For Blood or Money
14. Wet Welcome in the Windy City
I WOKE UP IN A STRANGE BED in a strange city. The sounds were not my sounds, the smells were not my smells.
Chicago.
I lay staring straight up at the ceiling trying to put the pieces of the story together that got me in this place. A shipment of antiques. Far East Exchange. Chicago. A harebrained notion to take a midnight flight and check it out personally. I’d gotten to my hotel in Chicago at about six o’clock. It was a decent hotel right in the center of the Loop.
Blessed sleep.
I looked at my watch. I’d slept late. It was nine o’clock. Riley would be in the office and getting my note. I’d better get up and prepare for the indignation. Then I realized that it was only 7:00 in Seattle. I had an hour to get ready at least.
I dragged myself to the window and looked out. Rain pelted the window for about 30 seconds, and then dissipated to a fine mist that clung to the building and cut visibility. I could just see the building across the alley and a pinch of the street below. It looked pretty much the same as Seattle. The rumble of the El a dozen stories below me confirmed that I wasn’t in Washington any more. This was a city that believed in mass transit.
I showered and shaved the two-day stubble off my face, trimmed my mustache, and dressed. I hadn’t brought many clothes in the roll-aboard bag that I packed, but one spare suit and two shirts was likely to be all that I would need since I spent all the previous two days and a night in the same clothes. Once I was dressed and had a tie on, I felt almost human. Coffee would take me the rest of the way.
There is nothing harder than ordering coffee in a foreign city, and when you are from Seattle, all cities are foreign. I stepped up to the coffee stand in the hotel lobby and asked for an Americano. The barista reached for a coffee pot that looked like it had been on the burner for a week.
“No, no,” I said quickly. “Espresso fixed with a shot of hot water.”
“Mister,” she answered, “all espresso is made with hot water.”
She pressed a button on her machine and handed me a cup of something that made me wish I’d taken what was in the pot. Well, Doc Roberts would be happy I was going without coffee again. This was my second day without, and I had the withdrawal headache to prove it.
I ate breakfast in the hotel café and logged into the network on my laptop. I had results for my searches waiting for me. Eating my oatmeal before it got cold, I started scanning the new names and numbers. Every name from the account numbers was coupled with a number of five to ten digits.
An idea crossed my mind and I looked up one of the banks on-line. Indeed it had a log-in screen. I entered the corresponding name under “UserID” and the number under “Password.” There was a momentary pause and the screen refreshed with “my account” highlighted and the current balance: $12,557,827.80, €9,829,098.30, 6,906,933.90, displayed in three different currencies. In this bank alone, Simon had access to over twelve and a half million dollars. I had a list of his user names and passwords for twenty-one such banks.
Before I checked the next one, I looked at the transaction history. The account had been largely idle for the past two years, but in the last ten days, over half the current balance had been deposited in multiple small chunks.
Simon, or someone who had the same information I did, was very much alive and financially active. Since the activity I saw were deposits, I was betting it was Simon.
A waitress came up to my booth at that moment.
“You gonna order lunch now, Pops?” she asked. “If not, you better get outa here. The rush is about to start.”
I glanced at my watch. It was 11:45. Not only was I not ordering lunch, I needed to make the contact that I wanted or the trip to Chicago was a waste. I paid the check and gave the waitress a $20 tip.
“Come back tomorrow,” she called after me. “You can sit here all morning.” I waved and headed out to get a taxi, dialing the office number as I went. There was no answer and I left a message telling Riley I was about to visit Far East Exchange.
I gave the driver the address on Wacker Drive and he wagged his eyebrows; it was only four blocks away. It wasn’t a bad looking building. Small by comparison to the towering behemoths around it, but in good condition. The front entrance was a door beside an oversized garage door. I assumed they must get shipments in here of some sort, though I couldn’t imagine a sixteen wheeler negotiating the angles with Chicago traffic.
I walked in.
I was surrounded by walls of drygoods, furniture, and artwork. An old man in shirtsleeves and old-fashioned arm-garters poked his head up over a handcart of bolts of fabric to look at me. “Are you from the theatre?” he asked. “You weren’t supposed to be here until two o’clock. I’m not ready.”
“I’m not from the theatre,” I answered. “I just stopped in to see if you could answer a couple of questions for me. Are you the owner?”
“Owner, shmoner. I’m the only one here.”
“Do you have a minute that I could ask you some questions.”
“I got no time,” he said. “I got work to do. Theatre crew is coming and they want forty-seven different bolts of Japanese Silk for ‘Madame Butterfly.’ Not the forty-seven that are up here in front. No, they want one each from forty-seven different lots around the warehouse. For theatre! Damn actors will be better dressed than half of Chinatown.”
I didn’t bother to mention that the people in Chinatown probably didn’t dress in Japanese silk. I weighed my options and then made a rash offer.
“Maybe we could talk while I help you get those bolts down,” I said. I couldn’t be in any worse shape than this old guy, I thought. If he can do it, so can I.
“I won’t turn down your offer, but I don’t know that I’ll answer your questions. You from the IRS?” I shook my head. “Police? Homeland security?” Each time I indicated no.
“I’m interested in Asian antiquities and I’ve heard that you are an expert.”
“Eh,” he was noncommittal as he motioned me toward a ladder. “Bolt 1247. It should be red and in that bin right next to the fourth step.” I climbed the ladder, paused to rest and reached for the bolt. I hauled it out and handed it down to him. He motioned me to stay on the ladder as he heaved the fabric onto the hand cart. He moved the ladder to the next bin and rattled off another number. “What kind of antiquities do you want to know about and what do you want to do with them?”
I thought fast. I should really have prepared my story better, but I wasn’t expecting an old man with a silk emporium. “I’m buying a franchise restaurant. Thai place. Thai is really big right now. Everything’s Thai, you know?”
“You’re telling me,” he laughed. “Tom Yum. Phad Thai. It’s all you can get now.”
“Exactly. Well, I heard you could buy Thai antique furnishings for less than you can get repros from the restaurant supply. I thought before I put the money down on the franchise I’d check with a pro who could give me some advice.” I’d handed him six bolts by now and I was panting. Most of the time he just pushed me on the ladder to the right place so at least I didn’t have to climb up and down.
“It’s true you can get a bargain. Of course, it’s cheaper to buy Chinese than Thai. The good thing is that most people can’t tell the difference. If it has an elephant on it they assume it’s Thai.”
“Too many people have watched ‘The King and I’ and figure that everything with elephants comes from there,” I agreed. “I wouldn’t turn down a good deal if it looked reasonable.”
“So who pointed you in my direction,” the old man asked.
“An old friend of mine from college,” I answered casually. “Guy named Simon Barnett.” I handed him the last bolt and he motioned me to get down off the ladder. He walked away from me and I followed. He motioned me to a chair beside his desk and fell heavily into his own.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he said.
“Hamar,” I answered. “Dag Hamar.” All right, I admit. It’s not quite as dramatic as “Bond, James Bond.”
“Yes, Mr. Hamar, and Swedes don’t open Thai restaurants,” he said bluntly. “Why don’t you just come out and tell me why you are here?” Okay. Either he was an especially sharp cookie, or he already knew a lot about the case.
“Simon Barnett is missing,” I said.
“I heard that already,” he answered. “You work for that lousy two-bit partner of his?”
“No,” I answered. His assessment of Bradley Keane matched my own. “Simon’s wife hired me to find him.”
“I’m not sure I like her any better,” the old man said.
“Nor I,” I agreed. “I took it on because Simon left me a note asking me to.”
“If you are a friend of Simon’s, then I’ll help you anyway I can. I’m Earl Schwartz.” We shook hands again.
“Like I said, we went to college together. We used to be a lot closer than we are now. Apparently, though, he thought I could find him.” The old guy just nodded wisely. “Are you expecting a shipment of Asian antiques soon?”
“Yes. It landed in New York Saturday. It was being unloaded and trucked here.”
“Trucked? Why aren’t they flying it on into Chicago?” I asked.
“Well now, that’s a good question,” Earl responded. “Apparently the plane is needed elsewhere.”
“Do you know if Simon was on the plane?”
“I do not, but I don’t think so. When Simon brings in a load of antiques, he sees me directly. It’s a good business if we deal with each other.”
“I take it you don’t get along well with his partner, though,” I ventured. He swore vehemently.
“That sonabitch isn’t worth the paper he wipes his ass with. And what’s more, he’s had a goon sniffing around here this week, too. Guy hardly speaks English, but he’s hard as nails.”
“Big guy, looks like a refrigerator?” I asked.
“That’s him. You know him?”
“He paid me a visit last week.”
“Well, watch out for him. If he doesn’t get what he wants, he takes what he can get.” The old man was angry to say the least. He was going to be even more upset when I told him about the shipment coming into Seattle. I was willing to bet he didn’t know about that shipment from Asia. Before I could say anything, though, a young man came in the door, slapped a button beside it and the garage door began to open. A panel van backed in and Earl said that the theatre was here for their silk. I helped load up the van and they pulled out. Before I could return to my conversation, my cell phone chimed. I flipped it open.
“Where the hell are you?” I expected Riley to be mad at me, but it was Jordan on the phone.
“I’m in Chicago,” I answered, “interviewing the manager of Far East Exchange. What did you find?”
“Nothing, damn it!” he swore. “I’ve had a full crew down here—ambulance rescue standing by, drug sniffing dogs—since the ship docked Saturday night. We scanned and inspected every container that was unloaded which succeeded in slowing down the job even more than the Longshoremen’s slowdown that they pulled this weekend. We got to the container addressed to Far East Exchange and opened it. It was full of furniture. We sent dogs in, nothing. I called to get you down here this morning and Riley was the only one in the office. Normally I like seeing her, but it was your ass I wanted to chew today.”
“You knew it was a hunch, Jordan,” I defended myself.
“Well, we played it and it didn’t work.” I suddenly thought of something else.
“Hang on, Jordan,” I said. I turned to Earl. “You said you were expecting a shipment from New York. Is one coming in from Seattle as well?”
“No,” Earl said. “Simon only told me about the one from New York.”
“Jordan,” I said into the phone again. “Where is that container headed? I don’t think it’s coming here to Chicago.”
“No,” he said. “It’s slated for a warehouse in Spokane.”
“I know it’s still a long-shot,” I said, “but if I were you, I’d follow it. It isn’t going to Far East Exchange.”
“All right, Dag. I trust your instincts, but I’ve already sent some men to interview this Schwarz guy you are with. You know the routine.”
“Oh Christ!” I swore. “Jordan, this guy doesn’t know anything about it. And I’d bet Simon didn’t either unless he recently discovered it.”
“Well, we’re going to have to question him anyway.”
“I know. How soon?”
“Probably ten to twenty minutes,” Jordan said. “If he’s not there when we get there, I’m holding you responsible.”
“Don’t worry, Jordan,” I said and hung up. He didn’t need to worry; I was doing the worrying right now. I turned back to the old man.
“Look,” I said, “I’m not going to hide this from you, Mr. Schwarz. You’re about to get a visit from Internal Revenue’s Financial Crimes Unit. There’s a shipment addressed to Far East Exchange that arrived in Seattle this weekend. I’m not telling you anything else about the shipment because if you don’t already know, then you shouldn’t.”
“Simon warned me,” he said. “Two weeks ago. He said something wasn’t right and he was warning all the businesses that he had acquired himself to keep everything clean and to expect police. We take the good with the bad, you know? Do you think that bastard Keane cooked enough evidence to hold me?”
“I doubt it. The whole thing smacks of a bad spy story. I don’t think they’ll be able to touch you if you’ve run the business cleanly.” I felt sorry for the old man. Even innocent, this wasn’t going to go easily on him just because of how old he was. He was eighty if a day. He sank down in his chair and opened a drawer, and then he pulled out a bottle of Scotch and a couple of glasses. He poured a finger in each and handed me one. I don’t drink much and would have refused, but it seemed like an insult to not take at least a sip.
“You like jazz?” he asked out of the blue.
“Yes,” I answered. “Very much.”
“Most detectives do, don’t they? There’s a nice club just across the river. I know the manager. They’ve got a trio playing tonight with one of the best bass players you’ll ever hear. I’ll make sure they save you a table.” He dialed the number and raised his glass. We touched them together and drank off the last of it as two men entered from the street. The Feds had arrived.
There was no small amount of confusion regarding who was whom when they started, but when I showed them my ID they waved me aside and said Jordan told them I was here. They were kind enough not to cuff the old man as they led us out into the street, and they let him lock the door behind him and set his alarm. I was left standing on Wacker Drive as they drove away.
I spent the rest of the afternoon back in my hotel room making phone calls. I patched things up as best as I could with Riley. She’d been watching my movements on the channel I left her and was poised to call the police at any sign of trouble, but Jordan had called her down to the docks early this morning. She’d taken the brunt of his frustration over my tip. I didn’t blame her for being ticked at me now and assured her that I’d make it up to her. I told her what I’d found regarding the names. She was suitably impressed.
After she’d returned from the freight terminal with Jordan, she continued sifting through Bradley’s email. She was detecting a number of people to whom Bradley sent messages that sounded like veiled threats. In my eyes, there was little that Bradley wouldn’t do. I warned Riley to be extra careful. She repeated the same warning back at me.
Then, I made the inevitable call to Mrs. Prior to see how Maizie was doing.
“Maizie is very worried, Dagget Hamar,” Mrs. Prior announced, “and a little upset that you would go on this trip without her. She is your partner, after all.” This was sounding like the same conversation that I’d had with Riley.
“I couldn’t bring her on the airplane with me,” I said. “They aren’t kind to dogs on airplanes. She would have had to ride in a box in the luggage compartment. She wouldn’t have liked it at all.”
“Maizie is hiding her eyes and is sending me pictures of her howling in a kennel,” Mrs. Prior said. “Did you leave her in a kennel and go away?”
“No, she’s remembering the last time we tried to travel by plane together,” I said. I was talking to my dog through a pet psychic.
Damn.
After dinner, I decided to take Earl up on his offer to have a table saved for me at Alex’s Jazz Alley. Located just off State Street on the north side of the river, it was a flat walk. And it was a great club. The trio was indeed everything that Earl had led me to expect. The crowd (yes a crowd on a Monday night!) was enjoying the beat to the extent of getting up to dance, whenever they felt like it, whether they had partners or not. It was a young crowd. The energy was incredible and before I knew it I’d passed several hours drinking tonic and bobbing my head to the music. They took a break, promising to be back for another set and a woman danced over to my table and plopped herself down in the other chair.
“Whee, that was fun, wasn’t it?” she asked as she turned to me. “You weren’t out there dancing,” she continued. “Your feet wanted to dance. Even your head wanted to dance. What was holding you back?”
“My heart,” I said matter-of-factly. “Besides, I didn’t have a dance partner.” She was about five foot three with dark hair that had been streaked with blonde so she reminded me of a tiger. As I looked at her she mussed it up with her fingers and flung it back and forth. A little older than the average in the club, I guessed she must be in her mid-thirties.
“Who needs a partner?” she asked. “I didn’t have one and I’d still be out there if my feet weren’t hurting. I’ve got new boots on.” She lifted a foot to the table and pulled her pants leg up to show me the high-heeled leather she wore under them. When I was in the Navy we’d have called them “Follow me home” boots. “What do you think of them?” she asked.
“Very sexy,” I said honestly.
“Right answer,” she said. “I’m Peg.”
“Nice to meet you Peg,” I said, “I’m Dag.” I decided against a repeat of the James Bond line. If you’re not James Bond, you shouldn’t really try it.
When the next set started, she got me up to dance a little. I’m afraid I wasn’t much of a partner. She led me back to the table and ordered another tonic. Hmmm… She knew what I was drinking? Well, there was no question of the fact that even with sparkling water, I was nearing my limit. I wanted to walk home, but I was also a bit loathe to leave the company of my charming companion.
We’d pretty much talked about miscellany from the music to the weather, and had even skirted a few political issues. It was nothing particularly significant, but it was pleasant. And there is something about being with an attractive woman. You just want to stay in her orbit. I regretfully rose to make my excuses and leave.
“Do you want me to call a cab?” she asked as she stood with me.
“No, I think I’ll walk. It’s just a few blocks south on State Street.”
“That’s great!” she said. “Will you walk me home? I live on your way and I hate to make the walk alone.”
Why not? I agreed. Lucky for me. It was misting again, a wet heavy fog and Peg had an umbrella that we huddled under while we walked toward the river.
“I live in the circular tower over there,” she pointed. “It’s a great location.”
“It looks terrific. View of the river?”
“No. That’s expensive. I mean even more expensive. I try to stay within my means.”
By the looks of it, her means must paint a pretty big circle within which to live. We walked along the river, a few feet above the water in front of the building.
“It has been a very pleasant evening, Peg,” I said. “I should really get going, though.”
“Care to come up for a nightcap?” she asked. “or a cup of coffee.” She could scarcely have tempted me more. I shook my head.
“I’m flattered that you’d ask,” I said, “but I’m really bushed and need to get back to my hotel.”
“How about dinner tomorrow night?” she suggested. Hmm… Would I be in Chicago tomorrow, or would I just catch a plane back home and return to the computer? This trip hadn’t exactly yielded the results I’d fantasized about. I had to admit, I’d dreamed of walking into Far East Exchange and just finding Simon there waiting for me.
I was about to answer when a hulking man passed and made a grab for my computer case, still slung around my neck and over my shoulder. That slowed him down and I swung at him. It didn’t help. He jerked the bag hard enough to break either the strap or my neck, and I was thankful that it was the strap. I looked up and realized the hulk was none other than Oksamma, the refrigerator.
Peg had come to my aid as well, but he brushed her off like a fly, knocking her to the ground. I yelled something unintelligible grappling with him again. This time he wasted no more time with me than he had with Peg. He belted me in the jaw and I fell backward and over the railing into the Chicago River.
Everything slowed to a standstill. I heard Peg scream. I knew without a doubt that I was going into the water. It would be very cold. I would have a heart attack and die.
I hit the water and it felt like concrete.
Oh, fuck the heart attack, I thought. I can’t swim.
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