“No such luck, Sherlock.” Shervy looks at my group. “This your posse?”

I introduce my girls, then Tiffany.

“Tiffany Richmond?” Shervy asks, as his eyebrows rise slightly. “You any relation to the guy who owns the insurance company?”

“Yes, he’s my daddy.”

“Tell your Daddy I didn’t do it.”

“Which time, Shervy?” I ask.

“All the times.”

Mrs. Shervy proves to be a very nice host, offering the girls cookies, as they watch the TV.

“Thank you very much.”

“I’m out of the business, Sherlock. How many times do I have to tell you?”

On the TV, a housewife from Iowa is playing the Pachinko game.

Without further ado, I pull out the photo of Mona’s rendition of Moomah’s necklace and hold it into the light for Shervy to take a good look. “You steal this?”

“No, but I wish I did.” His eyes open wide, as if he’s perusing a multiple item, dessert tray.

“Do you know who did?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if you did know?”

“No.”

Shervy takes a longer look at the photo and asks, “Where was it snatched?”

“The Block.”

“The building, where Ann Landers used to live?” Shervy asks.

“So, you know it?”

“Never been there.”

Shervy admires the picture of the necklace.

“If you were to steal something like this,” I ask. “What would you do with it?”

“The Arabs and the Chinese love this stuff.”

“They do?”

“Once it’s stolen, it’s on a plane to Shanghai or Arabia that night.”

“This is not what I want to hear, Shervy.”

“What did you want to hear?”

“Here’s the necklace,” I say. “You can have it back.”

“Yeah, Sherlock, like that’s gonna happen.”

I retrieve Mona’s picture, fold it carefully, and put it in my pocket. It’s time to go. “Thanks for the help, Shervy.”

“My pleasure.”

Mrs. Shervy gives me a smile.

Tiffany says, “Nice to meet you Mr. Reckless, but could I ask you a favor?”

“You can ask.”

“Could you try not to steal stuff my Dad insures?”

“I’ll try my best.”

_____

Next stop on the “Investigation Express” is the security department of Northern Trust. The offices are housed in a non-descript building adjacent to the main branch of the bank. There’s no name on the door, no address numbers, no welcome mat, and no doorbell. The four of us stand beneath a security camera and wait until we hear a buzz. The door opens and a guard, carrying a very large, black, mean gun, steps out to greet us.

“Yes?”

Arriving unannounced was not a good idea, but the mention of Anthea Andrews allows my entrance. Tiffany and the girls have to wait outside.

“That’s not fair,” Kelly argues. “We want to go in.”

“Life isn’t fair,” I tell my oldest. “Get used to it.”

After being frisked, scanned, and debugged I am accompanied to an elevator which only goes down. When the doors open on what may or may not be the bottom floor, the guard and I step out into a small foyer where we are met by a man who looks like he hasn’t seen the first floor in years.

“Richard Sherlock, I presume?”

“Yes.”

No intro, no name, no handshake. I feel like I’m visiting my ex-wife’s family. He leads me down a hallway, flanked by one office after another, each filled with computer screens, keyboards, modems, and a large server console pushed up against the back walls. The people working the computers are all men who wear thick glasses and are pale in skin and demeanor. No one speaks. This must be where computer geeks end up after they don’t develop the next, big iPhone application.

We end up in a large room with more monitor screens than the control room used to broadcast the Super Bowl. All the pictures are live, if you consider watching the inside of a vault “lively.” There are real time feeds of teller drawers, hallways, counting rooms, ATM’s, entrances, and exits. It’s a bit mind boggling, not to mention horribly boring. Not much of a plot in this TV movie. One guy sits behind a table in the middle of the room, monitoring the monitors. I’ll bet this guy is a real chatterbox in the office lunchroom.

“Mrs. Richmond, correct?” The guy reminds me of Lurch the butler from The Addams Family.

“Yes. I need to see who comes with her when she visits her money.”

Lurch’s fingers fly across the keys. The monitor does flip-flops and in a few seconds pages with four-by-four pictures flash on the screen. “You want a printout?”

“Please.”

“I don’t know if it’s allowed,” he says.

“Me neither, but could you do it anyway?”

One click of the mouse and the printer on the other side of the room begins to whir.

“I’ll give you two months’ worth.”

“Thanks.”

As the printer spews out the pages, I ask Lurch, “You like working here?”

“Anyone who’s got four kids under ten would like working here.”

To assure my memory for the way out is intact, the guard with the big gun leads me back to the door from which I entered. “Thanks for the tour,” I tell him. “Now, can you direct me to the gift shop?”

I chuckle at my wit. He doesn’t. You try to brighten someone’s day and this is the thanks you receive.

I step out onto the sidewalk, clutching my stack of photo prints, and hear: “Oh, Mr. Sherlock.”

I look towards the voice coming from across the street and see Tiffany seated at an outdoor table at Starbucks with my girls. I jaywalk across the street as any native Chicagoan would do.

Kelly and Care are sipping buckets of some frothy concoction.

“What are you drinking?”

“Grande Mocha Cappuccino Espresso, with extra vanilla, a touch of cinnamon, and low-calorie whipped cream,” Tiffany explains.

“I’ll have to scrape them off the ceiling after they drink those.”

“Dad, they’re really good.” Kelly speaks faster than Bugs Bunny on speed. “You should try one.”

“I think I have a buzz on, Daddy.” Care has enough froth on her upper lip to rival Santa’s ‘stashe.

“See what you’ve done, Tiffany?”

“What? I drink three or four of these a day.”

All three shake faster than an out-of-kilter rollercoaster.

“Did you have a good time at the bank?” Kelly asks.

“I wasn’t in the bank, I was in the bank’s dungeon.”

“You took pictures?” Care notices the pages in my hand. “Let me see.”

I spread the photo sheets on the small table. “We have to identify everyone, who has been in the vault with Moomah.”

Tiffany points out a particular shot. “That’s me, although I usually take a much better picture.”

“Somebody should have said ‘smile,’” Care says.

“Exactly.”

I gather up the pictures, stack them, take out a pen, and point to the first picture on the first page. “Who’s this?”

“Moomah,” Care says giggling.

I pick up her Mocha-Mocha Mambo Espresso, whatever, and pour the remainder into the street.

“Why’d you do that, Dad?” Care raises her staccato voice.

“You’re a ‘regular’ girl, not ‘ethyl.’”

“Huh?”

Kelly grips her drink like it was the last water she’d get before crossing the Sahara. Back to the pictures, “Now, who is this?” I ask again.

“It’s hard to tell,” Tiffany says.

“She has a hat on,” Care adds.

“I can see that.”

“Who wears a hat to a bank vault?” Tiffany asks.

“The Mad Hatter,” Care answers.

“I kinda like the hat,” Kelly says. “It’s kinda retro cool.”

This photo, unlike the others reveals nothing. The hat is as wide as an umbrella. About all you can see is her backside and a pair of ugly boots that go halfway up her calf.

“That dress she’s wearing sure is boring,” Tiffany says.

“I hate the color,” Kelly adds.

I don’t bother mentioning the photos are in black and white.

The woman in the photo could be anyone. You can’t see her face because of the dumb hat, or make out anything distinguishing about her body.

“But I do like her boots,” Kelly says. “Those are really hot.”

Next. There are shots of Moomah with Kennard, Elmhurst, Venus, Boo, Bertha, and Safari. Anthea also shows up a lot, accompanying a family pair or alone with Moomah.

“Ya know, Safari wears his safari hat in the vault.” Care says.

“Maybe because he’s on a hunt for free money,” Tiffany surmises.

“Do you think one of them snatched the diamonds?” Care asks.

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

CHAPTER 14

“You’re not allowed in the dining area without a dinner jacket, sir.”

“Excuse me?”

“We require proper attire,” the snotty maître d’ says to me.

“Why?”

Mr. Elmer Snooty, or whatever his name may be, doesn’t answer; he merely lifts his nose higher into the air.

“I guess you’ll have to wait outside, Dad,” Kelly says.

“Why don’t we just go to another restaurant? There’s more than one in Chicago.”

“No,” Tiffany says. “We have to go here.”

“Why, Tiffany?” I ask. “Do you have a coupon?”

“What’s a coupon?” Tiffany looks at me as if I have rabies.

“Dad, we like this place. It’s cool,” Kelly says.

“For a nominal charge, a dinner jacket could be supplied,” Elmer informs me.

“As long as it’s European,” Tiffany says. “I’ll buy.”

As Mr. Snooty hustles off, I notice my girls reviewing the many pictures hanging on the walls of the restaurant. “This guy’s in more pictures than anybody else.” Kelly points to a face in a frame.

“Who’s he?” Care follows.

“That’s Old Blue Eyes,” I tell them. “Frank Sinatra.”

“Never heard of him,” Kelly says. “Sounds like a hot dog.”

“I think most of the people in the pictures are dead,” Tiffany explains to the girls.

“Don’t worry,” I add. “It wasn’t the food.”

Elmer Snooty returns with a pea-green dinner jacket that would make an ape look uglier.

“You want me to wear this?”

“We have rules, sir.”

He helps me on with the coat. The sleeves end not far below my elbows. I look like a sixth grader in a third grader’s uniform.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tiffany slip Mr. Snooty a twenty. She points to a booth on the window side of the room. He escorts us there as if he were leading the Columbus Day Parade down Columbus Drive. We sit. Tiffany has the girls face the restaurant while we face the bar.

Mr. Snooty fastidiously places the menus before us and offers a final pronouncement: “If you are interested in our special desserts, please bear in mind that they require a forty-five minute preparation.”

“We’ll let you know,” I tell Mr. Snooty. “And please let me know if anyone mentions how good I look in this jacket.”

“I’ll be sure to make a note of it, sir.” Mr. Snooty turns on his heel like a bad ballet dancer and heads back to his post.

“You want to tell us what’s going on Tiffany?” I ask.

But before Tiffany can answer, Kelly asks, “Why do they call this place The Pump Room?”

“Yeah, I don’t see any pumps,” Care adds.

“I’m not sure why,” Tiffany says. “It’s really old. It was here, way before disco was invented.”

“It’s because they’re known for pumping up the prices.” I offer my take on Kelly’s question.

Tiffany shushes us. “That’s him.” She points toward the bar. As the girls turn around to see, she panics. “No, no, don’t turn around.”

I see a sixty-something dude, dressed in an open silk shirt, blue blazer, and pressed wool pants. His dyed, brownish-colored hair has a Donald Trump-ish flip from front to back; it doesn’t move when he does.

“Is it somebody famous?” Kelly asks, as she and her sister turn back around.

“You mean like Justin Beiber?” Care adds.

“Who’s Justin Beiber?” I ask.

“It’s Johnny Spaccone,” Tiffany says.

“Who?” Kelly asks.

“Johnny Spaccone.”

“Does he sing?” Care chimes in. “Has he been on American Idol?”

“He’s Moomah’s boyfriend,” Tiffany says. “Her intended.”

“Maybe he does sing and he serenaded himself into Moomah’s heart,” I wonder aloud.

“Oh, Dad,” Care says. “That is so romantic.”

Kelly tries to sneak a peek at the suspect.

“Don’t look. He’ll see you, and our jig will be up,” Tiffany says.

“Isn’t a jig a dance they do on St. Patrick’s Day?” Kelly asks.

“Don’t you think he’s already noticed us?” I wonder out loud. “Anyone with an ounce of fashion sense would have seen my coat by now.”

“I found out he comes here every night, at the same time, right before dinner,” Tiffany says. “He sits on the same barstool and orders a glass of white wine.”

“How’d you find that out?”

“I have ways.”

Johnny does seem quite comfortable on that barstool. A man in his element.

“Don’t move, Kelly,” Tiffany says, as she sinks a hand into her Prada tote. “You’re going to be my cover.”

Tiffany pulls out a pair of opera glasses, lifts her menu, and begins peering through the small glasses behind it, right over Kelly’s shoulder.

A waiter unexpectedly arrives and asks, “Having trouble reading the menu, miss?”

“No,” she snaps. “And go away.”

The waiter backs away slowly.

“Oh, oh,” Tiffany shrieks, “I’ve discovered something.”

“Eureka,” I say, with as little emphasis on the word as possible in my tone.

“Plugs,” Tiffany says. “He’s got plugs.”

“Those cute little dogs?” Care asks.

“Plugs,” Tiffany says. She must be zooming in on the guy’s scalp. “Hair plugs.”

“Can’t we turn around and look?” Kelly asks.

“No.”

“Change seats with me, Dad?”

I get up. Kelly and Care jump up and slide into the opposite side of the booth. Now they have the same view of the guy as I had. “Since I can’t see him, you girls are going to have to describe him.”

“He has one of those handkerchiefs in his coat pocket,” Kelly says.

“Ah, ha.”

“It’s silk,” Tiffany adds. “Very nice silk, not that cheap stuff they sell at department stores.”

“Do guys actually blow their nose into those things?” Care asks.

“No,” Tiffany says. “It’s one of the few ways men can accessorize.”

“If I had one, I’d blow my nose in it,” I tell my table. “I’m into function, not fashion.”

“He looks made-up perfect,” Care says. “Kind of like a grandfather Ken doll.”

“He gets his nails done,” Kelly says. “Can we do that again, Dad?”

“Not on my watch.”

“He keeps smiling,” Care says. “His teeth are like brilliant.”

“Whatever you do, don’t smile back.”

Tiffany drops the opera glasses and the menu. “He’s making his move Mr. Sherlock.”

I turn around to see Johnny Spaccone slide over one barstool to chat up a babe who is well into her AARP years.

“The slimeball is two-timing Moomah,” Tiffany says.

“Can you blame him?” I ask.

“Yes,” Tiffany says. “I should go over and give him a piece of my mind.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Because I’m undercover, working surveillance. Duh.”

“I don’t know, Tiffany. It might be the perfect time. You’d be questioning him when he least expects it.”

“That’s right. I’d be employing the element of surprise.”

Tiffany jumps up from our table and makes a bee-line for the bar.

“What’s she doing, Dad?”

“Ruining her own surprise.”

The three of us watch Tiffany butt in between Johnny and his lady friend. Johnny listens to Tiffany intently, gives her a big smile, and bids adieu to the AARP lady. He picks up his glass of wine, and follows Tiffany back to our table.

“Mr. Spaccone,” she says politely. “This is Kelly, Care, and Mr. Sherlock.”

The man graciously shakes hands and sits next to me, the only seat available. “Nice coat,” he says.

I raise my arms to reveal the sleeve length.

“You’d be amazed how many people I’ve seen wearing that jacket,” Johnny says.

Care points to the silk handkerchief in his pocket. “Do you ever blow your nose into that hanky?”

“Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Although I can see Tiffany scowl at the man, I kind of like this guy. He carries himself well, is totally relaxed, and seems to be enjoying the break in his usual action.

“What are you doing here?” Tiffany asks.

“I come here to meet women,” Johnny answers without hesitation. “What are you doing here?”

“I came here to meet you,” Tiffany snaps back.

“I’m flattered.”

“If you’re Moomah’s boyfriend, why aren’t you with her?”

“You know Moomah?”

“She’s my Grand-mama.”

“Did your Grand-mama inform you that we’re engaged?”

“I cannot reveal my sources.”

“If it was Moomah, in what state did she happen to be in when she told you about me?”

“Illinois.”

“I believe he was referring to Moomah’s mental state, Tiffany.”

“I knew that.”

“Your Moomah is such a lovely woman, Tiffany, you should be proud of her; although she does seem to exist in her own world much of the time. I assure you I thoroughly enjoy her company, and she enjoys mine.”

Tiffany goes for the jugular. “Just how well do you know her, Mr. Spaccone?” Tiffany puts special emphasis on the words “how well.”

“Shall we say we are friends in spirit and acquaintances in life.”

This guy is smooth. I bet he gets women by the boatload.

“You have intentions of marriage?” Tiffany asks.

“Are you proposing?”

“I mean Moomah, not me,” Tiffany corrects him.

“Yes.”

“You are? You want to marry Moomah?” Tiffany almost comes out of her seat.

“Who wouldn’t?”

“That’s not surprising for a man who has been married eight times, Tiffany.” I mention, getting more of a “how’d you know that” from Tiffany than from Johnny.

“Seven times, since I was married to one of my wives twice.”

“Seven times,” Kelly interrupts. “And I couldn’t get a date to the spring dance this year.”

“How’d you know all this, Mr. Sherlock?”

“I did my homework.”

“I always hated homework,” Tiffany says.

I get back to Johnny. “Shall we also say that in each of your divorces you came out on the plus side?”

“Let’s just say, I choose carefully.”

Johnny’s got me beat in that ballpark.

“Why do you wear a diamond wedding ring on your pinkie finger, if you’re not married?” Kelly asks.

“Because it fits.”

“Where did you get it?” Tiffany asks.

“Getting quite personal aren’t you?”

“The ring looks familiar.”

“Your Grand-mama gave it to me.”

“No way!”

“The night she proposed.”

“Proposed?”

“That is so romantic,” Care says. “Did she get down on one knee?”

Tiffany is suddenly breathless. Her perfectly tanned face turns off-white, and her French tipped nails tap repeatedly on her bleached front teeth. “Have you two set a date?”

“Moomah wants to be a June bride.”

“Oh my God.”

“She also wants to wear white,” Johnny informs the table.

“She can’t do that!” Tiffany bellows. “I won’t let her.”

“Wear white, or get married?” I ask.

“Both.”

The waiter returns. “Have you decided on your entrees?”

“No,” Tiffany says. “We haven’t even gotten past the color scheme yet.”

“I don’t think we have that on the menu,” the waiter says. “But if you want me to go ask the chef, I will.”

“Jerry,” Johnny says to the waiter. “I’ll have the filet, vegetables, and a Caesar salad.” Johnny’s definitely eaten here before.

Tiffany shoos away the waiter a second time. “It’s not going to happen, Mr. Spaccone. You can’t marry a woman who can’t tell you if it’s six-o’clock or Wednesday on one of her good days.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t. There are gigolo laws in this state that can be enforced.”

I was a detective for over nineteen years, and I can’t remember ever being in pursuit of a gigolo malfeasance.

Johnny sits back and smiles. He knows what he’s doing and having a swell time doing it.

“Do you ever go with Moomah when she visits her money?” I ask.

“Ah,” he says. “Watching her revel in her cash and jewelry?”

“Yeah.”

“She has an affinity for money, as I do for women.”

“Ever get the urge to sample the merchandise?” Tiffany won’t let up.

“No, Moomah and I have a platonic relationship.”

“I meant the jewelry.” Tiffany snaps back.

“I am merely a spectator to the gold rush, not a miner.”

“See anything else interesting while you’re in the vault?” I ask.

“Did I say I was in the vault?” Johnny questions.

“Not yet,” I say.

“Let’s just say I was allowed a viewing from a distance,” Johnny admits.

In my head, I flash through the pictures from the security camera. Johnny was not represented.

“Tell us what you saw,” Tiffany orders.

“The banker lady isn’t too hard on the eyes.”

Enough said.

Care stares at Johnny’s head and can no longer hold herself back. “How do you get your hair to do that?”

“You mean my flip?”

“Yeah, I’ve tried to do a wispy back curl, but I can never seem to get it to hold up.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you. It’s a trade secret.” He turns to see a new crop of eligible women arrive at the bar. “This has been charming, but I am afraid that my reason for being is calling, and I must return to my area of expertise. Would you be so kind as to have my dinner delivered to the bar area?” He stands, graciously, bids us all a fond farewell, and heads back to the bar where his prey awaits.

“I can’t believe it,” Tiffany says, still in a state of shock.

“That Moomah is going to beat you to the altar?”

“This is serious.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Tiffany.”

“Mr. Sherlock, you have no idea what it takes to plan a wedding these days.”

CHAPTER 15

Wednesday morning. I get the kids fed, showered, and ready for the day, of which I have no clue about what we are going to do. They’re very tired of wearing the same clothes.

“What fun things do you have planned for us today?” Care asks.

“How about the zoo?”

“We already did that.”

“Oh, yeah. Planetarium?”

“It’s daytime.”

“Aquarium?”

“Boring.”

“Art Institute?”

“Really boring.”

The phone rings, Care answers. “Hello.” She pauses. “It’s Tiffany.”

“It’s not after ten yet,” I say. “What’s she doing up?”

“She says we’ve got to come downtown.”

“Why?”

“Someone broke into Uncle Kenno’s condo and trashed the place.”

_____

The only items not broken were the big screen TV and the liquor cabinet. Thank God for small favors.

Whatever once rested on a table, a shelf, or in a case was now on the floor, which resembles a 7-11 aisle after an earthquake. A number of the dining room chairs are overturned, as well as the coffee table, and a high-backed chair. Somehow a number of pots and pans had made their way to the front room, as did the plates and dishes, which are in pieces wherever there’s hardwood flooring. The glass covering the appalling, tasteless framed art on the walls is either shattered or dented, because it was plastic and not glass.

“This looks like it was really fun,” Kelly says.

“You think they were looking to find something, Dad?” Care asks.

“It looks like they were looking to make a mess.”

“This is the reason the cleaning crew was invented,” Tiffany tells the girls.

I begin to take my own personal survey, which means I walk every inch of the room and search for something of interest. “By the way, where’s Kennard?”

“Closest bar, probably,” Tiffany says.

“Schnooks?”

“If we’re lucky, back in the trailer park.”

I go back to sleuthing, as well as listening to the girls converse about shoes, clothes, and spending my money.

“Tiffany, why don’t you go find Kennard while Kelly, Care, and I spend a little family time together.”

I can almost see the cogs turning in Tiffany’s brain when she says, “Come to think of it, I could probably use a Bloody Mary.”

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

“What do you want me to do if I find him?” she asks.

“Bring him back.”

“I don’t know if anyone could bring Uncle Kenno back. He’s so far gone a GPS System couldn’t find him.

“Seek, and you shall find, Tiffany.”

Tiffany scoops up her Prada tote like a big league shortstop and takes off.

“Now, you two stand over there, where the pots and pans are.”

The girls reluctantly do as they are told. I move around the kitchen, searching for the best line of sight to where they are standing. After a few moves, I’m satisfied. I move to the front room.

“Move to your left.” I point to where many of the knick-knacks, books, and shelf pieces now rest on the floor.

Out of their line of sight, I pick up one of the last pans in the kitchen and hurl it like a tomahawk right where they were standing. The pan lands at their feet with a thud, then bounces upward to take out a souvenir Stardust Hotel cocktail glass and an autographed photo of Harry Caray, the baseball announcer, not the actor.

Care and Kelly dive for cover and scream out, “What are you doing, Dad?”

I walk into the room and survey my damage. “I’m re-enacting the crime.”

“What crime?” Care asks.

“The break-in, dummy,” Kelly tells her sister.

I focus on my eldest and ask, “How do you know it was a break-in? There aren’t any signs of forced entry, broken down doors, or picked locks.”

“Tiffany said it was a break-in,” Kelly snaps back.

“Don’t focus on the obvious, Kelly,” I tell her. “Focus on the facts.”

Care seizes the opportunity to nail her sister. “I love it when Dad tells you, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, maybe somebody scaled up the side of the building like Spiderman?” Kelly suggests.

“No, this was an inside job.”

“That’s what I was going to say.” Care gives her sister a mocking glance.

“Stand over there in front of the busted artwork.” At this point I’m sure of what happened.

As if on cue, Tiffany re-enters the apartment with a large red plastic cup in hand. “Mission accomplished.”

“You found yourself a Bloody Mary?” I ask. “Anything else?”

“Yes, of course.” Tiffany goes back out the door and drags her stumbling half-uncle inside.

Kennard finds his favorite spot on the lumpy couch, and crumbles down like a hunk of dough landing on a baker’s workspace. “It was awful.”

“What was awful?”

“I leave, come home, and find the place ransacked.”

“Where was Schnooks?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was she here last night?”

“Yes, but she left, then came back.”

Tiffany asks, “Where’d she go, the cheatin’ side of town?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you two have an open relationship?”

Before Kennard has a chance to answer, Care asks, “What’s an open relationship, Dad?”

“It’s when a couple agrees not to read each other’s cell phone messages,” Kelly explains.

“We had a tiff,” Kennard admits. “You people don’t realize how stressful a kidnapping can be on a relationship.”

“You suspect Schnooks might have trashed the place?” I ask.

“No.”

“Then what happened?”

“Word got out that I had a million dollars in here and some crook must have broken in to find it,” Kennard explains with an extra slur in his words.

“Nobody broke any doors down to get in.” I say.

“Or, picked the lock,” Kelly adds.

“Spiderman would have left some webbing if he’d been here,” Care sums up.

“I always forget to lock the front door,” Kennard admits. “Maybe I’m too trusting.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” I tell the group.

Heavy beads of sweat form on Kennard’s brow as he sits on the couch. In the few days I have had the pleasure of knowing him, he seems to be growing pudgier around the middle and fleshier around the neck. He better start working out or those pounds are going to be hell to get rid of.

“All I know is when I got back home this morning, the place was a disaster.”

“Where did you go this morning?” I ask.

“I went to visit Moomah.”

“That was thoughtful,” Tiffany says.

“It was the least I could do.”

I step back and take one last look at the scene. “We’re going girls.”

Tiffany is shocked that I would leave right in the middle of questioning. “You’re not going to call the Police and have them investigate?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Yeah, Dad, why not?”

“For the same reason Kennard didn’t call them.”

“What was that?” Tiffany asks. Her eyes go from me to her Uncle and back to me.

“He didn’t want to appear to be a lousy housekeeper.” I end the discussion.

We gather as a clan and make our way out into the hallway. It’s as hot and humid as before. Tiffany pulls a small battery operated fan out of her tote, and cools her face before a bead of sweat forms.

“Where are we going to now?” Tiffany asks.

“To the Museum of Science and Industry.”

“Why?”

“It’s educational.”

“Mr. Sherlock, we can’t. We’re right in the middle of a case,” Tiffany argues. “Moomah’s necklace and the million dollars are still missing.”

“Would you rather stay here and help your uncle clean up?”

The mere thought of any type of physical labor drives Tiffany into crisis mode.

“Oh, no. I’d better come with you so we can discuss the particulars of the case.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I’ll drive. I hate that car of yours.”

_____

The Museum of Science and Industry is one of the greatest places on the face of the earth. It’s the last remaining structure of what was once was the Chicago Columbian Exhibition of 1893, where the Ferris wheel, the ice cream cone, and women’s fan dancing were first introduced to the American public. When you walk in the place, the first thing you see is a United Airlines 727 hanging from the ceiling. How they ever flew that in here beats the heck out of me. There’s also a jet flight simulator, a three story fulcrum, and the best exhibit of all, a World War I German U-boat. Many of the exhibits are interactive, so the girls can play along, answer their own questions, do projects, or hang around and get smarter by osmosis. You can burn five hours out of a kid’s day in the blink of an eye. As I stand around and watch the kids and Tiffany frolic in the knowledge and accomplishments of others, I review the timeline of the case.

It begins with Kennard going off on a mid-morning drinking binge at a yacht club he doesn’t belong to. While he gets tipsy, his so-called girlfriend Schnooks abruptly rises from her pedicure chair, wanders out onto busy Lincoln Avenue and with no fight or fuss gets kidnapped in broad daylight. Yeah, this sounds kosher, so far.

Next, Kennard does nothing for the entire day, except ask his mother for a million dollars in cash so he can pay off a ransom he received in a text message. Moomah, who spends most of her days in the Land of Oz, treks down to her massive safe-deposit box and extracts a million dollars in fifty dollar bills. Kennard takes the money home as if it were groceries, and leaves it on the dining room table. Boo, Kennard’s daughter, stops by to visit and ends up protecting what she hopes to be her money someday. The rest of the family somehow gets wind of the withdrawal and begins to circle their wagons.

I come on the scene, bring an unwelcome friend named Oland and we sit around eating junk food while waiting for the instructions from the kidnappers, or for one of Schnook’s body parts to appear on our doorstep like a UPS package. The ransom for Schnooks, which is to take place in the midst of one million people viewing a fireworks extravaganza, isn’t a switch, but a subsequent kidnapping of the drop-off man, Kennard. He disappears. Schnooks never surfaces. Oland is stumped. Hours go by. Kennard reappears in a Bozo the Clown suit.

The following day, Schnooks wakes up on an “L” station bench, and Tiffany discovers Moomah is not merely down a million bucks for Schnook’s recovery, but also a jewel encrusted necklace that makes the million in cash seem like chump change. In the evening I meet my first real live gigolo and the next morning Kennard’s condo is shaken, not stirred. Now, what is wrong with this picture?

Everything.

CHAPTER 16

I never trust a banker wearing a hat, fishermen, women who kickbox, how much the clerk tells me I save each week at the grocery store; and any appraisal of a house, a car, an antique, or piece of jewelry. An item is only worth what someone is willing to pay for it, when you want to sell it.

I’m at a point where my life has become especially difficult. Thanks to their being unceremoniously kicked out of horse camp, I have two highly impressionable pre-teenage children in tow, plus a naïve, sheltered, quasi-adult whom I must incessantly chaperone thanks to the demands of her father, who just happens to be my boss. If I try to convince them not to come along, the only course of action that will silence them is to spring for a shopping spree at the mall, and I can’t afford to consent to that. If I ask them to stay in the car while I drop in on some of my more unsavory “associates,” they won’t stand for it either. By taking them along, I will expose them to the seedy underbelly of life, which I come in contact with on a daily basis. Am I being fair to them by putting negative dents in their positive upbringing? What a dilemma. So, I am forced to investigate this case with this unsolicited trio of “women” tagging along. For someone who already hates his job, having to add camp counselor to his job description, causes me to hate it all the more.

We enter the Once A Pawn A Time pawn shop, located beneath the Blue Line “L” tracks on the Northwest side of town. During rush hour, every eight minutes the store shakes to a level of seven on the Richter scale.

“Is Freddy in?” I ask the creepy clerk.

“No,” he emphatically informs me.

“Tell him Sherlock’s here to see him.”

As the creepy clerk passes through a door into the back of the shop, I turn around to see my loyal wards checking out the merchandise. Tiffany peers down into the jewelry cases, Care stands dumbfounded at the number of musical instruments hanging on the walls, and Kelly can’t wait to start trying on the hundreds of different timepieces. My oldest has a penchant for telling time on expensive watches.

The creepy clerk re-emerges from behind the curtain. “You can go back.”

I don’t bother to inform the group that I will return soon, they’re all too busy wishfully thinking, but I do give the clerk instructions: “The younger ones aren’t allowed to buy anything.”

“They are if they have cash,” he tells me.

The back room of the pawn shop is more cluttered than the front. Freddy the Fencer, as he is affectionately known in the underworld of maligned merchandise, is seated in his wheelchair, jeweler’s loupe in his eye, examining a diamond ring. “You just don’t see the quality you used to see in my better days, Sherlock.”

“Freddy, how you feeling?”

“If you take away the arthritis, bursitis, conjunctivitis and in-grown toe nails, I’d feel great.”

Freddy has been in the business before Chicago’s own homeboy Tony Accardo, a.k.a. “Big Tuna,” was a minnow.

I pull up a chair and sit across from the old man. He claims he’s retired, but I know better.

“How’s business?” I ask.

“Terrible.”

“I need a favor.”

“Sherlock, you always need a favor.”

“At least I’m consistent.”

I pull out Mona’s picture of Moomah’s necklace and lay it in front of Freddy.

He picks it up slowly, as if to assess its weight, and examines it with his non-louped eye.

“What do you think?”

“I didn’t know you were an artist.”

“I’m not.”

“This a rendition of the real thing?”

“Yep.”

Freddy takes the loupe out of his eye. “They really don’t make ΄em like this anymore.”

A train passes over us. I notice. Freddy doesn’t. When the shaking stops, I continue. “In shekels, Freddy, what’s it worth?”

“It’s hard to tell from a picture.”

“Use your imagination.”

The hunched-over man tries his best to straighten up. “As is, or in pieces?”

“You pick.”

The octogenarian puts the loupe back into his left eye; evidently feeling more comfortable with it on than off. “Nobody moves stuff like this anymore. Whoever steals it removes the diamonds and puts them out for bid. They cut out the jewels and send those overseas. Whatever gold is left they take to one of these new-fangled gold stores and exchange it for cash. Damn stores don’t have to report on the items like we do. It ain’t fair, Sherlock. There ought to be a law.”

“Price, Freddy.”

Freddy is slouched down, but finally straightens up slowly. “Did you steal it?”

“No.”

“Did you buy it?”

“Me? I can’t afford Crackerjacks, much less the ring inside the box.”

Freddy continues to admire Mona’s work.

“Best guess, Freddy.”

High side, maybe four. Don’t quote me, it’s only a picture. I can’t tell the quality of the stones, until I feel them in my hands.”

“Four grand that’s all?”

“Millions, you idiot.”

“I knew that. I was just testing you, Freddy.”

“Who’s the victim?”

“Moomah Richmond.”

“Excellent source.”

“How would you know that?”

“Her stuff pops up once in a while.”

“It does?”

“Again, don’t quote me on that.” Freddy hands Mona’s picture back to me.

“One more favor?”

“Sherlock, you ask for more favors than a made man holding a marker.”

“Just let me know if the real thing pops up.”

“If this piece lands in my palm, you can find me out buying all new body parts.”

I carefully fold the rendering of the necklace and turn to exit. “Nice to see you again, Freddy. Take care.”

“I’m too old to take care.”

Out in front, I find Care blowing into a trumpet, Kelly with six or seven watches on her wrist, and Tiffany modeling engagement rings. “Let’s go, folks.”

“Dad, can I learn to play the trumpet?” Care tries to puff out a note.

“Get that thing out of your mouth.”

“Dad, I need a new watch,” Kelly tells me. “This Rolex is nice.”

“Put it back.”

Tiffany models a large diamond for my personal benefit. “A heartbreak for one is a sale item for another.”

_____

Since the kids have already been exposed to a crooked pawn shop, I might as well ruin their upbringing even further. We enter the West Side Police Station where Oland has his office. In the front foyer, where the sergeant sits at a raised desk, six ho’s and three pimps are being released after a slimy lawyer, who wears pajama tops under his blue and gold plaid sport coat, finishes counting out a stack of Hamilton’s.

“Don’t get mixed in with the overnight guests,” I tell the girls, who stare at the motley rabble passing by. My daughters grab hold of my hands for protection. Tiffany grabs hold of Kelly’s hand.

“Are they making one of those hip-hop videos here?” Care asks.

“No, stupid,” Kelly responds.

“They’re casting for the next Jerry Springer show,” Tiffany explains.

“Hey, Sherlock, long time no see,” the desk sergeant says with a wide smile.

“Not long enough, George. Not long enough,” I say with a smirk on my face. “Is Oland in?”

George watches me pass by with my three girls in tow. “Take your kids to work day?”

I don’t answer. What would be the point?

We go through a door and enter the squad room.

Detectives sip coffee, chomp on donuts, pick their fingernails, and sift through stacks of files littering their desks. Two people in handcuffs are being questioned and two people sit as their information is typed into a computer. The floors are filthy, the walls need paint, and the metal furniture is dented. There are blackened splotches on the floor and walls. Unless you were a cop or ER nurse, you wouldn’t recognize them as blood. The whole scene is loud, unstructured, messy, and fascinating to my girls.

“This is like being inside a TV show,” Kelly says to Tiffany.

“Not one I would watch,” Tiffany says. “I’ll take The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills over this any day.”

Instead of a regular cubicle, Oland has one in the corner of the room, which signifies his elevated status. “Beware of visitors arriving before lunch,” is his greeting.

“Any money show up?” I ask.

“Not a dime,” Oland says.

“Any car dealers report anyone paying with cash?”

“Drug dealers.”

“Any upgrades to a giant screen TV with cash?”

“All the drug dealers.”

“Anything new on the car?”

“No.”

“The Bozo costume?”

“No.”

“So, you got nothing?”

“Nothing from nothing, leaves nothing.”

“Wasn’t that a song?”

Tiffany asks, “You’re not in a very good mood, are you, Detective Oland?”

“No.”

“Have you ever tried aroma therapy?”

“Take a whiff, little lady, there’s enough aroma in this place to put anyone into therapy.”

Tiffany’s cell phone blares out the first chords of Adele’s Rumor Has It.

“I better take this,” Tiffany says, glancing at the lighted dial. “It’s my ‘got to get it ring tone.’”

She punches the phone pad with her finger, raises the phone to her ear, and listens. “Oh my God!” she remarks, and hangs up.

“That’s the shortest conversation you’ve had since you uttered ‘Dada’ in the crib,” I say to her.

“Moomah’s had a heart attack. She’s on her way to Northwestern right now.”

_____

The south end of the Streeterville section of the city, from Chicago Avenue to the Chicago River, used to be a hodgepodge of parking lots, low-rise condo buildings, an ancient furniture mart, one Veteran’s Hospital, and one regular hospital. In the past twenty years, the regular hospital, Northwestern by name, has taken over the area like the plague took over a medieval village. High-rise towers of health care are wedged into every available space, dotting the lakefront like shimmering square pylons jutting into the sky. There are walkways coupling adjoining buildings, a medical school, a rehabilitation center, dorms for students, apartments for staff, doctors’ offices, labs, testing facilities; everything medical from acne to zinc. If you are going to get sick, get sick in this neighborhood.

The ER is on the first floor of one of the newer buildings. Its double wide driveway curves around the entrance in a semi-circle. Tiffany stops her Lexus 430, climbs out, and heads toward the sliding glass doors like a greyhound chasing the mechanical rabbit.

“Can’t park there, lady!” the uniformed attendant calls out.

“I just did!”

The guy catches her before she makes it inside. “Sorry, but you can’t park there, lady.”

“Don’t you have valet parking?” Tiffany asks.

“No.”

Tiffany pulls out a twenty, adds her car keys, and hands them over to the bewildered attendant. “Well, it’s time you started.”

We follow our fearless leader inside.

For an ER, the place is quite calm. The female attendant at the desk munches on a bear claw. “Can I help you?” She asks through a mouthful of sugary dough.

“Mrs. Richmond, please.”

“You, too?”

Tiffany gives her a rich-girl stare.

The woman puts her snack down on a stack of paper, licks the tips of her fingers, and types on her computer keyboard. “She was admitted sixty-two minutes ago.”

“And?” Tiffany spits out.

“And what?”

“How is she?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask the doctor.”

“Who is. . .?”

The woman peers onto the screen. “I’m not sure. It says here Dr. Mudd, but he called in sick this morning.”

Not a good sign when the ER doctor calls in sick.

“What am I supposed to do?” Tiffany asks. “I want to find out about my grand-mama.”

“The waiting room is around the corner.” The woman points left to a short hallway. “The doctor will be in to report as soon as he has something to report.” She smiles. “Please enjoy a free cup of coffee, compliments of McDonald’s new lo-cal Egg McMuffin.”

Tiffany is steaming mad. I can tell she is about to let loose with a stream of salty invectives, but is interrupted by the clerk’s sudden question. “Patience doesn’t run in your family, does it?”

Before she can answer, I take Tiffany by the arm and lead her left, down the short hall and into the waiting area. Kelly and Care follow behind. We crash yet another family reunion. Kennard naps in the corner, Boo sips coffee, Safari reads a dog-eared National Geographic, Elmhurst paces, and Venus does what looks something like tai-chi. She’s dressed in a flowery, tie-dyed dress, which makes her look like she’s having an acid flashback to the glory days of a Haight-Asbury lovefest. Rounding out the assemblage is Bertha, Moomah’s octogenarian maid, who is the only one who shows any worry upon her face.

“What’s going on?” Tiffany shouts out to her family.

“We don’t know,” Elmhurst says. “They won’t tell us anything.”

“What happened?”

Bertha speaks up. “She said she didn’t feel well after breakfast, so I had her sit down; then she started to moan; then she started to burp; then she lay back; then she passed out.”

“And you called 911?”

“I did.”

Boo makes her way towards Tiffany. “Took you long enough to get here,” she says.

“I would have been here earlier, if you would’ve called me sooner.”

“What do I look like, your personal assistant?”

“No,” Tiffany says. “You look like you need assistance.”

Family relationships sometimes improve during times of crisis, but not for Tiffany and Boo.

“Was Moomah breathing when the paramedics got there?” I ask.

“I think so,” Bertha says. “They put that thing over her mouth and nose.”

“Did you notice anything different about her this morning, compared to other mornings?” I continue.

The maid thinks over my question. “She did seem to smell funnier this morning.”

“Funnier than what?” Boo asks.

“You know,” Bertha says. “Funny.”

“Funny, ha-ha, or funny, peculiar?” Elmhurst asks.

“I don’t know what that means,” Bertha says.

Neither do I for that matter.

“Did she stink?” Safari joins in the questioning.

“She always smells bad,” Venus says.

Bertha is stumped.

“Bad perfume, deodorant malfunction, or B.O.?” Boo chimes in.

“I’m not sure.” Bertha says, confused by the bombardment of questions.

“She’s got that ‘old lady’ smell,” Venus says. “I hate that.”

“You should talk,” Safari says to Venus.

Everyone quiets as a young man in light green scrubs enters the room. They stare at him as if he’s Doctor McDreamy from that TV show.

“I’m not a doctor. I just came in to get coffee,” he says. “Don’t tell anybody, the staff isn’t supposed to get freebies.”

The guy fills up, and is out of the room much quicker than he entered.

“You think it was a heart attack?” Tiffany throws out to the group.

“Probably,” Elmhurst says.

“And if it was, it’s your fault Kennard,” Safari accuses his half-brother.

“If anyone deserves a heart attack, it should be me,” Kennard says.

“What are you waiting for?” Safari asks,

“You people have no idea what I’ve been through.” It’s hard not to notice Kennard sports a distinct odor all his own: stale booze.

Everyone is up, and coming together to criticize and accuse. I pull Kelly and Care out of harm’s way. “Aren’t you glad you don’t come from a big family?”

Another guy enters the room, also dressed in scrubs, his brand blue. He looks half-asleep, the way an ER doctor is supposed to look.

“The staff isn’t allowed free coffee,” Boo tells him.

“Are any of you in the Richmond family?” he asks, and suddenly regrets his query.

The questions come fast and furious.

“Is she dead?”

“Did she have a heart attack?”

“Is she in a coma?”

“How much longer does she have to live?”

“Did she see a white light?”

“No. No. No. No, and I don’t know,” the doc says. “She’ll be fine.”

Instead of relief, I sense an air of absolute disappointment.

“Was it a heart attack?” Elmhurst asks.

“Intestinal blockage, causing a swelling and esophageal eruption.”

“Sounds fatal to me,” Safari says.

“Commonly referred to as a gas bubble.”

“Gas?”

“Whatever she ate, didn’t agree with her. It formed a gas bubble inside her intestines that got stuck and backed up like a sewer drain,” the doc explains. “Once she let loose, we wished we had an open window in the exam room.”

“Can we see her?”

“You might want to wait until the air clears.” The doc then asks, “What did she have for breakfast, anyway?”

“The usual,” Bertha says. “Garlic cloves on an onion bagel.”

“Yum.”

“Ann Landers used to swear by it,” Bertha says.

“Isn’t Ann Landers dead?” the doc asks.

“Yes.”

“So is her sister,” Kelly adds.

The doc finishes up. “We’ll keep Ms. Richmond here for a few more hours for observation. Hope you all have a nice day.”

The doctor sneaks some coffee and leaves the room. He is soon followed by the rest of the sad-faced family, who file out as if leaving a wake. Tiffany, Bertha, the kids, and I stay. We find our way to where Moomah sleeps, propped up in a hospital bed, an IV in her arm. Only a cloth liner separates her from other patients.

“If Moomah wakes up and finds she isn’t in a private room, she’ll really have a heart attack.” Tiffany warns us.

“She’s definitely in the right place for one,” Kelly says.

Tiffany leans close to Moomah and takes a sniff. “She does sport an al dente smell about her.”

Bertha straightens the bed sheets, as well as Moomah’s hospital gown; force of habit.

“Moomah’s making them crazy because she won’t die? Is that it, Tiffany?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“They’re all sitting on the edge of a fortune with a bad case of hemorrhoids?”

“Yep.”

“Do you think one of them can’t wait any longer, and is trying to hurry the inevitable along?” My final question in the series.

“Although it’s never happened to me, I’m sure the pain of being rejected at the ATM, could drive a person into serious action,” Tiffany admits.

Moomah stirs in the bed. Bertha holds her hand. The kids back up, fearing another gas leak.

“I wish you could’ve known Moomah when she was normal,” Tiffany says. “She was really fun to shop with.”

“I can imagine.”

“I don’t think she was real thrilled with her kids, except for Daddy.”

“Why not?”

“They’ve had their hands out so long waiting for money, their palms are tanned.” Tiffany is seldom this succinct.

“But Tiffany,” I say. “Being a crummy relative is quite a stretch from being a thief and a kidnapper.”

“I’m really scared, Mr. Sherlock.”

“Why?”

“What if I have some of their crummy DNA in me?”

Moomah starts to snore like a longshoreman with an adenoid problem. One massive eruption wakes her from her slumber, and her eyes open to see her granddaughter at her bedside.

“Am I back in Kansas?” she asks.

“No, Illinois.”

Moomah’s body might be alive, but it will probably take some time to get her brain to rise from the dead.

“Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” Moomah asks.

“Neither, I’m Tiffany. Moomah, you had a gastric attack. You have to quit eating so much garlic.”

“Why?”

“Because your system can’t handle it.”

“Where’s Toto?”

“We had to leave Toto outside,” Tiffany tells her. “Don’t worry, the Tin Man is watching her.

“If he only had a heart.”

“You know, Moomah, I’d watch out for falling houses if I were you,” an exasperated Tiffany adds.

CHAPTER 17

We step outside and Tiffany pays a fifty dollar charge to the newly appointed, valet. “Come again, soon,” he tells her.

We missed lunch. I offered to spring for hospital cafeteria food, but Tiffany nixed my generosity. “There are more germs on a salad bar than on a toilet seat,” she says.

“Exactly how did you test that, Tiffany?”

“I got somebody to do it for me.”

I decide not to ask how.

“Can we go to McDonald’s?” Care asks.

“No.”

“Burger King?”

“No.”

“How about Subway?”

I look over at Tiffany, she nods. “Alright, Subway it is.”

My girls order a foot-long sandwich and split it. I order a turkey club regular and Tiffany orders a veggie telling the clerk to “hold the bread.”

We sit at the small table to eat our feast.

“I have one more stop to make today,” I tell the troop.

“Can we go?” Care asks.

“I have to see Herman.”

Tiffany spits out a pickle, “No, no. You don’t want to go. The guy’s a walking infectious disease. He’s a candidate for the world’s biggest loser in more categories than just fat.”

“Oh, he couldn’t be that bad,” Kelly says.

“Trust me on this my little ingénues, Herman is so gross, homeless people don’t ask him for money.”

Care asks, “How bad is he?”

“Herman puts the man in man-ure.”

“Fine,” I conclude. “I’ll drop you off back at the apartment.”

“That’s boring.”

“It’s our summer vacation, Dad,” Care reminds me. “You’re supposed to entertain us.”

“And you’ll have to find a way to amuse yourselves tonight, because I’m not going to be home.”

“Where are you going?” Kelly asks, as if I don’t deserve a night out myself.

“I have a date.”

“A date!” Kelly screams for all of Subway to hear.

“The lady from the bank,” Tiffany says. “You asked her out?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe it, Dad,” Care says.

“To be honest with you, neither do I.”

“Where are you going to take her?” Kelly asks.

“Dinner and some charity event.”

“I knew she was hot for you. Think you’ll get lucky?”

“Tiffany!”

“Probably shouldn’t have asked that in front of your impressionable children, uh?”

“No.”

There’s a slight pause and Kelly asks, “So, do you think you’ll get any action, Dad?”

I give Kelly my “stone face” stare, then announce, “We’re leaving.”

“Let me make a reservation for you, Mr. Sherlock. I know all the best places in town to impress a woman.”

This isn’t a bad idea.

“And I’ll watch the kids tonight, among other things.”

_____

The door opens and I can actually see the particulate floating in the air like an acid rain cloud ready to erupt.

“What’s that smell, Herman?”

“What smell?”

I pull out my dirty handkerchief and press it against my nose and mouth to keep me from breathing the toxic waste.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sherlock,” Herman says as he chews a cud of something in his mouth.

I run to the windows, throw up the sashes, and allow the humid Chicago air inside, which is a major improvement to the existing air pollution wafting above the furniture. “It’s like a herd of buffalo farted in here at the same time.”

“Probably has something to do with this new diet I’m on. All cheese, all the time.”

There’s a stack of porn magazines on the couch, the only place suitable to sit. I clear them away and place a few old newspaper sections on it before I plop down. “I thought everyone uses the Internet to watch porn?”

“Call me a purist.”

Herman, still chewing his cheese cud, pulls up a chair from his dining room set. It squeaks as his enormous bulk settles upon it. “Where’s Tiffany?”

“She’s with my kids.”

“Has she asked about me?”

“Asked, no. Commented, yes.”

“Think she’d go out with me, if I asked her?”

“I doubt it.”

He gets a moon-eyed look on his face. “We could go to and wine a cheese tasting.”

“I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.” I try to be honest, although I know he’s not listening. Nobody listens to me, why should Herman be any different?

“I’m going to wait until I lose ten pounds before I pop the question.”

Herman losing ten pounds would be equal to a glider coming off an aircraft carrier.

“What did you find out?”

Herman swallows his dairy product, sits back on the squeaky chair, and says, “You know Sherlock, you should really start hanging around with better people.”

Why do so many people all of a sudden want to be my life coach?

“Please, tell me why.” I drip as much sarcasm into the question as possible.

“Take this Kennard Horsley. What a loser.”

Coming from a four-hundred pound, porn addicted, never-leaves-his-apartment, Herman; this is quite a condemnation.

“Do tell.”

“He’s been living off his mother since he graduated from college, and he’s got a daughter that’s worse than him.”

“Boo.”

“My sentiments exactly. Even his condo is in his mother’s name.” Herman pulls a sheet of paper out of the pile and hands it to me. “Here’s a little something else. Kennard used to own a bar.”

“He did?” I quickly read a copy of an old city tax assessment.

“His mother fronted him the money.”

“So, he owned a bar.”

“Which means he knows how to steal,” Herman says.

Everybody in the bar business knows how to steal: waitresses, bartenders, managers, bar-backs, and especially the owners, who steal from the government. It’s the way you make your living in the bar biz.

“Or, maybe he didn’t know how to steal,” Herman continues. “And that’s why the bar went bust.”

“Or, maybe he drank whatever profits were left after everybody had their hand in the till?”

“It’s possible. Anyway, after three years of losses, the old lady shuts the place down, and sells the property for a seven-hundred grand profit.”

“Somebody knew what they were doing.” I conclude.

“Evidently, not Kennard.”

“Anybody can be a thief, but it can be tough to be a good one.” I lean back on the couch, but my butt slips on the magazines and I almost slide off and land on the floor. I regain my balance before I ask, “How about his girlfriend, Schnooks?”

“On paper, she’s dumber than dog shit. How is she in person?”

“I’m not sure I’d rank her that high.” I hesitate to wonder how long Herman’s chair can take the pressure it’s under. “How about Safari?”

“He started out strong, but he’s faded in the stretch. Back in the nineties, he must have got some good tips, because he sunk a lot of his cash into Cisco, Microsoft and some other high-flying techs of the time. Pets.com never made the big bucks, but his winners far outdistanced his losers. The lucky bastard bailed out before the 2000 crash. After that, Safari disappeared for a while, came back to count his money, then disappeared again.”

“He was on safari.” I fill in the blank.

“I would have never guessed.”

“He have anything left?” I ask.

“IRS got their share and keeps coming back for more, but Safari might be the type to have stuffed some in his mattress.”

Herman gets up, waddles to the fridge, and opens the door. “Sure you don’t want any cheese?”

“Positive.”

Herman puts a hunk in his mouth and returns to torture the poor chair. “Elmhurst, now at least he’s got a job, although teaching at one of those Internet campuses is hardly the pinnacle of academia.”

“Venus?”

“There’s always one screwball in a set of ball bearings.” Herman burps. “She’s generous to causes like bumble bee breeding, sperm whale conservation, and protecting the snail darter. While her half-brothers lose their money, she gives hers away.”

I immediately wonder if she’d be interested in donating to a college education fund for the daughters of private detectives who have lousy incomes and no pensions?

“Venus is loonier than a psycho on LSD.”

“Which one would you pick as the thief, Herman?”

“All of them. There’s no way any of them could have made it day to day without cash infusions from the old lady.”

“Five grand a month isn’t bad, Herman.”

“Maybe for you, Sherlock, but these kids are used to the better life. Even Venus drives a Mercedes.”

Herman hands me a stack of papers. “It’s all here in black and white. IRS problems, liens on property, civil lawsuits, unpaid parking tickets; everybody’s got their fair share.”

I rifle through the pages and wonder how he gets this information, but don’t ask.

Herman chews away. His breath smells like month-old sour milk. “I thought you were working on a kidnapping?”

“I was, but from the little acorn grew the mighty oak.”

“Lucky you.”

“Tell me about Moomah.”

Herman has to lift his oversized belly with both hands to change positions in the squeaky chair. “There’s a reason she’s got so much money. She seldom lets any of it out of her sight.”

“Then how do the kids dip into the funds?”

Herman’s belly rests on the top of his thighs. “I’m sure there are lots of ways of tapping into Moomah’s chunk of change. When the feedbag is full, it shouldn’t be too hard to nibble away at the edges.” Herman has to take a breath. This is his idea of exercise. “Sure you don’t want some cheese?”

I’ve heard enough, and suspect Herman’s last movement in the chair is a precursor of emissions to come. I give him instructions on what I want him to do next.

“I can’t do all that. I got things to do, places to go, and people to see.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I would, if you didn’t treat me like slave labor.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Sherlock…”

“Get on it and I might just bring Tiffany with me next time.”

Herman’s eyes light up and his cheeks puff out. “I’ll put a rush on it.”

_____

I go home. I have a lot of getting ready to do. Tiffany, Kelly, and Care arrive soon after I do.

“Dad,” Kelly asks. “Can I talk to you?”

“Sure, what about?”

“One-five-seven-six-seven-eight.”

“Is that code for something like LOL in your text messages?” I ask.

“No, it’s the license number of the car Kennard got into after the fireworks.”

“You’re kidding!”

“It’s always been in my brain, I just couldn’t seem to get it out.”

I give her a big kiss, and call Oland immediately.

“Guess what I have for you.”

“You found the kidnappers, the million dollars, and the case is closed?” Oland asks.

“Not quite.”

CHAPTER 18

I haven’t been on a date in so long, it’s hard to remember what to do. Tiffany, where are you when I need you?

I lay out my best suit, which would be any other man’s worst, and attempt to iron out its wrinkles. I fail miserably, making permanent wrinkles instead of eradicating the old ones. A good housewife I will never be. Thankfully, I have one dress shirt still wrapped in plastic. By the time I subtract all the neckwear with a stain, dried gunk, or ones thinner than a half dollar; I have three from which to choose.

I pull a pair of old black Wingtips out from the back of the closet and use a towel to wipe off the dust. It doesn’t work. The shoes look like they’ve got a case of white rabies. I use the inside of a banana peel to polish them. The oil from the skin gives the leather a sheen that would make a shoeshine guy proud. A trick I learned reading Hints from Heloise. I search for a pair of black socks with no see-through cross-stitches on the back heel, and can’t find any. I consider painting the back of my heels with a black magic marker, but instead decide to wear the best two pair I own. I shower, shave, dress, and off I go.

Watch out women, Richard Sherlock is on the town.

_____

Anthea Andrews lives in an end unit of a complex made up of three sets of eight, three-story townhouses, located in the hip, new Near West Side. Not so many years ago, the only reason to come into this neighborhood was to buy fresh fish early in the morning or heroin after dark. Now there is a Starbucks on every corner and three-wheel baby strollers on every sidewalk. It’s a prime example of Chicago’s success at urban renewal.

Of course there’s no parking close to her building, so I drive around and around until I finally find a parking space that is only slightly in the red. By the time I walk the three blocks to her door, the shirt under my suit coat is well past the moist stage; don’t you just love humidity. I knock on her door and wait nervously.

One second after she opens the door, the first thought that leaps into my mind is: What is woman like this, doing with a guy like me? She’s gorgeous, beautiful, astounding, stunning. I’m totally enamored by this woman. My heart starts to thump like a metronome in overdrive.

Anthea is out of her Eastern Establishment, conservative, business attire and into a sleek, low-cut, black dress that hugs her curves like snakeskin. I lose a breath as I take her all in. “Wow,” is the smoothest phrase I’m able to muster.

Her hair and make-up are perfect. Diamond stud earrings, a gold watch, and a string of pearls on a gold chain, complete the elegance. “Wow,” I double down on my inability to come up with something clever and unique.

“Come in.”

I step inside the townhouse’s first floor, which was undoubtedly labeled the Living Room in the brochure to sell this upper-end palace. “Nice.” As soon as I utter the word, I silently admonish myself for not yet coming up with a sentence of more than one syllable.

“It’s wasted space,” she says. “I seldom use the room.”

We walk up a short flight of stairs to the middle floor, consisting of a den, the kitchen, and the dining area. One bedroom and bath are tucked into the back corner. She doesn’t offer a tour of the third floor, at least not yet. “Would you like a drink?”

“Sure.” I did it again. I must sound like a fresh off the boat DP (that stands for displaced person).

“Vodka?”

I’m not much of a drinker, and even less of a vodka drinker, but don’t want to appear un-cool. “Great.”

“Grey Goose or Absolute?”

I have no clue what she’s referring to. “Oh, Grey Goose, absolutely.”

She fills two cut-glass glasses with ice from the dispenser on the front of the refrigerator, pours a couple of fingers worth of vodka into each, and hands me one. We clink Waterford’s as she remarks, “Welcome.”

“Salud.”

She drinks, I sip. She clinks again. “I’m glad we could do this.”

“Salud.” Not only am I back to one word sentences, I’m repeating myself.

“Let’s sit.”

We’re on her soft leather couch. I sink in, balancing my drink in hand. I’m horribly uncomfortable. Anthea is close, her knees together, pointing slightly towards me; her dress riding up to the base of her thighs. I’m staring.

“See the light yet?” she asks.

“Light? What light?” I ask, quickly averting my view of her knees.

“The case,” she says.

“What case?”

“Mrs. Richmond’s.”

“Oh, that case.” I pause. “No.”

“I would think a detective of your caliber would have it figured out, locked up, and stored in a drawer by now.”

“Not even close,” I say. “The case has more holes than paper used to make confetti.”

“Well, that should make it more fun.”

“It doesn’t.”

Anthea glances at her watch. “We should be going.” She quickly finishes her vodka and rises. I hand her my un-drunk drink and get up after she passes by. I stand with nothing to do as she places the glasses on the marble countertop. If it was me, I’d pull out the ice cubes, come back later, and pour the vodka back into the bottle.

“Would you mind if we took your car?” I ask. “Mine tends to challenge me at the most inopportune times.”

“No problem.”

_____

The restaurant Tiffany chose was Café Spiaggia, located on the corner of Oak Street and Michigan Avenue.

“Good choice,” was Anthea’s comment, as she came around the corner and parked in the underground lot.

The valet alone was going to cost me over twenty, which was equal to a night out with my girls to get pizza.

Café Spiaggia is on the second floor of red marbled office building and looks out over Chicago’s famous Oak Street Park and Beach. A Café it isn’t. An expensive five-star restaurant is what it is. The lighting is perfectly subdued. The carpet is plush. The tables arranged for enough privacy to talk, but open enough to allow you to see and be seen. The tablecloths are fine linen. The silverware sparkles next to plates of fine bone china. Café Spiaggia is a place you go to propose – marriage or anything else on your mind.

The maitre d’ seats us in a booth, dead center in the restaurant. The Queen of England would get this table if she were in town. We sit next to each other, not across, which makes for somewhat difficult, side-by-side conversing, but puts us in close range for those gentle touches, when one wants to make a point. “Thank you so much,” she says. “I never expected such savoir-faire.”

“Neither did I.”

Anthea has another Grey Goose. I have an imported light beer. The conversation moves from our past to my kids, her lack of kids, the twilight of my mediocre Police career, and her desire to kiss the banking business farewell and start a hedge fund.

I’m not sure what a hedge fund is, but I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with landscaping.

I take a gander at the wine list and see an extra zero after every bottle. The menu isn’t much better. A bowl of soup at this place is equal to a weekly stop at my neighborhood Jewel-Osco.

We order. Anthea has a salad I can’t pronounce. I have a pasta dish I can pronounce, but I can’t understand how any noodles could cost twenty-eight dollars a serving. She excuses herself to use the powder room.

I sit alone, totally out of my element and comfort zone. From over my left shoulder, I hear: “Pssst, pssst.”

I turn around. “Tiffany, what are you doing here?”

“I thought you might need a little help.”

Over her shoulder, I see Kelly and Care seated in a booth across the room waving at me.

“Tiffany!”

“Mr. Sherlock, you’re doing it all wrong. Don’t back away from her. Lean in, take her hand, get your nose in there, and smell her perfume.”

“Tiffany, would you leave me alone? I know what I’m doing.”

“No, you don’t. We’ve been watching. You’re about as smooth as a defoliating stone.” Tiffany looks over to see if Anthea is returning.

“Tiffany, go away.”

“You said you weren’t good with women. And boy, are you proving it tonight.”

I can see Anthea heading our way. “Tiffany, leave now!” I say as quietly as possible. Thankfully, she makes a hasty retreat, unseen by Anthea, I hope.

A few seconds later Anthea slides back into the booth. “Miss me?” she asks.

The food arrives. Three waiters to serve one salad and one bowl of pasta is overkill in my opinion. We eat, chat, sip, and chat some more. When the bill comes, I cleverly place both my credit cards on top of each other, so they will seem like one, hand them to the waiter and say, “Whatever works.”

Always the gentleman, I let Anthea walk ahead of me as we leave the restaurant. This also allows me to see Kelly, Care, and Tiffany give me a wave and a big thumbs up. It’s not every day you get your own fan base while you’re on a date. Lucky me.

_____

I need a woman in my life. I’d love to meet someone. The problem is finding one. When the majority of women you come in contact with on a daily basis are Bunco artists, thieves, insurance scammers, or repeat offenders of all crimes and misdemeanors, the dating pool is fraught with peril. I’ve thought about going on one of those Internet dating sites, but I’m afraid I’d pick one of the aforementioned delinquents. When it comes to dating, my karma needs work.

I’m a better man when I have a partner. Although, my ex-wife would dispute my opinion, I’d love to have someone to love.

I want Kelly and Care to see me in a relationship, a good relationship. What they have seen so far, with their mother and me, isn’t what I would consider a great template for understanding of how two people should share their lives. If we weren’t fighting, we weren’t speaking. If we weren’t speaking, we weren’t even a couple; just two people sharing a house and two kids. That’s no way to live and not what any child should see when they’re growing up. Kids learn life by example and I owe it to Kelly and Care to set a good one. Plus, I want to be able to talk to someone I can trust. Tell her about my miserable day, how I feel, what I want, and what I need. I’ll do the same for her. I’m a good listener. I know how to share. I know how to have a relationship. I just can’t seem to find one to have.

Anthea is the first woman in a long time that is attractive, smart, cultured, and has looked at me with a sparkle in her eye (if Tiffany’s assessment is correct). I really want this night to go well. I don’t want to screw it up. This could be the start of something really good.

_____

The Feed the Needy charity event is at the Four Seasons Hotel, walking distance from Café Spiaggia. At least I won’t have to pay for two valets. The main ballroom is packed with Chicagoland’s finest “One Percenters.” Under crystal chandeliers, the rich and mighty, the movers and the shakers, the presidents and CEO’s, regale each other with tales of business triumphs, deals in the making, and recent acquisitions. Anthea seems to know each and every person. She stops and talks, and stops and talks, and stops and talks. She speaks their language. I don’t. I mostly stand at her side, smile, and wonder how much money these people actually have. I only speak when spoken to, which isn’t very often.

The highlight of the evening is a parade of this year’s honorees of the charity’s Hike Up Your Bootstraps program. Six people, three men and three women, are escorted onto the stage. The men are dressed in suits, which may be ill-fitting, but better than the one I currently wear. The women are in long, formal dresses with lots of lace, layers, and folds; all to disguise the extra pounds each carries. None of the honorees look as if they have missed many meals. I wouldn’t call them fat, but that’s because I’m nice. Let’s just say they’re “calorically challenged.”

Some guy in a tuxedo grabs a microphone and speaks of the incredible strides each of the winners has made in their lives. The guests in the audience whisper to each other. They haven’t the slightest bit of interest in what the guy is saying. A profound level of boredom descends over them like a dark gray rain cloud. Twenty minutes later, a gold medal is draped over each honoree’s chest, as if they were standing atop an Olympic podium. There’s a round of gentle applause and the six honorees are escorted through the kitchen door, never to be seen again for the remainder of the evening.

It’s well past my bedtime when we drive back to Anthea’s townhouse.

“By the way, the head of my department wants to put an armed guard on duty when Moomah visits her money.”

“An armed guard inside a vault,” I say. “You’ve got to be kidding?”

“It does seem a bit on the side of ridiculous.”

As we near Anthea’s neighborhood, I wonder if I should have her drop me off at my car, which will avoid any further embarrassment on my part for the evening.

“Your security people gave me photos of all of Moomah’s vault buddies.”

“They’re not supposed to do that.”

“I have to know who was with her when she played real life Monopoly.”

“I understand.”

I pause before I admit, “I’ve got one I can’t identify. Woman’s wearing a hat.”

“Who wears a hat in a vault?” Anthea asks.

“My sentiments exactly.”

Anthea pulls into the alley behind her complex. She pushes a button on the bottom of the Mercedes’ rear view mirror, the door opens and we drive into her garage. “The date should be on the photo, get it to me and I’ll have it checked against the log.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem,” Anthea says, turning off the car’s ignition.

_____

Inside her place, we climb the stairs until we arrive on the den kitchen level. The Grey Goose glasses remain on the countertop. “Would you like another drink?” she asks, but I can tell she doesn’t mean it.

“No, thanks.”

I’m not sure what to do. It’s been a while since I’ve been in this situation, and I’ve never in my whole life been in this situation with a woman as gorgeous as Anthea. I stand a little clumsy, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I check to see if Tiffany and the kids have broken in and are watching from behind the furniture. Anthea moves toward me. I freeze.

“I have really enjoyed the evening,” she says. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.”

She gives me a wink that would shatter a glass eye.

“It’s late,” she says. “I have a busy day tomorrow.”

Anthea stands very close to me. Our bodies are touching. Every nerve ending in my body is exposed. I’m not sure what to do. I’m more nervous than when I was in the eighth grade, slow dancing with Annie Scocoza, who was the first girl in my grade to wear a bra.

Anthea breaks into a smile, so sexy it could make a eunuch horny. I take a deep breath, tilt my head, and lean forward to kiss her.

I miss.

She went right as I went left. We end up in a hug more suited for an air kiss than a good night kiss. She pulls back quickly. “Time to go.”

“Yeah,” I say. I’m back to where I started the evening with one word sentences.

“We should do this again,” she says.

“Sure.”

“I had a nice time.”

“Me too.” Finally two words in a row.

“Call me,” she says before the door closes.

My nerves are pretty much back to normal by the time I reach my car, and find a ticket on the windshield. Eighty-six bucks. I’m not angry. This may be money well spent.

CHAPTER 19

“Dad, I’ve worked up a list of the things you should work on,” Kelly tells me at breakfast.

“Concerning?”

“Dating.”

“Is this list drawn from your own personal experiences?”

“Kinda?”

“Which ones will you be kinda drawing from?”

“Me, watching you in action last night.”

“You, who has never been on a date, is going to give me advice?”

“Hey, a lot of marriage counselors have never been married,” Kelly tells me.

“May I also remind you that my dating skills led me to marry your mother.”

“Yeah, that worked out well.”

My eldest has a valid point.

“You’ve said it yourself, Dad, you’re not very good with women. I’m only trying to help.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I think it’s best if we table this discussion for another time, say after the year twenty-twenty.”

“Just answer me one question,” Kelly pleads.

“What?”

“Did you get lucky?”

“Kelly, you don’t ask your father a question like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s out of line.”

“Gee, Dad, don’t get so worked up.”

“If I had asked my father that question, he would have slapped me silly.”

“You’re not allowed to hit us, Dad. That’s like totally politically incorrect.”

“I have other punishments, you know.”

“Like what?”

“Like being Amish for the rest of the week.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s not a what, it’s a who. Amish are people who don’t believe in modern conveniences. So, being Amish means no TV, no stereo, no cars, no make-up, no cell phones, not even zippers. How would you like to spend the rest of the week with only an oil lamp, a knife, and a piece of bark to scratch on?”

“What’s an oil lamp?”

“I’m not kidding, Kelly.”

“Dad, lighten up.”

The door buzzer rings. I hit the intercom button. “Who is it?”

“Oh, Mr. Sherlock.”

It is well before noon. Something must be important.

“What are you doing here so early?” I ask Tiffany, as she sits down at the table.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Worried about the case?”

“No, just couldn’t sleep.”

“Ask Dad about the rest of his date,” Kelly says to Tiffany.

“Did you get your ticket punched last night?”

“Tiffany.”

Kelly perks up. “Are you going to make Tiffany Amish for the weekend too, Dad?”

“What’s Amish?” Tiffany asks. “It sounds like something you’d put on after a facial.”

“It’s where you can’t use anything normal like cars, electricity, vacuum cleaners, and microwaves.” Kelly explains.

“No,” Tiffany says. “That’s camping.”

I can’t take any more of this. “Here’s the deal, I have to meet with Oland this morning, and from there, drop in on Moomah. Why don’t you three find some fun female thing to do?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“We want to go with you,” Kelly says. “We don’t mind.”

“Why?”

“We’re a team,” Tiffany says.

“Yeah, Dad, we’re a team.”

I give up.

_____

We meet Oland at the valet stand between Carmine’s Restaurant and Tavern on Rush. His mood hasn’t changed, still lousy.

Two nervous Hispanics, José and José, wearing golf shirts with Vito’s Valet stenciled on the back, join our group at the parking podium.

“Eet’s not our fault.”

“Tell them what you told me,” Oland says.

“We deen’t do any wrong.”

“Rapido, rapido.” Oland is losing patience.

“May I be of service?” Tiffany says.

“No,” I answer.

“I have a lot of experience with their brand of speech patterns.”

“Let me, Tiffany. How am I going to learn if I don’t practice?”

“The professor learns from his student,” Tiffany says. “You make me proud.”

I allow my protégée a few seconds of personal admiration as if she needs any more personal admiration.

“Let me guess,” I say to the pair. “It’s July third, both restaurants are packed, and you two are running your butts off parking and retrieving cars?”

“Eet’s our job.”

“So, while you’re gone, somebody lifts a set of keys from the rack, walks over to the garage across the street where you park the cars, and keeps punching the unlock button on the key remote until the taillights on some car blinks.”

“Jess.”

“So, they get in and drive off, but you guys don’t know it happened until the guy who owns the car comes out and wants to leave.”

“Jess, jess. Eet wasn’t our meestake.”

“Wow, that was incredible.” Tiffany says.

“How’d you figure that out, Dad?” Care asks.

“If I needed to steal a car for only a short period of time, that’s the way I’d do it.”

“Me, too,” Kelly says. “It really worked for the guy on Law and Order.”

“That was on a TV show?” Tiffany asks.

“I didn’t see that on TV.” I defend my honor. “I don’t watch TV.”

“Oh, come on, Tiffany says. “Everybody watches TV. How do you think we girls know what shoes to wear?”

“Knowledge comes from many sources,” Oland says. “Who cares where?”

“Now,” I say to Oland ending the foray into my integrity, “I was hoping you’d buy us lunch.”

“Hope may spring eternal, but not spring for lunch.”

Tiffany thinks the scenario through. “I do know how to avoid something like this ever happening again.”

“How?”

“Take a limo.”

I thank the José valet pair. Their hands go out for a tip. I oblige, but they frown knowing they’ll have to get change to split my dollar.

I pull Oland aside. The girls wander off to window shop.

“Who reported the car stolen?” I ask.

“Yet another disappointed vacationer.”

“How long until you find it?”

“How would I know, Sherlock?”

“They probably flipped plates, drove it out of state, or took it to a chop shop.”

Oland says, “This, most pathetic kidnapping in history of kidnapping. It brings shame to my career.”

“What do you think Charlie Chan would do in this situation?” I ask.

“Hand case over to Number One son, and go out of town for the weekend.”

“Ah,” I say. “Motive become clear, as detective’s vacation plans come to light.”

“Knock it off, Sherlock.”

A few minutes later, I collect my three teammates in front of an Oak Street boutique window. They’re busy viewing clothes I can’t afford. “Don’t get your hopes up girls.”

“But we need clothes for the rest of our vacation.”

“You’ve gone this far with what you’ve got, can’t you go any farther?”

“It’s not that we can’t, Dad,” Kelly says. “It’s that we don’t want to.”

“Maybe Moomah will let you borrow some of hers?”

“Oh,” Tiffany says. “Please.”

_____

It’s a glorious, summer day in Chicago. People are on their way to the beach, the park, brunch, lunch, wherever. We walk a few blocks to Moomah’s digs.

The three hundred-year-old doorman still stands at the ready, vigilantly guarding the front door of Moomah’s building as if he’s an old knight protecting the castle. He’s probably here 24/7, since after his shift he undoubtedly doesn’t have the strength to go home. While he calls Moomah’s apartment, Tiffany asks, “What are we doing here?”

“I need to see Moomah’s checkbook.”

“Nobody writes checks anymore. We pay with Smartphones.”

“And what happens if you don’t have a Smartphone?”

“You die like a dinosaur.”

“Well, before I become extinct, I need to see Moomah’s checkbook.”

Upstairs, Bertha greets us in her best faux British accent. “Top ΄o the morning. Please come in. Moomah’s in the drawing room.”

I wonder if one hundred years ago, people said to their real estate agents: “We’re interested in something with a drawing room.”

Moomah’s on a divan, which most people call a small couch. Next to her sits a man reading the Wall Street Journal. I can hear Munchkins singing in the other room.

“Hello.”

“Nice to see you,” I reply.

The man wears a black suit with a vest, highly polished wingtips (I doubt if he used the banana peel trick; he doesn’t look the type to read Hints from Heloise.), and thick, rimless glasses. He ignores me. “Hello, Tiffany.”

Tiffany has no clue. “There’s no way I know you. You’re old enough to be my dad’s dad.”

“We go way back, my dear.”

“Can’t be too far back, I’m not that old.”

“Far enough,” he says.

“Matters how far, far enough is for me, not you,” Tiffany answers.

Moomah sits happily as she takes in this thoroughly engrossing conversation. I wonder how far it goes, once it gets in, and where it settles, once it is in.

“And who might you be?” the man asks me.

“Richard Sherlock and these are my daughters Kelly and Care.”

“Hello.”

“And you?”

The man refolds the newspaper, places it on his lap, and announces, “I am E Carrington Smithers.”

Another of Moomah’s vault mates from the photo list. He looks better than his picture.

“What’s the E for?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing starts with an N, not an E,” Care informs him.

“E, in this case, is merely an E,” E Carrington explains. “No period either.”

“Why?”

“I liked the sound of it,” he says. “And no period makes E unique.”

Bertha wisely reads the tea leaves, and takes Kelly and Care into the kitchen with the promise of sugary snacks. In the other room, Dorothy is skipping down the Yellow Brick Road.

“I’m an investigator for the Richmond Insurance Company.”

E’s hand makes no effort to shake mine. “I am well aware of who you are.”

“How about if we level the playing field?”

E smirks, as if informing me he enjoys being in control.

“Do you have any other letters we should know about, besides your E?” Tiffany asks, still in an alphabet quandary.

“CPA.”

“Now I remember you,” Tiffany says. “You used to tell me not to spend so much money.”

“And you didn’t listen.”

“Of course not. Why would I? It’s so obvious why I didn’t remember you.”

One case closed.

“What was your name before it was E?” I ask.

He sits silent, reinstituting his control. Smug would be an understatement for this guy. I wait him out.

“Privileged information,” he says.

“Mr. Sherlock is a detective. He’ll find out anyway,” Tiffany tells him.

“Ralph.”

“Ralph?” Tiffany says. “Ralph Smithers? Sounds like a cartoon character.”

“An E for a Ralph.” I nod my head. “Good career move.”

E gives us a harrumph.

Now that we all know each other, and are well on our way to becoming fast friends, I say, “Nice drawing room, isn’t it?”

E ignores my last question. “Mr. Jamison Richmond gave me a call, said there were some issues I should be aware of concerning Moomah’s estate.”

“Did you speak with him or get a voice-mail?” I ask.

“Jamison and I chat regularly.”

Evidently, E Carrington is much higher on Jamison’s talk-to list than me, or he’s bullshitting me. I hope for the latter.

There is a pause in the conversation until Moomah says, “I’ll bide my time.”

“You do that Moomah,” Tiffany tells her.

E waits me out this time. “The estate does seem to be a bit short at the present time,” I try to calmly mention in passing.

“I heard it was a million?”

“Unfortunately, it’s more than a million,” I inform him.

E pulls his glasses down his nose, gives Tiffany, Moomah, and me a short stare. “How much more?”

“A lot more.”

“How much is a lot?”

“Moomah’s diamond necklace is gone,” Tiffany tells him. “Which is a whole lot more lot of a lot.”

“Why wasn’t I informed?” E asks.

“I don’t know. I told like everybody,” Tiffany says.

I briefly run through the case, from the kidnapping to discovering the empty box in Moomah’s safe deposit condo in the vault. Hearing my rendition, E Carrington gets as livid as an accountant ever gets.

“This is not good.”

“No,” I say, “I wouldn’t put it in the ‘Assets’ column on her yearly spreadsheet.”

E pushes his glasses back up his nose. “Anything else missing?”

“We don’t know,” Tiffany says.

“It seems odd only one piece would be missing,” I explain. “An inside thief will usually start small and work his way up.”

“Did you check everything against the appraisal list?”

“There’s a list?”

“Of course there’s a list,” E says. “She’s in the insurance business.”

“You get me the list and we’ll cross-check it Monday morning.”

“How could this happen?”

“Bad things happen when you treat your money as if it were a barnyard animal at a petting zoo.”

“The bank just let her dumb son walk out with a million dollars in cash?” E asks. “That’s fiduciary insanity.”

“It’s her money,” Tiffany says.

I see an actual bead of sweat form on E Carrington’s forehead. There’s a gland that hasn’t seen much action. “This is tragic.”

I pull out two sheets of paper from my back pocket, unfold them and show them to E. “Do you recognize this woman?”

E studies the photo of the mystery woman. “You can’t see her face.”

“Because she got a hat on,” Tiffany says.

E gives Tiffany probably the same stare he gave her years ago when he was lecturing her about money. Then he asks, “Is it that daughter of hers, Ventura?”

“Venus,” Tiffany helps out.

“Exactly where she belongs.” E says and continues to study the photo. “Nobody I know.”

I take the sheet with the photos back from E Carrington. “I need to see Moomah’s checkbook.”

“She doesn’t have a checkbook,” E says.

“Yes, she does,” Tiffany says.

“All her bills are paid from an account I set up years ago.”

“I don’t think so.” Tiffany pops up, heads over to the corner of the room, opens the bottom drawer, and pulls out a stack of reports, papers, magazines, and stuff I can’t see. “It’s in here somewhere,” she says as she keeps digging. “Viola!”

“I think you mean voila´,” I correct her.

“Whatever.” She lifts out a thick, heavy, business sized, eight by fourteen inch ledger checkbook. There are receipts, bills, notes, and stubs, sticking in and out of the pages. “This thing must weigh ten pounds.”

Tiffany lays the book on my lap. I open it slowly, careful not to disrupt the ledger’s disruption. The check stubs go back years. There are cash withdrawals, money transfers, wire instructions, mutual fund confirmations, stock summaries, and bond coupons. The hundreds of handwritten notes are cryptic and atrociously written.

E Carrington stares at the book as if it were the contents of a colonoscopy bag.

“You didn’t know this existed?”

“No.”

It’s my turn to say, “This is not good.”

“I’ll need to break it all down. This could have serious consequences for our past IRS filings.” E says, in as frantic a tone as he has ever emitted.

“You can be first to see it, after me,” I tell him.

“No, I need to have it now.”

“We found it first,” Tiffany says.

“If this gets out, my business will be ruined.”

“Your secret is safe with us,” I tell him, then look over at Tiffany and amend my comment. “Well, it’s safe with me.”

“It’s those lazy, idiot, money-grubbing kids of hers. I’m sure of it.”

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” I conclude.

I carefully close the ledger, allowing no item to fall to the floor. Herman will have a field day with this stuff.

“Please, be careful with that information,” E pleads. He’s a long way from being smug now. “If it gets out that I was unaware of any financial chicanery in one of the biggest accounts in Chicago, I would become the laughing stock of State Street.”

“You could always change your name back to Ralph, and start all over,” Tiffany tells him.

Moomah pops into a state of awareness like a dog waking up from a nap. She turns to the banker, and says, “The longest journey starts with the first step.”

CHAPTER 20

“You don’t want to go in there.” Tiffany tells the girls emphatically.

“He can’t be that gross,” Care says.

“Trust me, he is.”

“They made us watch one of those sex education movies at school. Nothing could be as gross as that,” Kelly says.

“Herman and vermin rhyme for a reason.”

“Wait here,” I tell the troops, and get out of the car with the checkbook tucked in hand.

I head upstairs and knock on the door of Herman’s unit. “It’s Sherlock, open up.”

“You bring Tiffany with you?”

“No,” I lie.

The door opens and a reasonable facsimile of pepper spray hits me like tear gas at a riot.

I stay in the doorway. If I enter I might get stuck to something, literally, and not be able to leave.

“If you didn’t bring Tiffany, why are you here?”

“I got something to keep you busy, Herman.”

“I have lots to keep me busy,” he tells me, as he strips a string of cheese off a hunk in his hand and then adds it to the ball already in his mouth.

“Herman, I’m behind the eight ball on this one.” I tear out a page or two of check stubs and pick out a few cancelled checks at random, before I hand the big book to him.

Herman lets out a sigh. “This is a lot of work,” he says and farts loud enough to rattle the dirty dishes in his sink.

“Herman!”

“Want some cheese?”

“No, and I’d wish you quit cutting it.”

“Digestion is very important while dieting,” he tells me as he sways back into his apartment. He stops at his computer station which doubles as his dining room table, puts Moomah’s checkbook on a large pile of papers, reports, statements, whatnot, and sifts through another pile of whatever. He pulls out one piece of paper, reads it and asks himself out loud, “What’s that doing there?” He stuffs the page back into the pile, reaches in and finds another page, which he brings over to me.

“Here, you might be interested in this.” He hands me the sheet of paper. “Check the dates.”

I stop, take a quick look, then use the paper as a fan.

“Sure you don’t want some cheese?”

“Positive.” I fold the paper up and place it in my pocket. “I’ve got to go.”

“Hey, bring Tiffany with you next time.”

I run back down to the Lexus, climb into the front seat and take a huge, deep breath of the air conditioned air.

“Dad, we want to meet Herman,” my daughters say almost in unison.

“No, you don’t.”

“What did I tell you?” Tiffany says.

“Why not, Dad?”

“Because it’s a parent’s duty to protect his children from harmful, toxic substances.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m telling you,” Tiffany says, as she puts the Lexus into drive. “Herman is the bomb in a-bomb-inable.”

“You know where Safari lives?” I ask.

“Glencoe.”

“Let’s go.”

_____

Glencoe is a WASP bastion of the suburbs of Northshore Chicago. In the 70’s and 80’s Highland Park, to its north, went heavily Jewish, as second and third generation Jews said shalom to Skokie. This demographic shift forced rich Protestants to relocate one burb south to Glencoe.

Safari’s house is on a cul-de-sac, a mile or two in from Lake Michigan. The lot is heavily wooded, and the house can barely be seen from the street. It’s as if he was hiding from something, or somebody.

“This is it,” Tiffany says, heading up the driveway. “Not my idea of a place to party.”

Safari meets the four of us at the front door. “Happen to be in the neighborhood?”

“Sorry to barge in on you like this,” I say.

“I doubt that.”

Safari’s house is a little bit of Africa in suburban Chicago. Eight-foot spears stand upright in the corner. Heads of lions, tigers and wildebeests adorn the walls. Tribal masks, war drums, leopard skin rugs, Ubangi necklaces, hunting rifles, pith helmets, knives, tusks, and bows and arrows are everywhere. If it’s anything African, Safari has it on display. Except for one of those huge, black, iron pots the natives use to boil missionaries in. I’ve always wondered where the natives got those big pots.

“It’s like being in a museum,” Care says, having Equatorial Africa at her touch.

Safari flips a switch on the wall and the sounds of the jungle fill the room; complete with a tribal chant of “Booda, booda, booda.”

Tiffany shakes her head. “I hate rap music,” she says.

I have to speak up a little to be heard over the animal wails and cheetah chattering. “I’d like to ask about your last trip to the Dark Continent.”

“I went to Tanganyika.”

“Any particular reason you went when you went?”

“I was there to witness the mating ritual of the Swahili Sparrow.”

“I could take you to a couple of clubs downtown where you could see that, Uncle Safari.”

“Not the same.”

“I’ll bet it’s pretty close,” Tiffany replies. “A grunt is a grunt.”

“Safari, I was referring to your timing. I understand you left in the midst of a tax audit.”

“The Swahili Sparrow waits for no man.”

“Neither does the IRS.”

“It was nothing.”

“I’m not sure the IRS would agree with that assessment.”

“There are two ways of filing taxes. The first is to meekly follow the crowd and allow the IRS tax code to rule your life. The second is to press every issue, take the road less traveled, and be a trailblazer into undiscovered and untried accounting territory.”

“I take it that you prefer the latter.”

“Taxes are like life, neither is fair.”

“Did you hear that girls?” I ask Kelly and Care. “What have I been telling you?”

Neither of my daughters pays any attention to another life lesson I have tried so hard to instill.

Care says, “Next year for summer vacation, can we go to Africa?”

“I can barely afford to take you to the zoo, which is free.”

“Darn.”

Raising children is a thankless task.

“What’s the status of your IRS case?” I ask Safari.

“The matter has been settled.”

“How?”

“Settled.” Safari steps back toward the spears in the corner of the room. “What part of ‘settled’ do you not understand?”

“Where’d you get the money to pay the settlement?”

“Who said I had to pay them anything?”

“The IRS.”

“You came all the way up here to talk about my IRS audit? Wouldn’t your time be better spent retrieving the million dollars wasted by Kennard for that troll he calls his woman?”

“Mr. Sherlock has been on the case night and day, Uncle Safari,” Tiffany says. “He’s even found bigger fish to broil.”

“I think you mean ‘bigger fish to fry’?” I ask.

“Fried foods are terrible for you. Mr. Sherlock.”

“What fish is my niece referring to?” Safari’s interest peaks.

“Moomah’s jewelry.”

“And how is that investigation going?”

I pull out the grainy, photo of the vault lady. “Do you know this woman?”

Safari studies the photo. “Never seen her before in my life. Who is she?”

“We don’t know, Uncle Safari,” Tiffany says. “That’s why we’re asking you.”

“Well, I can’t help you.”

I have three or four other instances of possible Safari financial malfeasance, which I could bring up at this juncture, but the same rigmarole would ensue if I asked; so why bother.

“Thanks for your time. Sorry we barged in.”

We leave the jungle pretty much as we found it.

“Where to next, Dad?”

“I want to see Venus.”

“Oh, please, the planetarium is so boring,” Kelly says.

CHAPTER 21

“Wheatgrass juice, anyone?” Venus asks. “Freshly squeezed this morning.”

However tempting, we all take a pass.

Instead of living in a jungle like her half-brother, Venus lives in a forest. She has miniature trees in large pots, hanging plants, vegetables in narrow beds along a sliding glass door, tomato vines suspended on wire trellises, and lemon and lime trees with actual hanging fruit. If she ever has to move out of this apartment, she’s going to need a John Deere tractor.

“I’m that far from being self-sufficient,” Venus tells us as she holds her thumb and finger an inch apart.

“Congratulations,” I say.

“Are those chickens outside?” Kelly asks, looking out onto the small deck.

“Free range,” Venus replies.

“Is this where you got the idea for your book?” I ask Venus as I wander around the foliage.

“You’ve read Planting Your Apartment for Fun and Profit?”

“Not yet, but it’s on my list,” I tell her.

“Is it an e-book, or a regular book?” Tiffany asks.

“Both.”

“And the patent on the Do Your Own Dung recycling toilet; how’s that doing?”

“That’s been a struggle, so far,” she admits. “It’s very difficult fighting hundreds of years of flush toilet mentality. But I do have more fertilizer than I know what to do with.”

“I can imagine.”

“I’d be more than happy to wrap some up for you to take home.”

“Thanks, but I’m pretty much up to my ears with that stuff right now.”

Kelly is trying on a beekeeper’s outfit, while her sister is out on the deck chasing chickens.

“You have really done your homework on me, Detective.”

I look over and see Tiffany shooing gnats away from her face. I must remember to ask if there’s a chapter in the book on gnat infestations.

“Then you wouldn’t mind if I asked a few questions?”

“Ask away, I’m an open book. No pun intended.”

“Have you ever had a job?”

“No.”

“You’ve been able to live on the stipend your mother has provided you?”

“That, and my book sales, my private investments, my patents, and my numerous speaking engagements. Not everyone lives nine-to-five.” Venus rattles the numerous metal chains hanging around her neck.

“Ever run short?”

“No.”

I wish I could say the same.

“Moomah never helps you out when you get a little behind on your water bill?”

“No.”

I try another tactic. “You spend a great deal of time with your mother?”

“She’s not going to be around forever; I have to take what time there is and make the most of it.”

“Just part of the job of being a good daughter?”

“I wouldn’t refer to it as a job. If it was, I’d break my streak in not having one,” she tells me as if winning a point in a debate.

“Have you ever asked for a loan or convinced her to make an investment?”

“Detective, when it comes to tight fists, my mother’s are sealed shut.”

“Venus, do you go along with your mother on trips to visit her money?’

“She loves that.”

“Wouldn’t you admit it would be pretty easy to pick up a little loose cash or a diamond necklace while you’re there?”

“Are you accusing me of stealing?” Venus begins playing with the somewhat braided strands of her hair. It will be a cold day in hell before a brush ever smooths her hirsute tentacles out.

“No, I am merely seeking your opinion.”

Gnat-ridden Tiffany takes the beekeeper’s bonnet off Kelly’s head and puts it on herself. Relief at last.

“Do you suspect that any of your half-brothers have gone that route?”

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

I show the photo to Venus. “Do you recognize this woman?”

She looks at it for a moment. “No. It’s a terrible shot.”

“Sure?”

“Positive.” Venus is emphatic. “You think this is the one who stole Moomah’s necklace?”

“She was in the vault with her.”

Venus pushes a vine to the side and moves closer to me. “You know, Sherlock, what Mom has, and what she thinks she has, could be entirely different. In the past few years, since she began to float between reality and La La Land she has conjured up plenty of scenarios of lost treasures, missing money, and plots to steal her precious cargo.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Now you do.” Venus puts on a sentimental face. “My poor mother puts more trust in her money than she does in her children. And in her pre-Alzheimer’s years that trust has turned to suspicion.”

“Anything else?”

“I wouldn’t be so sure the necklace is even gone,” Venus says. “For all we know she took it out of the vault herself and stuffed it underneath her mattress.”

Venus has a point.

“Thank you for your time. I’ll let you to get back to your farm chores.”

I find my troops within the foliage and announce our departure. “Time to go, folks.”

Since Venus’ apartment is located in the Mayfair neighborhood, we weren’t far from the city.

Once we’re in the car, Tiffany asks, “Where to next?”

“We should visit Elmhurst, but I’m not sure I can handle three of your half-relatives in one day.”

“I have a hard time seeing them once a year.”

“Dad, can we go shopping?” Kelly asks.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because, you need money to shop, and I don’t have any.”

“That’s not true, a credit card works just as well as cash. Maybe even better.”

“Maybe yours does, Tiffany. But not mine.”

“What you need is an American Express Gold Card, nothing works better than that.”

What I need is time to ponder the particular possibilities of this case. “Drive toward the Lake.”

_____

Not too far from Belmont Harbor is a tacky, ill-kept, miniature golf course. It’s tucked between a driving range and a stand of tall trees. I flash my old police badge at the attendant and the girls play for free. It’s an unwritten rule in Chicago; cops get a free pass when it comes to city owned facilities. They play, I sit.

I ponder one question for over an hour: Why does everybody have to lie? The world would be a much better place if everyone told the truth.

_____

Saturday night, the girls have gone to bed, and I can’t sleep. I get off the couch, go into the kitchen, and pull a recipe box out of a cupboard. In it are a number of recipes I have never tried and a stack of blank index cards. I retrieve a box of pushpins and a red felt pen from my kitchen junk drawer. At the table, I write one name on each of nine cards. I take those cards and some blank cards, plus the pushpins and a red pen into the living room, where the Original Carlo hangs proudly on the biggest wall.

The Original Carlo is a large painting of a brown farmhouse with a red roof and four mailboxes, set against a bright-yellow sky. Why a decrepit farmhouse would ever need four mailboxes only adds allure to this work of art. I discovered this prize of untold originality at a sidewalk art show years ago, and purchased it for less than ten dollars; frame included. What a shopper.

Across the top of the painting, I pin up in a row against the yellow sky, the nine index cards, labeled in order: Kennard, Schnooks, Safari, Venus, Elmhurst, Johnny Spaccone, E Carrington, Bertha, and Mystery Woman. I add two blank cards to complete the row.

I sit back down on the couch and begin filling in notes, thoughts, expressions, questions, ideas, and whatever else enters into my brain onto the other index cards. When I have about twenty cards completed, I tack them up under the particular suspect. Completing this duty, I sit back on the couch, look up at the Original Carlo, and try to make sense of nonsense.

After about an hour, I have come up with absolutely nothing. The only positive is that I am now exhausted and able to go to sleep.

Sunday morning, I wake well before the girls. I look at the Original Carlo. I run my finger down one of the columns, searching for something that I might have missed. No luck, I go to the small stand where my land line phone sits, and pick from one of the five phone books in the stack. I hate that we now have umpteen phone books instead of just one. I pick the one with the biggest set of white pages, sit and write down the address I have found.

I write the girls a note and tape it to the bathroom mirror. The kids will be fine; Sunday mornings are one of the lowest time periods on the violent crimes list. I leave the apartment.

There’s little or no traffic on the expressway, and I’m able to get to the Far Southwest Side in less than an hour.

Both sides of the street are lined with a string of world-weary bungalows that have seen better days. Each one is pretty much the same as the others: two-bedroom, one bath, one-car garage; each separated from one another by a very unattractive four-foot, chain-link fence. At the end of every block there’s a local bar or tavern, some still sporting their fanciful ethnic names like Teemu’s Tap, Harry’s Hofbrau House, and Polski Palace. The sidewalks are cracked, the potholes are plentiful, and the postage stamp-sized lawns have turned to a dark summer brown. The neighborhood is one small house or bungalow after another. If you are seeking an area which exemplifies classic Midwest architecture, you’d be in the wrong place.

I find the street and park the Toyota three houses down from the saddest house on the block. The place sags in more places than an obese senior citizen. I turn off the engine and settle in. I adjust my rear view mirror so that I can get a clear view of the alley exit, a hundred-or-so yards behind me.

I hope this doesn’t take too long, but hope has pretty much abandoned me of late. Two hours later, the sun is high in the sky and I’m sweating like a fat guy in a steam room.

Finally, a car comes out of the alley behind me. It’s a shiny, candy apple-red Cadillac, right off the showroom floor. I’m surprised Cadillac would offer such a god-awful color, but there’s no accounting for the taste of the American car buying public. I quickly fire up the Toyota, pull out of the space, make a U-turn, and give chase. Catching up quickly, but not wanting to get too close, I lay back until we are into some traffic, then I inch my way forward. All I have to see is the back of the car which will have an owner’s decal either on the right side of the back window or on the blank frame where a license plate will soon reside.

The Caddy pulls into a convenience store, located next to a coin laundry, and parks. I pull up down the street, and wait at the bus stop until my suspect gets out of the car and makes her way into the store. She probably ran out of beer to put on her morning cereal. I proceed slowly in my car. I take a buzz of the lot, read the name on the back of the Caddy, write it down in my notebook, and exit the small, strip center lot as discreetly as I entered. I’m home within an hour.

The kitchen is a disaster zone.

“Kelly is being a jerk,” Care tells me.

“And that’s my fault?” I usually don’t answer a question with a question, but in this case it fits.

“You’re the one that raised her.”

“I can only take half the credit for that. What did she do?”

Care tilts her head to the side to reveal a glop of Aunt Jemima hardening her curls.

“Kelly!”

My eldest daughter is in the front room, sitting on the couch in front of the Original Carlo. She eats the last bite of a syrupy pancake. “Who do you think did it, Dad?”

“You,” I answer. “Tell me what you did to your sister.”

“Nothing. She got in the way of a flip of a flapjack and became collateral breakfast damage.”

“Did not! You threw it at me,” Care responds in equal volume.

“I told you to get out of the way.”

“Enough! Stop!”

For one second there is silence, then Kelly chimes in, “So, who do you think did it, Dad?”

“Did what?”

“Stole Moomah’s diamond necklace.”

“I’m not sure.”

“It was Kennard. He’s got shifty eyes,” Kelly says.

“Kennard has shifty eyes because they float in pools of alcohol.”

“What does that mean?” Care asks.

“He has highball eyeballs.”

Neither gets my joke. I should be glad.

“Tiffany told me her Uncle Kenno has performance problems,” Kelly informs me.

“You know what performance problems are?”

“Dad, you can’t turn on the TV without seeing a Viagra commercial.”

I better leave well enough alone. “And how would Tiffany know that fact?”

“I don’t know how she knows,” Kelly says. “But Tiffany knows a lot of stuff about a lot of stuff. Maybe we should call her up and ask her.”

“No, don’t!” Care screams out. “Tiffany doesn’t get up until noon on Sundays.”

I pick up the phone.

“Dad, don’t!”

I dial, wait for the girls to scramble to the phone to protect the slumber of their hero, and calmly inform them, “I’m calling Detective Oland.”

“Boring.” Kelly said it, but I’m sure Care thought the same thing.

The connection is made.

The sound of my voice is obviously not welcome. “What, Sherlock?”

“I have good news, and I have bad news. Which one do you want first?”

“Neither, it’s my day off.”

CHAPTER 22

Kelly has a lot of nerve telling me my pancakes are “Not IHOP,” when hers have the texture of a Frisbee.

“Dad, we don’t want to go see some dumb movie today,” Care says.

“You two have been complaining since you got here that I don’t take you anywhere.”

“That’s what kids are supposed to do,” Kelly explains.

“So, I offer to spring for a movie and you two pooh-pooh my generosity? Let me tell you, girls, there’s no thanks in being a parent.”

“Oh, Dad, sell it someplace else.”

An hour later, we stand in line at the multiplex on Clybourne and Webster.

“Dad, we want popcorn.”

“Movie theater popcorn is one of the worst foods you can eat. One bucket of that stuff has the same fat content as eating two Big Macs.”

“I love Big Macs. Can we go to McDonald’s after the movie?” Care asks.

“No.”

“Dad,” Kelly says. “We’d rather be helping you crack the case.”

“The only thing that will get cracked today are the eggs you used to make those pancakes.”

I give Kelly enough money for one box of Red Vines while I buy two tickets to some movie starring Robert Pattison — whoever he is. I make sure they’re in the right theater before I leave.

From there, I drive to Elmhurst’s home.

Tiffany waits out front.

“I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“Okay, I lied. I’ve been asleep.”

“I hate when people don’t tell the truth, Tiffany.”

“Sorry.”

“You called Kelly, didn’t you?” I ask as we walk toward the front door.

“No.”

“What did I just say about lying, Tiffany?”

“I didn’t call, I texted her.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s not.” Tiffany says. “You’re so out of it when it comes to social media, Mr. Sherlock.”

Elmhurst comes to the door in a silk robe, smoking a pipe. He’s either doing a Hugh Hefner impersonation or he’s trying to give off a suave impression; neither is being done well.

“Hi, Half-Uncle Elm.”

“Have you found my mother’s money yet?”

“No, but I’m working on it.”

“Come in, anyway.”

It’s hard to see the walls in his brick townhouse due to the number of books. They’re everywhere. Shelves of books run up from the floor to the ceilings. Stacks of them fill in the corners. Rows of paperbacks run along the lengths of the hallway. To support a glass coffee table top, Elmhurst has used four stacks of hardbacks, one in each corner. On the table top sit six or seven oversized, coffee table books.

“Are you on the Dewey Decimal System?” I ask.

“Matter of fact, I am.”

“How much have you lost?” Tiffany asks.

“What?” I ask.

“Weight,” Tiffany explains, which doesn’t explain anything.

“Dewey Decimal is a method of cataloging books,” Elmhurst tells her.

“Oh, I thought you said Chewy Decimal System. That’s where you count the calories of everything you eat. When you eat too many, you have to stop and purge.”

Some comments like this one are better left to die.

We sit in the den. Elmhurst doesn’t offer us any drinks or snacks. I should’ve taken some Red Vines from Kelly before I left the theater. I pull out the picture of the mystery woman and get the same result I got with the other siblings.

Elmhurst is a bit on edge. I’ll try my “good cop” approach. “So, you’re a teacher.” I say leaning back onto the back of the soft couch.

“Yes.”

“What exactly do you teach?” I ask.

“Accounting.”

“Are you a CPA?”

“No.”

“Wouldn’t that be a pre-requisite for teaching accounting?”

“The majority of people who teach creative writing have never written a book. How many astrophysicists have been to the moon? Should accounting teachers be any different?”

“Point well taken.” I admit defeat. The “good cop” routine doesn’t seem to be working. I wish I had another to try, but I don’t. I’ll have to be myself.

Tiffany has managed to find one magazine in this plethora of books, and pages through it.

“What courses do you teach?” I ask.

“My most popular one is Accounting in the Internet Age. Much is changing in the world of money and people want to know how to make the most of it.” Elmhurst speaks slowly with a professorial tone that’s usually reserved for the classroom. “The course is one of the most popular at the school.” Elmhurst pulls a three-fold brochure from a reachable side table and hands it to me.

On the front cover is a photo of digitized data. Inside there’s a description of the course and a picture of Elmhurst looking professorial. “May I keep this?” I ask.

“The course is also available on line,” he tells me.

I fold the brochure one more time and put it in my pocket.

“Do you ever help your mother balance her books?”

“I have in the past, but since Tiffany’s daddy, my half-brother Jamison, has come into the picture, the answer to that question would be ‘no.’”

“Jamison Wentworth doesn’t trust you?”

“He doesn’t trust anyone.”

“He trusts me,” Tiffany says, glancing up from the magazine. “He trusts me to pick up his dry cleaning, go over his guest lists, and to decide what cufflinks he should wear.”

“What would he ever do without you, Tiffany?” Elmhurst asks.

“Do you know E Carrington Smithers?”

“The man is a bad equation.”

“He spoke highly of you, too.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if E has been skimming Moomah for years.”

“Really?”

“While she’s in the Land of Oz, he’s building his own yellow brick road.”

“You feel you should be more involved with your mother’s finances?”

“I could be of great service to my mother, but my talents are being ignored.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Not something we take pride in, is it, Detective?”

“No.” I stand and wander about the room. I think better when I’m mobile. “Moomah used to love to talk about money, didn’t she?”

“It was her favorite topic.”

“And yours?”

“I prefer math.”

“Obviously,” I say, as I survey the titles in the stacks. There are books on statistics, equations, math problems, odds, probability, and puzzles. If it has anything that has to do with numbers, Elmhurst has it in his bookshelf. There’s even a book authored by Count von Count of Sesame Street.

“I’m a numbers man. Always will be,” Elmhurst says. “And if the numbers happen to have dollar signs in front of them, they’re still merely numbers to me.”

“Not to me,” Tiffany interjects.

“Money and numbers usually go hand in hand,” I say.

“Life is economics, Detective. Always was, always will be,” Elmhurst replies, puffing away on his pipe.

I change the subject. “Tell me about The Society of Digits?”

Elmhurst either inhales a cinder of tobacco, or coughs from my unexpected question.

“It’s a charity,” he chokes out.

“I know. How are you involved?”

“I’ve been on the board of directors for years.”

“You balance their books?”

“I do.”

“File their tax returns, prepare the reports, all those accounting things CPA’s do?”

“Yes.”

“Moomah involved?”

“No.”

“What’s the charitable function of The Society?” The more I ask on the issue, the more uncomfortable Elmhurst becomes.

“We support new ideas and theories in the fields of mathematics and science.”

“Has Moomah contributed?”

“Not lately.”

“In the past?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“I don’t remember.”

I pause to give him a little time to wonder what I’m going to ask next.

“Have any books on precious metals?”

“There might be one around here on weights and measures. I’d have to look.”

“How about tax law?”

“More than I can count,” he admits.

“Did you accompany Safari on his visit to the IRS?”

“I wasn’t invited.”

Elmhurst relights his pipe, the odor of which I first thought aromatic, now pretty much stinks.

I check my watch. The movie is coming to an end.

“Come on Tiffany, time to go.”

Tiffany puts the magazine down, “See ya, Half-Uncle Elm.”

Elmhurst escorts us to the front door, and once we’re outside, he gives it a slam. Tiffany and I both jump as if we’d been goosed. “That was uplifting,” I say.

“I don’t think Half-uncle Elm does a lot of entertaining.” It’s hard to tell if Tiffany is apologizing for her relative or merely making a statement of fact. It doesn’t really matter.

I walk Tiffany to her Lexus. “I want you to go see Kennard.”

“Why?” Tiffany asks. “He’s not much to look at.”

“I want you to ask him if he and Schnooks are still a couple. If he says yes, set up a meeting tomorrow.”

“With Schnooks?”

“Yes.”

“It would have to be at a real dark place, where no one could ever see me.”

“No problem.”

“What if he says ‘No’?”

“All you got to say is, ‘my treat’.”

_____

The girls are waiting in front of the theater.

“Robert Pattison is so hot,” Kelly announces getting in the car.

“He’s all pasty-faced,” Care counters her sister. “He should get out in the sun once in a while.”

“He has to be that way because he’s a vampire, stupid.”

“You should loan him Mom’s tanning lamp,” Care fires back.

“Your mom uses a tanning lamp?” I ask.

“She’s dating, Dad,” Kelly says. “Get over it.”

I let the comment pass; some things are better left unsaid.

“Where are we going now?” Care asks.

“We’re going to see a friend of mine.”

“Herman?”

“No.”

_____

Phoebe lives in the Georgian, a high-rise retirement home in Evanston. She must be pushing seventy-five, but looks closer to eighty. She stands about five feet tall, and weighs maybe ninety pounds. A strong wind off the Lake could be her worst enemy. But her eyes are clear, her walk erect, and when she shakes your hand her grip can stop your blood from circulating.

We meet in the first floor activities room. A bridge game, a Scrabble game, and a Mahjong game are all being played in slow motion by small groups of blue-hair dowagers. A small number of elderly men are scattered around the room in the middle of their afternoon naps wherever they last found a place to sit.

“Sherlock,” Phoebe greets me with sweetness. “I haven’t seen you since you tried to give me a first-class ticket to the joint.”

“I assure you, Phoebe, it was nothing personal.” I pause. “Got a minute?”

“When you’re my age, you’re not sure how many minutes you’ve got left. And the ones you do have, you don’t have a lot to do with ΄em. Come on upstairs. I hate hanging around with all these old geezers.”

I introduce the kids and we all proceed via the elevator to the ninth floor where Phoebe has a comfortable three-room suite with a view of Lake Michigan. On the walls are a number of framed letters, signatures, signed decrees, and personal handwritten notes.

Kelly gets up close to one of them. “Is that really George Washington’s signature?”

“Sure, it is,” Phoebe answers. “I got an Honest Abe in the corner over there.”

The girls rush off to examine another piece of questionable history.

“Need some work done?”

“Phoebe, I thought you were out of the business?”

“I am, but not by choice,” Phoebe explains. “With all the credit cards, Internet, and people using their pocket telephones to pay bills, there’s hardly any business out there to get. It’s a shame, Sherlock, a real shame.”

“Progress, Phoebe. Progress.”

“I certainly hope I die before the checkbook does.”

I pull out the check stubs and cancelled checks I removed from Moomah’s ledger. “I want you to take a shot at something.”

“I got nothing better to do.”

We sit at the kitchen table. Kelly and Care join us, intrigued at what is going on. I spread out the materials I lifted from Moomah’s checkbook. Phoebe takes a magnifying glass, the size of which my namesake would use, and passes the eye cheater over each of the items.

“How old are these?” she asks.

“Not sure.”

“A lot of the ink has faded and dried out.”

“This is the best I could come up with,” I say. “What do you think?”

Phoebe rises slowly from her chair, goes into the living room, and retrieves a small box and a few pages of white parchment paper. She sits back down with us, and carefully arranges the checks on the table. She places the parchment paper in front of her at an angle ready for writing. She opens the box and chooses one of the three pens inside.

“What are you doing?” Care asks.

I shush Care. “Genius at work.”

The three of us watch in awe as Phoebe holds the magnifying glass in her left hand while she slowly and meticulously signs and resigns Moomah’s name on the paper with her right. She holds the signature on her paper and matches it alongside the signature on the check against the light coming off the small desk lamp. Satisfied, she passes the pages to Kelly and Care, and they do the same.

“Perfect.”

“Not quite,” Phoebe says to the girls.

Care takes a second look. “Yes, it is.”

“Look at the base of the R,” Phoebe says pointing to her rendition. “It doesn’t have the swirl like the one on the check.”

“Yeah,” Kelly says. “I saw that.”

“Yeah, right.” I call my oldest daughter’s bluff.

“You never sign your name the same way twice,” Phoebe says. “So, in a way it is perfect.”

“You still got the touch, Phoebe.”

“Picasso worked well into his eighties.”

“Can I try?” Kelly asks.

“Sure.” Phoebe passes the paper and pen to Kelly, who hunkers down to do her own signature rendition.

“How’d you ever learn to do that?” Care asks.

“I started in grammar school, writing sick notes for kids ditching school. I’ve been at it ever since.”

“Really?” Care says.

“Except for a couple of stretches in the pen, it’s been a pretty good life.”

I rearrange the samples on the table, separating the checks from the check stubs. “What I need to know is which of these are real, and which are bogus.”

Phoebe goes back to work with the magnifying glass, examining each one with the precision of a diamond cutter. “It’s hard to tell with the ink so cracked.” She compares checks to checks, checks to check stubs, letters to letters, and swirls to swirls.

“Darn,” Kelly blurts out, failing her latest attempt. “This is really hard.”

I sigh in relief.

Phoebe hands me three checks, one at a time. “This one’s for sure. This one, I’m pretty sure. And this one is so pathetic even Kelly could do a better job.”

I make a mental note of the payee on each of the checks. “Phoebe, I can’t thank you enough.”

“You could find me some work.”

“I have a feeling you have plenty to keep you busy around here.”

Phoebe gives me a sly smile. “I might be old, but I still like to be challenged.”

“It was nice meeting you,” Kelly and Care say on our way out.

“Come back anytime. Anybody under sixty is always welcome around here.”

On our way down in the musty-smelling elevator, Kelly points out, “You never told us her last name, Dad.”

“I don’t know it. Everybody just calls her Phoebe the Forger.”

CHAPTER 23

“You going to crack the case today, Dad?” Care asks on Monday morning.

“The only thing I’ll be cracking today is my spine, which happens to be killing me.” I’m on my back, on the floor, with my feet up on the couch. Last night, my lower vertebrae went into spasms equal to Elvis shaking his pelvis. Today, I’m in agony.

“You want me to walk on your back?” Kelly asks.

“Maybe I should, since I’m lighter,” Care suggests.

“There will be no back walking or back talking for that matter. Somebody go get the pills off my bed stand.”

The girls eye each other with a “you do it” look.

“Go.”

Care runs off, returning soon with the ibuprofen. Kelly fetches a glass of water. I take three of the pills.

“Dad?”

“What Kelly?” I ask, with not a lot of enthusiasm.

“Do you suspect any of Moomah's kids could be working in cahoots?”

“I would doubt it.”

“Why?”

“One, they don’t like each other. Two, it’s too hard to divide the spoils. And three, you don’t need any help to pocket a necklace, especially while your not-too-with-it mother is pawing through her jewel collection like a kid going through a toy chest.”

“I bet it’s that Safari guy,” Care says. “He probably takes the jewels to Africa and trades them with the natives.”

“That is like so dumb,” Kelly tells her sister.

“Not really,” I say. “Freddy the Fencer told me if the stones are shipped overseas, you get a much bigger payday than here, and the chances of getting caught go down dramatically.”

“See, what did I tell you?” Care snaps at her older sister.

“Help me up.”

Each daughter takes an arm and lifts me into a standing position. “Get me outside.”

It must take twenty minutes for me to get down the stairs and into the small back area of my apartment building. There’s an old wooden fence along the side of the property which faces east. On this clear, hot day, it has been soaking in the sunshine all morning. I, with the help of the girls, position my lower back flat against the fence. The warmth of the wood immediately penetrates into my vertebrae.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

“Wood therapy.”

“You look really weird,” Kelly says.

I move from one section of the fence to another. The first blast of warmed wood is what makes it all worthwhile. After about five minutes, I’m not cured, but I’m feeling a whole lot better.

“We have to hurry or we’re going to be late,” I tell my two.

Back upstairs we go.

As the girls put on the last clean outfit in their closet, I call Oland. “Back on the job?”

“Day off is like parting of clouds between downpours.”

“Well, get ready to get wet again.”

I tell him of my Sunday morning sojourn. I tell him of today’s lunch with Kennard and Schnooks and our next stop at Northern Trust.

“Treasures in vault like gold in mine, only good if removed.”

_____

The vault opens on Monday morning at ten a.m.

The four of us wait at the elevator as Anthea walks down the hallway in a tight, black skirt, white blouse, and perfectly contoured red jacket. She looks maaavelous.

Anthea gives me a smile, but speaks to my kids. “Hi, Kelly. Hi, Care.” She extends her hand to shake. “Your dad has told me a lot about you.”

“He hasn’t said much about you,” Care tells her.

“No?”

Care continues, “He didn’t have to, we were at the restaur…”

I interrupt, “Let’s get going. We have a lot of work to do.”

We proceed down the hallway, as if we’re on a financial field trip. Anthea turns to me, “I want you to know that the bank is making an exception by allowing you access down here.”

“Yes,” I say. “We appreciate it.”

“You brought the list?”

“Right here,” Tiffany reveals the pages.

The elevator doors open. We follow Anthea. Tiffany elbows me, points at Anthea’s posterior, gives me a wink, and whispers, “You tap that yet, Mr. Sherlock?”

I do not favor her question with a reply.

We all sign in at the vault entrance. The same uniformed guard, Elroy, who was there last Friday escorts us through the door of the vault. “No Moomah, today?” he asks.

“She has a meeting with the man behind the curtain, and can’t make it,” Tiffany explains.

“I’ve reserved the Richmond Suite for you,” Anthea says, as she and Tiffany simultaneously unlock the treasure trove. “I thought we might need to spread out.”

It takes two of us to lift the booty box onto a cart and wheel it into the adjacent room.

Anthea closes the door, twists the knob lock, and flips the lock above it, the kind you see on hotel room doors, into their secured positions. I’m trapped in a room with four women. If they decide to revolt, I’m helplessly outnumbered.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” I say, taking control. “Kelly and Care will carefully, and I repeat “carefully,” remove each piece of jewelry, and just as carefully place it on the table. Tiffany will match up each piece with its description on the list. Anthea, you and I will catalog the items, and place each of them in their own separate envelope which we will label and seal.”

The women can’t wait to dig in.

“All right. Let’s get started.”

Care and Kelly dive into the trove.

“I said – carefully!”

There are necklaces, broaches, pins, watches, pendants, rings, bracelets, earrings, and chains; all wound together in a massive clump of metallic worms. Anthea and I help untangle the knots, some worse than the fishing lines on opening day of trout season.

Once Care and Kelly have the contents laid out on the table, they can’t resist sampling the merchandise. At one point, Care has three diamond bracelets dangling from her thin wrists, and Kelly has bedecked herself with enough necklaces to add ten pounds to her frame.

While the four of us struggle, Tiffany has no problem matching the items on the table with the descriptions on the list. Her knowledge of gold, silver, and precious stones of all size and shape, astounds me.

“How do you know all this, Tiffany?”

“Some women have breakfast at Tiffany’s, I stay for lunch and dinner.”

We count one-hundred-seventeen different pieces. In total, the bounty must be worth millions. After two hours, all that remains in the bottom of the safe deposit crate are a few scattered diamonds, gold chain links, busted clasps, assorted rubies, sapphires, and whatevers. I place all of these in one of the bigger envelopes and label it Jewelry Potpourri. There are still a number of items on the table yet to be bagged and labeled.

“Tiffany, where are we?” I ask the expert in the group.

She runs one finger down the three page list, and uses the other fingers to count. “Ten missing and unaccounted for,” she says.

“What are they?” Anthea asks.

“The big one,” Tiffany says. “Plus, one Rolex Lady-Datajust in Rose Gold, one Ladymatic Omega, two 4-carat diamond tennis bracelets, a ruby broach, three 24-carat gold necklaces, two pairs of diamond earrings, and a string of natural pearls.”

“I thought you said, ‘ten missing?’”

“Sorry, I ran out of fingers,” she admits.

“Anything else?”

I watch Tiffany carefully study the list for an additional ten seconds. Her head comes up and says in a confused voice, “Two oozes of gold.”

“What’s an ooze?” I ask.

“I’m not sure,” Tiffany says. “I know gold chains, gold carats, and gold bars, but I never heard of a gold ooze.”

“Let me see.” I take the list in hand and find the line. “Tiffany, that’s not two oozes. That’s twenty ounces.”

“Oh, yeah,” Tiffany realizes her mistake. “That’s some heavy gold.”

Anthea pushes the gold chains together in a pile. “This is no twenty ounces.”

“How much do you think it is?”

“Ten at the most,” Anthea says. “I can have them weighed if you want.”

I shake my head. What would be the point?

“Are any of the missing items anywhere near the worth of the big one?” I ask.

“Not even close.”

We finish with the bagging and repack the safe deposit unit, stacking the enveloped jewelry back to back on three tiers. “From now on, nobody in, and nobody out.” I lay down the rules.

“Not even Moomah?” Tiffany asks.

“Especially, not Moomah.”

“Moomah’s not going to like that.”

“I don’t care.”

“She’s going to throw a fit,” Tiffany warns. “And when Moomah throws a fit, she really throws a fit.”

“If she asks, tell her they’re doing construction on the Yellow Brick Road.”

“That won’t cut it, Mr. Sherlock.”

“We can’t let her rip through this stuff like it’s Christmas morning,” I tell the group.

“I got an idea,” Care says. “We go buy her a bunch of cheap jewelry junk, put it in a bank box, and let her play with that.”

I lean to my left, pull Care to me, and plant a big kiss on top of her head. “That is a great idea.”

“You know,” Kelly says. “I was thinking exactly the same thing.”

“Yeah, right,” Care responds.

“You three can be in charge,” I tell my girls and Tiffany.

“Sorry, but I can’t do that.” Tiffany is adamant.

“Why not?”

“I can’t go to a store and buy cheap costume jewelry. What happens if somebody sees me, takes a picture on their cell phone, and posts it on Facebook? I’d be scarred for life.”

“You can wait for us in the car,” Care says.

“Thanks, I really appreciate that.”

Anthea and I personally accompany the booty back to its home. The rest of the group tags along for the ride.

“Wait,” Anthea says as she stops us on our way to the elevator. “Who did the list?”

Tiffany re-reads the pages. “Somebody who knows a lot about jewelry.”

“You?” Care asks.

“No, not me,” Tiffany says. “I would’ve done a much more thorough job.”

“So,” Anthea continues. “Whoever did the list could have omitted a few items, pocketed those, and no one would ever be the wiser.”

Interesting theory.

I picture the recipe cards pinned across the top of the Original Carlo and conclude I’m no farther along than I was a few nights back. “We have to go, everybody. We have a lunch date.”

Anthea bids farewell to Kelly, Care and Tiffany. We exchange slight smiles. I stare at her butt a little too long as she walks down the hallway back towards her office. Tiffany pulls my arm to get my attention, and whispers, “Just can’t wait to autograph her sign-in sheet, can you?”

_____

Lunchtime.

Schnooks and Kennard sit next to each other at the bar in The Cheesecake Factory, located on the basement floor of the Hancock Building. Why any business would want to be housed in the basement of a ninety-six story building is a mystery to me.

“Hi, Uncle Kenno,” Tiffany shouts as she approaches the pair.

Although the room is dark, there’s sufficient light to reveal that our lunch mates share a red-faced, unhappy demeanor. Could be booze related, could be in the middle of an argument, could be their shared pallor of the day, or could be any combination of the three. It doesn’t really matter.

“Have you found those awful people who did this to us?” Schnooks ask.

I consider the retort: “You mean the ones who made you into sloppy alcoholics?” But instead, I say, “I’m getting closer, if that’s any consolation to you.”

“You are?”

Kennard’s rheumy eyes focus on Kelly and Care. “Do you always bring your kids to work with you Sherlock?”

“I had to cancel our trip to the islands when your case…”

“You were going to take us to the Hawaiian Islands?” Kelly interrupts.

“No, to Blue Island and Stony Island.”

Blue Island and Stony Island are two south side Chicago suburbs. They’re not known for being tropical paradises.

“That’s not funny, Dad.”

At that instant, an ugly electronic device, resembling an oversized TV remote control, resting on the bar between Schnooks and Kennard, begins flashing and buzzing like a Geiger counter hitting a nuclear waste dump. It’s the signal, not only that our table awaits, but for our lunch buddies to suck down the remainder of their cocktails. Once the last drop is consumed, Kennard rises slowly from his stool and hand signals the bartender to transfer the tab to the table where we will be seated.

Tiffany and the girls walk ahead of us, but I, the consummate gentleman, allow the happy couple to proceed before me. On our way, I see Kennard attempt to clasp the hand of his intended, only to be rebuffed with a painful twist of his finger. Well, maybe a not-so-happy couple.

Tiffany, being her normal finicky self, rejects the first table the hostess leads us to and we move onto another, more centrally located in the large dining room.

“You never want to sit on the way to or from the men’s room.” Yet another one of Tiffany’s many rules of life she casually passes along to Kelly and Care.

To her, they listen; to me, they ignore. Why is that?

As the hostess passes out the last of the menus, which are thicker than The Book of Mormon, I inform her, “There’ll be one more joining us.”

“Do you want another table?”

“No, just another chair, please. We’re a happy group. We like to squeeze in together.”

“You didn’t tell me there was going to be a mystery guest joining us, Mr. Sherlock.”

“Oland.”

“That weird detective, that doesn’t speak English half the time?” Schnooks asks.

She who live in glass house, shouldn’t stow heavy thrones. That’s what Oland would say if he were here.

“Why is he coming?” Kennard asks. “He should be out finding our money.”

“He likes cheesecake,” I explain.

Kelly stops sifting through the menu to ask, “Dad, can I tell the waiter it’s my birthday and get free cake and ice cream.”

“No.”

“Why not? If she asks me for ID, I’ll tell her I’m too young to have one.”

“It’s not your birthday, Kelly.”

“It’s not really a lie, since I’m going to have a birthday in a couple of months and you know you’re not going to take me here to celebrate. So we should take advantage of the situation while we’re here.”

“Forget it.”

“I know a place where you drink all night for free if it’s your birthday,” Schnooks tells my eldest daughter. Why does her knowledge of this not surprise me?

“She’s twelve,” I remind Schnooks.

I have a very difficult time picturing Schnooks and Kennard as a couple. Schnooks has a knuckle-dragger demeanor while Kennard is pretty much of a mamma’s boy wimp. In a fight, I’d put all my money on Schnooks by knockout in the first round. The only commonality these two birds have to flock together is their love of alcohol.

The extra chair arrives just moments ahead of Oland. “Bread like criminal case,” he says, “best broken when warm.” He sits between Tiffany and me.

“Let’s order,” I say to keep this party alive.

Schnooks orders a steak and another cocktail; Kennard, a pulled pork sandwich and another cocktail; Tiffany a salad with lo-cal dressing on the side; Oland oriental stir fry; me, a tuna sandwich. Kelly and Care can’t decide. The waiter waits impatiently.

“Pick something or I’ll pick for you,” I threaten.

Kelly orders a cheeseburger with fries. Care has the same.

The waiter leaves our table, and Oland takes center stage. “Need more than iron to straighten out wrinkles in this case,” he says.

Kennard and Schnooks fidget in their seats, as if their underwear was shrinking.

“Mr. Kennard, do you remember if you were in the front or the back seat of kidnapper’s car?” Oland asks.

“The back seat.”

Oland comes face to face with Kennard. “You are positive?”

“Yes, because they didn’t blindfold me until I was in the car.” Satisfied with his answer, Kennard takes a healthy swig of the drink recently delivered.

“Was it a sedan?”

“Yes.”

“Four doors?”

“Don’t all sedans have four doors?” Kennard asks.

“No.”

“Do you remember if your kidnapper sat on the right or left side of you?”

Kennard asks, “My right, or your right?”

“You pick,” Oland answers.

Kennard hesitates, lifting one arm up after the other ever so slightly. “This side,” he says, re-lifting his right arm.

“What color was the sedan?”

“Dark.”

“Dark isn’t a color, Uncle Kenno, it’s a shade,” Tiffany says.

“It was night. It was dark. So, it was a dark car.” Kennard’s a bit testy.

“I was just trying to help,” Tiffany says. “You don’t have to be mean to me.”

Oland turns to Schnooks. “Was your kidnap car dark, too?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“It was in the middle of the day.” I toss in.

“It happened so fast, I didn’t have time to think.”

Even if she did have time to think, I’m not sure Schnooks would have, or could have, for that matter.

Oland asks Schnooks, “How did you and Kennard meet?”

“At the Senior Citizen Pub Crawl.”

“Now, that’s what I call romantic,” Tiffany says.

“How long have you been seeing each other?”

“A few months.”

Kennard flags down the waiter and orders two more cocktails, evidently considering it might be best to have back-ups at the ready.

“The lab was able to trace the opiates in your system,” Oland tells Schnooks. “Do you remember how many times you were dosed?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you remember if it was oral or by injection?”

“A shot.”

“Glass or needle?” Tiffany asks.

Schnooks gives Tiffany a dirty look, then makes a motion of a hypodermic needle going into her arm.

“But there were no pin pricks on your arm,” Oland says.

Schnooks makes the same motion, as she did before, but this time she targets her butt. “Wanna check it out?”

“No,” Tiffany says. “We’re good.”

The food arrives along with the additional cocktails. Before Kelly and Care take a bite, Tiffany gives them a quick lecture on the evils of French fries; which according to her is the principle cause of America’s obesity epidemic. For the remainder of the meal, I watch Kelly and Care sneak fries into their mouths when Tiffany isn’t looking. Kennard barely touches his pulled pork; maybe he’s wondering, as I am, exactly where the pork was pulled from. Schnooks’ appetite has not been affected in the least by her kidnapping travails. She tears into her steak like a lion into an antelope.

Oland must be satisfied, because he doesn’t ask another question. He finishes his salad before the rest of us, gives me a wink before he rises from the table to exit early. “Food, like answers, does not provide energy until fully digested.” Oland bows from the waist and exits.

The moment Oland is out of earshot, Kennard says, “I bet that guy talks like the rest of us when he’s home alone.”

“Why would he talk if he’s alone?” Care asks.

Her question passes without an answer.

The waiter makes his last stop at the table. He lays the check down right in front of Kennard who leans away from it as if it were a flu virus.

Tiffany picks up the check.

“Thank you, Tiffany,” I say, which my girls echo.

“No problem,” she says. “Sometimes, you have to spend money to find money.”

Kennard and Schnooks are the last to rise from their chairs. They do not follow us out of the restaurant. Instead they retreat to the bar, where we found them, lumbering like dying elephants heading on a journey to the place of their birth.

We take the escalator up to the Michigan Avenue street level and Kelly’s eyes focus on one building south. “Dad, can we go shopping at Water Tower Place?”

“No.”

“Can we go in and look?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Looking will only whet your appetite to shop, which you can’t do, because I don’t have any money for you to shop with.”

“But we need clothes, Dad,” Kelly explains. “If we don’t get some new ones, we lose all our friends.”

“What do clothes have to do with friends?” I ask.

“Everything,” Tiffany, the old wise one informs me.

“We have to go to Moomah’s.”

“We’ve already been there,” Kelly argues. “There’s nothing more for us to see. I’m tired of The Wizard of Oz. We want to go shopping.”

“You’ve also been to Water Tower Place too,” I remind her.

“Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany interrupts. “Right now Moomah will be somewhere between Kansas and the Haunted Forest.”

“It’s not Moomah I want to visit.”

“Do we have to go, Dad?” Kelly won’t quit. “Moomah’s place is really boring.”

“If you don’t want to see Moomah, who else is there?” Tiffany wonders out loud.

“Bertha.”

“Oh,” Tiffany moans. “That would be really boring.”

I concede defeat. I pull the only ten dollar bill I possess out of my wallet, and hand it to Kelly. “This is enough for two snacks. Once you go into the Water Tower, you two stay there, and stay together. I’ll meet you at the front elevators at four o’clock.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Kelly and Care rush off.

“No offense, but I’ve had enough crime fighting for one day, too,” Tiffany admits.

“Can’t say that I blame you.”

“Hey, wait up!” Tiffany yells to my girls, and hurries away to catch up to them.

Before walking to Moomah’s, I go back down the escalator, into the restaurant, and back into the bar area. I am careful to stay in the shadows, facing the backs of the bar patrons. I have to lean between a guy putting the hit on a girl to spot a fifty dollar bill on the bar between Schnooks and Kennard. “Sorry,” I tell the pair. “Want to make sure that’s not my ex-wife.” I sneak out of the bar area, satisfied my suspicion was correct.

_____

“She’s busy,” Bertha tells me as I enter the residence.

“Not doing too well today, huh?” I ask.

Bertha spins her index finger around and around her temple.

A mind is a terrible thing to waste, and a waste is a terrible thing to mind.

Moomah is in the front room, seated at the chess table. Nickels, dimes and quarters are spilled out in a heap in front of her. She meticulously separates the denominations into three separate piles, bundles the coins into two inch stacks, which she places on the black squares of the chess board.

“No pennies?” I whisper to Bertha.

“Moomah hates pennies.”

The Cowardly Lion warbles “If I Only Had the Nerve” as we proceed to the kitchen. “Does that movie ever stop?”

“It keeps her calm.”

“But it must make you nuts.”

Bertha doesn’t respond, no need to.

“How long have you worked here, Bertha?”

“Thirty-two years.”

“Long time.”

“Hopefully, I’ll be here a lot longer.”

“Are you the only full-time employee?”

“She used to have a driver, but not since she quit going places.”

“Where would she go, besides the bank?”

“See her friends.”

“Why’d she quit doing that?”

“They died.”

“That happens.” I take a short pause. “How often do the kids show up?”

“The more they want, the more they need, the more they come over,” she responds.

I give her answer a few seconds to set in, letting her know what she really wanted to tell me was heard loud and clear.

“Is there a wall safe in the house?” I ask.

“Yes.”

The safe is in the wall of the music room. It’s covered by an oil painting that’s probably worth more than my car when it was new.

“Do you have the combinations?”

“No.”

“Who does?”

“Moomah.”

“Not good,” I say. “Does she have them written down somewhere?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you know where?”

“No.”

I examine the safe. A twelve inch square of home security. The dial is to the right, with a handle beneath. I pull a few hairs out of my scalp, lick them, and stick them against the line where the safe would open, then I replace the painting over the safe.

I move into the hallway to see Moomah continue to stack the coins. “Does she ever keep jewelry in the house?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

Bertha reluctantly leads me into Moomah’s bedroom, which is twice the size of my apartment. “What’s the problem?” I ask noticing her discomfort.

Bertha gives me a weird look then points to a massive, mahogany chest. “Second drawer.”

I pull the drawer open and wince at the sight. The last thing I want to do is sift through an old lady’s underwear drawer, but I dive in anyway. It’s the price you pay for being a private dick.

Moomah has a mountain of silk granny panties. She could go months without a trip to the Fluff and Fold. To get to the bottom of the drawer, I have to heap the silk on top of the dresser.

And what do I find? A string of natural pearls. Mark one missing piece off the list.

“It’s no secret she keeps jewelry in here, is it?”

“No.”

“Her kids know?”

“Everybody knows.”

I deposit the pearls in my pants pocket. “This will be our little secret, okay?”

“Okay.” Bertha is a trusting soul.

I take one pair of Moomah’s skivvies and refold them in fours, instead of the three-fold method Bertha uses. “Do them like this,” I tell Bertha as she joins in the fun.

“You don’t like my way?” Bertha asks.

“No,” I say. “I just want to see how all this unfolds.”

She doesn’t understand.

Closing the drawer, I ask, “Where does she keep her cash?”

“In a drawer.”

“Where.”

Bertha leads me to a roll top desk in the library. She slides open the front panel. There are three drawers. She opens the middle drawer, removes a pile of miscellaneous papers, reaches in, and pulls out a wad of bills, a Mafia Don would be proud to carry.

“Eureka.”

Bertha doesn’t know what eureka means. I don’t bother to explain. “This is where you get your household money?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Do you pay yourself out of this money?”

“No, Mr. Richmond sends me a check every two weeks.”

“I wish I could get on that list.” I think out loud.

I rifle through the money and take a quick count – it’s thousands – before putting it back from where it came. “What’s in the other drawers?”

Bertha shrugs her shoulders as if she is not sure, then opens the drawer on the left and pulls out a small felt-covered jewelry case. She hands it to me. I pop it open. A pair of diamond earrings shine up at me like search lights at a movie premier.

“These look familiar?” I ask Bertha.

“Yes,” she says.

I dive into the third drawer and fish for more buried treasure, but come up empty. “Ever see any of the family hanging around here?”

Bertha turns a slight shade of red. No point in pushing for an answer.

I add the earrings to the pearls in my pocket. “Moomah keep a copy of her will in the place, Bertha?”

She’s taken aback by my inquiry. “Will?”

“Her last will and testament, you know, who gets her loot when she goes kaput.”

Bertha hesitates, then points to the bottom file drawer of the desk. “Please don’t tell anyone you know that I know that it’s there.”

“If she didn’t want it read, she wouldn’t have left it in the library.”

The document is at least two pounds worth of paper, held together by two metal clasps. There are thick cardboard covers on the front and back. I place it on the desk and open to the first page, the table of contents.

“You make the cut?” I ask.

Bertha’s face turns from slightly red to bright-red.

“Getting a piece of the action is nothing to be ashamed of, Bertha,” I tell her. “I’m sure you earned it.”

Once I find the date of the document, I page through the pages quickly; mostly lawyer mumbo-jumbo. The longest chapter in the book is the register of assets, which goes on like the world’s largest estate sale. I search for a separate jewelry list, to see if it’s similar to the one Tiffany used, but I find none. The items we cataloged at the bank are incorporated within the umpteen asset pages.

“How did one woman ever amass all this stuff?”

“She shop.”

I don’t get it. Bertha knows I don’t get it. “Store people tell her how nice she is, what a good person she is, when she bought something from them.”

People who can shop, shop. People who can’t shop, window shop. People who can’t window shop, shop at ninety-nine cent stores.

“Moomah shop. Shop, shop. All the time, shop.”

For the first time, I consider Tiffany’s shopping sprees hereditary.

I page through the will, stopping to read a section or two. “The kids ever read this?”

Bertha nods her head.

I turn to the final chapter and read the instructions on how the assets will be divided. I recheck the date of the document, consider writing in my name on the recipient’s page, and return the will to the bottom drawer of the desk.

On my way out of the apartment, I stop and take one more look at Moomah, who now moves the stacks of coins around the board as if she is playing chess. She glances up at me twice, but shows no recognition whatsoever. I do not speak. What would be the point?

How an aged person may be so healthy in body, but so weak in mind is the underside of the miracles of modern medicine. Increasing the span of time bodily functions may operate is a noble cause, but until the brain is on the same scale as the rest of the body something remains wrong with the equation.

Personally, I’d rather be dead, than alive and dumb.

_____

At four-fifteen, Tiffany, Kelly, and Care ride down the escalator; all six arms carry a bag or two from some frou-frou store.

“Tiffany, what did you do?”

“Oh, we just picked up a few essentials. No big deal.”

“It’s a big deal if I can’t afford it.”

Care and Kelly are glowing from their experience. I do wish I could take them on these kinds of shopping excursions, but I feel a roof over our heads is more important.

“Did you buy the cheap, costume jewelry?” I ask.

“At Water Tower Place?” Kelly says. “You have got to be kidding.”

“Take it all back.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t have the money to pay for whatever you picked out.”

“Don’t worry, whatever it cost, I’ll have my dad subtract it from whatever he pays you.” Tiffany informs me.

“It will be difficult subtracting a lot of something from almost nothing.”

CHAPTER 24

It’s past midnight. Kelly and Care are sound asleep, exhausted from trying on their new clothes again and again. I can’t sleep.

The Original Carlo is filling up nicely, its bright-yellow sky almost completely covered by recipe cards. On the bottom of the painting, I pin up the photos the bank’s security cameras took of Moomah and her fellow visitors during her sojourns to her safe deposit section. I place the appropriate photo under the corresponding row.

Any of the suspects could’ve easily pocketed the jewelry. If I were in charge, I’d arrest the whole lot of them, convict them of being worthless, lazy jerks, and sentence them to thirty years of working the grill at McDonald’s.

Besides what’s missing, I consider what’s showing up. The string of pearls in the underwear drawer and the earrings both popped up like a daisy in springtime. I can only hope the diamond necklace will follow suit.

And what’s the connection between Schnook’s kidnapping and the missing necklace? Is it related or coincidence? Did one cause the other or is one screwing up the other?

Timing is also a problem. I have no clue when the necklace was lifted. It could have been gone for months, and nobody, especially Moomah, would have ever noticed. To assume the necklace was stolen from the safe deposit vault would break my first rule of life – assume nothing. The necklace could’ve been just as easily discovered by the thief in her underwear drawer. “Gee, look what I found!”

So, I sit, staring up at a ten dollar oil painting, covered with the hastily scribbled index cards, wondering what to do next. I’m still contemplating my conundrum an hour later when I fall asleep.

At nine-fifteen, Tuesday morning, the girls remain in somnambulistic slumber. I’m scrunched-up on the couch, trying to get my back to loosen up before I attempt to put either foot on the floor. The front door buzzer goes off like an infuriatingly noisy alarm clock. I jump, adding more pain to my existing misery, and force myself to hobble to the speaker box near the front door. I push the button. “Yeah.”

“UPS.”

“I’m not expecting anything.”

“Surprise.”

I push the other button, and hear the door lock click open. In less than a minute the man in brown stands at my door. “You okay, buddy.”

“No.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m broke, I hate my job, and my back is killing me.”

The delivery man asks, “What size shoe do you wear?”

“What?”

“Shoes, what size?”

“Eleven.”

“Try wearing a size nine for a day. I promise you, you’ll forget about all that other stuff.”

“You ever done that?”

“No, why would I? I’m not miserable.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

He hands over an electronic pad. “Richard Sherlock, sign here.”

I scroll my John Hancock with his electronic pen.

“Working in the garden helps too,” he says.

“Helps what?”

“When you’re feeling bad about yourself, it helps to get down in the dirt and dig.”

“Really?”

“Man was not meant to work in an office or behind a computer.”

“Are you this free with your advice with all your customers?” I ask.

“No, just the ones who look terrible.” The man in brown, pokes his pad a few times, smiles, and says, “Have a happy day.”

The parcel is addressed to me, with a return address of 1022 West Racine, #5, and a 60613 zip code. I know immediately no such address exists, because Racine runs north and south. The sender used an over-abundance of packing tape to seal the edges. It weighs less than a pound.

I get it up on the kitchen table, sit down and stare at the cardboard square as if it were the Rosetta Stone. The box has been used before. There are traces of tape from a previous label. One corner has been smashed inward, as if it had been dropped on its side. There are a few magic marker traces from either a sender or a delivery service. This package didn’t come from a store, business, or someone who sends a lot of stuff out. It has an odd, earthy odor.

I stand and stretch my back a bit. It still hurts. In my kitchen junk drawer, I find my latex gloves and a “widget;” a clever, little, razor blade gadget.

I slip on the gloves, carefully slit the top of the box lengthwise and along the two edges with the “widget.” I’m about to open the flaps, when Kelly walks in.

“What’s that, Dad?” she asks, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

“I don’t know.”

“Who sent it to you?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know.”

“Aren’t you scared somebody might have sent you a deadly, flesh-eating virus?”

“No, Kelly, that thought hadn’t crossed my mind.”

“Then why are you wearing those gloves?”

“I like the way they look.”

I peel back the cardboard folds and remove a few pieces of crumbled newspaper. The banner indicates they’re from The Glencoe News, one of the smaller local newspapers on the Northshore. I look down into the box and back up at Kelly. “Go get your sister.”

“She’s asleep.”

“Wake her up.”

Kelly is about to argue, she always does, but decides it will only prolong the mystery. A minute or two later, Kelly pulls Care into the room. “Okay, Dad, open it.”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Care informs us.

Against Kelly’s objections, we wait until my youngest returns.

“What is going on?” Care asks.

“Dad got a mystery package and we’re going to find out what it is, if you ever shut up!” Kelly barks at her sister.

“Ready?”

The girl’s eyes are as wide as Christmas morning. I pick up the box, turn it over, and out spills another box. It is black, about two inches high, six across and three deep. There’s a small latch on the front.

“Open it, Dad.”

“What do you think it is?” I ask, building the suspense.

“A body part,” Kelly says.

“A live snake,” Care says. “So be careful.”

“You kids watch too much television,” I say, unhooking the latch.

“Come on, Dad!”

I position the box toward the girls, so the hinge is in the rear. I wish I had a recording of a drum roll, because it would be so perfect right now.

“We can’t wait forever. Open the box, Dad!” Kelly screams.

I peel the top back and lo and behold, on top of more crumbled newspaper, the object of our affections shines brightly before us.

“Voila´.”

“It’s gorgeous!” Care says.

“Can I have it?” Kelly asks first.

“No.”

“Can I try it on?” Kelly asks.

“No.”

I slowly remove a diamond studded tennis bracelet and lay it on the table. There must be thirty small stones in total, arranged in rows of five. The hardware holding the stones in place is silver plate.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Totally cool.”

“How much do you think it is worth?”

“A lot.”

The girls will probably never have this sparkle in their eyes again.

“Can we try it on?”

“Not yet.”

I retrieve my ancient, fingerprint kit from the shelf behind the TV. “This is probably a waste of time, but you never know,” I say to the kids.

“Do we get to keep it?’

“No.”

“But somebody sent it to you,” Kelly says.

“So what?”

“Finders keepers?” Care asks.

“Forget it.”

The old brush begins to dust.

“If somebody sent it to me,” Kelly argues. “It would be mine.”

“First of all, it was sent to me.”

“But it arrived while we were here. That gives us rights.”

“Give it up, girls.”

No prints. The bracelet is as clean as a baby’s bottom after a talcum rubdown.

I pick it up and place it against my wrist as if I’m modeling. “Hey, it adds a lot to my personal flair.”

“Dad, that’s so gay,” Kelly quickly responds. “Let me put it on.”

“I say we break it up, take it back to the pawn shop, and cash in big time,” Care says.

“If we do, don’t tell your mother.”

“And we can do that? There’s a chance we can be rich?” Kelly asks.

“I was kidding.”

“Damn.”

“Kelly quit swearing!”

“Dad,” shouldn’t we get a reward for being honest?” Care asks.

“I don’t think Moomah is the reward type, even when she was sane.”

“Oh, Dad, this is like so lame,” Kelly shakes her head in disgust. “Can’t we just keep it?”

“No.”

“Can I wear it to school for just one day?”

“Definitely not.”

Against my better judgment I allow the girls to take turns wearing the diamond bracelet on their arm. They each model it in front of the mirror, prancing around the apartment as if it were a fashion show runway.

“Would this look good on my Facebook page, or what?” Kelly says.

“How about if we just keep it for a little while,” Care says as she pirouettes.

“No.”

“Dad, you’re no fun.”

“I’ll tell you what else we’re not going to do.”

“What?”

“We’re not going to tell anybody.”

“What do you mean ‘not tell anybody’?” Kelly asks incredulously. “What’s the point of having something if you can’t tell everybody about it?”

“We tell nobody.”

“Can I tell Tiffany?” Care asks.

“What did I just say? Nobody. Read my lips, daughters, NOBODY.”

“Tiffany’s not a nobody,” Care says.

“Tiffany’s on the case, with us,” Kelly adds. “She’s a team member.”

“Tell Tiffany and you might as well put it on the Internet.”

“Could we like give Tiffany hints, and if she figures it out…” Care muses.

“We can’t tell Tiffany. That’s final.”

“Boo,” Care says.

“How about Detective Oland? You going to tell him?” Kelly’s testing me.

“Probably.”

“You can tell your friend, but we can’t tell Tiffany. That’s not fair,” Care snaps back.

“Life isn’t fair, get used to it.”

“Dad, we’re getting really tired of hearing that,” Kelly says.

“Not nearly as tired as I am repeating it.”

I place the jewelry box to the side and clean up the newspapers. “We got a lot to do today, so let’s get cracking.”

I find my cell phone and notice the battery power is at an all-time low. I constantly forget to turn it off at night and I never seem to remember to charge the stupid thing. I plug the phone into the charger, find my car keys, and grab my wallet. I put the bracelet into my pocket for safekeeping. It bulges out like a goiter.

“Both of you get showered, get dressed, and be ready to go when I get back.”

“Where are you going, Dad?”

“The assayer’s office.”

“The what?”

“Look it up.”

“Is it the office where some ass works?” Kelly asks.

“Kelly, what did I tell you about swearing?”

_____

I’m not sure if Freddy has moved from his spot since I was here last. Everything is exactly the same, except for the half-eaten doughnut on his workbench.

“You again?” he asks, peering at me through his loupe.

I pull Moomah’s bracelet out of my pocket and dangle it in front of his face. “How would you like to have this for breakfast, Freddy?”

He takes the baubles in his hand. “I love your buffet.”

A train rumbles overhead and the room shakes like a hula dancer.

During the next few minutes, Freddy examines every stone on the bracelet. Finished, he hands the jewelry back to me. “Wanna sell it?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“How much is it worth, Freddy?”

“On the street or in the store?”

“You pick.”

Freddy gives it one more loupe look. “Eighty in the store. Thirty on the street. Give or take.”

“Big difference.”

“One’s hot, one’s not. Which one is it, Sherlock?”

“I’m not sure.” I take the bracelet back in hand and pull out the brochure Elmhurst gave me. “You ever see this guy?” I hold the photo of Elmhurst out in front of Freddy’s non-loupe eye.

“You’re asking me?” Freddy barks back. “I can barely remember to put on socks in the morning.”

“Could you ask around the world of pawn? I need to find out if this guy’s holding any tickets.”

“Another favor?”

“What else would you expect of me, Freddy.”

“Donuts, when you drop by.”

“Donuts aren’t good for you.”

“At my age, little is.”

“Thanks, Freddy.”

“Sure you don’t want to sell that bracelet?” He asks one more time as I walk out of the room.

_____

I stop at Herman’s on the way back to my apartment.

I find him in the middle of his mid-morning porn break, and he isn’t happy about the intrusion. “Not now, Sherlock. I’m busy.”

“I can’t wait, Herman.”

He opens the door. I rush in and do my best not to notice the singular debauchery taking place. “Did you find the checks used to pay off Safari’s IRS tab yet?”

“No.”

“Herman, what have you been doing with yourself?” The instant I ask this question, I regret it.

“Look on the top of the stack,” Herman says. “You might find something of interest.”

I quickly scan the top pages, fold them up and stuff them in my pocket. I exit the apartment as quickly as I can.

On my trip home, I try my best to erase the image of what I just saw. Unfortunately, with my memory, it will be with me forever.

At home, I find the girls are not ready to leave.

“You’re not dressed?”

Kelly’s excuse: “You didn’t tell us what to wear?”

“Do I have to tell you everything?”

“How are we supposed to dress, if we don’t know where we’re going?”

As this absurd conversation goes on, I pull out Herman’s pages, read carefully, and stop where he has highlighted the word Riverboat in red ink in a margin.

“Dad, what should we wear?”

“I don’t care,” I reply with disinterest because I’m busy reading.

“You have to tell me where we’re going, so I can dress appropriately,” Kelly says.

“We’re going to college.”

“College?”

“Yes, college.”

“Well, we’re going to have to stop on the way, so I can get a new outfit that makes me look a lot older.”

CHAPTER 25

ICCE stands for the Illinois College of Continuing Education. It’s located off the Tri-State Toll way, not too far from O’Hare Airport. I hate paying tolls. Not only do you have to waste time in long lines, I never have the correct change, and always have the bad fortune to always be right behind some idiot who misses hitting the humongous rubber receptacle with his money. He has to put his car in park, get out, find the coins, flip ΄em back in, get back in his car, and proceed through the gate before it closes on him. Or, I get behind the guy who pays the toll in pennies and it takes an eternity for the machine to count his money. With my luck, you can see why I’ve never bought a lottery ticket.

ICCE doesn’t have much of a campus. No statues, no running track, no dormitories, no football field, no ivy-covered halls, nor towering structures named after its famous, rich alumni. It’s housed in a three-story, non-descript building. The most impressive aspect of the facility is the amount of free parking available to the student body.

As we walk into the first floor, I tell Kelly and Care, “When you two start to consider a college to attend, please leave this one off your list.”

“No problem, Dad.”

There’s no reception area, but there’s a door labeled: Administrative and Sales Office. We enter.

“Here about our ‘Learn, Learn, While you Earn Program’?” the twenty-something man says as we approach.

“No.”

The guy ignores me. Having children of my own, this is a common occurrence in my life.

“With this new, educational opportunity, you can defer a certain amount of tuition payments until you are on the job, in the new career of your choice, making the kind of money you deserve.” He quickly pulls out a brochure, opens it on the counter, and continues the type of pitch that once was the sole province of guys who sold vacuum cleaners door-to-door.

“At ICCE, we teach the skills that are in demand in the new economies of the twenty-first century: computer programming, hotel/motel management, computerized payroll and billing systems, and drug and alcohol counseling.” He points a finger at me. “I’d say you’re a man of about forty, who is tired of low-end menial labor, which will never get you a step ahead. You want to provide for your family, make them proud of you, and proud of what you do. If you are willing to sit down right now with one of our career counselors, we can start you on the way to a new, exciting career. What do you say?”

“Do I really look forty?”

“Yes, you do, Dad.” Kelly answers.

The man’s finger rises again, this time to the sky. “Give us ten minutes, and we will change your life.”

“Although my life is in need of multiple changes, I’ve already been to college.”

“We retrain.”

“No, thank you. I’m here to see one of your professors, Elmhurst Cavendish.”

The man’s voice, mood and demeanor changes, and not for the better, “He ain’t here.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“He’s on break.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“He doesn’t break here?”

“No, and I don’t know where he breaks.” The man folds up the brochure and places it back in the brochure rack on the counter. “Have a great day.”

I’m flummoxed. The class schedule that Herman was able to hack into said Elmhurst was teaching this afternoon. Maybe Herman is losing his touch.

“Where are we going now, Dad?” Care asks as we get back into our car.

“Riverboat.”

“Are we going on a cruise?”

“Hardly.”

_____

It must be well past twenty years since the State of Illinois passed laws which legalized Las Vegas style gambling. To pacify voters, who believed the sins of gambling didn’t belong in polite society, the casinos would have to be floating on a body of water, away from the nice neighborhoods where most of the gamblers lived. Thus, a new age of Mississippi Riverboat gambling was born.

In the time it takes for an unlucky gambler to crap out, massive paddle-wheelers featuring games of chance from casino craps to Texas Hold ΄em, docked themselves at wherever a community had a deep enough river or lake. If they didn’t have a stream big enough, they dug one, paved a huge, adjacent parking lot, plopped in a riverboat, and watched the money roll in quicker than the tide.

A couple of riverboats even had the audacity of cruising from the dock, sometimes only a mere ten feet, literally holding their gamblers captive until the three-hour excursion was over, and the players were tapped out.

“Gee, Dad, this place is totally cool,” Kelly reacts, seeing the faux New Orleans paddle-wheeler.

“Don’t tell your mother you were here.”

“Are we going to go in and play some seven-card stud?” Care asks.

“What do you know about seven-card stud?”

“I watch it on TV.”

“I thought you only watched Nickelodeon?”

“She likes variety,” Kelly explains for her sister.

As soon as we pass a long line of tour busses, I see a sign: No One under 21 Allowed.

Problem.

“I told you, we should’ve stopped so I could buy an outfit that made me look older,” Kelly informs me.

“Here’s what we’re going to do.”

“Sneak on board?”

“Yes.”

“I love this kind of stuff, Dad.”

I wait for a large group of senior citizens, unloading off a bus, to reach the gangway to the boat, and pull the girls with me into the center of the throng. I grab the handles of a wheelchair to help a gambling invalid on oxygen make her way up the ramp. Care walks between me and the chair, which makes her hard to see by the greeter at the head of the dock, who is busy welcoming the guests by handing out packets of Free Play coupons. Kelly positions herself between two fat ladies, where I can barely see her.

The ruse works and we find ourselves on the first floor of the boat in a sea of slot machines.

I have only been to one of these floating casinos in my life. It was during a surveillance of a cheating husband whose only mistress was a poker table. I didn’t have a good time.

I don’t like casinos. There are no windows and very few doors. No matter where you want to go you are forced to walk past umpteen slot machines. The dealers, who work the tables and games, give off an “I don’t like my job” vibe. Their bosses, the pit guys, have “Don’t even think of crossing me” permanently plastered on their faces. Most troubling of all is that no one really seems to be having a good time.

On TV commercials you always see well-dressed, upwardly mobile, young professionals, having a riotous, swell time winning jackpot after jackpot. Well, either the commercials have taken liberties, or we’re here on a bad day. I see mostly senior citizens seated at slot machines, pushing buttons to make the tumblers spin. Each wears a lanyard around their neck with a credit card attached to it which is inserted into the slot machines’ reader. They have literally tethered themselves to the gambling monster of their choice. Is this fun or what?

Kelly and Care are captivated by all the pings, pongs, and gongs as the machines sing their gambling songs.

“Do me a favor?”

“What Dad?”

“Promise me that if I ever end up in a place like this, tied to a slot machine, sitting for hours, waiting to hit triple cherries, you’ll take a gun and put me out of my misery.”

“No problem,” Kelly seems giddy at the chance.

We keep to the outskirts of the floor, where hopefully the kids will avoid detection, and make our way past the slots to the gaming tables in the rear of the room.

Elmhurst is exactly where I thought he’d be. Problem is between him and us is a row of dealers and pit bosses, any of whom will pounce on my kids as if they were counting cards at the blackjack table.

“Go to the bathroom,” I order.

“I don’t have to go,” Kelly says.

“I could,” Care admits.

“Kelly, take your sister.”

“Why, Dad? I want to be out here in the action.”

“Go.” I give them a slight push to the door labeled Women. “And don’t come out until you see me give you a signal.”

“What signal?”

“Just go.”

Once they’re safely inside, I make my way to the roulette table where Elmhurst sits alone, watching the ball go round and round the spinning wheel.

“Double zeros,” the croupier announces in a monotone voice.

“Damn,” Elmhurst says.

“How’s the system working today?” I ask.

His face turns a whiter shade of pale. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see if all those statistics, odds and algorithms work in simple games of chance.” I point to his small pile of chips, “Did I pick a bad day?”

“The day is not over.”

“Spoken like a true gambler, Elmhurst.”

He places four chips on number eighteen. “So, now you know I gamble,” he says. “I’m not doing anything illegal.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You going to try and prove I steal from my Mother to support my hobby?”

“Should I?”

“Be my guest.”

The wheel spins. The ball is tossed in the opposite direction in the upper ring. We wait until it bounces down into the numbers and comes to rest.

“Double zeros,” the croupier says again, with even less emotion than before, which is difficult to do.

“Damn, that never happens.”

“You might want to rework your system, Elmhurst.”

“The game is not over.”

“It’s a casino, Elmhurst. The game is never over.”

Kelly and Cares’ heads pop out of the ladies room door. I wave for them to come out.

“That wasn’t much of a signal, Dad.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

I take them by the hand and we head for the exit, only to be stopped by two security men.

“Can we see some ID?” the bigger of the two big men ask.

“I didn’t bring my purse,” Kelly says.

“We came in because I had to use the bathroom,” Care says.

“No one under twenty-one is allowed in the casino,” the second man tells us.

“We were just leaving,” I say.

“We’ll make sure you do.”

The two men escort us off the boat, past the gangway, and back onto terra firma.

“There’s only one thing I always want you to remember about casinos, girls.”

“What’s that?”

“They didn’t get built by people winning.”

On our way to the car, I check my phone. I forgot to turn it back on after I recharged it. I do that a lot. It rings out: Tonight’s the night, let’s live it up. I got my money, let’s spend it up. “Kelly would you quit playing around with my phone.”

“I’m only trying to make you cool, Dad.”

“Give it up. I’m hopeless.”

“I know.”

The tiny screen tells me I have a message. I punch an icon on the screen, listen, punch another icon, listen, and punch another one. Ten seconds later I punch again and hang up. Using cell phones is exhausting.

“What?” Both girls say in unison.

“Oland found the car.”

CHAPTER 26

The car is at an impound yard, located adjacent to a city housing project. Nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live here. The chain link fence surrounding the lot is at least fifteen feet high with enough razor wire on the top to repel a horde of drunk, angry, car-less yuppies. This is where your car goes after you give up trying to find a spot and decide to park in a red zone.

The guy working the front gate weighs more than a loaded, mid-size Buick. Any owner thinking they can argue their car free, without paying the hefty fine, is as dumb as someone who parks in a tow-away zone. The gate clunks open and we drive onto the lot.

The giant scowls at my dilapidated Toyota. “You can’t leave that here,” he informs me. “This ain’t no junk yard.”

Due to his size and demeanor, I decide to ignore his review of my wheels. “Police here?”

The man tries to point, but can’t bend his arm; too many muscles. “That-a-way.”

I turn left, drive a couple hundred yards, and find Oland standing in front of a late-model, four-door, black Chrysler sedan. “Find something you like?” I ask. “We have financing terms to fit any budget.”

“Sherlock, your sense of humor is like fart in crowded elevator, always unwanted.”

We park, get out, and join Oland. A CSI tech dusts the inside of the car for prints. Kelly stares at the license plate, “Yep, that’s the one,” she says proudly.

“Wiped clean?” I ask.

“More prints than a pole in subway car,” Oland says. “I’m going to need a set from Kennard and his girlfriend.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I walk slowly around the car. “Where’d you find it?”

“In a DePaul lot off Fullerton, the campus cops had it towed.”

“It was there more than a week?”

“Campus cops are not real good with record keeping.”

“Call the owner?”

“Not a happy man. He was leaving for Lake Geneva that night as soon as he finished dinner and the traffic died down. His suitcases are in the trunk.”

“Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men.”

Kelly and Care wander through the aisles of cars, checking out the ones they believe are hot.

“Are you sick of this case yet, Oland?” I ask.

“Nauseous, moment you called me.”

“All the apples are ripe, but stuck in tree.” I tell him. “Time to shake branches.” All said in my best Charlie Chan impression.

Oland gives me a dirty look. “He who stands under shaking tree, gets hit by falling apple.”

“Yes. But look what it did for Isaac Newton,” I answer.

I find Kelly behind the wheel of a Porsche, pretending that she’s speeding down the Autobahn. Care is behind the wheel of a Toyota; like father, like daughter.

“Come on, we have to go.”

“Dad, why don’t we have a better car?” Kelly asks as we return to where Oland is standing. “I’m going to be driving in less than three years, nine months, and two weeks, and I don’t want to be tooling around in some disgusting clunker like yours.”

“Why? Same reason I don’t have a better apartment, nicer clothes, and a savings account.”

“Those can wait, Dad. If I’m driving, I want to look good.”

I tell Oland I’m going to be putting a rush order on getting him Kennard’s and Schnook’s prints.

“Only rush I want, is rush to get out of town.”

We wave goodbye to the behemoth at the front gate. He merely nods. It must take too much effort to raise his massive arm.

“Somebody get Tiffany on the phone.”

The sisters race to speed dial their idol.

Care wins. “Hi, Tiffany.”

I speak as I drive; setting a good example of hands-free driving while using a cell phone. “Tell her to call Kennard, have Schnooks come over to his condo, and then meet us at our apartment in an hour.”

Care repeats the message. “Tiffany wants to know why?”

“Hers is not to reason why, hers is but to do and die.”

Care tells Tiffany, “Dad says something about eating raisins before you die.”

“Tiffany doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What else is new?”

Kelly interrupts, “Ask Tiffany what’s better, a Mercedes or a Lexus?”

“Just tell her to be at our place in an hour.”

Somehow the girls figure out how to conference call with Tiffany, and the rest of the way home they chatter about cars, boys, shoes, and what to wear if you haven’t gotten all your equipment yet.

_____

At home while waiting for Tiffany, gives me time to study the cards, now completely covering the Original Carlo. Kelly and Care change clothes for no good reason except to change clothes. I remind the girls not to say anything to Tiffany about Moomah’s tennis bracelet being delivered to our door. They ask if they can take their new clothes with them, when they return to their mother’s house on Friday. “Please?”

What am I going to say, “No”?

It’ll be the last time I ever see those clothes again.

My old detective bag of tricks is just where I left it, right next to my fingerprint kit on the top shelf in the front room. I blow off the dust and put it next to my keys, my wallet, and two plastic Ziploc bags, which I’m also going to need.

Tiffany arrives a half-hour late. She first reviews the girl’s new outfits, “You’re both so hot, you’re smokin’.”

“Tiffany, call Kennard and make sure Schnooks is at his condo.”

“Mr. Sherlock, could you assign me to some other part of the case besides the Schnooks’ detail?”

“Why?”

“Schnooks might be giving me a rash.”

“One more time, Tiffany. You can do it one more time.”

“I’m telling you it’s a mighty big cross you’re asking me to bear.”

I get no argument requesting that we take Tiffany’s Lexus, instead of my Toyota.

On the way downtown, I call Oland who is finishing up at the impound yard with the evidence tech. “Why don’t you buy the guys dinner, and I’ll meet you back at the yard in an hour?” I suggest.

“Why?” he questions.

“You said you wanted Schnooks’ prints, didn’t you?”

Oland agrees. I tell him of a great Chinese place on Western which has the best egg rolls in Chicago. He tells me, he’s the one who supplied the recipe.

Tiffany exits The Drive at North Avenue. We are less than a mile from Kennard’s condo building.

“Okay team, here’s what I want you to do.” I utter the comment with as much clandestine suspense as I can muster. For once, they’re all ears.

“Tiffany, as soon as you drop me off, I want you to go upstairs to Kennard’s, ask them what they want to eat, and order dinner to be delivered. That will buy you some time. During that time, I want you to collect a set of fingerprints from Kennard.”

“You’re asking me to put the sting on my Half-Uncle?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can.”

“We’re related. It would be like stabbing my brother in the back,” Tiffany explains.

“You don’t have a brother.”

“But if I did, I couldn’t stab him in the back,”

“Could you stab him in the front?”

Tiffany offers a solution for once. “Why don’t you have Kelly or Care do it?”

“You want us to stab someone, Dad?”

“No, I need a set of prints.”

“Ten-four,” Care says.

I hand over a Ziploc bag. “Get a glass he used. That shouldn’t be too hard to find. Don’t touch it. Just put it in this bag.”

“And while everyone is eating, I want one of you to sneak off, go into Kennard’s closet, and search his jewelry drawer.”

“What are we looking for?” Kelly asks.

“Stuff on Moomah’s missing list.”

“I’ll do that,” Tiffany volunteers.

“I thought you just said you didn’t want to be the one to implicate your Uncle in a sting?”

“When it comes to missing jewelry, there’s no line in the sand I won’t cross.”

We reach Kennard’s building. Tiffany enters the building’s underground parking lot and heads straight for its one handicapped spot.

“Don’t park yet,” I say.

“Why not?”

“Drive through the aisles, I’m looking for a car.”

“Why?”

“You people keep telling me I need a new car. Maybe I’m finally taking your advice?”

Tiffany turns to the right and drives down the aisle slowly. “This isn’t like you.”

“Keep driving. I want to find a car that would make all of you proud.”

“Mr. Sherlock, you’re not going to steal a car, are you?” she asks.

“More like borrow one.”

“There’s a real nice new Mercedes over there,” Kelly points out.

“No, that’s not what I want.”

“This is hard to believe. First you want me to finger my Uncle, and now I’m an accomplice to a car snatching.”

“Tell your Dad to pay me more and I wouldn’t have to stoop so low.”

“There’s a Jaguar, Dad.”

“Keep driving.”

We reach the bottom level of the garage. “That’s it over there,” I point.

“That Cadillac?”

“That’s it.”

“Ugly. Absolutely, positively ugly. It’s redder than a diseased zit.”

“Dad, how about an SUV?”

“I like Jeeps,” Care adds.

“Pull up behind it.”

“I really think you’re making a mistake,” Tiffany says. “I can’t let you steal a car with a totally gross paint job.”

I retrieve my detective bag from the floor. “Now, you people know what to do upstairs?”

“Dad, how are you going to start the car if you don’t have the keys?” Care asks.

“They used to call it ‘boosting.’ They probably have another name for it now.”

“You know how to do that?”

“I was a cop for almost twenty years, I learned from the best.”

“Mr. Sherlock, you never cease to amaze me.”

I get out of the car, wait for Tiffany to drive back up the ramp, and make sure no one else is on the parking floor. My Slim Jim gets me in the door and I have the car purring like a kitten in minutes.

Stealing a car is quite easy. A pro can do it in a matter of seconds. I have often wondered if the car manufacturers do this on purpose, because if thousands of cars are stolen every year, it means more cars have to be sold to replace the ones stolen. An excellent marketing strategy.

I back Schnooks’ Caddie out of the space and drive up the ramp. I wave at Tiffany and my girls as I exit the underground lot.

Schnooks hasn’t owned the Caddie long enough to get plates, but it’s already trashed. Fast food wrappers on the floor, empty beer cans in the back, and dirty Kleenex thrown about; all contribute to eradicating any “new car” smell that once permeated the interior.

The behemoth at the impound yard grunts as I drive through the gates. “What you get for the trade in, a dollar?”

Oland and the tech wait where I had left them previously.

“Your color choice in cars is similar to your sense of humor, Sherlock.”

“You said you wanted a set of Schnooks’ prints, didn’t you?”

“Usually we get them in a much smaller package,” the tech remarks.

“I like to go big, whenever I can.”

I park the car in a spot, remove the temporary registration from the back window and place it in the glove compartment. “I’d like to leave it here a few days.”

“Fine with me,” Oland says.

We walk over to the stolen car. The trunk is open. There are four suitcases lined up in a row slightly to the left of the back bumper. “That’s a lot of clothes for a weekend,” I say.

“You don’t know my wife,” the tech says.

I stare at the suitcases a few minutes then say to Oland. “Notice anything odd about this set?”

“No,” Oland says. “Samsonite very popular brand.”

I take the smallest case out of the line, lift it to check its weight, and place it in front of Oland. “Look familiar?” I ask.

“If only Grandfather was here to see this,” Oland says in a tone of total embarrassment.

My memory tells me the zipper on Kennard’s case hasn’t moved. The money must still be inside. “How often does this happen?” I ask.

“Money come, money go, and money come back,” Oland says.

“Don’t touch it,” the tech says. “It hasn’t been dusted.”

“I’d send it through the X-ray machine if I were you,” I tell the tech.

Oland stands staring at the case as if it were manna from heaven.

“Don’t tell the family,” I say to him.

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“It’s their money.”

“Don’t tell them or anybody yet,” I plead.

“Why not?” Oland says, “The sooner I tell, the sooner case put to bed.”

“Please, give me a few more days?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Got plans for the weekend.”

CHAPTER 27

The night is still young.

I have Oland drop me off at Moomah’s building.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Oland.”

“Promise and threat often become one.”

Entering the building, I find the three-hundred-year-old doorman sleeping like Rip Van Winkle, his chin almost touching his chest, and a slight snore coming from his open mouth.

I feel bad about waking the old doorman up. “Excuse me... Excuse me.”

He vibrates a bit, twitches his nose, and opens one eye. “No deliveries after ten.”

“Would you call Moomah Richmond, please?”

“What do you want me to call her?”

Is this a doorman joke or a somnambulist response?

“Tell her Sherlock is here to see her.”

“Like Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock?”

Like, I’ve never heard that before.

Bertha meets me at the front door. “Moomah’s asleep.”

I suddenly get an eerie feeling, something is wrong, something is missing, something is not right. Then, it hit me. “You turned the Wizard off?”

“Even Dorothy needs to sleep,” Bertha says.

I step further into the palatial unit. “I need to know who’s been here to visit in the last couple of days.”

Bertha puts her right hand to her chin. “Kennard was first, Venus came, Safari, and Boo stopped by.”

No wonder the doorman was exhausted.

“What did they do while they were here?”

“The usual stuff,” she says. “They talk to Moomah, they drink, they eat, they hang around, then drink, eat some more, then leave.”

“Notice anything gone after they left?”

“Not yet.”

Bertha follows me to the music room, where I check the wall safe, and find it just as I expected. I pull out two new hairs and stick them to the edge of the safe. If this keeps up, I’ll be bald in no time.

“Bertha, do you remember if anyone was in Moomah’s bedroom the night they were all here to see the fireworks?”

“I was too busy. They eat and drink a lot that night.”

“Notice anyone hanging around the roll top desk?”

“No.”

“Notice any money gone from her wad of cash?”

“No.”

I am quiet for a few moments. I’m considering my options. I don’t have many.

“It was nice seeing you again,” I tell her on my way to the foyer.

I am about to walk out the door when I have an idea. There’s another tree I can shake while I’m here.

“Where’s Moomah?” I ask.

“In bed.”

“I’d like to see her before I go.”

Bertha gives me a very questioning look which is a good thing

“Alone,” I add to my request.

“By yourself?”

“I won’t be long.”

On my way to the bedroom I turn my back to see if Bertha is watching. She is. Once in the hallway and out of her sight, I take a quick detour into the library. I hurry over to the roll top desk. I reach inside and pull the wad of cash out. I peel off a couple of hundreds to cover Bertha for a few days, and jam the rest of the money into my pocket.

Mad money.

_____

The walk to Kennard’s gives me time to rearrange in my head all the cards sticking on the Original Carlo. Now I can see patterns, reasons, time lines, and motives. A few gaping holes still exist, but as the tree shakes, more fruit will fall and fill them in.

Kennard’s condo has been pretty much put back into shape after the supposed break-in left the entire place quake-damaged. In spite of the clean-up, tonight the place is littered with empty Chinese food boxes, an oily pizza cardboard circle, white Styrofoam containers, and empty soft drink cans.

“What did you do, order take-out potpourri?”

“Uncle Kenno wanted pizza, Schnooks wanted ribs, Kelly Chinese, Care had a burger, and I had a taste for sushi,” Tiffany explains.

“What did you get for me?”

“You didn’t give me an order.”

I survey the satiated and satisfied diners. Schnooks is at the table snuffing out a cigarette butt in the remaining mound of her uneaten mashed potatoes. Kennard is on the couch, his regular spot; sipping a cocktail, his regular activity. Kelly struggles to pick up a water chestnut with chopsticks, and Care sneaks French fries when Tiffany isn’t looking.

“It sure is great news, you finding Moomah’s bracelet,” Kennard says between sips.

“What?”

“You finding a tennis bracelet. That’s a load off everyone’s mind.”

I snap my gaze from Kennard to Tiffany, who suddenly looks like she’s ingested a bad piece of raw fish. “Whoops.”

I turn to Kelly and Care. “And how did Tiffany know the bracelet magically reappeared?”

Kelly points at Care and Care points at Kelly.

“We told you not to say anything,” Kelly scolds Tiffany.

“Well then, you shouldn’t have told me,” Tiffany tells the girls. “You know keeping a secret isn’t one of my better qualities.”

“But you wouldn’t stop asking us.” Care insists.

“When you tell me that you know something that you can’t tell me, what do expect me to do?”

“Are you mad at us, Dad?” Care asks.

“Yes.”

“You don’t look mad,” Kelly says.

“Trust me, beneath this calm exterior, I’m seething inside.” I lie. “Get your things together. We’re going home, where you’ll get punished.”

“That Amish thing?” Kelly asks.

“Worse. This punishment will make becoming Amish, seem like a day at Six Flags.”

“You can’t punish me, Mr. Sherlock, because we’re not related.”

“Fine, you can sit there and watch them get punished.”

Tiffany thinks it over. “I can handle that.”

The three rise from the take-out rubble. I make my way over to Schnooks, who still wears a plastic bib which reads: Best ‘Chewin’s in Chicago. “Detective Oland wanted me to give you a message.”

“What?”

I whisper, so only Schnooks can hear. “He told me to tell you not to leave town.”

Schnooks will soon have indigestion, and it won’t be from the ribs.

_____

On the way home, Care asks, “Are you really going to punish us. Dad?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“You’ll find out.”

“When do we get to ride in our new car?” Kelly asks.

“It’s gone.”

“Did somebody steal it after you stole it?”

“No.”

Tiffany interrupts, “No one, except you, would steal a car that ugly.”

“I loaned it to Oland.”

“You loaned a stolen car to a policeman?” Care asks.

“He liked the color.”

“Mr. Sherlock, you’re definitely losing it.”

_____

The minute we walk into the apartment, I lay down the law. “No TV, no Internet, no computers, no cell phones. You are each to get yourself pencil and paper, sit on the couch and wait for me.”

“This sounds to me like it could be work related,” Tiffany says.

“Your assumption is correct, Tiffany.”

“Is this our punishment, Dad?” Care asks.

“I prefer to call it corrective adjustment therapy.”

“Don’t worry,” Tiffany tells the girls. “I’ve had that kind of therapy. You just lay there and bullshit about how you feel.”

“Tiffany, what did I say about swearing?”

“Sorry, it just popped out, kinda like when the therapist says a word and you say the first thing that comes into your head.”

“By the way, Tiffany, what did you find in Kennard’s jewelry drawer?”

“Oh, Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany says. “It was awful.”

“What was awful? What did you find? Anything that was on the list of missing items?”

“No, what I found was one of the most atrocious collections of junk jewelry on the planet. How anyone with even an ounce of DNA from my family could wear such trashy trinkets is beyond my wildest imagination.” Tiffany continues, “After you solve this case, I want you to investigate if Kennard was adopted.”

Is it any wonder why I hate my job?

The kids retrieve the necessary accoutrements and wait. I position myself in front of the Original Carlo, which is filled with cards. “We’re going to sit here until we figure this thing out.”

The three of them look at me like I have gone over the edge.

“Write down three things we’re missing.”

Care shouts out, “Who did it.”

“Besides that.”

“Darn, that was going to be my first thing,” Tiffany says.

“People, we need to find holes in their stories.”

Kelly perks up, “Safari wasn’t in town when the necklace was stolen.”

“But we don’t know when the necklace was stolen.”

“How about the other stuff that wasn’t on the list?” Care asks.

“Ya know, Venus could have easily smuggled out stuff under one of her ugly t-shirts,” Kelly says.

“Or, around her neck,” Care adds.

Tiffany furiously punches the screen of her cell phone with her index finger.

“Tiffany, what are you doing?” I ask.

“There’s got to be an app somewhere for figuring this out.”

“If Kennard did it, I’ll bet Boo was in on it too,” Kelly says.

“How about Schnooks?” I ask.

“She’s hardly the diamond type,” Tiffany says.

“We finally agree on one point.”

“Elmhurst has a gambling problem. So, maybe the mob is after him to pay off his debts?” Kelly questions.

“Could be.”

“We should check to see if he’s had his thumbs broken lately.”

“Kelly, you watch too much TV.”

Care yawns. Kelly is starting to wane, but Tiffany is wide awake. This is her prime time.

“I have something else for you to think about,” I tell the three.

“Haven’t we thought enough already?” Tiffany asks.

I pull out the wad of money from Moomah’s desk and rifle through the bills with my fingers. “What do you think about these apples?”

“Shopping spree!” Kelly screams.

“Sorry, it’s not my money.”

“First you steal a car, now you’re flashing a wad of cash,” Tiffany says. “I’m beginning to worry you’ve gone over to the dark side.”

A tear forms in Care’s eyes. “You’re not a bad guy now, are you, Dad?”

I bring my youngest to me, give her a hug, and explain. “No, my love, this money isn’t mine, and I didn’t steal a car.” I pause for effect. “It is all part of a little game we’re going to play in the next couple of days.”

“I love games,” a relieved Care says.

“And I’m going to need all three of you to help me do it.”

“We’re in,” Kelly says. “Right, Tiffany?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then you’d better get some sleep, because we’re going to be pretty busy starting tomorrow.”

“Tiffany, be here at nine a.m. tomorrow — sharp.”

The expression of her face changes dramatically. “Nine in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Sherlock, haven’t I been punished enough?”

CHAPTER 28

I can’t sleep. This time it’s not my back that’s the problem. Something’s stuck in my mind like a wrench in the cogs of a conveyor belt.

Anthea. I can’t get her out of my head or any other areas of my body for that matter. I remember her. I picture her with me. I imagine us together. The third being the best or worst, because I have a very vivid imagination.

I get off the couch at the crack of dawn. I have two cups of coffee as I sit and stare at the Original Carlo. I constantly check the clock until it reaches 8:01 a.m. I pick up the phone and call.

“I’d like to speak to Anthea Andrews, please.” I’m so nervous I don’t realize I’m speaking to a recording until it orders me to either punch in an extension or wait for an operator.

“Could I speak to Anthea Andrews, please,” I say to a real person after punching O.

I hear the click of the connection being made and the phone ringing. I swallow hard.

“Anthea Andrews.”

“Hi, it’s Sherlock. Richard Sherlock.”

“Good morning.”

“I’m sorry to bother you so early, but I wondered if you’d like to have dinner again?” I say tentatively. “With me.” Why I qualify my question I’ll never know.

“Love to.”

I’m speechless.

“Richard?” she says after a few seconds of silence.

“Sorry,” I say. “Caught me off guard there.” I hear a subtle laugh from her.

“Why don’t you meet me at the bank after work tonight?” she suggests.

“Sure.”

“There’s an employee entrance right off the alley, just up from the main door.”

“Okay.”

“About five-thirty?”

“Good.”

“See you then.”

“Great.”

The connection breaks. The phone receiver stays at my ear as it begins to buzz. All I can think about is: I have to start talking in sentences with more than one word.

_____

At 8:45 Kelly walks into the front room.

“Is your sister up?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know? You slept in the same bed.”

“I don’t know.” She finds the remote on table and flips on the TV to one of those morning, gab fest talk shows.

“Why isn’t your sister up?”

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t we discuss last night what the plan was going to be today?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you know, Kelly?”

“I know it’s not my turn to watch my dumb sister.”

Someone’s attitude needs an immediate adjustment.

I point to the bedroom door. “Here’s the deal: You go in there, get your sister up, both of you take a shower, get dressed, and eat breakfast. Plus, get on that fancy phone of yours and call Tiffany. Tell her if she isn’t here in an hour, she’s going to have to work alongside Herman in his apartment. Alone. All day.”

“I’m on it.”

I grab my keys and cell phone. “I’ll be back in an hour, and you three better be ready or it’s that Amish thing for all of you.”

Kelly hustles off with a whole new attitude.

_____

I’m in front of Herman’s apartment within fifteen minutes. I call him on my cell phone. “Herman, are you busy?”

He replies with the question, “In the Biblical sense of the term?”

“So to speak.”

When the door opens to let me in, he clutches a hunk of cheese in his left hand. “Sherlock, this cheese diet ties your intestines into a Gordian Knot.”

“Please, spare me the details.”

“Might have to take up sword swallowing to get moving again.”

Moomah’s ledger is on the table, sitting on a couple of porn magazines.

“Did you go through the checkbook?”

“Done.”

Herman sits on the squeaky chair, opens the cover of the checkbook. “It’s hard to believe, but there’s a worse disease than Alzheimer’s,” an odd comment coming from Herman.

“And what disease would that be?”

“Having Alzheimer’s the same time you have a bunch of lousy, money-grubbing thieves for kids.”

Herman takes me through Moomah’s financial follies and foibles, page by page. He points out every bogus check, and every questionable donation, stock trade, clipped bond coupon, or mutual fund payment.

“How did they keep this all from E Carrington Smithers?”

“I’m not sure they did?”

“Was he in on it?”

“I wouldn’t blame him if he was.”

“Then, how could he keep it from Mr. Richmond?”

“That lady has enough cash and prizes to fill up Fort Knox. Who’s going to notice if a little of it goes missing?”

I pick out a number of checks and line them up on the table. “Something doesn’t make sense.”

“You mean why Tiffany won’t go out with me?”

“No.”

“Did you tell her I was sensitive, a one-woman man, and would consider learning how to ballroom dance?”

“Not yet, Herman.”

“Well, tell her.”

“Why.”

“Because that’s what all the women on Match.com say they want.”

“I’d be lying.”

“So are the women on Match.com. You really think that many women can be ‘athletic and toned’?”

“Herman, can we get back to the money?” I point to the checks in front of him. “These are all small potatoes. Not a one’s over five grand.”

“I noticed that too.”

“What does that tell you?”

Herman takes another bite of cheese. “They might be needy, but not greedy?”

I sit back and contemplate the problem. “You don’t go from finagling a few grand to stealing a necklace worth millions.”

“Why not?”

“You just don’t.”

“If it is easy to steal five grand why not steal five mil?” Herman asks.

“Because it doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, it does to me,” Herman says. “My money is on that Safari guy. He pockets the necklace, takes out the diamonds, sells them in Africa, and uses the money to buy elephant tusks.”

“Jury’s still out on that.” I pick up the checkbook, but leave the stack of papers on the desk.

Herman picks up one of the magazines and leafs through it. “So, who you putting your money on?”

“I don’t know.”

“How about the bad gambler?”

“Maybe.”

“With all the fiber Venus eats, her mind might have gone soft?”

“I don’t know, Herman.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know why I don’t know.” I’m sounding like my daughter, Kelly.

“What’s the matter?”

“I thought I had this all figured out, but instead of finding more jewelry gone, which is what usually happens in these cases, missing items are popping up like questions at a trial.”

“Really?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Sounds like a good thing to me.” Herman drops his hunk of cheese on the floor. After he picks it up, he wipes it on his sleeve to remove the gunk it absorbed. “Want some cheese?”

This is not the time to test the Five Second Rule. “No, but thanks for asking.” I turn to head out of the apartment, clutching the checkbook to my chest.

“Don’t forget to tell Tiffany about me being sensitive.”

“I’ll put it at the top of my list.”

_____

The Toyota doesn’t start on my first ignition attempt. I wait, to let it get its strength back, before I try again, and in the interim, have a thought. Something is odd. I open the checkbook and slowly page through each entry. There hasn’t been a check written in the last six months.

The Toyota kicks over in two additional tries. I check the time on my cell phone and decide it will be my turn to let someone wait. I pull out of the space and head for Evanston.

_____

Phoebe is downstairs in the dayroom, playing poker with a couple of the dowagers.

“Don’t cheat, Phoebe.”

“Wouldn’t be any fun if I didn’t cheat, Sherlock.”

“I need you to write me a check.”

“How much?”

She smiles wickedly. “Five grand.”

“Whose money?”

We find an open table. I open the checkbook and tear out a blank check. “Finally getting smart, Sherlock?”

“No, Phoebe, I’m trying to prove a point.”

Phoebe takes a few minutes to study Moomah’s handwriting.

“Make it out to Tiffany Richmond. Five grand.”

“Doesn’t she already have enough money?”

“Not according to her.”

Phoebe writes Tiffany a check for $5,110.20. “You always want an odd number,” she tells me. “Round numbers are suspicious.”

Before handing the check over to me, she blows the ink dry, waves it in the air, gives it one last look, and says, “Not my best work, but it’ll cash.”

“Thanks, Phoebe. I owe you one.”

“Make sure you pay me before I die.”

_____

It’s almost ten-thirty when I return to my apartment.

“Mr. Sherlock, where have you been? You’re late.”

“No, Tiffany, you’re late.”

“I got here exactly fifty-nine minutes from when Kelly got a hold of me.”

“You were already late before she made the call.”

“Oh, come on, that doesn’t count. You knew I wouldn’t be here at nine.”

Tiffany’s reasoning, however absurd, does have some validity; so why bother arguing.

I gather the troops, it’s time for marching orders. “We’re going to split into two groups.”

Kelly interrupts, “I want to go with Tiffany.”

“Me, too,” Care adds.

“Don’t I get a group?” I ask.

“Sorry, Dad, but us girls stick together,” Kelly explains.

“Tiffany, I want you to tail Boo.”

“Boo?” Tiffany asks. “Why? Boo’s boring.”

“I have a feeling she’s going to be making a number of stops today, and I want to be sure.”

“So, we’re on undercover, surveillance duty?” Care asks.

“Precisely.”

“How long?”

“Until you see a definite pattern in her actions.”

“Do we get a lunch break?” Tiffany asks. “I was in such a hurry to get here this morning I didn’t have time for my protein shake.”

“You’ll live.”

“How are we going to find Boo to start with?” Care asks.

“Go to her building.”

“And what do we do, knock on her door?” Kelly asks.

“Ask the doorman. He’ll know if she’s home.”

“That’s what I was going to suggest,” Tiffany says.

“Your next assignment is visit the First Third Bank on North Avenue.”

“What a dumb name for a bank,” Kelly says.

“And cash this check.” I hand Phoebe’s forged check to Tiffany.

“Totally cool. Moomah wrote me a check. And it isn’t even my birthday,” Tiffany is thrilled. “Now this is my kind of assignment.”

“After that we’re going to meet up.”

“Where?” Care asks.

“I’ll let you know.”

“Will we get a break this afternoon, so we can go spend some of this money?” Tiffany asks.

“Yeah, Dad, can we?” Kelly imagines more new clothes for her closet.

“We’ll see. Okay, get moving.”

“What are you going to do today?” Care asks.

“I have to crack a safe and get ready for a very important event.”

CHAPTER 29

Some fat comedian is playing the Pachinko game with a housewife from Omaha on The Price is Right.

“What happened to Bob Barker?” I ask Shervy who sits in the same chair as he sat on my last visit

“Where have you been?”

“Certainly not watching The Price is Right.”

“Bob Barker quit to go spray cats.”

“Why would he want to spray a cat?”

“To take the goody parts out, so they can’t have kittens.”

“That’s why Bob quit?”

“Yeah.”

“Interesting career move.”

Shervy finishes a donut, then flosses his teeth. “What do you want, Sherlock?”

“Your help.”

“Doing what?”

“What do you think?”

“How many times do I have to tell you, I’m out of the business?”

“It won’t take more than an hour.”

“Why should I help you? For years you made my life miserable.”

“Because you’re a thief.”

“That’s a lousy excuse. There were plenty of other thieves out there you could have gone after.”

“But you were one of my favorites.”

“Forget it, Sherlock. It’s against all the rules of nature for me to help you bust a fellow member of my fraternity.”

“Shervy, remember about fifteen years ago, that jewelry store in Andersonville, where somebody broke in through the basement of the store next to it, and cleaned the place out?”

“No.”

“The only clue they found was a used toothpick, but since there was no way to identify the DNA on it back then, they couldn’t hang it on anybody.”

“Nope, doesn’t ring a bell.”

I carefully pick up his used piece of dental floss and hold it up. “I wonder what would happen now, if they had something to compare it with?”

Shervy contemplates for maybe six seconds. “The cops would keep a toothpick for fifteen years? I don’t think so, Sherlock.”

I pull a Ziploc bag, with a dated evidence tag stuck on, out of my pocket and I carefully deposit the used piece of dental floss next to a chewed toothpick already inside. I found the blank tag this morning in my bag of detective tricks, filled it out and slapped it on. A fact Shervy doesn’t need to know.

“Give me a minute to grab my bag.”

On our way out, Shervy yells out to his wife, “I’m gonna go check out some real estate, Honey.”

The woman comes out of the kitchen with a worried look on her face.

Outside, I ask, “She actually believes an excuse that bad?”

“It’s code. She sees me leaving with a cop, she worries.”

_____

Shervy complains that my car isn’t fit for an illegal immigrant, but it gets us to Moomah’s building. Hopefully it will get us back.

Upon seeing Shervy, the three-hundred-year-old doorman perks up, as much as he’s able to perk up. “I haven’t seen you in a while,” he says.

“How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been old and getting older.”

“It doesn’t look like you can get much older.”

“You either.”

I interrupt their incredible repartee. “You two know each other?”

“We go way back,” Shervy says.

“Way, way back,” the doorman qualifies.

“Personally or professionally?”

“Both.”

Enough said.

“Could you call up to Moomah’s, tell her Sherlock’s here?”

From the time it takes for the doorman to get to the phone, dial Moomah’s number, and announce us, we could have built our own stairway to the penthouse.

Bertha has tears in her eyes, as she opens the door.

“What’s the matter?”

“I get fired.”

“Why?”

“They say I’m a thief.”

“What’s so bad about that?” Shervy asks.

Bertha breaks into sobs and ends up weeping against my shoulder. From the other room, I hear Dorothy crying over Auntie Em. I have tears in stereo.

“Who fired you, Bertha?”

“Elmhurst.”

“Elmhurst can’t fire you.”

“He did.”

Shervy stands impatiently, “Can we move this along, Sherlock? I want to be home in time to watch Dr. Phil.”

“Wait right here, Bertha.”

I lead Shervy into the music room, right past Moomah, who plunks out notes on the grand piano, while singing a much truncated version of Follow the Yellow Brick Road.

Shervy looks at Moomah and bumps me on the shoulder. “That’s why I do crossword puzzles. Brain exercises are the only known medicine to ward off Alzheimer’s.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It was on a Dr. Phil show.”

I remove the wall painting and reveal the safe. The hair, I plastered on it remains. I consider trying to reattach it to my scalp.

“Look familiar?” I ask tapping the dial on the safe.

“It’s an oldie, but a goodie,” Shervy says. “Kinda like me.”

“How long do you think it will take?”

“Before Dr. Phil comes on.” Shervy takes out a stethoscope and a piece of fine sandpaper out of his bag.

“Don’t open it all the way until I’m back.” I tell him.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“No.”

I leave Shervy to do his business and return to Bertha, who sits listening to Moomah play and sing, although the notes played do not match the song sung. On the TV, the palace guards are also singing “Oh we oh, we oh, oh.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Elmhurst say I stole Moomah’s money.”

“From where?”

“The desk drawer.”

I pull her towards me and thump her on her back the same way I would if I were burping a baby. “Calm down, I can prove you didn’t take the money.”

“You can?”

“A little hard to hear, Sherlock,” Shervy calls from across the other side of the room. “Put the dueling concerts on intermission, would ya?”

Bertha goes over to Moomah and puts her hand on her shoulder. “The man wants you to stop playing.”

“Can’t get to Oz without skipping,” Moomah says.

“Why don’t you and Moomah go in the kitchen for lunch?” I suggest.

“Yeah,” Shervy says, “I could eat.”

Bertha and Moomah go one way, Shervy and I go the other.

Back at the wall safe, I stand perfectly still, watching a self-proclaimed genius in action.

Shervy places the scope gently onto the metal, moving it ever so slowly until he finds the optimum spot to hear the clicks of the tumblers. It’s so quiet I can’t hear him breathe. His fingers rest softly and delicately turn the dial with the precision of a brain surgeon; once to the right, once to the left, then back to the right.

My cell phone explodes with “Uptown girl, she’s been livin’ in her uptown world…”

Shervy’s fingers come off the dial. He quickly pulls the scopes’ buds out of his ears, “Ouch.”

“Sorry about that.”

I see the caller’s name on the lighted dial: Tiffany. I turn the phone off.

“You’re worse than one of those idiots in a movie theater.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“You’re not making this any easier.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Go away so I can concentrate.”

I give Shervy the same stare I give my kids when I know they’re trying to pull a fast one. “Leave you in here, while I’m out there?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“I told you I’m out of the business. Now do you want this opened or not?”

I back slowly out of the room and into the hallway. One second after stopping, I hear the lever of the safe come down. I hurry back into the music room. The safe’s small door is open wide.

“That was quick.”

Shervy pulls the scope from his ears. “A kid could’ve cracked this safe.”

Shervy is about to reach in.

“Wait.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

“I told you I’m retired.”

I pull out the appraisal list Tiffany gave me, add a pen, an empty Ziploc bag, and hand it all to Shervy.

“What, now I’m your secretary?”

“You check them off as I pull them out.” I reach inside the small safe. It is too dark to see, but I can feel a small treasure. I pull out the first item. “One diamond tennis bracelet.”

I wait for Shervy to find it on the list and check it off, before I place it in the Ziploc bag he’s also holding.

I continue. “One Ladymatic Omega watch.”

“Check.”

“Two gold necklaces.”

“Check. Check.”

I feel around inside for other items.

“Anything else?” Shervy asks.

“There should be a Rolex Datajust watch.”

Shervy reviews the list. “Yeah, and a broach, earrings, and another necklace.”

I take the Ziploc bag from Shervy. “That Rolex is worth close to sixty grand.”

As I make sure the bag is sealed, Shervy closes the safe and spins the dial. He takes a soft cloth and wipes all the places on the safe he touched. “Force of habit,” he says.

But when he turns to his left, I notice an odd sway to the left side of his coat. I reach inside his pocket and find a Rolex Datajust watch.

“Gee, I wonder how that got in there?”

“Shervy…”

“I guess they don’t call you Sherlock for nothing.”

Bertha has turkey and roast beef sandwiches set out for lunch in the dining room. Moomah didn’t wait for us to chow down. Her brain may not work, but there’s nothing wrong with her appetite.

“We’re going to have to take ours to go,” I tell Bertha.

Shervy helps himself to three sandwiches. He pockets two and proceeds to nosh on the third.

“Are you going to help me get my job back?”

“Doesn’t look like you’ve lost it to me,” Shervy points out between bites.

“Don’t worry, Bertha, I’ll handle it.”

Downstairs, Shervy wakes the doorman up, gives him one of Bertha’s turkey sandwiches, and bids him a fond farewell. Makes me wonder what other tips the doorman has received from his buddy from way, way back.

It’s an hour’s drive back to Berwyn. Shervy checks his watch after I pull over and park. I check it to make sure it’s not the Rolex. “Just in time for Dr.Phil,” he says with a smile.

I hand him the used dental floss inside the Ziploc bag. “Tokens of my appreciation,” I explain.

“Thanks, Sherlock. I appreciate that.”

I check to assure the bag of jewelry remains in my possession before Shervy gets out.

“Actually, this was fun.”

“So glad you enjoyed it.” I watch him walk up the path.

“Honey, I’m home,” he calls out.

I sit in the car for a minute, turn on my phone. There are three messages from Tiffany, each more frantic than the one before.

I dial.

She picks up on the first ring. “It was awful, just awful. It was humiliating, disgusting, and cruel. I’ve never been through something so terrible in my life.”

“What happened, Tiffany?”

“Moomah’s check bounced.”

I tell her to meet me in Olive Park across from Lake Point Tower at three o’clock.

_____

I have less than two hours. The first haircut place I pass that doesn’t look too frou-frou, I stop and get clipped. Twenty-five dollars for a fifteen minute haircut is a clipping times two. Next, I stop at a Macy’s. I buy new shoes, new shirt and new tie. Eighty-dollars for a tie on the “Marked Down” rack is outrageous.

I arrive at Olive Park at three-ten. No Tiffany. No daughters. I wait in the parking lot, enjoying one of the best views of the skyline of Chicago. At 3:45 Tiffany pulls into the lot and parks her Lexus, taking up two spots. She jumps out of the car and rushes towards me.

“It was like I was violated.”

“What happened?”

Both Kelly and Care give me slight smiles as they join us.

“First of all we had to stand in line,” Tiffany explains. The words flow out of her like water from a broken main. “You know how much I hate that. We get up to the teller person and hand her the check. She tells me to sign it and I do. She asks for my ID like I’m some kind of criminal. Then, without any reason, she runs off to get her supervisor. And then this dumpy guy in an absolutely hideous suit comes over and asks me where I got this check. I tell him it’s from my Grand-mama, and he gives me this look like I’m wearing stripes and checks at the same time. He says the account’s empty and there are nineteen dollars of past due charges, and could I kindly correct that by paying up now. Can you believe a banker asking me for money!”

“Some people have a lot of nerve.”

“You’re telling me!”

“Now, Tiffany, I have a question.”

“What?”

I pull my cell phone out of my pocket. “Who’s been playing around with my phone?”

“Oh, I put in some new ringtones for you,” Kelly says.

“Why?”

“Because they’re cool.”

“Did you like ΄em?” Care asks.

“No.”

“Dad, you’re no fun.”

“I’m your father. I’m not supposed to be fun.” I pause to hopefully let the message sink in, although I know it won’t.

“Mr. Sherlock, what are you going to do about Moomah’s bad check?”

“Nothing.”

“Why not?”

“Why should I, the check wasn’t made out to me?”

“Mr. Sherlock, it isn’t fair.”

I start to speak, but Kelly cuts me off. “No, please don’t tell her that life isn’t fair. We are so sick of hearing that.”

I nod at Kelly. “No problem. Tell me about Boo.”

“That chick is a loon.”

“We followed her for two hours,” Care says.

“What did she do?”

“Boo must have been found under a bridge or something because there is no way she and I could share any genes.”

I try again. “What did she do?”

Care answers, “She went from one ATM machine to another.”

“And what did she do?”

“We think she put money in,” Kelly says.

“See, I told you she’s nuts!” Tiffany says. “You don’t put money into an ATM. Those things were invented to take money out!”

“Tiffany, you have to calm down.”

“It has been a pretty trying day for me. I had to get up early, I didn’t get my protein powder shake, I had to tail my loony cousin, and on top of all that I had a check turn rubber on me. If this keeps up, I’m going to need a mental health day!”

“Hey, Dad,” Care says. “You look different.”

“Thanks for noticing.”

“You got a haircut,” Kelly says.

“Do you like it?”

“Not really,” Kelly says.

Time to move on.

“Here’s what I want you to do next.”

“There’s more, Mr. Sherlock?”

I write an address on a piece of notebook paper and hand it to Kelly. “Go to this house. If there’s a moving van in front of it, duck down and drive by. Don’t be seen. If there isn’t a van there, knock on the front door. If nobody answers, I want you to peek through the windows and see if it’s empty.”

“What do you mean, empty?” Tiffany asks.

“Empty. Make sure nothing’s in it.”

“People or stuff?”

“Both.”

“Then what do we do?” Care asks.

“By that time, it should be happy hour. I want you to go back to the Pump Room and see Johnny Spaccone.”

“Again?” Tiffany asks.

“Tell him we’re willing to settle his breach of promise case out of court.”

“Breach of promise?” Tiffany asks.

“E Carrington Smithers left me a text message on my phone. I would’ve told you sooner, but I didn’t know how to get it out of my phone to read it.”

“Oh my God, Tiffany says. “This day is going from awful to unbearable.”

“What’s breach of promise?” Care asks.

“That’s when some jerk tells you he’s going to marry you then he backs out after you buy the dress,” Tiffany explains.

“Close enough,” I say.

“Does my Daddy know about this?” Tiffany asks.

“Not yet.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“I thought that could be something you could handle, Tiffany.”

“No way!” Tiffany almost shrieks. “Asking my Daddy to settle out of court is like against his religion. If he thinks I suggested that, I could be cut out of his will.”

“I’d do it myself, but he won’t take my calls.”

“So, leave it on his voice-mail.”

“Nobody uses voice-mail anymore,” Kelly informs me. “That is like so totally lame.”

“So, text him,” Tiffany says.

“I don’t know how to text.”

“Give me your phone. I’ll do it for you.” Tiffany grabs my flip phone. “Oh my God, this is like four generations ago. I can’t text with this. It belongs in an antique store.”

I retrieve my cell phone. “We’ll deal with the communication problem later. You people have to get going.”

I open the door of my Toyota and slide into the front seat.

“Hey Dad, when we’re doing all this, what are you going to be doing?” Kelly asks.

“I have to go home and get ready.” I break into a proud smile. “I have a date.”

CHAPTER 30

Since my divorce, I’ve done very little dating; not because I didn’t want to, more because I’m afraid. One bad marriage and a worse divorce can wreak havoc on a dating psyche. I’d see a woman in the supermarket and try to catch her eye. If I was successful, I’d turn chicken, and hide behind the potato display in the produce section.

A couple of friends set me up a few times, but that quickly ended after they set me up a few times. I could always go to a cop bar, where there are always women interested in meeting men on the force; but I’ve never been able to understand why any woman would want to marry a cop, especially a detective. The hours are not only horrible, but erratic. When a body shows up, or a safe is cracked, a detective can’t say, “Sorry, can’t make it right now, the little lady and I are going bowling.”

The women I meet always seem to have a red flag flying. One thought sex with her ex-husband was still okay, since he was her “ex-husband”. Another wanted me to pay for our dates, which I didn’t mind, but also her rent and her car insurance. The last one did not inform me she owned six parrots, until I entered her house and was dive-bombed.

If I didn’t make it clear before, when it comes to women, I don’t choose wisely.

At home, I shower and put on the best of my three suits, my new shoes and new tie. I’m nervous, I admit it. On the way downtown I must change the radio station a hundred times. Thoughts go through my mind like eager fans through a turnstile. What do I do? When do I do it? How do I ask? What do I say? Should I hold her hand? Kiss her when we first meet? Play it hot? Play it cool? Be suave? Be overt? Get a room? Go back to her place?

The only thing I am sure of is that we’ll have to take her car. Can’t take mine, nothing could destroy a romantic mood faster than my Toyota.

I’m a nervous wreck when I arrive at the employee entrance to the bank, close to five-thirty. The security guard allows me to stand inside and get out of the unbearable heat and humidity. I wait, as workers pass by the guard’s careful eye. Some chat with fellow workers. Some can’t wait to break free, so they can secure a seat on the bus or a train ride home. Any employee carrying a purse, satchel, or briefcase must have the item checked by the guard. As they plop their parcels up on the counter, they stare at me and probably wonder if I’m some special guard brought in to ferret out attempts to smuggle out a roll of quarters.

There’s one exiting employee who rings my bell. It’s not her face or her body, or her dress that excites me. It’s her hat. It’s a multi-colored knit with a preponderance of purple and green. It sits high on her head with long straps falling on each side past her ears. The style reminds me of the curlicue braids an Orthodox Jew wears on a Saturday. What I don’t understand at all is why she would wear a knit hat in the middle of a sweltering summer? After she passes by, and for the fifteen minutes following, that hat remains stuck in my head. My mind has been flogged. I can’t think clearly. I’ve totally fallen out of operational mode. But it’s not really about a hat. It’s because I’m nervous about my date.

My cell phone rings. I pull a few feet away from the security guard to gain some privacy, and answer the call. “Hello Tiffany.”

“Mr. Sherlock, I hope you appreciate the fact that the three of us are out in the field, busting our humps, while you are on your way to get lucky tonight.”

“Tiffany, are Kelly and Care listening to this conversation?”

“Of course.”

“They shouldn’t be hearing you talk about me ‘getting lucky.’”

“We don’t keep secrets from one another. We’re a team.”

“The team doesn’t need to hear a pep talk about my sex life.”

“Do you need a pep talk?”

“No.”

“If it’s verbal Viagra you need, I can help.”

“No thank you, Tiffany.”

“Just trying to be of service.”

“I certainly hope you called with some other purpose than what we have been discussing.”

“Oh yeah, the house was empty.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“I don’t blame the people for moving out. It was really a crummy neighborhood.”

“Not everyone can live in a penthouse.”

“Thank God for small favors.”

“I didn’t know you were religious.”

“I’m not, except for weddings,” she says. “It’s the best place to meet men.”

Tiffany retreats to a previous topic. “Where are you going on your date?”

“Dinner.”

“Where?”

“I’m not telling.”

“Where are you going after that?”

Before I can respond, Tiffany asks, “Want me to keep the kids out of the apartment for a few hours?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Go to her place. I’m not saying you live in a dump, but no amount of Al Green and scented candles could make your apartment even kinda romantic.”

“I’ll tell that to my decorator the next time she comes over.”

“Did Elmhurst call you?” she asks.

“No.”

“He called me.”

“Lucky you.”

“He said he caught Bertha stealing Moomah’s money.”

“She didn’t.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I stole it.”

“I can’t believe it!” Tiffany shrieks. “You’ve become a one-man-crime wave.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I know what I’m doing.”

“As a criminal, or as a dater?”

“Both.”

“I don’t know,” she says. “This whole thing is getting really, really weird, starting with you.”

I change the subject. “Have you seen Johnny Spaccone yet?”

“No.”

Anthea is coming down the hallway. She looks phenomenal. “I’ve got to go.”

“Are you going to call us with updates on how your date is going?”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Well, I’m here if you need me.”

“Goodbye, Tiffany.”

“You look nice,” Anthea says, as she places her briefcase on the counter for inspection.

“Not nearly as nice as you.”

She wears a dark-blue, straight skirt, which ends halfway up her thigh. Her matching tailored jacket hugs her waist, accentuating her perfect shape. Her white blouse is open in the front, allowing for a modest peek of the white lace camisole underneath.

The security guard does more of an eyeball inspecting of her “stuff” than he does of the contents of her open briefcase on the counter. He gives me a “go for it” wink after clearing her for take-off.

“Italian food?” I ask, as we clear the outer door.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I made reservations at the University Club.”

The University Club is a private, restaurant/meeting place on Michigan Avenue, where the movers and shakers in Chicago have been deciding the fate of the city for decades.

“The bartender there makes a cosmopolitan to die for.”

“I’d hate to be responsible for a premature death, especially on our second date.”

After a two block walk, we sit at a window table, staring out on a breathtaking view of Lake Michigan. The softball fields below are filled with competitors. Sailboats catch the wind. Tourists crowd around the Peanut. Bikers and joggers fill the path which runs along the edge of the water. This is magnificent, the city at its best at the end of the day.

But do I notice?

No, all I see is that bit of lace on Anthea’s chest. I can’t get my eyes to rise above her chin.

“Excuse me,” she says. “I’m up here.”

“Sorry.” My face has undoubtedly turned bright red in embarrassment. “You are one beautiful, captivating woman.”

“Thank you.” She puts her martini down, interlaces her fingers, and lays her wrists on the edge of the table. “I hate to spoil the mood, but there is something I should tell you.”

Here it comes. She’s married, or she’s decided to go back to her ex-boyfriend. She’s joining a convent, she only has a month to live, or she’s coming out of the closet.

“Kennard Horsley’s account was flagged by First Chicago.”

Whew. “Why?”

“He had several deposits exceeding ten thousand dollars,” she says.

In an attempt to stem the tide of laundered money, mostly from drug dealers, any deposits exceeding ten grand are flagged by FDIC member banks and reported to the IRS. Of course, this hasn’t worked, there’s still enough laundered drug money floating around to pay off the national debt.

“So, if someone deposits five hundred dollars, twenty-one times, it pops up as $10,500 on the daily deposit docket?” I ask.

“It did this time.” she says. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“If anyone asks, I’ll say a little bird told me in a tweet.”

Anthea leans back in her chair, “Is Mr. Horsley going through a pretty tough patch?”

“Let’s just say his week started with his girlfriend being kidnapped, and ended with her leaving town. And those were the good parts.”

“Do you think he’s the one who pocketed the necklace?”

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

“Any other family members in the running?” she asks.

“All of ’em. Elmhurst is your typical gambler — broke. Safari, the jungle boy, is paying off the IRS with money he doesn’t have. Venus harvests her own brand of bullshit. Pardon my French. There’s also an accountant with no first name, a spurned lover suing for breach of promise, and a granddaughter with a bad attitude about everything — except money. Each had access, each had motive, each had a history of dipping into Moomah’s cookie jar, and each is tired of waiting around for Moomah to let loose her purse strings; or better yet, drop dead.”

“Charming family.”

“The funny thing about it is a lot of the stuff on the missing list is coming back like AWOL soldiers who sober up and think twice.”

“What do you mean?”

“Moomah’s pearls showed up in an underwear drawer, and one pair of earrings popped up in a desk drawer. Now, if only a million dollar necklace would magically appear, I could go write this one off as time ‘un-well’ spent.”

Anthea smiles that sweet, sexy smile of hers, then says, “I almost forgot, the lady’s name is Melvina Lange.”

“What lady?”

“The lady in the vault with Moomah. The one with the hat.”

“Her name is Melvina Lange?”

“That’s the name she signed in with.”

I contemplate this information and wonder out loud, “How could any parent be so cruel and name their kid Melvina?”

Anthea goes a few steps beyond the smile and laughs. “You’d have to ask Mr. or Mrs. Lange.”

“Have you seen Ms. Melvina in the bank since?”

“No.”

My phone rings out: “Uptown girl, she’s been livin’ in her uptown world...” Guess who?

I turn it off. “Sorry.”

The waiter arrives and we order.

Anthea has Ahi tuna, “flown in this morning” according the waiter. I order the salmon. “Sir, I have to tell you it is farm-raised,” he informs me.

“It’s okay, so was I, for a very short period of time.”

Anthea nibbles, I eat. Anthea has one more cosmopolitan. My limit is one beer.

We talk about our lives. She tells me of her “mover and shaker” ex-husband who did most of his moving on top of other women and most of his shaking, shaking out their bank account. I confess that ever since my divorce, my relationships with the opposite sex haven’t been smooth sailing. “I seem to have developed this knack for being with women, who leave me dangling like a snagged, farm-raised salmon.”

She reaches out and lays her hand upon my arm. “My intention would never be to hurt you,” she replies.

I’m about to speak, but I don’t. I hesitate. I’m so nervous, I’m shaking. I get this premonition that something isn’t Kosher. The last thing I want to do is blow this. “Anthea, the problem is you’re so smart, and so beautiful, and I’m falling so hard for you, I’m afraid I’ll hit my head, and end up in a love-sick coma.”

“Richard,” she says. “Don’t do that. It would be very difficult having a relationship if one of us were in a coma.”

“I’m not very good in these situations.”

She puts a slight squeeze on my arm. “Nobody is,” she says, and adds that damn sexy smile of hers. “Walk me to my car?”

I call for the check, but the waiter waves me off.

“It’s been taken care of,” Anthea tells me, rising from her chair.

“No,” I say, “I insist on paying.”

“Perk of the job.” She smiles. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I asked you, I insist.”

“Richard, it’s been my pleasure. Thank you.”

The city streets are dark and deserted as we walk back to her car, arm and arm.

A ANDREWS is stenciled on the wall where her Lexus is parked. She unlocks the car via her remote. I open her door.

“Where did you park?” she asks.

“Lot across the street.”

“Want a ride?”

“The walk will do me good.”

We stand between the open door and the front seat of her car. We are close, but not touching. “I like you. I like you a lot,” I say.

“And I like you, Richard.”

“If I seem a bit awkward here it’s because my heart has been stomped flat a few times,” I say haltingly. “If I’m going to put myself at the edge of the cliff, I want to be sure if I fall, it’s worth the trip down.”

She moves forward just a bit. Now we’re touching. “I’ve met a lot of men over the years, but no one ever like you.”

“Consider that a blessing.”

She reaches upward, gently places her hand on the back of my neck, pulls me forward, and leans into me. She gives me a kiss I will never forget. If there’s an emotion of total exhilaration, at this moment, I’m feeling it right now. All over.

“Thank you for a lovely evening.”

She breaks our clinch. I take a step backward. She climbs into the driver’s seat, rolls the window down, and starts the car. “Good night.”

I stand like a wallflower at the school dance, as she backs out of her spot and drives up the ramp.

Once the Lexus is out of sight, I slowly walk out of the lot. There’s a bounce to my step that wasn’t there before, and it’s not the new shoes. I feel a happy light-headedness. There’s a smile on my face.

On the way back to my car, my mind is a jumbled mass of pleasant thoughts. I’m good. I’m really good. Kidnapping, horse camp debacles, fireworks, African artifacts, roulette strategies, self-made fertilizer, Moomah skipping down the yellow brick road bedecked in jewels with Bertha trailing behind, and Oland right behind her, pattering out his platitudes are the farthest things from my mind.

I feel great.

CHAPTER 31

At six-fifteen in the morning my eyes pop open like a cartoon character getting an electric shock. I feel wonderful. My back doesn’t hurt. Love is the best medicine.

I fill in Melvina’s name under her picture still pinned to the Original Carlo. I add one column of index cards to the far left side of the bad painting. On each of these cards I list one of the missing items. If the item has been returned or found, I add to that card where it popped up. There are only four items that remain at large: One ruby broach, one pair of diamond earrings, one gold necklace, and the big Kahuna, Moomah’s multi-diamond necklace extravaganza.

One of the cards in the middle of the bunch catches my eye. I have a thought.

I remove the card with the name of the suitcase. I carry it over to the table with my computer. I turn it on, Google Samsonite, click on the tab for products, and search for one that resembles Kennard’s suitcase. Unfortunately, they all look alike; a suitcase is a suitcase, is a suitcase. There’s a link to an 800 number, which I call, and hear a foreign accent inform me: “Please call between hours of nine and six, Eastern Time, Monday through Friday.” I find another link to stores selling Samsonite in Chicago, but none will be open for at least two hours. I search New York Samsonite Stores. Same problem.

I search Samsonite Canada to find a store the Atlantic Time Zone. The Newfoundland Traveler’s Discount Depot is more than happy to answer my questions and provide the information I need. Canadians are always nice, probably because the weather is so crummy.

I write down the dimensions of the suitcase on the index card: 13 x 7 x 33. I hang up the phone and turn off the computer. Next, I pull out a ream of eight by ten printer paper from a cupboard in the kitchen. There’s an old X-Acto knife in the drawer, but it takes me a while to find it. I remove a dollar bill from my wallet, get an old ruler out of another drawer, and carry it all to the dining room table.

I count out one hundred sheets of paper, take the ruler and draw out the edges of the dollar bill, and begin cutting with the X-Acto knife. In a few minutes I have a neat stack of one-hundred sheets of paper in the exact size of United States legal tender.

Here comes the hard part, because I’m terrible at math. I have to figure out how many of these will fit into the dimensions on the recipe card. I scribble down equations of how to solve the problem. It takes me about twenty minutes to figure out that I can’t figure out how to do this. I get up, and go into the bedroom.

“Kelly, get up.”

She stirs. Care stirs by default.

“Kelly, get up. I need you.” I give her a tender shake.

“Dad, what are you doing?” Care asks.

“I have to get your sister up.”

“Why?”

“She’s good at math.”

“You have to shake her. Like this.” Care takes Kelly by the shoulders and gives her a thorough manhandling.

Kelly flails away in sleepy retaliation. “What are you doing? Leave me alone.”

“Kelly, get up,” I say.

“What time is it?” she asks.

“A little before seven.”

“The stores don’t open ‘till nine. Let me sleep.” Kelly rolls over, puts the pillow over her head.

“I need you to figure something out for me.”

“Not now.”

“Yes, now.”

Care yanks the pillow out from her sister, rolls her over, and sits Kelly up. “This is fun.”

“It shouldn’t take a minute, then you can go back to sleep,” I tell her.

Care hops out of bed and helps me lift Kelly out. We trudge to the table in the other room.

I show them the stack of cut paper and the numbers that I’ve written on the index card. “We have to find out how many of these will fit into a suitcase this size.” Kelly’s eyes are starting to focus. “This is like high school math. I’m still in middle school. So, can I go back to bed?”

“Not yet.”

Care tells me, “We’re going to need a calculator.” At least one of my daughters is thinking.

“Get a couple of glasses of orange juice while you’re up.”

After the OJ, we all go to work.

Kelly motions with her hands, “Are they in this way or that way?”

“Good question,” I commend my oldest. “I don’t know.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“Were they crammed in, or on top of each other?”

“Probably stacked.”

Kelly and Care both contemplate the problem. My daughters love a challenge. Kelly measures the height of the stack, as well as its length and width. She writes each number down on her paper and begins to write out equations. Care finds an old Tribune, lays the page down flat, and measures carefully with the ruler. She lines out the exact rectangle, and cuts out two templates; one for the height and one for the base. “Do you have any cardboard?”

“Look on the back porch,” I tell her.

Care cuts out five more stacks of one-hundred sheets of paper, as well as two pieces of cardboard the size of the suitcase. Kelly sketches the dimensions on blank paper: lengthwise, widthwise, and up and down wise. Each attempts to solve the puzzle in her own way, but after about fifteen minutes, they join forces. Care lays down a cardboard template she made, as Kelly multiplies, adds and subtracts. They argue a few points, but agree on others. Another ten minutes go by, as they rearrange, refigure, and recalculate.

“If you lay four across the bottom, and stack them up from there, you could get about forty-five in a stack,” Kelly explains, motioning with her hands that the suitcase would be standing up tall.

“If you put them in sideways, you could get five stacks across the bottom, but the bills wouldn’t lie flat, so you’d only get about thirty-five to forty in each stack,” Care says arranging the stacks on the pieces of cardboard. “But you’d have some room left on the sides.

“So, how many stacks in each?” I ask.

“About a hundred sixty in one,” Kelly says.

“And about a hundred and eighty in the second,” Care adds. “But I think you might run out of room on the top, because they wouldn’t be flat.”

I take a piece of paper and pencil. “How high is the stack?”

“Somewhere between three-quarters and an inch,” Care says.

“So, a stack of forty would be about thirty inches?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Kelly says. “It matters how tight they were stuffed in.”

“Okay. Now, let’s say the suitcase opens lengthwise, could you get more stacks in that way?” I pretend to lay the case down in this manner.

Kelly and Care go back to work.

“Same amount?”

“No, more,” Care says.

Care rearranges her paper templates. “You could only get about five in a stack, but you’d get about six across and six high.”

“The same volume would fit into the same space, no matter how you stacked them, correct?”

“No, because they stack differently whether the case is up or down.”

“So, we can figure at most, one hundred eighty stacks of fifty-dollar bills, would fit in a case this size?”

“Yes.”

“What does that prove?” Care asks.

“That a million dollars isn’t always a million dollars,” I answer.

“A million dollars can be a lot more than a million, if you know how to shop,” Kelly says.

“Thank you for that mathematical insight.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Now, get ready. We have to go downtown,” I tell them excitedly.

“You said I could go back to sleep,” Kelly argues.

“You can sleep when you’re ninety.”

“But I want to sleep now.”

“Where are we going?” Care asks.

“We have to go see Oland.”

As Kelly reluctantly trudges back into the bedroom, I pick up my cell phone. Care interrupts me before I can dial. “There’s something about you that’s different today, Dad.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure what,” Care says.

“Believe it or not, my lovely daughter,” I say. “I think I’m in love.”

“Oh wow, that is so cool.” Care runs into the bedroom. “Kelly,” she screams. “Dad’s in love.”

_____

Before leaving the apartment, Kelly stops in front of the Original Carlo. “Dad, since we didn’t go anywhere on our vacation, and we didn’t do anything really fun, which is what kids are supposed to get to do on vacation, do you think maybe before you take us back to Mom’s, we could go to a mall?”

“You already went shopping.”

“Yes, but we didn’t go shopping with you.”

“You never quit, do you?”

Kelly removes the picture of Melvina Lange from the Original Carlo and presents it to me. “I really want a pair of these shoes. They are so Lady Gaga.”

“Forget it.”

“Why?”

“Kelly, every time you see something you like, you want to buy it.”

“What’s the matter with that?”

“Life doesn’t work that way.”

“Oh, Dad, could you please stop with the life lessons?”

“No.”

“I really want this pair of shoes. They could change my entire life.”

“Forget it.”

“You’re mean.”

“I’m your father. I’m supposed to be mean.”

_____

On the way downtown, Kelly sleeps, but Care is wide awake. “Are we going to solve the case today?”

“I hope so.”

A few minutes pass in silence before Care speaks again. “Tiffany thinks her Uncle Kenno stole one of the watches.”

“Why does she think that? She didn’t find anything in his drawer, did she?”

“No.” Care is a bit sheepish as she talks. “But she thinks he stole it and gave it to Schnooks.”

“I doubt that,” I say. “Schnooks wouldn’t wear any watch without Mickey or Minnie on the dial.”

“Tiffany’s worried that one of her relatives is a crook, and that everybody will find out, and she’ll have to move to Hollywood or Manhattan until the scandal blows over.”

“Nothing like that is going to happen,” I tell her. “You can tell Tiffany I said so.”

Another minute passes in silence. I sense there’s something else on her mind. I wait.

“Dad,” Care asks. “Am I going to get a new mom?”

“You already have a mom, Care.”

“Am I going to get an extra one?”

“It is a little premature to make that call, Care,” I say. “Let’s just say that your Dad has met someone he really likes.”

Care thinks my comment over before she replies. “Good for you, Dad,” she says. “I’m glad.”

“Thank you.”

I pull the Toyota into the parking lot of the precinct house. “Now, wake your sister up. We’re here.”

CHAPTER 32

“I thought we agreed to wait to tell them about the money?”

“He who is late to finish, finishes late.”

The girls stand off to the side as Oland and I argue at his desk. It is a few minutes past eight. The shift change is in progress.

“But I still have a four-million dollar necklace to recover.”

“Not my problem,” Oland says as he moves to his left to allow a pair of hand-cuffed gangbangers to pass by. “I’m kidnapping, not grand theft.”

“Give me one more day, please?”

“All’s well that ends well.”

“That’s Shakespeare, not Charlie Chan.”

“It’s early.”

“I need to see the money.”

“Case is closed, Sherlock.”

“The only case that’s closed is the one that holds the money. I need to see it Oland.”

“It’s locked up in the dungeon.”

“I’m on your side, remember?”

“Memory often a curse.” Oland reaches into the top drawer of his desk and retrieves a container of Ramen Noodles. “Breakfast most important meal of day,” he says.

I tell the girls that they’ll have to wait upstairs in the squad room while Oland and I go downstairs. They’re not happy about it. “This isn’t fun.”

“In life, girls, you have to make the best of bad situations.”

“God, does it ever end?” Kelly moans under her breath.

Oland and I take the stairs to the dungeon after a quick stop in the lunchroom where he zaps his noodles in the microwave.

The Police Evidence Room, aka the dungeon, is a low-rent bank vault, complete with Chester, a uniformed guard, who has worked this duty forever. Its entrance is a small space leading to a singular, teller-like window. A thick, steel mesh wall separates the viewers from the goods.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Chester says, when he lays his eyes on me.

“I got kicked off the force.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“You’ve been down here too long, Chester.”

Chester opens the cage door for us to enter. “By the way, did we win the war yet?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Pretty much.”

“Did they ever catch that Hitler guy?”

I fall for the same joke every time I’m down here.

Kennard’s suitcase sits on a table, zipped up tight. Oland thanks Chester, who backs up to the edge of the room to watch us, as if he were a playground monitor.

The suitcase is just how I remember it, and I can tell it’s the exact dimensions given to me by the nice guy in Newfoundland.

“Techs been over it?” I ask.

“Twice.”

“And?”

“No new prints,” Oland says between chopsticks full of Ramen Noodles.

“They took the tracking device out of it, didn’t they?” I ask.

Oland nods his head because his mouth is filled with noodles.

“Has it been opened?”

Oland shakes his head side to side.

“A bit strange it came back, don’t you think?”

“In this case money is like elephant, returning to where it began.”

“Tusk, tusk,” I comment.

Oland spears another hunk of noodles.

I pull on a pair of latex gloves from the box on the table. “May I do the honors?”

Oland chews, nods, and chews some more.

I unzip the case, peel back the top, and see stacks of fifty-dollar bills. I count six across horizontally, six across vertically, and five deep. Kelly and Care were right. I’m proud.

“By the way,” I say to Oland. “Did you count it?”

He pauses to swallow, and says, “No.”

“Wouldn’t that be a good idea?”

“Possibly.”

Oland puts down his breakfast, gloves up, lifts out a packet of fifties. His lips move as he uses his finger to count the number of stacks in the case.

“Leave your abacus at home?”

“Very funny, Sherlock.”

I give him time to multiply in his head, but get tired of waiting and tell him, “One hundred eighty packets, give or take a few.”

Oland takes a moment to contemplate the deficiency. “Nine hundred grand does not a million make.”

“Spoken like a true CPA.”

“They count it before it left the bank?”

“Yep.”

“A million?”

“Yep.”

“Damn. Crime come, crime go, and crime come back.” Oland places the money back into the suitcase. “I’m a hundred grand away from not having to work this weekend. The wife and I had plans to visit Wisconsin Dells.”

“Don’t cancel your reservation yet. I’m about a clue and a half away from figuring this thing out,” I try to relieve him. “All we have to do is get all the fish in the same pond, toss out the bait, and see who nibbles.”

“Sherlock, you’re starting to sound like me.”

“Frightening, isn’t it?”

_____

Upstairs, I find my girls in the middle of a screaming, grammatical chaos. Four cuffed and shackled gangbangers with so many tattoos they barely need clothes, are on one side of the room verbally displaying the use of the MF phrase as a noun, verb, adverb, and adjective; often in the same sentence. Three hot-pants wearing hos are being booked in the middle of the room. Evidently they spent some of their hard earned cash on the video Hooked on Ebonics, because they scream in a mixture of ghetto slang, the King’s English, and tribal chants. And to add some international flavor to the language lesson, a number of Latino hoods voice their thoughts on being arrested in Spanglish. That’s when you put English and Spanish into a blender, puree them, and use whatever pops out to express yourself.

“We were wrong, Dad,” Care tells me. “This isn’t boring at all.”

“Don’t tell your Mother you heard any of this.”

“I won’t, if you promise to take us shopping this afternoon,” Kelly says.

“On second thought, go ahead and tell her. Maybe I’ll lose custody, and I’ll save myself a ton of money.”

I usher the kids out of the squad room, out of the station, and into the Toyota.

“Now where are we going?”

“Florist.”

_____

I carry a huge bouquet of flowers to the receptionist on the Wealth Management section of Northern Trust. “They’re for Anthea, the banker lady,” Care says to the woman.

“She’s with a client,” the receptionist says. “You can leave them here.”

“I’d really like to give them to her personally,” I say to the nice lady.

The receptionist picks up the phone. “Whom should I say is here?”

“Richard Sherlock.”

Kelly, Care, and I wait as the woman dials, relays the request, jumps up out of her chair, and shouts, “Go! Get to her office right away!”

I take off down the hallway carrying the flowers like a newborn baby. The girls are right behind me. As I get closer to Anthea’s office, I can hear a commotion inside and a voice that is all too familiar. “Grand-mama, don’t!”

The instant I hit the open doorway I see Moomah on one side of the room slinging her oversized purse around like it was the hammer in a track and field competition. She sees me and cries out, “I’d turn back if I were you!”

Tiffany is on the floor. Anthea is behind her desk. Bertha is up on the couch, pleading. “Please, Moomah, stop.”

“Quiet, you blithering, bale of bovine fodder!” Moomah yells.

I quickly hand the flowers to Anthea, “For you,” I say, as I step between Moomah’s swinging purse and the rest of the ladies. “What the hell is going on!”

“When we told her she couldn’t go in the vault, she went ape-shit!” Tiffany says.

“Tiffany, don’t swear around my kids.”

“Stop her,” Bertha yells out.

I take one step toward Moomah.

“I’ll make a beehive out of you,” she threatens.

Anthea takes a step out from behind her desk. “Please Mrs. Richmond, calm down.”

“And I’ll make a dime bank out of you!” Moomah screams at the only bank employee in the room.

I take another step toward Moomah, but first I turn my head see that Kelly and Care are in the clear. At that instant Moomah whips her purse around and scores a direct hit on my cranium. I go down harder than a clear cut redwood.

Next thing I remember is sitting up with a headache from hell. I swear there are two bull goats inside my brain, ramming their horns in a fight to the finish, with the screech of fingernails down a chalkboard as their musical accompaniment.

My vision is blurry, but to my left I see Moomah out cold on the couch. Bertha is fanning her with a copy of Wealth magazine. Tiffany sits next to Moomah checking her own make-up in a hand mirror.

I feel Care and Kelly help steady me as Anthea holds a glass of water to my lips. “What is she packing inside that purse?” are the first words out of my mouth as I clutch the sides of my head to dull the throbbing pain.

I reach down, grab Moomah’s purse, and flip it over. The first item to fall out is her multi-million dollar necklace. “Oh my God.” I pass out again.

Minutes later, I’m not sure how many, I sit up. To my left Bertha feeds bottled water to Moomah through a straw. Kelly and Care are on the floor next to me. I’m leaning against the front of Anthea’s desk. My head is in my hands. Tiffany stands over me.

“Why did you ever bring Moomah to the bank, Tiffany?” I ask without raising my voice over a whisper

“I didn’t.”

“I did,” Bertha says from ten feet away. “She was crazy acting all this morning. I thought it would calm her down.”

My head is killing me. The goats are still banging away. Moomah’s necklace dangles from my fingers. As bad as the physical pain feels, the emotional pain is far greater. How stupid can I be? I find pearls in her underwear, and a wad of money in her desk, and I don’t think to check her purse? This is Detective Class 101 stuff. How can I be so incredibly dumb? The purse was right in front of me a hundred times. I should’ve known from its size or from the way she slung it over her shoulder. I never even thought about checking it. How inept, incapable, incompetent, and dimwitted can I be?

“I’m sorry, everybody. I can’t believe I didn’t think to check in her purse,” I try to apologize.

“As bad as you must feel, Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany says. “I have to tell you what happened to me yesterday was worse.”

I don’t want to hear this, but I doubt if I’ll have a choice.

“Johnny Spaccone,” Tiffany says.

“Did Johnny Spaccone whack you in the skull with a brick?”

“No worse.”

“Was Johnny Spaccone wearing Moomah’s brooch when you saw him and you didn’t notice it?”

“No. Much worse than that.”

I wait clutching my head even harder, fearing what I’m about to hear will make me feel even lousier. “What, Tiffany?”

“I asked him what you told me to ask him,” she says. “And you know what he did?”

“No.”

“He asked me out!”

“On a date?”

“Can you believe that guy?” Tiffany says way too loud. “He’s engaged to my Grand-mama, he’s as old as my Dad, and he says he wants to ‘hang with me.’ Is that creepy or what?”

“What did he say about the lawsuit?”

“What difference does that make?” Tiffany asks. “The geezer hit on me. I was violated and humiliated. That’s twice in one week.”

“Is he going to sue?” I ask wanting this conversation to be over.

“Yes. For a million dollars.”

“Oh, great.”

“What are we going to do?” Tiffany asks. “Can you get one of your old police buddies to bust Johnny for grossing me out?”

“No.”

“Why not?” she asks. “What he did was totally dishonest, corrupt, indecent, and immoral.”

I take a deep breath, close one eye to dull the pain, and say to the assembled, “Here is what we’re going to do. All of you take Moomah back to her place, turn Dorothy back on, and don’t let her near anything that could be used as a weapon.”

“What are you going to do?” Tiffany asks.

“Look for another job.”

“Oh, Dad, anybody can make a mistake,” Kelly says. “Care makes a hundred every day.”

“Shut up,” Care replies to her sister.

I spread Moomah’s necklace in front of my face and stare into the sparkling jewels. I cannot believe I never considered looking in her purse. I’m more pathetic than a bank robber who forgets to visit the open vault.

“Do you want me to lock that up in the safe?” Anthea asks, pointing at the necklace.

“No,” I say. “Oland will want to see it.”

“What should we do after we get Moomah home and watching The Wizard of Oz again?” Tiffany asks.

“I don’t know,” I say, totally exasperated.

“Do you think we’d have time for a massage?” Tiffany asks.

“That would be so cool,” Kelly says.

“I’ll call you.” I stand up, teeter a bit. It takes me a few steps to get my balance. My head is still killing me.

“Are you going to be okay?” Anthea asks.

“Not until I get another life,” I answer.

_____

Ten minutes later I’m trying to get the Toyota to start when my cell phone rings, This is crazy. But here’s my number. So call me, maybe.

“Hello.”

I hear a familiar voice. Listen to what he has to say, and tell him, “I’m on my way.”

My headache subsides a bit on the drive north, but as soon as I step into Freddy’s pawn shop a train rumbles overhead, and my head rattles more than the walls of the store.

“What happened to you?” Freddy asks as I enter his work area.

“I went skydiving, my parachute didn’t open, and all I got was this bump on my head.”

Freddy stares at me with his non-louped eye, like I was a disease ready to infect him.

“Okay. An old lady hit me with her purse when I wasn’t looking,” I admit.

“When are you going to learn to stay away from women, Sherlock?”

“I’m going to take that as a rhetorical question.”

“Here.” Freddy hands me three small sheets of paper.

The first is labeled: Brooch, ruby. The second: Necklace, gold 24-carat. The third: Diamond earrings. Each has a date and an amount on the back.

I sit down across from Freddy. “Well, this pretty much fills out my dance card.” I fold the three pawn receipts and put them in my pocket.

“Is this the stuff you’re looking for?”

“Yeah.” I put my forearms on the workbench, lean forward and rest my head on the back of my hands. This whole absurd rigmarole has been an absolute total waste of time. Everything missing is now present and accounted for. Boy, am I an idiot.

“You should be happy, instead you look like shit,” he tells me.

I pull Moomah’s necklace out of my pocket, plop it in front of Freddy, and say, “You get whacked in the head with this and see how you feel.”

Freddy picks up the necklace. “I love a weapon of this caliber.” He passes each stone in front of the loupe in his left eye. About a minute later, he asks, “You didn’t pay a ransom to get this back, did you?”

My head stays on my hands. “No.”

“You know where it was bought?”

“No.”

“You know who sold it to her?”

“No.”

I straighten up when I hear Freddy laugh. “What?” I ask.

“The rich are stupid,” he says.

“What?”

“The rich, they’re stupid.” He pushes the necklace back towards me. “This thing is as bogus as a three-dollar bill.”

I’m so surprised my headache takes a break. “What?”

“They manufacture this crap to use in movies, for husbands with dumb wives, or for women who want to impress women more stupid than they are.”

I pick up the item and dangle it before my eyes as I did in Anthea’s office. A train clatters overhead and my headache returns with a vengeance, but my brain cells are working in spite of the pain.

“What are you thinking?” Freddy asks in order to break me out of the trance I must be in.

“One of those idiots in the family is playing me for being even stupider than I’ve already been,” I tell Freddy.

“Probably, not hard to do.”

“All I have to do is flush out the right one.”

“How are you planning to do that?”

My mind is turning faster than an ice dancer on steroids. “Freddy, I want you to do me a favor.”

“I already did you a favor.”

“I need another one.”

“You always need another one.”

“It’s all over the street that this necklace is missing, isn’t it?” I ask.

“Of course.”

“I want you to sell this to somebody.” I hold up the phony necklace.

“I can’t sell a phony piece to a crook,” he says. “Crooks aren’t stupid. And crooks hurt people who sell them knock-offs.”

“I know a guy who’ll buy it at the drop of a hat. Ask twenty grand. Settle somewhere between ten and fifteen. But I need you to do it today. Right now.”

“Who?”

I tell him.

“That guy is a bigger crook than me in my good days,” Freddy says. “He’ll know it’s a fake.”

“No, he’s such a greedy bastard, I doubt if he’ll notice. And if he does, he won’t care. All he wants is to palm it off to the insurance company for a hefty reward. He won’t care either way.”

“You sure?”

“We’ll make it a fifty-fifty split of whatever you can squeeze out of the slimy little S.O.B.”

Freddy laughs. “Let’s make it a sixty-forty split.”

“Do I get the sixty?” I ask.

“No.”

CHAPTER 33

I’m putting the case into overdrive. If I slow down for a second my head might explode.

I drive home. I remember an old black pillowcase I stuffed some time ago in the back of the linen closet. I find it, then go around the apartment to the all the places I’ve hidden Moomah’s jewels. The pearls are in the freezer. Diamond earrings are in my toothbrush holder. The Rolex and the Omega are on the wrist of Care’s stuffed Donatello, the Mutant Ninja Turtle. All Moomah’s stuff goes into the bag.

In the car, I stuff the bag under the front seat. It is probably safer here than in the bank. What thief would ever break into or steal my car?

Next, I take a big chance and drop in on Herman. Luckily, it’s before his mid-morning porn break and I catch him fully clothed.

“Drop by for some cheese?” he asks.

“No thanks.”

Herman doesn’t move. He’s blocking the front door and my entrance inside. He points to the left side of my head. “What happened to you?”

“I got whacked with a loaded purse.”

“You know, Sherlock,” Herman says to me. “If you need a little help with women, I’d be more than happy to give you a few pointers.”

I push around him to enter his apartment. I see the printouts and papers on Moomah’s moolah on the dining room table, partially covered by a Big Butts magazine. “What else did you get on Moomah?”

“Plenty.”

“I need the check Safari used to pay off the IRS.”

“Which one?”

“Just find it for me would you, please. I’m in a hurry.”

Without looking, Herman reaches into Moomah’s messy mass of financial foibles, pulls out a Photostat of one cancelled check, and hands it to me. “Internal Revenue Service” is the recipient. “How do you do that?”

“I got the touch,” Herman says. “Matter of fact you should tell Tiffany that.”

“I’ll add it to my list of your better qualities.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

After I carefully push the porn aside, I rifle through the pages quickly.

“All the other questionable payments have a red tag on them,” Herman tells me as he picks up the Big Butts issue and opens to the centerfold. “I wrote in green who I think got the juice on each transaction.”

“Thanks, Herman.” I get the pile of paper under my arm and head for the door.

Herman breaks from his view of the “Butt of the Month” to ask, “What kind of cheese do you think Tiffany likes?”

“Gouda.”

I hustle to my car and carefully place the papers next to the checkbook on the floor of the back seat. I climb into the driver’s seat, get out my keys, and try to ignite the engine. It refuses to cooperate. I try again. Another refusal. My Toyota is disrupting my flow. I’m on a roll here and don’t need anything mechanical impeding my progress.

I take out my cell phone, check the amount of charge left, and see less than fifty percent. I call Anthea. If anyone is worth my last fifty percent, it’s Anthea.

“Ms. Andrews office.”

“It’s Richard Sherlock. Is she available?”

I’m patched to her without further comment.

“Richard, how are you feeling?” Anthea asks immediately.

“Physically, horrible; emotionally, better,” I tell her. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“Reserve the Richmond Suite at four-thirty.”

“I can’t do it at four-thirty,” she says. “The vault floor closes at four.”

“With the amount of Moomah money in that bank, get your boss to make an exception. Please.”

“Do you have it all figured out?” she asks.

“All except for the sibling who copped the big one.” I must be talking a mile-a-minute. I get like this when I’m on a roll. “Once I get them all in the same room and start asking questions, one of them will screw up. I’ll nail them like a carpenter pounding a ten penny.”

“I’ll do what I can about the room,” she says. “Don’t worry.”

I am about to hang up, but instead say, “Anthea, I don’t have my kids this weekend. I wonder if we could do something?”

“Sure.”

“I’d love to get out of town.”

She hesitates, no doubt grasping the full meaning of my intentions. “Where?”

“Anyplace but the Wisconsin Dells, that’s where Oland will be.”

“Sounds good to me.”

This day is getting better and better.

The Toyota kicks over on my next attempt and actually breaks a few speed limits on the way back downtown. I park in the Deliveries Only spot behind Moomah’s building and hustle inside. I’m moving so fast, waiting for the three-hundred-year-old doorman to buzz me in is extra excruciating.

Bertha opens the door and the first noises I hear are the Munchkins celebrating a death. “She’s better,” Bertha assures me.

Tiffany comes out of the kitchen nibbling on a carrot stick, “Mr. Sherlock,” she says, but can’t finish, because I blow by her running down the hallway into Moomah’s bedroom.

Tiffany takes chase, calling out, “Wait, I have something we have to talk about.”

Tiffany catches up to me just as I am opening the second drawer in Moomah’s chest of drawers and pulling out stacks of underwear. She’s shocked. “Mr. Sherlock, now you are getting really crazy weird.”

The folds are different. Someone has been here since I last visited.

“Oh please, tell me you’re not kinky,” she says.

I close the drawer. “Tiffany, where are Kelly and Care?”

“Eating.”

“Get them, we’re leaving.”

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“I’ll tell you when we get there.”

Tiffany is worried. “It’s not like one of those weirdo sex stores, is it?”

“No. It’s worse.”

“Oh my God.”

I pile the kids in the back seat. Tiffany takes the passenger’s side. “I hate this car. I hate it,” she says as we pull out onto the Drive.

“We don’t have far to go,” I tell her. “You can handle it, Tiffany.”

Tiffany grits her teeth as if she’s at the dentist.

“Where are we going?” Care asks.

“You’ll see.” I exit the Drive at Belmont.

I park in front of a three-flat with a garden apartment, close to Wrigley Field. “Who lives here?” Kelly asks.

“You’ll see in a minute.”

We exit the car as a group. The girls follow me to the walkway of the building. At the steps, I say, “Wait here.”

I take the short stairway down and knock on the door of the garden unit. In a few seconds, Johnny Spaccone in a robe probably stolen from some elegant, well-known hotel opens the door.

“I would’ve thought you’d live in the penthouse, not the basement, Johnny.” I say instead of my usual “Hey, how ya doing?”

“These are just temporary digs.”

Johnny looks behind me to see Tiffany, “Hey, little lady,” he calls out, as he gives her a little wave with his diamond studded pinkie finger.

Tiffany’s face turns pale as an albino ghost. “I think I’m going to hurl,” she blurts out, and quickly walks away.

I get right in Johnny’s face. “Interested in settling out of court, Johnny?”

“I’d consider it.”

“Then be at Northern Trust today at four-thirty.”

“I’ll have to check my schedule.”

“Cash will be on the table, Johnny.”

“Cash?”

“In fifties. Lots of fifties.”

“How long will the meeting take?” he asks

“I’m not sure.”

“Happy Hour starts at five.”

“I’ll do my best to have you back on your barstool in time.”

“That would be greatly appreciated.”

I pull out the picture of Melvina Lange and put it in front of his nose. “You know this woman?”

He studies the photo intently. “Well, I’ve had my share of women, maybe a couple of other guy’s shares too, but it’s impossible for me to remember all of them.”

I retrieve the picture, “Okay, Johnny, I’ll see you this afternoon.”

_____

“How could you do that to me?” Tiffany asks incredulously, as we stand at my car.

“You should’ve seen your face,” Care tells her. “It went all white and creepy looking.”

“Don’t you let anybody ever know that,” Tiffany chastises my youngest. “As long as you live.”

“No problem,” Care says. “I can keep a secret.”

“Back in the car, everybody. We have another stop to make.”

“Oh my God. I hate this car.”

“Are we going to be driving by any shoe stores?” Kelly asks as the Toyota kicks over.

“No.”

“Damn.”

“What did I say about swearing, Kelly?” I pause then ask, “Does anybody ever listen to me?”

Nobody answers which tells me nobody was listening.

I get back on the Drive, going south.

“That was awful what you just did to me,” Tiffany says, her cheeks redder than Santa’s. “The last person in the world I ever wanted to see again was Johnny Spaccone.”

“Well, you better get used to it, Tiffany, because you’re going to see him again this afternoon.”

“If he shows up in that bathrobe, I’m going to hurl,” Tiffany warns us.

“Are you going to tell us where we’re going, Dad?” Care asks again.

“No.”

I get off at Michigan Avenue and drive south into the Loop. I park the car in a city lot where it costs twenty-five dollars for the first fifteen minutes. “Do you have cash, Tiffany.”

“I always have cash.”

Something is bothering Tiffany, and it is not just Johnny Spaccone. As the girls follow me into an office building, I pull her aside. “Tiffany, what did you want to talk to me about?”

Tiffany is sheepish as she answers, “Mr. Sherlock, what happens if one of my family stole Moomah’s jewelry?”

“They’ll get arrested and thrown in jail.”

“And what if the word gets out and our family name gets plastered across the front pages of the Sun Times?”

“I thought the people in your social circle only read the Tribune?”

“Oh my God, it’ll be all over the Internet, too.”

Tiffany gets even more sheepish, walking with her chin almost on her chest, as we enter the building. We stop at the elevator bank. “Tiffany, is there something that you’re not telling me?”

“I saw Uncle Elmhurst last night. I think somebody beat him up.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because his face was all punched in.”

“Excellent deduction. You’re learning.”

An elevator arrives. We step inside. I push the 43 button.

Tiffany is about to break into tears. “I think he stole the jewelry to pay off his gambling debts.”

“If he did, it’s no reflection on you.”

“Yes, it is,” she says, with a tear rolling down her cheek. “Everyone in this whole town will know. And if it comes out that I helped put the finger on him, I’ll be branded as the “Arnold Benedict” of the family.”

She’s too upset to be corrected. “Tiffany,” I tell her. “Don’t worry. I’ll do my best to keep whatever goes down today as quiet as possible.”

“You will?”

“I promise I’ll do my best,” I speak sincerely. “Nobody will know unless you tell them.”

“No way, Mr. Sherlock!” Tiffany shouts out. A reaction I certainly didn’t expect. “I can’t be trusted with that kind of responsibility. You know how not good I am at keeping secrets.”

I can’t win with this woman.

The elevator stops. The doors open. The girls follow me down the hall to the office labeled E Carrington Smithers, CPA.

E Carrington has a small, two-room office with a terrific view of Lake Michigan.

“What are you doing here?” E asks as we stand in his small reception area which doesn’t have a receptionist.

“I’m going to require your accounting skills this afternoon,” I inform him.

“Sorry, I’m busy.”

I walk right past him and into his office. I scoop up his desk calendar. The entry for today is completely blank. “You might want to reschedule what you don’t have scheduled, E, because I’ll be dispersing close to a million dollars in Moomah’s money.”

E’s glasses slip all the way down the bridge of his nose. “You what?”

“You heard me.”

“You what?” Tiffany says.

“You heard me, too,” I say. “I’m doling out cash. This afternoon.”

“Do we get any of the money?” Kelly asks.

“I doubt it.”

“You have no rights to give away any of her funds,” E snaps at me.

“It’s the cash from her safe deposit box,” I tell all. “It’s not like anybody’s going to be missing money that’s already missing.”

“The ransom money?” Tiffany asks.

“It came back.”

“Oh, Dad,” Kelly says. “I definitely think we should get a piece of that.”

“Whatever you’ve got in mind, it’s undoubtedly against the law,” E Carrington barks out.

“Trust me. I’ll be doing everybody a big favor.”

“Not me,” E argues.

“Especially you. I’ll put this entire absurdity to bed and everybody will go home happy. Well, almost everybody.”

“Who won’t be happy?” Care asks.

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Me, if I don’t get any money,” Kelly says.

E Carrington huffs and puffs, but has little else to add to our conversation.

“All you have to do is invite the family to a little get-together at Northern Trust this afternoon at four-thirty in the Richmond Suite.”

“Do it yourself.” E can be defiant when he wants to.

“It’ll sound better coming from you,” I explain. “You’re the family CPA.”

“No. I won’t do it.”

“Tell them, there’ll be almost a million dollars on the table up for grabs,” I say. “I bet that will assure a one-hundred percent attendance.”

“This is highly irregular,” E says.

“But you’ll do it anyway.”

“Excuse me,” Tiffany interrupts. “But does my Dad know you’re doing this?”

“Not yet.” I turn back to the accountant. “There might even be something for you, E, monetarily speaking.”

E Carrington mulls it over. I can almost see the dollar signs in his eyes. After a moment he nods his head. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

“Splendid. See you at four-thirty.”

As I turn to exit the office, Tiffany taps me on my shoulder. “Don’t you think it might be a good idea to clear it with Daddy first?”

“I was counting on you to do that, Tiffany.”

“Me?”

“Yes”

“You want me to tell my Dad you’re giving away a million dollars of Moomah's money?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s a worse fate than a haircut at Supercuts,” Tiffany says, as we walk into the hallway.

“You can do it,” I tell her.

“Yeah, Tiffany,” Care says. “You can do it.”

“And ask him if we could have some of the money go to Abercrombie and Fitch while you’re chatting him up?” Kelly says.

“Mr. Sherlock, I’ve been punished enough. Don’t make me tell him that,” Tiffany pleads.

“Tiffany, no one in the world could handle this assignment better than you. I’ll bet you’ve discussed money with your dad plenty of times.”

“Yes, but asking for a few extra grand is a lot different than telling him a million dollars is going out the window.”

“Suck it up, Tiffany. You can do it.”

“Sure you can, Tiffany,” Kelly joins in the cheerleading. “I really want to buy a pair of those shoes the lady had on in the picture.”

_____

I gather everyone at the car after Tiffany pays the exorbitant parking fees. My headache has almost totally disappeared. This is all going well. I’m feeling good about the case. I’m going to get them all in the same room and someone is going to slip up. I’ll nail the thief, take the girls back to their mother’s house, and spend the weekend with Anthea at some romantic hide-away.

I hand my cell phone to Kelly. “See if I have a message on this, and don’t put anymore ringtones on it.”

“You got a call from a Mr. Richmond,” Kelly says, reading the small screen on my flip phone.

“From my Dad?” Tiffany shrieks out. “Call him back and tell him about the million dollars.”

“He won’t take my calls, Tiffany,” I explain. “You know that.”

“Try anyway.”

Kelly listens to the message, then relays to me, “He said he got a call from a guy who has Moomah’s necklace and wants a reward.”

“Good.”

“What?” Tiffany almost explodes. “Who has Moomah’s necklace?”

“The guy I sold it to,” I tell her.

“You sold it?”

“Actually, I gave it to a guy who sold it for me.”

Tiffany is one breath away from hyper-ventilating. “How many millions did you get?”

“I sold it for ten grand.”

“Ten grand!”

Even my daughters look at me like I’m nuts.

“Ten grand wouldn’t pay for the clasp on that necklace,” Tiffany screams.

“Plus, I had to pay a sixty-percent commission,” I add for good measure.

“Sixty-percent!”

“No wonder, I don’t ever get to go shopping,” Kelly says. “Dad, you’re a terrible businessman.”

“Did you do all this before or after Moomah hit you in the head?” Care asks.

“After.”

“Well, at least you have a good excuse,” Care concludes.

“Mr. Sherlock, you must be on drugs. You should check yourself into rehab.”

This has been fun, but enough is enough.

I get serious. “Tiffany, I want you to go tell your Dad about the money. Then, I want you to go back to Moomah’s, get her spiffed up, and have her at Northern Trust at four o’clock.” Knowing Tiffany’s capability for punctuality, she should arrive in time for our four-thirty start.

“How about us?” Care asks.

“You two are going to come with me. We have two stops to make before the party starts.”

_____

Leonard Louie wears a different pair of cowboy boots than he wore the last time I visited.

“Rattlesnake,” he tells the kids, as he props his feet up on the edge of his desk.

“Quite fitting, I have to admit, but not in terms of size and comfort,” I say, as Care runs her fingers along the toe of the boot.

“Do these shoes shed?” she asks.

“What they shed is class, little lady,” Leonard responds to Care, but he’s more interested in me. “You got my money, Sherlock?”

“You got Moomah’s necklace?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Nowhere you can see it.”

“Is it safe?”

“Quite.”

“I have the authority to make a deal,” I tell him.

“Start dealing.”

“I’ll give you ten percent of the appraised value of the necklace.”

“Twenty,” he counters.

“Eleven.”

“Twenty-four.”

“What do you mean, twenty-four?” I ask. “You’re supposed to go down, not up.”

“Whoever made that rule?” he asks.

“It’s standard negotiating procedure.”

“Maybe for you, but not for this bad boy.” Leonard is having a swell time. And for once, I’m glad he’s having it.

“Let’s talk cash, Leonard.” This will brighten his day even more.

“Cash is one of my oldest and dearest friends,” Leonard says and he isn’t kidding.

“We’ll give you ten percent of the appraised value of the necklace. In cash.”

“But didn’t we already agree on twenty?” he asks.

“No.”

He smiles. “Just testing you, Sherlock.”

“Ten percent. In cash. Under the table.” I place particular emphasis on the last sentence.

Leonard smiles, “Because of the incredible, thoughtful, and understanding human that I am, I’m going to accept your not-so-generous offer.”

“Deal.” I put out my hand. After we shake I wipe my hand on the seat of my pants.

“What I want you to do is retrieve the item from wherever it is, and bring it with you to a meeting at Northern Trust at four-thirty this afternoon.

“We could be talking a lot of scratch. Some of those diamonds are as big as my thumb.”

“You’ll need a case that’s thirteen by thirty-three by seven,”

Leonard gives me a very odd look. “Why would you ever know something like that?” Leonard asks.

“I’m a detective. It’s my job.”

Before we leave, Leonard gives Kelly and Care one of his business cards, telling them, “If you ever need a boyfriend checked out, I’ll give you a professional discount.”

What a guy.

_____

We arrive at our last stop at 4:12 p.m.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Wife pick me up at six.”

“I meant with the ransom money, Oland.”

“Can’t wait to wash hands of dirty money,” Oland says. “And leave town.”

The girls and I wait in the squad room while Oland visits Chester in the dungeon. When he returns, he’s wheeling Kennard’s suitcase behind him. “To rid yourself of troublesome people, lend them money,” Oland remarks.

The girls and I ride in a squad car with Oland, the money, the jewels, and a cop with muscles on top of his muscles. The black pillowcase rests on Moomah’s checkbook and papers, which rest on my lap. I put my head back, close my eyes, and take this opportunity to think the whole case through one last time.

I couldn’t care less about the kidnapping. Compared to the worth of Moomah’s necklace, the hundred grand or so is small potatoes; scary to think that much money could be small potatoes to anyone. My job is to find who copped the necklace, and get it back. Safari might have it hidden in a Swahili tom-tom back at his house. Venus might have stashed it in a pot, buried beneath her personal brand of fertilizer. Elmhurst could be putting it all on red or black this very moment. Kennard is the family member I least suspect, he’s too stupid; but I wouldn’t put it past Boo for a second.

Outside the family box, I have to consider E Carrington Smithers. He has the easiest access to Moomah’s funds. Johnny Spaccone, who is undoubtedly adept at unhooking bra clasps, could have lifted it off her neck, while he was nibbling on her earlobe. What about Bertha? If Moomah doesn’t have a butler, it sure seems logical to make the maid a suspect. But no; Bertha could never be a jewel thief. And last but not least, there’s Melvina Lange. Oh where, oh where are you, sweet Melvina?

CHAPTER 34

I enter the front door of Northern Trust at 4:34 PM. The main floor is packed on a Friday afternoon. I get no help from either daughter, as I struggle to carry Moomah’s checkbook, Herman’s papers, and the lumpy pillowcase.

Once inside Kelly runs off to interrupt a bank employee she spots all the way on the other side of the room. “Kelly,” I call out.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Kelly yells back at me. “This is important.”

I see my eldest daughter chatting away with a female I’m sure she’s never met, and about what I haven’t a clue. “Care, go over there and get your sister.”

“Do I have to?”

“Go.”

By the time Oland, the cop, and I reach the elevator, the girls rejoin us.

“Who was that?”

“I didn’t get her name.”

“What were you talking about?”

“Shoes.”

The elevator arrives. We all cram inside and take a trip down.

The elevator doors open on the basement floor and Elroy greets us with an armed guard at his side. “Here for the Richmond party?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll have to sign in.”

I place my John Hancock on the next free space on the clipboard, and hand it to Kelly. Care, Oland, and the cop also sign in. Elroy escorts us past the closed door of the vault and into the Richmond Suite.

Entering, the first person I see is Anthea, dressed in a muted-red business suit. She looks fresh, as if her day is just beginning. She gives me a wink and a smile. I return the greeting.

“Sorry, I’m late.” I apologize to the crowded room.

Moomah, dressed to the nines, sits at the head of the table. She wears a brooch, a diamond stickpin, a string of pearls, and rings on three or four fingers. Tiffany did a marvelous job. Bertha, in a comfortable dress, not her usual French maid outfit, sits to Moomah’s right. Tiffany must have also declared a “Casual Friday” while at the Moomah residence. Venus, in an outfit her brother might have brought back from the Ubangi Outlet Mall, is on Bertha’s right. I count about nine strands, strings and other assorted throat wear around her neck. Kennard and Boo sit together at the far end of the table.

“Schnooks couldn’t make it?” I ask.

“And they say men can’t commit,” Kennard explains with a smirk.

On the other side of the long table, Elmhurst’s over-sized dark glasses don’t adequately cover the shiner he has on his left eye. E Carrington Smithers brought along a calculator, for what reason I cannot imagine. Leonard wears yet another new pair of cowboy boots, these even uglier than the rattlesnake pair. A suitcase rests in the corner, Leonard’s no doubt. Safari, wearing his Panama hat, sits next to Elmhurst. Johnny Spaccone is out of his robe and back into his “meetin’ women” clothes. He polishes his pinkie ring while he waits for his payoff. Kelly and Care drift to the back of the room, not knowing what to do. The cop stands at the door like a sentry. Tiffany positions herself behind Moomah, as if she can’t decide on being a spectator or participant. Oland follows me inside the room wheeling Kennard’s suitcase towards Moomah at the head of the table. Kennard’s watery eyes open wide as Oland passes him by.

I carefully place the checkbook and pillowcase on the credenza behind me, between where Care and Kelly are now seated. I am just about ready to make my introduction when Safari jumps up from his chair. “I want you to know I had to cancel an important conference call to Nairobi to attend this meeting. So, this better be worth it.” He adds a “wild boar from Borneo” snort to drive his point home.

“Sorry to disrupt your plans, Safari, but I’m sure we’d all like to wrap this up so we can enjoy our weekends.” I look over to see Oland check his watch. I give him the signal to begin.

Oland lifts Kennard’s suitcase and places it on the table in front of Moomah. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the ransom money from the kidnapping case.”

Oland unzips the case and stacks of bills flop out on the table like trout from a creel. A few drop on the floor, but Oland makes sure they’re returned to the pile immediately.

Moomah leans forward and dives into the pile. She scoops up the stacks and lets the money flow through her fingers like rainwater from a barrel. “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!” she exclaims.

Leonard Louie salivates at the sight of so much cash. “Oh, this is going to be a good day,” he says.

“But before we concern ourselves with what was once Moomah’s mad money. There are a few things we should discuss and consider.” I pause. Every eye in the room is fixated on Moomah playing with her cash.

“First, there are a few questions that need to be answered.” I attempt to regain their attention. “Safari, why would you schedule a trip to Africa in the middle of an IRS tax audit?”

“That trip had been scheduled for months. You can check with my travel agent.”

“The IRS would allow you to leave the county at that time?”

“I applied for an extension,” he explains.

“Safari, you’ve put in more extensions than Tiffany’s hair salon.” I address the rest of the group. “Your eldest brother, or half-brother, is in hock to the government for close to two hundred grand, and although he has made some payments, his timeliness has been, shall we say, erratic, at best.”

“How would you know, Sherlock?” Safari asks.

I walk to the credenza, and pull out of the checkbook, one check with a red sticker attached. I wave it for all to see. “Safari, would you like to tell the group where you got the money to start paying the government off?”

“No.” He pulls his Panama down, so it is a little tighter around his head.

“The good news is that your split of the pile might be enough for you to pay off what else you owe the IRS.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Leonard warns.

I turn to the half-sister of the family. “Venus, how long have you been studying calligraphy?”

“A while.”

“Any particular reason for that choice?”

“Tis a lost art.”

“Kennard, why did Schnooks pick such a god-awful color for her new Cadillac?” I ask.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kennard responds.

“Elmhurst,” I pause to get his attention. “How would you know Bertha stole Moomah’s wad of cash, unless you were in Moomah’s desk drawer with your own greedy mitts?”

“Moomah told me.”

“When, on her way to the Emerald City?” I ask as I pick up the black pillowcase, reach inside, and pull out the wad of Moomah’s household money. “Just so everybody knows, I was the one who ‘stole’ this from Moomah.”

“Mr. Sherlock has been on a real strange mind-bender during this case,” Tiffany informs the group.

“I took it to see who would know it was missing.”

Oland looks at Elmhurst. “He who knows where to look, always look guilty.”

I add the wad to the pile. “Here’s the money, or at least, most of it. Bertha, you’re off the hook.”

For someone who has trouble getting his kids to listen to him, I’ve got this group hanging on my every word. It feels spectacular.

“Elmhurst, maybe you can help me out with this one, being that you’re the statistician in the family.” I doubt if he’ll help, but why not ask? “What would be the odds of one man marrying and divorcing five different women, who by the way all share the same accountant?”

I glance over to see the black glasses slide all the way down E Carrington’s nose.

“Not as good as the odds for winning the lottery,” Elmhurst answers.

I pause to take a gander at the suspects. They don’t have much in common, except a certain smugness, which I consider repugnant.

“Questions, questions, questions. I have lots of other questions for you folks,” I pause. “Like, who broke into Kennard’s condo and trashed the place? How can all of you afford to live the way you all do on five grand a month? Why anyone would call herself ‘Boo’?”

Silence.

“Anybody want to answer? Anybody?”

Moomah quits tossing the money and begins to pile the stacks of fifties into cute little designs on the table.

Elmhurst speaks up. “You brought us here Sherlock. You said money would be dispersed, not to air the family’s dirty laundry.”

“And I promise you, the money will flow, but there are other matters we have to tackle first, starting with the kidnapping of...”

Safari cuts me off. “We don’t care about the kidnapping anymore. What we care about is that million dollars, right there,” he says pointing to the cash on the table.

“That? That’s not a million dollars.”

“What?” Tiffany asks.

I take a look at a slumping Kennard, but speak to E Carrington Smithers. “E, would you like the do the honors and count it for us?”

The blustery accountant makes his way to the head of the table, and doesn’t take long to add it all up. “Nine-hundred thousand,” he says.

Kennard slumps even further down in his chair. His sternum is at the table’s height.

“And how much left the bank with Kennard last week?” I ask Anthea.

“One million dollars. I counted it myself.”

Each of the siblings face me, except Kennard, whose chin rests on his chest.

“I’ll tell you why we’re short in a minute.” I smile. “But first, let’s see if we can clear up a few other things up.” I turn to Moomah’s daughter. “Venus, you would consider yourself the artistic child in the family?”

“Creation is my drug of choice,” Venus says proudly.

“I took the liberty of showing some samples of your artistry to a noted expert in the field, and she agreed with me that your rendition of handwriting styles is quite effective.” I pull out a cancelled check from Moomah’s checkbook and wave it in the air for all to see. “Here’s a fine example.”

The look on Venus’ face is not one of pride.

“When Moomah was no longer able to write out her own checks, Venus was kind enough to do it for her.”

“I was only trying to help,” Venus explains.

“I think you mean, help yourself.”

Venus stares at her necklaces.

“Elmhurst, how did you get that shiner?”

“I ran into a door.”

“When you were running away from some guy who was going to break your kneecaps?”

“No.” There is a one inch circle beneath Elmhurst’s eye that looks like an extra rare McDonald’s hamburger.

“As you may all know, Elmhurst has a system for winning at roulette. Problem is his system doesn’t work.”

“That’s not true.”

“Elmhurst, there’s no such thing as a rich gambler.”

“I guess you never watch Texas Hold `Em on TV.”

“You’re correct there.”

I have now managed to “de-smug” the entire family. Each one sits mortified as they have been caught in their own act.

“Right now I’m going to be like that guy on those late night TV ads says, ‘But wait. There’s more,’” I reach into the black pillowcase and pull out the goodies. “There’s one Rolex, one Omega, a pair of diamond earrings, two tennis bracelets, a strand of natural pearls, a couple of necklaces and three pawn tickets for a ruby brooch, a diamond necklace and a pair of earrings.” As I speak I add each item to the middle of the table.”

“But there’s nothing in that black bag for Dorothy,” Moomah says disrupting the shocked awe around the table.

“Oh, Dorothy will get hers, just like everybody else in the family.”

“That’s the stuff that was missing from the stuff in the vault,” Tiffany says.

“All present and accounted for.” I catch Anthea’s eye. She gives me a smile, as if congratulating me on a job well done — at least thus far.

“Each of these trinkets found their way back to me or to Moomah in one way or another. Isn’t that amazing?”

“Crime magnet work both ways,” Oland explains.

“There was also a lot of gold in Moomah’s safe deposit box, which I’m going to guess was traded in for cash. And of course there’s one more missing item.” Every eye is staring at me. “Leonard.”

Reaching into his pocket, Leonard pulls out the pièce de résistance – Moomah’s necklace – and holds it up for all to see. Venus and Elmhurst come out of their seats. Safari pushes his hat back for a better look. Anthea stands back with a blank stare on her face. Kelly and Care high five each other. Moomah couldn’t care less. “I’ll get those ruby slippers, if it’s the last thing I do,” she says.

I continue, “For a small finder’s fee, Leonard has graciously offered to return the necklace.”

Leonard flashes a big smile. “Ca-ching, ca-ching, ca-ching,” he says.

“But before we get to doling out any cash,” I say, no doubt depressing Leonard, “you should all know that if it wasn’t for Kennard, you probably wouldn’t be sitting here right now.” I move behind Kennard and place my hands on the back of his shoulders. I can feel the tension in his neck. No amount of booze could’ve calmed him for this moment. “You see, Kennard, unlike the rest of you, wasn’t able to find an edge of Moomah’s fortune to nibble away at. So, he and his girlfriend Schnooks decided to stage a phony kidnapping to get him out of a very serious cash flow problem. Good idea. Bad execution.”

“That’s a lie,” Kennard says.

“Which part?” I ask.

“All of it.”

I turn back to the group. “The plan was so simple. Here’s the way it went down. Schnooks disappears after her mani-pedi. A text comes in for her ransom. Kennard goes to the bank with Moomah, empties out a million dollars from her stash of mad money, and takes it home. Before Detective Oland and I show up, Kennard subtracts a hundred grand out of the pot and squirrels it away.”

Kennard nervously begins pulling on the fat rolls under his chin. It looks painful to me.

I stay on my own roll. “Kennard knows exactly what the cops are going to do, because he’s in the room when they’re discussing it. Meanwhile, Schnooks is out stealing a car, using a scam she saw on Law and Order. I wouldn’t be surprised if all of you saw the same show.

“The ransom drop is scheduled to occur somewhere in Grant Park during the July 3rd fireworks show. Kennard is supposed to get his final instructions from the kidnappers on his cell phone, but there are no kidnappers, so he has to fake it. He pretends to get a call. Even I thought it was real. He takes off running and in the process Kennard rips off his wires, tosses the cell phone, smashes the tracking device hidden in the suitcase, and high-tails it through a million other people to where Schnooks is waiting to pick him up. It’s easy. They dump the stolen car near DePaul and leave the bulk of the ransom money in the trunk untouched. Kennard figures that if nine-hundred grand comes back, nobody in the family is going to quibble about a measly hundred thousand missing.”

“You are making this up as you go along,” Kennard says, convincing no one.

The siblings look at Kennard as if he is an oozing welt. I’m not sure if they’re angry that he pulled such a stunt or because he screwed it up for the lot of them. It doesn’t matter now.

“The money burned a hole in Schnooks’ pocket. So, she went out and bought a new set of wheels — the ugliest Cadillac on earth. Boo helped deposit the cash into her Dad’s account.”

“I did not!” Boo shouts out.

Kelly holds up her cell phone. “I have pictures.”

“Schnooks thought Oland was hot on her trail, wasn’t too thrilled with a guy who wears a Bozo suit, and had her new car stolen; talk about a bad week. So, she flew the coop. And I can’t say I blame her.”

“That’s not true,” Kennard says. “We were in love.”

I pause to let it all sink in. Plus, there’s one more person on my list of miscreants, to amaze and thrill the assembled. “And just so you know, E Carrington Smithers has been bilking your mother out of her cash for years.”

“That’s absurd!”

“What’s absurd was how easy it was for you.” I face E. “You had full access to her accounts and her balance sheet has more unresolved issues than a teenager going through puberty.”

I take a number of Herman’s findings and drop them on the table. “It’s all right here, if anyone cares to read through.”

“I can account for every penny.”

“Figures lie, and liars figure out how to lie,” Oland tells him

I have the comfort level of the group at an all-time low. “You’re all guilty. Elmhurst, Safari, Venus, Boo, and E. Each of you found a little window to crack open, so some of Moomah’s money could blow into your greedy little hands. Honestly, I can’t say I blame any of you.”

I can see Moomah is listening, but I’m not sure what she is hearing.

“There’s only one person to blame for all this.” I wait for a comment or two from the peanut gallery, but no one speaks. “Moomah.”

All eyes look up.

“Moomah?” Tiffany questions.

Moomah breaks the silence as she raises her index finger to the ceiling. “One day, they’re going to erect a statue of me in this town.”

“Well, don’t go posing for it yet.” I come around the table and stand next to the aged and demented woman. “It’s your fault. You raised four lazy kids, taught them nothing about responsibility, and you expected them to get along on their own without any guidance. That’s downright cruel. And when they each turned twenty-one, you took them off the payroll, and put them on a stipend smaller than Tiffany’s monthly clothing allowance.”

Moomah announces, “If I only had a brain.”

“Hang in there, Moomah,” I tell her. “In a few minutes, you’ll get to go home.”

“Toto, too?”

“Yes, Toto, too.”

I come back to where I was previously standing. “There’s a reason why I held this meeting in the Richmond Suite. There are no cameras or listening devices. So, what goes on in here, stays in here. You can make your own decisions about what to do, at least as far as the family is concerned. However, I need to take care of the non-family members tied up in this idiocy.”

Leonard Louis raises his hand.

“Sit tight, Leonard. Johnny Spaccone is first.”

Johnny adjusts his cuff links.

I pick up two fifties out of the pile, pull a hastily scribbled note out of my pocket and put them in front of Johnny. “The family will give you a C-note to cancel all legal proceedings against Moomah. In exchange, your name will be removed from any criminal charges of conspiracy and fraud. If you take the money and sign this document, you can leave, and be at the bar before happy hour begins.”

“But I so wanted to be a part of the family.”

“Ain’t gonna happen, Johnny.”

Johnny takes out a silver pen, signs his name, and pockets the cash. “Can I get you to throw in cab fare?”

“No.”

Johnny stands up. “It’s been a pleasure.” He moves over to Moomah and gives her a kiss. “Goodbye, my love.” He passes Tiffany on his way to the door and gives her a wink. “Hey, little lady, I’m unattached. Wanna hang?”

“Get lost, creep,” Tiffany replies.

“C’est la vie,” he says as he walks through the door the cop opened just for him.

I walk over to Leonard, pick the necklace up and say, “Okay, Leonard, now it’s your turn.”

Leonard rubs his hands together like he would before a feast. “Bring it on, Sherlock.”

“According to the insurance records, the value of the necklace is four million dollars.”

“Tell you what,” Leonard says. “How about if we pass that pile down this way and call it even?”

“The deal was based on the appraised value of the item, Leonard.” I lay the necklace flat in the center of the table, reach down and take off one of my new shoes. The suspects stare at me in amazement. With shoe in hand I lift my arm, and begin my downward swing.

Every breath in the room ceases, every eye opens wide. I hear three “No’s” and one “Don’t” shouted out before I slam down the shoe’s heel on the biggest ruby. BAM!

It shatters like a cheap marble.

Every jaw drops open.

Why stop there? I wail away like a prisoner on a rock pile. WHAM! BAM! THANK YOU MA’AM! I smash a diamond, a sapphire, and another ruby. Shards of glass explode off the table in every direction.

“Very resourceful,” Moomah says.

Placing the shoe back on my foot, I pick up the necklace, and model it once again. “I’m not sure you could get ten bucks for this on the Home Shopping Channel, now. I’ll be willing to bet the gold chain will turn your neck green.”

Leonard Louie has gone limp. I’m surprised he can still sit up straight.

“How much you did pay for it, Leonard?” I ask.

“Twenty grand.”

Even when Leonard is in a state of shock, he finds a way to lie.

“Somebody stole Moomah’s necklace. Not this cheap imitation, but the real McCoy. Somebody in this room.” I pause and look at each face at the table. “Anybody want to make it easy and confess?”

Not a word.

“At first, I thought it was you Safari.”

“Me?”

“You lift the necklace, take it to Africa, and sell it piece by piece.”

“Absolutely absurd.”

“Elmhurst, you often visited Moomah’s purse for cash. Boo you have expensive tastes with a miniscule budget. Venus, you spent more time in the vault with Moomah than anyone. E Carrington, you had the asset list and knew exactly what to take. Kennard, I don’t think you took it, but Schnooks, I wonder about. She’s got a streak of greed, and what’s more, she’s flown the coop.” I look around. What a motley crew of suspects. “It could’ve been any one of you.”

Kelly, Care, Tiffany, and Anthea stare at the family members waiting for one to speak up and confess.

“Whoever stole the actual necklace tried to cover up the crime by having a worthless copy made. They figured to put it back in the vault and no one would ever be the wiser.”

Before continuing, I mention to the devastated Leonard, “I’ll give you a hundred bucks for your trouble, and you can keep the phony as a keepsake.”

“Gee, thanks.”

I subtract two fifties from the pile and pass them to Leonard. “You can go now.”

Leonard stands. He looks at Anthea and says, “I need to stop payment on a check.”

“You’d better hurry, the bank closes at five o’clock,” she tells him.

The cop unlocks the door and Leonard dashes out without his empty suitcase.

“Get comfortable everyone,” I tell the remaining crowd. “We’re going to sit here and talk this over until I figure out which one of you did it.”

Oland catches my eye and taps on the face of his watch.

“Patience is a virtue,” I tell him. “Possess it when you can.”

A knock come on the door. The cop looks over at me for guidance. Another knock.

“Oh, that might be for me,” Kelly says.

The cop opens the door and the woman who Kelly was speaking with upstairs in the bank lobby stands at the entryway.

“Excuse me,” the woman says. She sees Kelly, walks into the room, and hands her a piece of paper. “Here’s the address. They’re open until nine.”

“I certainly hope we’re not disturbing you, Kelly,” I say in my best parental voice.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to bother anybody,” she says looking straight at Anthea.

Kelly takes the paper and as she thanks the woman I look down and see her shoes. She’s wearing a pair Cleopatra might have worn to the grand opening of the Sphinx. Sandal straps, reddish-pink, three inch heel, and pointed toes. Needless to say, hardly conservative bank wear. But subtract her fabulous footwear and all you’d have is your usual, boring bank employee. She excuses herself again and quickly walks out of the room.

I feel a sudden expulsion of air from my lungs. My head gets a bit lightheaded. My palms begin to sweat. I look around to see the culprit of the crime. My heart skips a beat.

“You did it.”

The entire table, including Moomah, traces my sightline to the person I’m now facing.

“Me?”

“Yes, Anthea. You.”

“Are you out of your mind, Richard?”

“I wish I was.”

“This is a joke,” she questions with a stammer in her voice. “Isn’t it?”

“You could have lifted it anytime you wanted. You merely dropped it in a pocket and walked out with Moomah. No guard is going to frisk you.”

Anthea doesn’t look as fresh as she did when this meeting started. “You have got to be kidding. It’s insulting to even suspect me.”

“A person in your position would have numerous contacts around the world that deal in priceless gems. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch for you to know which ones are a bit on the shady side.”

“Richard,” she pleads.

“To throw me off the track, you had a very non-descript bank employee enter the vault and get on the security tape. Too bad she wore such ugly shoes.”

“How can you say these things about me?”

“It didn’t make sense how you knew so quickly about Kennard’s deposits into First Chicago. There wasn’t a conversation we had where you didn’t drop some fact about the case or pump me for information. And I bet four-million dollars would be a good start for a hedge fund.”

Oland makes a loud clank as he plops a pair of handcuffs on the table.

Anthea stares at me with the most beautiful set of puppy dog eyes, “You can’t let them do this to me.”

“You played along, tried to throw suspicion onto Kennard, you even asked to lock the necklace up for safekeeping after Moomah whacked me with it.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” she says.

“Not yet,” I say. “But it sure gives this case a whole new point of view.”

“But what about us?” Anthea asks.

I plop back down into my chair. A tear wells up in my eye, but I quickly brush it away. I fold my fingers together, push my hands onto my face, and stare into nothingness.

Oland grabs the cuffs and walks around the table to Anthea. “He who play in big sandbox, find it easy to get dirty.”

“This is absurd. This is madness. You can’t prove any of this,” Anthea tells him.

“But I give it old college try,” Oland says as the cuffs snap shut.

“I want to see a lawyer.”

Anthea gives me a last look, hardly a look of love.

The cop escorts her out of the room. I find it amazing how love can so quickly turn to hate.

A minute or two must elapse, but I have no sense of time. I sit frozen in it.

Kennard breaks the silence. “What about us?”

I don’t answer.

“What about the money?” Elmhurst asks.

“Yeah,” Safari adds. “What about the money?”

“You said you were going to divide it up…”

“That we’d all get out shares,” Safari finishes Elmhurst’s sentence.

I glance at the family members one by one. “I lied.”

“What?”

“Dectective Oland will put it back in Moomah’s safety deposit box where it belongs. Just like almost all the other stuff, it is going right back from where it came from.”

“You can’t do that,” Safari argues.

“Talk to Jamison Wentworth the Third, he’s the executor of the estate.”

“But he won’t take our calls,” Kennard says.

“Don’t feel bad, he doesn’t take mine either.” I check my watch. It is getting late. I have to get the girls back to their mother’s. Vacation with Dad has come to an end. “Come on, girls.”

I pick up my pile of papers and evidence, but before leaving I turn to the matriarch. “Moomah, before you go home, any last thoughts on the matter?”

Moomah’s eyes come up to meet mine, and she speaks with a true sincerity, “There’s no place like home.”

CHAPTER 35

Tiffany follows me and the girls out of the room and into the elevator.

“Sorry about you and the banker lady, Dad,” Care tells me.

“Hey, Dad,” Kelly says. “When it comes to picking women, you need work.”

“You can say that again,” I concur.

“When it comes to picking women, you need work.”

“Very funny, Kelly.”

“I knew that woman wasn’t right for you, Mr. Sherlock.”

“Why not?”

“You two didn’t impress me as being soul mates.”

“Then, why didn’t you say something?”

“I was about to suggest you two should start seeing other people, but then all that other stuff happened.”

We exit the bank as a group. On the sidewalk outside, Kelly says, “You know, you were wrong.”

“I was?”

“Those shoes weren’t ugly, they were incredibly cool.”

“So, if I ever want to get you a pair of shoes, I should find the ugliest pair imaginable and buy those?”

“Please, don’t ever buy me any shoes. Just give me the money and I’ll shop for myself.”

We walk south. A half block of silence and Tiffany comes to my side. “Thank you for keeping it all in the family,” she says. “It could’ve put some serious dents in my persona if everyone in town found out how idiotic my half-family members can be.”

“You’re welcome. And speaking of the family, did you call your Dad and tell him I was going to let the siblings split up the cash?”

“I left a message on his voice-mail.”

“I thought you said nobody uses voice-mail anymore.”

“That’s correct.”

At the lot where I had parked the Toyota, Tiffany air-kisses the girls and tells them she’s off to her spa for some much needed R and R. Kelly and Care thank her for the shopping spree and ask if they can do it again soon.

“No.” I tell them.

_____

On the way back to their mother’s house, Care is the first to speak. “You know Dad, this vacation wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be.”

“Thanks for the compliment.”

“But we didn’t get to do much,” Kelly says.

“What do you mean? You got to go to Safari’s jungle house, Venus’ indoor farm, and Freddy the Fencer’s pawn shop. You got to meet Phoebe the Forger and the Mona Lisa. How many kids get to do all that?”

“How many kids would want to do that?” Kelly says.

“You got to see a kidnapping in Grant Park, how rich people really live, go inside a bank vault and play with a fortune in jewelry, and see nine hundred thousand dollars in cash. If I were you, I’d consider myself pretty lucky.”

I glance in the rear view mirror, my daughters are both smiling.

“We were just kidding you,” Kelly admits. “It was really a great vacation.”

“But next year, can we go to Disneyworld?” Care asks.

“No.”

A Note from the Author

Thank you for reading THE CASE OF MOOMAH’S MOOLAH. I certainly hope you enjoyed my novel, and if you did, please let others know of your good reading fortune. The easiest way being through cyberspace, via social media networks, such as Amazon, Facebook, Linkedin, Goodreads, and Twitter. Please put out a good review to the above, and to your friends and contacts. It will be greatly appreciated.

About Jim Stevens

Jim Stevens was born in the East, grew up in the West, schooled in the Northwest, and spent twenty-three winters in the Midwest. He has been an advertising copywriter, playwright, filmmaker, stand-up comedian, and television producer.

Contact him at JimStevensWriter@gmail.com

Also by Jim Stevens

Reluctant Dick, The Case of the Not-So-Fair Trader

(A Richard Sherlock Whodunit)

WHUPPED

And Coming Soon:

The Case of Tiffany’s Epiphany

(A Richard Sherlock, the Reluctant Dick, Whodunit)

And Coming Whenever:

WHUPPED, TOO

RELUCTANT DICK #3, (The third book in the Richard Sherlock Whodunit Series)