An Eye for Murder (5 page)

“Don’t see why not. Doesn’t look like we’ll be doing much else.”

“Stop playing victim, Mac. It doesn’t suit you.”

“A direct hit!” He laughed, then pointed to the lighter. “You take up smoking again?”

“I got it yesterday. At Mrs. Fleishman’s.” I told him how most of Ben Sinclair’s things were now in my basement. “Lemme see that,” Mac said.

“That’s right.” I handed it over. “You and Sharon do some collecting.”

All you have to do is visit their house. Mac’s wife keeps her Lilliputian doll house collection in a floor to ceiling glass case with ornate wooden moldings. It’s the only piece of furniture in their living room.

Mac carefully inspected both sides. “You may have something here, my friend.”

“What is it?”

“A Zippo. An old one, too.”

“That’s good?” When God gave out genes for antiques, he skipped me, an oversight for which I am grateful. Otherwise, there’d be nothing but collectibles in my house too.

He nodded. “They started making these things in the Thirties, I think. Gave them to GIs during the war. People have huge collections of them.” He snapped it open and twirled the wheel. Sparks flew. “Man. Sixty years, and it sparks on the first try. They made things right back then.”

“You think it’s worth something?”

“I don’t know, but I could find out. Interested?” I shrugged. “How much?”

“A few hundred, maybe.”

“I was thinking of giving it to my father.”

“Nice gift.” He smiled. “Tell you what. Lemme make a copy of the graphic and do a little surfing tonight. At least I can tell you how much we’re talking about.”

A few hundred dollars was more discretionary income than

I was used to these days. “You got it.”

Mac nodded. “By the way, I got a bootleg of the new Scorsese flick. You want to borrow it?”

“Uh, duh.”

While he was making a copy of the man and the lamppost on the Zippo, I wandered into the master editing suite. Hank was hunched over two monitors. Gangly, with straw-like hair, his pasty complexion attested to years spent in the glow of a computer screen rather than sunshine. He moved the cursor back and forth, adjusting a bank of numbers on one monitor and highlighting a series of menus on another. Then he double-clicked the mouse, rolled his chair back, and clasped his hands behind his head.

Video rolled on the monitors, and the image cut from a wide shot of a man walking toward the camera to a medium close-up of the same man stopping in front of the camera.

“Seamless,” I said.

Hank twisted around, saw me, and shook his head. “Watch it again.”

He reran the edit. This time I saw it. In the first image, the man was gesturing, and his left hand was approximately at waist level. In the second image, the hand had jumped to his chest. “You’re right. You need a few extra frames.”

“Except I don’t have them.”

“Can’t you cut into him earlier?”

“Nope. Audio’s too tight.”

I nodded. No matter how carefully you anticipate everything, problems always crop up in post-production. The difference between a good show and a great show is your editor’s ability to fix them.

Hank’s eyes lit up. “Got an idea.”

Bending over the keyboard, he worked for almost five minutes, adjusting, clicking, and previewing. Then he reran the scene. This time the man’s hand naturally rose from his waist to his chest.

“Amazing. What did you do?”

“I interpolated. Added a frame here and there.”

“But you didn’t have them.”

“I created them.”

“How?”

“I can’t tell you all my secrets, Ellie. You’d think I was a mere mortal.”

Mac came back in. “Don’t believe him. It’s all in the software. As a matter of fact, I’m thinking of trading Hank in for a programmer and a first round draft choice.”

“Watch yourself, Mac,” Hank said.

Mac tossed me the lighter. “I’ll take my chances.” He handed me a cassette in a white cardboard sleeve. “Enjoy.”

I dropped the tape and the lighter into my black leather bag. “I’m a happy woman.”

“If that’s all it takes, you’re way too easy,” Mac said.

I practiced my over-the-shoulder Veronica Lake smile and exited stage-left.

Chapter Six

On Saturday morning you can’t drive past any open spaces around here without seeing packs of young people, in brightly colored shirts, shorts, and knee socks scrambling up and down the field after a ball. Organized soccer has become one of those rites of passage kids can’t afford to miss. Parents come out for it too, armed with deck chairs, coffee, and attitude.

One man, the father of one of Rachel’s teammates, gives meddling a new name. He insinuates himself into every play, barks instructions to his daughter, and belittles her when they don’t work out. The kid’s the best player on the team, but I have visions of her in a few years with blue hair, black lipstick, and multiple rings piercing every inch of her body.

Most people assume this guy is acting out his fantasies through his kid. Or that the boomers have taken competition to absurd heights. But I think he’s still suffering the effects of the Vietnam War. Really. Our generation never got the chance to feel good about combat. There weren’t any battles like Verdun or Normandy that called forth the sanctity of war. Instead, there was this seedy guerilla war where our boys were sitting ducks for the VC. Plus a war over whether we should be there at all. Thirty years later, all that pent-up frustration is leaching out of guys like him. Too bad it hasn’t made him less obnoxious.

A gloomy fog hung over the field, and slivers of cold rain stung my face. The ground was partially frozen, but chunks of earth had broken free and were starting to ooze mud. I had brought a thermos of coffee, but my fingers were numb by the end of the quarter.

Rachel played halfback. After a particularly fierce encounter she stole the ball and passed it to a forward, who dribbled it down the field and scored. Our side erupted in cheers. I whooped along with the others, all thoughts of unseemly parental behavior forgotten. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I turned, instantly unnerved by the pleasurable shiver that ran through me. Damn it. I wish my ex-husband didn’t look so much like Kevin Costner. I’m doomed to a Pavlovian response for the rest of my life. I smiled.

Barry returned the smile with the one that says,
I know I look like a million bucks
. And he did look good in his fleece vest, turtleneck, jeans, and work boots. In fact, his only physical imperfection is his nose, too long and narrow. But even that keeps him from being too pretty.

“How’s she doing?” He turned toward the field.

“She just made an incredible play.” I described it. “That’s my girl.”

I ignored the proprietary vanity. “Where are you going after the game?”

“We’ll probably head back to my place.”

“No big plans?”

Barry shrugged. I shifted my feet. Usually he can’t wait to impress me with the weekend marathon he’s planned for Rachel, as if we’re competing for her affection, and the winner is whoever has exhausted her most by Sunday night. “What about you?”

“I’m going down to Dad’s.”

“Oh.”

I peered at him. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” His eyes darted from one goalie to the other.

I wrapped my hands around the lukewarm thermos. He always was a lousy liar. Then, “There is something I need to talk to you about.”

Prickles shot up my spine. I’d heard rumors he was seeing someone. I tried to play it cool. “Shoot.”

“I may not be able to meet Rachel’s child support payments for a while.”

Here it comes. “Why not?”

“I’m—I’m temporarily short of cash.”

I looked past him, expecting to hear about weddings, condos, and honeymoons, but cheers on the other side of the field distracted me. The other team scored a goal. A collective sigh went up from our side. Barry studied the ground.

“What’s going on?”

He hesitated. “One of my stocks fell out of bed.”

I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or incensed. “I didn’t know you were trading again.” Before we broke up, we’d opened an account to trade online. A minor league version of day trading, it wasn’t a lot of money, but the therapist suggested it was something we could do together. We closed the account and divided the assets when we split up. “How much?”

Another hesitation. “About a hundred.”

“Grand?” My voice spiked. The noise from the sidelines was suddenly hollow, as if it was being funneled through an empty tube.

“It’s a high-tech incubator,” he went on. “They buy pieces of technology start-ups. But it wasn’t their fault,” he said defensively. “It’s a good VC firm. I did a lot of research on it, and the fundamentals are there. It’s just this lousy market. They’re switching over to bricks and mortar. It’ll come back. ”

The little girls on the field bobbed and weaved like buoys in a muddy sea. “Come back? What are you saying, Barry?”

“It’s bottomed out. It’s gonna turn around, and I want to be there when it does.”

“Hold on. You’ve just lost a hundred thousand dollars, you can’t make child support payments, and you’re buying more stock?”

His jaw worked. “Now’s the time to get in. Look, Ellie. You can get by for a couple of months. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Barry, aren’t you forgetting something? What if the stock doesn’t go up? What if it goes down even more?”

“It’s not going to. We—I got burned, but it’s over now. I promise. Anyway, it’s just a few months.”

It was an old tape. He’d promise and cajole, paint the most seductive pictures, and I’d believe him. Except we weren’t married anymore, and I didn’t have to play the tape. “Barry, I can’t do it. You know how tight things are for me.” The warmth disappeared from his eyes. “Christ, Ellie. Ease up. It’s not like you’ll have to file for welfare.”

Typical response. Attack me. Soon it would be my fault the stock went down in the first place. “You don’t get it, do you? I don’t have to ease up. The judge said so. You need to make sure the check’s in the mail.”

I watched the rest of the game from the end zone. Alone.

Chapter Seven

My father lives in a colonial-style retirement home in Skokie with a big lounge off the lobby and an acre of garden plots in the back. They call it assisted living, and it comes with daily maid service and meals. No beds to make, no meals to cook, no vacuums to push. I keep begging to be put on the waiting list, but Dad says you have to make a fortune first, so you can give it away to these
gonifs
.

I parked in the lot later that afternoon and pushed through a glass door. In the lounge a cloud of blue cigar smoke hung over a card table where Dad and his buddies were playing five-card stud. His shiny round head, freckled with age spots, gleamed in the fluorescent light as he scooped up a pile of chips. Somehow he looked frailer than he had just a week ago.

“Ellie, sweetheart,” he called from across the room. “How’s my Hollywood bombshell?” Since
Celebrate Chicago
, he’d taken to calling me that, half in jest, half in pride.

“I keep telling you, Dad. Hollywood’s for losers. It’s Lina

Wertmuller.”

“So, come here already, Lina.”

He introduced me to the other players, forgetting I’d met them before. Al was puffy all over, like an aged Pillsbury Doughboy. Marv was long and lean, the Laurel to Al’s Hardy, and Frank’s thick glasses obscured a wizened face.

“Sorry for interrupting. I’ll wait.”

“No. I’m losing anyway.”

“Not with that pot, you’re not, Jake,” Marv grumbled. “She your shill, Snake?” This was Frank. “She sure showed up at the right time.”

“You’re just jealous that I got the beautiful girl.” Dad winked at me and collected his chips. He’s never been tall, and age has stooped him, but there is a gentleness about him that radiates trust, and his eyes disappear into folds of wrinkles when he smiles, which is often. He guided me to the elevator. “Thank you, gentlemen. It’s been profitable.”

We rode to the third floor and walked down the hall, skirting a housekeeping cart near his door. Inside his apartment, a neat one-bedroom with a large living room, he punched in a Benny Goodman CD and poured himself a scotch. “You can’t listen to Benny Goodman without a drink,” he said.

“Dad, you shouldn’t be drinking in the middle of the afternoon.”

“It’s a little late to worry about it now.” He dropped three ice cubes in his glass. “What about you?”

“Diet Coke, please.”

While he fixed my drink, I glanced at the newspaper, spread out in sections on the couch. A front-page article reported that Marian Iverson, the GOP candidate for the Senate, was making inroads against the Democratic incumbent. A moderate conservative in the Liddy Dole tradition, Iverson was saying all the right things. She’d even come out pro-choice.

Dad handed me my soda and settled in his old wingback chair, a brown leather piece with gold tacking on the edges. Humming the chorus of “Sing, Sing, Sing,” he spread his hands when it ended. “
Nu
?”

That’s a Yiddish term that can mean anything from “what’s new?” to “
oy vay
” to “why are you bothering me?”

I debated whether to tell him about the money. He’s never liked Barry, mostly because we’re German Jews and Barry, whose family came from somewhere east of Krakow, isn’t. In Dad’s day, that kind of thing was important. When my father looked at Barry, he never saw a successful real estate lawyer. He saw a two-bit hustler who couldn’t possibly bring his daughter happiness. I could already hear the “I told you so’s.” I kept my mouth shut.

“I’m good, Dad. How about you?”

“Marv got a new cache of Havanas from his son.”

“Dad, you’ve got to be careful—”

“
Sorg sich nicht
, Ellie. You’ll put me in the grave with your worrying.”

“You never smoked before you moved here.”

“So? I should move out because I can finally smoke a decent cigar?” He inspected me. “How about I move in with you?”

“Okay, okay.” Stubborn cuss. I wasn’t allowed to worry about him.