Dead and Gone (12 page)

I looked around for the woman in the red dress. There’s always a woman in a red dress in joints like this. I wanted to be sure I wasn’t sitting too close to her.

The drummer suddenly cracked out a back-beat, hammering the talk-buzz into silence. The guy working a stand-up electric bass added a line, the harp man cranked off a few sharp notes, and the rhythm guitarist carried the lead for a minute, building. An unmanned black guitar rested against the front-most microphone stand.

A slim man strode out on the little stage. He was all in black, including a cowboy hat with a heavy silver medallion just over the brim. His coat was so long it was almost a duster. He reached down, picked up the black guitar … and the crowd went berserk.

He smiled gently, a handsome man with strong cheekbones and a beard, bowed his head a few inches in acknowledgment. Most bluesmen open with an up-tempo number, get the crowd into the action. But he started with “Bad Blood,” a true-tale ballad that pile-drivered its way down to where you lived, if you’d ever lived at all. His long fingers were flint against the steel strings, drawing fire … and painting pictures with it.

I don’t know how he did it. I can’t imagine he’d be able to put it into words if anyone asked.

The crowd was insane … and under control. His control. He was dealing for real, and the crowd was in his hands—spontaneous reaction to spontaneous combustion. As he teased an impossible run of unreal notes out of the steel slide, a thick-bodied man in a yellow silk shirt stood up and yelled out, “That’s the real thing, brother!” as if he were waiting on a challenge.

You could almost
see
the notes flow out of that black guitar—a liquid ribbon of honey and cream, draped over concrete and barbed wire. For a slice of time, I was transported. Lost in the truth. Feeling … connected to something more than me and mine. I reached for a cigarette. Came up empty. Zeffa was next to me, on my left. Her hand dropped to her purse. She flicked it open one-handed, pointed to a pack of Carltons. The pack was right next to what else she was packing—a dull-black Glock.

I thanked her with a nod. Lit the smoke. Took a deep drag. It tasted like crap, no hit at all. I put it in the ashtray and let it burn down.

The man with the black guitar finished his set … barely. The crowd kept demanding “One more!” and he kept going with it. Finally, he just bowed slightly, touched the brim of his hat, and stepped off the stage and out the back.

“Son Seals!” the announcer shouted, as the man walked off with his black guitar.

“Come on,” Zeffa said.

We followed her to a basement where ratty old couches were stacked against one wall. Son was seated, alone, smoking a slim black cigar. Zeffa introduced us. I didn’t know what to say, so I just said the truth.

“You’re the ace,” I told him.

“Thank you,” was all he said. Not grabbing the title, but not disclaiming it, either.

Clancy made a motion with his head. I came over to where he was sitting. The basement was filling up, people clotted, waiting for a chance to spend a minute with the legend. Zeffa watched them warily, making the access decisions one by one.

“They’re gone,” Clancy said, no inflection.

“How do you—?”

“They slipped up. Or they couldn’t stand paying taxes under two IDs. INS still has them in Chicago, but that’s no big deal, they’re both green-carded, both waiting on citizenship. Once applicants get to that level, INS figures it’s
their
job to keep in touch, see?”

“Sure. If they miss an appointment, it’s their problem. Might even delay their application. But it’s not a problem for the government, so long as they pay their taxes.”

“Right. And they’re okay with the IRS. But we’ve got a
state
income tax here. And they haven’t filed in almost three years.”

“Maybe they didn’t have any income.”

“That’s possible. Here’s what’s not: neither of them has visited a doctor or a dentist for all that time.”

“How could you know that?”

“They have medical insurance. A very good plan, not one of those HMO deals. And they haven’t filed a claim. Not one.”

“Maybe they gave up the plan, and they’re paying cash. Or maybe they switched plans.”

“Sure. But if that’s so, why would they keep paying the premiums?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. And why would they keep paying big numbers to insure their cars, but not maintain them?”

“How can you be—?”

“One,” he said, tapping his index finger, “they each have a Mercedes. Two, both of the cars are still under warranty. Three, neither car has been serviced at the local dealer in all this time. And four, both cars are insured to the max, including zero-deductible collision. And they haven’t missed a payment.”

“You think …?”

“What?”

“There’s a garage, right? Around the back, maybe?”

“Around the back, yeah,” Clancy said. “Behind the house, set off to the right. The driveway—you know, that horseshoe shape?—it spins off to the side to connect there.”

“Would you happen to know if—?”

“There’s no alarm. The garage is the same material as the house. Stone. Three-car size. Automatic doors. Free-standing. And there’s a little window on the side.”

“Okay.”

He shook his head.

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“You are. This isn’t your territory. You’re working alone. You get popped, it’d be bad.”

“I won’t get—”

“That’s right. Because there’s a better way.”

I
wasn’t going to drive the way Clancy did, so I left plenty of slack, arrived forty-five minutes to the good. Clancy was ten minutes early. He took the wheel of the Lexus and meandered through the streets until he found a spot he liked, then pulled over in a copse of trees. I stepped over the console into the back of the SUV. The rear seat had been folded down—there was a lot of room. I lay down in the back, pulling three khaki blankets over me until I looked like a puddle of wool. Clancy drove away.

“If she’s home, you’ll have thirty minutes safe,” he said. The Lexus was so quiet I could hear him perfectly. “If she’s not, we’ll have to come back. Give me five minutes. If I don’t come back by then, go for it.”

I felt the Lexus pull into the driveway. I checked my watch. My nice cheap watch with a little button that lit up the face: 7:16.

It was 7:23 when I slipped out the back door, closing it behind me, but blocking the lock with a strip of duct tape. I moved around to the side of the house, saw the light in the kitchen window. I crouched to stay below it. The garage was exactly where Clancy had said it would be. The little window was nothing. I didn’t even have to touch the glass; just slipped a pry bar under the soft wood and worked it back and forth until the seal broke. I climbed inside, let myself down to the floor gingerly.

I took out my mini–Mag Solitaire, a tiny black flashlight with a controllable beam. A burglar’s best friend—you turn it on by rotating the front bezel, no click.

Three cars. The two Mercedes weren’t exactly a matched set—a tiny little SLK, bright yellow, and a big black 480E sedan with AMG badges. The other car was an Audi A4, blue. None of the cars was covered—it looked as if they were used all the time. I looked inside the big black sedan. Couldn’t see any little red lights blinking. No burglar-alarm decals on the windows. No lock on the steering wheel. And … yeah, key in the ignition. What the hell was that all about? I quick-checked the other two cars. Exactly the same, right down to the ignition keys.

I could be out the window and into the bushes at the side of the house in a few seconds if an alarm went off. And if that happened, Clancy would naturally run out here to investigate, telling the woman to stay where she was. More than enough of an edge for the little bit of risk I’d be taking.

The big sedan gave off a whiff of stale air when I opened the door. I felt the muscles at the back of my neck loosen when my brain sent the message to my body:
No alarm!

I carefully turned the ignition key just far enough to light up the electronic instrument panel, noted what I needed. Did the same thing to the little yellow two-seater. Neither glove compartment held anything but the owner’s manual.

The Audi was a different story. The glove compartment was crammed full of junk. I checked my watch: 7:46. Not enough time left. I rifled through the paper as quickly as I could, the mini-Mag in my teeth, gloved hands on the papers. Nothing. I was putting it all back when a roll of pre-printed mailing labels fell out. I looked closer. They were all addressed to the same person, and the return address was a PO box in Winnetka. The person they were addressed to wasn’t either of the names I had for the Russians, but why else would …? The street address was in Vancouver, Washington, complete with bar-coding at the top. I peeled the last label off, then stuck it lightly to the inside of my coat.

Back outside, I checked the window’s appearance. It would pass, unless someone was paying a lot more attention than it looked like they ever had.

I let myself back into the Lexus, got under the blankets, and closed my eyes.

It was at least another half-hour before I heard the driver’s door open.

C
lancy drove to where he’d left his Nissan, but said to leave the Lexus where it was—he’d drive me back himself.

It was a quick run—we were going against the traffic. Besides, Clancy drove about 50 percent past the limit, returning pages on his cell phone, concentrating all over the place. He pulled into the drive for the hotel, cut the engine.

“What’d you get?” he asked.

“Pair of Mercedes, just like you said. I couldn’t make out the years—I haven’t been able to do that since the sixties—but they looked pretty new.”

“Colors?” he asked, consulting his notebook.

“Black for the sedan, yellow for the little roadster.”

“Checks out,” he said. “Sedan purchased March of ’98; SLK, purchased May, same year. What did you get for mileage?”

“The sedan has thirty-five hundred and change, the roadster less than three.”

“Sure. Haven’t been driven for years.”

“The keys were in the ignition.”

“Yeah. Marushka probably goes out there, turns them over every once in a while, keeps them from going stale.”

Marushka, huh?
I thought to myself. I’m no linguist, but I know the “ka” at the end of a Russian name means “little one.” I thought about the girl at the front desk of the hotel. Recalled something else Wolfe had told me about Clancy. He was divorced. And a major cock-hound. But all I said was, “I found something else, too.”

He looked a question at me. I unpeeled the label carefully, handed it over.

“Vancouver. I was there once for a tournament. It’s … Wait a minute, this isn’t Vancouver in Canada, it’s in Washington State.”

“Yeah.”

“And she had a whole roll of these labels?”

“Uh-huh. Probably printed them up herself, on a home computer. Pretty handy things to have if you’re remailing everything that comes in. They probably send everything back to her, too. That way, there’s a local postmark on everything.”

“You put it all back the way you—?” He caught my expression, cut himself off in mid-sentence. “Can you hang around another couple of days?”

“I’m in no hurry,” I told him.

T
he bar was in a part of Chicago called Uptown. Clancy was at a table with two other guys, one built like a bull, with “COP!” written all over his face, the other a young blond guy with Slavic cheekbones and the flat expression of a working thug. They both spent about a minute memorizing my face, not making any secret about what they were doing.

“See you later,” the big one said, as he got up to leave. He might have been talking to anyone at the table.

The younger one got up, too. He didn’t say a word.

“Friends of yours?” I asked Clancy.

“Good friends.”

“They both on the job?”

“Mike is. Zeffa was,” he said, explaining the pistol I’d seen in her purse. “Zak isn’t.”

“The kid? What’s he, between jobs?”

“He’s a writer,” Clancy said, pride strong in his voice. “In fact, both of them are.”

“They’re here gathering local color?”

“No,” cutting it off.

“It’s your car,” I told him. “And you’re driving.”

“Here’s what I got,” Clancy said, getting down to it. “The little boy’s mother reported him missing on June 29, 1990. His DOB’s April 4, 1986, so he’d just turned four. No signs of a ransom kidnap—and no note ever turned up. The parents were together, so it wasn’t one of those custody grabs. Whoever took him came right into the back of the house. Like with Polly Klaas, only nobody actually saw this one go down.”

“Or found a body.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Or the dirtbag who did it, either. None of the kid’s possessions were missing. You know how it works after that: they checked the kid’s friends, used the search-and-rescue dogs working off his scent, combed the maximum area a kid his age could travel by himself … everything. Finally, he went from missing to missing-and-presumed.”

“Presumed dead?”

“Not necessarily. But with no ransom note, no contact from anyone, and no body, we figured it for a sex-snatch. And that maybe the kid was still alive. Some of them turn up, even a lot of years later, like the Stayner kid out in California. If we haven’t found a body, the BOLOs stay out there for every confirmed abduction, no-clues disappearance.
All
of them. Doesn’t matter if they’d be adults by the time we find them, people’re still looking. We’re looking for
this
boy, too.”

I took a sip of my ginger ale, thinking Wolfe was right—this was a personal thing with Clancy. “When does school let out around here?” I asked him.

He gave me a sharp look. “End of May,” he said.

I gave him a neutral look back.

“Yeah,” he said, quietly. “And it was broad daylight, that time of year.” He put two fingers to his forehead. “It wasn’t my case.”

“I know. When did the Gee come in?”

“Maybe a week later. The record’s not clear.”

“I saw that story in the newspaper.…”

“That was a while afterwards. They kept it quiet, didn’t want to spook the kidnappers, in case it
was
about money.”