The search for a missing salesman leads Tom Jurgen to a metalworking plant where the final product is more valuable than he imagined—and more dangerous.
Saturday, June 18, 2022
All That Glitters, Part One
“It just got a little more interesting.” I checked her out just long enough to be polite. “No Zoom meetings today?”
“They’re only going to see my shoulders.” She grinned as she turned on her computer.
Rachel’s a graphic designer, and also my girlfriend. She’s got hazelnut eyes, red hair, and psychic powers. And nice shoulders.
My phone buzzed, recapturing my attention. Alia Melendez, COO of Illinois Metal Supply Inc., had hired me to look into the expense accounts of one of the company’s salespeople, Michael Willey. I wasn’t sure why, but Melendez seemed concerned about it, so I’d spent a day or so confirming what I could.
“Good morning, Tom.” Melendez’s voice was all business. “Have you found anything?”
“It all seems to check out.” I pulled up the file on my computer. “The last item is a meal at Stromboli, in Little Italy, last Wednesday. They do have a reservation from him on file for four people. The other three are Lisa Hobbes and Carl Benson, both at Tomorrow Metalworks, along with someone named Anton Czernoff. Willey’s expense form IDs him as a consultant for Tomorrow, but I can’t find out anything about him. I can confirm that Hobbes and Benson both work for Tomorrow. That’s the last expense report you gave me, from a week ago. I can’t say there’s any evidence of padding or embezzlement in anything I’ve looked at—”
“Yeah,” Melendez cut in. Then she sighed. “Here’s the thing. Michael has sort of—disappeared. We haven’t heard from him since Thursday afternoon. His sister Cindy has been calling us about it every day. Nobody here knows what happened. The sister filed a missing persons report. He’s a good salesman, everyone likes him. Ryan Ludd, the VP of sales, says he’s the best.”
She paused for a breath. “This is sort of unusual, so we started looking at his reports to kind of track where he went—he’s out on calls a lot, and I mean a lot, especially since things calmed down with COVID a little. But none of us knew what to look for, which is why I called you.”
That made a little more sense. “His company credit card doesn’t show any use after that day either. The charges before that all seemed legit, although I didn’t look at the gas stations or other incidentals closely—”
She interrupted again. “The thing is, sometimes—between you and me—he goes off on binges. But never this long, and never like this. I’ve got his sister calling me every day.”
“You want me to hunt for him?” I handle a fair amount of missing persons cases. Sometimes I even find them.
Melendez hesitated, uncertain. “Mike’s been listing a lot of calls to Tomorrow Metalworks, more than usual, without getting a lot of orders to justify it. I mean, that happens, I would have just asked him about it, but now . . . I don’t know.”
“They’re a good customer?”
“Middle tier. Mostly steel and aluminum, a little brass. Some lead.”
Melendez’s company supplied metals to manufacturers all over the Midwest who turned it into siding, doors, and other stuff, but that was the extent of my knowledge about the industry. Still . . .
“How about this? I could go there as a salesperson for you, find out a little about what Willey was talking about with them. They were the last people to see him, maybe they know something.”
“Huh. Yeah, that’s a good idea. Do you know anything about the metal business?”
“I can barely separate the stuff for recycling.”
Melendez laughed. “Okay, I’ll send you some information. Maybe you can be brand new.”
“Print up some business cards for me. Use my real name. Set up an email address, and I’ll send you a number for a burner phone I use. Once that’s set up, I’ll call and make an appointment.”
“Sounds good. Maybe you can sell something while you’re at it.” She chuckled.
“I’ll expect a commission.” We hung up.
I swiveled to Rachel. ”I’m going undercover.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Hitman? Arms dealer? Alien?”
“Metal salesman.”
She snorted. “You’ll do fine.”
So at 10:30 the next morning I pulled my Prius into the parking lot in front of Tomorrow Metalworks. It was on Chicago’s southwest side, surrounded by other factories, office buildings and a few dingy restaurants and convenience stores. A McDonald’s sat across the street.
A woman met me at the reception area inside the main office building. In her 30s, she had short blond hair and glasses, and wore a blue linen jacket over a yellow blouse. “Tom? Lisa Hobbes, VP of development. Nice to meet you”
A man walked up to join her. “Sorry—sorry. Meeting. Carl Benson.” He was big and blocky, 40ish, with thinning hair and a thick chin.
“Let’s grab a conference room,” Hobbes said, and she led us down a hall until she found an open door and an unused room with a long table and 12 chairs facing a huge monitor.
I’d already checked out Hobbes and Benson’s backgrounds. Their LinkedIn profiles and their social media presence were pretty standard. Hobbes had a degree in marketing from Indiana University, and Benson had an MBA from Michigan State, where he’d also played football.
Hobbes had worked at three different companies over the last 10 years, two tech firms and a telecom company. The last one had cut all ties with her when she left—No “We’re sorry to see Lisa go,” or “We wish her the best of luck.” Just “Lisa Hobbes is no longer employed here.” Fired? I found a lawsuit that she’d settled, but the details were sealed.
Otherwise, she collected stamps and took vacations in the Bahamas. Benson was in some of the pictures.
“What can we do for you?” Hobbes sat down at a corner chair with a smile.
“Well, I’m just trying to get up to speed.” I didn’t have to pretend to be nervous. I’d spent hours last night studying the material on the metals industry that Melendez had sent me, while Rachel watched a reality TV show about bickering couples locked in an escape room. I still couldn’t reliably tell the difference between copper and brass.
“The truth is—” I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “I don’t have a lot of experience with all this. My last job was selling AV equipment. I have to figure this out in a hurry. I mean, I have all of Mike’s stuff, but I still don’t know half of what he did for you.”
“Well . . .” She looked at Benson. He smiled reassuringly. “We do welding, laser cutting, plate rolling, and plasma cutting for rods, bars, tubing, pipe, corrugated sheets, and other products, and Mike usually kept us supplied with aluminum, steel, copper, and brass. Companies use us to build siding, metal for farm equipment and heavy vehicles, and some small work, like electronics. Like AV equipment.”
“And lead?” I opened my briefcase. “I saw some orders in here for lead. What’s that for?”
“Car batteries, weights, radiation protection.” Benson shrugged. “It’s still useful, just not for water pipes.”
“You said laser cutting? With real lasers?” I was playing the role of someone new to the job. Also, I was curious.
Hobbes laughed. “Maybe if we showed you around.” She stood up. “Carl, let’s take him to the works.”
The factory where they crafted the various metals was behind the office building, connected by an enclosed walkway. Inside a steel door we put on goggles and helmets, and Benson led me into the facility.
The place was noisy and bright, with a high ceiling over our heads. Benson pointed out a series of lasers cutting sheets of aluminum, and another instrument using plasma on steel. Welding tools cast sparks and blinding light. The air smelled like oil and grease and the sizzle of electricity.
Hobbes followed behind Benson and me as we made our way through the facility. The noise was too overwhelming to talk much. I noticed a door off to the east side marked AU, like the symbols for alpha and omega. I nudged Hobbes and pointed. “What’s that?”
She shook her head. “Automated Utility. Specialized equipment.”
After 20 minutes I had a headache, and we went back to the office building. “Lunch?” Benson asked, guiding me down a hallway. “The cafeteria’s actually pretty good.”
I got a ham sandwich with fries and a Coke. The ham tasted fresh, and the fries were hot and crispy. Hobbes and Benson told me more about the business and the industry, and after we were finished Benson told me to come back to his office and he’d place an order.
Hobbes left us at the cafeteria door. “Are you at the four o’clock meeting?” Benson asked her.
“Yeah, but I have to leave early to meet Cherny.” She shook my hand. “Nice meeting you, Tom.”
Cherny? One of the names on Willey’s expense account was Anton Czernoff. Maybe that was Cherny. But I kept my mouth shut as I said good-bye to Hobbes.
Benson led me to another conference room. Melendez’s assistant had sent me an app for my laptop that let me take basic orders for the company’s materials. Benson actually knew it better than I did, but I fumbled my way through it. I knew he was only helping me out of pity—but I still got a little kick out of making a sale.
We shook hands again, and I left. Out in the car I called Rachel.
“How’d it go?” she asked. “Did you blow your cover?”
“Not so far. I even got a sale. This may be the start of a whole new career for me.”
She snorted. “Did you find out anything?”
I sat back, thinking. “I saw a bunch of lasers. That was pretty cool. Not so much about the case. Except . . .”
“Except what?”
I sat forward. “I told them I was new, taking over the account. But neither of them asked anything about what happened to Willey.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah.” I thought back. No, not a single question.
“You coming home?”
“Yeah. I had lunch. I have to go out tonight to tail one of them.”
“And tonight’s your night to make dinner, of course. Figures.”
“There’s leftovers. I’ll cook tomorrow.”
“Whatever. I’ve got work to do.” She hung up.
All That Glitters, Part Two
At 4:00 that afternoon I was parked at the McDonald’s across the street from the Tomorrow facility watching the parking lot.
Fortunately, the parking lot was in the front of the building. Unfortunately, I had no idea what kind of car Lisa Hobbes drove, so I had to watch the entrance like a red-tailed hawk circling in the sky for a mouse to catch from a hundred yards up. Every blink felt like a mistake. At least the sun wasn’t close to setting.
People started leaving work. Some got into cars, others headed for the street and the nearest bus stop. One woman in an expensive suit had a Lyft waiting for her.
At 4:55 I spotted Lisa Hobbes in her yellow blouse, jacket over one shoulder, walking alone through the front door, carrying a briefcase while lighting up a cigarette. She headed down a row of cars as I started my Prius.
Hobbes drove a maroon Nissan with a gleaming rear windshield. It looked brand new, or at least freshly washed. She drove in no hurry, so tailing her was easy. I stayed close, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses so she wouldn’t recognize me if she glanced at my car. I hoped.
The after-work traffic was light but growing. A few trucks and a growing number of cars started created a challenge until the Nissan made a turn and then another turn down an alley next to a Mexican restaurant.
I waited a minute on the street while horns blared at me. Then I followed, yanking down the brim of my cap. The Nissan pulled into a small parking lot behind the restaurant. I let my car roll past the lot and stopped a few yards past the entrance, checking my rearview mirror for any cars behind me trying to get through the alley. After a minute I pulled forward to a spot where I could turn the car around, and edged forward to watch the lot.
I waited, my Minolta ready. Phones aren’t great for long-distance surveillance photos.
She stayed in her car. Ten or 12 minutes later a black minivan came up the alley and turned into the lot. Dusty, with a dent in the rear bumper. It stopped, blocking two cars, and a door opened. A man climbed out of the Subaru. Czernoff?
He was older than either of us, in his 70s, with a thin gray beard and white hair tied back, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. He walked slowly to the Nissan, hobbling a little, and held out a package wrapped in brown paper.
Hobbes opened her door and snatched it from his hand, tossing it onto the seat next to her. Then she offered the man an envelope, her hand low. Glancing around, he grabbed the envelope and stuffed it into his back pocket.
They nodded to each other, then turned away. Hobbes started her Nissan; the old man trudged back to his van and climbed inside.
I’d gotten a few photos. I hoped they were clear. I started my car and moved forward, letting Hobbes swing onto the street before putting more pressure on the gas.
Just as I was turning to follow, my rear window exploded.
My reflexes slammed my foot on the brake as I ducked my head down, my neck suddenly stinging like someone had tossed a hive of wasps into the car. Horns roared in my ears. A woman shrieked. A man swore.
I looked up and saw a bus charging at me. I twisted my wheel, stomping on the brake again as my car veered across the sidewalk. I missed a light pole, clipped the bumper of an idling cab, and watched the bus scape past me by less than a foot. The driver flipped his middle finger at me.
The car finally stopped. I shut off the engine, shaking and trying to breathe. My hand reached to the back of my neck and came back with blood on it.
I swung around to check out the back seat. Half the rear window was shattered, leaving jagged spiderweb cracks across the remaining glass. The seat and floor strewn with bits of broken glass, some the size of pebbles, mixed in with larger shards big enough to slice flesh.
On the seat sat a chunk of metal, the size and shape of a brick. Dull gray, like a bullet, in the middle of the glass.
I sat there for a minute, my heart racing. Then a knock on the window jerked my head up.
A cop. “Are you all right, sir?”
I blinked. Nodded. Slowly opened the door. “Something—broke my window. I think I;m bleeding.” I looked at my hand, drops of blood across my fingers and palm.
“Stay right there, we’ll get someone for you.” The cop, a woman, went back to her squad car. I reached for a bottle of water, took a long swallow, and pulled out my phone to call Rachel.
“Our insurance rates are going to go up.” Rachel took the baked ziti out of the microwave.
“So work harder.” I gulped some beer.
She punched me as she set the dish down. ”Jerk.”
“Ow.” I was grumpy. The shop I’d had the car towed to said it would be three days before I got it back. I had to rent a red Honda, and I doubted that Melendez and IMS were going to reimburse me for any of it.
My nerves were still frazzled too. That bus had missed smashing the car by inches. Or I could have run down a mother pushing her kid in a stroller, or hit someone’s dog.
Was someone trying to kill me over Mike Willey’s expense account?
“So you think she spotted you?” Rachel sat down with a beer of her own.
I nodded. “Unless it was an unhappy client, or kids playing games. But no. It’s got to be the guy she met.” The black van. Cherny.
But what for? A drug deal? Was Anton Czernoff, or whoever he was, their pot dealer? Did it have anything to do with Willey?
“What did he throw at you?”
“The cop said it was a bar of lead. She said they probably wouldn’t get fingerprints off it, but they took it anyway.” I ate some ziti. “This is good.”
“You made it.”
“But you zapped it just right.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m still pissed at you. Work harder?”
“Sorry. Bad day.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes. Finally Rachel said, “So what now?”
I shrugged. “Look up Cherny. Anton Czernoff, if that’s his real name. Argue with the insurance company. Wait for Melendez to call off the case.” There wasn’t much reason for them to go on with it indefinitely. Unless Willey turned up.
Rachel stood up and took my plate. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“Me too.”
She leaned down. “Don’t ever get killed. Or I’ll have to bring you back to life to kill you.”
We kissed. I squeezed her leg. “Deal.”
The next morning I was filling out the insurance claim online when my phone buzzed. Alia Melendez at IMS. “I’ve got some news.” She paused as if to let me get ready. “Mike Willey is dead.”
“Oh, no.” I’d never met the guy, but he was younger than me, and death is always tough to hear about. “What happened?”
“They found his body behind a dumpster somewhere on the south side. I guess it was—pretty bad. No ID, but there was a tattoo, and they used dental records. His sister called this morning.”
“Pretty bad how?”
He paused again. “His skull. They found him wrapped up in a sheet. He was shot, too.”
“Yikes.”
“Yeah. Do you know anything? The sister’s pretty upset.”
I hesitated. “It’s—it’s possible someone tried to kill me yesterday.”
“Oh, my God—what?”
I told her about the lead brick smashing my rear window. “I’m fine, insurance will cover it. I just don’t know why someone would do that. Unless this woman Lisa Hobbes is involved in something illegal.”
“Oh, my God,” she said again. “I don’t—you don’t have to stay on this. Especially noew that we know Mike is—oh, my God, do you think it’s related somehow?”
“I don’t know.” It had seemed like a stretch before. Now that I knew Willey was dead—murdered—the connection felt firmer.
“Well, you don’t have to go on with this. We were only looking at Mike’s expense account, for God’s sake. Send me an invoice and forget about this.”
I couldn’t argue. They had no reason to keep spending money on the case. “All right. Thank you.”
“Stay safe.” She hung up.
Rachel walked in. T-shirt, shorts, coffee. “What’s going on?”
“The guy I was checking out for the metal supplier? He’s dead.”
She frowned. “That sucks. For him, I mean.”
“Yeah. I still get paid, at least.” It sounded callous, but I had to pay the bills.
“So that’s it? The intrepid P.I. is just giving up?” She set down her coffee and crossed her arms. Rachel knows me too well.
I shook my head. “Not until I check out this Czernoff guy. And finish this insurance forms.”
“Priorities.” She sat down and turned to her computer. I went for more coffee.
After I finished the forms, I started looking up Anton Czernoff on the internet. Search, search, search . . . Rachel worked quietly at her end of the office, swearing occasionally when something went wrong with her computer.
I swore a few times myself when I hit dead ends, but after an hour I sat back and stared at my screen, finishing my coffee. “Interesting.”
Rachel turned. “What?”
I pointed at the screen. “Check out this website.”
The word ALCHEMIST blazed in fire across the top of the page, with the letters A and C highlighted in red. At the bottom was a picture of the man I’d seen Lisa Hobbes exchange packages with in the restaurant parking lot.
“A,C.” Rachel stared at the image. “Anton Chernoff?”
Between the top and the bottom was some kind of spell in Latin, shimmering in and out of focus. One link would take us to a page called “Alchemical Arts,” where visitors could order potions, herbs, oils, incense, and more. Another one led to a page named VITAE, where Anton Chernoff’s bio informed readers that he’d been born in Louisiana, raised in Canada, studied the ancient texts in Germany and Italy, and now devoted his life to sharing the results of his lifelong research with the world—but only a select few deemed worthy of his wisdom.
“Does that mean people who can pay him?” Rachel asked, gazing at the last part.
“Probably, considering that’s all BS.” I switched to a different tab. “The page is registered to Tony Curnow. He was born in Ohio, studied chemistry at the University of Michigan before getting kicked out, and dropped out of sight until he was arrested crossing the border from Canada with a fake ID five years ago.”
“He got out of it?”
“Pleaded guilty, probation, no jail time. The only thing that seems to check out is traveling in Europe. His name pops up as a speaker at a conference on the occult in Germany in 2012, on the faculty of a school in Italy from 2013 to 2015, and a drunk and disorderly arrest in Spain in 2017, where he listed his occupation as chemist and his employer as a private lab in Madrid.”
Rachel cocked her head. “So what’s he doing with two executives at a metal factory?”
“Good question.”
She smirked. “Well, I know this detective.”
I stood up. We kissed. Then she pushed me away. “Not now, Casanova, I’ve got work.”
“Me too.” I picked up my coffee. “I got an address. It might just be a mail drop, but I’m going to go take a look to see if it’s really him.” I hadn’t found any images of Czernoff on his page, or any other page I’d looked at.
“Be careful. Did you get the extra insurance on the rental?”
“That’s a scam. You know that.” But I nodded. “Yeah. I did.”
“Good boy.” She patted my arm. “Happy hunting.”
All That Glitters, Part Three
My GPS led me to a small house in Oak Park, a near western suburb. A black van sat in the driveway. The same van? I hadn’t gotten the license plate when I was watching Lisa Hobbes, but it had the same dent in the back bumper. I parked across the street and settled down to wait.
I wasn’t sure what I was waiting for. I wasn’t going to confront Czernoff if he came out of the house. I needed more information. But sometimes the best thing a detective can do is to sit and watch, as boring as frustrating as that is.
The second best thing a detective can do is to follow someone. After an hour, the side door opened, and an older man with a limp came walked slowly to the van. His gray hair was tied back in a ponytail. Czernoff.
He backed out of the driveway. The traffic was light, so I was able to stay two or three car lengths behind him. I had a different cap with me, and I hoped he wouldn;t recognize me in a different car.
I admit I fantasized about the rear window of his van exploding from a brick, but I didn’t have one handy.
He drove west to Berwyn, the next suburb over. After driving through the downtown area he turned down a street into a residential neighborhood, and after a few blocks pulled over and parked.
I stopped on the block behind him and turned the Honda off. Czernoff stayed in the van. Five minutes, then ten. Was he staking one of the houses out? It felt kind of meta, doing a surveillance on a subject doing his own surveillance. I waited.
My phone buzzed. A number for IMS. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”
“Jurgen? This is Ryan Ludd, at Illinois Metal Suppliers. I got your number from Alia Melendez here.”
Ryan Ludd, VP of sales at IMS, and Mike Willey’s boss. I’d spoken with him before. He was brisk and businesslike, with a quiet voice that had a hard edge behind it. “Yes, Mr. Ludd, what can I do for you?”
“Would it be okay if I gave your number to Mike Willey’s sister?” he asked. “Her name’s Cindy Rusch, and she’s been bugging me about Mike ever since he disappeared. I get that she’s upset, but there’s not just anything else I can tell her at this point. I don’t know if you can help her, but could you at least talk to her?”
I hid a sigh. Distraught relatives don’t make the easiest clients. They tend to expect immediate action and definitive answers, like a TV private eye with an hour to solve the case. Yeah, she might pay, but I didn’t want to take advantage of anyone’s grief and milk them for the sake of a fee.
On the other hand, I was still curious. Maybe there was a chance I could help. And Melendez would owe me a favor . . . “Sure. Give her my number.”
He breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Thanks. You can tell her everything about what you did for us. I hope she’s okay.”
We hung up, I went back to watching the van. Nothing. Czernoff was definitely watching someone, but who?
My phone buzzed 20 minutes later. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”
“Mr. Jurgen? I got your number from Ryan Ludd at Illinois Metal Suppliers—my name is Cindy Rusch.”
Her voice was calm, quiet, almost too controlled. “Yes, Ms. Rusch, I was told you’d call. How can I help you?”
“Well, my brother—Mike—he was working for Illinois Metal Supply, and he was murdered.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Th-thank you.” Now I heard a sniff. “He was—I can send you the police report. They found him wrapped up in some plastic sheeting in an alley. I was—I filed a missing persons on him, and he had a tattoo on his shoulder, a diamond. And they saw that, and then they got dental records. He was—burned all over his body.” She groaned quietly.
“That sounds horrible.” I kept my eyes on the van.
“Y-yeah. He was shot, and there was some kind of, what did they say, blunt force trauma on the back of his head. Bits of metal in his hair. So he was probably already—anyway, they think it was—acid. Or something. Anyway . . .” Another sniff. “I think it’s got something to do with that place he worked, where that Melendez person works, And this place he was visiting, Tomorrow Metalworks.”
“What makes you think that?”
“They had him going out to that Tomorrow place all the time. For weeks that’s all he talked about. I think something’s going on there, and IMS knew about it.”
“Something like what?”
“Like—” She lowered her voice. “Smuggling. Look, I’m going to send you a picture, but you can’t show it to anyone, all right? Just give me a minute—”
“Hold on. Hold on, please.” I was beginning to see why Ludd was wary of Cindy Rusch. “I can’t make any kind of promise. Even if I was formally working for you—and I’m not right now—I’m not an attorney or a doctor, I can’t keep everything confidential.”
Her voice rose. “I’m just—he was missing, and now he’s dead, and I just can’t think straight right now. I’ve got to make funeral arrangements, and my mother is hysterical, and I’ve got kids, and I don’t know what to do!”
I forced myself to stay calm. “Look, let’s meet in person and talk through this.”
“Okay.” She took a deep breath, and her breathing grew quiet again. “I’m sorry. I can come into the city. Where are you?”
I looked at the van. I could be here all day, and my new client didn’t sound as if she’d
like waiting. We arranged to meet at a coffee shop near my apartment in an hour.
When I hung up I called Rachel. “Everything okay?”
“It’s him. He’s sitting outside a house in Berwyn, except I don’t know which one he’s watching. And now I’ve got a new client to meet. Mike Willey’s sister.”
“Where are you meeting?”
“The coffee shop. I’ll give it a few more minutes here, then come home. I’ll call if anything happens.”
“Don’t wreck that car. Even with the scam insurance.”
I chuckled. “I’ll try not to. Talk to you later.”
After 20 more minutes I gave up. Whatever Czernoff was doing, he’d have to do without me watching.
Cindy Rusch was short and plump, with curly brown hair and teary eyes. She held her coffee with both hands in the middle of the coffee shop table and looked me over, deciding if she could trust me.
“Tell me about your brother,” I said.
“He was an asshole.” The words flooded out of her. “I mean, he’s my kid brother and I love him, but his whole life is one job after another, always getting fired but it’s never his fault, or getting bored after three months and not working for six months. Living off mom and dad, borrowing money from everyone and never paying it back, smoking weed and playing video games all day, breaking up or getting dumped by every girl he ever dated—he just knows how to make people like him. Knew how.” She paused for breath. “Until they didn’t.”
I nodded. “Sorry for your loss,” I said again.
“Yeah.” She gulped some coffee. “It’s how he was good at selling. Most of his jobs were selling stuff—anything, it didn’t matter. He was smart enough to pick up what he needed to know, and then he could just talk and talk until you were practically begging him to take your money. It took me a long time to figure that out.” She sighed, grabbed a brown napkin from the corner of the table, and wiped her eyes.
“What about his job at IMS?” I sipped my own coffee.
She shrugged. “It was one of the longest he ever held down a job, so they must have liked him. He was good at that, like I said. He didn’t talk too much about it. I probably wouldn’t have understood it anyway. Selling metal? I mean, I teach science—middle school—but I couldn’t keep up when he started talking about it. The last week or so he was talking about some place called Tomorrow Metalworks, like they were doing something really amazing, warp drive technology or something like that. He was spending a lot of time with them, especially some chick named Lisa and a guy named Carl.”
“So what was so interesting about Tomorrow Metalworks?”
“I don’t know, but he gave me . . .” She pulled a phone from her jeans. “This.”
She held the phone over. The picture looked like a bar of something gold and shiny, sitting in a shoebox on a wad of crumpled newspapers..
I blinked. “A picture of a gold bar?”
“No!” She yanked the phone back. “A bar of gold! A real bar of gold!”
We both suddenly looked around to make sure no one was listening. She put the phone away.
“When did he give it to you?”
“Last week. Wednesday night. He came by and gave me this box, said not to open it, just keep it for him a few days. It was so heavy, I didn’t think it could be drugs, not that he ever did anything more than weed. A little cocaine, maybe.” She shook her head. “I didn’t open it, until I didn’t hear from him, and yesterday. When I knew he was—dead. So I waited until my kids were asleep and I looked at it. And this is what was in it.”
Wednesday. The night of the dinner at Stromboli with Hobbes, Benson, and Czernoff. No one had heard from Willey after last Thursday afternoon. Today was Tuesday.
Was this some kind of money-laundering scheme? Drug cash for gold? I didn’t know how that would work. “You haven’t told the police.”
She shook her head. “Look, I’m a single mom. I’ve got two kids and a teaching job. I figure Mike gave this to me to take care of me in case something, you know—happened.” She scowled. “Like this.”
“Do you have any idea how much it’s worth?”
“It’s 12 ounces. That’s about $21,000. I looked it up online.”
Wow. “And he just gave it to you.”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“You should tell the police.”
She stiffened and shoved her chair back. “Are you going to?”
“Relax, I get it. You want to keep it.” I rubbed my head. “I’m not sure exactly what I can do. You probably don’t want me asking anyone at IMS or Tomorrow Metalworks about gold bars—”
“I want to know what happened to Mike.” She leaned forward, her voice a fierce whisper. “Yeah, I want to keep this, but if I have to give it up to get whoever burned him to death, I’ll do it.”
“Do the cops know when he died?”
She bit her lip. “They sent me the report. I can send it to you.” She picked up her phone. “They said—Thursday night, Friday morning, based on—stuff.” She gulped some coffee.
Sitting back, I crossed my arms. “Okay. I can’t make any promises, but if you want to hire me, I’ll look into it. At Tomorrow they think I work for IMS. I can keep that up for a while and maybe find out if there’s anything going on with them. But to be honest, this might not ever get solved. You have to be prepared for that.”
She looked out the window. “At least I’ve got that gold bar.” Then she looked me over again and apparently decided to trust me, at least for now. “How much do you charge?”
Back home I told Rachel about Cindy Ruisch and her gold bar. Her eyebrows rose. “Nice. Think someone knocked over Fort Knox?”
“Maybe.” I looked at the police report on Mike Willey’s death that Cindy Rusch sent me. He’d been wrapped in a canvas sheet stained with chemicals and blood. The back of his head had suffered blunt force trauma, and bits of as-yet unidentified metal were embedded in his scalp. And he’d been shot in the chest.
Maybe somehow had bashed his skull in with a bar of lead?
I thought about driving back out to check on Czernoff and his van. But I couldn’t think of anything to do if he wasn’t there, except go back to his house and wait again. For that matter, I didn’t know what to do if he was still where I’d left him.
The answer had to be at Tomorrow Metalworks. That was the connection. But what were they all doing? Two marketing executives and an alchemist—
“Wait a minute.” I turned to Rachel. “What if—”
But my phone started buzzing. “Just a minute. Hello, Tom Jurgen—”
It was Cindy Rusch. “Someone—broke into—my house.” She was having trouble breathing. “They took—they took it. The thing I showed you.”
“Have you called the police?”
“They’re on their way. But they took the thing! The thing! What do I do?”
“Tell them everything you know. Call the Chicago police, whoever’s handling your brother’s case and tell them—”
“I’m not telling them about the thing.”
Telling the cops everything up front meant fewer awkward questions later. Unless you’re being arrested. But I could understand her hesitation. “Do what you think is best. Did you tell anyone else about the gold bar?”
“No. Even my kids don’t know about it. I mean—some guy at IMS asked me if Mike gave me anything. I thought he meant his laptop or something. It was weird. I didn’t say anything about the gold.”
“What guy? Who?”
“It was—I think his name was Ryan something.”
Ryan. “Ryan Ludd?”
“Yeah, that was it. When I called the day after Mike went missing. I was too upset to think about it—”
“Where do you live?” I had a funny, spider-like feeling.
“Berwyn. Why?”
The black van. “When the police get there, get their names. I might want to talk to them later.”
“All right. Where are they? They should be here by now.”
I hung up and dug her check from my wallet. It was right there, and I hadn;t noticed it. A Berwyn address, on the block Czernoff had been watching.
“What is it?” Rachel asked.
“Someone broke into her house and stole that piece of gold.”
“Huh.”
“It was Czernoff. He was watching her house when she called me. Damn it.” I pounded a fist on my knee. “I left, she left, and he went in and stole. I was right there!”
“Not your fault.” She rubbed my knee. “You’re not psychic, are you?”
“No, that’s your department.” I kissed her. “Anyway, I think I know what’s going on.”
“Do tell.”
“It’s gold,” I said. “They’re not cooking meth or laundering money. Czernoff’s an alchemist. They’re making gold.”
All that Glitters, Part Four
“What did you say?” Cindy Rusch asked.
I had her on speaker, with Rachel beside me. “They’re using alchemy to turn metal into gold at Tomorrow Metalworks. Your brother must have found out somehow, stole a bar of gold, and they killed him and stole back the bar he gave you. Did you tell the police about it?”
“N-no.” She sounded nervous. “I was afraid Mike might have stolen it, and I didn’t want to get into trouble. But—I’m not sure I believe all this anyway.”
I sighed. Too often, my cases veer unexpectedly toward the supernatural. This was only the latest example.
Rachel spoke. “Alchemy is about transmuting base metals into silver and gold, plus other stuff, and people have been trying to do it for centuries, but obviously no one’s been able to do it, at least on a big scale.” She winked at me. “I mean, that’s what I read on Wikipedia just now. But these guys might have figured it out. We’ve seen weirder things.”
“I guess.” She didn’t sound convinced. “I don’t care about the—no, that’s not true, I do care about the gold! Is there anything we can do?”
I grimaced. “The police will be skeptical. Even the ones who know me.” A few cops did believe my stories. “For that matter, there’s probably no law against turning lead into gold. The SEC or somebody might have opinions on it, but—”
“There’s a law against killing people! My brother is dead!” She sounded like she was getting ready for a rant. “Can’t we just—! don’t know—do something?”
“Maybe.” I sighed. “Okay, I do have an idea. You’ll hate it—” I looked at Rachel, “but it’s the only one I can think of.”
Lisa Hobbes picked up her phone on the third buzz. “Lisa Hobbes, Tomorrow Metalworks.”
“Hi, it’s Tom Jurgen. We met yesterday? You and Carl showed me around.”
“Yes, what’s up? Carl’s in charge of ordering supplies, I can transfer you—”
“No, it’s not that. I’ve been let go from IMS.” Which was technically true.
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. I can connect you to HR if you—”
“No, that’s not what I mean.” I paused. “Look, I know what you’re doing there. With the gold. I found some stuff in Mike Willey’s computer. I want in.”
Hobbes didn’t speak for so long I was afraid she’d hung up. “I don’t—what are you talking about?”
“The gold. You and Carl and Anton Chernoff, Cherny. You killed Mike, and I don’t want that to happen to me, but I want a piece of what he was in on with you. Or I’ll go to the police. And the papers.”
Hobbes laughed. “You really think anyone’s going to believe some fairy tale about us making gold?”
“I think they might start asking questions about how Mike got killed. They found his body. Shot and burned.”
Again she was silent for a long time. “Let me make a phone call. I’ll call you back.” She hung up.
“I don’t like this.” Rachel glared at me.
I braced myself for a punch. “I know.” Part of me was hoping Hobbes would just tell me to go to hell. Or never call back. I sipped my coffee, watching the phone nervously.
Rachel paced. She knows I can’t let go of things, ever since I was a reporter. I call it being tenacious. She calls it “being a stubborn asshole.” We’ve had to deal with it over the years. She can tolerate it, but she never likes it.
My phone buzzed. Lisa Hobbes. “You’re not a salesman,” she snapped. “You’re a P.I. they hired at IMS.”
Fortunately, I’d expected this. And it confirmed another theory. “Ryan Ludd, right?”
She seemed surprised. “That doesn’t matter—”
“He doesn’t have Willey’s laptop, does he? He was asking about it. Like I said, I want in. Or that computer goes to the police.”
Another long pause. Finally she said, “All right. All right. Maybe we can make a deal. Come down to Tomorrow at nine thirty. Park in back. I’ll be at the door to the plant.”
“Sounds good.” But she’d already hung up.
I turned to Rachel. “How’d I do?”
“You sounded just stupid enough that she’s not afraid of you.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re really going to do it this way?”
“I’m open to better ideas.” I wasn’t really thrilled by the prospect of walking into the place alone. But it was the only way I could think of to get any kind of evidence.
Maybe there was nothing wrong with making gold for themselves, but if we were right, they’d killed a man. I’d been a crime reporter and a P.I. too long to not take murder seriously.
Rachel sighed and crossed her arms. “All right. Take the gun.”
Yeah. I’d finally bought a handgun. After a case involving a face-shifting serial killer who’d almost killed me. It was a Glock 17 automatic pistol. I had all the necessary permits for ownership and concealed carry, and I’d taken a firearms safety class right after buying it. Rachel knew how to use it too. I kept it locked on a top shelf in our bedroom closet. I’d never taken it out since bringing it home from the firing range.
I nodded. “Okay.” They had killed Willey, after all. And I was going in alone. I only hoped I wouldn’t have to use it.
At 9:20 that night I left Rachel in the McDonald’s across the street from Tomorrow Metalworks. I called her phone, she set it to record, and I set my phone to record as well and slipped it into my jacket pocket. We kissed briefly. She punched my shoulder. “Be careful, jerk.”
“Always.” My throat was dry. I got back into my car and drove over.
The pistol felt like a tumor under my arm. My heart thudded inside my chest as I got out of the car and headed toward the rear of the facility.
Lisa Hobbes stood outside a door, smoking. She grimaced when she saw me, dropped her cigarette to the ground, and held the door as I walked up. “Let’s do this.”
I followed her through the empty plant. Empty, but not silent. Machinery hummed, the air conditioning whistled overhead, and I heard something dripping from a corner. Half the big fluorescent tubes overhead were dark. Hobbes led me around the big machines toward the door I’d seen marked AU.
“Oh. Now I get it.” I pointed at the sign. “AU—not ‘Automated Utilities,’ or whatever you said. The symbol for gold.”
“Little joke.” She grinned.
Benson was leaning against the door, arms crossed, looking annoyed. “Took you long enough.”
“I was right on time.” I shifted on my feet, trying to hide the bulge under my arm.
Benson cocked an eyebrow. “Nervous?”
I figured I might as well use it. “I’m here all alone, and you guys killed Mike Willey. Yeah, I’m not exactly cool, calm, and collected.”
Hobbes’s eyes flickered, but she didn’t contradict me about killing Willey. Good sign or bad? She just tapped a code into a pad mounted next to the door and swiped a key card across it. Benson pushed the door open. “Inside.”
Inside Hobbes flipped a switch. Bright lamps dangled from the ceiling, casting harsh, hot light over the floor. The place smelled of sweat and ozone, like the air after a thunderstorm.
Hobbes dropped her jacket on a stool and unbuttoned her sleeves. Benson loosened his necktie.
I couldn’t take off my jacket. I’d just have to pretend I wasn’t sweating as if I were running a 10K.
“Where’s Cherny?” Hobbes shook her head. ”We need him for the next part of it.”
“He texted.” Benson pulled out his phone. “I’ll—here he is.” The phone was buzzing. “Cherny? Okay, we’re all here. Hurry up. He’ll be right here.”
Good. A cell phone signal could get through the walls here. Rachel could hear everything. So far, so good.
I looked around. Storage cabinets lined one wall, facing a row of tables in the middle of the room. A box that looked like an oversized microwave sat in the center of one table, with a red light glowing over a keypad and a heavy-duty power cable plugged into a socket in the wall.
Metal trays and stained plastic containers and covers crowded over another table, with rolls of paper towels standing at attention between them. Beakers and bunsen burners were strewn across another table, as if a high school chemistry class hadn’t cleaned up when the bell rang.
One storage locker was open. I saw bottles labeled like prescriptions from the drugstore on the top shelves, and a pile of what looked like canvas sheets stuffed into the bottom shelves. Like the sheets Mike Willey had been wrapped up in? I tried not to think about that.
A small black safe stood next to the locker.
Benson leaned against a table and crossed his arms. “Did you bring Mike’s laptop?”
“Hell, no.” I looked at the door. My only escape. “I don’t want to end like him. You shot him and smashed in his skull, didn’t you?”
No response from either of them. Hobbes just blinked once, her eyes like stone.
“I’ve got it. I’m leaving it where you can’t get at it until I get my share.”
Benson groaned. “You idiot.”
“Hey, after what happened to him—”
Hobbes jabbed a finger at me. “We couldn’t trust that asshole to keep his mouth shut, and we sure as hell don’t trust you.” She shook her head. “We’re not giving you anything unless you give us everything you’ve got.”
“Okay, okay!” I lifted a hand. “How about—just show me how you do it, all right? I need to see it. Then I’ll go get the laptop, and you can give me a nice chunk of the stuff.”
Hobbes rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t work like that. When Cherny gets here—where is he?”
Benson’s phone buzzed again. “He’s here.” He opened the door.
Anton Czernoff—or Tony Curnow—walked in, carrying a heavy black bag. He stared at me. “Who’s he?”
“I’m the guy whose car you wrecked,” I said. “That’s costing me $800 for a new rear window.”
He blinked. “You were following Lisa. I had to do something.”
“Try a note on the windshield next time.”
“This is Tom Jurgen,” Hobbes said. “He’s a P.I. He was pretending to be a salesman for IMS, but—”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Czernoff slammed a fist on a table, making the Tupperware jump. “First Willey, now this guy? You can’t keep letting people find out about this! I spent 10 years working on this, and I’m not going to let some schmuck of a salesman or P.I. or whatever screw it up for me!”
“Calm down, Cherny.” She reached for her jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “We just pay him off and he’ll leave us alone. Just like Mike.”
Czernoff scowled. “Just like Mike. I got it.”
He opened his bag and lifted out a thick bundle of newspaper. Pulling the paper away, he dropped a yellow brick on the table and grinned. “Piece of cake. Gold cake.”
Cindy Rusch’s gold. It had to be. Damn it, I’d been right there . . .
“Any trouble?” Hobbes asked.
He shook his head. “She was gone. Empty house. Took a while to find it, I had to trash the place, but—here it is. Did you add that stuff I gave you last night?”
“All of it, just like you told me.” Hobbes lit a cigarette.
Sweat was streaming down my back, but I kept my jacket on as I tried to keep my eyes on all three of them. “So . . .” I gazed at the yellow brick. “You guys know how to make gold, right? Out of lead, or something else?”
Czernoff scowled at me. “Lead is best. For the weight. What do you know about it? I’ve spent years on this.”
“I know a little bit about alchemy, and a lot of other things most people don’t believe in. Did you tell Mike Willey all about it?”
Benson snorted. “He thought we were laundering drug money. I don’t think he would have believed us if we told him.”
“Maybe Mike didn’t have any imagination.” I looked at Hobbes. “How did you guys hook up with Cherny here?”
“He came to us.” She blew some smoke through her nose. “About eight months ago. Off the street. Good thing he picked the right person to contact.”
“A greedy little bitch, and her friend with benefits.” Czernoff laughed. “I did my research. Fired from her last company for embezzlement. Looking for a new score, right, Lisa?”
She glared at him and blew more smoke into the air.
I looked around the room, at the tables filled with equipment, the storage lockers, and everything else. “How does it work?”
Czernoff grunted. “I’ll show you.”
Hobbes and Benson exchanged worried glances, but Czernoff ignored them. He pulled a cabinet door open, bent down, and lifted an ingot of heavy metal. “Lead,” he said, dropping into a tray on one table. From another cabinet he took a plastic jug full of a dark liquid, and some jars filled with powders and liquids. He set them on the table, then opened a book from his bagh and flipped through the pages. The paper looked old, like parchment, yellowed and delicate.
Hobbes found a stool to perch on, and she lit another cigarette. Czernoff glared with the lighter flared. Benson stood near me, arms crossed, as if guarding me. Could he see the bulge of the handgun under my jacket? Smell it? The room was already hot, and when Czernoff lit a bunsen burner the temperature seemed to go up another 10 degrees, but I couldn’t take off my jacket. I waited, sweating.
“What’s that?” I asked as Czernoff started heating a mixture of silvery powder and thick dark liquid in a beaker over the burner. “Eye of newt?” I was talking because I was nervous, and so Rachel would have some idea what was going on.
“Shut up.” Czernoff swirled the mixture around over the flame. “It took me years to find the right book, and then eight months to get everything together. And then close to a year to do it for the first time.” He set the beaker down, took off his gloves, and unscrewed a bottle of yellow liquid.
“How long does it take for one brick?” I asked.
He turned to the box with the glowing red light. “I started that two weeks ago. That was after more than a month of prep work with the materials. It’ll be ready in a few more minutes.“
“So if each one is worth, what? Twenty thousand dollars or so? It’ll take a long time to get to a million.”
Hobbes and Benson both looked at me while Czernoff poured the yellow liquid into the beaker. “What?”
“We can’t keep handing this stuff over.” Hobbes’ eyes were icy. “First Mike wanted one brick, then he wanted more.”
“So, what? You killed him?” Say it, say it, and then I can get out of here . . .
Before anyone could answer, the box with the red light beeped three times. The light went dead. Czernoff set down his bottle and turned, picking up a pair of heavy gloves.
Hobbes’ eyes brightened. Benson smiled. Czernoff opened the box, reached in, and gingerly lifted out a plastic tray. Inside sat two thick bricks covered in what looked like black oil
He set the tray down on the table and lifted the first brick out, putting it down on a sheet of canvas. Then he dropped his gloves and sprayed the brick with a plastic bottle that blew a clear mist over the surface. Grabbing a wad of paper towels, he began wiping the brick, cleaning the oil from it.
Benson stood right behind Czernoff’s shoulder. Hobbes leaned on her stool, peering between them. I tilted my head, watching Czernoff’s arm move steadily back and forth.
Czernoff dropped the wad and pointed. “That took two months.”
A brick of gold sat on the table, shining under the light hanging overhead.
“Wow,” I breathed. “So you really can—wait a minute.” I shook my head. “This could be a scam. How do I know you didn’t just buy a block of gold and cover it with oil and leave it inside there and then pull it out now?”
Czernoff laughed. “Sure. We’d spend thousands of dollars on a gold ingot just to fool a salesman. Or whatever you are.”
I nodded. It was time to get out, with or without any incriminating statements from them. “Okay. Let me go get the laptop—should I bring it back here tonight, or drop it off tomorrow?”
Hobbes and Benson looked at each other. Czernoff started wiping off the second bar.
“Hang on.” Hobbes crouched down next to the safe and started spinning the dial. “I have to show you something.” Benson just watched me.
I tensed. “What?”
“Just a minute.” She turned the handle and pulled the safe open. “Here’s what we’ve got so far.”
A stack of gold bars sat inside the safe—at least 10 or 12.
Next to it sat a handgun.
Oh hell. I jumped back, pulling my jacket open.
Hobbes stood up, lifting the gun in her hand. But I had mine first. I pointed it at Hobbes. Or at least in her general direction. “Don’t!” My voice was shaking. So was the pistol. “Put the gun down, Lisa.”
She stared at me, the handgun firm in her fingers, her eyes steely.
“Look, I’ve only fired this thing on the practice range.” I fumbled with the safety, keeping my finger clear of the trigger like they’d taught me in firearms class. “You really don’t want me practicing on you. Put the gun down, Lisa. Now.”
Hobbes stared at me for a moment. I held my breath, hoping she didn’t decide to dare me. I wasn’t sure if I was more afraid of getting shot myself, or having to shoot her,
Finally she swore, bent over, and dropped her handgun on the floor.
I reached slowly into my pocket for the phone. “Rachel? You there? Did you get all that?”
“Mostly.” Her voice sounded faint. “What are you doing? Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I think so. Call the cops.”
“On it.”
“Wait a minute!” Hobbes lifted a hand. “You’re in this too! You can’t—”
“I didn’t kill anyone.” My eyes flicked between her and Benson. Czernoff watched me, his eyes narrow, one hand over the bar of gold he’d been cleaning. “Is that the gun yopu used to shoot him? I’ve got it recorded, everything you said—”
Hobbes and Benson started yelling at me together, ignoring my handgun. “I never said—you can’t—this isn’t going to hold up—no cop will ever believe—”
I let them argue, trying to breathe slowly and keep the Glock under control.
“The hell with this!” It was Czernoff, his face red. “You people are all idiots!”
Then he lifted a gold brick and hurled it at me.
I dodged, and it flew over my shoulder, clattering on the floor behind me.
Hobbes leaned down, snatching at her handgun. Benson lunged at me. I swore, pointed the barrel of my gun somewhere in between them, and squeezed the trigger.
The handgun roared. Hobbes jumped. Benson stumbled and fell over, but I hadn’t shot him. My bullet hit the metal door of one of the storage cabinets. My wrist hurt, but I managed to keep the gun steady in my hands.
Czernoff was running for the door. He’d grabbed his bag, stuffing one of the fresh gold bars into it as he pushed the door open. “See you later, assholes!”
I had to let him go. I wasn’t going to shoot him, even if I could have hit him. He stumbled through the door and disappeared.
Benson rolled over, clutching his knee and groaning. Hobbes glared at me some more, shaking her head. “You idiot.” She looked back at the open safe, and the gold sitting inside. “All right, take it. Take it and get out of here.”
I admit I was tempted. But the cops were on their way, and I couldn’t exactly hide a dozen gold bars inside my pants. “Let’s just stay here and wait for the police.”
Hobbes snorted. “What are you going to tell them?”
“What else? The truth.”
She rolled her eyes. “You think they’ll believe you?”
“Not my problem.”
The cops were skeptical about the gold process, of course. But they took Hobbes’ gun, and listened to the recording on my phone.
A young cop shook his head. “That’s not admissible. Illinois is a two-party state for recording conversations.”
“Her gun is admissible,” I said, pointing at Hobbes. Handcuffed, she tried to spit at me. “Test it for the bullet that killed Mike Willey.”
“Speaking of guns—” He held out his hand. “Slowly.”
I handed my Glock over. “Can I get a receipt or something? That cost a lot of money.”
He smirked. “Call in the morning.”
They took Benson away on a stretcher. He’d apparently injured his knee when he fell. Hobbes walked slowly, muttering to herself.
They took the gold, too. I hoped none of it got “lost” when it got downtown. At least they let me go.
Back home with Rachel I opened a beer and called Cindy Rusch. She listened to my report, cried a little, and didn’t seem upset that I wasn’t able to get her bar of gold back. “I guess it was too good to be true.” She sighed. “Will they really go to prison?”
“Maybe.” I tried to be honest but optimistic. “If Lisa Hobbes’ gun matches the one that was used to, uh—with your brother, that’ll be positive evidence, and Carl Benson could make a deal to testify against her.” Of course, a scheme to turn lead into gold could be a tough sell to a jury. Maybe they could leave that out somehow.
She thanked me, and we hung up. Rachel leaned against me on the sofa. “So you fired the gun.”
“Yeah. It was loud.” I rubbed my ear.
“And you couldn’t manage to grab a little of the gold before the cops showed up?” She punched my arm.
“Believe me, I thought about it.” I sipped my beer. “Thanks for helping.”
“Anytime it doesn’t interfere with my TV.” We were watching The Flight Attendant. “What happened to Czernoff?”
I shrugged. “He got away. His website’s already down. He can start over again somewhere else, I guess. Hopefully without anyone getting killed this time.”
Rachel nodded and patted my knee. “You okay?”
“Firing a gun is scary.” I drank some more beer. “I hope I don’t have to do it again soon.”
She kissed me. “I’ll protect you.”
I smiled. “I like that.”
# # #
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