Split, Part One

The house was small, one story, with stucco walls and a narrow lawn. Not close to any neighbors. Lights glowed behind drawn curtains. A half moon hung over its roof. 

            I was watching the house because my client, Leonard Rupp, a real estate developer, had called me at 3:30 today. His brother had disappeared.

            “Zack isn’t—well, stable,” Rupp told me, sounding panicky. “He just disappeared last night. He’s been living here—I’ve been taking care of him—and we had a fight, and—he’s gone. I’ve called all our friends and nobody’s seen him. The only place I can think he’d be would be our uncle’s house, out in Naperville.”

            Naperville, southwest from Chicago. “Have you called him?” I asked.

            “We’ve—we had a falling out a few years ago. I don’t think he’d take my calls. Look, I just need you to go and watch his house. See if my brother’s there. Just don’t knock on the door or talk to Oscar, anything like that, okay? Just watch. Can you do that?”

            I had other cases going. And Rachel and I had, uh, plans. But he offered a substantial bump in my usual fee, and he did sound worried. I agreed, and he gave me the information I needed. 

I told Rachel I had to go to Naperville. She rolled her eyes. “Nice way of getting out of dinner.” 

            “Hey, it’s a job. We’ve still got some of that frozen lasagna.”

            “Because you make it so we’ll always have leftovers.” She smirked. “Fine. Don’t come home too late, or we won’t be able to play Naughty Job Interview. Tonight I’m playing the hiring manager.”

            Rachel’s my girlfriend. She’s got red hair, hazelnut eyes, psychic powers, and nice legs. We live together, sharing an office for my P.I. work and her graphic design jobs. “I’ll work on something inappropriate to explain the gap in my résumé,” I promised.

            So now I was sitting outside the home of Oscar Parks. I’d double-checked Rupp’s information briefly before leaving, to confirm what he’d told me about his brother and his uncle. I don’t usually do background checks on clients, but Rupp’s insistence that I get on the job right away raised a bit of a red flag. 

According to social media, Leonard Rupp did have a brother named Zack, and I found a thriving account for himl—not something that looked like an afternoon’s catfishing work. And Oscar Parks did own a house in Naperville at the address Rupp had given me, though I couldn’t quickly determine the family connection. I’d take that as given for the moment.

            So I sat in my car, down the street from the house, waiting for Zack to show his face. Rupp had sent me some photos. I had the radio on to help me stay awake, as well as a large coffee (and a wide-mouthed bottle in case I needed it). 

I called Rachel once. “I’m studying,” she snapped. She’s working on a psychology degree. “Unless you’re calling to play Inappropriate Job Interview by phone?”

            “Not on a stakeout.” I had my eyes on the house. “I need all my keen powers of observation for this.’

She snorted. “Just don’t start singing along to the classic rock you’re listening to. You’ll scare any dogs in the neighborhood.”

“I’ll have you know most dogs—wait.” Movement at the front door. “I’ll call you back.”

For a moment I thought it was just a shadow—a bird or a bat flying across the doorway. Then the door burst open, and a man dashed out onto the front lawn.

He was blond, stocky, and barefoot, in jeans and a T-shirt. Halfway across the lawn he stopped, catching his breath. Then another man emerged from the house.

This guy was older, in his 70s or so, with a gray beard and thick glasses, a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and slippers on his feet. He ran forward and grabbed the man, trying to pull him around.

The man—Zack Rupp, my client’s brother—spun and shoved the old man in the chest, sending him sprawling to the grass. The man rolled and lunged for Zack, wrapping his arms around one leg, trying to drag him down, but Zack twisted free and kicked his shoulder.

The old man sank down on the ground. Zack looked around, gasping, then ran down the street. 

I started the car, but the night was dark, streetlights were distant, and the other houses weren’t nearby. Zack vanished into the darkness before I could shift gears.

Damn it. But the old man—Uncle Oscar, presumably—was still on the grass. I got out.

“Hey, you okay?” I walked up to him slowly, hands out, not a threat. “Need a hand?”

He coughed, looked up at me, then held a hand out. “Just—a little help.”

I pulled him to his feet. His legs were unsteady, and he kept coughing. “Let me help you back inside,” I said, and he allowed me to turn him around and lead him back to his door and then inside.

The living room was large and clean, with magazines neatly stacked on a coffee table next to a Bible, and plants dangling from ceiling hooks. A large cross hung on one wall. I got Parks to a sofa where he sat down, still coughing. “Let me get you a glass of water.”

He didn’t argue. I found the kitchen, opened a cupboard, and filled a glass from the sink. Back in the living room he drank it down, set it next to a Bible on the coffee table, and said, “Thank you.”

“Who was that guy?” As long as I’d lost Zack, I figured I could try to use the situation to find out more about him.

“My nephew, Zachary.” He looked at me. “I’m Oscar Parks.”

“Tom Jurgen. I’m from Chicago.”

His eyes flickered. “What were you doing out here?”

“I just saw that guy push you down. I wanted to see if you needed any help.” It was an evasive answer, so I followed up quickly before he could cut in. “He sure runs fast. What was the matter?”

“He has—some problems.” 

“Drugs? Booze?”

Parks looked at me, suspicious. “Nothing like that. Why are you here again?”

“I was just driving by. Where do you think Zack would have gone? Does he have any other family here? Friends? Does he live nearby?”

He blinked. “Zack? The only people who call him that—” Parks shifted away from me on the sofa, his eyes suddenly narrow and searching. 

Oops. “Yeah, well, that’s a common nickname, right—”

“No.” He stared at me. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

I suck at undercover work. “Okay, my name’s Tom Jurgen.” I took out a business card. “Zack’s brother Leonard hired me. Zack disappeared on him, and he was—”

“Leonard?” Parks blinked. Then he lurched to his feet and pointed at the front door. “Get out. Before I call the police.”

I hesitated. “Is there anything I can tell Leonard? Is Zack all right?”

He jabbed his finger. “Out. Now.”

“Okay, okay.” I headed to the door. “If Zack comes back, maybe you could—all right, I’ll go.” For an old guy, Parks had a menacing glare.

Out in my car, I pounded the wheel once, angry with myself, but all that did was make me wince and rub my hand. It’s not like I never screw up—just ask Rachel—but nobody likes admitting it. Especially to a paying client.

I put off calling Rupp for a few minutes by driving around the neighborhood looking for Zack. Without a jacket or shoes, he couldn’t get far, could he? But I didn’t catch sight of him anywhere. I stopped at a gas station a few blocks away to ask the attendant inside, but she hadn’t seen a barefoot man on the road tonight. 

I had to concede defeat—and make the call. He listened calmly. “Well, I told you not to talk to Oscar, but—I can see what happened.”

“I thought it might be a chance to find out where Zack went. He was gone too fast for me to follow.” I was trying not to sound defensive. Clients hate that.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay, I guess that’s it. You can go home. Send me your bill.” He hung up.

He’d offered double my hourly rate. Should I hold him to it? I’d think about that later.

Can’t win them all, I told myself as I started the car. I called Rachel. “On my way.”

“Good. I’ll get my interviewer clothes on.”      

I wasn’t in the mood. “I don’t know. I sort of blew it.”

“Oh.” She was annoyed. “Well, okay. I’ve got lots of studying. Hey, how about if we play Naughty Psychiatrist? That way I can use the textbook.”

I laughed. “I’ll try.”

 

The next morning I wrote up a report for Leonard Rupp and emailed it along with an invoice at the rate he’d agreed to. If he complained, I’d change it. Maybe.

            After that I checked my email and the news. I used to be a reporter, so keeping up with what’s in the Tribune and the Times and the Post and the other newspapers online is a compulsion. Democrats and Republicans were arguing in Washington and Springfield, as usual; a man had been shot on the south side in a drive-by, as usual, a woman had been stabbed on the north side, which was slightly less usual; and the Cubs lost and the White Sox won, more or less as usual.

            Rachel came into the office at 9:30. “You are a sick, sick puppy.” She kissed me. 

            “I just got lost in the role play. Sleep okay?”

            “Fine.” She carried her Superwoman coffee mug to her computer on her side of the office. “I’ve got class at 11. I’m pretty sure I can finish this landing page in 20 minutes. If not . . .” She shrugged. “Something will have to bend.”

            We both went to work. She left at 10:15 for class. I kept making phone calls and internet searches for an embezzlement case I’d been working on when Rupp called me yesterday. I checked my email a few times to see if he’d responded, but nothing. I hoped I wouldn’t have to bug him about the invoice.

            At 1:30 I was just thinking about lunch when my phone buzzed. Unknown number. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Mr. Jurgen?” The voice was raspy. And familiar. “This is Oscar Parks. From last night. You were at my house.”

            “Yes, Mr. Parks.” Was he calling to yell at me some more? “What can I do for you?”

            “It’s Zachary. He needs someone to get him. I can’t drive anywhere. My eyes.”

            I remembered his thick glasses. “What about his brother?”

            “No.” The word was quick and sharp. “He doesn’t—not right now. But since you’re already involved—”

            I wasn’t, now that I’d sent off the invoice. But I still felt bad about messing up. “Where is he?”

            “He’s in Woodridge. At a church.”

            “And does he want to go home?”

            “You need to bring him here. As fast as possible.”

            I stifled a groan. “Look, Mr. Parks, I’m not working for Leonard Rupp anymore, which is actually good in one way, because if I was, my primary responsibility would be to him. So I could do this for you—for Zack—but I’d need to know what’s going on. Woodridge is a bit of a drive—”

            “I can pay you, if that’s what you want,” he snapped.

            “That’s not the issue. Not the main one, anyway.” I do have bills to pay. “This is just sounding a little sketchy to me. I don’t want to get involved in anything illegal, or—”

            “I’ll explain everything when you get him here.” Parks coughed. “After that, if you want to call Leonard, or the police, go ahead.”

            I was still uncomfortable, but now I was curious. And Rachel knows how I get when I’m curious. “All right. Give me the address.”