
-----------------------------------Aaron's Waitby Dorien Grey-----------------------------------Mystery/Crime
www.zumayapublications.com
Copyright ©2009 by Dorien Grey
First published in 2009, 2009
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CONTENTS
DORIEN GREY
AARON'S WAIT
An Elliott Smith Mystery
ZUMAYA BOUNDLESS AUSTIN TX
2009
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
AARON'S WAIT
© 2009 by Dorien Grey
ISBN 978-1-934841-41-9
Cover art and design © Valerie Tibbs
All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is prohibited without the written permission of the author or publisher.
"Zumaya Boundless" and the eagle colophon are trademarks of Zumaya Publications LLC, Austin TX.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Grey, Dorien.
Aaron's wait / Dorien Grey.
p. cm.---(An Elliott Smith mystery)
ISBN 978-1-934841-40-2 (alk. paper)---ISBN 978-1-934841-41-9 (electronic book)
1. Dwellings---Conservation and restoration---Fiction. 2. Chicago (Ill.)---Fiction. I. Title.
PS3557.R48165A63 2009
813'.54---dc22
2009026634
In dreams and in love there are no impossibilities.
---Janos Arany
Sitting in his robe on his balcony, looking out over the lake and the city while drinking his morning coffee, Elliott Smith allowed himself a rare moment of reflection. He was, he realized, a lucky man. Young(ish---just turned 39), relatively intelligent, not unattractive, happy in his work of buying and renovating small apartment buildings, and pleasantly engaged in establishing the foundations of a relationship that actually seemed like it might be around for awhile. He had a number of people who were close to him: his sister Cessy and her family, his parents, and a circle of friends. He was also unobtrusively family-money rich, though he never dwelt on it.
The only thing that set him apart from everyone else, something no one else knew, was that one of those friends was no longer corporeal. His name was John, and how Elliott and he became friends was a very long and involved story best detailed elsewhere.
Though it was late fall, Mother Nature had apparently been distracted and had not noticed that she'd not yet turned down the thermostat. Elliott, the trees, and most of the citizens of Chicago were duly if only subconsciously appreciative. Coffee on the balcony was a ritual he enjoyed, so he looked on every extra day he could do so as a bonus. The unobstructed south view of the city and the Loop from his 35th-floor condo sandwiched between Sheridan Road and the lake was one of which he never tired.
Normally, on a Saturday morning, he'd be joined on the balcony by Steve Gutierrez, the painter he'd been seeing for the past several months, but a looming deadline at work necessitated Steve's working late the night before and prevented him from coming over. They'd arranged to meet for dinner that night. Elliott was very pleased with the way the relationship was evolving. Though they'd never spoken about it, each seemed comfortable with letting things develop at their own pace, and neither felt the necessity to push it.
The phone broke his reverie, and setting his coffee down on the small metal table beside his chair, he hurried to answer it.
"Hi, Ell." Even if he hadn't instantly recognized Steve's voice, he'd have known who it was. Steve was one of the few people Elliott had ever allowed to call him anything but "Elliott". Even then, Steve instinctively knew it was only to be used between the two of them, just as Elliott had pet names for his nephew and nieces, not to be used in the presence of other people. It had become something of a cornerstone in the foundation of their evolving relationship.
They talked casually for a few minutes, making plans for the evening, until Steve said, "I meant to ask you---when do you think you'll be starting to look for your next project?"
"Pretty soon. We're just wrapping this one up. Why?"
"You know how I like to just get out and look around for possible subjects to paint? Well, the other day, while I was out for a walk, I found a building I think you might really like."
"Yeah?" Elliott was always responsive to a potential property. "Where? Who's got the listing?"
"That's the interesting part," Steve said. "It's just north of Diversey, off Southport. I don't know why I've never gone down that street before, but I came across this beautiful old place that really caught my eye. The minute I saw it I knew I had to paint it. There was a For Rent sign in front, and as I was standing there, just staring at the place, a woman working in the yard saw me, and wanted to know if I was looking for a rental. I told her no, but we got to talking. It's a six-unit; she wasn't sure how old it is, but probably early twenties. It could stand some work, but, well, that's what you do. I commented on what a beautiful place it was, and mentioned I had a friend---you---who bought and restored old buildings. She sounded really interested and said she was thinking of selling."
"That is interesting," Elliott said. "Maybe you can show it to me sometime."
"I was thinking maybe we could drive by tonight on the way to dinner. I don't know what there is about the place, but I can't remember when I've been more attracted to a building. I really want you to see it. If it's nice tomorrow, I might take my camera over there and get a few shots for some preliminary sketches."
A fascination for old buildings was something both men shared. The first paintings of Steve's Elliott had seen had been of ghost towns in his native California deserts. Thinking back on it, he realized that, like Edward Hopper, very few of those paintings included people. Those that did were, in Elliott's eyes, wonderful---he had purchased a portrait of Steve's brother Manny at Steve's first gallery showing not too long after they'd met---and he wasn't quite sure why he didn't do more.
"I'd love to see it," he said, pulling his attention back to respond to Steve's suggestion. "I'll pick you up a little early so we'll have plenty of time."
"Okay. How about six? We can have a drink here first. I just finished a painting I've been working on for some time, and I'd like you to see it."
"Great!" He was flattered Steve wanted to show it to him before anyone else. Steve was always reluctant to let anyone, including Elliott, see his work until it was finished, and though he was always curious about whatever Steve was working on, he never pressed.
They talked for a few more minutes then hung up with mutual expressions of looking forward to the evening.
Elliott was a strong believer in serendipity, and mused on the possibility that perhaps Steve's discovery might be another example of it. He and his crew had nearly finished work on their current project, a classic Old Chicago-style three-flat on Roscoe. And as was his habit---he often likened it to Tarzan swinging from tree to tree, grabbing onto the next vine just before releasing the first---he recognized that his current project was just close enough to completion that he needed to reach out for the next one. That way, there was an absolute minimum of time lost between ending one job and beginning the next.
Parking on Diversey was always a problem, but with his usual good luck he found a side-street spot just around the corner from Steve's building, and was ringing the bell at exactly six o'clock. Punctuality was one of the things in which Elliott allowed himself to take pride.
Steve greeted him at the door with a bear hug then pointed him to a chair, saying, "Have a seat---I'll be right with you."
As Elliott sat, Steve disappeared into the kitchen. "Wine okay?" he called.
"Sure," Elliott replied, loudly enough to be heard in the other room.
A moment later, Steve appeared with a tray bearing two stemmed glasses, a bottle of wine and a small plate of crackers and cheese. He placed the tray on the coffee table in front of Elliott and sat in the chair across from him.
After a glass-click toast and a sip of the wine---excellent as always, Elliott noted---they sat back.
"Thought about where you want to go for dinner?" Elliott asked.
Steve pursed his lips in thought. "Actually, I'm in the mood for a good steak. Any suggestions?"
Elliott grinned. "As a matter of fact, yes. There's a nice steak house on Halsted just off Diversey. I think you'll like it, but I probably should call for reservations. If I can use your phone book..."
Steve set his wine down to fetch it as Elliott took out his cell phone. When Steve returned with the book, he looked up the number and called.
"Seven-forty-five okay?" he asked, hand over the phone, and Steve nodded.
They had another glass of wine and finished the hors d'oeuvres while they talked. The fact that they never seemed to run out of things to talk about, and the comfortable feeling of just being together, was a constant, if mild, reminder to Elliott of just how lucky he was.
"So, what about the painting?"
"Thought you'd never ask," Steve said with a grin. "It's in the study. We'll go in when you're ready."
"I'm ready."
Draining their drinks, they went down the hall to the apartment's second bedroom, which Steve used as his studio. On an easel by the large window, facing away from them, was a 24-by-24-inch unframed canvas. Walking around the easel, Elliott saw it was a street scene, as if the viewer were looking down a pleasant tree-lined older residential street framed by an el-train overpass. The rusty metal and cracked concrete of the overpass both framed the scene and contrasted the technological and human elements of the city.
As always, he marveled at the subtlety of detail. It took him a full minute to realize that the shadow across the roof and on the ground in front of the closest house was a passing el train. And, while there were no people in the picture, their presence was clearly felt. The style, color, contrasts and lighting again reminded him of Edward Hopper.
He shook his head. "Wow! You've done it again, This is beautiful, Steve."
Obviously pleased, Steve merely smiled and said: "Glad you like it."
Steve gave directions as they headed off to check out the building he wanted Elliott to see. It was located on a short side street Elliott had never paid any attention to in all the times he'd passed it. Turning left off Southport, he spotted it immediately, set unusually far back from the street.
His first impression was that it reminded him of an elegant old lady fallen on hard times. White paint greying with age hid the underlying brick, but he was immediately attracted to the architectural details: the high, narrow windows with elaborate fretwork and a peaked roof with more fretwork around the edges; a long flight of steps leading up to the "first" floor, with entrances to the ground floor apartments beneath them. He had never seen anything quite like it, and he felt the quick rush of excitement that always accompanied finding a potential new project.
"What do you think?" Steve asked.
"Now, that's a building! The woman said she was thinking of selling? Really?"
"That's what she said."
Elliott's mind's-eye was already seeing the building as it must have looked when new, and could look again, albeit with how much work he couldn't be sure at this point. A lot, undoubtedly, but despite it's shabbiness, he knew he'd be able to bring it back if it were structurally sound. Though it had been painted white, he suspected it was Chicago brick under the paint. He couldn't see any major cracks.
"Well," he said, forcing himself back to reality and the moment and patting Steve's thigh, "Ya done good to find it! Thank you!"
Steve reached over and laid his hand on Elliott's leg, squeezing it slightly. "You're more than welcome."
Noticing a car approaching behind them, Elliott shifted into drive and moved off slowly.
"You said you were thinking of coming over to get some photos tomorrow?" he asked.
"Yeah, I'd really like to. Would you like for me to try to talk to the lady again?"
"I think so, yes. If you wouldn't mind. If you could just get her number and give her my card."
"Be glad to," Steve said as they made their way back to Diversey and turned east toward the restaurant.
They spent the night at Elliott's and finally got to sleep, exhausted but happy, around two a.m.
---I'm glad you're still seeing Steve.
The surprise nearly caused him to wake up, but he fought it.
---John! It's been a while.
---Yes, I'm sorry I haven't come by more often, but there's just so much to do.
---I'd imagine. So, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?
---Odd. I'm not sure, really. Maybe just to see how you're doing?
As he and Steve had their coffee, Elliott tried to remember the last time John had visited him. He recalled having been vaguely aware of his presence a couple of times while awake, but they hadn't ... spoken? ... in several weeks.
He was sharply conscious of just how strange this whole John thing was, or would seem to other people. He had never mentioned John to anyone, not even to Steve, who had several times referred to his own belief in ghosts. John wasn't a ghost, at least not to Elliott, who had never had any special interest in the paranormal. He occasionally watched the popular TV shows that dealt with the subject, but they were just TV shows and he didn't relate directly to them in any way.
As an agnostic, he'd given almost no thought to an afterlife, and he had nothing he would even remotely consider to be "special powers." He was just an ordinary guy who happened to have a friend who was both very real and very dead.
"I said, would you like more coffee?"
Steve's voice jolted him back to reality, and he felt a small wave of embarrassment. He grinned a bit sheepishly, then said, "Sorry. Yeah, I'll have another cup if you're having one."
"Thinking about the building?" Steve asked.
"Yeah," Elliott lied. "I'll really be curious to see what happens with it."
On the way back to Steve's apartment they stopped for brunch, and Elliott dropped Steve off with a promise he'd try to see the woman he'd spoken to at the building and would call later. He spent the afternoon doing business paperwork, catching up on his e-mail and talking with his sister Cessy on the phone.
Though he and Cessy spoke several times a week, it was next to impossible to have a conversation lasting less than twenty minutes. In addition to filling him in on everything that was going on in the family, she always expected a detailed report on his own activities, particularly as they related to Steve.
She had insisted Elliott bring him to dinner to celebrate Elliott's thirty-ninth birthday three weeks earlier. Since Steve had met Cessy and her family a couple of times before and knew what to expect, he did. It had turned out very well, and everyone treated him like one of the family. Elliott's parents had been off on another junket and missed it, which was just as well. Elliott didn't look forward to exposing Steve to that part of his family just yet.
As for Cessy, it had reached the point where he considered introducing her to people as "my sister, the yenta." He knew she meant well, and Steve took her sisterly prying into the status of their relationship with good humor.
Steve called just before six Sunday evening.
"Hi, Ell. How was your afternoon?"
"Quiet. How about yours?"
"Fine. I went over to the building shortly after you dropped me off. I took both my camera and a sketch pad. The first thing I did when I got there was to go up to the door, but I realized it's a six-unit and I didn't have any idea which one the owners lived in, or what their name was. So, I went back out to the street and took some pictures and did a couple rough sketches. As soon as I get the photos back, I'll scan them into my computer and e-mail them if you'd like to see them."
"I would, thanks," Elliott said. "So, you didn't see the woman?"
"Yeah, I did, luckily. I was just thinking of knocking on one of the ground-level doors to ask which apartment the owner lived in when she came out. I noticed, by the way, that most of the apartments seem to be empty. That might not be a good sign.
"Anyway, she came out, said she'd just happened to glance out the window and saw me and we talked some more. She and her husband have only had the building for about three years, but he recently became ill right after losing his job. With no health insurance, they feel they have to sell in case they need money to cover their medical bills. Plus, he isn't able to do the usual maintenance he once did. I gave her your card and she said she would definitely give you a call."
"I really appreciate your doing all this," Elliott said. "I owe you. If there's anything I can do to repay you..."
"Oh, there is!" Steve said, laughing. "But not over the phone."
They talked for a few more minutes, until Steve said, "Well, I'd better let you go in case Mrs. Wolinski---that's her name, by the way, Eleanor Wolinski---is trying to call you."
"She'll call back," Elliott said. "But I suppose we should go. I imagine you want to get to your sketches."
"Yeah, I do. I'm really excited about it. We'll talk during the week then?"
"You know it," Elliott said. "Thanks again, and have a good one."
He had no sooner replaced the phone on the charger when it rang.
"Elliott Smith."
"Mr. Smith, my name is Eleanor Wolinski. Your friend gave me your card and says you might be interested in buying our building."
"I'm always interested in potential properties," Elliott replied, preferring to be noncommittal at this stage. Steve's observation that most of the building appeared to be vacant had sounded a small alarm bell in his mind. "You don't have it listed currently, I gather?"
"No. My husband was a Realtor up until the time of his illness, and we'll be handling most of the details of the sale ourselves. We'd just been talking about selling last week, so having your friend suddenly appear was a very nice surprise. Would you like to come take a look at the place?"
He would, of course, but he found her eagerness a bit disconcerting. Still, it couldn't hurt to look. "Yes, I think I would. When would be convenient for you?"
"Any time at all!" she said. "Would you like to come by this evening?"
Again, the alarm bell.
"Well, it'll be getting dark soon, and I prefer to see it in daylight. Would four o'clock tomorrow afternoon be all right?"
"Of course."
"Fine. I'll look forward to seeing you then."
Leaving his current job site at three-thirty, Elliott found the alley behind the Wolinskis' building and drove down it to see if there was a garage. He had noted earlier that the street was posted "Restricted Parking," which meant a permit sticker had to be displayed on any car parking there after six p.m. He considered that to be a mixed blessing---good for the residents but lousy for evening visitors looking for a parking place. There was no garage, only an in-bad-shape concrete pad that could accommodate three cars. Just one more element to factor into the equation.
He found a parking spot near the end of the street and walked back to the building, studying the houses he passed on the way. All appeared to be well cared-for and about the same age, with the exception of an new three-story. The small iron-fenced front yard was in serious need of mowing, though the two flower beds were well-kept. He assumed the owner husband's illness was responsible for the lack of lawn maintenance.
Taking a few minutes to study the structure carefully, looking for obvious flaws, he found none. The aging white paint that covered the original brick showed a few small chips but was not badly flaked. Opening the gate, he approached the building, spotting one sizable chip of paint that had peeled off; he got close enough to confirm that the surface beneath was what he had suspected---Chicago brick, which had been the city's main building material for generations. It differed from the brick used in most current construction in that it was solid, as opposed to emulating concrete blocks by being partially hollow. Chicago brick was considered so valuable that several companies in the city specialized in salvaging and recycling it.
Scalloped wooden gingerbread ran along the eaves, but because they were also painted white, he had to look closely to see its detail, which he liked. He envisioned wooden shutters to accent the windows and noted there had apparently been shutters at one time, but that they had been removed. Non-working shutters were impractical, but they added a great deal to the appearance of a building.
He was tempted to circle the entire building, but thought it best to talk with the owners first.
Climbing the front steps, again checking for and making mental notes of existing or potential problems, he reached the beveled-glass front doors, beside which was a mail slot and, above the slot, a small panel of four buttons. Only two had names beside them. The two ground-level apartments, he'd noted, had their own individual doors and buzzers. Looking through the glass-paneled double door he saw a small, shallow foyer with another set of half-glass doors leading into the building proper. He could see a center stairway going up, flanked by one door on either side.
He pressed the button beside the name "Wolinski," and a moment later the right-hand inner door and a woman in her early sixties, whom he assumed to be Mrs. Wolinski, came toward him. Opening the outer door and smiling warmly, she extended her hand.
"Mr. Smith, I presume?"
Taking it and returning the smile, he said, "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Wolinski."
They passed through the small foyer between the two sets of double doors. The carpeted stairway in front of him was centered in the ten-by-eight-foot space and was flanked by an apartment door on either side.
She showed him into her apartment on the left side of the building. As he entered, a heavyset man seated in a chair against the far wall nodded and gave him a tired half-smile.
"Excuse me for not getting up," he said, "but the doctor doesn't want me doing much moving around."
Elliott crossed to him to shake hands. "No problem."
"Please have a seat," Mrs. Wolinski said, and he moved to the sofa and sat down. "Would you like some coffee? Tea?"
"I'm fine, thank you," he said pleasantly, and she settled on the other end of the sofa.
Elliott had just started to study the room as subtly as possible when he became aware that someone else was present. It was John, but Elliott had no idea as to what he was doing there.
Not feeling any need to ask why the Wolinski were selling, he said, "So, tell me a bit about the building."
The couple exchanged a glance, and Mrs. Wolinski said, "We bought it about three years ago, while Earl was still working as a real estate agent. The minute he saw it, he brought me over and we both fell in love with it. Our youngest had just graduated from college and taken a job in New York, and our other children are scattered around the country. So, we sold our home and bought this. We still love it," she hastened to add, "but with Earl's health, it's just too much for us."
"I understand," Elliott said. "I see that only three of the apartments seem to be occupied. Is there any particular reason?"
Again, an exchange of glances between husband and wife and an unexpectedly strong surge of John's presence.
"No," Mrs. Wolinski replied, though it was obvious she wasn't being truthful.
While he could understand an owner's reluctance to reveal problems with their property to a potential buyer, disclosure was mandatory by law.
"We'd never owned rental property before," Mrs. Wolinski went on, "and I'm afraid we didn't---and still don't---fully understand all the ins and outs of it. We really have no idea why our turnover rate was so high."
"You do have your tenants sign a lease, don't you?" he asked.
"Of course, but it appears they are about as watertight as a sieve."
"So, there is nothing physically wrong with the property?"
"No! Nothing serious. It needs a lot of cosmetic work, of course---what building this old doesn't? But there is nothing serious---plumbing, heating, electrical, all are old but have never given us any problem at all. Would you like me to show you around?"
Elliott decided to hold off further comments until he'd had a closer look at the place. "If you would, please."
He and Mrs. Wolinski got up.
"We'll be right back, Earl," she said as she picked up a set of keys off the lamp table beside her. "Is there anything you need before we go?"
Mr. Wolinski raised one hand off the arm of his chair to give a small wave. "No, I'm fine, thanks."
Elliott followed her out.
"We'll start with the ground apartment, if that's all right. One's occupied, but..."
"I understand," Elliott said. "No problem."
She kept talking as they descended the outer stairs and turned left to the door under the stairway. "All the apartments are two-bedroom except for this one. The space that would be the second bedroom is the utility room---we'll have to go around back to get in there."
He followed her into the apartment and was favorably impressed. A large living room with hardwood floors, nine-foot ceilings rather than the twelve-footers in the Wolinskis' apartment. The place needed painting, but there were no cracks or chips in the walls or ceilings. The kitchen appliances were old but clean; even the oven had apparently been cleaned either before or after the last tenant left. The bathroom, too, was good-sized, and while the fixtures were obviously old, they seemed in good order. There was no sign of plumbing problems or water damage. The bedroom was spacious with a big closet and a large barred window.
After leaving the apartment, they walked around the building to a door at the rear that led to the utility room containing the furnace, fuse boxes and various utility shut-offs. His practiced eye missed nothing, and he was pleased to have found nothing thus far that signaled a serious concern. So why, he wondered, the lack of tenants? Even though it was somewhat off the beaten track, he'd have thought people would be lined up to live in such a beautiful building.
As they climbed the front steps and reentered the building, the door opposite the Wolinskis' opened and a grandmotherly type came out, purse in hand. She smiled and nodded when she saw them, exchanging greetings with Mrs. Wolinski. Elliott held the inner door open for her as she left.
"That's Mrs. Reinerio," Mrs. Wolinski explained. "She's lived here for over twenty years. A really sweet woman. If we had four more tenants like her, we'd never consider selling."
He found that statement a bit puzzling, but said nothing.
They proceeded up the stairs, and the instant they reached the top, Elliott was again strongly aware of John. Though the doors to the two upper apartments were directly across the hall from one another, Elliott sensed him most strongly by the one to the left.
Mrs. Wolinski unlocked the apartment on the right.
Though he had not seen all of her apartment, he assumed all three apartments on the right half of the building probably had identical floor plans except for the one-bedroom ground floor. More well-kept hardwood floors showed a slight discoloration, indicating the previous presence of an area rug; a small dining room was adjacent to the kitchen, the bathroom across from the kitchen, and two good-sized bedrooms beyond. Crown moldings and door frames bore several layers of paint but looked otherwise unbroken or gouged. Slightly different appliances and fixtures indicated a renovation at some point in the past.
Back outside the apartment, Mrs. Wolinski started toward the stairs.
"Is this one occupied?" Elliott asked, indicating the door across the hall. He knew it wasn't, since he'd been told only three of the apartments were occupied---the Wolinskis', Mrs. Reinerio's, and the right-side ground level apartment.
Mrs. Wolinski appeared startled. "Oh. No, I'm sorry. It's the same floor plan as ours and the ground-floor, only reversed. But if you'd like to see it..."
He smiled. "If you wouldn't mind."
It was, indeed, a mirror image of the others, and in the same overall good condition. Everything seemed in working order; he tried the stove, ran water in the kitchen sink, tested all the ceiling lights, flushed the toilet and tested the bathroom faucets. All fine.
So, why was John following him around so closely?
They returned to the Wolinskis' apartment.
"What did you think?" Mr. Wolinski asked.
"Very nice," Elliott replied, taking, at Mrs. Wolinskis' invitation, his previous position on the sofa. "But I'm really curious about your tenant turnover rate. There has to be a reason for it."
Again husband and wife exchanged glances before Mrs. Wolinski spoke.
"Two of them had job transfers out of town..."
Which struck Elliott as a bit unlikely.
"...one claimed his car had been broken into and he was concerned about neighborhood crime, though there really isn't any that we've noticed. And the others had various reasons. We probably could have tried harder to hold them to their leases, but it didn't seem right. If they wanted to move, it wouldn't be fair of us to try to force them to stay."
"But no problems with, in, or around the building itself?" Elliott persisted.
Mr. Wolinski sighed and nodded in response to his wife's look.
"Well, there might be a reason, though it's really a very silly one," she said.
"That being...?"
"I'm not sure exactly why or how, but apparently someone has been getting into the building. We have no idea how, and we've changed all the exterior door locks at least three times."
"So, you've had breakins?"
Both the Wolinskis shook their heads, but as usual it was Mrs. Wolinski who replied, "No! Not at all!"
"Then how do you know someone's getting into the building?"
Sighing, she said, "It has to be some neighborhood prankster---that's the only thing we can think of."
"What do they do?"
"Nothing, really. They just knock on the door. And whoever answers it finds no one there."
"Someone knocks on the door?" Elliott asked, thoroughly puzzled.
Mrs. Wolinski nodded. "That's it. Someone gets in, all times of day or night, and all they do is knock on the door, and when the tenant goes to answer it, no one's there. It's frustrating, and particularly so when it happens in the middle of the night. We'd planned on installing security cameras, but with Earl's illness..."
Elliott's immediate thought was that there was some structural abnormality in the building---temperature-related expansions or contractions, possibly---that created a sound like knocking. "Any particular apartment, or all of them? And you're sure the sound is coming from the door?"
"Definitely. It's a very distinctive sound. And there is no pattern to it as to time or which apartment. Sometimes there will be several in one day, other times weeks will go by with nothing. There has to be a simple, logical explanation, and I'm sure someone smarter than we are can and will figure it out, but..."
Elliott was equal parts disturbed and intrigued, especially considering his awareness of John.
"We've even called the police," Mr. Wolinski said, "but there's really nothing they can do. They said they'd keep an eye on the building, but that's about it."
"I do hope this won't dissuade you from your interest in the building," Mrs. Wolinski added, and Elliott could hear the concern in her voice.
"No, of course not," he replied. Even the slightest hint of desperation on the part of a seller normally would have sent him packing. That it didn't in this case he attributed to a combination of being able to understand the Wolinskis' situation and, though he had no idea why, the fact that John was involved.
They talked a while longer about general information on the building: average maintenance and operating costs and heat, water, taxes, assessments, and so on. Elliott was pleased and impressed to discover the Wolinskis had anticipated these questions and had most of the relevant information, bills, forms and papers ready. Mr. Wolinski expressed concern that whoever bought the property would not merely to raze it and put up more condominiums, and Elliott assured him of his own interest in preserving Chicago's architectural heritage through restoration.
Finally, realizing it was time for him to leave, he said, "Have you determined an asking price yet?"
Mr. Wolinski shook his head. "No," he said, "we've only recently definitely decided to sell. We haven't come up with a specific figure yet."
Elliott nodded. "I understand," he said, and he did. "Why don't you come up with one and call me." He took another card out of his shirt pocket and wrote his cell phone number under the printed land-line number, handing it to Mrs. Wolinski. "I can't guarantee anything at this point, but if everything goes well, the next step is for me to have my crew do an inspection. But let's take it one step at a time. I'll look forward to your call."
Getting up, he went to shake hands with Mr. Wolinski then followed Mrs. Wolinski to the door, where he exchanged a handshake and repeated he would be awaiting their call.
On the drive home, he replayed his mental video of the property. That Mr. Wolinski had been a real estate agent indicated the property was sound or they never would have bought it in the first place. And, assuming the ground floor apartment he'd not seen and the rest of the Wolinskis' own unit and Mrs ... Reinerio's ... were in the same basic condition as the empty units, he was, overall, pleased.
There were, of course, innumerable minor things that would have to be repaired or replaced, plus the more substantial changes and alterations he would want to make in order to turn the property into what he already envisioned it could be.
The bricks would have to be sandblasted to remove the white paint and return them to their original condition, which was likely having an influence on his uncharacteristic haste---with winter coming, he'd like to have it finished as soon as possible. He was curious whether the rest of the bricks matched the one he'd seen. The exteriors of many Chicago brick structures had a subtle mottling created by bricks of many different shades. The ornate exterior woodwork needed refinishing, but looked to be in better-than-average shape.
He tried very hard to keep John out of the equation, though he kept coming back to the question of why he had been there. That he had focused on that one particular apartment on the second floor puzzled Elliott, as did the fact that Mrs. Wolinski had seemed a bit reluctant to show the unit to him. After entering and going through it, he hadn't seen or felt anything out of the ordinary---other than John, of course.
The door knocking was also puzzling, although he knew sounds, by their very nature, could often play tricks. The "knockings" were most likely, as he had first concluded, attributable to some weather-related expansion and contraction of the structure or some minor problem involving the heating system or water pipes---though he doubted the heat would be on at this time of year.
The bottom line was that he truly liked the building and saw a lot of potential. As always, he tallied up the cost of renovation against the to-be-reasonably-expected return it could bring. A building like this one, lovingly restored, could be sold for a considerable profit. And because he relied on his own labor and that of a small team of regular subcontractors, he could bring a project in much less expensively than a larger organization could.
After dinner he called Steve to report on his meeting with the Wolinskis. He did not, of course, mention John's showing up, or the unexplained door-knocking.
"That's great," Steve said. "As a matter of fact, I was just starting to do my first preliminaries on it. I'll have to go by and look at it several more times and at different times of day---which is kind of hard when I work all day---but I think I'll go over there tomorrow as soon as I get home. Do you think you might go for it?"
"I'm leaning that way, and that sort of worries me. It's not like me to rush into things. The last time I did it was on the Sheffield property, and we know where that led." He was referring to a project he'd been involved in when he met Steve, and which had turned into a disaster---literally.
"Well, I really hope you're not letting my enthusiasm for the place influence your decision," Steve said.
"Of course not, though it didn't hurt. I value your opinion."
"Flattery will get you anywhere," Steve joked. "But if you like it, I hope you'll go for it."
"Yeah, well, we'll wait to see what they come up with for an asking price."
They talked for a few more minutes, then Elliott spent the rest of the evening watching TV and jotting down ideas and notes on estimated costs for the prospective new property. Not for the first time, it struck him as more than a little ironic that someone as devoted as he was to preserving the charm and beauty of old apartment buildings, and who fought so hard against the condominiumization---if there was such a word, which he doubted---of the city, chose to live in a 35th-floor modern condo.
He went to bed right after the ten o'clock news, hoping to hear from John, whom he'd not been aware of since leaving the Wolinski place.
Few things are more difficult that trying to go to sleep, but he realized he'd finally done so when...
---It's a nice building.
---Yeah, it really is. What were you doing there?
---I'm not quite sure. There's something ... someone ... there, I think.
---You think? By 'someone' you mean ... uh ... like you?
Elliott experienced the slight tingling sensation that was John's laughter.
---That's a diplomatic way of putting it, but yes, I think so.
---How can you not be sure?
Again the sensation of laughter.
---Where I am is really a lot different from where you are, so it's almost impossible to explain. I'm not sure of a lot of things yet myself. Let's just say that if someone is there, either he isn't aware I'm there as well, or he's preoccupied.
---Preoccupied? Talk about an interesting way of putting things. Is he---Is it a he?---responsible for the door-knocking?
---Yes, I'm pretty sure he's a he, and I'd imagine he's behind the knocking. I have no idea why, of course, but I'll try to find out more, if I can get his attention.
---I'd appreciate that.
---No problem. This is fun.
---I'm glad you're enjoying it.
---Oh, I am.
The next three days were taken up with seeing to the finishing touches on his current project, with which he was quite pleased. Sandblasting the paint from the sandstone-block structure, combined with adding new windows, entrance door, trim and other small decorative touches, had converted the building from stodgy and nondescript to eye-grabbing while still maintaining its original character. The project had run slightly over budget, but Elliott felt it was well worth it, and was certain it would still produce a decent profit, which was all he expected. Even so, there were definite advantages to being independently wealthy, he had to admit.
He put in a call to Larry Fingerhood, the real estate broker who handled the listings for his properties, to set up an appointment so Larry could see the finished project and discuss the details and timing of the listing. He also arranged for Thad Baxter, a professional photographer friend, to come by and get still photos and a video.
He and Thad had known each other for some time, had dated for a while then remained casual friends. When he learned Thad was interested in an apartment in one of the properties Elliott couldn't bear to part with after renovating it, he offered him a substantially reduced rent in exchange for photography and videotaping service on the renovation projects. Thad had jumped at it, and this would be the first test of the arrangement.
He was far too busy to let the fact he had slept soundly for the past three nights with no visit from John be of much concern, though he was mildly curious as to what was going on.
Thursday afternoon, just as he was getting ready to head home, his cell phone rang.
"Mr. Smith, this is Eleanor Wolinski. My husband and I have settled on a price we consider fair."
She quoted a figure that was considerably lower than Elliott had expected, considering Mr. Wolinski's real estate background and knowledge of property values. He didn't want to come right out and say that he knew pretty well what properties in that area were going for, and the quoted price was just barely above the average.
As though reading his mind, she said, "We realize we could ask for more, but to be honest with you, Mr. Smith, given the state of my husband's health, we just don't want to go through all the hassle. There's a building just down the street that's been for sale for nearly a year. We don't want to wait that long to sell ours, and my husband was impressed with your devotion to preserving the city's heritage."
Again feeling slightly conflicted, he said, "Well, I tell you what. Why don't I bring my team over to look through the place, and you and your husband think about whether you're sure you're happy with that asking price?"
"When would you like to come over?"
"Let me check and get back to you by noon tomorrow."
"That will be fine. I'll look forward to your call."
Too fast, Elliott told himself as he returned to work. This was a building, not an impulse purchase at the supermarket. And he wondered just how much of his going along with it was due to John's whatever-it-might-be involvement. He had resolved, to his own satisfaction, that John was not just some mental aberration resulting from the head trauma he'd suffered just before John entered his life, but he was still a little uncomfortable with the thought that John might be influencing his actions.
He took some comfort in knowing that, if the Wolinskis were trying to keep some problem with the property from him, a careful inspection by his work team would find it, and he could simply walk away. The older couple had struck him as decent people, and the state of Mr. Wolinski's health was fairly obvious; he could understand their desire to get out from under the various responsibilities that came with owning rental property.
Back at the current project, he waited until Arnie Echter, his electrician, returned from a run to the hardware store then called his team---Arnie, plumber Ted Swanson and carpenter Sam Bryte---together to tell them about the Wolinskis' building and arrange for them all to go as a group to take a look at it. Since both the plumbing and electrical work here would be wrapped up by the weekend, leaving only the sanding and refinishing of the third-floor apartment floors and minor touch-up work to be done, they agreed to meet at the Wolinskis' on Monday morning.
Elliott resisted the temptation---and was mildly annoyed at himself for even having it---to call Mrs. Wolinski back then and there. He'd told her he'd call on Friday, and two days would be plenty of time. The last thing he wanted was to appear as eager to buy as the Wolinski were to sell.
Steve called shortly after Elliott got home Thursday night to ask if he'd like to go to a movie Friday, and Elliott readily agreed.
"I did some more sketches of the building last night after work," Steve said, "and I think I'll start on the painting Saturday. Have you given any more thought to buying it? The more I see it the more I like it, but..."
"But what?" Elliott asked when Steve didn't immediately finish his sentence.
"This probably sounds silly, but do you get ... I don't know how to put it exactly..." There was another pause.
"Get what?" Elliott prompted, puzzled.
"Well," Steve finally continued, "I get a really strong sense of ... sadness? ... about it. Obviously, you don't."
"No," Elliott agreed. "I can't say that I do. But then, I'm not an artist. It probably just has something to do with the fact that it needs a lot of work, and the yard's unkempt, and..."
"Yeah, that's probably it," Steve said. "And that's probably partly what draws me to it. I do hope you get it---I'd love to see what you do with it. But still, it fascinates me just the way it is."
Elliott filled him in on his meeting with the Wolinskis and the current status of the situation.
"So," he said, "we'll see what the guys have to say about it after we've gone through the place with a fine-tooth comb. I'll keep you posted."
After they'd hung up, Elliott wondered idly if Steve's comments about sensing sadness around the building might possibly be related to of John's strong presence near the door on the second floor.
Friday morning, Elliott met with Larry for a walk-through of the nearly completed project and to discuss the asking price and other details involved in putting the property up for sale. They'd done it so often it was a fairly routine process. Thad Baxter was scheduled to come to do the photography and video tour the following Tuesday.
He waited until after lunch to call the Wolinskis to set up the Monday inspection, and reflected momentarily on how smoothly everything was going. People had frequently commented on his good luck, but Elliott preferred to think of it as simply a matter of his always trying to anticipate potential problems and eliminate them before they had a chance to arise.
The day went smoothly, as did his evening with Steve.
Because Steve wanted to get an early start Saturday on his new painting, they spent the night at his place, and Elliott left right after a quick breakfast. On his way out, he casually mentioned that he was thinking of making a pot roast for dinner, if Steve would like to join him.
"Sounds good," Steve said. "What time?"
Life, Elliott decided, was good.
---You'll like it.
---Like what?
---The new painting.
---I'm sure I will. I like all of Steve's work.
---I know.
---You've been pretty quiet lately. Have you found out anything about the building?
---Some, but not much. Someone's there, but I haven't connected with him yet.
---Can you tell anything at all about him?
---Just that he's very sad. And very confused. Trying to get to him is like walking through an emotional tornado. But I think he's waiting for something.
---For what?
---I have no idea. But whatever it is, he's totally consumed by it.
---I'm not sure I like the sound of that.
---I don't think you have to worry. I didn't sense any evil intent, just sorrow.
He felt Steve's hand on his chest and opened his eyes, turning his head to find Steve staring at him.
"You were talking in your sleep again."
"I'm sorry! Did I wake you?"
Steve shook his head. "No, I was having an odd dream, and I woke up and heard you mumbling."
"What was I saying?" Elliott asked, as always recalling all of his conversation with John.
"I couldn't make it out." Steve slowly moving his hand back and forth across Elliott's chest. "You said something about not being sure you liked something. Maybe you're having second thoughts about the building?"
"No, not at all." He hoped Steve wouldn't pursue it. Turning slightly toward him, he stroked his shoulder and arm.
They didn't say anything for a moment. Then Steve said, "Well, since we're both awake, it seems kind of a shame to waste a good wake-up." He pulled Elliott toward him.
"Don't you ever get enough?" Sensing John was gone, he wrapped his arms around Steve, pulling him closer.
"No. Do you?"
"What do you think?" Elliott asked, throwing back the sheet.
Arriving at the Wolinskis' a few minutes before eight on Monday morning, as they were having breakfast, he collected the keys for the utility area and empty apartments. Mrs. Wolinski told him the ground-floor tenant was at work but had given his okay for them to go in, and that Mrs. Reinerio would be expecting them.
He then went out front to await the arrival of his crew. When they were all there, they first did a walk-around of the outside and yard, then went into the utility area. Elliott had noted earlier there was no laundry room, and made a mental note to consider adding one. Arnie and Ted checked out the furnace, hot water heaters and electrical systems while Sam did an inspection of the wood framing, floor joists, foundation and walls.
Returning to the front of the building, they began their inspection of the vacant apartments, starting with the two-bedroom ground-level apartment on the right then moving to the other. Bypassing the first floor, they moved up to the second. Immediately upon reaching the top of the stairs, Elliott was aware John was there, by the door on the left as he had been before.
When they entered that unit, he once again tried to sense anything or anyone other than John. There was nothing. It was just an empty apartment. He didn't know what he'd expected---there were no "cold spots," no sense of the sadness both Steve and John had described. None of the traditional accouterments of the paranormal Elliott had come to expect from watching TV and the movies. In a way, he was relieved, taking it as reassurance that, other than his contact with John, he didn't have any special gifts or talents out of the ordinary.
Each of the crew had been taking notes on their general impressions as well as on those things within their specific areas of expertise, and they agreed, upon finishing the inspection of both top-floor apartments, that there were no major or unexpected problems so far. Elliott gave momentary thought to just skipping the Wolinskis' apartment and that of Mrs. Reinerio, but his habit of thoroughness dictated that they do so.
Knocking on Mrs. Reinerio's door, he was suddenly reminded of the issue of the mysterious knocks. He'd not mentioned it to the crew, of course, though he had emphasized that they should keep an eye out for any signs of structural flaws.
Mrs. Reinerio opened the door---looking, Elliott noted, like the grandmother in a Norman Rockwell painting---and invited them all in. When she closed the door behind her, she motioned him closer and said, "You're not going to make me move, are you?"
"I have no intention of it," he replied, smiling and hoping it would be true. He did not point out that, once the property had been resold, he had no control over the new owners' actions.
Apparently satisfied, she returned his smile and said, "Would anyone like some coffee?"
Caught unawares by this unexpected courtesy, Ted, Arnie and Sam looked at Elliott, who said, "That's very kind of you, Mrs. Reinerio, but I'm afraid we've got a very busy morning ahead. A raincheck would be nice, though."
Thoroughly charmed, the old woman nodded. "Of course. And please, call me Louisa."
They moved quickly through the apartment then, thanking her for her kindness, left and went across the hall to the Wolinskis'.
The inspection completed, they all drove individually to the current worksite, where they held an informal meeting in the first-floor flat, each man going over his notes with Elliott. There was nothing they had spotted he had not, and the consensus was that it would be a worthwhile project with exceptional potential. Satisfied, he thanked them, and they all returned to work.
Because he never allowed his mind to wander while he was working, it was not until Elliott was in his car and on the way home that the thought occurred to him---if he had no special talents when it came to the paranormal, why was he so eager to get involved with a building that might very well involve him in it? A question without an answer, but with sufficient hidden implications to bother him.
Cessy had called him on his cell phone shortly after lunch to invite him to dinner that evening. While he'd intended to finish off the pot roast from Saturday, he realized he'd not had Dinner at the Priebes' for several weeks, and accepted.
Although Cessy and Brad lived relatively close to his current job site, he decided to drive home first to change clothes and wash up.
He arrived just as Brad, his police-detective brother-in-law, was pulling into the driveway. Elliott waited for him to get out of the car then followed him down the side of the house to the back door---the front door, Brad often joked, was "for company."
After exchanged greetings with Cessy and Jenny, his eight-year-old niece---who, as usual, came running down from her upstairs bedroom the minute she heard his voice---he went over to lift baby Sandy out of her highchair and give her a big kiss. As always, she rewarded him by putting her arms around his neck and giving him a one-year-old's equivalent of a hug.
"Where's BJ?" he asked.
"He's over at a friend's," Cessy said from her position at the stove, where she was stirring a large pot of beef stew. "He'll be home shortly."
Brad had gone to the refrigerator to extract two beers, and motioned for Elliott to follow him into the living room. Jenny followed close behind, telling them of her latest adventures at school, to which Elliott listened attentively.
"Why don't you go finish your homework, honey?" Brad suggested as the men sat down. "We'll be eating soon."
Reluctantly, Jenny went back up the stairs.
"So," Brad said, taking a long drink from his beer, "solved any good murders lately?"
This had become part of their having-a-beer-together ritual since Elliott had been instrumental in helping the police solve John's murder. He had never let Brad know it was only with John's cooperation and assistance he'd been able to do so, and Brad was still both puzzled by and somewhat suspicious of how Elliott could have known what he knew about John's death.
"One murder was enough for me, thanks," was Elliott's standard reply, and it was true---he had no idea how Brad, as a member of the homicide division, could deal with violence and death day after day without burning out totally.
The entrance of Elliott's nephew BJ, and Cessy's announcement that dinner was ready, put an end to any further conversation on that subject.
Arriving home just before the late news, Elliott went to bed shortly thereafter.
---Poor guy.
---Who?
---The guy in the apartment.
---Ah, yeah, him. Was he there today?
---He's always there. Remember how at first all I could convey to you was that my name was John? All I can get from him is the name "Bill," but I don't think that's his own name, so I'd guess that's who he's waiting for. I feel really sorry for him.
---Any idea of who this Bill might be, or why he's waiting for him?
---I don't know yet. But he's been waiting a long time. As I said, he's like a tornado of emotions, but grief is the strongest.
---Then how come I wasn't aware of him? I sensed you the minute I woke up in the hospital.
---That's because I really wanted you to know I was there. I don't think this guy is even aware of you. There's really no reason why he should be.
---But he's aware of you, I hope.
---I think so. Peripherally, anyway. He's really confused. Not being corporeal is incredibly difficult for some of us.
---You managed.
---Yes, and you know how long it took me. We're all different, whether we have a physical body or not. Unfortunately, there's no Handbook for the Corporeally Challenged.
---Is there such a word as corporeally?
Elliott felt the tingling of John's laughter.
---There is now.
---So, what now?
---We'll just have to wait and see. I get the feeling he knows he's not as he was, but doesn't know what to do about it. And there's this overwhelming sadness that I don't think is related to his current condition. I'll just have to be patient. As I said, I do think he knows I'm there; that's about all I can do for now. Oh, and before I go---you'll definitely like Steve's painting.
And it was morning again.
He debated only briefly, as he had breakfast and packed his lunch, on whether he should hold off a day or so before getting back to the Wolinskis with an offer, but realized that was pointless---the Wolinski wanted badly to sell, his crew had given the building their approval, winter was rapidly approaching and if he intended to get the sandblasting done while the weather would still allow, there wasn't much time for games.
He called as soon as he got to the Roscoe building. After verifying with Mrs. Wolinski that the price she had quoted him was one they could live with, he said he would be in contact with his lawyer to draw up the papers.
Normally, with a property that had been listed by a Realtor, he'd have asked Larry Fingerhood to handle the matter for him, but this transaction, he felt, fell under the purview of Ken Atkins, a lawyer versed in real estate with whom he'd worked on a few similar situations in the past. As soon as he hung up, he called Ken with the basic information he would need to get the transaction underway.
The week passed in a blur of details, each one handled as it arose and then let go to move on to the next. The Roscoe building was finished. Thad had done his video and photo tour of the house, presenting Elliott with a copy on Friday after dropping the original off at Larry Fingerhood's office. Larry had officially listed the property on Wednesday and had put his sign in the yard. He was planning an open house for other brokers on Sunday.
Elliott had talked to Steve a couple of times, and Steve apparently was totally preoccupied with the painting, to the point that he told Elliott on Thursday he'd only had three hours' sleep the night before.
"I swear I didn't realize the time! I just get so caught up in what I'm doing..."
"Well, I know what you're going to get for Christmas," Elliott said.
"Yeah? What's that?"
"A grandfather clock that chimes every fifteen minutes."
"Great idea, but tell me---how aware are you of the noise from the el three blocks away?"
"I never hear it," Elliott admitted.
"I rest my case," Steve said. "But thanks for your concern."
"How's the picture coming? I'm really anxious to see it."
"Almost done. If I can spend all day Saturday on it maybe we can take it out to dinner."
"That means Friday night's off, I take it?" Elliott asked, and immediately wished he hadn't. It could be interpreted as sounding a little piqued.
"You know how I hate to say no," Steve said, "but when I'm in my champing-at-the-bit mode I'm pretty lousy company."
"I understand," Elliott said. "I've champed at a bit a couple of times myself."
"I'm sure you have," Steve laughed.
They left it with tentative plans for dinner Saturday night, and Steve's promise to call by noon Saturday to verify.
He didn't have to check his caller ID when the phone rang exactly at noon on Saturday.
"Done?" he asked as he picked up the phone, not bothering with a "Hi, Steve."
"Done!" Steve said. He sounded both elated and tired.
"Congratulations! Did you get any sleep last night?"
"Not much, but I'm thinking of lying down for a couple of hours now. I wanted to call you first."
"I appreciate that," Elliott replied. "So, you think you're up for dinner, then?"
"Sure. I'll be fine after a couple more hours of sleep. I can meet you somewhere, or pick you up, or if you want to see the picture, you can come over here about seven to take a look at it."
"You know I want to see the picture," Elliott said, "so, seven it is. Now, go get some sleep."
He stopped on the way to Steve's to pick up a small bottle of champagne, and Steve greeted him at the door wet-haired and naked except for a towel around his waist.
"Come on in," he said, stepping back to open the door fully. "I just got out of the shower, as you might possibly have guessed." He gave Elliott a one-armed hug, then took the proffered bottle with thanks and moved to the kitchen to put it in the refrigerator, with Elliott following.
"Let me get dressed," Steve said, "then I'll give you a look at the painting, and if you like it, we can open the champagne and have a toast."
Elliott followed him closely into the bedroom, wrapping his arms around Steve's waist and removing his hand from the towel, which dropped to the floor.
Steve turned to face him, giving him one of those smiles that made him weak in the knees. "Something I can do for you?" he asked.
"As a matter of fact, there is," Elliott said, placing his hands on Steve's shoulders and easing him backward onto the bed.
"Well, so much for going out for dinner," Steve said with a grin, propping his head on his bent arm. "You want to call out for a pizza?"
"Sounds great to me," Elliott replied. "Nothin' like champagne and pizza, I always say."
"Hey, so we're decadent," Steve said. "We're entitled."
"That we are," Elliott agreed, swinging out of bed. "Bathroom time," he said, reaching for his shorts. "And I want to see that painting."
"Oh, yeah, the painting!" Steve said, also getting up. "I almost forgot."
"Bullshit," Elliott said over his shoulder as he walked into the bathroom. "And I didn't forget it, either. I just got a little distracted. You've got to remember not to be so damned sexy and never, never meet me at the door in a towel if you know what's good for you."
"Yeah, well, I do know what's good for me. Why do you think I met you at the door in a towel?"
They both laughed as Elliott flushed the toilet and returned to the bedroom.
Finished dressing, he said, "So, the picture."
"Right this way," Steve replied, heading into the hall.
Reaching through the partly open door to turn on the light in the room he used as his studio, he gave an arm-sweeping "after you" gesture, and they entered. The painting stood on an easel in the center of the room, facing away from them.
"Wait here," Steve said, going to the easel and turning it around so Elliott could see the painting. "Ta-da!"
Elliott stood there for long moments staring at it, then slowly shook his head. "How in the hell do you do it?" he said. "It's ... fantastic! How come you didn't have it covered with a white cloth and whip it off?"
Steve grinned. "Because it's an oil, and oil takes a long time to dry. I didn't want to risk putting anything over it and smearing the paint. But you like it?"
Elliott walked over to hug him tightly.
"I want it!" he said.
"It's yours."
"Oh, no, you don't," Elliott said. "I want it, but only if you'll let me buy it. And I'm serious. You can't just go around giving your work away. Pretend I'm just another of your art patrons. Please."
Steve sighed and grinned. "Well, we'll talk about it later," he said, and Elliott moved closer to the painting to get a better look.
Then he saw it.
Steve almost never put people in his paintings, but he had in this one, and Elliott felt an almost electric shock---a double shock, actually---of realization. The first was the sudden powerful awareness of John's presence. The second was that, while the features were indistinguishable, the person in the picture was a man, standing in the far-left window of the top floor, the apartment that had so intrigued John. One hand held back a curtain, and he looked out into the street as if he were waiting for someone.
"What's wrong?" he heard Steve saying. "Are you okay? You turned pale as a ghost there for a second."
"I'm fine!" Elliott managed. "I was just ... surprised ... to see you put someone in your painting. I can't remember your ever doing that, unless it was a portrait."
Steve pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. "Yeah, you're right. I really don't know why I put him in there, but the picture just didn't seem complete without him."
"Was there anyone in the window when you did your sketches?"
"No. I just felt he belonged there, somehow. Why do you ask?"
"No reason," Elliott lied.
Steve put his hand on Elliott's arm. "Maybe you're just hungry," he said. "Let's go order that pizza."
Steve was asleep long before Elliott was, but listening to his steady, soft breathing at last lulled him to sleep, too.
---That's Aaron.
---Who's Aaron?
---The man in the window.
---Ah, so you found out his name. Anything on this "Bill" he's waiting for?
---Nothing so far. Steve's really very ... perceptive, by the way. Not quite in the same way as you, but perceptive.
---What is this Aaron doing there, other than waiting?
---It's his apartment, that's what he's doing there.
---But he's de ... he's like you, now, right?
John laughed.
---That's all right, Elliott. You can use the word if you want to. There's way too much political correctness in the world these days.
---But he's aware of you now?
---I'm pretty sure he must be, but it's really so hard to tell. He's totally consumed with sadness and coming to terms with his present condition, so it's hard to connect with him. But I'll keep trying.
Elliott hated the waiting period between projects. He was not comfortable not working.
The Roscoe property was up for sale, the Wolinskis' building was in escrow, and nothing could be done until it closed. Because he wanted to be sure the sandblasting was completed before winter set in, he'd arranged for the shortest possible escrow, assuring the Wolinskis they would have an official ninety days from the start of the period before they had to move. He knew he could easily extend that if necessary---everything had happened so fast, the Wolinskis hadn't given much consideration to exactly where they would go. However, that wasn't really his concern.
The ground-floor tenant, upon hearing the building was being sold, had begun arrangements to relocate. What to do with Mrs. Reinerio was a different matter. He couldn't evict her, since she had a lease, even though it was up within three months, and he'd hate to do so even if he could. He could, however, switch her from her apartment into a refurbished one, inconvenient though that might be for his team; it was much easier and more logical to do all the plumbing work and kitchen renovation at once. Once the refinished building was sold, the status of her occupancy would be out of his hands. Even if the new owners might be very happy to have such a reliable tenant remain, the rents would undoubtedly go up, and Elliott had no idea of her financial status. Again, that wasn't his concern, but it did bother him. If worse came to worst, he would offer her an availability in one of the buildings he owned.
It bothered him at times that he became so concerned over displacing tenants. He considered himself a pragmatic businessman, though most businessmen, he knew, couldn't afford the luxury of becoming involved in such matters. And even though he could afford it, it wasn't good business practice. So, he tried to deal with each situation as it arose.
He occupied his time sketching out his ideas for the building, meeting several times with his work crew who, as independent contractors, always had plenty to keep them working fulltime, lining up a company to do the sandblasting, and a variety of other chores he knew would bore most people to the point of having their eyes glaze over. He, on the contrary, truly enjoyed it.
While he made it a policy to have as little contact as possible with a building's tenants during the escrow period, he felt for some reason compelled to talk with Mrs. Reinerio regarding her options. He didn't have her phone number, so he called the Wolinskis to ask for it, and to let them know of his intentions so they'd not think it strange for him to showing up. As he expected, they had no objections.
Mrs. Wolinski reported they had found a small condo in a new retirement complex and would be moving within a month of the closing of escrow. He then called Mrs. Reinerio, who said she would be happy to talk with him, and would be home all day.
He drove over after lunch, noting that the weather was definitely turning cooler. Escrow was to close on a Tuesday; but badly as he wanted to get to work immediately, he knew that last-minute glitches often pushed the close back a day or so. To be on the safe side, he'd made arrangements for the sandblasters to come on the Monday following the official close date. He was fairly sure they could easily complete the work before the weather got too bad, but this was Chicago, and he didn't want to take any chances.
He was curious, too, about street parking around the new property during the day, and was relieved to see it wasn't too difficult to find a space. He took his time walking up to the building, pausing again to look at its neighbors. He was pleased to confirm his earlier observation that the entire block appeared to be relatively well maintained.
Climbing the steps to the front door, he rang Mrs. Reinerio's buzzer. She had opened her door by the time he entered the hall.
"Come in, Mr. Smith," she said, warmly.
"Elliott, please." He followed her inside, waiting as she closed the door behind him.
"Please, sit," she said. "May I get you some coffee?"
"If you have some made," he replied, taking the indicated chair.
"Of course. I'll only be a moment."
While she was gone, Elliott looked around. He'd seen the apartment during the inspection tour, but now had a chance to concentrate on some of the individual elements in the room. It was, he decided, definitely a grandmother's apartment---comfortable, neat, clean, and heavy with an indefinable air of the past.
Mrs. Reinerio returned a few minutes later with a tray on which were two coffee mugs ("I don't hold much on ceremony," she said), a creamer, sugar bowl, and a small plate with several pieces of coffee cake. She put it on the coffee table in front of him.
Waiting until she had taken a seat across from him, Elliott got right to the point of his visit. He outlined what he perceived to be her options, emphasizing that he was renovating the building for resale, and that a rent increase under the new owners was almost inevitable.
She sighed. "I was afraid of that," she said, looking into her coffee, then hastily added, "I know it's not your fault, and that nothing is forever, but I've lived here for twenty-five years now, and..."
"I understand," Elliott said, and he felt he truly did. He then went on to tell her about one of his own rental properties that had a vacancy at a comparable rent, and that he would be pleased to have her as a tenant. He assured her he would be happy to assist if she needed help with the move itself.
"That's very kind of you, Elliott," she said. "Can I have a little time to think it over?"
"Certainly. I just wanted---"
There was a knock at the door, which Mrs. Reinerio apparently did not hear, since she showed no reaction to it.
"I think there's someone at the door," he said after a moment.
She looked at him and smiled. "Oh, it's nothing," she said. "It's just Aaron. I recognize the knock."
A shiver ran from the top of his head to his toes.
"Aaron?" John had already told him, of course, but confirmation from someone with a pulse still startled him.
Her smile never faded, and there was no change in the casual tone of her voice as she said, "Aaron Stiles. He lives ... lived ... upstairs. He died four years ago, poor dear."
"So you're saying..." Elliott finally managed to say.
She put her cup down and looked at him. "Yes," she said pleasantly, "I'm afraid you've bought yourself a slightly haunted house."
Elliott took a long sip of his coffee before saying, as conversationally as he could, "Well, that is interesting. Tell me a little about Aaron."
She sat back, laying her arms casually on the arms of her chair. "It's an incredibly sad story, I'm afraid. He was such a sweet young man. He moved in about six years ago. He was very quiet and rather lonely, I suspect. But he was always pleasant and helpful whenever anyone needed anything, and everyone loved him.
"Aaron never talked much about his past, but from what I was able to gather, he must have had a very sad life. He mentioned once that his parents died when he was quite young and left him with the responsibility of raising a younger brother, about whom he never spoke.
"Then, about a year before he died, he found a ... friend ... who subsequently moved in with him. I'd never seen Aaron happier! They seemed truly devoted to one another. I think they were even planning to buy a house together. And then, one day, his friend just disappeared and never came back. Poor Aaron was devastated. Two weeks later, he died. I gather he had a congenital heart condition that had plagued him all his life. But if you ask me, I think he died, quite literally, of a broken heart."
Elliott shook his head slowly but said nothing. He felt there was nothing he could say.
"But why the knocking?" he asked finally.
She sighed again, softly. "The day after Bill---that was the friend's name, Bill Somers---disappeared, Aaron went around to all the apartments to ask if any of us might have heard from him. None of us had, of course. But every few days he would come around again. I think he is still looking."
Just as Elliott opened his mouth to ask another question, Mrs. Reinerio's phone rang, and she rose to answer it.
"Ellen, dear! It's so good to hear from you!" She paused to look at Elliott, covering the mouthpiece with one hand. "It's my daughter from Los Angeles," she said. "We've not talked in some time."
Taking the hint, he got out of his chair. "I won't keep you, then," he said, outwardly casual but inwardly cursing the interruption. "Perhaps we can talk more later."
"I'd like that, Elliott. Thank you for stopping by." Removing her hand from the mouthpiece, she resumed her conversation with her daughter as he let himself out.
He was frustrated by the sense he had merely scratched the surface of Aaron's story, and wanted to know more. What about this Bill---the one Aaron was still waiting for? What happened between them? Why had Bill left?
He had the sudden urge to track him down and ask him for the full story, but he dismissed the idea for several reasons, telling himself he was not a detective, that he wouldn't know where to start looking, and that the whole thing was really none of his business. He rethought that last objection, however, and decided that having purchased a "haunted" building made it very much his business.
He did, however, fully understand now what John had said about Aaron's sadness, and he empathized.
He considered hanging around and returning to talk to Mrs. Reinerio but realized that was hardly practical and would undoubtedly cause her to question his reasons for the intense interest in a dead man.
As he left the building and was returning to his car, he couldn't resist the urge to turn around and seek out the top-floor apartment window in which Steve had painted the figure Elliott had no doubt whatsoever was Aaron. He didn't expect to see anyone, and he didn't. It was just a window of an empty apartment.
There was no possible way Steve could have known about Aaron, yet somehow, on some level, he obviously did. John had said Steve was "perceptive," and Elliott recalled at least two occasions while he was trying to find John's identity that he and Steve had identical dreams, and at the same time. He hadn't known what to make of it then, and he still didn't.
He had never told Steve---or anyone else---about John, and didn't know how or whether to bring up the subject of Aaron. It wasn't for fear Steve would think he was insane---Steve had clearly stated his own belief in ghosts. Part of it was that Elliott still wasn't completely sure he believed in ghosts---and most definitely not as most people thought of them. The vast majority of ghosts he had ever heard of seemed to be some sort of time/space anomaly, like a spectral movie clip, endlessly doing the same thing over and over and totally unaware of the living. Clearly, that wasn't John. Ghosts, to his knowledge, did not interact with the living, let alone talk to them. On the other hand, John had never appeared to him, and their conversations were limited to when Elliott was asleep.
And now there was Aaron, of whom Elliott had no direct personal awareness other than the knocking, which still could have some natural explanation. The only evidence he had that there even was still an Aaron was through John.
And Steve's painting.
And Mrs. Reinerio's interesting but unproven theory.
So, with John in the car with him as he drove home, he remained determined he would continue to keep John's existence to himself.
---You're ahead of me!
---How so?
---On the details about Bill. Aaron has wrapped himself in an almost impenetrable blanket of sadness, and now that I know what happened, I can understand why. But I'm having an incredibly hard time getting through to him. When I made him aware I knew about Bill, the few doors I'd been able to pry open slammed shut. I think it was just a defense mechanism on his part.
---What does he have to defend himself against? He's dead. Nothing can hurt him now.
---Imagine having the worst toothache pain you've ever experienced. You know the dentist wants to help you, but when he reaches for that tooth ... it's the fear of even more pain. Aaron's been in such pain for so long now ... he'll come around, I'm sure, when he realizes we want to help. He just has to do it at his own pace.
Elliott was sharply aware of John's use of the word we.
Several times in the ensuing days, Elliott was strongly tempted to return to the building to talk to Mrs. Reinerio again, but realized he really didn't have any logical reason to do so. He spoke to Steve nearly every night, and Steve was always, if uncharacteristically, curious as to what was happening with the project.
One of the things he most appreciated about Steve was that, while he enjoyed going out and being around other people, he didn't find it necessary to be constantly on the go. They frequently spent quiet evenings at each other's place watching TV or DVDs, so when Elliott suggested the Friday following his visit to Mrs. Reinerio that Steve come over for dinner, he readily agreed.
When he opened his door to Steve's knock, he was surprised to find him carrying a large flat package wrapped in kraft paper.
"What's this?" he asked, though he knew exactly what it was.
In the living room, Steve leaned the package against the sofa.
"Well," he said, "we have something of a problem. I know you want the painting of the house, and that you won't take it as a gift, so I decided to bring it over as a permanent loan for now. I really don't have anyplace to display it properly, and the colors will go great in here. Is it a deal?"
Elliott shook his head. "On one condition."
"Which is...?"
"Hold on a second, I'll be right back."
He left Steve standing by the sofa, looking puzzled, and went to the guest bedroom closet.
At his first gallery showing, Steve had reluctantly included a portrait of his HIV-positive brother Manny. Elliott had bought it, anonymously, with the intention of eventually returning it to its creator. He knew that, at that early point in their relationship, Steve would never accept it as a gift; and in any case, he hadn't wanted to make it appear he was trying to buy Steve's attention. He'd kept it in the closet so Steve wouldn't come across it on his visits but felt now was the time.
Bringing it into the living room, he kept the back of the canvas facing Steve then turned it around.
"What the...?" Steve managed to say.
"I'll take the house on permanent loan if you'll take Manny on the same terms."
"You bought it?" Steve asked, unbelieving. "They never told me who the buyer was, but I had no idea! I thought I'd never see it again. I ... Jesus!" He hurried over to throw his arms around Elliott, who managed to move the portrait to one side before he reached him. "Thank you, Ell."
They held each other silently for a full minute before they mutually broke the hug.
"Well," Elliott said, "now that that's settled, how about a drink?"
In the morning, just after they'd carried their coffee into the living room to sit side-by-side on the couch---a quick opening of the patio doors having shown it was a little too cool to sit outside---Steve made a slight gesture of his coffee cup toward the painting of the building. Elliott had immediately hung it over the credenza in the dining alcove so it could be seen from anywhere in the living area.
"I had a dream about that last night."
Immediately fully alert, Elliott tried to keep his voice casual as he asked, "Yeah? What was it about?"
"Hard to remember details," Steve replied, "but it had something to do with the guy in the window. I still don't know why I put him there, but I'm glad I did. Like I said, the picture wouldn't be complete without him."
"I think you're right." Elliott paused before asking, as casually as he could, "Anything specific you remember about the dream?"
Steve took a drink of his coffee and furrowed his brows, trying to recall. "It's really odd," he said, "but I had the weird feeling the guy's dead and doesn't know it."
Elliott deliberately took a drink before saying, "I wonder where you got that idea?"
Steve shrugged. "No clue. But remember I said something about the building having an air of sadness about it? I somehow linked that to the guy in the window. Don't ask me why."
He didn't have to. While he hadn't had a visit from John during the night, he wondered once again if John had connected with Steve---or if, more likely, Steve were subconsciously picking up things from him.
Either way, he was more than a little uncomfortable with the implications. Dealing with---even accepting the concept of---John had been hard enough, and had seriously shaken the foundations of his concepts of an orderly, logical world. To think that other people might be involved---or worse, that he was responsible for involving them---in this inexplicable new aspect of his life was truly disconcerting.
"Well," he forced himself to say finally, "interesting as they are, dreams are just dreams." He knew even as he said it that he was lying.
Steve gave him a smile Elliott took as being of mild amusement.
"If you say so," he said.
As the close of escrow approached, Elliott met several times with his crew to work out strategy and logistics. A call to the sandblasting firm verified they would be able to start when they'd originally said they would.
Sure enough, the date of closing was pushed back from Tuesday to late Friday afternoon because of a minor screw-up by the title company. Saturday morning, Elliott was at the property to do some sketches and measurements. The ground-floor tenant had moved out, and Mrs. Reinerio had called to tell him she had decided to stay on and take her chances with whomever he might sell it to. It was not the time to bring up the subject of Aaron, so he didn't.
He took the inconvenience of having to work around Mrs. Reinerio in stride, though he would have to change the work schedule to accommodate her. As soon as the Wolinskis were gone, he and his crew would concentrate on finishing that unit then move Mrs. Reinerio into it while work continued on the rest of the building. She'd agreed to make the move permanent, so they wouldn't have to take the time and trouble to move her back into her original place. In the meantime, the crew would start with the top floor and work their way down.
Arnie had wanted to come by after the closing to check on something with the kitchen light fixtures, and Elliott agreed to meet him. Letting him into the building and unlocking the doors to both second-floor apartments so he could move about as needed, Elliott made a run to a nearby Dunkin Donuts to bring back coffee and rolls.
Returned, he climbed the steps to the second floor, immediately aware of John. The door to Aaron's former apartment was ajar.
He started to enter but was stopped short by three quick, distinct raps on the door across the hall. Spinning around, he felt a shiver run through his body. He then heard three sharp raps on the partially open door from which he had just turned. Another spin around, another nothing. Below, on the first floor, he heard rapid-succession knocking on first the Wolinskis' door, then Mrs. Reinerio's. Three raps. No more. Exactly what he'd heard in Mrs. Reinerio's living room.
"Damn it!" he said, far more loudly and with far more vehemence than he'd intended.
"It's open!" Arnie called from within the apartment: and Elliott went in to find the three workmen busy in the kitchen.
Arnie grinned at him. "You don't have to knock. This is your place."
Elliott merely said "Sorry."
What the hell was going on? And what the hell had he gotten into? For an instant, he considered calling his lawyer and annulling the sale on the grounds that the Wolinskis had not given him all the pertinent information about the building. After a few deep breaths, he realized it was questionable whether a seller would have to report a haunting as a defect in the property. Furthermore, it wasn't as if he hadn't been aware of it from the beginning.
He also suspected the outburst he had just witnessed was just that---an outburst. But what had brought it on? Why now? And how many more incidents might there be?
Most disturbing to contemplate, though, was what else Aaron might be capable of other than rapping.
He tried to "summon" John. It had never worked before, and it didn't work now. While John was clearly nearby, his appearances were always at his own instigation, not Elliott's. With only two exceptions, every communication between them had been while Elliott was asleep, and there had never been even the slightest physical manifestation of his existence. But with Aaron...
Mrs. Reinerio apparently no longer responded to the rapping, and Elliott suspected the Wolinskis didn' either. They had all heard them often enough, as Mrs. Reinerio had indicated, that they simply ignored them. But even if the Wolinskis had deliberately offered a useful, if false, explanation for the knocking---the alleged intruders---Elliott knew he couldn't and wouldn't sell a building under such bizarre circumstances.
However reluctantly, he knew the only way he was going to get around Aaron's problem was to somehow help him resolve it, as he had done with John.
Though he had arranged to meet Steve for dinner, Elliott wanted to get to bed early, hoping John would show up to give him some idea what was going on.
That plan was shuffled to the side when, after dinner, Steve suggested they stop and rent a couple of gay porn videos---strictly, he explained, for the educational value the intro of every such video states is contained therein. Always willing to expand his breadth of knowledge, Elliott readily agreed, and as a result it was past two a.m. before they finally got to sleep.
---An enjoyable evening, I take it?
---Very. I needed it after today. What the hell was Aaron doing?
---I'm not sure even he knows. He's still far more emotion than reason. As far as today goes, from what I can gather his rational side is aware something is going on, but he's too caught up in his whirlpool of sadness to be able to do much about it.
---But why the knocking?
---Like a lot of ... people like me ... he hasn't figured things out yet, time being among them. Time's different for us than it is for you---it's not so rigid. I think as far as Aaron is concerned, it's still four years ago. His mind is in a today-tomorrow-yesterday world. I think he knocks on his neighbors' doors because he doesn't know they aren't there anymore, and hopes they might have heard from Bill.
Now that he's beginning to pull himself a little bit out of the whirlpool, he still doesn't know what's happening, exactly, just that things have changed, and I think that's only increasing his sense of panic. It's like looking for a loved one in a burning theater---he's frantic.
---What can we ... His own use of the word we and its implications wasn't lost on him ... do about it?
---I can't do too much, I'm afraid. But you can find Bill.
---And what if Bill did leave him?
---Then he'll at least know the truth. He won't feel he has to wait anymore.
Awakening to the smell of coffee, and noting that Steve wasn't in bed beside him, Elliott got up, put on his robe and padded down the hall to the living room. Steve stood in his shorts in front of the sliding doors to the balcony, coffee cup in hand, looking out on the city.
"Morning," Elliott said, heading for the kitchen.
Steve followed him for a refill.
"You want a robe?" Elliott asked, doing the pouring honors.
"Not unless you mind my nearly nekkid body sweating all over your furniture."
"You're sweating?" Elliott followed him back into the living room.
"I could be," he replied with a wicked grin.
"How about I have a cup of coffee first?"
Elliott led the way back into living room and sat on the couch. Using his free hand, he patted the space beside him. Steve joined him.
They drank their coffee silently for a while, until Steve said, "You did it again, you know."
Elliott looked at him, brows furrowed. "Did what."
"Talked in your sleep."
He felt a flush of embarrassment. "Damn! I'm sorry. Don't let me do that! Please! Just punch me and tell me to shut up." He debated whether he should ask his next question, but couldn't resist. "What was I saying?"
Steve shrugged. "Something about knocking on doors. Like you said the other day, dreams can certainly be interesting."
"Well, again I apologize for waking you up."
Steve laid his hand on Elliott's thigh, patting it lightly. "Not to worry. At least you don't snore."
He was at the building by seven-thirty Monday morning, awaiting the arrival of the sandblasters. He didn't technically have to be there, but he always liked to make sure everything was going on schedule, and he wanted a chance to talk with the crew boss. His own crew arrived at nine to discuss and finalize the details of their respective assignments. Ted, Arnie and Sam needed very little in the way of oversight, but there were still always a myriad things Elliott had to do to coordinate and facilitate progress on every project.
He made arrangements to go with Ted and Arnie later in the afternoon to select and order the appliances and plumbing and lighting fixtures. Even before the city had fast-tracked permits for projects that incorporated "green" elements, he had specifically looked for environmentally friendly appliances and materials. As he was leaving the building on another errand, he met Mrs. Reinerio coming out of her apartment with a collapsible wheeled cart. They exchanged greetings, and he opened the door for her.
"Going shopping?"
"Yes, it's grocery day."
"Do you drive?" He asked as they started down the stairs.
"No, I take the bus. It's just a short ride."
"Well, I'd be happy to give you a lift, if you'd like."
She smiled. "I don't want to put you out."
"No problem at all," he assured her. "It will give us a chance to talk a bit on the way."
They walked to his car, and he put the grocery cart in the back seat.
"I've been thinking about Aaron ... Stiles, was it?" Elliott said as he pulled away from the curb. "And I'd like to know more about him. You indicated there might be more to the story than just that he died."
Mrs. Reinerio turned her head slightly to look at him, then gave a small sigh. "Yes, there is, I'm sorry to say. I think I told you Aaron was very friendly and charming but always had an air of sadness about him until he met Bill. From what little I knew of his family, this was hardly surprising. I gathered he owned some sort of marketing business, which he'd sold just before he met Bill."
"But you say he and Bill seemed happy together."
"Oh, yes, it was like night and day before and after he met Bill. He even stopped smoking when Bill asked him to, and he'd smoked for years."
"So, do you have any idea why Bill left him, or what became of him?"
She shook her head sadly and sighed again, this time more deeply. "That's the tragedy," she said. "I'm sure Bill had no intention of leaving Aaron. Two weeks after Aaron died, the police came by asking us all questions about Bill. They said he had been found dead, and while they gave no details, apparently he had been dead for some time before he was found.
"If you ask me, I think Bill died the same day he disappeared. I have no idea what could have happened, or why they didn't find him until after Aaron died, but the tragedy is that Aaron died thinking Bill had deliberately left him. It breaks my heart that poor Aaron is still waiting for him."
Elliott couldn't quite grasp what he was hearing. "Didn't Aaron report Bill's being missing to the police?" he asked, trying to remain detached. "What about the people Bill worked for?"
"Bill was a partner in some sort of computer business, and of course, that was the first place Aaron called the first morning when Bill didn't return home. They told him Bill had called in the previous day to say he had an appointment he had to keep and that was the last they'd heard from him. Apparently, he did that sort of thing frequently, and no one thought anything of it.
"Aaron called all the hospitals, thinking Bill might have been in an accident, but no one knew anything. When he tried to file a missing persons report, he was told he'd have to wait several days to be sure Bill didn't come back.
"And after he did file the report, nothing was done. Aaron called every day. They said they were looking into it, but implied Bill had probably just left him. Two weeks later, Aaron died, waiting."
This time it was Elliott who sighed. "So, you never found out exactly what had happened---how or when Bill died?"
She shook her head. "No. Nothing. I do know the last few times I saw him, he was, well, distracted. I have no idea why." She lowered her head and stared at her clasped hands. "Such a shame," she said softly. "Such a shame. Aaron's brother and sister-in-law came over the very afternoon of Aaron's funeral and cleaned out his apartment. They took all his artwork and everything else of value, then just threw all of his personal things in the trash. Bill's things, too. What an insensitive thing to do! How could anyone be so cold?"
Pulling into the grocery store parking lot, Elliott drove to the entrance and got out to open the door for her then retrieved her cart from the back seat. Accepting her profuse thanks, he smiled, waved and, getting back in the car, drove off, his mind in turmoil.
---You're getting very good at this.
---At what?
---At being a detective. You'll be giving your brother-in-law a run for his money.
---The last thing I want is to be a detective. But thanks. Did you know Bill is dead?
---Not until I heard you talking with Mrs. Reinerio.
---What did you think?
---Surprised. Sorry for Aaron for having thought Bill left him willingly.
---Does Aaron know?
---Not yet. I need to figure out how to tell him. You're finding out a lot more about Aaron than I am. I've been making some progress, but it's slow. At least he's not swatting at me like I was some gnat buzzing around his head anymore. And I think you're right.
---About what?
---About talking to Brad about Bill Somers.
---How did you know that? I just thought it this minute!
---I'm getting good, too. I'll be curious to see what he says.
---Other than thinking I'm crazy, you mean? We'll see.
He woke long enough to look at the clock. It was four-fifteen. Sighing, he rolled over and went back to sleep.
Largely because of his ability to consciously shut out everything but work during the day, it wasn't until Elliott was on his way home that he gave serious consideration to actually talking to Brad to see if he could find out anything at all about Bill Somers's death. Chances were that Brad, a homicide detective, wouldn't have any idea what or who he was talking about unless Bill had been murdered, which was a thought that hadn't occurred to him until that moment.
Still, he reasoned, Brad might have access to any police files relating to Bill's death, and might be able to look at them and share the information. He realized it would be a huge imposition on his part, and he'd come close to alienating Brad before, during his search for John's identity. But it had been worth it then, and he felt it would be worth risking the same thing now.
He wasn't looking forward to making the call, though. Brad would want to know why he was once again curious about someone he didn't know, and might resent being used at Elliott's whim, just as a lawyer would resent being asked for free legal advice, or a doctor for a free consultation.
He was in the kitchen fixing a drink when the phone rang, and he picked it up to hear Cessy's voice.
"Have you forgotten us?" she asked.
"Sis, it's been all of two days, tops."
"Three," she said, "but who's counting? So, what have you been up to?"
"I've been keeping busy with the new property," he said. "You know how I like to put everything I've got into things."
"Yes, I do. And how is Steve?"
"Very clever, Cecelia. He's fine, thanks."
"We have to have you both over for dinner one weekend soon, if he'd like to come."
"I'm sure he would. You know he likes you and the family."
"Well, that's a relief. In-laws should get along."
"We're not to the in-law stage by a long shot," Elliott protested, then decided to change the subject before it went much further. "Is Brad home yet?"
"Yes, he's here. Would you like to talk with him?"
"Yes, please."
"I'll get him for you." The sound of the phone being set down on a hard surface was followed by a distant "Brad, Elliott would like to talk to you."
A lengthy silence was broken by: "Hi, Elliott. What's up?"
Not quite sure if there was a diplomatic way to bring up what he wanted to say or how he could say it, he just plunged in.
"I was wondering if you might do me another favor. I'm trying to find out what happened to somebody."
"Oh-oh," Brad said. "Another one of your hunches?"
Elliott sighed, feeling not unlike an idiot. "Well, basically, yeah. It's a long story."
"It usually is." Elliott hoped he was only teasing. "So, who are you looking for? Do you have a name this time?"
"Yeah, I do. The guy's name is Bill Somers, and he died about four years ago."
"Four years ago? I don't suppose you have a date?"
"No, I'm sorry, I---" He didn't have a chance to finish his sentence.
"Wait a minute. Somers. That rings a bell somehow. Let me think." A long pause was followed with: "Yeah, I remember now. I had the case."
"The case? He was murdered?"
"No ... well, I'm not sure. I only remember because it was one of my first cases after I made detective. But now that I think of it, I recall my gut told me it could have been murder."
Elliott had to stem the tsunami of thoughts and odd emotions washing through his mind. "Exactly what happened to him? Do you remember?"
"Let me think a second ... He was found in a garage behind a vacant house that had been on the market quite awhile. The Realtors told us it had been sold, but the escrow had fallen through just about the time Somers disappeared. Somers wasn't involved in the sale, and nobody could figure out what he was doing in that particular garage. He'd been dead about a month. A real estate agent found him while showing the property. The garage door was closed, the car's ignition key turned on, and the gas tank empty."
"So, there was no evidence of foul play? He was just sitting there?"
"No, actually, he was on the garage floor. It looked like he'd changed his mind at the last minute---that's not uncommon---but it was too late. He may have stumbled while trying to get out of the car and hit his head when he fell, but with the state of decomp, it was a little hard to tell. The autopsy report listed carbon monoxide poisoning as the cause of death. Of course, his having been dead a month before he was found sort of eliminated the element of immediate follow-up on our investigation, but we did what we could, and came up with nothing."
"You say the ignition was turned on. Wouldn't he have turned it off the second he changed his mind?"
"You'd think so, but he was probably too far gone to think of that. Got the door open, fell out, and that was it."
"So, they ruled it a suicide."
"No, it was ruled an unexplained death. Any suicide is initially considered a possible murder until it can be proven one way or the other. While my gut told me it wasn't a suicide---you're not the only one with hunches---my partner, an old-timer who was just checking the days off the calendar waiting for retirement, had handled dozens of similar cases, and he was sure it was a cut-and-dried suicide. I wasn't about to argue with him. He was probably right---there was no real evidence to indicate it wasn't exactly what it appeared to be. But that's one of the reasons suicides are categorized as unexplained, just in case something might come along later to indicate otherwise."
"Could the injury to his head have been caused by somebody knocking him out long enough for the carbon monoxide to have killed him?"
"Anything's possible. Whether it's practical is another story. All we had to go on were the facts that presented themselves. We went over the whole garage and the car looking for anything suspicious and found nothing. He had his wallet, with all his credit cards and quite a bit of cash, as I recall. Some loose change and a Bic lighter with his initials scratched on the bottom were on the floor under his body---they probably fell out of his pocket when he toppled out of the car. Other than that, there wasn't so much as a gnat's eyebrow to indicate it was other than what it looked like."
There was a long pause before he continued. "So what, exactly, is your interest in all this?"
Elliott had no idea what to say, but knew he had to say something.
"I just found out that Somers lived in the building I just bought. One of the tenants was telling me about him and his partner, who died two weeks after Somers disappeared. The partner had a congenital heart condition, but the tenant swears it was Somers's disappearance that triggered the heart attack that killed him. I was just curious as to what actually happened. Anything at all that you can tell me about it would be welcome."
"I thought I was the detective here," Brad said with good humor.
"Believe me, you are!" Elliott assured him. "But I want to try to get some sort of handle on this and know I won't be able to get it out of my head until I do."
"Ah," Brad said.
Not sure what that meant, Elliott forged ahead. "But, especially, if you think it could have been murder, wouldn't it warrant a little further looking into?"
"As I said, what I think and what I can prove are two different things. We did everything we could. The guy had no relatives or family. We heard about the partner, but by that time he was dead, too. The victim's office said he had an appointment scheduled for the morning he disappeared, but he hadn't said who it was with, and whether he kept it or not they didn't know.
"It was a pretty casual outfit. Just three people---Somers, his business partner, and a receptionist. Both of them said Somers didn't keep an appointment book that they knew of, and we didn't find one in the car. An appointment might explain what he was doing in that part of town, but I find it hard to believe a guy planning to kill himself would take the time to keep an appointment. And if he was planning to close himself in a garage and kill himself with carbon monoxide, he wouldn't have had to drive halfway across town to do it. He had a rented garage less than a block from his apartment."
"What about his business partner? Anything there?"
"Nope. According to him, everything was fine. He said Somers was pretty moody at times and had his own way of doing things. He admitted they had an occasional disagreement, but claims they were never anything serious. The receptionist backed him up on that, from what she knew. Somers apparently spent a lot of time working with clients in the field, and the receptionist verified that sometimes he didn't come in to the office for days at a time.
"The business partner said Somers's ... ah ... other partner, Stiles, had called several times right after Somers disappeared, but the partner figured they'd just had a fight and Somers wasn't going home."
"Did the business partner file a missing persons report?"
"Yeah, about three days after Stiles did. And as I said, he and the receptionist said Somers sometimes worked one-on-one with customers and wouldn't show up at the office for a couple of days. When we asked him why he'd waited nearly a week to file a report, he said he assumed Stiles had already filed one but decided to file one of his own, just in case."
"It sounds to me like maybe he was just covering his bets."
Brad laughed. "Yeah, that occurred to me, too. But the bottom line is, there was simply nothing to indicate it was not a suicide, and while we do our best, we didn't, and don't, have the time to pursue outside chances."
"Did the business partner know anything about Somers's private life?"
"Not nearly as much as you might have expected. Apparently, their partnership was strictly business. He knew Somers was gay, but from what he said, I gather he didn't even know Somers was living with someone until about a week before he disappeared."
"A little odd, but I guess it makes sense. From what I've heard of Bill, he seemed to draw a definite line between his business and personal lives. Thanks for filling me in. I appreciate it." He was glad Brad had accepted the reasons he gave for his interest in Bill Somers.
"No problem."
"I'll let you go have dinner," Elliott said, and they exchanged goodbyes and hung up.
Well, he thought, now Aaron can stop waiting. He felt an indefinable sense of sadness he couldn't shake.
---Thank you.
---Aaron knows?
---He does now.
---And?
---Impossible for me to describe.
Even in sleep, questions kept bubbling to the surface of Elliott's mind.
---How could Aaron possibly not have known that Bill was dead? Couldn't Bill have contacted him once they were both ... gone?
---Good questions, and I wish I had some good answers either one of us could understand. That isn't a putdown. It's all far more complex than even I can deal with yet.
I suspect that when Bill died he just made the transition, as most people do. He had no reason to stick around. It's much easier for the dead to let go of the living than it is for the living to let go of the dead. I suppose he knew he and Aaron would be together again eventually and, since time is very different for us than it is for you, it probably didn't matter how soon.
But Aaron has to realize it, too, and so far he hasn't. He hasn't recognized that Bill is in a totally different place.
---And where is that?
---I'm not sure. I've never been there. For most people, dying is sort of like going through one of those revolving exit gates on the el---it only goes one way. I assume that's what Bill did, went through the gate. But sometimes, like with me and Aaron, some sort of trauma makes the gate jam, and we're stuck here until we can resolve it.
---Well, you resolved your trauma, and you're still here.
---Yes, but it's my choice now. I can go through whenever I want, but like I said, when I do, I can't come back, and I'm in no hurry.
---But now that he knows Bill is dead, too, there's no reason for Aaron to stay.
---You'd think so, but ... he's hesitating.
---Why?
---I'm not sure. I hope to find out.
Elliott awoke feeling surprisingly rested and oddly satisfied with himself. He was pleased to think he might have some small part in helping another lost soul---a rather melodramatic way of looking at it, he realized, but he liked the idea---find whatever it is lost souls seek.
And while part of him was still a little uncomfortable with the concept, most of him felt that he and John made a good, though certainly unusual, team. He didn't want to make a career of acting as a surrogate for the---he preferred "non-corporeal" to "dead," since dead implied a finality both John's and Aaron's existence proved inaccurate in the extreme---but it certainly had expanded his view of the universe.
This upbeat feeling of confidence lasted until, working with his crew hauling the old refrigerators and stoves from the top-floor apartments to the ground floor, he was alone in 3B. He had just bent to pick up a piece of paper that had been under the refrigerator when he heard the now-familiar three sharp raps---not on the door this time but on the cupboard directly above his head. He instantly became a mass of goose bumps.
What the hell is Aaron still doing here? he wondered as soon as he managed to calm down.
It happened twice more in the course of the day, always while Elliott was alone. None of his crew mentioned hearing anything at all.
As he headed home, his mood had swung 180 degrees from what it had been when he woke up. It was partly because he wanted to talk to John, wanted to talk to him now, and that he knew he couldn't. He was angry that his contact with John was always initiated by John. Elliott could never---summon again came to mind, despite the visions of seances and witches standing around a boiling cauldron the word engendered---John when he wanted to talk to him.
Even speaking that evening with both Steve and Cessy didn't materially improve his mood. He deliberately put off going to bed in what he fully realized was the equivalent of a child's sulk. He'd waited for John, now John could just wait for him. His behavior was completely unlike him, but that didn't change anything.
And it was no surprise that, when he did go to bed, he couldn't go to sleep. He kept looking at the clock, and the last time he remembered, it said twelve-forty-five. But finally...
---Hey, I'm sorry, but that's just the way things are. And I don't really think you'd want to start talking to me when you're awake, would you?
---No, but it's frustrating.
---I understand. But when you're awake, there are just too many other things going on in your head. Hard to explain, but...
---Yeah, yeah! So, what the hell is Aaron still doing there?
---He doesn't want to leave just yet.
---Why the hell not? He spends four years in misery wanting to be with Bill, and now that he can be, he wants to hang around here? Why?
---Because he's sure something is wrong with the way Bill died.
---Does he know it was suicide?
---He doesn't believe it.
---Based on what?
---Again, you have to remember things are very different on this ... well, this side, for lack of a better term. All I can say is that he's like a slab of granite when it comes to even considering the possibility Bill might have killed himself. I'm still not totally tuned in to him, and he's still a lot more emotional reaction than details.
I've sensed a definite switch in him since he learned Bill is dead. His grief was based on thinking Bill had left him willingly. That's lifted a huge weight off him. But now he is absolutely convinced Bill would never have killed himself under any circumstances, even if Aaron had died first.
---So, what does he intend to do about it?
---Well, he obviously knows about you, and that you helped me. I've gotten that much across to him.
---So that knocking today was to get my attention?
---I guess. I doubt he has any idea how to contact you directly, at least not the way you and I are in contact, and I'm not sure he could, really.
---Does he know I'm not a detective, just an ordinary guy? I don't have anything special going for me.
---Unless you count the fact you're alive and he isn't.
---Point. But I really don't know if I'm ready to do this again.
---I understand. But if you don't, who will?
Elliott sighed.
---Does he have any idea who might have wanted to harm Bill?
---As I say, I'm getting far more feeling than fact, but what I am getting indicates he might. I'll keep trying for something more concrete, and as soon as I get any details, I'll let you know. So, will you help?
This time, Elliott rose close enough to consciousness to actually hear himself sigh.
---I can try, I suppose.
---That's all I can ask.
Over the course of the next several nights, John reported vague bits and pieces of information he'd managed to get from Aaron. There were, according to John, strong feelings concerning a bad relationship Bill was in shortly before he'd met Aaron, and about Bill's business partner.
Names, however, were not forthcoming and specific details nonexistent. Elliott's frustration was only partly tempered by remembering his very early encounters with John, and realizing faulty memory seemed to be inherent in the recently deceased. On the other hand, Aaron had been dead for four years.
As always, Elliott threw himself completely into his work during the day, and with no further knockings, he was largely able to put Aaron out of his mind. The sandblasting took only a couple of days, and the tuckpointers were patching gaps in the mortar between bricks. He felt the place already looked like new, and he was delighted with it. As he had hoped, removing the white paint revealed that several different shades of brick had been used, giving the exterior walls a subtle mottled effect. Repainting the iron fence in front with high-gloss black enamel made it, too, look like it had just been installed.
On Sunday, after brunch, he drove Steve over to look at the progress and, at Steve's request, took him inside. Since all six apartments had basically identical layouts, Elliott showed him the Wolinskis' apartment, from which the couple had moved only three days before.
Steve was impressed by the size of the rooms and their overall condition. As Elliott was locking the door, he said, "Can I see the one upstairs?"
Caught off-guard, Elliott hesitated a moment. "The one upstairs?" He knew full well which apartment Steve meant, and wondered what had prompted him to ask. "Uh, sure," quickly adding, "but it's identical to this one."
"Oh, okay," Steve said. "We don't have to."
"No, no, that's fine, if you want to see it." He led the way up the stairs to the second floor and deliberately headed for the door on the right, but Steve stopped him.
"No. This one." He indicated the door on the left, the one to Aaron's apartment. "If you don't mind."
"Not at all." Elliott fought off a wave of unease. "Any particular reason why this one?"
Steve looked mildly puzzled. "I'm not sure," he said. "But this is the one with the guy in the window."
Elliott opened the door and let him go in first.
"Exactly like the first floor," he said as Steve crossed directly to the window and stood silently looking out at the street.
He stood there so long Elliott grew nervous.
"Elliott to Steve," he said finally. "Come in, Steve."
Steve gave a slight jerk, as though the sound of Elliott's voice had startled him, and he turned around quickly with a sheepish grin.
"Sorry, Ell," he said. "Really weird."
"What's really weird?" Elliott asked, though he already knew.
Steve shook his head and again looked puzzled.
"Nothing," he said. "It's just..."
"What?" Elliott prompted. Part of him wanted to know, and part of him didn't.
"It's just that I get the strangest feeling here ... especially by this window. It's a sensation of both sadness and waiting. Like, suddenly, I'm the guy I painted in this window and---" He stopped abruptly. "You must think I'm a real kook."
"No, I don't think you're a kook." Elliott went to stand beside him and slip his arm around Steve's waist. "I think you're what they call an empath---I heard that term somewhere. And I found out that a guy who lived here about four years ago died after his lover disappeared. I think you somehow sense it."
Steve looked at him, then furrowed his brow. "Well, I suppose empathy could explain a lot of things that have happened in my life. I'm sorry about the guy in this apartment, though. Do you know how he died?"
Elliott wanted to reassure him but didn't want to get any further into the Aaron situation than he had to.
"A heart attack, I understand."
"Ah. I somehow got the idea of suicide."
Elliott found that an interesting, and oddly unsettling, comment, but let it pass. And he was further distracted to feel Steve's hand, which had been around his waist, move slowly lower down. There was little doubt as to the message.
"Don't tell me," he said, grinning. "Being an empath makes you horny."
"How did you guess?"
Elliott was about to kiss him when he noticed Steve looking around the apartment.
"But I think I can hold off till we get home."
Elliott didn't have to ask why.
He remembered, as a teenager, wondering why it was that, though he did it every night of his life, he could never actually remember the exact process of falling asleep, that moment when sleep actually arrived. That night, it seemed his head had barely hit the pillow before John was there.
---I do like the word empath. It's got a nice "Beam me up, Scotty" ring to it. But why didn't you tell him?
---Tell him what?
---That you're one, too. How do you suppose we ever got together?
---Well, I sure wasn't one before the accident.
---Of course, you were. Most people are, or could be, to one degree or another. They're just so self-absorbed they won't or can't open themselves up to it. I think the accident just made you a little more aware of yours.
---Interesting theory, but still ... I'm not comfortable with being different.
---You're comfortable with being gay, and being gay in a straight world is being different.
---Yeah, but there are millions of us. How many serious empaths are there wandering around?
---Probably more than you think. It isn't something most people feel comfortable talking about. You certainly don't.
---Point. So, have you learned anything more from Aaron? Was he there today? If I'm supposed to be an empath, how come I'm never aware of him other than the knocking, which I'm glad he didn't do while Steve was there.
---Yes, he was there---he never leaves the building. He's still not aware of much other than himself and Bill. But I have a couple of names: a Jim Babcock and an Irv Wilson. I assume one might be the guy who was giving Bill a hard time and the other his business partner, though I'm not sure which one is which.
---Damn! I should have asked Brad what the partner's name was when I talked to him.
---You still can.
---Yeah, but I don't want to bug him any more than I already have.
---I understand. I can see if I can get it from Aaron. But he's pretty much like an onion---peel away one layer and there's another layer below that, and one below that, and ... well, you get the idea.
---But you are getting through to him?
---Kind of hard to tell, but I hope so. Again, remember how hard it was for you and me to really connect. He's still incredibly confused. Normally, after having been ... non-corporeal ... for four years, he should be light-years ahead of where he is now. But he's been so mired in his sorrow, he's only now beginning to come around.
---So, what do you suggest I do?
---I wish I could tell you, but all I can do is convey information. What you do with it is up to you. If it were me, I might see if I could track those names down somehow.
When he woke up, he remembered the names John had given him: Jim Babcock and Irv Wilson. Wilson's name somehow rang a faint bell. He couldn't immediately place it, but was sure he knew it from somewhere.
As usual, once he got to work he concentrated all his attention on the job at hand, but realized on his drive home that the name Irv Wilson must have been simmering on some mental back burner, for he suddenly remembered from where---or rather, from whom---he knew it.
About three years previously, he had briefly dated a guy---it took him a moment to remember his name: Troy Fashow---with far more problems than Elliott cared to deal with. One of them, he remembered, involved repeated lengthy tales about a relationship Troy had had with someone named Irv Wilson. Wilson, according to Troy, was a textbook psychopath, and Elliott recalled thinking rather uncharitably that Troy and Irv should have made a great couple.
He tried now to remember exactly what Troy had said about Wilson---not an easy task after three years. Slowly, bits and pieces came back. According to Troy, he remembered, Wilson had taken possessiveness to a new level. Since Troy's own possessiveness had been one of the things that had convinced Elliott to drop him, he could only imagine what Wilson's must have been like. And he definitely remembered Troy's saying that Wilson had threatened him with physical violence on more than one occasion, and that he'd had no doubt the man was serious.
If Wilson had had a similar relationship with Bill Somers, Elliott wondered if it might be conceivable he had gone beyond threats. Bill had been with Aaron for a year or so when he died---rather a long time to hold a grudge, let alone act on it. Still...
He decided another talk with Mrs. Reinerio might be in order. While she may not have been exactly a confidante for Aaron, she undoubtedly knew a lot more about him and Bill than Elliott did. He also wanted to know if she might recognize the name Jim Babcock, and whether Babcock might indeed have been Bill's business partner. An outside chance, he knew, but he also had nothing to lose by trying.
His crew considered his decision to concentrate on the Wolinskis' apartment first so Mrs. Reinerio could move into it to be a major disruption of the normal renovation process, but since he was the boss, they said nothing. Tuesday morning, Elliott took a few minutes to walk across the hall to Mrs. Reinerio's.
As she let him in, he noticed she had begun removing pictures from the walls and packing smaller items into boxes in anticipation of her move. He really hoped he wasn't making a mistake moving her across the hall in the assumption she would be able to stay when new owners took over. Even an across-the-hall move was somewhat traumatic, he was sure. The idea that she still might have to move from the building entirely was one he did not wish to dwell on.
Inviting him to sit down, she offered him coffee.
"Thank you, no. I have a thermos with me, and just had some." Realizing she wondered what he was doing there, he quickly added, "For some reason, I can't seem to stop thinking about your story about Aaron and Bill. You said that when the police asked you about Bill they didn't mention how he died?"
"No, they didn't, and they were very evasive when I asked. All they said was that his body had been found. I assumed it was some sort of accident."
"Do you suppose it might have been suicide?"
She looked surprised. "Oh, no! I can't imagine that! He and Aaron were so full of plans. I'm sure suicide would have been out of the question." She paused for a moment, and her face grew pensive. "I guess it's impossible to truly look into the heart of another person, but I simply cannot imagine he would have just left Aaron like that."
"I don't suppose you knew of any problems they might have been having outside their friendship. Bill's work, perhaps?"
She gave him a small smile. "Not specifically, no. As I told you, Bill did seem not quite himself the last few times I saw him. But I know he worked very hard. While I'm always willing to listen should someone wish to confide in me, I never pry. From what I knew, everything was fine---which was why having him disappear like that was such a shock. It's just so terribly sad."
Elliott knew he was flying totally blind, going with the moment. He had no real idea where he was headed. "Are you familiar with the name Jim---or James---Babcock, by any chance?"
She shook her head. "I don't believe so. Should I be?"
"No, I was just wondering. Do you happen to know the name of Bill's company?"
"I have his card somewhere," she said. "I could try to find it for you. I think I have one for Aaron, too, if you would like it. I can bring them to you when I find them."
"I'd appreciate it. And now I'd better get back to work. I hope the noise doesn't disturb you."
"Not at all. I'm grateful to you for going so far out of your way to accommodate me."
Shortly after lunch, there was a gentle knock on the Wolinskis' door, which had been kept closed to cut down on the noise. He opened it to find Mrs. Reinerio holding two business cards, which she handed him.
"I found them," she said.
Thanking her, he slipped the cards into his shirt pocket without examining them.
It wasn't until he was home, getting ready to toss his shirt into the hamper, that he remembered to retrieve the cards and look at them more closely. The first was an expensive-looking white card with an embossed logo of a shooting star, the tail of which bore the words FutureCom.com. The black printing underneath proclaimed "Bill Somers, Database Administrator," with his email address, business address and phone number. Elliott didn't have the slightest idea what a database administrator might be, but it sounded impressive.
The second was a simple grey card with the words Stiles Investments, and beneath that "Aaron Stiles" and his phone number and an email address.
He remembered Mrs. Reinerio had mentioned that Aaron had sold his business about the time he met Bill.
After dinner and short conversations with both Cessy and Steve, he went to his computer and typed in FutureCom.com. The web page that appeared was both impressive and, as far as he was concerned, pretty much unintelligible to the ordinary man, including him. He gathered FutureCom specialized in providing and setting up customized computer systems and software for nontraditional medium and smaller businesses. The looks of the site gave the impression the business was very profitable for its owners.
He wondered what had happened to Bill's share of the company if, as Brad had told him, Bill had no family. He might well have left it to Aaron. But since Aaron had died before Bill's body was discovered, he had no idea what might have been the legal disposition of Bill's estate.
He wished now he'd done his research before he'd talked with Cessy. He would have spoken to Brad and asked him exactly when Bill's body had been found. Perhaps he could then check the obituary columns published at the time and see whether Bill had been listed and, if so, if the information held any clues. He wasn't sure how that could be of any use, but it couldn't hurt to look.
Of course, he could always have John ask Aaron, but really preferred to keep as much distance as he could between his daily life and the paranormal.
---I'm sorry it still bothers you.
---I don't know what you mean.
---Yes, you do. Me, and Aaron, and things that go bump in the night.
---It's not that. Not really. I accept that there's a lot more going on than I could ever grasp. I just like to keep my life as uncomplicated as possible. I don't want to start blurring the lines between your world and mine.
---Well, I can ask Aaron about Bill, if you'd like. If I'm able to get through to him, that is.
---Still problems?
---Yes, it's like trying to unwrap the world's largest ball of aluminum foil. But as I say, he is coming around, little by little. I'll see what I can find out. What, specifically, would you want to know?
---Mrs. Reinerio said Bill was distracted the last few times she saw him. See if Aaron might know why. And more about why Aaron thinks Bill's business partner might have had something to do with his death.
---Anything else you'd like to know?
---Yeah ... how many angels can dance on the head of a pin? How high is up?
---Very funny. Goodnight, Elliott.
Sandblasting and tuckpointing done, the wooden filagree gingerbread removed, stripped and repainted a dark rose to match the new shutters, a subcontractor found to create a parking area at the rear, new furnace ordered, entrance security camera and monitors in each apartment awaiting installation, bids out on new windows, exterior doors, plumbing fixtures, dishwashers, appliances, carpeting, scheduling the installation of each---Elliott handled it all with a deceptive casualness.
That days would pass with no contact from John no longer bothered him as it once had; he took that as a positive indication of the stoicism he was developing towards the decidedly unusual turns his life had taken over the course of the past year. Even some of the few things he had gathered regarding wherever/whatever it was that John was were beginning to make some degree of sense. The idea of time being viewed differently by those no longer physically bound by it had a certain logic.
He had, in fact, become totally acclimated to having John in his life. However, the prospect of ever having direct contact with Aaron or any other non-corporeal being did not appeal to him. He was satisfied to stand at one end of a bridge to John's world. He had no desire to become the bridge itself.
That evening when Cessy called he asked to talk to Brad and, as casually as possible, asked him if he might remember exactly when it was that Bill's body had been found.
"July fourth, two thousand-four," Brad answered without hesitation.
"Wow! You're good!" Elliott said, truly impressed.
"The only reason I remember is because I got called away from a family picnic to go check it out. You were there, remember? You had to take everybody home."
"Ah, yeah---vaguely."
"I see you're still gnawing on this Somers bone."
"Sorry," Elliott said, "but you know me---something gets my attention, and I get really nosy about it."
"And exactly what are you nosy about here?"
Elliott couldn't see any particular reason not to let Brad know his suspicions about Bill Somers's death, so he did, tailoring the story to avoid mention of Aaron's lingering presence in his new building.
"I know we talked about this before, but I really can't stop thinking about it. Something just doesn't seem right, though I have no idea exactly what, and it really bugs me."
"Well, I'll admit there are quite a few loose ends I'd have like to have seen tied up, and as I said before, I'm not convinced it was a suicide. But we only have the time and manpower to go so far, and since there was no real evidence that it wasn't suicide ... It's is a shame about his partner, Stiles, but with him dead now, too, and no relatives to pursue the case, it's pretty much closed. Unless we had some really strong new evidence to look into..."
"Do you mind if I do a little poking around, if I get the chance?" Elliott asked.
He could almost see Brad grinning. "I thought you said you had no interest in being a detective."
"I don't. But as long as I wouldn't be interfering with anything you're doing..."
"I'm not so sure that would be a good idea," Brad said. "If Somers's death wasn't a suicide, that means someone had to have killed him. I don't want you messing around with something that could put you at risk."
"I can appreciate that, but it also means there might be a murderer out there you're not actively looking for. Don't worry, I know my limits, and I won't go getting into any trouble." The long pause that ensued indicated Brad wasn't convinced, but Elliott forged ahead. "Is there anything else that struck you as unusual during your investigation?"
"Not really, or we'd have followed up on it. We investigate every questionable death to the best of our ability. As I say, everything pointed to suicide. In the end, there was just nothing solid enough to indicate that Somers hadn't killed himself."
Elliott sighed. "Yeah, I understand. And thanks for indulging my curiosity. I really appreciate it."
"Not a problem. Again, I strongly advise you to just let it drop, but knowing you ... If you should find out anything, be sure to let me know."
"I will. And thanks again."
---There's one thing to be said for being ... where I am.
---I'd imagine there'd be several.
---Yeah, I guess that's true.
---So, which one are you referring to?
---Patience. I find I have a lot more of it now, though I still have a long way to go.
---You're talking about Aaron?
---Yes. The former me would have given up on him after about ten minutes. But the poor guy really needs help on a lot of levels. If I could just get him to pull himself together and get him to concentrate, we'd be a lot further along.
He still hasn't fully realized that speaking with your mind is quite different from speaking with a physical voice, and as a result he's having a hard time separating words from thoughts and impressions and emotions. It's sort of like panning for gold---you have to sift through a lot of extraneous material to find what you're looking for.
I did piece together enough to know that, while Bill tried to keep his business life and his home life separate, Aaron knew he had been increasingly unhappy with Babcock and thinks he was getting ready to dissolve the partnership. I can't imagine Babcock would be very happy about that. I'll try to find out more, if I can.
---You're a saint.
Elliott felt the tingle of John's laughter.
---I'm afraid the only thing I have in common with a saint is that we're both "beyond the pall" as the Victorian novels so quaintly put it. So, you're going to contact Babcock?
---I do wish you'd stop that.
---Stop what?
---You know damned well what.
---Sorry. I guess discretion is something I'll have to work on.
---Yeah, please do. I'm really uncomfortable with the idea of your reading my mind.
---I am sorry. As I've told you before, it's not so much that I'm reading it as that we're all in here---me and your thoughts---and I can't help but trip over them every now and then.
---Well, please try to avoid them.
---Will do. And now I'd better go see if Aaron's made any more progress.
Elliott awoke feeling almost as tired as when he'd gone to bed. He found the idea John knew his thoughts deeply disturbing on a number of levels. First, despite his having fully accepted John's existence, some small part of him still remained uneasy with the idea of anyone else being in his mind. Although John's explanation of how he was able to know what Elliott was thinking actually struck him as reasonable, he still found it disturbing.
He'd read somewhere that everyone has a physical personal space that extends out about a foot from the face, and when someone intrudes on that space---probably where the expression "getting in your face" came from, he thought---the reaction is extreme discomfort. So, having John inside his head was really pushing the envelope.
Nothing should be more private than one's own thoughts, and with John wandering around "tripping over" them, his weren't. It wasn't, he told himself, that he believed John was deliberately spying on him---that line of thought led directly to paranoia. He wasn't quite sure how to go about keeping his thoughts out of John's way, but he determined to try.
He was positive the idea of talking to Babcock was his own---he remembered thinking idly about it just before he'd gone to sleep. The question was when and how he might do it. He certainly had no intention of taking time off from work---just as he never spoken to John aloud, he was determined to keep his regular life as normal as possible.
All his life he had prided himself on his practicality, to the point, at times, of being concerned that he might be teetering on the brink of becoming stodgy. All that ended when John entered his life, and he had to admit that he rather enjoyed this new element. The prospect of being involved in resolving another mystery was one he rather guiltily welcomed.
He was in a generally good mood when Steve called that evening, and a call from Steve always boosted his spirits even further. They talked in generalities for a few minutes until Steve said, "There's something I wanted to talk with you about."
In Elliott's limited experience, that particular sentence never boded well.
"Yeah?" he asked. "What's up?"
"I got a letter today from Gil Larson, a friend from back home. He wants to come out for a visit."
"That'll be nice. When's he coming?"
"Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about." Steve sounded mildly uncomfortable. "We were sort of seeing each other before I moved here. We're just friends now, and I've ... well, I've mentioned that I was seeing someone, so I'm sure he's not expecting anything, but I wanted to let you know. I can always tell him I'd just as soon he didn't come, if ... well, if you might feel uncomfortable about it. He asked me to recommend a hotel, but I wouldn't feel right about that, when I've got the sleeper sofa in my studio. But I---"
Elliott laughed, though he didn't really feel like it, and that fact bothered him, though he didn't like to admit it.
"Relax!" he said. "I'm really flattered that you're being so considerate of me, but I trust you. You're a big boy."
"You're sure?" Steve asked. "I mean, you'll like Gil---he's a great guy. But as a couple we weren't going anywhere, and we both knew it. I just didn't want you to think ... well, you know, you and I haven't, uh..."
Elliott could sense Steve's mounting nervousness, and it pleased him, though the anticipation of Gil's visit did not.
"No, we haven't," he said, surprised to hear himself adding, "...yet. But I promise you, the day Cessy starts registering our china pattern at Marshall Field's, then I might start objecting to visits from old boyfriends." Like many Chicagoans, he still refused to acknowledge that Marshall Field's had been taken over by Macy's and "robbed" of its name.
"Whew!" Steve said. "I don't know why that was so hard. And I wasn't trying to pin you down to anything."
"I know you weren't. So, when is he coming, again?"
"He wants to come a week from Saturday, and asked me to call tonight to confirm."
"Kind of short notice, wasn't it?"
"That's Gil," Steve replied. "But like I said, you'll like him."
"I'm sure I will," Elliott said, not quite sure how truthful he was being.
After they'd hung up, he tried to figure out just what his reactions had really been. He had never been the jealous type, and he didn't want to start now. But then, he'd never met anyone quite like Steve before. Everything had been going so smoothly between them, he'd never had to consider how he would react to any potential threat to their relationship. Now he did, and he was less than happy with himself for letting it disturb him as much as it had.
---Don't worry about it.
---Steve?
---Of course, Steve. You know how he feels about you.
---What is this---Days of Our Lives? You and Cessy make a great team.
---Maybe this old-boyfriend visit is a good thing.
---Steve's a big boy. He can do what he wants. It's none of my business.
---Riiiiiight. And exactly who is it you think you're talking to, again?
---Well, I'm not exactly the clinging-vine type. Somebody said the best way to hold a bird is in an open palm.
---Maybe it's time you and Steve sat down for a talk.
---He's never indicated he wants one. I'm not sure I do.
---Baloney! He hasn't because you haven't.
---Point, I guess. Well, we'll see how the visit goes, and maybe then I'll think about it. So, what's going on with Aaron?
---Nice segue. If I were still corporeal, I would have gotten whiplash from it.
---Sorry, I just need time to think. So---about Aaron? Nothing more on the problems between Bill and Babcock?
---I'm afraid not, other than that Bill was increasingly unhappy with Babcock.
---Any specific reason?
---From what I could tell, probably money. I caught the phrase "champagne taste on a beer budget," so I'd assume Babcock was spending too much money. But, again, no details. I did find out that's how Bill and Aaron met, by the way.
---Yeah? How's that?
---When Aaron still owned his marketing company, he considered using FutureCom's services. He met with Babcock and couldn't stand the guy. FutureCom was just starting out and needed the business, so Bill tried to get him to change his mind. He didn't, but they began seeing one another, and that was that. I learned all this more in the form of a movie than as a spoken conversation, by the way. He's still not big on words.
---Well, I'd give that about a minus-four as a motive for Babcock to murder Bill.
---I agree. But I'm pretty sure there's more. No idea what it is, but I'll keep digging.
---Thanks.
---My pleasure. Have I mentioned that I think we make a pretty good team?
---I think you're right.
Despite his determination not to let looking into Bill Somers's death interfere with his work, Elliott found himself, during his coffee break Friday morning, pulling Bill's FutureCom business card out of his wallet and calling the number from his cell phone.
"FutureCom," a pleasant female voice announced.
"Mr. Somers, please," he said, just to see how she would respond.
"I'm sorry, sir, we have no one here by that name. Could someone else help you?"
"Yes, Mr. Babcock will do."
"One moment, sir. May I say who's calling?"
"This is Elliott Smith of Elliott Enterprises."
"Thank you, Mr. Smith. One moment, please."
The canned music didn't get more than three bars into whatever song it was supposed to be before: "This is James Babcock. How can I help you?"
"I'd spoken with Bill Somers three or four years ago about possibly utilizing FutureCom's services at some point and recently came across his card. I thought it was time I gave it serious consideration. I gather he's left the company? I'd understood he was one of the owners."
"He was my business partner," Babcock said. "Unfortunately, he passed away, and I'm now the sole owner."
"I'm really sorry to hear of Mr. Somers's death," Elliott said. "I'm sure it must have been a terrific blow to you and the company."
"Yes, it was a shame," Babcock said, his tone indicating otherwise,"though he was always more of a silent partner than active in the business. So, how can FutureCom help you?"
"It's all a bit complicated. I'm afraid my business doesn't fit the usual molds, which is why I'm considering going with a DBA firm. I'm in the middle of a project now, and my time is really at a premium."
"I could meet with you at your convenience," Babcock said, "either in the evening---or on the weekend, if you prefer. At FutureCom, our entire philosophy is adapting to our clients' specific needs."
"Well, that's very good to hear. Perhaps a weekend---"
"Would tomorrow be convenient?"
Somewhat taken aback by Babcock's eagerness, he said, "Yes, tomorrow would be all right. I can come to your office any time in the afternoon."
There was a moment's hesitation, then: "We're just getting ready to move our offices next week," Babcock said, "so I'm afraid things are a bit chaotic around here. I'd be happy to come to your home. Say one o'clock?"
"That would be fine." He gave Babcock his address and home phone number and hung up with the distinct impression he was being hustled.
He glanced again at Somers's business card, looking for the address. He remembered when he'd first looked that it had seemed familiar---in or near the Loop, as he recalled. He had no idea how big the company might be, but knew it had to be doing pretty well, since office space anywhere in the Loop didn't come cheap. He was more than a little surprised now to realize the address was the Sears Tower.
He began to idly weave a few loose strands of speculation into a cobweb of mystery. How many companies housed in the Sears Tower, he wondered, would put an unknown caller through almost immediately to the owner of the company rather than to a subordinate? That Babcock had said the office was moving, and his eagerness to talk to Elliott---on a weekend, and at Elliott's home, no less---suggested the possibility the business might be in trouble. He wondered again what had happened to Bill Somers's share. Babcock would have had to buy out whoever was named in Bill's will---and he was sure there would have been legal complexities if Aaron had, indeed, been Bill's heir. Or perhaps the business agreement with Babcock had a survivorship clause.
And what about Babcock's implying that Bill had been just a silent partner? Even without having known Bill, he strongly doubted the accuracy of that claim, so why had Babcock made it? The more questions he asked himself the less the mystery seemed like a cobweb and more like a Gordian Knot.
Friday night he stayed over at Steve's after a pizza-and-movie night they both enjoyed. Neither of them mentioned Steve's ex---Elliott couldn't help but think of him that way, as much as he tried not to---other than Steve's verification that Gil would be flying in the following Friday afternoon and staying a week, when he'd catch a train on Thursday back to LA. Steve had arranged to take Monday through Thursday off to show him around the city.
Elliott had determined not to have any sort of conversation about his and Steve's relationship until after Gil left, if then, and he reluctantly admitted to himself he didn't even want to go near the subject if there was any possible chance Steve and Gil might decide their own relationship wasn't as over as Steve had assured him it was. He didn't see it as being pessimistic in his thinking, merely practical.
Saturday after breakfast, they having agreed to get together for dinner later, he dropped Steve off at an art supply house and, after being assured yet again he could easily take the bus home, headed on home for his meeting with Babcock.
The lobby called to announce Babcock's arrival at exactly one o'clock, and Elliott opened his door to a compact, buffed, perfectly groomed mid-30s poster boy for Bally's Gym. In fact, Elliott was pretty sure he'd seen him there on several occasions.
Babcock immediately extended his hand. "Elliott---Jim Babcock." His smile and his handshake were equally firm and, Elliott was sure, equally studied.
"Thanks for coming," Elliott said, showing him into the living room. Noticing Babcock's briefcase, he gestured toward the dining alcove. "Should we sit at the table?"
"Wherever you'd be more comfortable," Babcock replied, and they moved into the dining area and pulled out chairs on opposite sides of the table.
"I must say I was a little surprised that you'd take the time on a weekend to come over yourself," Elliott observed.
"At FutureCom, the client's needs come first," Babcock said, still wearing the hearty smile as he opened his briefcase and removed several brochures and folders, which he set on the table. "Normally, one of my associates handles new clients, but we've been so busy lately, I've been pitching in."
"I'm sure the loss of your partner placed quite a lot of extra work on you," Elliott said.
Babcock didn't bat an eye. "Not really. It's been nearly four years, and he was more of a silent partner, actually. The work always rested mostly with me."
Again, Elliott mentally questioned the accuracy of that statement, but didn't say anything.
Babcock closed his briefcase and set it on the floor at the side of his chair. "Now, tell me how FutureCom can help you."
Elliott had given thought to exactly how he could make it appear he needed assistance with the operation of his business when he actually didn't. He quickly outlined all the details routinely involved in any of his projects as Babcock sat looking at him, nodding occasionally.
When he'd finished, Babcock leaned forward in his chair, reaching for one of the glossy brochures in front of him. "Well, here's what we can do for you," he began.
Half an hour later, with most of the brochures and folders now on his side of the table, Babcock ended his rapid-fire spiel with "So, do you have any questions?"
Elliott looked down at the array of glossy material in front of him, noting they were obviously designed to impress and must have cost a fortune to produce. He shook his head.
"Not at the moment. You've certainly given me a lot to think about. I'd like to take some time to sort it all out."
Though Babcock gave no outward indication of it, Elliott sensed his response was not what the man had wanted to hear.
"Of course," he said. "I don't want to pressure you, but keep in mind that every minute lost is money lost. We can make your business run like a Swiss watch."
"I'm sure you can," Elliott said. As they both rose from their chairs, he added, "So, where are you moving? Bigger quarters?"
"Smaller, actually," Babcock said, leaning over to retrieve his briefcase. "Since my associates spend most of their time working outside of the office, there's really no need for all the space we have now."
"Still in the Sears Tower?" Elliott pushed.
"No, I bought a nice building on Lincoln. The Tower is fine, but most of our clients are smaller businesses scattered throughout the city. The Tower proved to be a little hard for most people to get to, and frankly, it's a little intimidating for some. The new building will make us a lot more---well, user friendly, as it were."
It will also be a lot cheaper, Elliott thought. "Well, you've obviously done very well for yourself," he said. "I remember when I met Bill Somers it was just basically the two of you."
Babcock smiled, but his eyes didn't. "Yes, well, times change. And you know the old saying: 'Build a better mousetrap, and the world will beat a path to your door.' FutureCom is definitely a better mousetrap."
Elliott was tempted to push a bit further to ask just how many "associates" Babcock had in his employ, but thought better of it.
"I'll check with you in a few days," Babcock said as Elliott opened the door to show him out.
After dinner, a late movie and a nightcap at one of the quieter bars---which both Elliott and Steve tended to prefer over the noisier places, where it was often impossible to talk without shouting---they headed to Elliott's, where they spent a most pleasant couple more hours in bed before finally falling asleep.
---He's lying.
---Steve? What are you talking about?
---No, not Steve---Babcock.
---Ah. Yeah, I gathered as much just talking with him. Did you find out anything more from Aaron?
---Afraid not.
---Does Aaron know what happened to Bill's share of the business?
---I can check, but I'd tend to doubt it from what he's indicated about Bill's keeping the details of his business private. And Aaron was---I wish there were another word for dead, one that didn't sound so final. Anyway, since Aaron had left his body before they found Bill, I'm sure he hasn't any idea what disposition was made of Bill's affairs.
As he went through his Monday-morning routine---showering, getting dressed, packing his lunch and having breakfast---Elliott thought back on his pre-John days, when the only problems he had to be concerned with were his own.
He was still ambivalent about getting involved in the Aaron/Bill situation. He knew the simple logistics of looking into Bill's death would inevitably take time away from his work project, and he was mildly resentful at the prospect.
But having committed himself to helping, one of the first things he would have to do was find out if Bill had left a will---which would require a trip to the Clerk of Courts' office, which in turn meant he'd have to take time off from work. And if there was a will, what had become of Bill's assets?
Going over his work plan, he saw little opportunity to get away. He'd just have to factor it in for the next day, somehow.
When, on Tuesday, a problem with the delivery of new windows necessitated Elliott's meeting with the supplier halfway between the project and the Loop, he took advantage of it to detour to Probate Court in Daley Center. He hated driving in the Loop, but didn't see much in the way of a practical alternative. Taking the el would involve its own set of problems.
It took him the better part of three hours for the meeting then to find a parking place near Daley Center, locate the right office and go through all the hassle required to find out whether Bill had a will filed with Probate. When he discovered there was one, more time was spent locating and being able to look at it.
It had been drawn up six years before, apparently before Bill had met Aaron, and had not been changed before he died. It decreed that, pursuant to the terms of incorporation of FutureCom and lacking any specifically designated heir, his interest in the business would go to his partner, James Babcock. No other individual was named, and the remainder of his estate went to various charities. Elliott found the part about "lacking any specifically designated heir" particularly significant. He was also sure Bill probably had just not gotten around to amending the will after he and Aaron got together.
Elliott's penchant for trivia found it interesting that the will had been drawn up by a lawyer named Manfred Gutierrez, and he immediately thought not only of Steve but of Steve's brother, Manny. It also reminded him that, should he and Steve ever decide to make a definite commitment, he would have to be sure to change his own will---and was instantly surprised at the ease with which he had the thought.
Driving back to work, he considered the implications of Bill's will. That it had been drawn up before Bill met Aaron and had not been updated to include him meant Babcock had inherited the business. Considering that Bill might have been planning to dissolve the partnership, either factor could certainly be a motive for murder---if Babcock knew of Bill's intentions. With Bill and the challenges to Babcock's spending out of the way, FutureCom became Babcock's to do with as he pleased. And Elliott was fairly certain, from what he'd been able to deduce, that Babcock had continued to run the business into the ground.
However, he found it difficult to link having a motive to murder with acting on it. The world, he liked to think, just didn't work that way. Yet, John had been murdered, and if it hadn't been for Elliott, his killer might never have been caught. If Bill had not committed suicide, it was equally possible his murder would go not only unsolved but unacknowledged. He deserved better.
Unfortunately, he told himself, murderers can't be convicted on the basis of merely having a motive. To suspect Babcock was one thing. To prove it was quite another. The difficulty was compounded by the fact that, as an ordinary citizen, Elliott had no investigative authority---or experience, for that matter. That his brother-in-law was a homicide detective was a definite plus, but Elliott couldn't and wouldn't expect to drag Brad into it unless and until there was something more concrete to go on than speculation.
---Aaron didn't have a will..
---Well, that's interesting, but I'm concentrating on Bill right now. And how do you know Aaron didn't have one?
---Ever seen one of those batting-practice machines that keeps shooting out baseballs? Aaron's a lot like that. He keeps firing off random thoughts and impressions in a steady stream, one after the other. A lot of them are about not having a will. I have no idea what it means, but obviously it means something.
---Well, see if you can find out anything more about it.
---Will do.
Getting ready for work the next morning, he wondered just what John's revelation about Aaron's not having a will might have to do with anything. His thoughts then moved on to Aaron's apparent belief that Jim Babcock was involved. Babcock was not, according to Aaron, the only possible suspect in Bill's death---if, he again cautioned himself, the death had in fact been murder.
There was Irv Wilson. Elliott didn't know for sure what their relationship had been, and he wasn't quite sure why Aaron had come up with the name. Wilson may have been possessive bordering on paranoia, but he certainly wasn't the only one against whom that charge could be made. And not every psychopath was a murderer.
Still, arriving at work, he determined to try to have a talk with Wilson---which would in turn involve his contacting Troy Fashow, the guy he'd once dated, who knew Wilson. He wasn't particularly keen on the idea of reaching out to Troy again, but he didn't see that he had much choice.
That evening, after dinner, he went through his address book. Troy's name and number were still there---he'd written them in pen for some reason. The entry had a line drawn through it, but was still legible. When he called and got an answering machine, his first thought was to hang up, but he changed his mind, since that would only prolong the inevitable.
"Troy, hi. This is Elliott Smith calling. I know it's been a while, but I have a question you might be able to help me with. Could you give me a call when you have a minute?" He then left his home number and hung up. He realized he probably should have said something about being sorry he'd not called before, but he really didn't want to lie to him or give him the wrong idea.
At around eight, the phone rang. Pushing the mute on the TV remote, he picked up.
"Hello?"
"Elliott, this is Jim Babcock calling. I was wondering if you'd had a chance to look over the materials I left."
"Yes, I did, but on thinking everything over, I'm just not sure that's the way for me to go right now."
The disappointment was clear in Babcock's voice when he said, "Well, you know we can tailor our services to whatever your needs are. Our client list is almost full now, and I just wanted to be sure we could schedule you in for one of the remaining slots. I'll be happy to go over any questions you might still have.'
"I do appreciate that, Jim, but I'm afraid right now just isn't the time."
"I understand," Babcock said, in a voice which made it clear he didn't, "but remember that time lost is money lost, and we can help you get your growing business running as smoothly as a Swiss watch. I'd hate to see you pass up the opportunity."
"As I say, I appreciate it, and I'll be sure to contact you if things change, but---"
"I tell you what," Babcock pressed, "just to prove what we can do for your bottom line, we can offer you a reduced-price package deal, which includes---"
"That's really nice of you, Jim, but I'm just going to have to pass for now. As I say, I'll definitely keep you in mind."
"Well, give it some more thought, and let me check back with you in a month or so."
"That'll be fine, Jim. Thanks. Nice talking to you." And he hung up.
When the phone rang half an hour later, he was initially hesitant to pick it up, thinking it might be Babcock again. He wondered if Babcock's desperation were as clear to every potential client he contacted.
However, the call was just a checkin from Cessy and, as always, went on for a good fifteen minutes. He was just getting into bed after The Daily Show on Comedy Central when the phone rang yet again. He picked up the bedside extension.
"Elliott Smith."
"Elliott! It's Troy. I got your message." The slightly fogged tone of his voice suggested he had been drinking, which Elliott remembered he did frequently.
"Thanks for calling, Troy," he said.
"Am I calling too late? You weren't in bed, were you?"
"No," Elliott lied. "I was just thinking about it, though."
"So, what can I do for you? You wanna get back together? I've missed you. You're hot, you know that?"
Definitely drinking. "Well, I appreciate that, Troy, but I need to get in touch with Irv Wilson, and thought you might have his number."
Troy's voice took on a menacing tone. "That bastard? Why the fuck would you want to talk to him? Wasn't I good enough for you?"
Elliott sincerely regretted his decision to call Troy, but now that he had him on the phone he had to make the best of it.
"That has nothing to do with it, Troy. What I need to talk to him about has nothing to do with sex, believe me. Do you have his number?"
A long pause, then: "No. I threw it away."
Elliott had no way of knowing if he was telling the truth or not, but said, "Do you have any idea how I can find him? It's really kind of important."
Troy gave a loud snort of disgust. "I'll bet. Well, you can try the Anvil, on Granville---third stool from the far end. It's got his name on it."
Elliott didn't know how serious Troy was, but suspected that was all he was going to get. "Thanks, Troy. I really appreciate it," he said.
"You wanna come over?" Troy asked. Elliott could hear the clink of ice cubes.
"Not tonight, I'm afraid," he said, anxious to hang up. "I've got to be at work really early tomorrow. But thanks again for your help."
"Yeah. Sure," Troy said sarcastically.
"Take care." Elliott hung up.
He woke Wednesday morning rather surprised there had been no contact with John during the night---he was curious to know what was going on with Aaron. He likened the situation to having a friend who calls whenever he feels like it but won't give you his phone number.
He was glad to get to work and immerse himself in things over which there was no question but that he had control. He, Arnie, Sam and Ted had worked so closely together for so long that, for the most part, each project progressed like a well-choreographed ballet. The four men seldom got in each other's way, yet each would automatically pitch in with the other's main area of responsibility if the need arose.
It wasn't until he got home that he went back over his conversations with Jim Babcock and Troy. He had no idea what he could do to discover more about Babcock's possible involvement in Bill's death, but he had learned that if an immediate answer to a problem was not at hand, sometimes it was just as well to step back from it for a while.
As for Troy, their conversation had, if nothing else, reaffirmed his reasons for having stopped seeing the man. It had been interesting to learn that Irv Wilson hung out at the Anvil, which was within walking distance of Elliott's condo, though he'd only been there a few times. He contemplated stopping by the bar sometime over the weekend, since Steve would be tied up with his out-of-town visitor.
However, when an after-dinner check of the TV schedule showed nothing of interest on that evening, he decided on a whim to take a walk in the general direction of the Anvil, telling himself that if he made it there, fine, and if he didn't, no big deal. It was a Wednesday evening, and very early to expect much of a crowd, but the Anvil was very much a neighborhood bar and as such far less subject to the normal tides of the busier venues. The chances that Irv Wilson would be there were remote at best, but...
He was walking down Sheridan in the direction of Granville when his cell phone rang.
"Hi, Steve," he said.
"You're psychic!"
"Uh, not quite. I checked the caller ID before I answered."
"Darn!"
"So, what's up?"
"Nothing much. Just checking in to see if you had plans for the weekend."
"Pretty open. You'll be busy with Gil."
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I hope you'll spend some time with us."
"He's coming to visit you, after all, and I don't want to be a third wheel."
"What third wheel?" Steve asked. "Gil knows I'm seeing you. I want you two to get to know one another."
Elliott wasn't too sure how Gil might feel on that subject. He wasn't too sure about how he felt about it.
"I thought we could all go to Pizzaria Uno for dinner Friday night, and then we can just play it by ear from there."
The roar of a passing bus momentarily ruined any chance of hearing or being heard, so Elliott waited until it was a safe distance away before saying, "Sure, if you want."
"What's all that racket?" Steve asked.
"I'm outside. There's nothing on TV so I thought I'd take a walk."
"Wish I could join you. I don't get nearly enough exercise. So, we'll pick you up around seven-thirty Friday?"
"Or I can meet you there. It might be easier than your running all the way up here."
"No way! We'll pick you up."
"Okay. See you then, if we don't talk before."
The Anvil is one of those places that doesn't bother to put up a big sign in front, and having been in there even the few times he had, Elliott could understand why. It was a true neighborhood bar, and the management didn't seem to care if any non-locals came in or not.
Opening the door, he entered to find six people, including the bartender. Most of them shot him a cursory look then went back to what they were doing. He glanced at the end of the bar and was not surprised to see the third seat was empty. Since he had no idea what Wilson looked like, any---or, far more likely, none---of the patrons might be him. But, having walked in, he felt more or less obliged to at least order a drink, even if he didn't finish it.
He crossed to the bar and ordered a beer, taking a stool a few seats down from a fastidiously dressed man with a shoulder bag who looked definitely out of place at a bar like the Anvil.
When the bartender brought his beer, Elliott handed him a bill and said, "I'm looking for a guy named Irv Wilson. I understand he comes in here pretty often?"
"Yeah," the bartender replied with the studied indifference acquired by most bartenders over time. "Not here tonight, though. Usually Tuesday and Friday nights, and Sunday afternoon."
Elliott thanked him and took a sip of his beer, aware that the fastidious one was looking at him. Turning slightly, he gave the guy a slight nod of acknowledgment.
"Are you a friend of Irv's?" The man's diction left little room for question about his sexual orientation.
Elliott resisted the temptation to point out that he wouldn't have had to ask the bartender about Wilson if they were friends and instead said, "No. I want to ask him about a mutual friend."
"Really? Who? Maybe I know him."
Elliott sensed a come-on, but figured he didn't have anything to lose. "Bill Somers," he said.
The man's eyes opened wide. "Bill? I know ... knew ... Bill!" His face took on the somber aspect of one about to give bad news. "He's dead, you know."
"Yes, I know. That's one of the reasons I want to talk to Irv about him."
The man scooted from his stool to the one next to Elliott. "I don't think that would be a very good idea," he said in a conspiratorial semi-whisper.
"Why's that?"
"Irv is a little..." He glanced around to see if anyone appeared to be listening. "...strange. And no one mentions Bill around him, if they know what's good for them." Suddenly extending his hand, he said, "I'm Button, by the way."
Elliott set down his beer to take the hand, wondering who in the world would have a name like "Button."
"Elliott."
"I think I saw you in here once, a long time ago," Button said.
Elliott grinned. "You must have a very good memory. I don't come in often."
Button returned the grin. "Not many people do, obviously. Do you live around here?"
"On Sheridan."
"Ah. I'm just down the street on Granville. I work until seven, then have dinner and stop in here to unwind before going home."
Since it was getting close to ten o'clock, Elliott speculated it must take Button quite a while to unwind.
"So, what was the problem between Irv and Bill?" he asked.
Button turned sideways on his stool. "They met in here. My friend Paul introduced them, as a matter of fact. About five years ago. Bill had just moved into the neighborhood, and he would come in with Paul every so often. Bill didn't like bars---he couldn't stand the cigarette smoke, and never stayed for more than one drink.
"For some strange reason, Paul rather liked Irv, probably because Irv never hit on him, so Paul never got a chance to see what a creep he is, and he wouldn't believe me when I tried to tell him. Anyway, one night when I wasn't here, Paul came in with Bill and introduced him to Irv. Irv took a shine to Bill. When the smoke started to get to him, Irv invited him out for coffee. That did it, and they started dating. Wrong! I knew it was a disaster just waiting to happen, but neither Bill nor Paul had a clue until it was too late."
"What happened?"
Button finished his drink and signaled to the bartender for another. "You like another?" he asked Elliott, who shook his head.
"No, thanks, I've got to be heading off pretty soon."
Waiting until the bartender brought his drink, Button continued his story. "Irv, I'm afraid, is the human equivalent of a boa constrictor. Once he wraps himself around you, it's harder than hell to get loose. Bill finally had enough and broke it off." He took a long drink. "And that old saying about hell having no fury like a woman scorned has nothing on Irv scorned. After he broke it off with Irv, Bill never came back, but Paul kept me posted.
"Irv refused to give up and made poor Bill's life hell, calling at all hours of the night, cursing him out, bad-mouthing him to everyone. Finally, Paul told me Bill had met a really great guy, and shortly after moved in with him. Paul took me to their house for dinner once night, and I saw them a few times after that. They seemed like the perfect couple.
"When Bill moved, I'd thought Irv lost track of him. I know he asked me several times if I knew where Bill was, but I lied. I hoped that was the end of it as far as Irv was concerned, until I heard that Bill had died."
Elliott frowned. "You're not suggesting..." he began, and Button put one spread-fingered hand to his chest.
"Oh, no! No! But strictly between you, me and the lamppost, when I heard Bill was dead, Irv did pop into my mind. I never did find out how Bill died, but I can't believe Irv would carry a grudge that far." He sighed. "Still, people often do things we never imagine they can do."
Elliott wasn't sure whether Button's last sentence referred to Bill or to Irv, and decided that, though his beer bottle was nearly empty, his mind was full to capacity. He finished his drink and set the bottle on the counter. When the bartender started over, he shook his head, indicating he was through.
Getting up from his stool, he extended his hand to Button.
"Well, it's time for me to take off," he said. "I've enjoyed talking with you."
"My pleasure. Now that you know where we are, don't be a stranger."
Elliott grinned. "I won't. Take care."
And with a small wave, he turned and left the bar.
---Do you suppose that's his real name?
---Button?
---Yeah. I love it. You should have asked how he came by it.
---As they used to say in science fiction movies, "There are things Man is not meant to know." But I can ask next time I go in there, which will probably be shortly after hell freezes over.
---Was it that bad?
---No, not at all ... just not my kind of place. So, where have you been?
---Here and there. I'm not trying to be evasive, but it's easier than trying to explain.
---What about Aaron?
---Nothing much. I've been sort of stepping back and giving him a chance to clear the fog. I think he's really trying. He's been like a stuck phonograph record for the past four years, and now he's starting to get past it. Are you still going to try to talk to Irv Wilson?
---I'm really not sure. From what Button says, I don't think I'd want to have much to do with the guy, and if I were to approach him in the bar, I'm sure he'd take it as a come-on. I sure as hell don't want to go down that road. I don't know ... we'll see.
---Okay, it's your show.
He'd talked with Steve Thursday night to verify Gil's arrival Friday afternoon and dinner Friday night, and Steve called him from his car around one o'clock Friday afternoon on his way to the airport. At exactly seven-thirty that evening, Elliott stepped out of the elevator. As he passed through the door to the outer lobby, he saw Steve's car waiting at the curb. At first he noticed only Steve, who was behind the wheel, then saw there was someone in the back. He opened the door and got in, turning to acknowledge the passenger.
"Elliott, this is Gil," Steve announced somewhat unnecessarily. Elliott reached through the space between the seats to shake hands.
"I could have sat in back," he said as they shook.
A pleasant-looking man in his late 40s, which was mildly surprising---he'd expected someone about Steve's own age---Gil had a firm hand and a warm smile. Elliott decided he was probably going to like him.
"No problem," Gil said as Elliott turned back to fasten his seatbelt. Glancing into the rearview mirror as Steve drove down the ramp and waited to make a left hand turn onto Sheridan, he noted that Gil's hair, which he'd at first thought was blond, was actually a greying light brown.
"Your first trip to Chicago?" he asked, turning as far as his seatbelt would comfortably allow.
"Yes," Gil said. "Pretty impressive, from what I've seen of it so far. You're a native, I understand."
Elliott found it interesting that Steve had apparently done more than just mention him to Gil, and wondered what else he might have told him.
They turned onto the Outer Drive toward the restaurant. "What a terrific view," Gil said, indicating the lake to their left and the city spread before them on the right. "I almost took a job here a couple of years ago," he volunteered.
"Oh, yeah?" Elliott asked. "What sort of work do you do?"
"I'm in computers---database administration. Nobody's ever heard of it, but it's a growing field, and I like it."
Elliott was aware of John in the back seat beside Gil, and felt something akin to a mild electrical shock. John's sudden appearances always startled him.
"Database administration?" he repeated, hoping his surprise didn't show in his voice. "Yeah, I've heard of it. As a matter of fact, I was just talking to a DBA firm last week---FutureCom. Ever hear of it?"
He watched in the rearview mirror as Gil smiled and shook his head. "That's who I was thinking of joining," he said. "There weren't more than a handful of DBA firms around back then. Still aren't all that many."
Elliott put aside the fact that coincidence and credulity had just been stretched to the breaking point and said, "Why didn't you take it?"
"Well, it was a fairly new company run by two guys, and they'd advertised in the trades for talent. I answered and started a correspondence with one of the owners, who I really liked. Then, just before I decided to take their offer, I found myself suddenly dealing with the other partner. No explanation as to why.
"When I asked why I was suddenly talking to him instead of his partner, he told me his partner had left the business. Again, no explanation. But there was something about the guy that made me leery, and I said I'd need a bit of time to think. He called me four times in the space of a week, getting more and more pushy and making wild promises, and I finally told him thanks but no thanks. I'm kind of surprised to hear they're still in business."
Elliott, still aware of John's presence, also detected a faint sensation of bemusement not his own.
There was the usual hour's wait at the restaurant and no seats at the bar, so they ordered drinks, carried them into the small waiting area just off the street entrance and found two available seats on one of the benches. Steve insisted that Elliott and Gil sit while he stood.
"Out of deference to my elders," he said.
"Bullshit," Elliott replied. "You just want to hog the spotlight."
Steve cocked an eyebrow. "When ya got it, flaunt it."
Gil and Steve had an easy camaraderie, though Elliott was pretty sure Gil wished it were more. They kept talk of mutual friends and acquaintances to a minimum, and the conversation was relaxed and wide-ranging. Elliott was curious about why their relationship had not gone further than it had, but he realized he was selfishly glad it hadn't.
When Steve excused himself to go refresh their drinks, Elliott was alone with Gil for the first time.
"I'm glad to finally meet you," Gil said pleasantly. "I was a little worried about Steve when he moved here without knowing a soul in town. I should have known he'd do just fine, and he obviously has."
Not knowing whether Gil was including him in the observation, Elliott merely smiled. "He's got a lot going for him," he said noncommittally. They sipped their drinks, and Elliott decided a change of subject might be in order.
"I understand you're taking the train back?"
Gil smiled. "Yeah, I've always wanted to take a long train trip, but I never had a specific reason. When Steve moved here, I figured it would be a good way to combine visiting Steve with something I've wanted to for a long time."
"You're getting a sleeper compartment, I hope?"
"Oh, yeah," Gil said with a laugh. "I'm not quite up to three days and two nights sitting in a passenger car."
"So, you live in the Big Bear area?"
"I used to, but I recently got an apartment in LA, since I do a lot of running back and forth between there and San Diego, doing of freelance work for a couple of different DBA firms. It keeps me busy. Steve tells me you rehabilitate old buildings. That sounds like quite a job."
"Yeah, it is," Elliott said. "It would bore most people cross-eyed, but I really enjoy it."
"Steve said he did a painting of one of them."
Elliott was aware Gil hadn't taken his eyes off him since Steve had left, and didn't really know what to make of it. He wondered what else Steve might have said about either the painting or the building.
"Yes, he did," he verified. "As a matter of fact, he was the one who found my current project for me. Interesting how things work out."
Gil gave him a small smile. "Isn't it."
Steve appeared in the doorway to the main part of the restaurant, a waitress directly behind him. Gesturing, he said "Our table's ready," and Elliott and Gil rose to follow them inside.
Giving a small wave as Steve's car pulled back down the ramp to Sheridan Road, Elliott entered his building and headed for the elevators. It had been a pleasant evening, and he decided he liked Gil, despite his hesitation before they met.
During dinner, Steve had invited him to join them for a Saturday trip to the Art Institute. He had declined on the grounds of having some business paperwork to handle, though the real reason was that he felt the two friends needed some time to themselves. However, since Steve had raved to Gil about the view from Elliott's condo and they had talked of Steve's most recent painting, he'd countered the invitation with one of his own---for them to come by for drinks after the Art Institute.
As he was getting ready for bed, he reflected briefly that this would be the first weekend since they'd met that he and Steve hadn't slept together at least one night.
Though he heard nothing directly from John during the night, he did dream of the Anvil and Button, and somebody he assumed to be Irv Wilson, which he took to be a sign that, despite his reservations, he should make another attempt to reach Wilson. He had no idea what he might learn but felt it was worth a try.
Cessy called Saturday afternoon to ask him over for an early Sunday dinner, and he readily accepted.
"Would you like to ask Steve?" she suggested.
"He has a friend in from out of town," Elliott replied, without going further into detail. He didn't know what Steve and Gil might have planned for Sunday, but he did not want them to feel obligated to invite him along. Cessy's invitation provided a good excuse in case they did.
Saturday evening went well. Steve and Gil came by around five-thirty and spent a couple of hours over drinks and some makeshift hors d'oeuvres. Gil seemed delighted with the condo, the view and Steve's painting. When Steve suggested they all go to dinner, Elliott was hesitant, but both men insisted he join them, so he agreed.
After dinner, they hit a couple of the quieter bars. "I'm not much of a bar person," Gil had said. "Once you turn forty you start becoming invisible." Steve dismissed the idea, but it was a subject that had always bothered Elliott as probably being true.
He made a point to mention he was having dinner at his sister's Sunday---he didn't specify the time---to forestall any possible invitations. Steve responded with, "Well, we'll really have to get together again before Gil leaves." Elliott offered to take them to dinner Tuesday night, the night before Gil's departure.
Cessy had told him dinner would be at three, but that he should come by early to spend a little time with the kids.
"We hardly ever see you anymore," she said, and he realized that, by her standards, she was probably right. He'd not been over for Dinner at the Priebes's for a while, so on the way over he stopped to pick up some flowers as a peace offering.
He'd been a little surprised that dinner would be at three---a definite break in the family's Sunday routine, which usually meant lunch around one after returning from church and dinner around seven. Brad and Cessy, he had learned, were going to a retirement party for Brad's immediate superior in the Homicide Division at five o'clock, so Cessy wanted to make sure the kids had their main meal before she and Brad left for the affair.
He arrived shortly after two to find Brad and BJ in the garage working on a lawnmower, which apparently had given up the ghost halfway through mowing the yard. He exchanged greetings then headed into the house. He never knocked.
Cessy was nowhere to be seen, but Jenny was setting plates and silverware on the kitchen table. When she saw him, she stopped what she was doing to run over.
"Uncle Elliott!" she exclaimed, beaming, arms open wide.
"Hi, there, Ladybug." He scooped her up and gave her an exaggerated bear hug.
"I've missed you!" she said as he set her back on the floor.
"Well, it's only been three or four years. Have you started college yet?"
"You're silly!"
"Where's your Mom?"
"She's upstairs changing Sandy. Do you want me to call her?"
"Nah," he replied. "She'll be down in a minute." Seeing the stack of plates, he said, "You want me to help you set the table?"
"I can do it," she said, and Elliott pulled out a chair and sat down. He listened with attentive bemusement as she enthusiastically told him of everything she'd done since she'd last talked to him.
Cessy came downstairs with the baby just as Elliott heard the lawnmower kick to life and move out into the yard.
"Why didn't you tell me you were here?" she asked, putting Sandy in her playpen and coming over for a quick hug.
"I didn't want to interrupt you. Besides, Jenny and I have been talking, right, Jen?"
The girl nodded happily.
Brad entered from the side door as the sound of mowing continued.
"All fixed?" Elliott asked.
Brad nodded, going to the sink to wash his hands. "I don't know where that kid finds rocks to run over, but somehow he manages. I'm going to have to invest in cotter-pin stock if he keeps this up. Want a beer before dinner?"
"Sure." Elliott glanced at Cessy. "There's time?"
"There's always time for a beer," Brad answered for her, drying his hands on the towel looped through the refrigerator handle then pulling the door open and reaching inside for the bottles.
The two men moved into the living room, Elliott pausing to pick Sandy up from her playpen for a hug on the way.
They sat in silence for a few moments, drinking their beer, until Brad said, "So, you find out anything more on that Somers matter?"
Elliott shook his head. "Not much. I've talked to his business partner, and there's somebody else I'm going to try to see, but other than that..." He looked up to find Brad staring at him.
"I'm still not convinced this is a very good idea," Brad said. "Not that I can stop you. I just don't want you to get into something you can't get out of."
Elliott took another swig of his beer. He understood Brad's position. He knew Brad wasn't convinced that Bill Somers's death was a suicide but was unable to officially pursue the matter, so perhaps he wouldn't really mind if someone else did.
"Don't worry," Elliott assured him. "All I'm trying to do is fill in some of the blanks. I'll pass anything I find on to you. If I can learn anything that might lead you to reopen the case, it's worth it."
Brad shrugged. "Maybe."
Elliott realized the sound of the lawnmower had ceased when BJ came in from the kitchen, heading for the stairs. They exchanged casually truncated greetings as Cessy called, "Dinner in ten minutes."
He and Brad finished their beers in silence. When BJ came back downstairs, they followed him into the kitchen. As they were approaching the doorway, Brad looked at Elliott and said, "Be careful."
Oddly touched---and mildly puzzled---by his brother-in-law's concern, Elliott merely nodded.
On his way home, his mind on nothing in particular, he suddenly thought of the Anvil and Irv Wilson. He automatically made a quick check to see if he could detect John's presence and, therefore, possible influence, but there was nothing, so the thought must have been his own.
The bartender had said Wilson usually came in on Sunday afternoons. Glancing at the dashboard clock he noted it was nearly five and decided to drive by. If there was a place to park, he'd stop in; if not, he'd just go on home.
As he turned onto Granville, he saw both sides of the street were, as usual, lined solid with cars; but as he got closer a car on his side pulled out. Though he really wasn't that keen on going to the bar, he took it as a sign that he should, and therefore did.
There were more customers in the place than he expected, but he quickly noticed that the third seat from the end---the one he'd been told Irv Wilson always took---was empty. He was debating on whether to order a drink or just leave when he saw Button standing near the door, engaged in conversation with a very short, dark-haired, rather fragile-looking guy in his late 30s or early 40s with a round, smooth, wide-eyed face that didn't seem to go with the rest of his body. He looked, Elliott thought, like a very old baby. Button himself, though not in a suit, was dressed as though he were awaiting a call from GQ.
Turning to go, Elliott hoped he could do so unobtrusively, having decided the whole trip-to-the-bar idea hadn't been a very good one and he just wanted to go home. However, Button spotted him before he made it to the door.
"Elliott! How good to see you," greeting him as though they were old friends. He did a half-turn to his companion and said, "This is my friend Paul. I was telling you about him the last time you were in."
Elliott extended his hand, and was rather surprised by the little man's firm handshake.
"Nice to meet you," Paul said in an unexpectedly deep, rich bass, and Elliott immediately thought the guy could make a fortune on a gay porn phone line.
"I think I mentioned that Paul was a friend of Bill Somers and his partner, Aaron. I thought maybe you might like to meet him."
"Indeed," Elliott said. "Let me go grab a drink. Can I get you anything?"
"I never turn down a drink offer," Button said with a wide smile. "Tanqueray rocks, if you don't mind."
Elliott looked to Paul. "Paul?"
Paul indicated his glass, which was a little less than half-full. "Thanks, but no. I really have to be getting home after this one."
Excusing himself, Elliott headed for the bar. He was suddenly not in so great a hurry to get home.
Returning with the drinks, he didn't waste any time in getting to the point.
"So, you knew both Bill and Aaron," he said to Paul.
"Bill and I go way, way back," Paul replied with a smile. "Did you know him?"
"I'm afraid not," Elliott admitted. "But I'm doing some work on the building he and Aaron were living in when they died, and when I heard their story from another tenant, I was kind of fascinated."
Paul took a sip of his drink, then sighed. "Like a Greek tragedy," he said. "They don't come much sadder. They were both wonderful people, and I was so happy when they found each other. It was the best thing that ever happened to either of them."
"How's that?" Elliott asked.
"Well, as I say, I knew Bill much longer than I knew Aaron, but they both had a rough life. Bill's parents died within a year of one another, so he was on his own from the time he was eighteen. He worked his way through college and really made something of himself.
"As for Aaron, he'd always been in fragile health, and after his parents also died he was saddled with looking after his younger brother Bruce, who from what I could gather was and probably still is a real shit. He loathes gays and treated Aaron with total contempt except when he wanted something. Other than that, they almost never spoke.
"How Aaron put up with it, I'll never know. He worked his tail off, but no matter how much he did for Bruce, it was never enough. Bruce had big visions of being the next Norman Rockwell, and Aaron put him through art school and then when Bruce couldn't make it on his own, got him a job working for an ad agency. Aaron paid for the Bruce's wedding and even helped set his wife up in business, then 'loaned' them the money for a house---though I'll bet he never saw a penny of it in repayment. But he never complained. The only way I knew any of this was from what Bill told me."
Button, who had been standing silently listening, shook his head. "Just goes to show how little you know about people you think you know," he said. "I honestly never even knew Aaron had a brother. Makes me appreciate being an only child."
The conversation moved on to other subjects, and they talked for another few minutes until Paul drained his glass and said: "Well, it's been very nice talking with you, but I've really got to be getting on home. I hope we'll see one another again." Setting his glass on an empty table, he extended his hand to Elliott and, after the handshake, turned to hug Button. "See you soon." And with a small wave, he left the bar.
"Nice guy," Elliott said as the door closed behind Paul.
"They don't come much nicer," Button replied. "He was truly devastated when he heard that Bill had died. From the minute Aaron called him to say Bill had disappeared---he called me, too, of course, and everyone else who knew Bill---Paul said he knew Bill was dead, though he never told Aaron. And then when Aaron died, too..."
"Paul knew Bill was dead before he was found?"
Button nodded, taking another sip of his drink. "He didn't know, of course, but he was sure it was the only explanation for his disappearance. He did his best to console Aaron, but of course, he couldn't."
They were quiet for a moment until Button said, "So, what brings you in this evening?"
"Actually, I just stopped in to see if Irv Wilson might be here." Indicating the vacant third stool from the end with a nod of his head, he added, "I gather he's not."
"You just missed him!" Button replied. "He left not more then ten minutes before you walked in. Consider yourself lucky."
"Now you've got me curious," Elliott said.
"Well, don't get too curious, or you'll regret it. I heard of one guy who used to come in here who moved out of town to get away from him."
"That bad?" Elliott asked.
Button nodded. "Yep." Laying a hand lightly on Elliott's arm, he said, "If you don't mind my asking, why in the world would you want to meet Irv? You have no idea what you might be letting yourself in for."
Smiling, Elliott said, "Well, I've heard enough not to become a fly caught in his web. I just want to size him up for myself."
Withdrawing his hand, Button took a sip of his drink. "Well, you're a big boy. Just be careful."
"I will. So, tell me, I gather from what you said that you didn't know Aaron all that well."
"Not nearly as well as I knew Bill, I'm afraid. But he seemed like a really good person. And to have both him and Bill dead..." His voice trailed off, and he was silent for a moment before continuing. "You know, though he and Bill were very happy, I could always sense sadness in the back of Aaron's eyes. Of course, after listening to Paul, if I had a brother like Aaron's, I can certainly see why. Maybe that was part of the sadness. But, strange as it sounds, I always got the impression that Aaron knew he was going to die soon." He sighed deeply. "Too soon, alas."
Deciding a subject change might be in order, Elliott asked, "Do you know if Irv ever gets physical with the guys he fixates on?"
"Not that I know of. But you don't have to be beaten up to be afraid you might be. Irv's a stalker, and it's only a matter of time before he does something---if he hasn't already. Let's just say I wouldn't want to put him in my will."
Elliott took the last swallow of his drink, and put the empty glass on the table next to Paul's.
"Sure you don't want another?" Button asked.
"Thanks, but no, I'd better get going. It was nice seeing you again, Button," he said, extending his hand, "and I appreciate the information."
"Well, don't be a stranger," Button said with a smile. It was exactly what he'd said the last time.
"I won't," Elliott replied, rather hoping he was lying but afraid he wasn't. Picking up both empty glasses, he carried them over to set them on the bar, nodded again to Button and left.
For some reason, as he drove toward home, Button's mention of wills made him think of John's observation that Aaron hadn't had one.
---I checked with Aaron.
---About what?
---About his not having a will. I asked him---though we still don't actually converse the way you and I do---after you thought about it on the way home.
---There you go reading my thoughts again!
---I know, I know. Sorry. I phrased that wrong. I'm not with you every waking minute, and when I am, I don't spend all my time in here just wandering around your mind waiting to pounce on your every thought. It's just that I can sense some of them without seeking them out. I can't really explain it, but trust me on this.
---Do I have much choice? So, what did he say?
---Asking Aaron a question is still a lot like looking for one specific button in a button jar. I have to do a lot of sifting through feelings and emotions and dodging those pitched balls to get to what he's saying. But it's becoming easier, and he seems to be learning how to separate things and focus a bit. Anyway, what I got was that he and Bill had an appointment with a lawyer, but they never kept it.
---I don't suppose he said why?
---I asked, but the emotions ... mostly frustration and sadness ... came rushing in and swept away the words. I'd guess that Bill disappeared before they could keep the appointment. I can try for a more specific response again later, when he's calmed down.
---I'm still not sure what this will thing is all about. I assume Aaron's brother got everything.
---Yes, and Aaron wasn't very happy about that. I think that may have been one reason he'd never made a will before---he didn't want to just hand over everything to his brother. He'd been doing that all his life. Without a will, everything would have had to go through the hassles of the probate process. A small sign of rebellion, but to Aaron a significant one. He wanted to leave everything to Bill, of course, but...
---Well, even if he had made a will, since Bill died before him, his brother would have ended up with it all.
---And let's not forget Jim Babcock. If Aaron had made a will, Bill would undoubtedly have changed his at the same time, which would have cut Babcock off at the knees.
Monday and Tuesday passed quickly, with a general checkin call Monday night from Cessy, a few calls from friends, and one from Steve setting up dinner plans for Gil's last night in town. There was nothing Monday night from John, which was fine with Elliott.
Tuesday, Elliott and his crew started work on Aaron's old apartment; Elliott had been mildly concerned Aaron might act up and call himself to the attention of Arnie, Sam or Ted.
He was in one of the bedrooms putting up molding around a newly installed window, the other three men busy elsewhere in the apartment, when he heard a soft rap-rap on a piece of molding not six inches from his ear. He jumped and glanced around the empty room, then listened for any comment from the others. There was none. The rap had been very soft, and that fact alone was somehow chilling. It told him Aaron not only knew he was there but had deliberately made certain the communication was not heard by the others.
He wasn't sure just why it bothered him as much as it did, except that it was the first direct evidence Aaron was not only aware of something other than his own inner turmoil but that he was specifically trying to get Elliott's attention. While he had dismissed the earlier rapping incident in the kitchen as just a random act, there was no doubt in his mind about the purpose of this one. He hoped it was a good sign, but wasn't sure. He wasn't overly fond of the idea of establishing anything even resembling direct contact with any non-corporeal being other than John.
He forced himself to continue what he was doing, but ten minutes later it came again---two soft raps on the molding closest to his head.
Taking a deep breath, Elliott stood up facing the window and closed his eyes.
Okay, okay! You've made your point, he thought. As with John, he refused to say anything aloud.
Nevertheless, throughout the day, whenever he was alone, he heard the soft tapping. He was relieved when the time came for him to leave the building and go home. He tried to concentrate on getting ready for dinner with Steve and Gil and kept his thoughts on a short leash, reining them in sharply if they wandered too far from the task at hand.
He'd arranged to pick up Steve and Gil at seven, and when he found himself running late, he called as he left the condo's garage to suggest they meet him in front of Steve's building. It occurred to him as he turned off the Drive at Belmont that it seemed like a lot longer than three days since he'd seen Steve. Perhaps, in an effort not to think about what had happened at work during the day and, by extension, of his reluctant but inescapable involvement with Aaron, he directed his thoughts toward Steve, and exactly why three days should seem like such a long time.
Elliott had never been what he considered "relationship-oriented." He was never one who felt that a relationship was vital to a fulfillment, and had always been perfectly content living the singles life. Perhaps, he thought as he sat at an interminably long stoplight, Cessy was getting to him with her constant insistence that he find someone and settle down.
He was well aware as forty approached that he would be passing through that unseen but very real door that led to the gradual but inevitable drying up of the cruising pool and one's being subtly shunted aside to make room for the next generation of fantasy fodder. Like most people who had not yet reached that door, he'd never given much thought to what lay on the other side, and he didn't really want to start now. However, he was increasingly aware he couldn't ignore it too much longer.
Steve and Gil were waiting for him, and he was relieved to switch his attention once again to the immediacy of the moment.
Dinner at an Italian restaurant on Devon---a long drive, but the food and the ambience were well worth it---was, Elliott decided, just what he needed to pull himself back to the real world. He decided, too, that he really liked Gil, and was relieved that he couldn't detect an iota of jealousy in his reactions to Gil and Steve's talking of everything they'd done together during Gil's visit.
They pulled up in front of Steve's building shortly before ten, and Elliott and Gil exchanged goodbyes.
"Call you tomorrow," Steve said as he got out of the car.
---I found out more about the wills. Considering that Aaron's thoughts are still less than totally linear, it took a little doing.
---And?
---I was right---they never kept their appointment with the lawyer. Bill disappeared two days before.
---Now, that's interesting!
---Isn't it.
---Yeah. I wonder if the timing might not have something to do with Bill's decision to dissolve the partnership with Babcock. Can you see if Aaron was aware of Bill's decision, and if so, if Bill might have said anything at all about whether Babcock was aware of it?
---Sure. I'll let you know as soon as I find out. It won't be tomorrow, though.
---Oh? Any particular reason?
---Steve's calling you tomorrow.
---So?
---So, I don't think it's to talk about the weather.
---Ah, yes. I hope you're right. Do you miss sex?
There was the tingling sensation of John's laughter.
---A long story. I'll tell you about it sometime.
---Why not now?
---You need your sleep. You probably won't be getting much of it tomorrow.
---I love an optimist.
---Realist is more like it.
Steve called as Elliott was having an afternoon coffee break.
"I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."
"Not at all. Did Gil get off okay?"
"About ten minutes ago. I was going to wait until you got home but thought maybe you'd consider joining me for an early dinner. This is my last day off from work, so since I've got the afternoon free, I thought I'd make some enchiladas. I think you said one time that you liked them."
"That I do," Elliott said. "What time?"
"How soon can you make it?"
Resisting the temptation to say "ten minutes?" he instead said, "As soon as takes me to get home, shower and change."
"No need to go home first."
"Yeah, but I'm really scuzzy after working all day."
"I like scuzzy every now and then. You can shower here, and since we wear the same size..."
"Be there about five-twenty," Elliott said.
After his coffee break, he and Arnie installed a pair of carriage lights flanking the front door and one beside each of the doors to the lower-level apartments. Turning them all on, he walked out to the sidewalk to get an overview of their work while Arnie returned inside.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a motion in the second-floor window---Aaron's apartment. He studied the window but saw nothing more. He quickly reassured himself it was probably just Arnie going into the unit. That, or his imagination. He took his time walking back to turn off the coach lights before checking on his team's whereabouts.
He found Sam and Ted where he'd left them, laying new linoleum in the bathroom and putting finishing touches on the kitchen cabinetry respectively. Arnie was preparing to install a new light fixture over the kitchen sink. He was tempted to ask if anyone had been near the living room window, but he didn't.
Despite his determination to think of nothing but the job, he couldn't help considering again that, in all the time---albeit short---John had been in his life, there had been absolutely no physical evidence or manifestations of his existence. No sounds. No mysterious sightings. John was not a ghost, as Elliott understood the term, but it appeared Aaron might be, and that possibility unnerved him.
He was vastly relieved when quitting time arrived, and he spent the drive to Steve's trying very hard not to think of what he had not seen at the window. Since he had no idea what type of wine might go with enchiladas, he stopped on the way for a six-pack of Dos Equis.
The door had not fully closed behind him when Steve, who hadn't said a word, grabbed him by the head with both hands and pulled him forward for a lip-crushing kiss, which he returned in the spirit in which it was given. When they finally pulled apart, Elliott took a deep breath, grinned and said, "Have we met?"
Steve mirrored his grin. "Hey, if you liked hello, stick around for 'Have a seat.'"
Elliott walked over to the couch while Steve headed for the kitchen.
"Need help?" Elliott called.
"Not at the moment. But hold that thought for later."
He heard the whir of a blender, and a minute or so later, Steve returned with a small pitcher of margaritas, two salt-rimmed iced glasses and a small plate of hors d'oeuvres, which he set on the coffee table.
"I'm impressed," Elliott said as Steve settled beside him and poured their drinks.
"That's the purpose of seduction."
"Like I needed to be seduced."
Steve grinned and raised his glass in a silent toast, and Elliott echoed the motion.
They settled back to enjoy their drinks, talking easily of Gil's visit and what Elliott had been doing since they'd last gotten together. Elliott described the progress being made on the building, without any mention of rappings or flickers of movement in windows. He did bring up his visit to the Anvil, describing the place and his having met Button and Paul.
"Sounds like an interesting place," Steve said.
"It's a neighborhood bar. No more, no less."
"Well, maybe we can go some night, if you're up to it. I get really tired of the 'if you're not in, you're out' places."
Elliott nodded, reaching forward to take the next-to-last hors d'oeuvre.
Draining his margarita, Steve laid a hand on Elliott's leg. "Okay, enough small talk. How about a trip to the bedroom before I explode?"
"Don't you want to wait until after dinner?" Elliott asked.
"No. Do you?"
"No, but..."
"They're enchiladas. All made. All cooked. All I have to do is put them in the oven for a few minutes."
"You think of everything, don't you?" Elliott said with a laugh.
"I try."
"Well, let me shower first."
"Why bother? One man's scuzzy is another man's butch."
Shrugging, Elliott followed him to the bedroom.
They finally had dinner a little after eight, and ate largely in contented silence. Elliott noticed Steve looking at him frequently, and sensed he wanted to say something but didn't know how to broach it.
As they sat at the table having coffee, Elliott couldn't resist.
"What?" he asked, finally, as he caught another look.
Steve sighed, looking slightly embarrassed. "I wasn't going to say anything," he said, "but it's really been bugging me."
"What?" Elliott repeated.
"I've been having these strange dreams..." he began, and Elliott immediately tensed up but said nothing, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "You remember telling me about the guy who died in your building---the one you're working on?"
"Yeah?"
"Was his name Aaron?"
Elliott was suddenly aware of John's proximity and a sharp sense of curiosity from him.
"Yes," he replied, still not sure how he should be reacting. "I told you that at the time."
Steve sighed. "No, you didn't. You didn't mention the name, and I'd have remembered a name like Aaron."
Neither of them spoke for a moment until Elliott said, "So, what kind of dreams?"
Steve took a long sip of his coffee before answering. "Hard to say. I can't remember them clearly, but I know you're in there somewhere, and there's this Aaron guy. I always love dreaming ... when they make sense. But these are just frustrating jumbles, and I can't make hide nor hair out of them. They're no fun, and that ticks me off because dreams should be fun."
Elliott wanted to reach out and take his hand, but instead, he just shook his head. "Dreams are really weird sometimes," he said lamely.
There was another period of silence, finally broken by Steve.
"So, how do I know his name is Aaron? That's not a name people usually pull out of a hat."
"I have no idea," Elliott lied, feeling guilty as he did so, and aware again of John. "But don't let it bother you."
"Mmmm," Steve said, obviously not convinced.
Because they both had to work in the morning, Elliott did not spend the night, though they managed another workout session after dinner. He left for home just before midnight, exhausted but happy.
---Very interesting.
---Ya think? What the hell's going on? And why are you dragging Steve into it?
---That's just it---I'm not dragging Steve into anything. I haven't had any direct contact with him at all. How he came up with Aaron's name I have no idea.
---Could it be Aaron?
---I don't see how ... or why. Aaron has barely gotten his act together enough to be aware of you.
---But he is aware of me. All that knocking business.
---Yes, he's aware of you, but he's still primarily just a boiling cauldron of emotions.
---Steve has been in the building, and in Aaron's apartment.
---So has your work crew, and they aren't aware of him. I doubt that would have made a difference.
---Well, something is going on, and I wish I knew what it was. And those dreams he says he's been having---all "jumbles." That sounds like Aaron to me.
---That it does. I'll see if I can get anything at all out of Aaron.
---Please do! I want to keep Steve out of all this.
Wednesday evening, Steve called.
"Want to go to a party?"
He remembered Steve had mentioned they would not be able to get together the following Friday because his company was having its annual Founders Party. "It'll be my first," he had said, "and I'm not particularly looking forward to it. There are some nice people there, but forty hours a week with them is enough, thank you."
"No other gays?" Elliott had asked.
"Only about two-thirds of the art department," he'd said with a laugh, "but still..."
The minute Steve mentioned a party, Elliott assumed it was the work function, but wasn't sure.
"You mean your office party? Friday?" he asked.
"Yeah. Had you made other plans?"
"No, not at all. It was just that I'd assumed it was just for the employees."
"So did I until today, when one of the staff lesbians said her partner was coming, and asked who I was bringing. Came as a surprise to me, but ... So, would you like to go? Free food and booze, and it will keep me from looking like a wallflower, or dying of boredom."
Elliott, having worked for himself all his life, had never attended an office party, but viewed them as being about as much fun as a sprained ankle. Still, he rationalized, Steve had endured meeting his family and Cessy's interrogations.
"Sure," he said. "What time, and where?"
"Seven, at Renaldi's on Broadway. You know it?"
"I know it. You want me to pick you up?"
"Nah, I can just hop on the bus. I'll meet you out front."
"Okay, if you're sure. I might take a bus, too, now that I think about it. Parking around there is a bitch."
They talked for a few more minutes about the progress on Elliott's building. Steve made no further mention of Aaron, for which Elliott was duly grateful. While he was curious to know if Steve had had any more of his dreams, he thought it best not to ask.
He'd heard nothing from John, and there had been no rappings at work, all of which he took as proof of the old adage "no news is good news."
Until Thursday night. He'd gone to bed a little later than usual, and it seemed his head had barely hit the pillow before:
---Aaron knows who Steve is ... sort of.
---Which means...?
---He feels some sort of link to Steve, but hasn't a clue about what it might be.
---Well, that's a big help. Did Aaron tell Steve his name?
---Oddly, no. I still am not sure how he came up with it. Steve is an empath, after all. Not quite on your level, but...
---I'm sorry, but every time I hear that word I can't help but think of palm readers and crystal balls.
John tingle-laughed.
---It's hardly the same, and you know it.
---I suppose. But there has to be some sort of link between Steve and Aaron, and I want to know what it is.
Friday evening, Elliott made it home from work just in time to shower, change clothes and hurry up to Broadway to catch the bus. Steve was waiting for him when he arrived at the restaurant, and they went inside to be directed to one of the large dining rooms, where a couple dozen people were already gathered around the bar set up on one side of the room. Others stood around in small groups, or sat at a half-dozen small tables. A large round table in the center of the room was loaded with chafing dishes, breads, cold cuts and desserts. Obviously, Steve's employers believed in treating their employees right.
Being in a room with people he didn't know had never been a real problem for Elliott, probably because of his parents' social gregariousness. He remembered the advice one of his father's country club friends had good-naturedly given him regarding feeling at ease among strangers. "Just remember, my boy," the man had said, "you can buy and sell any one of them."
And while he always tried to downplay his wealth, he realized the remark had an element of truth in it.
Steve made a point to introduce Elliott to just about everyone, including his boss and the CEO of the company and their wives, none of whom, from the casual way they mixed in with the others, he would have picked out by their titles.
On their second trip to the buffet table, and while they were momentarily alone, Elliott noticed a man and woman standing apart from the main concentration of people, looking mildly bored.
"Who are those two?" he asked with a small nod in their general direction. "I think those are about the only people I haven't met."
Steve gave him a small grin, helping himself to a couple of bacon-wrapped dates. "I was sort of hoping you wouldn't notice," he said. "That's Bruce. I assume that's his wife."
"And Bruce is...?" Elliott asked, prompting.
"Other than a pain in the ass? He's an arrogant prick, a world class ass-kisser, and," he said, picking up another bacon-wrapped date, "a raging homophobe." He looked at Elliott and his grin grew broader. "And those," he added, "are his good qualities."
"Good. I want to meet them."
The grin faded, replaced by a look of puzzlement. "You're serious?"
"Sure. I love making bigots squirm."
The grin returned. "Step this way," Steve said, picking up his plate with one hand, his drink in the other.
As they approached the couple, Elliott took stock of them. The man---Bruce---was tall and thin, his posture and his facial expression all but exuding superiority. The woman somehow reminded him of a young Tammy Faye Bakker at her evangelical "Praise the Lord" best. Both were casually but expensively dressed, subtly making it clear they would not be caught dead inside a Wal-Mart. He noticed that Bruce appeared to be wearing a Rolex, and was pretty sure it wasn't a knock-off.
When Bruce spotted Steve approaching, he made no attempt to conceal the fact he was not too happy about it.
"Bruce," Steve said pleasantly, "I'd like you to meet my ... friend ... Elliott Smith."
Elliott suppressed a smile at Steve's deliberate pause.
"Elliott," Steve continued, "this is Bruce Stiles."
Elliott nearly dropped his drink.
The wife beamed. "So nice to meet you," she said, extending her bejeweled hand. "I'm Marylinn Hightower." She gave a "Jesus thanks you for your offering" smile to her husband and added, "I kept my maiden name after we married for business reasons. I'm in real estate---Brighton Realtors."
She quickly reached into her handbag and extracted two business cards, handing one to Steve and one to Elliott.
Her husband had said nothing and made no move to offer to shake hands. Elliott, hoping the degree to which he had been rattled did not show, extended his.
"Bruce," he said.
Stiles looked at Elliott's hand as though it might bite him, then reluctantly took it without a word for a quick, limp shake, dropping it as soon as he could.
"Are you by any chance related to Aaron Stiles?"
Steve turned quickly to look at him, total surprise on his face. Stiles looked distinctly uncomfortable, and his wife, for an instant, lost her expression of studied perkiness before quickly re-donning it. She glanced at her husband.
"I was," Stiles said, speaking for the first time. "He's dead."
"I know," Elliott said, noting he had not clarified his exact relationship to Aaron. "I'm truly sorry for your loss."
"I gather you ... knew ... him," Stiles said, his meaning clear.
"Not in the biblical sense," Elliott said lightly. "As a matter of fact, we never met."
Stiles radiated disdain as he slowly and deliberately looked from Elliott to Steve.
"Oh, you were wondering because Aaron was gay?" Elliott asked pleasantly. "A number of people are, you know. We don't all sleep together."
Eyes narrowed to malevolent slits, Stiles reached out for his wife's arm as she struggled to maintain her benevolent mask. Elliott felt as though he were in a snapshot, caught forever in time, until: "I need another drink," Stiles said archly. With a withering glance at Elliott and ignoring Steve altogether, he took his wife's elbow and guided her through the crowd toward the bar, their still half-full drinks in hand.
Both men watched them go without a word, until Steve broke into a broad grin. "You're evil."
Returning the grin, Elliott said, "I'll take that as a compliment. You aren't so bad yourself. I hope I didn't get you into any trouble."
"Not at all." Then his grin faded, replaced by a mixture of confusion and something Elliott could not quite interpret. "Bruce is related to the same Aaron I've been dreaming about? The one who died in your building?"
"Yes, that Aaron. I'll wager Bruce is his brother."
Steve shook his head slowly. "That's incredible! And how did you put the two things together?"
"No mystery. A guy I talked to who knew Aaron mentioned that Aaron had put his brother through art school. And Stiles isn't that common a last name. And Mrs. Reinerio, who lives in the building, was telling me about Aaron's brother and his wife having come over immediately after Aaron's funeral to strip his place bare. So, I took a wild guess. You never heard Bruce mention having a brother?"
"No, I'm sure he didn't. He's avoided me like the plague ever since he found out I was gay about two days after I started, and we hadn't talked much even before that. I honestly had no idea he had a brother, let alone that his name was Aaron. The only way I knew he had a wife was because he keeps waving his wedding ring around."
"How long has he been working here?"
"About five years, I think. Not sure."
The clinking of someone tapping on a glass cut Steve off as the company's CEO called for attention. He motioned for everyone to gather around, then embarked on a series of toasts and a pep talk during which he extolled the virtues of his late father, the company's founder, whose birthday was celebrated annually with this party. He outlined the progress of the company, spoke glowingly of its future, congratulated everyone on their work and urged more of the same.
Elliott viewed all this corporate togetherness with mild interest, while deliberately, and with some difficulty, keeping at bay speculation about the coincidence of one of Steve's co-workers being brother to the spirit haunting his building. He also found puzzling the fact that he had not sensed John's presence all evening, even during the revelation that Aaron's brother and Steve worked together. Well, he told himself, I'll find out about that later.
The party broke up around ten, and he and Steve, slightly buzzed, took the bus to Steve's for the night. Though he had done his best to push the implications of his meeting Bruce Stiles out of his head, he was aware of them, much like he was aware when John was nearby. It vaguely disturbed him that John had not been nearby during the encounter.
Though he appreciated John's discretion in not intruding on his private time with Steve, he rather hoped he might hear from him during the night.
He did.
---I'm impressed.
---I thought you didn't watch.
He felt John's laughter.
---No. I'm impressed with Steve. He's better than I thought.
---Meaning?
---Meaning he somehow sensed a link between Bruce and Aaron, and once he made it, Aaron picked up on it---that's why Aaron knew about Steve. I had no idea Bruce worked with Steve, but Aaron made the connection.
---Don't you think there's an awful lot of coincidence going on here?
---Not at all. Life is coincidence. Most people just don't realize it. Was it a coincidence that you ran into Steve in the first place? Was it a coincidence that you and I were taken to the same hospital at the same time? Who knows?
---But that Steve and Aaron's brother would work in the same place...
---So? Like you told Steve, they're both artists ... though I'd imagine Steve is head and shoulders above Bruce Stiles. They have to work somewhere. Even in a city as big as Chicago, there aren't that many places.
---I suppose. But I---
He felt a hand on his shoulder and was instantly awake.
"What?" he asked, opening his eyes to see Steve propped up on one elbow looking at him.
"I think I'm going to buy a tape recorder," Steve said with a grin.
Elliott took the hand on his shoulder in one of his and raised it to his lips. "Hey, I'm really sorry. Talking again, huh?"
"Oh, yeah."
"Making any sense?"
"Nope. Not much, anyway. Exactly what's going on with this Aaron thing? You sure have latched on to it."
Elliott wiped his eyes with the palm of his free hand. "I don't know," he lied. "You know how dreams are. I just found it really interesting that you work with the brother of a guy who died in my building. You want me to sleep on the couch?"
Steve grinned. "Yeah, like that'll happen. I can always get ear plugs. But now that we're awake..." He took Elliott's hand and brought it over to his chest, slowly sliding it downward.
"You're amazing!" Elliott said, though making no effort to resist. "Do you realize what time it is?"
Continuing the downward movement, Steve lay back on the bed. "So, we'll sleep in."
Sighing, Elliott rolled over on top of him, the tips of their noses touching.
"You've convinced me," he said, freeing his hand and sliding both arms around Steve and pulling him closer.
"So, do you want to talk about it?" Steve asked, filling Elliott's coffee cup as they sat at the kitchen table.
Not even trying to pretend he didn't know what Steve was getting at, he shrugged. "Just a weird dream," he replied, hating to lie. "What was I saying?"
"Something about me and Aaron. Like I said, I should get a tape recorder so I won't miss anything next time."
Elliott reached for the half-and-half and grinned. "Hopefully, there won't be a next time."
Steve responded with a raised eyebrow and look of skepticism. "I wouldn't bet on it."
They drank their coffee in silence until Steve said, "So, what do you make of all this---Aaron and his brother, and me knowing the guy from your building's name was Aaron and you talking in your sleep about Aaron and me?"
Elliott thought carefully before he answered. "I don't know that it's necessary to make anything of it. You've got the ability to pick up on things most people wouldn't. It's possible that, at some point, you might have overheard Bruce mentioning his brother at work. As for me talking about you and Aaron, that's not too much of a leap. I was really surprised by the coincidence of your working with the brother of a guy from one of my buildings."
"A dead guy," Steve interjected, and once more Elliott felt guilty.
He wondered just how long he was going to be able to keep dancing around Steve's questions. Steve was far from stupid, and some of Elliott's concern was simply that he would be "found out," as he thought of it. He wasn't sure why that should bother him, since Steve knew and casually accepted being more sensitive to things than other people. Yet, while Elliott disliked the constant evasions, he still could not open up completely, not even to Steve. He had never mentioned John to another living soul, and wasn't about to start now.
The weekend passed quickly. On Saturday night, they attended an opening at the gallery that had been displaying---and selling---Steve's paintings ever since Steve's own show there not long after he'd arrived in town. The featured artist, according to the brochure handed them when they entered, was an "abstract minimalist," and since Elliott was a fan of neither abstract art or minimalism, he concentrated largely on the wine and food and being with Steve.
While the artist's style was the absolute antithesis of his, Steve was enthusiastic. Somewhat to Elliott's surprise, the artist was a woman in a black body suit accented with a bright red scarf. Her greying hair was pulled back so severely he wondered if that was the reason she had no wrinkles on her forehead. He much more readily envisioned her running a ballet school than as a painter.
However, when Steve insisted they go over and meet her, he felt an almost physical shock at the woman's uncanny resemblance to Louise Reinerio, to the point where he told himself that if it turned out she and Mrs. Reinerio were by some coincidence---that word again---related, he'd simply throw up his hands and walk away.
But there was no indication John was there, and the woman, whom he found quite charming, had a distinct Down Under accent and mentioned that she'd moved to Chicago only recently from New Zealand, where she'd been born and raised.
The tingle of John's laughter interrupted a dream about elephants.
---You really need a vacation!
---I don't know what you're talking about.
---Bullshit. You're letting yourself get too wrapped up in this Aaron thing. You can't be any good to anyone if you start seeing ghosts and goblins behind every tree.
---That's not what I was doing. She did look a lot like Mrs. Reinerio.
The tingle again.
---A lot of people look like a lot of other people. Just relax. It's like meeting a dog---it works a lot better if you let the dog come to you rather than trying to chase him all over the yard.
---I suppose you're right. Anything new from Aaron?
---Yeah, as a matter of fact. That's why I'm here now rather than waiting until you were sleeping alone tomorrow night.
---Did you know I talk in my sleep?
---Not really. I'm inside here with you, remember.
---I just don't want to wake Steve up again. I'm sure he's getting a little suspicious of what's going on.
---Well, at best all he hears are bits and pieces of one side of our conversation---yours. If he heard both sides, then I'd start to worry.
---So, what about Aaron?
---I think he's making overall progress, though there's a lot of backsliding. There are still times when I can't get through to him at all, and when I do it's sometimes like listening to a radio full of static. But there's something about threats---whether to Bill or him or both isn't clear---shortly before Bill disappeared, and strong feelings about Irv Wilson are associated with them, so I'd hazard a guess Wilson made them, whatever they were. Nothing specific, but I'll keep after him to find out more. You might want to do a little more checking into Irv Wilson on your own.
Well, if you're talking out loud I'd better go before Steve wakes up again. Don't want to get you in trouble. Later.
Despite his protests that he could just as easily take the bus, Steve insisted on driving him home Sunday evening at around nine. He had every intention of just watching a little TV then going to bed, but for some reason found his mind constantly turning to John's comments of the night before ... and specifically about Irv Wilson. The fact that Aaron was still apparently unable or unwilling to convey cohesive thought was frustrating, He was curious as to what Aaron might be getting at with his conveyed impressions of some sort of threats from Irv Wilson.
He was becoming more than a little impatient with Aaron overall. He fully realized he was hardly qualified to pass judgement on Aaron's lack of progress. Until John had entered his life, he had never given a moment's serious thought to the possibility of there being such things as ghosts and spirits and whatever else there might be out there. John had been his first, and he would have been just as happy to have him be his last.
In the equivalent period of time during which he'd been aware of Aaron, John had been far more pulled together than Aaron yet gave any semblance of being. Perhaps John was just the exception to the rule---if there were, in fact, any rules.
He thought, too, of Steve's abilities when it came to awareness of things outside daily existence. He had no idea just how far that awareness went, but it was comforting to know he wasn't the only one with such abilities.
He considered once again telling Steve about John, and wasn't quite sure why he didn't. It certainly wasn't because he thought Steve would think he was crazy. Steve readily admitted his own belief in ghosts---and maybe that was part of the problem. Elliott didn't think of John as a ghost. Ghosts were visible apparitions. He'd never seen John, so, therefore...
But he was sure Steve knew he was keeping something from him. He'd hinted at it several times already, particularly following the sleep-talking episodes.
Elliott prided himself on his pragmatism, and John's appearance in his life had deeply shaken the foundations of his well-ordered world. To openly admit John's existence to anyone, even Steve, was simply not something he was willing to do. Perhaps some day, but not now. He knew secrets could undermine a relationship, however, and he didn't want that to happen with Steve.
Following Steve's office party, Elliott found his mind turning to Bruce and Marylinn Stiles, and the possibility of their having been involved in Bill's death. The fact that Bruce was, by all accounts, a greedy, ungrateful and thoughtless clod did not automatically qualify him as a murder suspect. Still, he couldn't totally dismiss the idea.
Immediately after dinner Tuesday he called Steve, ostensibly to check on plans for the weekend but also to bring up the subject, as subtly as possible, of Bruce Stiles.
"You said you never heard Bruce talk about Aaron to anyone at work. Does he have any friends there he might have mentioned Aaron to?"
"He's really pretty much a loner at work. He hardly ever talks to anyone except to suck up to the boss and bum cigarettes and a light off anyone who still smokes."
"It never occurs to him to buy his own?"
Steve laughed. "No, he's always complaining that his wife refuses to let him smoke at home, and every time she finds a pack of cigarettes or even matches, she throws them away then denies doing it. I get the impression that, for all the sweetness and light she projected at the office party, she rules the roost, and he doesn't like it but doesn't have the balls to do anything about it.
"But like I say, he keeps mostly to himself, so all I get are stories. One of the guys in accounting lives in the same building as Bruce, and its from him I've picked up that it's the wife who wears the pants in Bruce's family, and he's none too happy about it.
"I think the only reason he comes to the office party is to butter up the boss by showing he's a team player ... which is the last thing in the world he is. About the only time he says anything to anyone is when he wants something---like lately when he's trying to drum up business for his wife."
There was a slight pause before Elliott asked, "So, you don't know anything about his wife, either, then?"
"No. The party was the first time I ever set eyes on her. Why?"
"No reason. Just curious."
"Uh-huh."
Elliott sighed. "Okay, maybe a bit more than curious. The woman who lives in the building mentioned that Bill and Aaron might have been looking for a house. Bill was found in the garage of a house that was up for sale. I met a friend of Aaron's who told me Aaron had set his sister-in-law up in business---real estate, I'd bet---and from what I've heard, it would be just like Aaron to throw the business her way.
"I think I told you Brad had Bill's case, and of course, he followed up on the chance that the Realtor who handled the property might have known something. But he had no way of knowing Aaron's sister-in-law was a Realtor, and even if he knew about Aaron at the time he wouldn't have made any connection since she uses her maiden name---remember, she told us at the party, and it's on her business card. I ... damn it! ... I didn't keep it. Do you still have the one she gave you?"
"No, I pitched it, too. But I can get another one easily enough. Bruce always leaves a few of them on the bulletin board in the breakroom."
"That'd be great. Thanks. Granted, given the number of Realtors in Chicago, the chance that there is any connection at all is really, really remote, but ... there's just so much I don't know and have no way I can think of to find out."
"But what reason would Bruce have to kill Bill?"
Elliott sighed. "I know. It's really reaching. But I've gone about as far as I can go with Jim Babcock and Irv Wilson, and I've hit a brick wall with both of them. I know Aaron didn't have a will, and that he and Bill had an appointment with a lawyer for just after Bill disappeared."
"Why do you suppose Aaron never made a will before?"
"Who knows? A lot of people seem to see making a will as an admission of mortality and think that if they don't do it they won't die. In Aaron's case, I think he held off because he really hated the idea of Bruce getting his money."
"So, why hadn't he made one leaving everything to a charity or whatever?"
"From what I know of Aaron, I suspect that he could never have done that. Bruce treated him like shit, but Aaron had always felt responsible for him. Maybe it was a subconscious form of passive aggression---he knew Bruce would end up with it anyway, but wanted him to have to work for it by going through the hassles of probate.
"It's possible Bruce found out about the lawyer's appointment and figured Aaron was going to leave everything to Bill---though how he might have found out, I can't imagine, since I understand he and Aaron hardly ever spoke. But if Aaron had left everything to Bill, which I sure as hell would have done under the circumstances, Bruce would be up the creek. The question is, could he possibly be so greedy he would kill to get Aaron's money? That might work in a novel, but not in real life."
"Yeah, but if greed was a motive, he could have killed Aaron at any time."
"He probably didn't think there was any need to until Bill entered the picture."
"Okay, so then why not just kill Aaron instead of Bill?"
"Just guessing, but it's possible that if Bruce wasn't sure whether or not Aaron already had a will before he met Bill, he might believe that if he did he'd probably change it to leave everything---or almost everything---to Bill. That would leave Bruce up a creek. So, whether he knew about the meeting with the lawyer or not, getting rid of Bill would guarantee he'd end up with everything."
Elliott sighed again. "Damn, but it's all so frustrating. Sometimes I really don't know what the hell I'm doing getting into all this. I didn't know Aaron, I didn't know Bill, and they've both been dead for four years now, which makes following up on things next to impossible. Oh, yeah, and the fact that I've got a life that has nothing whatever to do with trying to play detective. Other than that..."
Cessy had called Monday to remind him to be sure to call their parents before they left for a month on the Riviera.
"Good Lord," Elliott exclaimed. "Don't those people ever stay home? And they aren't going to leave before your birthday, are they?"
"I'm afraid so. Some friends offered them use of their villa outside of Cannes, and I loved Mother's explanation. 'We couldn't very well refuse their offer. And the villa would just be sitting empty if we didn't take it.' When I told her they could well afford to rent any villa anywhere, anytime they wanted, Mother appeared shocked. 'Cecelia,' she said, 'we're not made of money, you know!' I nearly died laughing, and I'm afraid I hurt her feelings."
Elliott, laughing as well, said, "She'll get over it. But still, your birthday is Saturday. It wouldn't kill them to postpone their departure for a couple of days."
"True, but you should be used to our parents by now. I am. And Mother did make a nice gesture---she and Father said to make dinner reservations at the club for as many people as I wanted to invite."
"Get out the phone book," Elliott suggested, and Cessy laughed again.
"I should. But I think it would be nice just for the family to go out together---Brad, the kids, you ... and you will bring Steve, won't you?"
The use of family and Steve in the same sentence didn't escape him.
"You never give up, do you?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Uh-huh. Well, let me give him a call and get back to you as soon as I can. And thanks, sis."
He'd called Steve right after he hung up to extend the invitation.
"That was really nice of her," Steve said. "I'd be happy to come. What can I get her for her birthday?"
"You don't have to get her anything. Maybe a card, but no gift."
"What's her favorite flower?"
"Roses."
"And her favorite color?"
"Uh, yellow. But like I said, you don't have to bring her flowers."
"If you say so."
"I say so. And let me call her back right now to let her know you're coming. I'll talk to you later."
It rained most of Tuesday, making it clear that winter was not too far behind. Elliott was grateful the majority of outside work had been done on what his mind had begun thinking of---most uncharacteristically---as "Aaron's House." He'd never done that with a building before, and didn't want to start now.
However, by the time he got home, the weather had cleared and the temperature had actually risen. After dinner, he took a drive out to the Lincolnwood Mall to the only shop in town he knew that carried Cessy's favorite perfume. Although she had more than enough money to buy gallons of it, she was always aware of Brad's pride and played the frugal housewife. Elliott had no such restraints, and though he, too, was very careful never to flaunt the family wealth, a little occasional, within-limits pampering of his sister or her kids was okay with Brad. He was just always careful not to get anything Brad couldn't afford to buy himself, if he had to.
He'd heard nothing from John Monday night, but was still not able to get Aaron's concern over Irv Wilson out of his mind. Remembering having been told that Wilson usually was at the Anvil on Tuesday, instead of returning directly home, he decided to drive past the bar and, if he could find a parking place, go in and see if Wilson were there.
He was lucky enough to find a place between the Anvil and Broadway. Putting Cessy's package under the front seat, he locked the car and walked to the bar. It was only a little after nine-thirty, and he had no way of knowing if Wilson would be there or not but convinced himself he could use a beer in any case.
Even though the city had banned smoking in bars, the scent of stale tobacco smoke was still present as he walked in. As usual, his opening of the door acted, briefly, as a magnate for every pair of eyes. There were maybe ten people scattered around the room, including Button and Paul, standing in the same place he'd last seen them. He exchanged a smile with them, and noticed Button giving him a slight heads-up nod toward the end of the bar. Following it, he saw the third stool from the far end of the bar---Irv Wilson's favorite spot, according to Troy Fashow---was occupied by a nice-looking, casually well-dressed guy in his late 30s talking with the bartender.
Acknowledging Button's help with another smile and small wave, he walked directly to the back of the bar, stopping in front of the stool next to the man he now assumed to be Irv Wilson.
"What can I get you?" the tall, gaunt bartender---one he'd not seen before---asked.
"A Bud," Elliott responded, aware, as the bartender moved off to get it, that Wilson's eyes were on him.
"New in town?" Wilson asked, and Elliott was slightly taken aback. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but Wilson's voice was as pleasant as his smile.
Elliott grinned. "Not exactly. Just more or less new here."
Wilson extended his hand. "Irv Wilson."
"Elliott Smith." Elliott took it. The grasp was firm but not as aggressive as he had anticipated, nor was it held longer than normal. Just a regular, friendly, introductory handshake.
The bartender returned with his beer, and Elliott reached for his billfold, but Wilson waved him off, pushing a bill on the bar in front of him toward the bartender.
"Take it out of here, Andy," he said. Elliott noted a slight twang in his voice---Texas or Oklahoma.
"Well, thanks," he said, somewhat surprised by the gesture.
"Call it a welcome to the bar," Wilson said with another warm smile. So far, Irv Wilson was far from the mental image Elliott had painted of him.
He glanced---he hoped subtly---toward Button and Paul, who, he was sure, were watching.
"You know those two?" Wilson asked, gesturing with his glass toward them.
So much for subtlety. He deliberately looked toward them now, as if confirming that was whom Wilson was talking about.
"Yeah," he said. "I was talking to them the last time I was in here. Nice guys."
Wilson gave him a quick look he could not interpret and shrugged. "I'd watch it with them," he warned cryptically.
"Ah?" Elliott took a sip of his drink after tilting the bottle toward Wilson in a silent toast. "How so?"
"They're like a couple of biddy hens, scratching and pecking and gossiping, and if they don't find dirt on anyone, they make something up."
Elliott wondered if Wilson were referring to himself, which, given his own impressions so far, gave him further reason to question what he'd heard from Button. Still, it was Aaron's reactions that mattered.
"So, what do you do for a living, Elliott?" Wilson asked.
"I'm in construction."
Wilson edged forward on his stool. His knee brushed Elliott's, and Elliott shifted his position slightly to break the contact. Wilson didn't appear to notice.
"Yeah? Small world! I work for C and C Demolition. Ever hear of it?"
As a matter of fact, he had. C&C belonged to a crony of Elliott's one-time arch rival, Al Collina, and Elliott had developed a negative knee-jerk reaction every time he heard the company mentioned. But rather than go into unnecessary detail, he merely nodded.
"How about you?" Wilson asked. "Who do you work for?"
"I move around a lot," Elliott lied.
"Well, if you're ever looking for a job, I can put in a good word for you at C and C. We're always looking for good men."
Elliott gave a small smile, since C&C's high turnover rate was known all over town.
"Thanks," he said, "but I'm doing okay for the moment."
"So, what brings you in tonight?" Wilson asked.
"Actually, I'm working on a building a guy I used to know lived in. He used to come here a lot, and I just thought I'd stop in."
"What's his name? I know just about everybody here. If I see him, I'll tell him you were in looking for him."
Elliott shrugged. "That'd be nice, but he won't be coming in. He's dead. But maybe you knew him. His name was Bill Somers."
For a brief moment, Wilson's face froze as though Medusa had suddenly appeared over Elliott's shoulder, turning him to stone. Then mobility returned in the form of a scowl.
When Wilson asked, "He was a friend of yours?" Elliott recognized it as a probe to determine what the next response would be.
"Not really," he said. "We had a thing for a while, but it didn't end very well."
Elliott was not used to lying, and resented the necessity to do so.
"You, too, huh?" Wilson said.
Elliott shrugged.
"Well, I'm glad that lying, prick-teasing scumbag's dead," Wilson continued with a casualness that shocked Elliott.
The bar door opened, and a short man so rotund he appeared to Elliott to be only slightly taller than he was wide waddled in folding an umbrella, which dripped a stream of water onto the floor.
"Shit!" Wilson said. "I didn't hear that it was supposed to rain tonight."
"Me, either. But welcome to Chicago."
"You walking or driving?" Wilson asked.
"Driving."
"You mind giving me a ride home? I don't live far---just over on Thorndale."
Elliott was well aware of a possible ulterior motive in the request but dismissed that for the moment.
"Uh, sure," he said, "but I was getting ready to leave in a minute, and I don't want to cut your evening short."
"That's okay," Wilson assured him. "This was going to be my last drink. You're sure you don't mind? I can catch a cab."
"No need for that," Elliott said. "Thorndale's not out of my way."
Taking a sip of his nearly finished drink and staring at the melting remnants of an ice cube in the bottom of the glass as he set it back on the bar, Wilson said, "You live around Thorndale?"
"Not far."
Wilson shrugged and polished off his drink. "Well, I'm ready when you are."
Draining his beer, Elliott got up as Wilson did. He noticed Button and Paul watching them with obvious curiosity. He nodded to them as he passed and saw a look of what he took as barely concealed disapproval on Button's face, but they merely returned the nod without saying anything.
"Good night, ladies," Wilson said as he passed.
The rain was steady, but short of drenching, and Elliott led the way to his car at a run, Wilson following close behind. When, a bit later, they stopped for the light on the corner of Broadway and Granville, Elliott said, "So, what happened with you and Bill, if I can ask?"
Wilson stared out the window at the rain. "Nothing. He was a prick-teasing slut who led guys on just long enough to trap them, then he dumped them. Said he wasn't ready for a relationship, then turns right around and moves in with some rich faggot. Well, they deserved one another." As they turned onto Thorndale, he added, "You want to stop in for a drink? I owe you for the ride home."
Again, Elliott suspected an ulterior motive behind the invitation and said, "Thanks, but it's getting late and I'd better be getting on home."
"One drink won't hurt."
"Thanks, but I really have to get home."
Obviously disappointed, Wilson turned to look at him. He was silent to the point where Elliott was beginning to feel uncomfortable, then finally said, "Rain check?"
"Sure," Elliott replied, rather than drag the moment out any further.
Wilson pointed to a building and said, "Right here."
Pulling over, Elliott stopped in front; Wilson unfastened his seatbelt and opened the door to leave.
"Sure you won't reconsider?"
"Next time," Elliott replied, then instantly wished he hadn't.
Wilson reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out what looked to be a business card.
"Here's my number. Give me a call," he said, handing it over. He then got out, closed the door and waved as Elliott drove off. Glancing in the rearview mirror Elliott saw him standing in the middle of the street in the rain, watching until he turned the corner to head for home.
He was a bit surprised to realize on waking Wednesday morning that he'd not heard from John during the night. He'd expected John would have some sort of comment on his meeting with Irv Wilson. Nor was there any contact Wednesday, and work kept him so busy he didn't have time to think much about it.
Thursday evening he talked to Cessy to coordinate details for her birthday dinner at his parents' club---they'd left for the Riviera Wednesday, his mother having left a brief goodbye message on his machine while he was at work. Cessy suggested he and Steve drive with her, Brad and the kids, but he pointed out that even though the SUV could accommodate seven, it might be a little crowded, and that they'd join them at the club.
He next called Steve, rather hoping they might spend Friday night and Saturday together, but Steve mentioned he was working on a project he wanted to finish, and thought he'd just stay home Friday night. They agreed Elliott would pick him up at six on Saturday.
He'd just started dinner when the phone rang again.
"Elliott, hi."
"Hi."
It took him a few seconds to place the voice.
"It's Irv. I wanted to thank you for the ride home the other night and was wondering if I could buy you a drink by way of thanks."
He wondered how Wilson had gotten his number; he certainly hadn't given it to him. Then he realized that of the seven pages of Smiths in the Chicago phone directory, he was the only Elliott. And now Wilson had not only his phone number but his address.
"Sorry, Irv," he said, "I can't tonight."
"Ah, got a date, huh?"
"No, just some stuff I've got to do around here." He was mildly irritated at himself for feeling he had to give any sort of explanation.
"Sure, that's okay. How about letting me take you to dinner Saturday night?"
"Sorry, it's my sister's birthday."
"You're not avoiding me, are you?" If it was meant as a joke, it didn't come out that way.
He forced himself to laugh, resenting it immediately. "No, I'm not avoiding you. It's just that I don't go out much, especially during the week. Tuesday was an exception."
There was a long pause, then: "Ah. Okay. But don't forget that rain check."
"I won't. Take care."
"You, too."
Elliott hung up before Wilson could say anything more.
So why, he wondered, hadn't he just told Wilson he wasn't interested? Or said he was seeing someone?
---A little pushy, isn't he?
---Uh, yeah. I don't like pushy.
---But you don't want to cut him off at the knees.
---Right. Anything new from Aaron?
---Well, the static is fading a bit, and I'm able to understand him better, and I got the most detail out of him he's ever given. Lord knows it's taken long enough. It's just hard for him to focus on any one thing for very long.
---Yeah, I know a lot of people like that.
---Exactly! People are people, and everyone's different, on your side of the fence or on mine.
---So, anything more on the threats you mentioned?
---From what I was able to piece together, the Sunday before Bill disappeared, he and Aaron ran into Wilson outside a restaurant. Aaron had never met him, though I gather he'd fielded several nasty phone calls from him. Irv really laid into both of them, and at one point he pushed Aaron so hard he nearly knocked him down.
Now, here's what I consider most interesting---Aaron still communicates more in feelings and impressions than actual sentences, but he was very specific in what came next. After Irv shoved Aaron, Bill said---and I'm quoting Aaron here---"If you touch him again, I'll kill you," and Irv said "Not if I kill you first."
---A little heavy on the melodrama, don't you think? It sounds more like a couple of third-graders having a scuffle at recess than a real threat. We all say stupid things when we're angry.
---Well, Aaron is dead sure---no pun intended---Irv was serious.
---If only we had some way to know, which we don't.
---One day at a time, as they say.
Steve was waiting in front of his building when Elliott pulled up. He carried a small gift-wrapped package Elliott assumed, from its size and shape, was probably a book; he was mildly curious but didn't want to ask.
A light snow was falling---the first of the season---and Steve wore what looked like a new London Fog raincoat over a blazer and tie. Nice-looking guy, Elliott thought, then immediately wondered if it was his thought or a comment by John.
Opening the door and getting in, Steve grinned. "Winter is here!" he said.
"Don't plan on building a snowman any time soon," Elliott replied, pulling away from the curb.
There was no sign of the Priebe clan when they arrived at the country club. As they entered the main building, Steve was duly impressed.
"I suppose it would be bad form to gawk," he said.
"Only if you pick your nose while you're doing it," Elliott replied.
"Well, there goes my appetite."
A quick check of the dining room verified Cessy hadn't arrived yet. Leaving their coats---Elliott had just worn a light windbreaker over his sport coat---and Cessy's presents with the coatroom attendant, Elliott suggested they wait in the bar and led the way.
Choosing seats that gave them a view of anyone entering the foyer separating the dining room from the bar, they gave their order to the bartender.
"Looks like they've just about cornered the brass-and-polished-mahogany market," Steve observed, looking around. "You rich folks sure know how to live."
Elliott grinned. "This is my parents' world, not mine."
The bartender brought their drinks, and Steve reached for his billfold, but Elliott raised a hand to stop him.
"Would you put it on the Smiths' tab?" he asked the bartender. "We'll be having dinner, too."
"Of course, sir," the bartender said pleasantly, and moved off toward an elderly couple who had just come in and settled into one of the padded leather booths lining one wall.
"So, did you finish your project last night?" Elliott asked.
"Yep," Steve said, and offered no further explanation. "How about you? Do anything exciting?"
He wasn't sure exactly how Steve meant the question. He took a sip of his whiskey sour before answering. "Nope. Just watched TV and went to bed."
Steve gave a sudden heads-up nod toward the door, where Cessy and her family were just entering. Elliott smiled to himself when he saw Brad carrying Sandy. Like baby pigeons in New York City, baby humans were seldom seen in the rarified environs of the club. He knew Sandy's presence was Cessy's subtle way of demonstrating her independence from their parents' world.
He caught his sister's eye and waved. She smiled and indicated with a nod that they would meet in the dining room.
As they got up, Elliott took out his billfold to leave a tip, but this time Steve was the one to raise his hand.
"Let me," he said, and Elliott shrugged, putting his billfold back in his pocket. Stopping to pick up the presents from the coatroom, they entered the dining room.
The maitre ' was in the process of seating the rest of the family and motioned for a waiter to bring a high chair for Sandy. Though babies were a rarity at the club, the management acknowledged their existence by keeping a proper seat on standby.
As he and Steve stood waiting, Elliott was struck yet again with the odd little rituals and the etiquette by which the rich lived. He and Steve could just as easily---more easily, actually---have gone directly to the table by themselves, but ritual required that they be shown the way by the maitre '. He glanced at Steve and, seeing him with a Mona Lisa smile and slightly raised eyebrow, wondered if his mind was being read.
The maitre ' remained by the table until the family was properly seated then smiled, nodded and turned back toward his podium and Steve and Elliott.
"Sorry to have kept you waiting, gentlemen," he said cordially. "It's nice to see you again, Mr. Smith. If you would care to follow me..."
Greetings exchanged, menus brought and drink orders given, Elliott and Steve presented Cessy with her birthday gifts. Sandy, in the high chair beside her mother, was fascinated by the ornate bow on Elliott's package and leaned over to grab it, tearing the wrapping in the process.
"Well, I guess that tells me which one to open first," Cessy said, completely removing the bow and handing it to her daughter, who seemed transfixed by it. Opening the box to find the perfume, she beamed at her brother. "Thank you, Elliott! I was hoping you might remember!" She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
She then turned her attention to Steve's gift. Instead of a book, he saw as she removed the wrapping it was a small framed painting of a single yellow rose in a crystal vase on a windowsill, against a background of a brilliant blue sky with a few puffy white clouds.
"Oh, Steve!" she said, "It's beautiful ... simply beautiful! How did you know yellow roses were my favorite?"
Steve smiled. "I'm psychic," he said, smiling, his gaze darting briefly to Elliott.
Noticing the glance, Cessy said, "Elliott told you. Of course. But thank you so very much!" She held the painting up so everyone could see it, and everyone but BJ, who was at the age where expressing no emotion was the height of "cool," commented favorably on it.
"I see you and Elliott have something else in common," Brad said to Steve with a grin. Steve looked puzzled, and Elliott felt a flush of warmth. "So, how is it going with that Stiles-Somers thing? Find out anything new?"
"Not much," Elliott replied, feeling Steve watching him out of the corner of his eye.
"I got all As on my report card," Jenny interjected before either Brad or Elliott could say anything more.
"That's great, Jenny," Elliott said, infinitely grateful for the change of subject, though he still noted a look of mild amusement on Steve's face. "I'm proud of you!" He turned to BJ. "And how about you, BJ? How's school?"
"He has a girlfriend now," Cessy said, smiling warmly at her son.
BJ rolled his eyes and sighed wearily. "She's a girl, mom. She's a friend. There's a difference between a girl friend and a girlfriend. Get Uncle Elliott married off first, then worry about me."
Steve and Elliott exchanged glances, then Elliott grinned.
"Don't encourage her," he said as the waiter arrived with their drinks.
"That was really nice," Steve said as they left the parking lot after saying goodbye to the Priebe's at their car. "And the food was fantastic, though I was a little embarrassed to order the lobster. Even though the menu didn't include the prices, I can imagine."
"I twisted your arm," Elliott replied, making a right turn toward the city. "And my folks can well afford it, believe me. I'm still mildly pissed at them for not holding off their trip until after Cessy's birthday, but we're both used to them by now. They don't live in the same world as the rest of us."
"Must be nice," Steve said, wistfully.
"Their life has its advantages, that's for sure. But it's not for me."
They rode in silence for several minutes; Elliott, though looking at the road ahead of them, was well aware Steve was studying him.
"What?" he finally asked.
"Nothing."
"Bullshit, 'nothing.' Something. What?" He knew "what" even as he asked, but wanted Steve to bring it up first.
"Brad's comment about our having 'something else in common' when I said that about being psychic."
Elliott sighed, removing one hand from the steering wheel briefly to scratch an itch on the side of his nose. "Yeah. Well..." Not sure what to say next, he said nothing, knowing Steve would prompt him.
"So, you're psychic?"
Forcing himself to laugh, he replied, "Good God, no! I'm just ... well, like you, in that I just ... sense things, sometimes. I'll plead to being an empath, but that's as far as I'll go. Being an empath is nowhere near the same thing as being psychic."
"Have you always been?" Steve asked, eyes still on him.
"I wasn't aware of it until after my accident."
"How come you didn't mention it before?"
"It's not the kind of thing I talk about casually."
"Yeah, but you're the one who told me I was. You might have mentioned it then."
Sighing deeply, Elliott shrugged. "Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry. It's just that I'm not as comfortable with it as you are."
"Mmmm," Steve said, and they were silent for another few minutes until he said, "So, what about 'that Stiles-Somers thing' Brad mentioned? It's about your building and that second-floor apartment, isn't it? You knew that was Aaron's apartment, and you couldn't not have known that he's the guy I painted in the window. I just wish you'd said something."
Elliott nodded. "You're right. And I'm sorry I didn't."
"I don't want to push you, but please don't let the fact that it's none of my business stand in your way. Like, who is Somers'?"
Elliott was surprised to realize he had never mentioned Bill to Steve. Still not willing to go into detail, but figuring Steve deserved some sort of explanation, he briefly sketched in the events leading up to and following Aaron's death: Bill's disappearance, Aaron's having died without knowing Bill had died before he did, and Elliott's strong feeling that Bill's death wasn't a suicide. He said nothing at all about Aaron's participation in his forming that opinion.
"The more I found out about him from Mrs. Reinerio," he concluded, "the more I got to feeling something wasn't right, so I just started digging into it, to see if I could figure out what happened."
"Wow!" Steve said when Elliott stopped talking. "I'm impressed." He raised two fingers to his forehead and squinted as if in deep concentration. "But I get ... the impression ... wait ... yes ... there's a little more to the story."
Elliott reached across the space between them and slapped him on the thigh, hard.
"Hey, what did you do that for? I'm an empath, remember?"
Grinning, Elliott said, "An empath, yes. Madam Arcati, no."
"Well, I think this whole thing is pretty darned exciting. If there's anything I can do to help ... well, two empaths are better than one, as they say."
Laying his hand on Steve's thigh, he said, "I appreciate that. I wonder if you know what I'm thinking right now?"
Steve grinned broadly and put his own hand on Elliott's thigh. "I hope so," he said.
He didn't hear from John until Sunday night.
---I'm glad you and Steve talked about it, though I'll bet you're a whiz at dodgeball.
---I am, too, I guess---glad the subject came up, that is. And as far as dodgeball, I just tried to dodge the ones thrown at me ... I didn't want to hand him any new ones.
---Yes, I noted any mention of me was missing from the conversation.
---Well, you're a pretty big ball to dodge. And besides, you're mine, John. All mine!
---Uh-huh. You may be good at dodgeball, but your acting sucks.
---So, anything at all new from Aaron?
---I'm afraid not. He's really as much in the dark on this as we are. He has strong feelings that Irv Wilson and Jim Babcock are involved, though he can't offer anything specific.
---Wilson and Babcock? Both of them?
---No ... but that's just what I mean. He suspects them but can't explain why. They're the only ones he can think of who might have wanted to hurt Bill.
---Well, that's really not much of a help. Granted, I can see his point---Babcock wanted the company, and Wilson's a borderline psychopath. But I honestly don't have a clue on where to go from here.
---I'm afraid the fact that Bill's insistence on not bothering Aaron by leaving his work problems at the office only compounds the issue. If he had talked more about what was going on at work, Aaron might have picked up on something. As it is...
---And as for Wilson, you never know just how far a kook will go ... and I sure as hell don't want to find out.
He awoke in the morning feeling as though he'd spent the night staring into a washing machine in which thoughts of Aaron and Bill and Irv Wilson and Jim Babcock and suicide and possible murder sloshed back and forth in response to the agitator of his mind, and he wondered if he had gotten any real sleep at all.
As he showered, dressed, had his breakfast and packed his lunch, he could not avoid accepting what was increasingly obvious. He had no evidence---Aaron's certainty hardly could qualify as such---that Bill Somers had been murdered. Worse than that, if Bill had been murdered, how could he find out who had done it? And worst of all, how he could possibly prove it?
He was not a detective. He had no desire to become a detective. He enjoyed the work he did, and resented that someone else---a dead man he'd never met, no less---expected him to perform some sort of miracle.
Work on the building was nearing completion; most of the major rehabilitation had been done, and it was now mostly the finishing touches that needed attending to. Rather than install new carpeting throughout, Elliott had opted for carpeting only the hallways and stairs, refinishing the apartments' original hardwood floors, and that had been a major project.
Wednesday night, just as he was finishing dinner, the phone rang. Assuming it was either Steve or Cessy, he was unpleasantly surprised to hear Irv Wilson's voice.
"Hi, Elliott. I was wondering if you'd like to cash in that rain check. I feel like going out for a drink."
"Ah, sorry, Irv," he said. "I had a long day and have to be up early tomorrow morning."
"Okay, how about Friday?"
"I've made plans."
"A date, huh?"
Impatient but trying hard not to show it, Elliott said. "Not a date. This is a guy I've been seeing."
"Just meet him?"
"No." He refused to go into detail, and was increasingly irritated.
"Well, I guess that doesn't keep you from hitting the bars trolling for tricks."
His irritation descending into anger, Elliott forced his voice to remain calm as he said, "Look, Irv, I've got a call waiting. I've got to go."
Hanging up rather more firmly than he'd intended, he was glad Irv didn't have his cell phone number.
Steve called shortly thereafter and, during the course of their conversation, expressed an interest in seeing the progress on the building. Elliott, of course, agreed, suggesting they stop by sometime over the weekend. He couldn't help wondering if Steve might have some motive other than curiosity about the property improvements.
---Interesting.
---What?
---A couple of things. Aaron's growing impatience, for one. He's enough pulled together now to want to know what you're doing to help him. I've tried to let him know you're doing everything you can, but that you really don't have much to go on. Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to help. He's just getting more and more agitated.
---It seems to me he's been pretty agitated since I bought the building and found out about him.
---Yes, but then it was a matter of his being little more than a roiling cauldron of emotions. He was barely aware of himself, let alone of anyone else. Now that he's becoming more aware of his situation, he's increasingly frustrated over his inability to do anything about it. He feels you're his only hope to find out what happened to Bill and why.
---I can understand that, but it's also frustrating for me, not knowing what to do or how to do it. I'm just an ordinary guy, not a miracle worker. He's waited four years, he can be a patient a little longer. And you might ask him if there is anything at all I might check out that I haven't already.
---It can't hurt.
---And you said "a couple of things." What else?
---Steve. Now that you've admitted to him that you're aware of ... things other people generally aren't ... I wouldn't be surprised if he might not suspect you know more than you're willing to tell him. I'm afraid you've opened the door to a room full of eggshells, and you're going to have to decide how you want to maneuver your way through them.
---I guess I'm just going to have to play it by ear. This sure as hell isn't a spot I want to be in. I don't want to outright lie to him, but by the same token I don't want to get him involved any more than he already is.
The weekend rolled around, and it was not until they were on their way to Steve's car after brunch on Sunday that Steve reminded Elliott of his interest in seeing what had been done with the building.
"Right!" Elliott said. "I'd forgotten. Sorry."
Steve merely looked at him with the slightest of smiles, sending a flush of embarrassment through Elliott, which he hoped didn't show.
They'd planned to catch a matinee at the Century, and glancing at his watch, Elliott said, "We can go over now, if you want."
"Any time's okay. I don't want to push you."
Having now added guilt to his embarrassment, Elliott said, "We've got time. And I do want you to see it."
As they drove up, Steve let out a low whistle.
"Wow! Ell, it looks fantastic! I love the detail work. And the shutters are perfect. You've done a great job. I'd been tempted to walk or drive by several times, but wanted to wait until it was nearly finished."
Elliott smiled. "I'm glad you like it. It is turning out pretty nice, if I say so myself. But then, that's what I do."
He directed Steve around to the alley, where they parked in the recently paved parking area.
"If the buyer wants to put up a garage, he can do it without too much trouble," he observed as they got out of the car. "I just didn't see the need to have one."
As they returned around to the front entrance, Steve commented on the sandblasted Chicago brick. The tuckpointers had done such a good job it was impossible to tell where they'd worked.
Going first to the smaller of the two ground-floor apartments, which were now complete with the refinishing of the floors the previous week, they did a walk-through. For only having seen the place once before, Steve noticed and commented on every improvement, which Elliott was rather surprised to note pleased him more than he'd expected.
Though the one ground-floor apartment was identical in layout to the two directly above it, just as the smaller apartment's layout was, with the exception of the second bedroom, identical to the two above it, Steve wanted to see them all. Elliott knew Mrs. Reinerio was visiting one of her sons in the suburbs, so they had the building to themselves. They started with her original apartment. Because of all the shuffling around, the unit still needed a bit of work.
Normally, when dealing with an empty building, each remodeling step was repeated in each of the apartments in succession: windows, kitchens, bathrooms, painting, carpeting or sanding, and so on. But because of Mrs. Reinerio, this progression had been thrown out of kilter. He'd told Steve he knew his crew wasn't happy with the disruption of their normal routine, and he also knew his generosity had cost him money in lost time and rescheduling. But, he figured, he could afford it, and Steve seemed impressed by his thoughtfulness.
Skipping the occupied apartment, they went upstairs. Elliott deliberately went first to the apartment across from the one Aaron had occupied. As he was inserting the key into the lock, there was a loud bam! from Aaron's apartment.
"What the hell was that?" Steve asked as Elliott hurried across to open the door. The sound had been far louder than Aaron's usual rapping, and that, plus the fact Steve had heard it, bothered him.
He sensed John immediately, but no other presence. Entering the apartment, he knew he wouldn't find anything. There was nothing in the place that could have fallen over, unless a kitchen cabinet had somehow dropped off the wall. Going directly to the kitchen, he saw everything was in place. He turned to face a puzzled-looking Steve, who had followed him, as the sound came again, this time from the totally empty living room they'd just left.
With a mixture of concern and irritation, he strode past Steve and into the living room, going directly to the windows. He looked out into the street, though he knew he wouldn't see anything, and didn't.
"A sonic boom, probably," he said.
Steve stood in the hallway to the kitchen, looking at him. "Why do I not think so?"
At that moment, there was yet another loud bam, though not as loud as the previous two. Steve spun around---the sound had seemed to come from directly behind him.
"I think we'd better go," Elliott said calmly.
Steve strolled over to him, smiling. "Ya think?"
While still irritated, Elliott was greatly relieved, though not a little surprised, to see that Steve didn't seem the least frightened.
Neither of them spoke until they were backing out of the parking area. Steve turned to him with a grin.
"That was fun. Now what'll we play?"
Elliott wasn't quite sure how to respond. "Yeah. Well, that was a first."
"Aaron, I gather?"
"I'd say that was a pretty safe bet."
"And I'd guess this isn't the first time you've heard him?"
Elliott nodded. "He does a lot of knocking, but not usually when anyone else is around. And never this loud."
"So, none of your guys has heard it?"
"Only once. They thought it was me. But other than that one time, nothing, thank God."
"Interesting."
Elliott shot him a glance. "Mrs. Reinerio has heard it, and so, apparently, did the other tenants. It's been happening ever since Aaron died, I understand. The Wolinskis heard it, too, but they didn't want to scare me off as a buyer so they blamed it on pranksters. Can't say I blame them, though I'm sure if anyone else had bought the building, they might have been more than a little pissed."
"What do you suppose he wants?"
"Mrs. Reinerio thinks he's still looking for Bill."
"That's really sad," Steve said, sighing. "Were you ever going to tell me, or were you going to try to keep him all for yourself?"
Confirming with another glance at Steve's smile that he was only teasing, Elliott said, "Believe me, I don't want him all for myself. I just want him to do whatever ... whatever you're supposed to do when you die."
"Well, from the sound of it, it doesn't appear he's too eager to do that right now."
Elliott was relieved see the Century's parking lot directly ahead. As Steve flicked on the turn signal, he said, "Uh-huh. Well, we'll talk about it after the movie. We'll just make the two o'clock showing."
It was Steve who had recommended the movie, a French import that had gotten rave reviews but which both he and Elliott agreed, as they left the theater, they had disliked heartily.
"Next time, let's just stay home and pull our fingernails off with a pair of pliers," Steve said as Elliott placed their validated parking ticket in the machine.
Elliott grinned. "I was almost going to suggest we leave about halfway through, but when I looked over at you, you looked like you were really into it."
"That look wasn't enjoyment. It was me thinking of all the other things we could have been doing."
"Well, live and learn," Elliott said.
"Quick, let me grab a pencil and write that down."
"You're really asking for it, aren't you?"
"Glad you noticed."
They were about three-quarters of the way to Steve's apartment, and neither had mentioned their interrupted conversation. Reluctantly, lest Steve think his interest in Aaron was simply being dismissed, Elliott said, "So, about Aaron..."
Steve smiled. "Thank you. I was afraid you were just going to brush it under the rug."
Shaking his head, Elliott said, "Not at all. It's just that I really don't know what's going on myself, and I'm trying to figure out how involved I want to get in all this."
"And how far into it are you, if I may ask?"
"Well, I've done some checking around on various hunches, and from what I've been able to figure out and piece together, I'm pretty sure something isn't right about his partner's death."
"So you think he---Bill?---was murdered?"
"I gather Aaron thinks so, and for whatever reason, I think he expects me to do something about it. It's the 'what' that bothers me. There are just too many coincidences for them to be coincidences, if that makes any sense. And most interesting of all, two of the biggest coincidences involve you."
"Me? Really?"
"That Gil almost went to work for Bill's company, for one. That you work with Aaron's brother, for another. I mean, what are the chances of those two things just ... happening?"
Steve gave him a small smile. "That's what coincidence means."
They rode in silence for a few more blocks before Steve said, "You suppose you and I are a coincidence? That we ever met, for example?"
"Hard to say. It's occurred to me."
"I mean, all my life I've been able to sense things that just don't seem to affect other people. I told you right after we met about Robert, the ghost I had when I was a kid. Remember?"
Elliott nodded. "Yeah, but kids often have invisible friends."
"No, it wasn't like that at all. He was very real. My brother Manny knew about him, too. We'd know when he was around. I told you he liked bedrooms and classical music, and sometimes at night I'd know he was there, watching me. Manny and I never told anyone. Even when I first mentioned him to you, I was afraid you'd think I was crazy."
"But I didn't," Elliott said.
Steve grinned again. "No, you didn't. But you also neglected to tell me that we shared that little ... whatever you want to call it."
"Well, I haven't lived with this all my life, like you have. It all started after that accident I had not long before I met you, and I was really afraid that I might be losing it. I still don't really feel all that comfortable with the idea of being aware of things I shouldn't be aware of, let alone talking about it."
"I understand. Still, it's really kind of nice to find a kindred spirit, as it were."
They didn't talk much more until they reached Steve's apartment.
"Well," Steve said as they got out of the car, "I won't bug you about it, I promise. But just know I'm here if you ever want to talk. And if there's anything at all I can do to help you find whatever you're looking for, just let me know."
---To quote Steve: "Wow! I'm impressed."
---Yeah, well, I'm not at all sure I am.
---But don't you feel better having talked to him about it? Though you left some pretty good-sized chunks out of the story. Me, for instance.
---No offense, but I can't see myself telling him or anybody, ever, the whole story. The last thing in the world I want is to turn my life into a TV show or a Topper movie. The very idea of having little business cards done up with "Elliott and Steve, the Ghost Guys" makes me shudder.
---Got a nice ring to it.
---Uh, sorry, but no. I am glad I don't have to lie to him anymore, but that's about as far as I want to go.
Monday at work, whenever Elliott was alone, he would hear soft but distinct rapping on whatever surface was closest to his head. It no longer startled him, but he became increasingly annoyed. Still, he refused to say aloud what he was thinking: Okay, I get it!
Monday night there was nothing from John, and Tuesday was a repeat of Monday. He found it more and more difficult to maintain his lifelong ability to ignore distractions when he worked. After the fourth knocking episode Tuesday, he became uncharacteristically angry, both at Aaron and at himself for letting the whole situation get to him.
When he talked to Steve Tuesday evening, he made no mention of the knockings, and Steve didn't bring up the subject of Aaron, though Elliott could sense he wanted to. So, while he was grateful for Steve's discretion, he also felt just a little guilty. He knew he could tell him everything without feeling he was being judged or thought weird.
Still, he could not bring himself to it, and so the conversation ended with an agreement to meet for dinner Friday night.
That set Elliott to thinking yet again about his relationship with Steve. While it had become a given that they spent nearly every weekend together, they both still played the "if you're not doing anything" game. But they seemed to mutually agree without saying anything that this was the best way to handle the relationship for now. One day...
Well, he told himself, they'd deal with that when it came.
---Sorry. I really still have a bit of a problem remembering that time is different for you and me. I gather you're pissed at Aaron.
---That's putting it mildly. You tell him that if he wants me to help him, he's got to lay off the damned knocking. I know he's there. He doesn't need to keep reminding me. And I still don't know why he put on that little demonstration in front of Steve.
---Of course, you do. He wouldn't have done it if Steve weren't receptive to it. He couldn't resist the possibility of getting two people to help him.
---Well, I'm not about to ask Steve to do that, not that I have any idea of what he could do if I wanted him to. The well's run dry as far as my having anything to follow up on is concerned. As a matter of fact, you can tell Aaron I can use a little help from his side. Does he have any idea who might be able to point me in a new direction?
---I can try, but ... Didn't you meet someone who knew both Bill and Aaron? Not Irv Wilson. I didn't catch his name. With your friend Button. Now, there's a name I can remember.
---Paul?
---Paul. Right. Why don't you check with him. He might possibly know something. And while I know you don't want to get Steve involved, you might ask him to see if Aaron's brother knew anything at all about Bill's business or private life.
---Well, I can see if I can talk with Paul, I suppose. But as for Aaron's brother, from what I know of him he's a number-one prick, and I get the idea he and Aaron weren't particularly close, so I'd doubt he would know anything at all. I think I'll shelve that one for awhile.
---You're the boss.
---Yeah, well, you might remind Aaron of that fact.
The fact that Wednesday passed without any knocking Elliott took as a sign Aaron had gotten his message, and in a spirit---no pun intended---of compromise he decided to drop by the Anvil that night in hopes of running into Paul. The weather had turned downright unpleasant, with blustery winds and an occasional snow flurry mixed with a light rain.
By the time he got home from work, he was rethinking his decision to go out, on the grounds that anyone with common sense would prefer to stay in during such weather. He also definitely did not want to run into Irv Wilson.
Still, he knew habits were hard to break, and hoped Irv would stick to his regular routine, which did not include being at the Anvil on Wednesday. Chances were probably 50/50 that Button might be there, and he could ask him to give Paul his phone number. He didn't like to give his phone number to just anyone, but was willing to make an exception if it might provide him with something he could follow up on. He didn't really hold out much hope.
The weather had cleared and the wind died down by the time he was ready to leave his condo, so he decided to walk. He arrived a few minutes after nine to find the place nearly deserted. No sign of Paul or Button or, he was relieved to see, Irv Wilson. He went to the bar and ordered a beer, figuring since he'd walked all the way, he deserved something for his trouble.
He'd just paid for his drink and taken the first sip when he heard "Well, hello stranger!" and turned to see Button standing next to the stool beside him.
Noting Button wasn't wearing a coat, he said, "Have you been here all along? I didn't see you when I came in."
"I was in the little boy's room. I spotted you the minute I came out. Let me grab my drink." He moved down the bar to retrieve a glass and rejoined Elliott. "May I?" he asked, indicating the stool to Elliott's right.
"Of course."
They exchanged smiles as Button sat down.
"So, what brings you out tonight?"
"Nothing in particular," Elliott lied. "Just felt like having a beer."
"Well, I'm glad you did," Button said, laying one hand lightly on Elliott's arm. Though they had only met a couple of times, Elliott understood it wasn't a come-on, just Button being Button.
Leaning toward him and lowering his voice, Button said, "I get a little tired of seeing the same old faces night after night."
Resisting the temptation to ask why, then, he came in so often, Elliott merely nodded. "So, Paul's not here tonight?"
Taking a sip of his drink, Button gave a quick head shake and swallowed before saying, "No, he really doesn't come out all that often. He spends a lot of time at his folks' helping his mom take care of his dad, who's been really ill."
"Sorry to hear that," Elliott said. "It must be rough on him." He paused long enough to take a swig of his beer, then said, "I was kind of hoping to be able to talk to him a little more about Aaron and Bill."
"It's none of my business, but you didn't ... the other night when you were in ... you didn't actually go home with Irv, did you? I mean..."
"No! No way. I gave him a ride, that's all. I wanted to hear what he had to say about Bill."
Button gave a sigh of relief, then looked at him in a way Elliott couldn't interpret. "You're really hooked on this thing, aren't you?"
Mildly embarrassed to be so patently obvious, he shrugged. "Yeah, I guess I am. Paul sort of summed it up when he said it's like a Greek tragedy. I can't stop thinking about how and why Bill died. It just doesn't make much sense. Since Paul knew Bill so well, I really would like to talk to him some more."
"Well, I'll tell you what," Button said, in the tone of a school teacher trying to comfort a third-grader with a skinned knee, "I wouldn't feel right about giving his phone number to anyone without his permission." He touched Elliott's arm again. "No offense, but you understand."
Elliott nodded.
"But if you want to give me your number, I can pass it on to Paul and tell him you'd like to talk to him. Would that be alright?"
"That'd be fine. I appreciate it."
Button signaled the bartender and asked for a pen and piece of paper.
"Somebody's getting lucky," a guy halfway up the bar remarked, his slur indicating he was fairly well drunk.
Button turned toward the man and gave him a sweet smile. "Eat your heart out, darling!"
Writing his name and land-line number on the paper, Elliott handed it to Button, who carefully folded it and put it in an inside pocket of his suit coat.
"I'll see that Paul gets this," he said. After making sure the note didn't make a bulge in his jacket, he sighed again and turned to Elliott. "So, now, why don't you tell me everything about yourself? Your hopes, your dreams, your shoe size..."
Elliott laughed. "Not all that much to tell," he said.
"I don't believe that for a minute," Button responded. "You said you were doing some work on Bill and Aaron's building. You're in construction?"
Elliott nodded. "And you?"
"I manage a men's clothing store on Michigan Avenue."
"I'm impressed," Elliott said.
"Oh, Lord, don't be! Dealing with piss-elegant snobs with more money than brains all day can be a bitch. It's just a job, and the only reason I didn't quit years ago is because I get great discounts on clothes, and I get paid enough so that I can eat out every night after work. I hate to cook."
Elliott took his time finishing his beer, enjoying his conversation with Button, but when the bottle was empty, he refused Button's offer to buy him another.
"Work tomorrow," he said.
"Well, I've really enjoyed our little chat," Button said, and Elliott felt he meant it. He suspected Button was a rather lonely soul.
They exchanged goodbyes, and Elliott left.
He hadn't been home twenty minutes when his land-line phone rang.
"Elliott Smith," he said after picking up.
"Elliott, hi. It's Irv. How's it going?"
"Fine, Irv. What's up?"
"I hear you were at the Anvil tonight with your buddy Button."
"Yeah, I stopped in for awhile. Why?" Elliott quickly flashed back to the bar, trying to think of who might have reported him to Irv. There had been hardly anyone there, and he knew Button wouldn't have done it. The bartender, probably.
"How come you didn't call to collect on that rain check?"
Feeling his temper rising, he said, "Look, Irv, I---"
"How come you left alone? Nobody in there good enough for you?"
"Look, Irv," he repeated, but changed what he'd originally intended to say. "I don't know what your problem is, but I don't need this shit. So, knock it off." He hung up.
Ten seconds later, the phone rang again. Reluctantly, he picked it up.
"Yeah?" he said.
"Don't you ever hang up on me, you prick-teasing sonofabitch! I---"
Elliott hung up then unplugged the wall jack. He wished he had opted for Caller ID, but hadn't thought he'd ever need it.
---Now, there is one sick puppy.
---Tell me.
---So, do you think he might be capable of violence?
---What do you mean do I think? You're the non-corporeal one who can go anywhere he wants and get in people's heads.
---Uh, it's not that simple. There has to be some sort of---call it a door---I can use to get in. And even then, the door is often locked ... from the inside, of course. Steve is the only one I've come across other than you who has a door he keeps open, and then it's not open as wide as yours. So again, most of what I know I get from you. So ... do you think he could have killed Bill?
---From his little show tonight, I'd say it certainly sounds possible, but...
---But?
---If this is standard operating procedure for him, God knows how many times he's pulled this with other guys. He certainly couldn't go around killing everyone who pisses him off. So why should Bill have been the exception?
---Good point. But that's the thing with these rubber-band people---they're stretched so tight who knows when they'll snap? Maybe some combination of things we can't even imagine set him off. Who knows?
---Well, that was helpful. But not much.
---Sorry.
---No, not your fault. I just don't have any idea of what to do next. Maybe I can check with Brad to see if Irv might have a record of violence. In the meantime, I'll just stay out of his way, which shouldn't be too hard if I avoid the Anvil.
Thursday passed so quickly Elliott was barely aware of it. Once he arrived at work, he didn't give a single thought to Wilson's call, or to Aaron, or anything other than the job at hand.
Carpeting of the stairs and foyers was completed, and work was progressing on Mrs. Reinerio's former apartment. He began thinking about calling Larry Fingerhood early the following week to let him know he was ready to start looking for another property. He had, as always, kept careful tabs on his expenses and arrived at a prospective asking price. He would ask Larry, who would handle the listing, to do a walk-through to get verification of its value. Larry's independent assessment was almost always very close to his own, but it was part of his routine. After Larry's walk-through, he'd arrange for Thad Baxter to come and do a video.
With no disturbance from Aaron during the day, Elliott was feeling upbeat as he headed home. He was confident enough he might have a free night that he reconnected his land-line phone.
A call from Cessy as he was having a pre-dinner drink filled him in on all the family's activities since their last conversation. Dinner, a call to Steve to confirm getting together Friday, and a little TV rounded off his evening. The ten o'clock news was just starting when the phone rang again.
Hoping that it wasn't Irv Wilson, he picked it up.
"Elliott Smith."
"Elliott, hello! This is Paul Foster. Button gave me your number and said you'd like to talk to me. I hope I'm not calling too late in the evening."
"Not at all, Paul. And thanks for calling, I really appreciate it. I'm afraid I've become a little obsessive about Aaron and Bill's story, and I'd really like to figure out what happened to Bill and why. There's a lot I don't know, and since you knew both of them, I figured you might be able to help me."
"Are you a private detective?" Paul asked. "I thought you were in construction."
Elliott laughed. "No and yes. I'm not a private detective, and I am in construction. But when something grabs my attention, I'm like a dog with a bone."
"I understand. So, what can I tell you?"
"Did you by chance know Bill's business partner, Jim Babcock?"
"No, I never met him, and Bill didn't really like to talk much about his business, especially not to Aaron. He didn't want to drag Aaron into his problems. But he'd talk to me occasionally. I know he was increasingly unhappy with Babcock, and the week before he disappeared, I met him for lunch, and he told me he was thinking of dissolving the partnership. The idea really tore him up---he'd worked so hard to develop the business."
"Did he say what the problem was?"
"He and Jim weren't exactly a match made in heaven from the beginning. Jim was a real go-getter as a salesman, but money was just green paper as far as he was concerned. It got to the point where Bill insisted on handling the finances, just as he was already doing most of the actual work. Like I say, Jim was a really aggressive salesman, but not so hot when it came to follow-up.
"Jim always liked to live high on the hog, and a couple of times after Bill took over the finances, Jim somehow tapped into company funds without Bill knowing about it. Bill warned him, and Jim backed off for a while, then it apparently happened again. I gathered that last time we spoke that Jim had really screwed up, and that Bill had finally had enough. He felt he had only two options---eat the misappropriated money and dissolve the business, or turn Jim in for embezzlement. He really didn't want to do that, but..."
"Did you tell anybody about this when he disappeared, or when his body was found?"
"No. I probably should have, in retrospect, but so much was going on. The last time I talked to Bill, the day before he disappeared, he sounded really down. He told me about the run-in with Irv Wilson. When Aaron called me that Tuesday night to say Bill hadn't come home, I really didn't know what to think. When someone tells you his lover hasn't come home, the last thing in your mind is that somebody's killed him. I thought perhaps he and Aaron had had a fight, and he was just cooling off somewhere. But Aaron said they hadn't argued, and that there was no reason for Bill to stay away.
"I told him to check with the hospitals and then to check with the police to see if Bill might have been arrested, though if he had, he surely would have called. Aaron said he'd already done all that, and again I didn't know what to tell him. He wanted to go down to file a missing persons report that same night, but I told him to give it some time---I knew he couldn't file a police report until Bill had been gone three days, and I couldn't imagine that he would be. I told him I'd check with everyone I knew who knew Bill to see if they might have heard anything, which I did. And of course, they hadn't. Aaron had already checked with most of them.
"I talked to Aaron every day, and went over to see him a couple of times, but there wasn't anything I could do, of course. He was totally beside himself to the point I began to worry about him, too. I kept telling him the fact that Bill's car hadn't been found was a good sign. I did my best to assure him that everything would be all right, and that Bill would come back and explain everything. In my heart, I think I knew he was dead, but I kept thinking that if he was dead, someone would have found him.
"And then the night before Aaron died, he called me in tears. He said he had called his brother out of desperation, as the only family he had. I knew they had never gotten along, but instead of showing any sympathy whatsoever Bruce laid into him for being gay. He said that Bill was just like every other faggot and had probably gotten himself a new toy. How in hell he could have been so incredibly cruel, I don't know. Aaron had almost never talked about Bruce, and I can see why. Bruce hated gays, and had nothing but contempt for Aaron, who had done everything in the world for him. Calling that creature pond scum would be an insult to pond scum.
"When I didn't hear from Aaron the next night, I'm ashamed to say I didn't call him, but I was just worn out. I hoped maybe Bill had come back, and I was really relieved and didn't want to intrude. But when I tried calling him the next day and the next and couldn't reach him, the worry returned. The third day I tried to call him at least a dozen times and only got his answering machine. Finally, I drove over to check on him and found Bruce and his wife loading things into a U-Haul van. That's how I found out that Aaron had died. I tried to talk to Bruce, to ask what had happened, but he told me to mind my own business and not to bother him.
"I really wasn't thinking straight for quite a while. Aaron's death sort of pushed what might have happened to Bill to the background. And then, I read in the paper that Bill had been found dead. The paper indicated it was a suicide and didn't say exactly when he'd died. The thought flashed through my mind that, somehow, he had found out about Aaron's death and killed himself, but I immediately dismissed the idea. It was only later I learned he'd been dead a long time before they found his body. I still couldn't imagine him killing himself, but it's always a more natural assumption than murder."
There was a long pause before he continued. "I still don't like to think of it," he said. "It's just so terribly sad. I knew Bill wouldn't have just left Aaron. And I'll bet anything that he died the day he disappeared. If they'd found him before Aaron died ... well, Aaron still may well have died, too, but at least he'd have known that Bill didn't leave because he didn't love him."
"So, do you think Bill killed himself?" Elliott asked. He became aware as he spoke that John was nearby, with no idea how long he had been there.
"Not for a second," Paul said. "He was totally devoted to Aaron---they were starting to look for a house. Since Aaron tired easily, Bill was going to check places out first, and if he found one he thought Aaron would like, they'd go look together. Then Bill disappeared." He sighed. "I just can't imagine he could have done anything like that. But all I really know about his death is what I saw in the paper."
"Did you talk to the police about this?"
Elliott heard yet another deep sigh, then: "No. I thought about calling, but what could I really tell them? Even though I'm positive Bill would never have deliberately taken his own life, I didn't---and don't---know all the circumstances, and don't have any proof. And just pointing a finger at Jim---or Irv, for that matter---wouldn't have done any good."
"Do you really think either of them would be capable of murder?"
"I find it hard to believe anyone is capable of murder, though I know, of course, they are. I just can't imagine anyone I know being a murderer. I know that Irv's a closet psychopath, and Jim is an oily opportunist who had good reason, but I find it difficult to think of either of them actually committing murder. I mean, how many people do you know who have been murdered?"
Elliott sensed John's amusement but said nothing.
"Button told me you introduced Bill to Irv."
"Yes, and I can't tell you the number of times I apologized to Bill for it. I guess I just wasn't Irv's type, for which I shall be eternally grateful. If he doesn't set out the bear traps for you, he can come across as a really nice guy. I met him one of the first times I went to the Anvil. It was a really slow night, and we got to talking. He seemed very down-to-earth, so the next time I came in, I was with Bill, and I introduced him to Irv. I could just as well have taken Bill to the Lincoln Park Zoo and thrown him into a tiger's cage.
"Irv was charm personified when I introduced them. That lasted until the end of their first date, and it was downhill from there, until finally Bill wouldn't even answer his phone. He stopped coming in to the Anvil, of course, and then he met Aaron and moved in with him shortly thereafter. I was really happy for them both."
Elliott almost felt Paul's sigh coming through the phone, then: "Sometimes, life sucks."
"This may be a strange question, but did Bill happen to say anything to you about changing his will?"
There was a long pause. "Yes, he did," Paul said, surprise showing in his voice. "How could you have known about that? He asked me for the name of my lawyer, of whom I'd spoken highly a couple of times, and later told me he and Aaron had made an appointment with him. But since Bill disappeared shortly after, I don't know if they ever kept it."
"I really appreciate the information, Paul."
"Well, I hope it helps. And please feel free to call if there's anything else I can help you with."
"You can count on it. But I don't have your number, or Button's."
Paul laughed. "Yes, I suppose having the number would help. Let me give you both of them. I'm sure Button won't mind."
"Let me get a pencil," Elliott said, wishing he'd given Button his cell phone number instead of his land-line, which necessitated his putting down the phone to scramble for a pencil and notepad.
After getting both numbers, he thanked Paul for his time, and the call ended with mutual expressions of hoping to see one another again soon.
"Oh," Paul added just before they hung up, "if you do find out exactly what happened to Bill, would you let me know?"
"I promise."
Thinking over the conversation as he sat idly watching TV but not paying much attention to it, Elliott wondered why Bill had asked Paul for a lawyer referral. Why not use the same lawyer who had drawn up his earlier will---Gutierrez?
Probably, he reasoned, exactly because Gutierrez may well also have drawn up the papers for the business. Bill wouldn't want to risk Babcock's somehow finding out what he was planning.
He again considered the clause in Bill's original will about the business going to Babcock unless Bill had a designated heir. So, there was not only the matter of the changing of the will but the issue of dissolving the partnership. If Babcock had somehow learned of either the will change or the dissolution, it would ramp up his motive-for-murder factor considerably.
---Interesting. It definitely does seem that Babcock had a lot to lose.
---Granted. But we have no way of knowing how or if he could have found out what Bill was planning.
---Who knows? If Bill called the lawyer's office from work, or if the lawyer for some reason called him, and Babcock found out, maybe he put two and two together. Brad said Bill didn't keep an appointment book, but he might have made some sort of note to himself that Babcock could have come across...
---That's a few too many ifs, I think. There's just too much we don't know, and after four years, we have no way to find out. I don't think Aaron would be much help, since Bill apparently didn't talk to him about work.
---I can see how you would find it all frustrating.
---And you don't?
---Well, being where I am does tend to make one a bit more stoic.
---Yeah, I'd imagine. But I keep coming back to the question of what the hell I think I'm doing. I'm just an ordinary guy, not a detective.
---Brad is.
---True. I suppose I could tell him about everything I've found out, but then he'd want to know how I found it all out and what I was doing asking in the first place. I'm already walking on eggshells with him---he's been really patient, but he's not happy about my getting involved in things that shouldn't concern me. Not easy.
---I'll resist the temptation to point out that nothing is. But Brad said he wasn't comfortable with the suicide ruling. I'd think he might jump at the chance to reopen the case.
---He did say he had questions at the time. But it's not exactly like he's not already overworked with current cases. He doesn't really need to go back four years for a cold one.
---Oh. Okay. I'll explain that to Aaron. I'm sure he'll understand.
---Ouch! All right, I'll talk to Brad. But I can't guarantee he'll go along with it.
---I don't think any guarantees are expected. Trying is enough.
The ringing of the phone woke him. Glancing at the bedside clock, he saw it was two in the morning. He picked up the phone, wondering who would be calling so late.
Not in the mood for niceties, he merely said, "Yeah?"
He could hear street noises in the background, but no one spoke. Then came the sound of the phone being hung up.
Muttering, Elliott replaced the handset on the cradle and went back to sleep. John did not return.
On Friday morning, work on the last apartment nearly completed, Elliott reflected on the smoothness with which he and his team worked. Even with the disruption of moving Mrs. Reinerio, they had moved through the project in far less time than it would have required were it not for Elliott's planning and coordination.
He'd hoped to be able to call Brad before heading over to Steve's but, after taking an extra-long shower, decided he wouldn't have time, especially if Cessy answered the phone.
The restaurant they chose for dinner was closer to Steve's than to Elliott's, so after stopping for an after-dinner drink, they returned to Steve's for the night.
---Aaron wants to know what you found out from your brother-in-law.
---I'll call him tomorrow. I didn't get a chance today ... I assumed you knew that.
---As I told you some time ago, I don't keep an apartment here inside your head. I don't know what you're doing every minute. I've got a life ... let's make that an existence ... of my own, you know.
---A little touchy tonight?
---Sorry. It's just that, stoicism aside, I'm getting a little ... what word do I want? ... impatient with Aaron. He wants to contact you directly, other than by just knocking, but he doesn't know how. I still don't know how he does the knocking, by the way. I let him know I didn't think it was a good idea---contacting you directly, I mean.
---And you are two-hundred-fifty percent right!
---I'm getting this sudden image of you sitting by candlelight at a card table with a white fringed tablecloth and a crystal ball wearing a turban.
---Exactly. And exactly what I don't want. Not now, not ever. Aaron's waited four years. Just let him know I'm dancing as fast as I can. He hasn't bothered me at work lately, I'm glad to say.
---I suspect he's making more progress than he realizes. At least, he obviously knows he shouldn't piss you off. But I can appreciate his frustration. He really needs your help.
---And I'm trying to give it to him. But I've also got a life ... no offense ... to live, and unlike you and Aaron, I'm stuck in a twenty-four-hour, minute-by-minute day. I can only do what I can do.
---So, I can let him know you'll be calling Brad tomorrow?
---Yes, and I'll---
He was instantly awake, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand, and realized it was Steve's hand on his shoulder that had done it.
"Oh, Jeezus! I was talking again, wasn't I?"
"Don't worry about it," Steve said, leaning on one elbow and staring down at him with a sleepy smile.
"What time is it?" Elliott asked, turning his head to see the clock on the nightstand.
"Just after four."
Sighing, he reached up and pushed Steve back onto his pillow. "Well, I'm really sorry. Try to get back to sleep. I promise I'll keep quiet."
"You don't want to talk about it?"
"In the morning."
"You'll forget by then."
"I've already forgotten," he said, immediately feeling guilty for lying again.
He'd planned to wait until after dinner Monday to call Brad, and was mildly irritated to note how frequently he glanced at his watch from the moment he arrived home. In spite of himself, as soon as he was fairly sure Brad was home, he called.
He guiltily recognized that one of the advantages to calling before dinner was that Cessy was usually too busy preparing the meal to be able to talk too long. Even so, they talked for a good five minutes before she turned him over to Brad.
There was a slight pause as the phone changed hands, then: "Hi, Elliott. What's up?"
"You said Bill Somers's case is still open?"
A longer pause before: "Uh, yeah. As I told you, unexplained deaths go into the cold case file and remain open forever unless there's reason to change the ruling. Why?"
"Well, I've found out a couple things that might have a bearing on his death."
"Such as...?"
"I've run into a couple people who knew both Somers and his partner, Aaron Stiles. You mentioned that you had talked to Jim Babcock, Somers's business partner, and that he'd indicated things were fine but admitted they'd had a few problems."
"Yeah?"
"Well, apparently, they were pretty serious problems. Somers was planning to dissolve the partnership, which would have left Babcock swinging in the wind. Somers found out Babcock was taking money from the till, and he had the choice of filing charges against him or dissolving the partnership. Plus Somers's original will left the business to Babcock as surviving partner. He had an appointment to make a new will but died before he could keep it."
"How did you find that out?"
Rather than dig a deeper a hole for himself than was necessary by telling Brad he had gone to Probate Court to look up Bill's will, Elliott reluctantly opted for another lie. "One of Somers's friends told me."
"Hmmm. Well, that is interesting, but I'm afraid hearsay isn't enough to justify our officially spending much time on it."
"I understand. I just thought I'd take a shot."
"Anything else you found out?"
"Well, there's a guy Bill had been dating before he met Aaron. I've met the guy, and he's a real stalker type. I understand from another of Bill's friends that this guy---his name's Irv Wilson---threatened Bill the weekend before he disappeared. Do you suppose, if you have a minute, you could check to see if he has a record? I realize it's not much to go on, but..."
"I suppose I could do a quick check. Wilson, was it?"
"Yeah. Irv Wilson. He lives on Thorndale---twelve-or thirteen-hundred block west."
"Okay. I don't know how soon I can do it, but..."
"Hey, I appreciate your doing it at all. I know it's not much to go on, but I'm convinced Bill Somers did not kill himself. And if he didn't, whoever did is still walking around out there."
"I admire your conviction, but as I've told you, it doesn't matter how strongly you or I may feel about something. Unless there is proof that will stand up in court, speculation is just an exercise in futility. Believe me, I've been there dozens of times in this job."
He heard Cessy's voice in the background, then Brad said, "Dinner's ready. I've gotta go. Talk with you later."
"Sure. Thanks, Brad."
Elliott hung up feeling no better or further ahead than before he'd made the call.
He went to bed not looking forward to a conversation with John, and there had been none by the time the phone jarred him awake at two.
"Yeah?" He hoped his displeasure showed in his voice. Again---street noises, but no response. Not waiting for the hang-up, he punched the disconnect and slammed the handset back on the cradle. "Asshole!"
It took him some time to get back to sleep, and there was nothing from John when he did.
As he showered Tuesday morning, he didn't waste much time wondering who had made the hang-up phone calls. He was sure it was Irv Wilson, and he was more than a little pissed. He determined to unplug the phone before going to bed. Anyone he might want to hear from had his cell number, and he was sure Irv didn't.
He was a little curious as to why he'd not heard from John, but resisted the temptation to speculate on the grounds that to do so might smack of paranoia. He forced himself instead to focus on the day's work ahead.
Once at the building, he remembered his decision to call Larry Fingerhood and did so while on a run to the hardware store for some supplies. He arranged a meeting at the property on Saturday for the walk-through, and told Larry to start looking around for prospects for his next project.
The early evening news had just ended when the phone rang.
"Hi, Ell. How are things going?"
"Fine, Steve. How about you?"
"Great." The tone of his voice said otherwise.
"Something up?"
There was a slight pause. "I feel kind of silly mentioning this, but..."
"What's wrong?"
"Not wrong, exactly, just weird. I had the strangest dream last night."
Feeling the hair rising on his arms and the back of his neck, Elliott kept his voice calm when asking, "What about?"
"I think it was about Aaron. Really hard to describe. It was like being caught up in a tornado of thoughts and images and feelings moving so fast I couldn't catch any of them before they were gone."
"What makes you think it had anything to do with Aaron?" He knew full well it had everything to do with Aaron. He was also aware of rising anger at Aaron's persistence in trying to drag Steve into it all. But what worried him most was the realization Aaron was now able to extend himself beyond the confines of the building in which he had died.
"I just knew. It was ... well ... really, really weird. It was like watching a foreign movie where someone is obviously upset and jabbering away and you haven't a clue what they're talking about."
Elliott was pretty sure he knew, but he forced aside his growing concern over the implications of Aaron's contacting Steve to concentrate on the moment.
"I'd wake up," Steve continued, "and the minute I'd get back to sleep it would start up again. I didn't get much real sleep, I'm afraid."
"Well, it's probably my fault," Elliott said, keeping his voice casual. "I keep talking in my sleep and that probably bothered you more than you thought. I'd say maybe we shouldn't sleep together anymore, but I'd rather duct-tape my mouth shut and get you some industrial-strength earplugs."
Steve laughed. "I never mind your talking. But this---do you think Aaron's trying to tell me something? And are you sure you don't think I'm crazy to ask a question like that?"
"Of course, I don't think you're crazy."
"But why me? Does he do the same thing with you?"
Though that question was at the very core of his concern, and carefully avoiding the issue of John, Elliott said, "Not exactly. But if you'll remember, you were aware of him before I was, even though you might not have realized it. You did paint him in the window. I'm just around the building nearly every day, which is why I'm so aware of him. I told you I think he expects me to help him somehow. Maybe he's trying to reach out to you, too, now. Take my advice, and don't let yourself get dragged into it."
"Do I have much choice?"
An excellent question, Elliott thought, but said nothing.
"I really appreciate being able to talk about this," Steve said. "Otherwise, I think I'd be starting to be seriously concerned."
"Well, don't be," Elliott said, hoping he sounded more reassuring than he felt.
"What if these dreams keep coming back?"
"Again, don't worry about that right now. Trust me."
"Okay, I'll try." He did not sound convinced.
Changing the subject, they talked for a few more minutes until Elliott heard a faint "ding" from Steve's end of the line.
"Ah, the oven says dinner's ready," Steve said. "I'd better go. Again, I really appreciate your letting me unload on you."
"Any time," Elliott replied. "Enjoy your dinner, and I hope you sleep better tonight."
Steve laughed. "You and me both. We'll talk later."
Elliott did his best to adhere to his evening ritual of dinner and TV, but he spent most of his time trying to force unwanted thoughts to the back of his mind. It didn't work. He grew increasingly frustrated and angry---largely at himself for giving in to frustration in the first place, which was totally out of character for him, but also at the entire Aaron situation. It didn't help that he wanted to talk to John and knew not only that he couldn't do so until he was asleep but that even then he would have to wait for John to initiate the contact.
When he did go to bed, after first disconnecting the phone, he could not go to sleep, which only fueled the frustration. Finally, though, he drifted off.
---Interesting.
---To hell with interesting! This goes way beyond interesting. I'm pissed!
---Yeah, I rather surmised that. And I understand why.
---Do you? Then maybe you can tell me what the hell Aaron thinks he's doing? I don't want him bothering Steve! And how did he manage to do that, anyway? He's never left the house before, and now he's out wandering around getting into Steve's head?
There was a long pause.
---Are you still there?
---Yes, I'm here. I was just giving you a minute to get it out of your system.
---Well, I don't mean to take it out on you, but I want to know what he thinks he's doing and why he thinks he's doing it?
---I wish I had some solid answers, but I don't. Aaron's his own person. But I'll try to answer your questions as best as I can.
First, I overheard your conversation with Steve, and I think your point about Aaron's having been aware of Steve before he was aware of you is at the core of it. I'm sure Steve sensed him when he first started doing his painting of the building. That's why he put Aaron in the window. So, it was easier for Aaron to reach out to Steve than it would be for him to get to you.
---And that is because...?
---Again, I'm not sure. But I suspect one reason is that I'm here, and Aaron has no idea of how to get past me to get to you. That's why he wants me to help him. And as for him getting through to Steve, from what Steve said it appears that Aaron's still having serious problems communicating.
---Well, you've gotten through to Steve once or twice---those dreams he and I had at the same time shortly after we got together, for example.
---Yes, but that was just mainly me trying out my wings, as it were. I would never interfere with Steve now. I guess I just wanted to see if I could.
---Okay. Well, I want you to give Aaron a message. If he wants me to help him, he's got to leave Steve the hell alone. You can give him the olive branch of letting him know that I talked to Brad. I honestly don't know what he might be able to do after all this time, but I'm doing my part and I expect Aaron to do his.
---Done.
The next few days flew by without incident, and without any word from John, which Elliott took as a good sign. He called Steve Wednesday night, ostensibly to ask if he'd be interested in going to a concert of the DePaul Symphony Orchestra Friday evening---to which Steve readily agreed---but primarily to see if he might mention having had any subsequent dreams. Elliott wasn't about to bring up the subject, but thought that Steve might if he'd had any. When Steve didn't say anything, he let it pass.
Cessy called after dinner Thursday for one of her in-depth periodic checkups and sisterly interrogations about his love life.
"I can't tell you how glad I am that you found Steve," she said. "I never could keep up with the way all those others kept coming and going. I can't even remember most of their names."
Grinning, Elliott replied, "Neither can I. But it wasn't exactly like I was servicing an entire infantry battalion, you know."
"Have you two talked about moving in together?"
"Jeezus, sis! Give me a break! Neither one of us is within light-years of that yet."
"Well, at least you said 'yet.' I just don't want you to let him get away. You're perfect for one another."
Not wanting to prolong the conversation by asking exactly how she'd come to that conclusion, he opted for a quick change of subject. "Is Brad home?"
"He was, and he said he was going to call you, but then he got called out on some case or other. I have no idea when he'll be getting back."
"That's okay. I'll wait to hear from him."
They talked a few more minutes until one of the kids called for her for help with something, and she reluctantly said goodbye and hung up.
Forgetting to disconnect the bedside phone for the first time in nearly a week, Elliott was jarred awake by ringing at 1:25 a.m. Angrily snatching it up, he barked, "What?" As usual, no response, then a hang-up.
Opening the nightstand drawer, he tossed the handset into it without thinking to turn it off and scooped the cradle in on top of it, then slammed the drawer shut, flopped over on his side and tried to get back to sleep, covering his head with a pillow to drown out the muffled voice of the phone company robot telling him how to make a call. After two minutes, he got up and yanked the plug out of the wall.
Since parking anywhere near the DePaul campus was nearly impossible, he'd arranged to meet Steve at the Fullerton el stop and walk down to the concert hall, located in a classic Colonial-style red-brick, white-steepled former church just off Halsted. It was a first time for Steve, who expressed his surprise and pleasure at both the size and the quality of the orchestra.
As they had beer and burgers at a nearby Irish pub after the concert, the subject of Aaron did not come up until he asked Steve how things were going at his work.
"Pretty good. Bruce hasn't spoken a word to me since the party. Breaks my heart, but I'll live. And I did check around to see if anybody had ever heard him mention having a brother. No one had." After pausing to order another round of beer, he continued, "So, how are things coming with the building?"
"It's nearly finished. Actually, I'm running a little behind in finding a new project. But I'm meeting my broker tomorrow to discuss listing it."
Steve looked at him with an expression Elliott couldn't interpret. "And what do you think Aaron's going to think about that?"
"About what?" he asked, though he knew the answer the instant the question was asked---he'd tried to avoid thinking of it but had known he couldn't do so forever.
"Well, if Aaron is counting on you to help him, let's hope he doesn't think you're walking away from him."
"I won't be walking away from him," Elliott protested, then experienced a slight mental shudder as he realized that might be exactly what Aaron would think. "I still intend to try to find out what really happened to Bill."
Steve gave him a small smile. "Let's hope Aaron understands that."
They spent the night at Elliott's, and he was relieved when their sleep was uninterrupted and uneventful. After their morning coffee, while Steve was in the shower and Elliott was fixing breakfast, he called Larry to verify their eleven-o'clock meeting at the property.
Steve had started a new painting and wanted to spend the afternoon working on it, but suggested a dinner-and-video night at his place; he had recently signed up for Netflix and was expecting delivery of a couple of movies, including one Elliott had expressed an interest in seeing. Elliott agreed and volunteered to stop at the store on the way over to pick up some steaks.
Dropping Steve off at his apartment, he arrived at the property about ten minutes before eleven, parking on the new concrete pad in back. Rounding the front of the building, he found Mrs. Reinerio coming down the steps on the arm of a strikingly handsome young man around twenty. Elliott waited at the bottom of the steps until they reached the walk.
"Elliott!" she said warmly. "So good to see you. I'd like you to meet my grandson, Andrew."
Shaking hands and exchanging greetings, Elliott took favorable stock of the young man, automatically switching on his "gaydar" but, sensing nothing, switching it off again just as automatically.
"So, you're off for the day?" he asked, turning to the obviously---and, he was sure, justifiably---proud grandmother.
"Yes. Andrew is on a break from his studies at Northern. He's taking me to lunch at the Walnut Room at Field's." She leaned forward and, putting a hand on Elliott's arm, said in a semi-whisper "I still can't bring myself to think of Field's now being Macy's. It's just not natural."
Elliott grinned. "I agree," he said. "Well, you have a wonderful lunch, and we'll talk again soon. Nice to meet you, Andrew."
"You, too," the young man said, and they proceeded toward the street.
Elliott went inside and unlocked the doors to the three interior apartments. He saw no need to show Mrs. Reinerio's, since it was identical to the one above it. He then returned to the front steps just as Larry came up the street toward the house.
"Very nice!" Larry observed from the sidewalk as he took in the front of the building. Opening the gate, he came up the walk, his gaze moving from detail to detail.
As they did a walk-around of the entire building, Larry commented favorably on various features of the remodeling.
"Probably a good idea, not putting up a garage," he observed. "The new owners can easily do so if they want enclosed parking."
The instant the words the new owners left Larry's mouth, Elliott felt an almost electric shock that made him jerk.
"Are you okay?" Larry asked, puzzled.
"Yeah, I'm fine," he lied. "Just a sudden chill. Maybe I'm catching a cold."
"A lot of that going around this time of year. Take care of yourself."
Elliott found it difficult to bring his mind back to the present, but he managed, and they completed the circle of the building. As he unlocked the door to the one-bedroom ground-floor apartment, he felt the hair rising on the back of his neck. A quick glance showed Larry was apparently not aware of anything unusual.
They were in the bedroom when there was a loud bam! from the front of the apartment. Larry looked mildly puzzled.
"What was that?"
Elliott managed to say "Probably a car backfiring." Apparently satisfied, Larry went back to an inspection of the bedroom closet.
Damn it, Aaron! Don't do this! he thought, so strongly he was aware his tongue was shaping the words, even though he made no sound.
As they moved to the second ground-floor apartment, Elliott strained to pick up some sense of John's presence, but there was nothing.
This time, they were in the kitchen when the sound came, like the slamming of a door in the next room, but all the doors were open. Larry looked at him and scowled, but said nothing.
"Air in the pipes," Elliott lied. "Thought we'd gotten that fixed."
By the time the sound came again, in Mrs. Reinerio's original apartment, Larry's impatience was clearly evident.
"Look, Elliott, it seems like you've got some sort of real problem here, and I think you're going to have one hell of a hard time selling the place until you get it taken care of. I wouldn't even feel right about listing it."
"I understand," Elliott said, working to keep his voice calm. "I really don't know what's going on. We did have some air problems with the pipes," he lied again, "but I was sure we'd resolved them."
"Well, if you'll excuse me for saying so, these noises don't strike me as being air in the pipes. You might have some sort of real major structural issue here."
"Come on, Larry, you know me and my crew. We go over every inch of a property before I buy it, and I've been in the business long enough that I can spot a problem when there is one. I'm sure there's a simple explanation, and we'll find it and fix it."
"Well, I suggest you do." Larry looked around the room, shaking his head. "When you fix it, let me know and I'll come over and take another look. There's no point in trying to do anything more here today."
As they reached the building's front door there was yet another loud bam coming, Elliott knew, from Aaron's apartment. Larry merely looked at him.
"So, do you want me to keep looking for another project right now?" he asked. "Or should I hold off until you get this one resolved?"
"No," Elliott said, "keep looking. We'll be able to list this one before long. I'd stake my reputation there's nothing structurally wrong with it."
"I hope you're right," Larry said, extending his hand as they reached the bottom of the front stairs.
Watching Larry close the gate behind him and head down the street to his car, Elliott concentrated on calming down. His primary emotion was anger at Aaron, not only for, in effect, trying to blackmail him---Larry was right in saying no one would buy a property with something obviously wrong with it---but for not trusting Elliott to do what he had committed himself to doing.
As his calm returned he could see why Aaron might think he was going to walk away---there was no real reason for Aaron to trust him. Elliott knew he was a man of his word, but Aaron didn't. And if he did decide to just walk away, there would be nothing Aaron could do about it. Making sure the property couldn't be sold before the issue of Bill's death was resolved was the only card in Aaron's hand, and apparently he knew it. Elliott certainly did.
Reentering the building, he made sure all the doors were locked then left. No raised hairs, nothing.
It again struck him as peculiar, as he got into his car, that he had not sensed John at any time during the incidents, and he wondered why.
During the drive home, every time he started to think of the morning's events, he had to make a concerted effort to switch his thoughts to something else. It wasn't easy.
Even as he prepared to leave his condo to go to the store before going to Steve's, he thought about calling to cancel. Despite his efforts to head off thoughts and speculations about Aaron and the implications of his ability to interfere with Elliott's selling the building, they kept pouring in, putting him in a foul mood.
He weighed the possibility he would inadvertently inflict his mood on Steve against the hope that Steve's company, a good dinner and a movie would bring him out of it. He most certainly didn't want to sit home and continue his mental battle.
Steve didn't say anything, but he picked up on Elliott's ill humor the minute Elliott walked in the door. He subtly did his best to bring him out of it, which Elliott appreciated. As his mood mellowed, relaxing on the couch with drinks and hors d'oeuvres, he was noticed Steve's discretion in not mentioning the meeting with Larry. He was sure Steve sensed the reason.
By the time Steve returned to the living room with refreshed drinks, Elliott's frame of mind had lightened to the point where he decided to broach the subject just to see Steve's reaction.
"I met my real estate broker at the property today."
"Yes, I remember."
"It didn't go well." He reached for the plate of cheese and crackers.
"Aaron, I gather?"
"You gather right. I was concerned he was going to actually break something."
"You think he could? I mean, I know poltergeists can..." His voice trailed off, not knowing how to finish the sentence.
"I don't think Aaron is a poltergeist. I think, as you said, that he's afraid I'm going to abandon him."
"But you're not."
Elliott finished the cheese and cracker and took a sip of his drink. "You know that, and I know that. Aaron, apparently, does not know that. He still hasn't resolved the issue of Bill's leaving."
"Yeah, but Bill didn't just leave. At least, he surely didn't mean to."
"Still..."
Steve shook his head. "I'm really sorry. What did your broker say? Did you tell him about Aaron?" He paused, then added, "Strike that. Stupid question."
"I'm not sure exactly what he thought was going on, but luckily spirits and poltergeists are not the first things that pop into people's minds when something unexplained happens.'
Steve grinned. "Do you have any idea just how truly bizarre this whole thing is? Here we are, two grown, supposedly sane men, talking casually about some dead guy being afraid of being abandoned. I mean, that's got to set some sort of record for weird."
Elliott merely shrugged and nodded.
"And why us?" Steve continued. "What are the odds that we'd ever have met, let alone both of us being aware of things most people aren't?"
Taking another sip of his drink, Elliott sat back and put his free arm on the back of the sofa, behind Steve's shoulders.
"No idea," he said. "But then, we don't know that this is really all that uncommon. I'm pretty sure there are lots of people like us out there. How many of them manage to find one another is something else. It isn't the kind of thing people go around talking about a lot. Maybe---who knows?---there's some sort of odd version of gaydar that helps empaths find one another. Maybe we're just lucky, if it can be called that. The fact is that we both seem to have this whatever-it-is, and we're stuck with it."
Steve looked at him, lips slightly pursed as he considered what Elliott was saying. Then his mouth relaxed, and he said, "So, what do we do with it?"
"I'm not sure. I don't think there's a handbook. We'll just have to play it by ear."
They were both quiet a moment, until Steve said, "So, what are we supposed to do? What can be done about Aaron?"
Realizing he had said far more than he intended to, and that with this conversation he had opened a door that could not easily closed, Elliott sighed.
"I'm not quite sure," he said, after a long pause. Dropping his arm from the back of the couch to Steve's shoulders, he gave him a slight squeeze. "What I do know is that the last thing in the world I want is to let this whatever-it-is get in the way of my being who I am---just an ordinary guy. And I sure as hell don't want to drag you into all this Aaron crap."
Laying his free hand on Elliott's leg, Steve said, "A little late for that, isn't it? And I agree one hundred percent that we can't let it start running our lives, either individually or..." He hesitated, looking for the right word.
Elliott stepped in with "Right. I don't want us to turn into the Frick and Frack of the spirit world." Withdrawing his arm from Steve's shoulders, he drained his drink and said, "Now, what about those steaks?"
---Breakthrough! I'm proud of you!
---Yeah. Whoopee.
---Come on, admit it. Don't you feel better, now that you've talked about it, even though you still haven't mentioned me?
---And have no intention of doing so.
---I understand. All in good time. But letting Steve in on Aaron should make it a lot easier.
---Exactly how?
---Well, you won't have to evade the fact that there's something strange going on with your current project, and now you can talk about it with someone other than me. And three minds---I was going to say "heads," but I don't technically have one---are better than one when it comes to figuring things out.
---I know. It's just that you have no idea how much I really want to keep all this paranormal stuff as separate from my real life as I can. And I consider Steve to be a part of my real life; the idea of getting the two worlds all mixed up scares the shit out of me, frankly.
---I can understand that, too. But it doesn't have to be any more complicated than you make it. Just keep your cool and everything will work out.
---Except for this little matter of Aaron. Do you know what's going on with him at the moment? I gather he's pretty upset with me.
---Not so much upset as frightened, which is why he tried to get to Steve.
---I guess I can see that. But, please, try to convince him to stick with me and leave Steve out of it.
---I'll try. He's getting a lot better at balancing his emotion and rationality.
---I'd never know it from today's display. And where were you while all this was going on?
---Sorry. It's a little hard to explain. Have you ever tried to walk against a hurricane? It was something like that. You haven't talked to Brad?
---Damn! No. I meant to, but ... I'll try to catch them in the morning before they leave for church.
---I'm sure Aaron will appreciate it.
---Was that sarcasm?
---No. Fact.
---Well, let him know he's made his point. But also let him know I won't put up with any more of this knocking crap. If he starts bothering my crew, I swear I will walk away and let the house sit empty until it falls down, or just turn it over to the city and let Aaron deal with them. I can afford it.
True to his word, Elliott called Brad while Steve was in the kitchen fixing another pot of coffee. He was surprised when Brad himself answered.
"Brad, hi. I know you're getting ready for church, so I won't keep you. When I talked to Cessy Thursday she said you were going to call me, and then I didn't have a chance to try to reach you Friday or yesterday."
"No problem. I didn't get home until after midnight Thursday. I didn't want to bother you on your cell phone."
"Hey, never hesitate to use it. Did you find out anything?"
"That Wilson character has had two restraining orders against him, and there was one arrest for assault and battery---he broke some guy's arm, but the guy dropped the charges. Other than that, nothing. He's obviously a few bricks short of a full hod, but there's really nothing solid enough to warrant further investigation. And there's absolutely nothing other than speculation and hearsay to tie him in with Somers."
Steve returned with a fresh cup of coffee, which he handed Elliott, who took it with a smile and a nod before returning his attention to the phone. A sudden thought out of nowhere prompted him to ask, "I know this is really unusual, but is there any way at all I can look at your file on Bill's case?"
There was a long pause, then: "Short answer---no. The Chicago Police Department isn't the Chicago Public Library. And all homicides and suspicious deaths are kept as open cases---they might go cold, but they're still officially open---and as such are confidential. What, specifically, are you looking for?"
"No idea. And I'm not implying you didn't do everything you could at the time. It's just that after four years, and with a fresh set of eyes ... Can you give me the address where Bill was found?"
"I don't remember the exact address, but I think it's on the southwest corner of north Lovejoy, one block off Foster and practically next to the I-Ninety/Ninety-four. I could get the exact address if you need it but can't see what good it will do you. Like you said, it's been four years."
"Did you know Bill might have been house-hunting when he disappeared?"
There was a slight pause before Brad said, "Interesting. How did you find that out?"
"Mrs. Reinerio, the tenant at the building, and one of his friends both mentioned it in passing, but I didn't pay any attention to it at the time. But when I got to thinking..."
"I remember we talked to all the other tenants in Somers's building right after we found out his partner had died. Considering where Somers was found, I can't imagine we wouldn't have asked her and everybody else about whether he might be house-hunting, and if she'd said anything about it I'd have remembered.
"But as I recall, she was pretty upset when we talked to her. Apparently, she knew both Somers and his partner pretty well. She did say, though, now I think of it, that Somers had seemed pretty unhappy about something just before he disappeared ... which helped underscore the case for suicide.
"And of course, we checked out the Realtor for the property where he was found. We talked to the office manager, the secretaries and the woman who had the listing. None of them had ever heard of Somers, and there was no record of any activity on the property within two weeks of when Somers disappeared. For all I know, it might still be for sale."
"A lot of Realtors keep front door keys in a lock-box hung over the doorknob so that any Realtor with a master key can get in to show the property. Do you remember if this place had one?"
Another pause. "Yeah, now that you mention it, it did. And you're right in that, technically, I suppose, almost any Realtor in the city with a master key could have had access to the property. But standard policy is to call the listing agent to let him or her know they'll be coming through. And they always leave a business card. Nothing like that here.
"Then, again, it's unlikely a killer would be dumb enough to murder someone in a place that could be easily traced back to him and then just leave the body there. And the whole Realtor thing might be moot anyway, since he was found in the garage, which didn't have a lock. Anyone who knew the property was vacant could have gotten in."
It was Elliott's turn to pause. "Good point. Well, it was worth a shot to bring it up. Sorry to keep pestering you on this."
"Hey, look, don't think that way. I appreciate your being so interested in this, but people can get hurt playing detective, so I can't, in good conscience, encourage you to take chances. I'd like nothing better than to be able to close Somers's file. But we've given it our best shot and come up with nothing. Without hard evidence of a crime, we're just dangling in the wind."
"I understand, and believe me, I have no interest in switching careers at this stage of my life. There are just some things about Bill Somers's death that keep niggling at me like an itch, and I can't help but scratch it. You can be sure I won't do anything stupid. I promise." Another sudden thought prompted him to ask, "Just out of curiosity, do you remember the name of the Realtor?"
"Let me think ... Henderson and Polk ... no, Gunderson and Polk. Their office is, or was then, on Foster, near Pulaski. And by the way, I'm assuming that when you're wandering around on this stuff you aren't mentioning the fact that your brother-in-law is a cop."
Elliott laughed. "Not a chance."
There was a pause, then a muffled: "Okay. Be right there," then: "Cessy's ready. Gotta go."
"Okay. Thanks, Brad. I really appreciate the information."
Setting his cell phone on the coffee table, he gave Steve, sitting beside him, an apologetic grin.
"Sorry to have taken so long."
"Not a problem." Steve took a sip of his coffee. "So, any plans for the day?"
Elliott smiled inwardly at the fact they were still playing the "After you, Alfonse" game. Maybe, as John suggested, Steve was waiting for him to say something about it. Maybe he was waiting for Steve.
Shaking his head, he said, "Not really. How about you? I suppose you want to work on your new painting."
Steve looked a bit indecisive. "That's the problem with a nine-to-five job---there's just not enough time to do what has to be done. I really should work today, but..."
"Hey, I understand totally. I've got a pile of business paperwork I've been putting off that I really should get to. We probably both should do our own thing today."
"You don't mind, then?"
Elliott grinned. "Sure I mind. I hate to pass up an opportunity for another workout, but..."
Returning the grin, Steve said, "Well, you don't have to run right home after breakfast, do you?"
"Good point."
On a whim, instead of turning east onto Diversey after leaving Steve's, he turned west toward the I-94 and took it to Foster. He found the house easily enough, a cookie-cutter version of its neighbors and typical of the area. Turning into the alley behind it, he drove slowly past the garage, which like the house was nearly indistinguishable from its neighbors. He again wondered what Bill might have been doing in this particular area.
If he was checking out possible houses, he might well have been looking for places relatively close to a freeway or an el, and both were fairly close to this one.
Brad had said Bill's office told him Bill had mentioned an appointment the morning he disappeared. It could very well have been with a Realtor despite Brad's logic that anybody who knew the place was vacant could have gotten into the garage. Brad said the listing Realtor didn't have Bill's name on the showing list, but with a lock-box accessible to any Realtor...
Logic, he told himself, would suggest that whoever Bill had the appointment with was most likely the killer. Otherwise, how, when or where might Bill have run into him? The same thought had to have occurred to Brad at the time, and without doubt he had followed up on it only to find it went nowhere. And since Realtors do not normally go around killing prospective clients, Elliott told himself, there would have to have been a history between Bill and whoever he'd met. No history, no motive.
Bruce Stiles's wife was a Realtor. So were several thousand other Chicagoans. Aaron and his brother didn't get along, but that was hardly motive to kill Bill. Still, the more Elliott thought about it, the more confused and frustrated he became, until he finally forced his mind off the issue entirely and concentrated on driving home.
Though he arrived at work Monday more than a little concerned about encountering some sort of Aaron-inspired activity, he was relieved when there was none, and work progressed smoothly and without incident.
Monday night Cessy called.
"Would you mind giving me Steve's phone number?" she asked. "I sent him a thank-you note, but I just realized I never told him where I'd hung his painting. It's right over my dresser where I can see it every morning when I wake up. I just love it."
"Well, I'm sure he'll be happy to hear that," Elliott said. Then, despite some reservations about her attempting to practice her matchmaking skills, he gave her Steve's number.
"So, what did you two do this weekend?" she asked, causing him to smile and shake his head at her never missing the opportunity to pair them.
"Nothing special."
"Well," she replied in her best sisterly voice, "sometimes that's the best kind of weekend."
Though he didn't say anything, he tended to agree.
That he heard nothing from John Monday or Tuesday night he took as a good sign. When, on Wednesday at work, he got a call from Larry Fingerhood on his cell phone, he put him on hold until he could step outside.
"Yeah, Larry. What's up?"
"I've got a couple of places for you to look at, if you think you're ready."
"I'm ready."
"Get that noise problem solved?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"So, you want me to come back to complete the walk-through?"
"Let's hold off for a while. There are a couple other things I want to finish up first."
Larry's silence spoke louder than the words he finally got out. "Okay. Whenever you're ready."
Taking a notepad from his shirt pocket, and wishing he'd put on his coat, Elliott wrote down the information Larry gave him on his prospective next project---a six-unit on Wrightwood or a duplex on Fullerton.
"I know you don't normally do duplexes," Larry said, "but this one is really right up your alley. Eighteen-eighties building in the historic district east of Halsted. The Wrightwood is a row of townhouses---again, I know, not in your usual range. But it might be worth taking a look. I'll come up with others, but thought I'd give you these two to start.
"Both properties look like a pretty good deal. The Fullerton is a little pricey, but it's vacant now; the owner emptied it in anticipation of putting it up for sale, then the market tanked. He's been sitting there with an empty building for a couple months, and I think he's getting nervous."
"Thanks, Larry." He put the notepad back in his pocket, anxious to get back into the warmth of the building. "I'll drive by and take a look at them first chance I get."
As he reached for the doorknob, he felt a sudden charge of static electricity, and a spark jumped from his hand to the metal knob.
Don't start, Aaron! he said without moving his lips. He immediately and briefly sensed John's presence and then, as though a light had been switched off, nothing.
---He's really trying.
---That he is!
---I didn't mean it that way.
---I know. But I don't appreciate having to freeze my ass off by going outside to take a phone call because I'm afraid some guy who's been dead for four years will overhear. That's closer to paranoia than I care to come.
---I understand. And Aaron was aware of Larry's call, yes. But I was able to calm him down before he did anything we both knew he'd regret.
---Yeah, I could tell you were there just as I came back inside.
---So, what now?
---Well, I'd assume that since you're not tripping over too many of my thoughts, you already know---I haven't got a clue.
---Are you going to call the Realtor?
---Gunderson and Polk? I was thinking about it, but now I really don't know what good it would do. Brad checked with them at the time, and the passage of four years isn't likely to have sharpened anyone's memory.
---Odd, but I get the feeling you know something you aren't aware of ... something in the back of your mind I can't make out.
---Well, that was cryptic. What do you mean?
---Hard to explain, but I just feel it's there. Something Steve said, I think.
---Said when? About what? A little help, here!
---If I knew, I'd tell you.
Elliott felt himself sigh.
---Well, God knows I need something! I've really run into a brick wall with both Babcock and Irv Wilson. I haven't even the hint of a clue as to what more I can do with either one of them.
---So, who's left?
---Nobody, that I know of. I mean, I never knew either Bill or Aaron, so I have no idea what else might have been going on in their lives. There could be lots of people out there who had reason to kill Bill, but since I never met the guy, there's no way I could possibly find out.
---What about Button and Paul?
---I think if they knew something they'd have said so. I can ask again, but don't think it will do any good.
---Not easy.
---Tell me.
Thursday passed smoothly and uneventfully, and after work he detoured from his usual route home to take a look at the properties Larry had referred him to. The Wrightwood townhouses were closest, so he went by them first.
He generally avoided townhouses simply because they were, in effect, separate houses joined by common walls, and potential roof and basement problems were multiplied by the number of units. However, these, built probably in the early thirties by the look of them, had a nice feel and a few art deco elements that indicated extra thought and care had gone into their planning and construction.
Driving around through the alley, he noted that five of the units had identical garages, one of which was in bad shape. Adjacent to each garage was a small yard. Apparently, a sixth garage had been torn down and replaced with a concrete slab.
Emerging from the alley, he turned back on Wrightwood to pass in front of the units again to try to find a parking place so he could do a more leisurely walk-past. He noted that the outside side wall of the unit furthest west had a few pronounced cracks, which sent up a small red flag. Still, he was willing to take a look at it and made a mental note to tell Larry so.
Back in the car, he turned right on Halsted and took a left on Fullerton. The four-block stretch east of Halsted was lined with trees and classic turn-of-the-century and older homes. It was one of the few remaining parts of the north side that had retained its Victorian character.
He knew the stretch well, and had several favorites, and had hoped the one Larry mentioned might be one of them. He was delighted to see that it was. Though he was far too practical to make a snap judgment, he did feel a tingle of excitement and made a mental note to have Larry set up a showing on both properties as soon as he could.
He did not dwell on the fact that selling his current project was going to be next to impossible until and unless he could find out why and how Bill Somers had died, and he once again cursed himself for ever getting involved in Aaron's problems, much as he might empathize with them.
As his mind wandered back to his previous night's conversation with John, he tried to think of what John might have been referring to about his knowing something he didn't know he knew. John had said something very similar when Elliott was helping him find himself.
That night after dinner, talking on the phone with Steve, he mentioned having seen the prospective properties, and his continuing frustration with the Aaron situation.
"I know I keep saying this, but I honestly don't know why the hell I'm involved in all this."
"You're helping Aaron," Steve pointed out.
Though he'd had no intention of getting as deeply into the subject as he realized he already was, once he started it all just seemed to come rushing out.
"Which is another thing," he said, unable to stop. "How do I really help a guy who's been dead for four years? You know I'm trying and I know I'm trying, and Aaron pounds on walls. If he were to pull that while I'm trying to sell the building, nobody in their right mind would buy it."
"You think he'd do that?"
"After that little display during the walk-through with Larry, I have no confidence he wouldn't."
"Is there anything I can do?" Steve's voice reflected sincere concern.
"I really appreciate that, but there's nothing I can think of at the moment. And that's my whole problem---there's nothing I can think of that I can do at the moment, either, other than maybe go off on a wild-goose chase looking into Bruce."
There was a considerable pause before Steve said, "He's a shit, but it's hard to think of him as a murderer."
"It's hard to think of anybody as a murderer, but some people are. At least maybe Aaron will get it that I'm doing something. But in the meantime, how about you let me take you to dinner tomorrow by way of thanks---unless you've got other plans."
"No, no other plans. Dinner would be great."
"I'll pick you up around seven?"
"My turn to drive, especially if you're buying. Meet me out front?"
"Sure."
As he hung up, Elliott admitted that John was right---he really had to have a talk with Steve about where their relationship was going, if for no other reason than to jar loose the stuck needle of their constant "well, if you don't have any plans" routine.
But, as happened every time he thought about the prospect of laying the cards on the table, he had second thoughts. Things were going along very well. Why rock the boat? If Steve wanted to bring it up, he could.
---Well, that was an interesting conversation.
---You were there? I didn't sense you.
---Sometimes you don't when you're preoccupied. But I'm really glad you're opening up to Steve. A good sign for the two of you.
---One Cessy in my life is quite enough, thanks. So, what do you think about the possibility of Aaron's brother being involved in Bill's death?
---I agree it's a real stretch but, I suppose, just as good a possibility as either Babcock or Wilson. I'm sure that idea has never occurred to Aaron, or I'd have known it.
---If only I knew more about Aaron and Bill when they were alive.
---Well, you just have to work with what you've got.
---Great. First you're Cessy and now you're a fortune cookie.
He felt John's laughter.
---You're in a pretty good mood, all things considered. I won't go so far as to presume it may have something to do with talking to Steve.
---Well, it is nice to have someone still in his body to talk to.
---I understand. So, what's next?
---As I told Steve, I haven't a clue. Could you try to see what you can find out from Aaron about his brother? Oh! And see if he knows whether Bruce knew anything at all about the wills. Did he even know if Aaron had one? And did Aaron tell him about the lawyer's appointment?
I don't suppose Aaron knew whether Bill might have mentioned it to Babcock. If he did, Babcock might have figured out what its purpose was, and that would have given him a strong motive for killing Bill before he had a chance to change his will. Damn! A lot hangs on who knew what about the wills, and when they knew it. And nobody's around to tell us.
---I'll see what I can do. And don't worry about it too much. Things have a way of working out.
Friday on his lunch break he called Larry and left a message to set up appointments to view the two properties. While there were no further manifestations from Aaron, Elliott had, for what he realized as the very first time, a clear sense of Aaron's presence. He couldn't put his finger on exactly how Aaron's differed from John's, but he could feel a distinct identity.
He wasn't sure he wanted to be aware of Aaron. Still, he took it as a sign Aaron was on his very best behavior and wanted to be sure Elliott knew it.
He was on his way home when Larry called to say he'd tentatively set up an appointment to see the Wrightwood townhouses Saturday at three, and the Fullerton property on Sunday at two.
"I hope this isn't too short notice," he said, "but I figured you would like to see them as soon as possible. I told each of the owners I'd call back by seven tonight to let them know for sure."
"That'll be fine," Elliott said. "I'll meet you there."
Yet another pleasant evening with Steve, during which nothing, as if by mutual unspoken agreement, was said about Aaron, the building or Bill's death until they'd returned to his place for the night.
As they sat on the couch, listening to music and having a nightcap, Steve reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper wrapped around a business card. Unfolding it, he handed both to Elliott.
"The card you wanted," he said. "And a listings sheet."
As Elliott set down his glass to take them, Steve indicated the sheet and said, "That's a new twist. Bruce apparently put them on the counter in the breakroom first thing this morning, but I saw they were gone after lunch. I suspect the boss doesn't appreciate Bruce's turning the breakroom into a branch of his wife's real estate office."
Elliott glanced over them, noting that the sheet had only four listings. Re-folding it, he put it and the card in his shirt pocket.
"Thanks."
"Any idea what you might do with them?"
Pursing his lips, Elliott said, "Not sure yet. I think I may consider putting my condo up for sale---if I can find the right Realtor."
Steve grinned, shook his head and took another sip of his drink.
Elliott arrived at the Wrightwood townhouses a little early to give himself time to get a better look at---and feel for---the place and the immediate neighborhood. He already knew, from frequently passing through, that it was a nice area, but he drove around two of the adjacent blocks to double-check his impressions.
The row of townhouses, as he had noted earlier, had a comfortable, solid look. They sat back about fifteen feet from the street, which allowed for a very small square of lawn in front of each unit. An identical short flight of steps led up to the first floor of each unit. Raised basements were common throughout the city, since they required less digging than a fully sunken basement and allowed for larger windows on the ground level.
The problem he had with row houses was that they were customarily sold as individual units, which he preferred not to do because it involved six times the hassle, and finding a buyer for all six would not be as easy as selling a single multi-unit building. It was something to consider.
Finding a parking place, he walked back to the townhouses and met Larry, approaching from the other direction.
They had seen only three of the units before Elliott decided to pass on the property. It was pleasant enough and in relatively good shape, but nothing stood out sharply enough to spark that small charge of excitement he always got when he found a property he really liked. And even though the asking price was within reason, he felt he had the luxury of weighing his inner responses before deciding to buy.
Larry, who had worked with him often enough not to question his reasoning, merely went along and said, "Well, I'll see you on Fullerton tomorrow at two, then."
They shook hands and went their separate ways.
Though Steve had said nothing, Elliott knew his birthday was the following Wednesday, and had been debating what to get for him. It was one of those times when being wealthy could backfire. While he could afford anything he wanted to buy, he felt he had to be very careful not to step across the invisible line that divided acceptable and extravagant. He avoided flaunting his wealth in front of others and especially did not want to do so with Steve.
It wasn't unlike Cessy's situation with Brad. He knew Steve's pride, like Brad's, made caution a necessity. He therefore couldn't get anything Steve couldn't afford to get for him in a reverse situation. And even as that thought entered his mind, he was both bemused and a bit troubled by the fact he was equating Cessy's and Brad's relationship with his and Steve's.
He settled on a membership to the Art Institute, which he knew Steve would enjoy, and a small bottle of a very subtle cologne he knew Steve liked and to which he responded as though it were distilled pheromones. The membership he could buy online and have held at the will-call office, and the cologne was available at the same store where he'd bought Cessy's birthday perfume.
After leaving Larry, he drove out to Lincolnwood for the cologne and a card, which latter proved to be more of a challenge than he had anticipated. He felt he had to find a sentiment somewhere between "Happy Birthday to a Friend" casual and "Happy Birthday to My Beloved" intimate. He finally opted for a contemporary card with a bare-chested hunk on the front and "It takes one to know one: Happy Birthday" on the inside.
The major drawback to the Fullerton property, he decided as he walked the two and a half blocks from the closest place he could find, was the parking. Luckily, the building had two small one-car garages, probably built in the 1930s, on the alley directly behind it. Still, with the relative proximity of Children's Hospital and DePaul University, he put parking down in his mental negative column.
Larry was waiting for him on the sidewalk in front of the building. From the outside, it was a Victorian gem: red brick with ornate concrete accents and trim that gave the stateliness of the structure an element of whimsey, which Elliott loved. He glanced at the fact sheet Larry handed him, noting that a single-family home a few blocks west on Fullerton, built in 1890, was on the market for $1,227,000.
The building he was now considering had been built in 1882 as a duplex, which was unusual for the time and area. The fact that it was a duplex was not apparent from the street, since both three-bedroom, one-bath units shared a common, leaded-glass-door front entry.
"I've already opened it up," Larry said as they passed through the wrought iron gate surrounding the small front yard.
As always, Elliott made quick mental notes of possible improvements, starting with some relatively simple landscaping and lighting. The small paneled entry had a door to the left and a relatively wide, six-step staircase to a landing, where the stairs turned to disappear behind a wall to continue to the second floor.
Opening the door to the ground-floor unit, Larry stepped back to let Elliott pass. He entered a short hallway, the end of which gave on to that staple of Victorian homes, the parlor. The room was relatively small, as Victorian parlors tended to be, the twelve-foot ceilings and large fireplace with a slightly raised hearth making it appear even smaller. The floors had been carpeted but the carpeting had been ripped out, leaving hundreds of small nail and tack holes. The walls had not been painted in some time, and lighter-colored squares and rectangles showed where pictures had hung. Checking the fireplace, he noticed evidence of ash and, bending over to work the flue, felt a slight updraft indicating that it was working.
Back in the hallway, a door on the right led to the sitting room, only slightly larger than the parlor, and wainscoted, though several layers of paint prevented him from identifying the wood. All the wood trim, including the crown molding, also bore several coats of paint.
Directly across from the sitting room was the dining room, slightly larger than either of the other two rooms. A built-in credenza with beveled-glass doors covered most of the outside wall and was built around the leaded-glass window that looked out onto the building next door.
A wave of disappointment came over him as they entered the kitchen, which had been redone, judging from the fixtures and cabinets, in the 1950s or 1960s. There was a large pantry, as was customary in houses of its time, but whatever other original character it might have had was completely gone.
The single bathroom, also clearly redone in the 1950s, was across the hall from the kitchen, and neither of the two bedrooms, located side-by-side at the rear of the unit, had a closet.
The more he saw of the place, the more torn he was. On the one hand, it was nothing near what he had envisioned from the outside. On the other hand, he knew it could be. Complete restoration would be impractical simply because of the societal and cultural changes in housing needs since the building was built. Still, he knew much of the original feel could be restored, although whether the expense would justify it, he couldn't say until he'd seen the upper unit and done a lot of calculating.
The upstairs was largely a duplicate of the downstairs unit, with the same intrinsic problems. Looking down from one of the bedrooms, he saw that the garages would definitely need to be replaced, but the small back yard had possibilities.
His mind was, as it had been since they entered the building, in what he called his "bottom line" mode, noting problems, possible solutions, roughly calculating cost in time and money, envisioning every aspect of the building in terms of how it was now and how it could be.
Sensing his dilemma, Larry said, "The owners have had the property since nineteen-fifty-two, but haven't lived here since the late sixties. They moved to St. Louis but kept it as investment and rental property. Being so far away, they couldn't keep that close track of it. Or maybe they just didn't have the interest. I know it needs a lot of work, but it's structurally sound and, knowing how good you are with buildings like this, I figured you would want to see it."
"You're right," Elliott replied. "Overall, I like it, but I'm going to have to do a lot of thinking. In the meantime, if anything else comes up, let me know."
They left together, Larry first taking the time to lock everything up.
"Well, you've got a couple of things going for you," he said as he locked the front door. "I get the impression the owner really wants to sell, but in today's market, it isn't going to be easy. A large cash down payment certainly wouldn't hurt in influencing the response to an offer."
Extending his hand, Elliott said, "Yeah, I'll definitely give it some thought and call you in a day or so."
As he returned to his car, he realized with no small degree of gratitude that he had not given a single thought to Aaron all day. It was a good feeling. But, of course, once Aaron entered his mind, there he remained; and on the drive home, his thoughts ping-ponged from the Fullerton property to what he was to do next about Aaron and Bill.
---It ain't easy.
---May I quote you on that? I'm really stymied. I can't think of a single thing more I can try to find out about either Jim Babcock or Irv Wilson, and they are the only two names I had. It's frustrating as all hell.
---Are you going to call Aaron's sister-in-law?
---I suppose so. But that's really grasping at straws. I can't imagine what she could possibly tell me, and the only reason I'm considering it is to prove to Aaron I'm doing everything I can. He's got me over a barrel, and he knows it.
---But Aaron's brother and sister-in-law had a lot to gain by Bill's death.
---You said you didn't think it had occurred to Aaron that they might be involved?
---No, but that's not surprising. Bruce may have been an ungrateful leech, but he was still Aaron's brother.
---I suppose if they knew Aaron didn't have a will and was going to make one leaving everything to Bill ... And, for God's sake, I don't even know that for sure. No one can know, now, with Bill and Aaron dead four years. I hate this trying-to-play-detective crap.
---I understand. But if you want to sell that building, you're going to have to. We both know Aaron won't leave until he knows for sure exactly what happened to Bill. So, maybe you should follow up on the idea of talking to the sister-in-law.
---Yeah. And maybe the mailman and the paperboy and...
---If you have to. But first things first.
Monday morning, during a break for coffee, he took out Marylinn Hightower's business card and his cell phone and called the number on it. He didn't know if it was a private number for her, or a general office number. It proved to be the latter. Asking to speak with Marylinn Hightower, he was informed she was not in the office, and asked if he cared to speak to another agent. When he said no, he was asked for his number and told Ms. Hightower would be happy to return his call as soon as possible.
About eleven-thirty, his phone rang.
"Mr. Smith, this is Marylinn Higthtower of Brighton Realtor returning your call. How may I help you?" Her voice personified the word perky. Elliott wasn't big on perky.
"Yes, Miss Hightower." The "Miss" was deliberate, since she obviously had no idea who he was and he wanted to keep it that way as long as possible. "I'm thinking of listing my condo, and a friend gave me your card."
"Wonderful!" she said. "I'd be delighted to help you. Can you tell me a bit about it?"
"Of course. It's a three-bedroom, two-bath south-and-west-facing unit on the thirty-fifth floor at sixty-seven-hundred North Sheridan."
"The Malibu. I'm familiar with it. I'm sure we can get you top dollar for it. Would you like to set up an appointment for me to view it?" Her voice conveyed efficiency but little warmth.
"That would be fine. Would tomorrow evening be convenient?"
"That will be fine. Seven-thirty?"
"Seven-thirty will be fine.'
They exchanged goodbyes and hung up. Elliott finished his sandwich and coffee then returned to work.
Exactly what he expected from the meeting, he had no idea, but decided that doing anything was better than doing nothing. He just hoped John would be able to convince that he was trying. He took the fact work went uninterrupted as a positive sign.
He had all but given up trying to figure out what more he might be able to do to either implicate or exonerate Jim Babcock or Irv Wilson. Had Bill been planning to use the same lawyer as had drawn up his original will and the papers of incorporation for the business, Babcock might somehow have found out about the scheduled meeting and surmised its purpose. But Paul had said Bill had purposely wanted another lawyer just to avoid that very thing. He made up his mind to call Paul and get the name of the lawyer.
That evening, after talking with Cessy and before calling Steve to invite him out to dinner Wednesday to celebrate his birthday, he looked up Paul's number and called, not sure he would be home.
He recognized Paul's voice at "Hello?"
"Hi, Paul. Elliott Smith. Sorry to bother you, but I had a question."
"Sure, Elliott. What do you need?"
"Remember you told me you had referred Bill Somers to your lawyer. Do you by any chance have his name and number hand?"
"Name, yes---Clarence Cunningham. He's on Belmont near Ashland. I don't have his number---I'm on my cell and am just on my way to my parents'."
"Ah, then I won't keep you. Thanks for your help."
"You're welcome. And stop by the Anvil some night to say hello."
"Will do. Thanks again."
Going to the hall closet where he kept the Yellow Pages, he took it into the den. Checking under "Attorneys" only to find there were no such listings, he had to search through the pages to find "Lawyers," mentally cursing whoever created the Yellow Pages for making it as difficult as possible to find anything. He finally did locate what he was looking for and wrote down the number.
He had not, when talking with Steve about Wednesday dinner, mentioned his Tuesday appointment with Aaron's sister-in-law, partly because he still had no idea what he hoped to accomplish by it, and partly because of his reluctance to get Steve any more involved than he absolutely had to be.
Tearing his mind away from Aaron, he fixed dinner then spent the rest of the evening at his desk in the den going over all the information he had on the Fullerton duplex, jotting down notes from his recollection of what needed to be done and for a few extra touches he would want to make, simultaneously doing rough time and material cost estimates. By the time he called it a night, he'd decided to have Larry make an appointment for him to bring his crew over for a walk-through to get their input. Given the state of the housing market, he knew it might be a gamble, but his instincts told him it might also be worth it.
While he did not hear from John during the night, he did have one of his favorite dreams of flying---of running to the edge of a cliff and leaping off to soar over a vast green forest, and he remembered wondering at the time if that was what existence was like for John.
Leaving a check and a note of instructions for Ida, his cleaning woman, he went to work, remembering to be sure he had the phone number for Bill's attorney with him.
On the drive, he wondered exactly how he was going to handle the call to the lawyer. What, exactly, did he think the man might be able to tell him? What could he say, and how could he say it? What reason could he give for his interest? Surely client-lawyer confidentiality would enter into it somewhere along the line.
He could pretend he was seeking an attorney, just as he'd told Bruce's wife he was thinking of listing his condo, but he preferred not to lie if it could be avoided. He decided to hold off on the call until he could think it out more carefully.
Once again he wondered what the hell he thought he was doing getting involved in the problems of a man---okay, he amended, two men---dead for four years. Helping John find his identity had been totally voluntary, but it had opened a door he sensed he could now never fully close.
He could empathize with Aaron's need to know what had happened to Bill, yet he couldn't avoid the feeling that he was, in effect, being blackmailed. He had no doubt that, if he didn't find out what had happened to Bill, Aaron could and would make it impossible for him to sell the building. His entire investment in time and money could be lost. That he could afford the financial loss if he had to wasn't the point. That it should even be an option was.
He called Larry as he got out of the car.
At precisely seven-thirty, the doorman called to announce the arrival of Marylinn Hightower, and Elliott told him to send her up. As he opened the door in response to her knock, her perfume entered the room before she did. If she recognized him, she did not let on. It wasn't until he stepped back, opening the door wide to let her enter, and said pleasantly, "Please come in, Mrs. Stiles," that a flash of recognition passed over her face.
She smiled, though her eyes did not, and extended her hand, shifting her expensive leather portfolio to her left hand.
"Of course. You were at my husband's office party with your ... friend. Steve, wasn't it?"
He smiled and nodded, amused by the slight catch in her voice when she said friend.
He showed her into the living room, noting she took in everything as they went. She moved immediately to the sliding glass doors to the patio overlooking the city and the Loop. It was a clear evening, and the carpet of lights leading to the bejeweled towers of the Loop presented a spectacular tableau he knew could not fail to impress her.
"Lovely," she said. "May I?" She indicated the patio doors.
"Of course."
She slid one of the doors open and stepped outside, going to stand at the balcony railing. He did not follow but studied, trying to figure her out.
He had already assumed, from Mrs. Reinerio's report on the stripping of Aaron's apartment and having met Bruce Stiles, that Marylinn Hightower's charm-school demeanor might well mask a swastika'd heart. But bigotry, he knew, usually took a back seat to greed, so he was fairly certain her desire for a prime listing and the commission it would bring would trump her discomfort at being in the presence of an unabashed homosexual.
Stepping back into the living room, she slid the door closed. When she turned to him, she was smiling---he suspected her pleasure was not derived from his company but from the dollar signs he could see in her eyes.
"Would you like to see the rest of the unit?" he asked.
"Yes, please." She opened her portfolio to extract a notepad and pen.
Leading the way, he gave her a tour, pausing several times to give her a chance to jot down notes. While he never thought of himself as the domestic type, he was glad the appointment coincided with Ida's cleaning day. Walking through the condo with a Realtor gave him a new perspective on the place and made him appreciate it even more than he normally did.
Opening the closet in the guest bedroom, she seemed a bit surprised to find it empty.
"You live alone?" she asked.
He suppressed a smile. "Yes. It's one of the reasons I'm thinking of selling. I really don't need all this space."
He could see her mentally readjusting her Realtor persona as she said, "Yes, of course. This would be perfect for a young family. And perhaps, when the time comes, I could help you find something a bit smaller."
"That's nice of you." He led her back to the living room. "As I explained when I called, I haven't decided for sure if I'll be selling, but I did wanted to get an idea of how much it might be worth."
"I understand," she replied. "I think you might be pleasantly surprised by how much you can get for it."
Actually, he had a very good idea of what his condo was worth, and was curious as to how close she would come to the figure he had in mind.
In the living room, he invited her to sit on the couch facing the view while he took the chair to her right.
Looking around the room, she said, "I see you don't smoke. That's a plus. Smoking is a nasty habit, and the smell gets into everything. I finally broke my husband of the habit, but it was a real battle."
He smiled. "I can imagine."
"What is it that you do for a living, Mr. Smith," she asked as she laid her portfolio on the seat beside her, hastily adding, "if you don't mind my asking."
"I'm a contractor," he said, "which is how I came upon your brother-in-law's building."
A quick look of discomfort crossed her face like a suppressed belch, but she merely nodded and said, "I see."
"How long have you been with Brighton?"
"I only started with them recently," she said proudly, "but I've been in the business for over ten years. I was with Prentice five years before I came to Brighton, and had my own office---Hightower Realty---for a while before that."
Paul had told him Aaron helped set her up in business, but he decided not to mention it.
"Interesting," he said instead. "I had a friend who speaks very highly of Gunderson and Polk out on Foster. Are you familiar with them? A friend recommended them, but they're quite a distance away."
She did not so much as blink. "There are so many Realtors in Chicago," she said with a studied smile and, he noticed, without answering his question.
He resisted the temptation to follow up on it, since he didn't want her to feel this was an interrogation. Instead, when he saw her looking over his shoulder at the painting of Steve's brother above the buffet in the dining area, he said, "It is nice, isn't it?"
Breaking off her stare, she replied, "Very. Your friend Steve did it, I assume?"
"Yes. He specializes in landscapes and still life," Elliott said. "Your husband is a painter, too, I understand."
She brightened a bit and said, "Yes, mostly portraits. He's done some wonderful paintings of our family."
"That would include his brother Aaron, I assume?"
Her discomfort was evident, as though he'd dipped his hand into a bucket of eels and handed her one. But though it cracked slightly, her shield remained up.
"Our immediate family," she amended. "My husband and his brother were not that close."
"Ah," Elliott said. "I'm sorry to hear that. From what I've heard, Aaron was a very nice and generous man."
The crack in her shield widened briefly, allowing him a glimpse of the glacier beneath the artificially sunny surface.
"I'm afraid you've heard wrong," she said, her tone reminding him of his third-grade teacher admonishing a gum-chewer. "His brother was a selfish, demanding..." She stopped and took a deep breath before continuing. Apparently anticipating his response, she said, "The fact that he was homosexual had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. I'm sure you know just being a homosexual does not make one a saint. Aaron did nothing but thwart my husband at every turn, and, frankly, though I am ashamed as a good Christian woman to say it, I cannot be sorry he is dead."
"Again, I'm sorry to hear that," Elliott said. "From what I'd heard of him, I never would have gotten that impression. It's hard to imagine someone so selfish and demanding dying of a broken heart."
She looked at him sharply. "A broken heart?" she asked incredulously, and with no little contempt in her voice.
Ignoring it, Elliott said, "A woman who lived in the building and knew him quite well is convinced that's what killed him. I'm sure you knew that his partner, Bill Somers, disappeared two weeks before Aaron died, and was himself found dead a month later. Had you ever met Bill?"
He could tell she was increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation and that only her reluctance to lose a prospective commission kept her from bolting.
"We never met him. Aaron tried to force a meeting a few times, all but demanding we come to dinner, but we declined. My husband is a man of strong principles."
He chose not to speculate on the implications of that non sequitur.
"I didn't mean to pry," Elliott said, rather surprised she had given him as much information as she had. "I'm just trying to learn more about Bill, and Aaron, and what might have happened. Bill's death was ruled a suicide, but I suspect it was murder."
She reacted as though she'd been slapped. "Surely, you're not implying..."
"No, no, no," he assured her. "Of course not. I just thought you might be able to give me some insight into Bill and Aaron that might help me understand what might have led to Bill's death."
She abruptly closed her notebook and replaced it in the portfolio, which she zipped closed. Picking it up, she stood without looking at him, studiously smoothing her dress as though she were brushing away cat hairs.
"Well," she said, attempting a Realtor-warm smile and failing, "I've taken up enough of your time. Let me get some figures worked up and I'll call you. I'm sure we can get you top dollar. And I can arrange a showing of some available smaller properties, if you're interested."
Getting up to walk her to the door, he said, "Thank you. I appreciate it, and I'll look forward to hearing from you."
They shook hands at the door, and she left.
---Interesting meeting.
---Oh, yeah. And it got me exactly nowhere. I'd make one piss-poor cop, I can tell you that.
---But what does your gut tell you?
---Everything comes back to who, if anybody other than Bill and Aaron, knew about the wills. If nobody did, Jim Babcock strikes me as maybe the prime suspect. Brad told me he didn't even know about Aaron until shortly before Bill disappeared. He told Brad they'd had a minor disagreement on the day before he vanished. I wonder if it might have had anything to do with the will or Bill's intention to dissolve the partnership.
Either way, if he knew Bill was going to change his will and leave his share of the business to Aaron---and I still don't know for sure that's what he was going to do, though it's logical---then he would have good reason to kill him before the will was changed.
---I suppose, but...
---I know, we're in how-many-angels-can-dance-on-the-head-of-a-pin territory here, but, hey, if I can't grab at straws, I'm screwed.
---And the lovely Miss Hightower and her husband?
---I wouldn't put anything past them, either. But why kill Bill? If they were going to kill somebody to get Aaron's money, why not just kill him?
---I can think of a couple of reasons. Killing Aaron would probably put them under a police microscope. Bruce had to have known about Aaron's heart condition, and that he could go any time. All they had to do was wait for the inevitable, which would be, and was, hastened by his losing Bill.
---But greedy people don't usually like to wait. And if they were going to kill someone, better Bill than Aaron. Especially if they thought Aaron might be intending to leave everything to Bill.
---I suppose that's true. Killing Bill instead of Aaron would put a bit of space between them and the murder. But why would they put Bill somewhere he wouldn't be easily found? You'd think that, if they killed him, they'd want the body to be found as soon as possible, hoping the shock would cause Aaron to have a heart attack. So, why put Bill in that particular garage?
Elliott awoke with a start. There was something Brad had said early on, about the house behind which Bill had been found. He rummaged through his brain to find it, and finally did---the house had been in the final days of escrow at the time Bill died, but the escrow had fallen through at the last minute.
Timing was the key, and after four years, it wouldn't be easy to trace. If Bill did, indeed, die just before the scheduled close of escrow, the new owners would have moved in and discovered his body the minute they went into the garage. And learning of Bill's death almost certainly could have triggered a fatal heart attack in Aaron. Bill would be dead, Aaron would be dead, and Bruce would inherit Aaron's money as sole surviving relative.
Taking that line of thought one step farther, if Aaron and Bill had changed their wills and Bill died first, Aaron would undoubtedly have gotten the bulk of Bill's estate, which in turn would have passed on to Bruce when Aaron died. Bruce needn't even have specifically known whether Aaron was Bill's heir or not---it was a fairly reasonable assumption.
A glance at the clock showed it was 4:50 a.m.---far too early to call Brad. He wanted to get back to sleep to pick up his conversation with John, but his mind was far too active for sleep. Finally, at 5:40, he got up, made coffee and sat in his living room watching the sun rise over the lake.
That Bruce and/or his wife had killed Bill and hastened Aaron's death was, the more he thought of it, almost patently obvious. He couldn't understand how hadn't realized it the minute he heard Marylinn was in real estate. He thought of Poe's classic tale, "The Purloined Letter," and the fact that people tend to ignore what's right in front of their noses precisely because it's too obvious.
And he knew what was obvious now would not have been so four years ago when the links were not so clear. Brad and the police, at the time, and especially with Aaron also dead, had no way of recognizing them.
He carefully went over what he knew in the same detailed manner as he reviewed bids and estimates on a property, seeing how the facts interrelated with one another and how they fit into the overall picture.
If Aaron and Bill were considering buying a house, as Mrs. Reinerio and Paul had indicated, one major question was why Bill, who undoubtedly knew about the animosity Bruce and his wife had toward Aaron, would ever have selected Marylinn to show him a property?
Then, he thought about Aaron's having helped set Marylinn up in business---a real estate office, he was certain. He reflected on Aaron's incomprehensible generosity toward people who treated him with contempt. With that in mind, he might have made one more attempt to gain his brother's approval. One that may well have led to Bill's death.
All Marylinn needed to know was that the house was empty and the garage open. She could easily have found out the property was in escrow, and when it was scheduled to close. What she couldn't know was that the escrow would fall through and the house would remain empty, and Bill's body would not be immediately discovered. Once that happened, to call someone's attention to the body in the garage would have been too risky.
The realization that all of this---every bit of it---was pure speculation, all circumstantial at best, washed over him once more. Yet, he remembered Henry David Thoreau's classic line: "Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you find a trout in the milk."
Returning his empty cup to the kitchen, he went down the hall to shower and get ready for work. As he stood under the stream, he pondered whether to call Brad before work. Brad had ready access to information he knew he'd have a hard time getting---records on showings of the house on North Lovejoy, other houses in the area for sale at the time, and the Realtors who listed them. He was particularly curious as to whether there might have been any listings with Hightower Realty at that time.
He also wanted to ask if Brad might remember noting any other houses in the area being for sale at the time Bill's body was discovered. However, it would be a stretch if he did four years after the fact, and he would surely want to know why Elliott wanted to know.
He had no illusions about his total lack of talent as a detective, or his lack of desire to become one. He just wanted to find out who killed Bill Somers, send Aaron off to wherever it was he was supposed to go, sell the property and get on with his life.
He couldn't tell during work on Wednesday if he was subconsciously mulling the events of the night before and his conviction the Stiles's were responsible not only for Bill's death, but Aaron's as well. He was aware of a subtle but definite something he could not pin down. It was like the indefinable feeling people sometimes get when there a summer storm is brewing. But summer was gone, and the day was sunny.
No one else seemed aware of it. He remained alert, anticipating and dreading some sort of demonstration from Aaron, but there was nothing. Still, the feeling persisted until quitting time and he left for home. He realized he'd never gotten around to calling the lawyer.
He had arranged for Steve to meet him in front of the building that evening, and from there they headed directly for the restaurant. Finding a place in the parking lot, Elliott turned off the engine and reached under the seat for Steve's card and present.
"You didn't have to get me anything!" Steve protested, though he was obviously pleased. Grinning as he read the card, he reached over to vigorously rub Elliott's thigh, ending with two quick pats. "Thank you!"
He then turned his attention to the package, being careful not to tear the paper.
"'Scent'!" he said when he read the name on the box. "Terrific! I was down to my last few drops and was planning to take out a loan to buy some more. Thank you!"
Elliott returned his grin. "Not total altruism," he said. "You know when you wear it I get like a cat in a field of catnip."
"Well, in that case I'd put some on now, but we'd better eat dinner first."
"Probably a good idea," he said. "Oh, and next time you're near the Art Institute, stop at the will-call---there's a membership card for you there."
"You're kidding! That's fantastic! How can I thank you?"
"You don't have a clue?"
"Oh. Yeah. Silly me. You wanna go into the back seat?"
Elliott laughed. "After dinner, maybe."
He opened the car door while Steve put the cologne back in its box and slid it and the card under the seat for safekeeping. He waited at the front of the car for Steve to join him.
As they sat at the bar having a drink while waiting for their table, Steve said, "Well, I thank you for all this. I really do. It's just what I needed after the last couple of days."
Setting his drink on the bar, Elliott turned toward him. "Problems at work?"
Steve sipped his drink, waited until he'd swallowed, then shook his head. "No. I've just been having a hell of a time sleeping."
Instantly alert, Elliott tried to remain casual. "Oh? How come?" He was afraid he knew full well "how come."
"More crazy dreams. No sense to them at all. No continuity. Just feelings of frustration and confusion and a bunch of disconnected thoughts flying in all directions. It's like being tossed into a mental cement mixer. It's really hard to explain, but they just don't seem like they're my dreams. I suspect Aaron's involved."
Elliott sighed. "I wouldn't be surprised," he said. "He probably still thinks I'm going to walk away, and that he'll never know exactly why Bill died."
"And you've never had any dreams about him? He's never tried to connect with you other than through the banging?"
"No." Elliott felt once again to be between a rock and a hard place when it came to not telling Steve about John. "But he's obviously trying to get through to you."
"What do you think he expects me to do?"
Elliott grinned. "You're doing it. He can't connect with me for some reason, other than the rapping, so he's letting you know he's upset."
Raising an eyebrow, Steve said, "I get the feeling upset is the understatement of the year. So, what are you supposed to do?"
"Find out who killed Bill. And I'm doing my best."
"Well, I asked this before, but is there anything at all I can do?"
"I really don't want to drag you into this, Steve---"
"Maybe you don't, but it seems Aaron does."
"Point. But I honestly don't know what you might do I haven't done already. I just wish someone at your work had known Bruce had a brother. I'd really like to know more about their relationship."
"You think Bruce had something to do with Aaron's death?"
"Indirectly, yes. But more directly, I think he killed Bill Somers."
Steve stared at him, so Elliott roughly outlined everything he'd managed to put together, again skirting any mention of John.
"So, finding out anything more about the Bruce-Aaron dynamics might give us..." He was instantly aware of the implications of the word. "...something else to go on. I know that wouldn't be easy, given the fact he isn't exactly your buddy."
Steve finished his drink and set the glass on the bar. "Two classic understatements in one conversation," he said with a smile, "but I'll be glad to see if I can pick up anything at all that might help."
The waitress came over to tell them their table was ready.
They didn't talk much during dinner, but as they sat with their coffee, Steve brought the subject up again.
"You know, Bruce has been working there a lot longer than I have, and a couple people have actually had conversations with him, I gather. Maybe I can check with them to see if I can find out anything more about him."
"That'd be great. I'd appreciate it."
Steve was looking at him with a small smile.
"What?" Elliott asked.
"Do you realize how crazy this is? Two relatively sane grown men conspiring to catch a maybe-murderer on the basis of a dead guy who knocks on walls and causes crazy dreams?"
Elliott returned the smile. "Hey, we've all got something."
---Leaps and bounds! I'm proud of you.
---I prefer one step at a time, thanks.
---Whatever. But it does seem to be getting easier for you. Who knows, one of these days you might even be brave enough to spring me on him.
---I'd pack a lunch on that one, if I were you. It's going to be a while.
---So, you're dead sure ... no pun intended ... that Bruce and his wife killed Bill and caused Aaron's death?
---Aren't you?
---I'm getting there. The sad thing is I don't think Aaron has a clue.
---He doesn't? How could he not?
---I don't think he can bring himself to think his own brother could do something like this.
---Jeesus!
---What?
---If Aaron gets to the point where he gets any closer to Steve's thoughts, he'll know for sure!
---Well, even if he does, there really isn't much he can do about it. That's one of the drawbacks of being ... well ... dead. Bruce is a shit, but he's still his brother. And I can't imagine him doing anything even if he could.
---You're sure about that? I'm not.
---You've seen too many horror movies.
---Then how does Aaron manage the rapping? It takes a solid hitting a solid to produce sound. And if he's got enough solid to make sound...
---Slow down, cowboy. Our world---Aaron's and mine---isn't the same as yours, remember. Not by a long shot. I'm not sure myself how he does the knocking, but I can assure you it's not by solid striking solid.
---Well, that's comforting. I think.
Thursday morning, just as he was putting his lunch into the small ice chest he used as a lunch box, his cell phone rang. Fishing it out of his shirt pocket, he flipped it open and saw Cessy's number.
"Hi, sis. What can I do for you?"
"I didn't know if you might be on your way to work yet, but I wanted to catch you."
"Just getting ready to leave. What's up?"
"I know it's short notice, but do you have plans for dinner? I'm defrosting a huge pan of lasagna Brad's mom left last time she was here, and it's big enough to feed an army. I know how you like her lasagna, so I thought you might want to join us. It's been ages since we've seen you."
"What do you mean, ages? It seems like only a couple of days ago I was over there celebrating the South's rejoining the Union."
"No, I'm sure it's been longer than that. So, will you come?"
"Sure. Six-thirty as usual? Tell Brad I'll stop and pick up some beer. I think I drank the last of his last time I was over."
"Hardly, but six-thirty will be fine. It'll be good to see you."
"Shall I wear a name tag so you'll recognize me?"
"Very funny. Go to work."
Well, he thought as he drove to work, that resolved the issue of when or whether to talk to Brad. He knew he was walking on thin ice, but he was willing to do just about anything to get Aaron out of his life.
Even as those thoughts were crossing his mind, however, he also felt a twinge of guilt for putting his own annoyance with Aaron and his desire to sell the property ahead of finding a murderer and giving a poor dead guy peace.
After another day with no disruptions from Aaron, he raced home for a quick shower and change of clothes. Stopping to pick up two six-packs of Honker's Ale---Brad's favorite---on the way, he arrived at the Priebes' at six-fifteen. Brad's car was already in the driveway, so Elliott pulled in behind it. Taking out his cell phone long enough to turn it off, he returned it to his pocket. If anyone wanted to reach him, they could leave voice mail.
Crossing the back porch, he could see Cessy and Jenny setting the table. Shifting both six-packs onto one arm to free his other hand to open the door, he went in without knocking.
"Uncle Elliott!" Jenny said, putting the silverware down and running over to him for a hug, which he managed with his free arm.
"Hi, there, Ladybug," he said, giving her a squeeze. He looked up at Cessy and gave her a smile and a wink. "How's it going?"
"Fine," she said as he released Jenny and moved to put the beer in the refrigerator. "Brad's in the living room, and he already has his beer."
Nodding, Elliott took a bottle out of one of the six-packs. Twisting off the cap, he tossed it in the wastebasket under the sink and joined Brad in the living room where he was watching CNN. Jenny started to follow, but Cessy called her back to finish her table-setting chores.
"Elliott," Brad said by way of greeting. He turned his head only far enough to glance at him then returned his attention to the TV.
"Brad," Elliott responded, taking a seat on the sofa. He waited until the current news item was over, then said, "So, how's work going?"
Brad took a swig of his beer. "Like always. About three feet over our heads. I honestly don't know what this city's coming to, and I try to just shut it all out and do my job. It ain't easy."
"I can imagine," Elliott said, then paused. He didn't want to just rush in with his own agenda.
"How's your project going along?" Brad asked.
"Fine. The building's just about ready to go on the market."
Brad nodded and took another swig of beer. "Good," he said. "But I meant your other project---the Somers thing."
Elliott grinned, relieved Brad had opened the door. "Funny you should ask," he began, but was interrupted by Jenny's running through the room to the base of the stairs. Leaning forward into the stairwell, she yelled,"BJ, Mom says dinner's ready!" She then turned to Elliott and her father. "Mom says dinner's ready," she repeated sweetly, then went back into the kitchen.
As he and Brad got up, BJ came bounding down the stairs.
"Hi, Uncle Elliott," he said, and without looking directly at either of them as he hurried into the kitchen.
"We can talk more after dinner," Brad said as he gestured Elliott to precede him through the door.
After dinner, when the kids had gone to do their homework and while Cessy was putting the baby to bed, Brad and Elliott returned to the living room.
"So, you were saying...?" Brad said.
Elliott took a deep breath.
"You know Aaron Stiles had a brother?" he asked.
"Yes. A woman in their building mentioned him, and we checked him out just to see if he knew anything about Somers. He said they'd never met. Apparently, he didn't approve of his brother's lifestyle and had as little to do with him as possible. Why?"
"Well, I think he and his wife were responsible for Bill Somers's death."
"Their motive being...?"
"Bruce Stiles is a homophobe who loathed his brother despite everything Aaron did for him. In fact, the more Aaron did for him, the more Bruce hated him---a classic example of 'no good deed goes unpunished,' I suppose."
"Which makes him an ungrateful shit, not a murderer. And if he was going to kill somebody, why not just kill Aaron?"
"Because they probably thought he was planning to leave all his money to Bill, which in fact I'm pretty sure he was---he and Bill had an appointment with a lawyer but never kept it because Bill disappeared.
"Killing Bill would mean they'd be almost guaranteed to get everything as Aaron's sole surviving relatives. And if Aaron and Bill had named each other as beneficiary, killing Bill while Aaron was still alive would mean they'd get Bill's money, too."
"Didn't Somers already have a will?"
"Yeah, he left his share of his business to his partner, Jim Babcock, and the rest of his money to various charities. But Bruce Stiles had no way of knowing that."
"Wouldn't Babcock have just as good a motive as the brother and sister-in-law?"
"Possibly, but theirs is stronger, and things point more directly to them."
"So, you have a scenario?"
"As a matter of fact, I do."
"Let's hear it."
Elliott shook his head and grinned. "Now you're making me feel like Sherlock Holmes assembling all the suspects in the drawing room."
"Assemble away. I'm listening."
Taking a deep breath, Elliott continued.
"Okay. Among his other kindnesses, Aaron set his sister-in-law up in a real estate business. Probably, good guy that he was, when he and Bill started thinking of buying a house, Aaron insisted they throw the business her way, which put her in a perfect position to set up a fake suicide. She could easily have known about the house on North Lovejoy, and that it was due to close very shortly, which would mean Bill's body would be found fairly soon. She had no way of knowing the escrow would fall through at the last minute."
"So why, when it did, didn't she or her husband just give an anonymous phone tip to the police?"
"A couple reasons, I'd imagine. First, they wouldn't want to risk anyone's suspecting the death was anything but suicide. Secondly, while I'm sure they were unhappy when the escrow on the house fell through, they didn't know Bill's body wouldn't be found before Aaron himself died.
"And the longer it took to find the body, the greater the chance that nature and time would take care of any possible incriminating evidence. They probably hoped---rightly, as it turned out---that either the shock of Bill's body being found or the strain of not knowing what had happened to him would cause Aaron's heart to give out. In fact, a friend of both Bill and Aaron told me that just before Aaron died, he'd called Bruce for some sort of emotional support, and Bruce all but told him to drop dead. Which he did."
After he finished, there was a long silence, broken only by the distant sound of rap music coming from the second floor.
Brad sat looking at him. Finally, he pursed his lips and raised one eyebrow, then said, "Interesting theory. Only one problem that I can see---proving it. Theories don't stand up well in court without hard evidence. What do you have in that department?"
Elliott shrugged. "Nothing," he said. "But that doesn't mean there isn't any, somewhere. I guess I was hoping there might be something in what I just told you that you could look into it in light of what you know now but didn't know at the time."
Brad studied without saying anything for what seemed to Elliott like an eternity. Finally, he said simply, "It's been four years."
"But the case is still open."
"Yes, the case is still open. But the fact of the matter is I can't see anything in what you've said that's really solid enough to warrant reopening the case. It's good speculation, but unless we have something solid to go on, that's all it is---speculation.
"Believe me, we did everything we could think of at the time, and even if we'd known these things you've learned that we didn't know, I don't see that the result would have been much different. Even if the department wasn't having a hard enough time just keeping up with current cases, we couldn't warrant reopening a four-year-old case without solid evidence."
Elliott sighed. "I see your point," he said. "But the idea of the Stileses getting away with murder bugs the hell out of me."
"No argument on that point, and I really do wish I could help you. But unless we have something more solid..."
"I understand. But I know there has to be something concrete out there, and I'm going to keep looking." He didn't mention that if he ever wanted to rid of Aaron he had to.
Cessy came downstairs to sit on the arm of Brad's chair and put an arm around his shoulder.
"Sorry it took so long," she said. "Sandy wouldn't stop demanding attention. She's her father's daughter," she added with a smile.
Brad turned his head to look up at her. "Thanks. I think."
Turning her attention to her brother, she said, "So, how is Steve? The kids pretty much dominated conversation at dinner, and I didn't have a chance to ask."
"He's fine, thanks. We had dinner last night." He didn't want to mention it had been Steve's birthday because she would feel bad for not getting him something.
"That's nice," she said. "He's perfect for you, and you'd better not let him get away."
Elliott grinned. "I don't think he's going anywhere." And kept himself from adding, I hope.
He changed the subject as quickly as he could, and when the grandmother clock on the bookcase struck nine, he said, "I'd better get going. Work tomorrow. A great dinner as always, and tell Mrs. Priebe hello and thanks next time you talk to her."
He got up from the sofa, and Cessy insisted on walking him to the door.
Realizing Friday morning that he had not yet called the lawyer, he took a minute during a morning break to fish the number out of his billfold. As he checked the information, he experienced a sensation similar to the slight jolt el cars make as they come to a full stop. This was accompanied by the strong awareness of a presence he knew was not John.
He felt the hair stand up on his arms. He hastily put the number back in his billfold, gulped down his coffee and went back to work.
It was only with extreme concentration he was able to get through the day, though by the time he was on the way home, he was unable to resist. The presence he'd felt could only have been Aaron, and the realization he had actually been as aware of him as he always was of John was disconcerting in the extreme. He had no idea what it meant, but he didn't like it.
He had accepted having direct contact with one ... okay, he forced himself to use the word---dead---guy in his life; he did not want more. The prospect of what lay behind that particular door frankly rattled him.
He forced himself back to reality by concentrating on his planned dinner-at-home evening with Steve. He stopped at the store to pick up steaks and some other groceries, which succeeded in taking his mind partially off the situation for a short time.
But as he puttered in the kitchen having a Manhattan and getting things set up for dinner, his mind went back to the incident at work, and he gradually became aware of John. He wondered if John was somehow drawn by his thoughts, and hoped they'd have a talk that evening. He was willing to risk Steve's hearing him talking in his sleep.
Steve arrived exactly on time, and almost immediately picked up on Elliott's mood.
"What's up?" he asked as Elliott handed him a drink and sat down beside him, noting he was wearing his birthday cologne.
Deciding not to play the "What do you mean?" game, he simply said, "Aaron."
Steve cocked his head in interest. "Really? What did he do?"
Taking a sip from his drink, Elliott sighed. "He didn't do anything. I was just physically aware he was there. That's never happened before."
"It didn't scare you, did it?"
Elliott grinned. "Scare isn't the right word. I know Aaron was a nice guy in life, and I can't imagine he'd suddenly become something from The Exorcist now, but it sure as hell was disconcerting."
"What do you think it means?"
Giving a slight shrug, he said, "I just think it means he's getting his shit together and wants me to know it. What he'll do with it when he gets it I have no idea."
"Any idea why he showed up when he did?"
Elliott took another sip of his drink. "Yeah. I'd gotten the name of the lawyer he and Bill had made an appointment to see before Bill died. I wanted to see if I could verify that they were going make out joint wills. I was just about to call the lawyer when it happened."
"So, did you call?"
"Nope. I admit I was kind of rattled. I'll try again next week and see what happens."
They sat in silence for a moment, until Elliott asked, "Were you able to find out anything at work about Aaron or Bill?"
"Nope. As I said before, nobody I talked to even knew he had a brother, and the few people he deigns to talk to know nothing at all about his personal life other than that his wife wants to sell them a house."
"Why am I not surprised to hear that? But I really appreciate your doing this."
Steve grinned and laid his closest hand on Elliott's thigh. "No problem. This is kind of fun."
Elliott covered the hand with his own. "Glad you think so."
---You're right, Aaron is getting his shit together. The fact you were physically aware of him means he's getting more self control. It's like finding the combination to a lock, and I think he's finally found it.
---Does he know yet that his brother and sister-in-law undoubtedly killed Bill ... and, indirectly, him?
---That I'm not sure of. I'd tend to doubt it, though I don't think it will be long before he figures it out. And frankly, I don't think he'll be too surprised.
---Do you think he'll try to do something about it? And what could he do if he wanted to?
---Good questions, and I'm not quite sure of the answers. I do know, though, that being on this side of the fence, as it were, gives you a totally different perspective on things. If I were to make a guess, I'd say he'd be most interested in seeing that they pay for what they've done in your world. What happens to them when they come into ours I don't think I'd care to speculate about.
---Which tosses the ball neatly back into my court.
---Right. You're Aaron's only hope for justice while Bruce and his wife are still alive.
---I get it. But just ask him to give me a little time. Like Brad says, you can't convict someone of murder without evidence. There has to be some, but I just don't know what it is.
---Yes, you do.
---What do you mean, "yes, you do"?
---I don't mean to be cryptic, but I get the strong sense that the key is somewhere in your mind. I have no idea what it is, and I can't get at it if you can't, but I know it's there.
---Great.
---Steve wants you.
Swimming back to consciousness and opening his eyes, he saw Steve, propped up on one elbow, watching him.
"Shit!" he said.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."
"Isn't that my line? I was obviously blabbering again. Why don't you just smother me with a pillow?"
"I'm not into necrophilia. And I wouldn't call it blabbering."
"So, what was I saying?" He asked mainly to determine if Steve was somehow on to John.
"Aaron stuff. But it sounded like you were talking to somebody."
"I was. Me."
Steve looked at him. "Okay," he said finally.
"How about you?" Elliott asked. "Any weird dreams?"
"Nope," Steve lay back on his pillow. Turning his head to the clock on the nightstand beside him, he said, "Five-thirty. We should probably try to go back to sleep."
"Right."
A few minutes later, Steve's breathing indicated he had, indeed, gone back to sleep, but Elliott lay staring at the ceiling, thinking.
He'd become aware of Aaron just as he was about to call the lawyer to try to confirm that Aaron and Bill were going to make out joint wills. The significance of that---if there was any---eluded him. Yet again frustration swept over him for what he saw as his total lack of qualifications for being in this position.
But unqualified or not, one thing was clear---the only way to get his life back to the way he wanted it was to prove who killed Bill Somers.
As the room gradually lightened with the dawn, he was still awake, wondering what he knew that he didn't know he knew.
The weekend, as usual, passed far too quickly, though when he left Steve Sunday night and returned home, he was relieved to realize he'd spent relatively little time pondering Aaron and his situation. He watched some TV, made lunch for the morning and went to bed around eleven.
---I gather you haven't found it yet?
---What you say I know that I don't know I know? No. It's like trying to look up the spelling of a word---if you don't know how to spell it, how can you look up how to spell it?
---Life is full of mysteries.
---Thanks ... let me write that down.
---Well, since I assume you're zeroing in on Bruce and Marylinn, you can probably narrow it down by going over everything you know or have been told about them.
---Geez, thanks, Coach.
---Just trying to help.
---I know, and I do appreciate it. It's just so damned frustrating. And if it's a clue, how come you didn't pick up on it?
---Probably because I'm not with you every second, and whatever it was came along when I wasn't there to catch it. You're great with trivia, which means you don't forget things. It's in there, somewhere. I know it. You just have to find it. And I also get the idea it's one of those hiding-in-plain-sight things you'll curse yourself for not having picked up on immediately.
---Well, we'll see. Now let me get back to sleep. Maybe it will come to me. And if not, I'll concentrate on it tomorrow.
He felt himself slipping back into regular sleep and had just begun a pleasantly erotic dream about Steve that was snapped off like a twig.
---Ashtray! It has something to do with an ashtray.
---An ashtray? What the hell does that mean?
---Don't ask me ... it's your thought, but I think it's the key.
---Yeah? Well, I...
He awoke with a start. And he knew.
The clock said 5:16, and he made no attempt to get back to sleep, figuring he probably couldn't if he wanted to. He got up, showered and fixed coffee, waiting for six-thirty, when he knew Steve would be awake. Taking his coffee into the living room, he stood by the doors to the patio, staring out over the lake and trying his best to pull the sun up over the horizon.
At six-thirty, he couldn't wait any longer and went to the phone to call Steve, hoping he wouldn't catch him in the shower. Luckily, he answered after the first ring.
"Hi, Ell. To what do I owe this early-morning honor?"
It always took him a second to remember Steve had caller ID.
"I was wondering if you could do me a favor?"
"Sure. Name it."
"Can you get something for me that might have Bruce's fingerprints on it?"
There was only a split second of pause before: "His fingerprints? Uh, yeah. He drinks at least two six-packs of Mountain Dew a day. I can dig an empty out of the trash easy enough. What's up?"
"Long story, but I think we can prove Bruce---and probably his wife---killed Bill Somers."
"You're serious?"
"I'm serious."
"That's fantastic. But did I come in at the end of the movie? One minute you say you don't have a clue, and the next..."
"I know. And if you'd like to grab a quick dinner tonight, I can tell you all about it."
Driving to work, Elliott was surprised to realize that, instead of feeling elated over the probability that, if he was right, Bill's and Aaron's deaths would be avenged, that Aaron would be able to move on to wherever it was he was supposed to go, and that he would be able to put his property on the market without otherworldly disruptions, he had a mild case of depression. He equated it with a roller-coaster ride where, after a series of ups and downs, the cars climb slowly up and up and up to the highest peak and then, instead of roaring down the other side, everything simply stops and the riders are told to get out and go home.
But if he were right, that would be it. Period. Over. The police would take over, and he could get on with his life. So, what did he expect? Maybe, he thought, he had read too many detective novels where everything built to a rousing climax ending in gunshots and lots of blood. Well, he could do without that.
No blood here. No rousing climax. Just linking a set of fingerprints to a piece of crucial evidence. He knew life was never quite as exciting as fiction, but he had expected just a little more, somehow.
He no sooner walked up the front steps of the building and opened the door than he was once again aware of Aaron. There wasn't the same jolt he'd had the first time, but the sense of personhood was familiar, nonetheless.
It wasn't until just before noon that Elliott realized he was thinking a lot about Bruce, which surprised him, since he seldom thought about anything while at work other than the task at hand. But the thoughts persisted---random, hard to define thoughts and harder to define impressions and feelings. It wasn't until early afternoon he experienced the slow chill of realization, as he had once what seemed like long ago with John, that the thoughts were not his. He wondered if Aaron had somehow learned what was going on.
In any case, Aaron was coming into his own---whatever that might prove to be.
He went home just long enough to shower and change clothes before heading for Steve's, calling him on the way to say he'd pick him up in front of his building. Steve was waiting when he pulled up, was carrying a paper bag which, upon getting in the car, he held up quickly then put under his seat.
"Pop cans," he said.
"Thanks! I hope nobody saw you rummaging through the garbage for them."
Steve grinned. "Didn't have to. Bruce never bothers throwing things away---just leaves them sitting on the counter less than two feet from the cans. Everybody's always having to pitch them for him. I picked them up with a paper towel to avoid getting my prints on them. Hope they help."
They decided on eating at the small diner nearby, and it wasn't until they were seated and had given the waitress their order that Steve said, "So, what's up?"
"Well, I may either be about to make a total fool of myself or be able to prove Bruce killed Bill."
"That's fantastic! But how?"
Elliott told him.
Dropping Steve off at his apartment and promising to call the minute he heard anything, he took out his cell phone to call Brad. Cessy answered, as usual.
"Sis, are you going to be home? I need to come over and see Brad for a second. Can I talk to him?"
"Sure," she said. "What's going on? Is something wrong?"
"No, sis. I think something's finally right."
She put the phone down to go tell Brad he was on the phone, and he stood impatiently waiting for Brad to pick up.
"Elliott. What's up?"
"You still have the evidence you collected at the garage when you found Bill's body?"
"I don't have it, but it's there."
"You mentioned a cigarette lighter."
"Yeah. A Bic. It had Somers's initials scratched on it. Charlie, my partner, does that with his to keep people from walking off with them."
"You said it was under the body?"
"Yeah, well, it probably fell out of his pocket while we were turning over the body."
"And you didn't consider that Bill Somers and Bruce Stiles have the same initials?"
"No! Damn it! We didn't."
"Did you dust the lighter for prints?"
There was a pause. "No. We didn't. Like I told you, we usually only do that when we have some reason to think we should. Though looking back, if we'd known Aaron's brother's name at the time, we surely would have."
"Is it too late to do it now?"
"There wouldn't be any harm in trying. The only problem is that unless Stiles's prints are on file somewhere, we'd have no way to match them."
"Odd that you should mention that. I just happen to have two soda cans with Bruce Stiles's fingerprints on them."
"You what?"
"I'll explain when I get there. See you in about fifteen minutes."
Cessy was putting Sandy to bed and Jenny and BJ were in their rooms when Elliott entered through the kitchen door. He found Brad in the living room, watching TV, and handed him the paper bag. Brad clicked off the TV and opened the bag, peering inside. Then, looking up at Elliott, he said, "So, about this lighter? What makes you think it didn't belong to Somers? There was a cigarette butt in the ashtray."
"Yeah, but Bill didn't smoke. Aaron did, until Bill made him stop, which is probably how the butt got there. I knew Bill didn't smoke---why in the hell I didn't think of it earlier I have no idea."
"Okay, so if Stiles did kill Somers, don't you think next time he went to light a cigarette he'd know he lost his lighter and figure out where? It all seems pretty thin to me."
"I'd agree, but Stiles's wife was trying to get him to quit smoking. Any time she'd find cigarettes or matches---or lighters, I'd imagine---she'd throw them away then deny she'd done it. If he did miss it, he probably figured she'd thrown it away. Even if he went back to look for it, you said it was under Bill's body, and Bruce probably wouldn't have moved him to look for it."
Brad closed the bag and set it on the floor beside his chair. "Okay, you win. I'll have to figure out some way to explain why I'm going through all this on a four-year-old case."
"I really appreciate it, Brad. The important thing is that if we can prove the lighter belonged to Bruce, you might be able to reopen the case and put a murderer where he---or in this case, probably they---belong, since I find it hard to imagine Bruce would have just stumbled on that particular house by himself."
Cessy came down the stairs and into the living room.
"I didn't hear you come in," she said. "You should have said something."
"That's okay, sis, Brad and I were just talking."
"Would you like some coffee?"
"No, thanks, I've got to be getting home."
"You're sure?"
He grinned. "I'm sure, but thanks." He got up from his chair, turning to Brad. "You'll call me if you find out anything?"
"I will. Might take a while, though."
Elliott shrugged. "It's been four years. I think we can wait a little longer."
Cessy walked him back through the kitchen to the door and gave him a hug goodbye.
---You're good!
---Glad you think so. But I should have figured this out a long time ago.
---It's not when you figured it out, but that you did.
---Does Aaron know? I've been sensing him pretty strongly lately.
---Yeah, me, too. I'm sure he does know. You're right, there's been a real change in him. There's a lot of sorrow still, but I get the idea that now it's more the thought that his brother killed him than wondering what happened to Bill. Brothers killing brothers---whoever would have thought?
---I'll let that one pass. So, you think he'll ... move on, or whatever you're supposed to do when you die?
---I'll try to check on him. We're still not exactly totally in synch. I hope for both your sakes the fingerprints match.
By Wednesday, he still had heard nothing from Brad. He'd talked to Cessy twice, but he never brought the subject up, knowing Brad would get back to him as soon as he had any information.
Larry Fingerhood called to see if he'd made a decision on the Fullerton property, and he had to admit he hadn't, but that he was working on it. Subsequently, he spent Wednesday night deciding whether to make an offer then juggling figures and cost-and-time estimates to come up with an offering price he submitted to Larry shortly after arriving at work on Thursday morning.
Each day, he was more and more aware of Aaron's presence, and had the distinct impression he was once again waiting. He'd spent four years waiting after Bill had disappeared, but this waiting, Elliott could tell, was different. It was not overpowered by sadness but rather filled with anticipation. He hoped Aaron was preparing himself to move on, but suspected he wanted to be sure his brother would be punished before he left.
John verified that while Elliott slept.
By early the following week, the property would be finished. Nothing more to do except get it on the market and get it sold. But Elliott did not want to even attempt it until he knew Aaron was gone.
He didn't know---nor, apparently, did John---exactly how much Aaron knew about what was going on in the world around him, let alone in Elliott's mind, but whenever he sensed Aaron's presence, he concentrated on Bill, and how while Aaron had been waiting for him, Bill had also been waiting for Aaron. He could only hope Aaron got the message.
At one o'clock Friday, just as he finished his lunch, his cell phone rang.
"The prints on the lighter match the prints on the cans," Brad said. "We'll be bringing Stiles in this afternoon for questioning. Just thought you'd like to know. Gotta run." He hung up, leaving Elliott staring at his phone.
He wasn't sure whether the surge of nameless emotion he experienced was his, or Aaron's, or a combination of the two.
When he picked Steve up for their Friday night dinner, he gave him the news.
"I don't know what to say, other than congratulations," Steve said. "I mean, do you realize what you've done? You actually solved a murder. My God, that's incredible!"
"Well, I couldn't have done it without your help. Without those cans, I don't know how I'd have managed to get Bruce's fingerprints."
"You'd have found a way. I'm truly proud of you. This calls for a real celebration."
Elliott grinned. "What did you have in mind?"
"I'll think of something. Whipped cream and honey come to mind."
"I can't wait."
"Sure.
"Do you think Aaron knows?"
"I can't say for sure, but I suspect he does. He's really been on his best behavior lately, but I'm very much aware he's still there."
"Let's hope not for much longer."
"Amen to that!"
It struck him, as he and Steve finally settled down to sleep, that John had been notably absent during Brad's revelation.
---I figured it was your moment. Yours and Aaron's.
---So, he does know what's going on?
---Yes.
---Did he say what he intends to do now? When he might ... well, move on, or whatever it is he should be doing?
---Aaron and I still don't communicate like you and I do. It's still more in emotions and impressions than in words and sentences. But I do get the idea he is almost free of that bottomless tar pit of sorrow that has held him for so long.
I'm sure he must realize there's really nothing more he can do here. He wanted your help, and you gave it to him. It's now out of your hands, and in the hands of the police. The most important thing is that he knows now that Bill didn't abandon him, and who was responsible for Bills not coming back. And I suspect your thoughts about Bill waiting for him got through to him.
---You know about those?
---Uh, yeah. You weren't exactly whispering them.
---I hope you're right!
---Trust me.
Monday morning, Larry called to say he had presented the offer to the owners of the Fullerton property and that they'd be getting back to him shortly. He asked if the "problem" with the current building had been resolved, and Elliott took a leap in assuring him it had and setting up an appointment for that Thursday for him to come take another look.
Aaron, he could tell from the moment he walked into the building Monday, was still there, though the sense of his presence was different somehow. Less intense? Fading, even? He finally gave up trying to figure it out.
His own mood, however, continued to bother him. He should have been vastly relieved that he was finally going to get his life back. Unlike with John, when they were trying to discover John's identity and who had killed him, he had never gotten comfortable with Aaron as a person. He'd grown to really like John in the course of their search, but he couldn't say the same for Aaron.
He sent Arnie, Sam and Ted home at three o'clock, telling them he'd let them know as soon as he could about the Fullerton property and promising to try to line up some work for them at one of his other apartment buildings while they waited. He was on his way home when his cell phone rang.
"Elliott, Brad. The DA is taking the Stiles case to the Grand Jury. I wanted to let you know, and to thank you for your help in nailing Stiles."
"Thanks, Brad. I wish I could say it was my pleasure, but ... So, are they indicting just Bruce or his wife, too?"
"Just Stiles, for the moment, but I think he might be open to implicating her if the DA offers him some sort of reduced-charge deal for his cooperation. We'll see."
"I really appreciate your keeping me posted."
"The least I can do. Talk with you later."
His mood had not materially improved as he sat, after dinner, in front of the TV. Not even talking to Steve seemed to help lighten it, and he couldn't understand why. It was still with him as he went to bed.
---You are a piece of work.
---Meaning?
---Meaning you're moping again.
---I don't have a clue what you're talking about.
---Come on! You're going through exactly the same thing as you went through with me when all the pieces came together. I'd have though you'd have learned.
---Damn it, I expected ... I don't know ... more! Where are the balloons and the dancing bears and the fireworks? That big "stand up and cheer" ending? Nothing. It's just ... over.
He felt the slight tingle of John's laughter.
---When are you going to learn that life just isn't like that? You've done a terrific thing here---you've caught a murderer ... maybe two ... and you've rescued someone who was really suffering and allowed him to move on. Your family loves you, things are going great with Steve, you're still rich. What in the world more could you ask?
---Yeah, but if this was a book, or a movie, or a TV show...
---But it's not. It's life, and like it or not, this is the way that life works.
---I suppose. But...
Suddenly, Elliott heard a deep rumble, followed by an increasingly violent shaking. He heard things falling, glass shattering. Looking out the window toward the towers of the Loop, he saw rising clouds of dust as buildings crumbled. The Hancock Tower and the Sears Tower leaned toward one another as they slowly toppled into the rising dust cloud. Far out on the lake, a rising wall of water moved relentlessly toward the city as pieces of his own building began cascading past his balcony. He glanced up to see his ceiling dropping slowly toward him.
With a gasp, he sat up in bed, eyes wide open, bathed in sweat.
And in his mind, he heard John's voice once again: Like that one better?
Despite himself, Elliott grinned and, after a rather long time, went back to sleep.
END
About the Author
While Dorien Grey physically resides in the real world, he and reality ignore one another as much as possible. He hates the control reality exerts, and the smug knowledge that in the end, it will prevail. Reality does not play fair, exacting increasingly harsh punishment on the body. So some time ago, Dorien began compartmentalizing himself into Roger Margason, the physical half of the "team" which is so sadly ruled by time, and Dorien Grey, the non-corporeal self, who has no such constraints. And they both work to defeat reality and time by putting as much of themselves into words which time and reality can't so easily control.
His main purpose in writing is, aside from preserving as much of himself as possible, to reach out as one human being to another (you) and show through his words that far more unites us as human beings than divides us. He truly consider the reader, though they probably have never met, to be a friend to whom he can and do talk without fearing he'll look like an idiot. And, of course, both Dorien and Roger want you to read his books.
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Valerie Tibbs lives in central Illinois with her husband and teenaged son. She has more than fifteen years of experience in desktop publishing and more than twenty-five working with computers in general. She started a graphic design/computer company several years ago that finally started taking off recently with her foray into cover art. She has designed web graphics and marketing materials for her day job, and "several banners and such" for authors. In addition to her work with Zumaya, she has designed covers for Aspen Mountain Press, Amira Press, Freya's Bower, Wild Child Publishing, WordCrafter and several independent authors.
A full portfolio can be found at vtibbs.wordpress.com.
Visit www.zumayapublications.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.

