Fifteen minutes later I had Finn Burke on the phone. “What do you want?”
I’d already introduced myself. “You were once an associate of Howard Oakes, is that right?”
I waited. Burke, suspicious of a trap, answered with a grunt. “So what?”
“Are you aware that three other associates of his have been murdered in the past few weeks?”
“Who? What the hell?”
“Dan Hoffman, Quinn Hardy, and Jerry Carra. They were all stabbed, and they all had their throats cut twice.” I hoped the gruesome details would shock him out of his tough-guy shell.
“Jesus Christ.” He coughed, and I heard him light a cigarette. Or maybe a joint? “Why do—are you threatening me, asshole?”
“No, no,” I said quickly. “If anything I’m trying to warn you. But what I really want to ask you about is Priscilla Gallagher.”
“Priscilla. What—oh.” Burke coughed again. “What about her?”
“She was Oakes’s girlfriend, right?”
“One of them. The main one. But I don’t think kept it all to herself either, you know what I mean?”
“Would you happen to know anything about Priscilla’s husband, Herman Brennan?”
“No.” It was short and final. “Nothing. Never met him, don’t know anything about him.”
“Do you—”
But Burke had hung up.
Rachel looked over her shoulder. “That go well?”
“Just peachy.” I went on to Jake Reilly. I hoped for better luck. I didn’t figure I had much change of getting hold of Roberto Serrano unless I felt like driving out to whatever prison he was serving his time in.
Reilly answered on the first buzz. “Yeah, who’s this?” It sounded like he was driving.
“Jake Reilly? My name is Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective in Chicago. I’d like to ask you some questions about Howard Oakes and Priscilla Gallagher.”
“Ah, shit.” He made a spitting noise, as if he was chewing something. “Okay. I’m in the car now. Call me back in five minutes, all right?” He hung up before I could agree.
I went to the bathroom, got myself a Coke, and gazed at Rachel until she gave me the finger. So I read some news online until at least 10 minutes had passed, then called Reilly again.
“Okay, I’m at a McDonald’s,” he said. “What’s this all about?”
“For one thing, it’s about Quinn Hardy, and Dan Hoffman, and Jerry Carra. They’re all dead.”
“Yeah.” He sucked in a breath. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m not telling you that. But I’m not in Chicago. I’m only talking to you because Jerry was a friend of mine, long time ago. Haven’t seen him in nine, 10 years, but when I heard he was dead, I—it hit me, man. Just hit hard.”
“Is that why you’re running?”
“I heard about Quinn and Danny right after that. After I read about Danny, I looked them up, see if they’re okay.”
“Why? Did you think they were in danger too? That you’re all in danger?”
Reilly groaned. “Look. You asked about Howard and Priscilla. You recording this?”
“No. Should I?”
“No, because I’ll say I never talked to you. Here’s the deal: Priscilla was married to some old guy, and she was tired of waiting for him to drop dead of a heart attack. So she made a deal with Howard—take care of the old guy and he’d get 50 percent of whatever she got in the inheritance. Make it look like a robbery, take all her jewelry. That’s how it happened.”
I paused, a little unnerved. I’ve heard all kinds of disturbing stories all right, but it’s still unsettling to be talking about cold blooded murder. “Do all of you know about it?”
“It got around. The thing is, she signed a prenup that kept her from inheriting anything. So all he got out of it was some necklaces and rings and stuff, and he couldn’t even move that right away because it could all be ID’d, so his regular buyers wouldn’t touch it and nobody else would give him what he wanted. He was pissed. He’d get drunk and call her a stupid, greedy bitch.” Then he laughed. “But he always went back to her when his latest kicked him out.”
“So what happened to the jewelry?”
“I don’t know. He gave some of away, to some of us and I guess whatever girl he was seeing. Maybe he kept some of it until he could finally sell it.” Reilly made the spitting sound again. Tobacco? “Look, the only reason I’m telling you all this is I’m getting out of Chicago and nobody knows where I’m going. So don’t call me again.” He hung up.
I had more questions, of course, but the sudden silence on the phone defeated me. I checked Reilly’s name off my list. At least I didn’t have to worry about Roberto Serrano.
“What was it?” Rachel was right behind me.
I sat back and sipped my Coke, trying to organize everything in my head. “Priscilla had Oakes kill her husband. She didn’t get as much money as she expected from it, because of a prenup—although she did get a pretty nice condo. Everyone on Oakes’ crew apparently knew about it. That guy—” I tapped my phone— “is leaving town. For some reason, Oakes is killing everyone who knew about it.”
She crossed her arms. “Despite being dead.”
“We both know that doesn’t disqualify him.” I turned to check my notes. “When Oakes’s head went missing at the cemetery, the manager there talked to a woman about it.”
“And didn’t you say that professor in Gary had a book of magic?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah.” I sighed. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“You’re going to give Priscilla another shot at seducing you.”
“Not exactly how I’d phrase it, but—”
“I’m coming too. Just in case you can’t resist her sexy charms.” She smirked. “Plus, I’ll be able to tell if she’s doing magic.”
“Right.” I picked up my phone. “Let me call her. I have to check on something first.” I put the phone on speaker so Rachel could listen.
Priscilla answered her phone on the third buzz. “Hi, Ms. Gallagher, this is Tom Jurgen. We talked yesterday?”
“Hello, Tom.” She sounded way too happy to hear my voice. “What can I do for you?”
“I need Tim Schrantz’s number. Any chance you could let me have it?”
“I suppose.” She drew the word out. “What for?”
“I just have a question about Howard Oakes.”
“He doesn’t really like to talk about Howard. Especially to strangers. Not that you’re a stranger to me, Tom.” She giggled. “All right, give me a second . . .”
I took down the number. “Thanks.”
“Of course. How is your case coming?”
“I, uh, think I’m making progress. In fact, could I come over later to talk to you? A few more questions have come up.”
“Yes, no problem. Bring some more wine.”
We hung up.
“She sounds nice.” Rachel rolled her eyes.
“Just one more call.” I called Schrantz’s number.
He didn’t answer. I left a message—just my name and number, reminding him we’d met, and asking him to call. “Now what?” Rachel asked.
I shrugged. “We wait. Maybe an hour. Then—”
“Then?” She punched my shoulder.
“Ow. One hour. Then we go see Priscilla Gallagher. We’ll pick up some wine.”
“We’re taking Donald too.” She strode back to her desk. “Just in case she tries to seduce you this time.”
Donald Duck was the name we’d given to our Glock. I hate carrying it, but I hate being killed even more. Would it work on a ghost? I hoped I wasn’t about to find out.
Schrantz didn’t call back, so 90 minutes later I was buzzing Priscilla from the lobby. Five minutes after that she opened the door to her apartment. “Hi, Tom! Who’s this? Oh, wine! Come in!”
Today she was wearing a blue cashmere sweater and a wraparound skirt, with sandals. She took the wine and carried it to her living room, where the corkscrew lay on the center table next to a half empty bottle of tequila and a shot glass. “Do you want to get some glasses, Tom? Oh, I’m sorry—I’m Priscilla.” She held a hand out to Rachel.
“This is Rachel,” I said as they shook hands. “My associate. And my fiancée.”
“Oh, really? Congratulations! When’s the big date?”
“We haven’t decided yet.” Rachel shot me a quick look that I recognized: supernatural energy, either from Priscilla or something in the room. I nodded and went to fetch glasses.
Donald rested uncomfortably under my jacket. I hoped the bulge under my arm wasn’t too obvious as I carried three glasses back to the living room.
“So, what can I do for you, Tom? Rachel.” She lifted her glass in a toasting gesture, then took a sip.
Rachel was checking out the room. “Those books look interesting.” She pointed toward the bookcase with its small jungle of plants and a few photos, and just three books. “What are they?” They looked old and musty, and I couldn’t make out any titles on the spines.
“Oh, just some things I picked up. What brings you here?”
Rachel and I looked at each other. “Howard Oakes,” I said.
“What about him?” Priscilla smiled.
“What happened to your husband? Herman Brennan?”
The smile dropped away. “What do you mean?”
Before I could get started, we heard the door open, then close with a slam. I turned.
Tim Schrantz stalked in. His windbreaker was wet—it had started raining as we drove over—and so was the brown carboard package he held under one arm. His eyes were red, and he looked either drunk or strung out on something.
“How did you get in the building?” Priscilla stood up. “The doorman’s supposed to—”
Schrantz threw his package on the table, knocking over our glasses and the wine bottle. “There it is, bitch. You can put Howard back in the ground, or wherever you found him. I don’t know how you did it, but I’m done. This could have been easy, but you had to go all Queen Witch on us.”
“Tim, shut up!” She grabbed for the wine bottle before it completely drained onto the carpet. Fortunately it was white. “There are people here, obviously—”
Schrantz looked at me. “The P.I.” Then at Rachel. “And who’s this?” He ran his eyes up and down, then came back to me. “You can go. This is between Prissy and me.”
I wanted to leave, but I also wanted to get answers. And I also didn’t want to look like a coward in front of Rachel. I stood up. “Don’t worry,” I told Priscilla. “I know what’s going on.”
Rachel stood up and went to the bookcase. Priscilla ignored her for the moment. “What are you talking about? Get out of here! All of you!”
Rachel pulled a book out, opened it to the first page, and nodded to me. “This is it.”
Priscilla’s eyes blazed with anger. “Take your hands off my things!”
“That’s the book you used to raise Howard from the dead,” I said, trying to keep my eyes on her and Schrantz at the same time. “Howard stole it from the professor’s house in Gary. Were you there?” I asked Schrantz.
He blinked. “I remember a place in Gary. I don’t know everything we took.”
“It’s a book of dark magic,” Rachel said. She started flipping through the old, delicate pages. “Give me a minute to find it. This thing doesn’t have an index.”
Priscilla opened her mouth to tell her to put it down again, then sighed. She glared at Schrantz. “This is all your fault, Tim. All your fault.”
“Me? Everyone’s dead! Except for Finn and Brian, and I don’t know where they are. They might be dead too for all I know! You didn’t have to kill everyone, Priss. You could have just paid me what I wanted!”
“How was I supposed to do that? You just sent me a picture and asked for money! What was I supposed to do, wait until I got a note telling me to drop the cash in the park or something?” She planted her hands on her hips. “That’s not how I do stuff, Tim. I don’t wait around. I act. I—I take action!” She leaned down, poured herself a shot of tequila, and drank it. “Action!”
I nodded, putting it together in my head. “So you were blackmailing Priscilla,” I said to Schrantz. “You had something that would prove she had Brennan murdered, that she got Howard Oakes to kill him.” Then I turned to Priscilla. “Only you didn’t know who it was, so you brought Howard back from the dead to get rid of all of them.”
“Seems a little extreme,” Rachel said, her eyes still on the book. “Couldn’t you—wait, here it is. Wow, that’s complicated. And you need the dead guy’s head? Gross.”
Schrantz was staring at us. “Who the hell are you? How do you know—”
“Shut up!” Priscilla screamed. She quickly downed another shot of tequila, then stepped back and raised a hand, fist clenched. “This is over now! Now! I don’t have to—”
Then she threw her head back and shouted a word I didn’t recognize. I looked at Rachel. Her eyes went wide, and she dropped the book.
The room got cold suddenly, as if someone had opened a window in the middle of a blizzard. The lamp hanging from the ceiling flickered. It went dark for just a second, and I started making my way toward Rachel, hands out.
Then the light came back, and Howard Oakes was standing in the middle of Priscilla’s living room, a long knife in his hand.
She jabbed her finger at us, one by one, “Tim! Jurgen! And—what—whatever her name is!”
Oakes was shorter than I expected, but he looked muscular and strong, with thick arms and a balding head. He looked solid—solid enough to be threatening as he stepped forward, toward Schrantz, the knife firm in his big hand.
Schrantz stared at him. “Howard? How are you—what is this?”
Oakes took another step, raising his arm.
I moved between him and Rachel, reaching under my jacket. Would a bullet stop a ghost—or whatever Oakes was? I wasn’t sure I wanted to try to find out.
But Schrantz had the same idea. His hand plunged under his windbreaker, and in a second he had a big handgun out. He pointed it at Oakes and yanked the trigger.
The handgun roared. Plaster burst from the wall behind Oakes, as if Schrantz’s bullet had passed right through him. Oakes took another step toward him.
Schrantz stared at him. His hand shook. Oakes was right in front of him, his face blank, his knife high.
Then Schrantz turned and shot Priscilla in the chest.
Priscilla screamed. Oakes’s body jerked, like a puppet out of control. The knife slid from his fingers and disappeared. Priscilla dropped onto the sofa, blood staining her cashmere sweater and suddenly Oakes was gone—vanished.
Rachel nudged me from behind. I fumbled for my Glock and managed to get it out while Schrantz was still staring at the empty space where Oakes had stood. “Put it down,” I ordered, managing to keep my voice steady as I aimed Donald at his chest. “Put the gun down, Tim.” I wanted to add please? but I didn’t think that would suit the tough guy act I was trying to pull off.
Schrantz looked at me, still stunned. “What the—what the actual fuck just happened?”
Rachel was already on her phone, calling 911. I said, “Looks like your pal is really dead this time.”
He looked down at Priscilla. “Oh hell.” He dropped his gun.
“Yeah.” I kept my gun steady. “Let’s wait for the paramedics to see if she’s really going there today.”
The paramedics were too late. Priscilla Gallagher died on her sofa, and the cops took Schrantz away. He didn’t deny anything, but he had trouble explaining exactly why he’d shot her.
I told the cops everything, of course. I do that even though they usually don’t believe me, but several members of the Chicago Police Force know me and my unbelievable stories. The detective who showed up after the patrol officers took my statement made some phone calls, then glared at me and Rachel and told us we could go.
The package Schrantz had brought in, I heard later, turned out to contain a diamond necklace worth $70,000 that was positively identified as having been stolen by Herman Brennan’s killer. It seemed that Oakes had passed it off to Schrantz as insurance in case something ever happened to him. Schrantz had held onto it until a string of bad luck at poker left him dreading a visit from some loan sharks, and he decided to blackmail Priscilla.
I also heard that the cops searching the apartment had found Howard Oakes’s head in a closet, stuffed into a plastic bag in a cardboard box. It had been embalmed, but still wasn’t in any shape for photos to be released to the public.
I told all this to Mike Chapman the next day. “Wow,” he said. “I’m not sure I can believe any of that—I’m sorry, I’m not calling you a liar or anything, it’s just—incredible.”
“Yeah.” I agreed.
“But I did hear Dan say ‘Oakes’ before he died. So I guess you must be right.”
“At least it looks like Oakes won’t bother anyone again,” I said. “So that’s something.”
“I guess. Well, thanks. Do I owe you anything?”
“No.” I couldn’t very well charge him for work I’d done after the original case was closed. That was all mine. “Again, sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks. So long.” He hung up.
Rachel was at work. I sent her a text, then got myself another cup of coffee. I tried calling Jake Reilly to let him know it looked safe to come back to Chicago, but he didn’t answer. He’d probably thrown his phone out the window. I left him a message anyway, then settled down to see what my other clients wanted.
Rachel called me a few minutes later. “You okay?”
“Yeah. As okay as I can be after seeing a woman murdered. You?”
“I guess. I talked to Dr. Brody about it for a few minutes, and that helped. You going to talk to anyone?”
I’ve seen a psychiatrist in the past to help me with PTSD and anxiety. “Good idea. I think Dr. Neral retired, but maybe they can refer me somewhere.”
“Do that. I don’t want to have to deal with your night terrors again. Hey, it’s my night for dinner again. And we finished the last of the lasagna last night. Want to make the same deal again?”
I smiled. “I’ll see what I can excavate from the freezer.”
“It’s a date.”
#####
No comments:
Post a Comment