He spots a drunk guy dozing at a bus stop long after midnight. Chubby, in a half-open raincoat and a white T-shirt, maybe 60. Balding, Snoring softly. A soiled mask hangs from one ear.
A glance up and down the street. No bus coming. One car driving in the opposite direction. No one walking toward them.
He steps under the bus shelter’s narrow roof and kicks the drunk’s foot. Twice Slowly the drunk’s eyes open, fluttering in confusion. “Wha-what?”
He takes off a leather glove and stretches his hand forward. A bright red stone glows on a silver ring around his middle finger. “Get up.”
The drunk blinks as light from the ring’s stone dances in his eyes. He lurches up, unsteady, staring at the ring. His lips tremble as if he’s trying to speak, but his throat is silent.
He points to an alley. A liquor store on one side and a Thai restaurant on the other. Both closed up and dark. “Over there.”
The drunk staggers, his face sagging, jaw loose. In a few steps the shadows surround him. The only light in the darkness comes from the ring.
Again he struggles to speak. Again the words refuse to come. He sags against a stuffed garbage dumpster.
The man reaches into his rear pocket and pulls out a switchblade knife.
The drunk’s eyes burst wide as the blade snicks. His face quivers. His mouth droops.
“Take it.” He holds the knife forward, handle first.
The drunk tries to shake his head. But after a second order, he takes the knife.
A smile. “Now push it. Into your chest.”
Spit dribbles down his lower lip. He turns the knife in his hand, his fingers trembling. Slowly he brings his hand back until the tip of the knife is pressed against his white T-shirt—now damp with sweat in the cold air.
“Push. Push it deep.” He thrusts the ring forward.
The man groans.
“Both hands. Push. Push!”
He wraps his other hand around the knife. Bites his lip. Tears drip from pleading eyes.
“Do it! Push it in! Do it!”
The blade punctures the T-shirt, pierces his skin. Blood spreads across the white fabric. Gasping, he gazes at the man in front of him, and then his eyes plant themselves on the ring. The orange fire consumed his eyes.
One last shove, and the blade slices into his heart.
He watches the drunk fall to the pavement. He breathes deep as the man rolls over and stops breathing.
One deep breath, two, his pulse warm inside his own chest. After a moment, he slips his gloves back on, hiding the glowing ring, and heads out of the alley.
Out on the street, a bus slows. A man and a woman step off. The driver glances at him, but he shakes his head and walks in the opposite direction.
A deep breath. The ring warms his finger.
“That’s an unusual ring,” I said to the bartender. “What kind of stone is it?”
The bartender, a young blond-haired man named Dustin, held out his hand. The ring on his middle finger looked like silver snakes clutching a red stone. It glowed, reflecting light from the gas fireplace at the end of the room. “It’s a fire opal. They call it a girasol. My uncle gave it to me.”
I cocked my head as the firelight danced in my eyes. “Nice.”
“Another beer?”
I hadn’t really planned on more than one. But I nodded and pulled my mask down to finish my current Heineken. “Sure.”
Dustin was masked too, but his tended to slip down from his nose. About half the handful of people around me wore some kind of face covering, but two young guys across the bar from me had theirs down around their necks as they watched a basketball game on TV, and hardly anyone was social distancing. I hid a sigh.
Dustin brought me my beer and then went to check on two young women sipping wine through straws—a cute blonde named Cheryl with a red bandanna, and a short redhead with a standard medical-type mask. I didn’t catch her name. He was flirting, and the blonde, Cheryl, was flirting back. They’d already checked out his ring.
His uncle hadn’t given it to him. He’d stolen it, and his uncle had hired me to get it back.
His name was Dustin Sailer. His uncle was Zach Staley, a retired lawyer in his 80s. Me? I’m Tom Jurgen, ex-reporter and private detective.
My client had hired me via Zoom, the way I did most of my business in the days of the COVID-19 pandemic. Staley was sure his nephew had stolen his ring weeks ago—“It was right there in the case, and he came to visit one day for no reason, and when I came back from getting some tea it was gone. Dustin too.”
Dustin had denied stealing the ring, of course, but Staley was convinced. So he dropped a retainer in my Pay{Pal account and I took the case, after reminding him that I might be able to prove that his nephew had the ring but that I couldn’t really steal it back.
The first part was easy. Dustin tended bar a few nights a week. So that night I kissed my girlfriend Rachel good-bye before heading out to the Twisted Tavern in Wicker Park for s visit. Her only comment was, “Don’t get drunk. Or COVID.” Then she went back to watching The Queen’s Gambit.
I nursed my beer for half an hour. A lonely drunk two stools down from me went through three scotches in the same period. The two guys left, pulling their masks up as they headed out the door, and three loud youngsters crowded into a corner for a pitcher of beer. Dustin managed to take care of everyone promptly without letting up on his flirting.
Around 9:10 or so a guy in a black knit cap and a leather jacket came in for a quick brandy. Dustin served him, but he didn’t pay. I thought that was unusual, but maybe he ran a tab or something. Then Dustin went back to his flirting.
Finishing my beer—and visiting the restroom—I paid and headed out to my car. I’d found a space for the Accord down the street from Twisted. Inside I took off my mask and waited.
The bar would close at 10 p.m., per the latest curfew on late-night liquor sales. It was 9:45 right now. I called Rachel to assure her I was still sober, then waited with the radio on softly to a classic rock station.
A few minutes later the redhead from the bar came out and climbed into a waiting Uber, staggering only slightly. Her blonde friend was still inside.
At 10 or so the door opened and the three loud young men came out, still loud, a little more drunk. The scotch drinker followed, staggering to the sidewalk. Then the last of the customers. But not the blonde.
She emerged at 10:25, Dustin right behind her in a leather jacket. She still wore her bandanna. Dustin’s face was bare. He locked the front door, waved to someone left inside, and took her hand as they headed down the sidewalk.
I climbed out of my car quickly to follow from half a block behind.
Social distance orders or not, they walked close together, holding hands, sometimes with his arm over her shoulders. She walked on steady feet, not obviously drunk, leaning against him. I could see his mask half-stuffed into a back pocket.
They paused on the sidewalk. Dustin pulled her bandanna down to kiss her. She stuffed it into her pocket, and they stood there for a while.
A few blocks later Dustin opened the door to his apartment building. His uncle had given me the address. Dustin unlocked the door, took the blonde by the hand, and led her inside.
So someone was getting lucky tonight.
The next morning I called my client. No answer, so I left a message telling him that Dustin definitely had the ring. I sent him an email too. Then I went on to other cases.
Rachel carried a mug of coffee into our office. “Morning, jerk. What’s up for today?”
“Backgrounds to check, cheating spouses to catch, hopefully no vampires to slay, and waiting for yesterday’s client to call back—the usual. You?”
“A website redesign that’ll take me all day. Maybe all week.” Rachel’s a designer. She’s got short red hair, hazelnut eyes, and psychic powers that sometimes help my investigations. Plus, nice legs. She was in a black T-shirt and tight yoga pants that I tried not to gaze at too obviously. “So don’t bother me, okay?” She sat down and swung her chair around to face her workstation.
“Gotcha.” I went back to my computer.
My phone buzzed at 11:30. “Mr. Jurgen? I’m, uh, Alex Portland. I’m Zachary Staley’s granddaughter. He—he had a stroke last night.”
“Oh, no.” I saw Rachel glance over her shoulder, and I waved an “it’s okay” hand signal so she wouldn’t worry about an imminent disaster, like a lawsuit or a zombie uprising. “Is he all right?”
“He’s in the hospital.” She sounded calm, though. “They say he’s conscious, but I can’t see him, because of this stupid virus. He—I’m at his place now. To feed his cat and stuff.” Staley had an orange tabby who’d crawled over his lap during our Zoom call. “I listened to your message. Something about the ring Dustin stole?”
Okay. Maybe the case wasn’t over yet just because my client was in the hospital. “Could I ask you a few questions?”
“Uhh . . .” She hesitated. “I guess I don’t think grandpa would mind if I talked to you. I have his power of attorney. Let’s do a Zoom.”
We arranged a time for the afternoon. “Everything okay?” Rachel asked when I hung up.
“My client had a stroke. I’ve got a Zoom date with his granddaughter.”
She whirled around. “A date? Is she cute? Do I have to watch you?” Rachel gets a little territorial with me, even though we’ve been living together for years. I actually get a kick out of it, most of the time.
“Strictly professional. You can watch if you want to. It’s at 2:30.”
“Too much work.” Rachel turned back around and resumed pounding at her keyboard. “It’s your turn to make dinner, remember. Leftovers don’t count.”
I groaned. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Alex Portland was my age—mid 40s—with long black hair and glasses that slipped down her nose when she bent down to sip her latté. “Grandpa’s a collector. Antiques, old jewelry, teacups, china figures, stuff like that. Ever since I can remember. Keeps lists of where he got them. I guess I never really asked why. I asked about a tea set once when I was a little girl, and he said it came from a haunted house? So maybe he was interested in stuff like that.”
Haunted house? I do tend to attract cases that involve the supernatural. “What about Dustin? Do you know him well?”
She sat on a couch with a big Van Gogh print on the wall behind her. I sat at my desk with Rachel behind me, pretending not to eavesdrop. I blew on my hot coffee.
Alex pushed her glasses up. “We hung out a little when we were kids. I haven’t seen him in years. Wait—last year, Thanksgiving. At grandpa’s place. It was right after grandma died. A bunch of us came and cooked and stuff, me, my aunt Pauline—that’s Dustin’s mom, and a few others. My folks are dead.”
I cocked my head sympathetically. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, it was a long time ago. Thanks.” Alex took a quick sup of her latté. “Anyway, he disappeared for a while, a couple years back. California? Someplace like that. He showed up again a few months ago. Thanksgiving was the first time I saw him since I went to college. He’s a bartender now, I guess. Mostly to meet women, from the way he talked about it.” She rolled her eyes.
He’d done well for himself last night. But I didn’t mention that. “Thanks. I think that’s it. I hope your grandfather gets better.”
“I’m going to try visiting him later today. They say I can do it for a short time if I’ve got a face shield plus a mask, and I just bought one. I’ll tell him we talked. Does he owe you any money? I can write checks for him.”
“No, he gave me a retainer. It’s still good. I’ll be in touch if I have anything to report.”
I signed off. Now what? I’d confirmed that Dustin had the ring, but without any guidance from my client, there wasn’t much I could do.
But I was curious.
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