Three Wishes

Where did the money come from? That's the question in Tom Jurgen's latest case.

Three Wishes, Part One

You ain't never had a friend like me!

—Genie, Aladdin

Marlene Paulette's dark hair was streaked with gray. In her fifties, she was stylish in a blue brocade blazer and an eggshell-white blouse.

            "I'm divorcing my husband," she told me.

            We sat in a coffee shop near her house in Naperville. I don't have an office to meet with clients. "Okay. How can I help you?"

            "I know he's cheating on me. I don't care. I just want to know where his money is coming from. He got—rich, all of a sudden, six months ago. Millions of dollars. He started buying cars, another house in Florida that I've only been to once, expensive art that he doesn't even care about . . ." She sipped her coffee. "I'm just worried it's mob money. I don't want to get mixed up in that."

            She dropped a flash drive on the table between us. "This is what I've got. I don't understand it. I'm not stupid! I just can't figure out what it means."

            I picked up the drive, then set it back down. "I'm just a private investigator, Ms. Paulette. But I can connect you with a very good forensic accountant." I pulled out my phone. "Sheila Storrow. Here's her number."

            She copied it into her phone. "Thank you, Mr. Jurgen. What do I owe you?"

            "Nothing." I finished my coffee. "Nice meeting you."

I didn't expect anything more to come of it. Like I'd said, I'm not an accountant, like my dad. I'm a private detective—Tom Jurgen—and most of my work is about cheating spouses and employee background checks. Along with the occasional vampire or demon from another dimension. This looked like a regular divorce case.

            So I didn't think much about it until two days later. In the office I share with Rachel, my girlfriend, in our apartment, I was researching candidates for a CEO position at a local Chicago corporation—a high-level background check, more interesting than the ones I do most of the time. My phone buzzed. Sheila Storrow. "Hey, Sheila, what's up?"

            "Marlene Paulette asked me to call you. I think she wants to hire you to check out her soon-to-be ex-husband." Sheila had a crisp laugh. "Here's the thing—looking at the documents she gave me, I can't determine where Marvin's money came from. At all. It's like it just appeared into his different accounts through . . . magic."

            Uh-oh. "No shadowy offshore accounts?"

            "None that I can find. I'd have to talk to his banks and his brokers, but he obviously won't let me do that. I think Ms. Paulette wants you to figure out what's going on."

            I groaned. "I'm not sure what I can do. Send me the data? I guess—"

            My phone buzzed with another call. "Gotta go. Thanks. —Hello, Tom Jurgen speaking."

            Marlene Paulette. "Mr. Jurgen? I asked Ms. Storrow to call you."

            "Right. I just finished speaking with her. It all sounds, uh, mysterious."

            "Yes. I was just wondering if you could look into it for me? Now I'm more nervous than before."

            At least it didn't sound like the Outfit. The mob would do a better job of laundering the money. "To be honest, I'm not sure how much I can do. But I can try, if you want." I never wanted to turn down a paying client, but sometimes I have to keep expectations low.

            We discussed fees, and she promised to send me a check. Then we talked about Marvin for a bit.

            He was in real estate, owning a bunch of office and apartment buildings around the city. He'd always been successful, but like she'd told me, everything had exploded in the last six months. They'd been married 22 years. 

            "Did anything in particular happen six months ago?" That's when the money had suddenly started rolling in.

            She paused, then sighed. "He went on a business trip in September, a month or two before, I think. To Mexico City. Trying to make a deal there. He wanted to be the next Donald Trump. It fell through, but he didn't seem that upset. At least that's what he told me. But then—that's when he relaxed and stopped worrying about money."

            After a few more questions, we hung up. Rachel swiveled in her chair. She has short red hair and hazelnut eyes. She was in sweatpants and a T-shirt, and she looked good. As usual. "What's up?" She's also kind of psychic.

            "New client. Rich husband she wants to divorce. Money from nowhere. Not sure what I can do, but it sounds suspicious. Plus, she can pay."

            "Always positive." She started to swing back, then hesitated. "Unless it's the mob."

            I nodded. "I thought of that. But it looks . . . different."

            "Is that good or bad?"

            I shrugged. "I don't know yet."

            

The next morning I started a deep dive on Marvin Paulette while Rachel worked on the other side of our shared office. She's a graphic designer, and she had a few big projects coming up.

            Born in New Jersey. M.A. from the University of Pennsylvania. Several years at some of the major real estate management firms in Chicago. Then he'd founded his own company, MP Management, and started buying up properties around Chicago, using leveraged money. From what I could tell, not being a real estate magnate myself, he—along with his partner, Charles Pope—had done reasonably well, but he was usually teetering on the brink, balancing revenues and expenses and probably hoping to do better on the next big deal.

            From what I could see—after years of this sort of work, I've gotten reasonably good at deciphering financial data—he'd stopped trying to make deals last October. Right after his trip to Mexico City. Which was around the time the money—$20.3 million and change—had abruptly popped up in his accounts. 

            It didn't make sense. Or did it? What happened in Mexico City?

            Maybe Marlene Paulette would spring for a trip to Mexico City for Rachel and me to retrace his steps. Probably not.

            I took a sip of coffee and called my client. "Did you ever ask your husband where the money came from?"

            "I couldn't let him know I was snooping. Otherwise he'd change all his passwords—Not that he hid them very well. I mean . . ." She took a breath. "I did ask him about the cars, because he built a big garage next to the house for them. And the art. A Jackson Pollack? He just said he'd gotten lucky on some investments. That's when I got suspicious."

            "Did anything happen in Mexico City that you know about?" I hoped he hadn't met with a drug cartel. 

            "He doesn't talk about business much, unless he's making money. That's one of the reasons . . . look, he's flashy and glamorous. And rich, even before all this. It's one of the reasons I fell for him. I was stupid, and plus, the money made me a little stupid."

            "It's all right, Ms. Paulette." In addition to not being an accountant, I'm also not a therapist. But it's an occupational hazard when dealing with divorces and other emotional issues. "What happened after Mexico City? That's when the money came from nowhere."

            "I didn't notice right away. I do remember Marvin's partner had a stroke. He went into a coma. As far as I know he's still in it."

            "Right." I'd found pictures of Charles Pope—older than me, with a balding head. And his wife. Young, blond hair, and slender. According to what I could find, Emma was his second wife. Clearly a trophy wife.

            I know he's cheating on me, Marlene Paulette had said. It made me wonder . . .  "When you said your husband was cheating on you, do you, uh, have any idea who it is?"

            She groaned. "It's that bitch Emma. Ever since Charles went into the hospital. Wait, do you think . . . what?"

            "I'm not sure. It seems like he had a lot of luck after he come home from Mexico City."

            "What do you think?"

            It didn't sound like simple embezzlement from a partner. Even if they had that much money between them, he shouldn't have been able to shift it into a private account if Pope was in a coma. 

            Hmm . . . "I'll be honest, Ms. Paulette, I'm not sure where to go with this. I'm open to suggestions, but otherwise I'd advise you to save your money for a good lawyer."

            She sighed. "I suppose you're right. Send me your bill."

            We hung up. "Can't solve them all." I went back to the CEO work.

            But I was wrong.

Three Wishes, Part Two

Marlene Paulette called me at 10:14 the next morning. "He's gone. He cleaned out his office and left the door of his safe open. Changed the password on his computer. Took the Lexus. He must know I'm quitting."

            I stifled a groan. Divorce cases could be lucrative for me, but also filled with toxic emotions. I knew why cops hated domestic violence calls. "So what can I do for you, Ms. Paulette?"

            "Figure out where he is. I already called my lawyer."

            "Good. That's a start. I'd recommend—if your lawyer hasn't—trying to make sure he doesn't move the money someplace you can't find."

            "She's working on that. It's a corporate account—my name isn't on it—but I'm fine. I'm just making sure he can't clear out our joint account. Damn him!"

            I waited for her to calm down. After a moment s took a deep breath. "Sorry. What do you need? A retainer?"

            Yeah. "That, and also any information you have on friends and associates." The secret to finding someone who's hiding out is finding someone who knows where he'd hiding out. Hardly anyone can resist the impulse to call a friend or two.

            "I'll do that. Thank you. Call me when you find out something."

            "It may be a while. These things take time."

            "As fast as you can. How much is the retainer?"

            I gave her a figure. She didn't argue—a good sign.

            Rachel sauntered into the office, yawning. She'd slept late, with no urgent projects on tap. "What's up?"

            "Ms. Paulette's husband has skedaddled. It's a whole new case."

            "Yay." She sank into her chair. "Shoot. I forgot coffee."

            I grinned. "No problem. I need a refill anyway."

            I had to wait for my client to send her list of Marvin's contacts, but I thought I'd start with a hunch: Emma Pope.

            She had a Facebook page. Little personal information, no work information, a few pictures of her in miniscule bikinis (which I quickly scrolled past before Rachel could see me looking at them) and tight dresses, and some photos with Charles Pope, although he wasn't tagged. 

            Sometimes I can get phone numbers through different channels in the internet. This wasn't one of those times. I called Pope's office, hoping to get someone on the phone even though he was hospitalized. No answer, just a voice mail message—"We are not available right now. Please leave your message—" so I hung up. 

            Okay. I'd finished the CEO checks yesterday. I had a few easy background cases, and nothing that required me to go out and tail anyone. So once Marlene Paulette sent me her list, I spent the rest of the morning, and after lunch, calling friends, acquaintances, and business partners, or sending emails. Nothing.  

            I had one idea, following up on my hunch about Emma Pope. Ms. Paulette had sent me Charles Pope's address in Orland Park. It was an idea. Maybe not great, but until I got some emails and messages answered, it was the best I could think of. 

            Another rule of being a private eye—if you can't do anything else, follow someone. Or at least look for someone to follow. I called my client to get the okay for the hours I'd have to spend. She was fine with it.

            "Hey, I'm going on a stakeout." I had bottles of water and a box of granola bars in a messenger bag. "Want to come?"

            "Ooh, so I can watch you using that wide-necked bottle in the back seat?" Rachel smirked. "Pass."

            I nodded. "Can't say I blame you. I'll call if anything exciting happens."

            "Wait—" Rachel stood up. "This is just your way of getting out of making dinner, isn't it?" 

            I shrugged. "Depends on how long this takes."

            "I'm making lasagna, and I'm going to leave a mess. And you're cleaning up."

            I kissed her. "Looking forward to it."

Three Wishes, Part Three

Stakeouts, of course, are boring as hell.

            I parked down the street from the Pope house in early afternoon, in a position where I could keep an eye on it without (I hoped) being too conspicuously parked on a suburban street with no traffic. I kept the radio on to help me avoid dozing, and refrained from drinking too much water—although I did have the wide-mouthed bottle that Rachel had mentioned.

            Fortunately, no one came up to demand that I explain myself or move. Unfortunately, nothing moved for four hours, aside from a few kids on bicycles and a woman unloading groceries from her car across the street.

            I couldn't give up, though. Part of being a detective is patience. And a strong bladder.

            Rachel called me once to make sure I was still alive. "The lasagna is in the oven. And the kitchen is a mess. Tomato sauce all over. Pots and pans in the sink. I chopped spinach and some veggies, so those cutting boards are all dirty. And I left all the spices out on the counter." She giggled. "But it'll be good."

            "Just save some for me. Wait . . ."

            A big Lexus rolled down the street in front of me. I caught a glimpse of blond hair and slim shoulders in a sleeveless blouse. Sunglasses, but it looked enough like Emma Pope for me to hit the power button on my car.

            The Lexus pulled up a driveway. The garage door opened, then closed.

            Maybe she was in for the night. Alone? I was grasping at straws, but that's what I do too often. I waited.

            An hour later the garage door opened again. This time a man was driving the Lexus. I couldn't get a good look at him in the twilight, but I could see the woman next to him. Blond hair, now in a jacket. 

            I started the car and followed them a few blocks to an Olive Garden. The thought of Italian food made me ravenous for Rachel's lasagna. I managed to get a quick shot of the male driver stepping out of the car. It was definitely Marvin. I got a few shots of him walking with Emma into the restaurant. They stood four feet apart, and they looked like they were arguing.

             I got a zoom-in shot of the license plate. Then I called my client.

            "He's with Emma Pope," I said. "Right now they're at a restaurant in Olive—I mean, Orland Park."

            "That little bitch." She laughed. "Okay, I don't care. It's not like I—anyway, I just think he took something from the safe that I need. Is there any way . . . I mean, how long will they be eating dinner?"

            "I can't break into the house." Sometimes clients expect that, because they watch too much TV.

            "Of course not." She sighed. "Well, it's something. Do you have pictures?"

            "I'll send them to you. Do you want me to keep on this?"

            "No. Go home. Thank you."

            We hung up.

            I was hungry. I wanted to go home. But I was curious. It's dangerous to cats and private eyes, but it's also what made me a good reporter back in the day.

            So I ate another granola bar and waited. 

            Not too long. They came back out less than a half hour later, Emma stalking ahead of Marvin as he shouted. I rolled down my window, but I could only catch a few words: "—not getting better! . . . all this money . . . you can't—"

            "Shut up! That waitress . . ."

            "—my husband! It was . . . at first, but I can't . . ."

            Marvin unlocked the Lexus with his fob. Emma got in and slammed her door.

            Trouble in paradise? I gave them a little room, then started my car to follow. 

            They drove back to the house. The garage door lifted. Then suddenly Emma flung her door open and sprinted into the garage. I saw her dart to the side, and the door began to drop. 

            The car surged forward, but Marvin decided to hit the brake before crashing into the door. Instead he leaped out and ran to the front door, fumbling in his pocket. He unlocked the door and rushed inside.

            Leaving the door open.

            I killed my motor. Hesitated. Tried to tell myself to drive off. Not my problem. Call the police? Call Rachel?

            Screw it. I pushed my door open.

            I was out of breath by the time I reached the door. I pulled on the screen door and leaned in, hoping they weren't right inside. Every couple fights, right? Even me and Rachel. Maybe they were making up right—

            I heard a scream.

            "No! What are you—what? No! Get away from me! No!"

            Then silence.

            Shit. I pulled out my phone, then I plunged through the door, trying to tap my password and then 911 as I staggered inside. A crash from the back of the house. Marvin grunted loud enough for me to hear from the front room.

            I crept forward, then ducked back as Marvin stomped through the hall and up the stairs. I tried to catch my breath, and my courage, but before either could happen Marvin marched down the stairs again. I waited, my thumb over the call button, then managed to take a few steps forward down the hall.

            In the kitchen I could see a thick metal pot on the floor, and blood leaking across the tile. I leaned forward, hoping my lungs weren't heaving loud enough for Marvin to hear. 

            Emma was lying on the floor next to a granite-topped kitchen island, a steak knife in her chest. Blood leaking all around her. Her stomach lurched up and down. She was still breathing.

            Marvin leaned over the granite top, his hands in furious motion. I couldn't see what he was doing. 

            I swallowed, then stood up and stepped into the kitchen. "Hey, Marvin." I held up my phone.

            He swung around. "What—who the hell—"

            A sudden cloud of green smoke billowed from something that looked like a bronze teakettle. I coughed, dropping my phone—damn it!

            The smoke dissipated. I snatched up my phone, then froze.

            The sudden figure in the middle of the kitchen was tall enough that his head hit the ceiling fan overhead. He stepped back with a scowl. He had a thin beard, black hair tied behind his scalp, and green skin. He wore jeans and a leather vest that left his muscular chest bare. 

            He crossed his arms. "What now, oh master?" His voice was sarcastic.

            Marvin glanced at me, then pointed a finger at Emma. "Make it go away!"

            The green guy shook his head, "I can't kill anyone. That's one of the rules I told you about. And this is your last wish."

            Wish? What the hell? I hit 911. "Yes, hi, there's a woman here who's been stabbed, she's still breathing, but you have to get someone here right away." I gave the address. 

            Then I looked up. "Who are you?"

            He shrugged. "Call me Ginn." He pointed to the teakettle. "I live in the lamp. It's bigger on the inside."

            What the—"You're a genie? A djinn?" I'd guessed right? That was a first.

            Ginn nodded. "This asshole found me in Mexico. How I got there, I don't know." 

            "Shut up!" Marvin was sweating. "Just stop talking!"

            Ginn smiled. "Is that your last wish?"

            He sank back against the refrigerator. "Wait. No. Not that. Give me—"

            "Save her!" I marched up to him. In his face. "Ask him to save her, and you won't have to go to jail for murder. You can do that, right?" I looked over my shoulder at the djinn.

            He smiled. "That I can do."

            "But it's my last wish! I can't—"

            Emma gasped on the ground. Still struggling to breathe.

            I grabbed his shoulder. "You're looking at murder. You'll still have money to pay your lawyers. Make the right choice. Now."

            "All right, all right!" He shook his head. "Save her."

            Ginn grinned. "Yes, master."

            I expected lightning and thunder. Instead the lights flickered overhead. 

            Emma sat up, the steak knife now on the floor next to her. She clutched her chest. "Marvin? You asshole!"

            Ginn smirked. "My work here is done."

            In a puff of smoke, he vanished.

            I lunged for the teakettle—or the magic lamp, I guess. "This is mine now. If you're smart—which I kind of doubt—you won't tell the cops and paramedics about this. Get your stories straight right now. Then, you know, get out and leave your girlfriend alone. And by the way? Don't fight about the divorce."

            Marvin sank to the floor. "Goddamn it. Goddamn it."

            Emma rubbed her bloody blouse. "What the hell happened?"

            Footsteps thundered down the hall. "Hello? Somebody called for help?"

Three Wishes, Part Four

"You idiot." Rachel shoveled out a large slice of lasagna and opened a beer for me. "What the hell were you thinking?"

            I swigged half the beer down. "I didn't have time to think." 

            The paramedics had taken Emma out on a stretcher. The cops had cuffed Marvin, slid the steak knife into an evidence bag, and interrogated me for half an hour before letting me go, with a promise that I'd have to come out to make a full statement in the morning.

            "I did manage to snag this." Somehow the cops hadn't seen—or didn't care about—the lamp under my arm. Marvin didn't mention it when he was shouting about calling his lawyers. I managed to get it into my car, and watched it closely while driving back to the city.

            Rachel leaned forward. "Is that what I think?"

            "Yeah." I gobbled some lasagna. "Get a napkin or something."

            She laughed, then grabbed a kitchen towel. "Okay, how do I do this? Back and forth, or up and down, or what?" She started rubbing.

            The green smoke popped up. Rachel rubbed her eyes, then slugged my arm. "This is pretty cool."

            Ginn stood before us, arms crossed. "How may I serve you, oh, master? Wait, is that lasagna?"

            "Yes, and it's good." I sat back, starting to relax. "Sit down and knock your socks off. Wait, you're not wearing socks, are you?" His green feet were bare. "You want a beer? Rachel?"

            "What am I, a waitress now?" But Rachel got another plate and a beer. The Djinn sat and ate as if it was his first meal in centuries. Maybe it was.

            "Okay." I put my arms on the table. "If I ask you a question, does that count as a wish?"

            "Nah. Ask away. Hey, this is good!" 

            Rachel beamed. "Of course."

            "Okay." I sat up. "Where are you from?"

            He cocked his head. "Persia. I guess it's Iran now, or at least part of it is. How I ended up in Mexico I have no idea."

            "You can't kill people, right? That's why Charles Pope is in a coma and not dead?"

            "Yeah, that movie got it right somehow. I don't know."

            "You've seen Aladdin?" Rachel giggled. 

            "Hey, I've got magic, don't I? Also Wi-fi." He swallowed some beer. "Ooh, I haven't had any of this in a while. Nice.

            "So Marvin Paulette wished for money?" I was trying to steer this back to the case.

            A nod. "First thing people always ask for. It's kind of boring."

            "And then for something to happen to Charles Pope? So he could hook up with his wife?"

            "Uh-huh." Ginn rolled his eyes. "Like the other rule, I can't make anyone fall in love, but I guess he figured he could do that himself."

            "All right." I backed my chair up. "I wish for you to take Pope out of his coma and make him well."

            Ginn closed his eyes for a moment. "Done."

            I breathed a sigh of relief. Rachel smiled at me. 

            "Okay." I finished my lasagna. "For my next wish, I want you to clean up the kitchen."

            "What?" Rachel stood up. "That's cheating! You can't—"     

            But she was too late. In a flash of light, the pots and pans and plates in the sink were spotless and put away. The counter was immaculate. The spices were all in the right spot on the shelf.

            She jabbed a finger at me. "You're sleeping on the couch tonight. Or maybe tomorrow. Depends on how horny I get."

            The djinn finished his lasagna and his beer. "Third wish, oh master? Or are you going to save it?"

            It was tempting, but—"Can I wish you to be free?"

            He chuckled. "Like in the movie again? People say they'll do that, but no one ever does. I'm kind of used to it." 

            "What would you do?" Rachel asked.

            Ginn blinked. "I don't know. Maybe make a few wishes of my own?"

            "As long as you don't wreak havoc on humanity in revenge for centuries of isolation and slavery." I looked into his eyes. "I'm opposed to slavery."

            The djinn shook his head. "Like I said, can't kill anyone. And I don't want to. I'd like to—get off this world, you know? See the galaxy. Maybe come back in a hundred thousand years? I don't know. But honestly, I'm done with this world. I'd be happy to go somewhere else."

            "All right." I grabbed Rachel's hand and took a deep breath. I wanted to do this before I changed my mind. "My third wish is for you to be free."

            "Uh . . ." Ginn closed his eyes.

            The lamp vanished in a blaze of light. The Djinn stood up, raising his arms, the top of his head close to the ceiling light. "Wow. This is nice. Okay, uh . . ."

            He looked down at us. "Thank you."

            I smiled. "Have a good trip."

            Rachel waved a hand. "Goodbye."

            In one last puff of green smoke, the djinn vanished. 

            "Wow." Rachel finished her beer. "That was maybe the weirdest encounter with a supernatural being in all the years we've been together."

            "You're welcome." I stood up unsteadily. "Another beer?"

            "Please. But the next time I make dinner, there's going to be an even bigger mess, and there won't be any genie to clean up for you."

            "Right." I opened more beers. "Now I just have to figure out what to tell me client about all this." 

            "Tomorrow." She clinked my bottle. "Let's go watch Aladdin again."

###