A Bullet Apiece (3 page)

“I saw a photograph of the three of you at the school. I have to admit you all looked happy.”

She grimaced. “That was a happy time. Tom was home more often. Rachel had gotten used to our home, our life. I had quit drinking.”

“Was alcohol a problem?”

“It was. I was just…. You see, we had tried for years to have a child. Finally, a doctor told me that I couldn't have children. I was devastated. Tom took it well at first, but then something changed in him. He was travelling at the time, making more trips to Colombia. So, I wallowed in alcohol when he was gone. When he returned, he could see something was wrong. I think he chalked it up to infertility, and that just seemed to sour him more.”

“How long did this go on?”

“For several months. But then he came back from a trip with flowers. For me. He took me in his arms like he did when we first married, and I fell in love all over again. Excited by his spontenaity, I laughed and asked, ‘What? What is it?' He swung me around and said, ‘We're going to have a child! We're going to adopt!' I was so taken aback that I cried. He told me all about the opportunity in Colombia, how there were so many sweet children in desperate need of a mother and a father. We shared a bottle of Dom Perignon to celebrate. It was the first time in a long time I'd felt so good.”

“When did you make the trip to Colombia yourself?”

“I don't know. Maybe three months later. We'd found out who Rachel's birth mother was, and I wanted to meet her.”

“And did you?”

“Yes. She was almost a child herself, barely nineteen. She was so beautiful and shy. It was important to me to see her.”

“Why did she give Rachel up for adoption?”

“She's poor. So many of them are. They work on the banana plantations. Many of them live right on the edge of the fields, in shacks. Tom looks for the best supervisors; he really does.” An unexpected defensive note entered her voice. “But he can only pay so much himself, in order to turn a profit here in the States.”

“I see. Where is Tom now?”

“I thought he was in Colombia. He's been gone the past week. I've been taking Rachel to pre-school all this year. It's been very difficult—being away from her while she's at school, that is. But all the other mothers insisted it was a good thing. All of them in the charity send their children there.”

“What charity is that?”

“Orphan Care. We raise money to help families adopt children from Central and South America.”

“Sounds noble.”

She blanched and plunked her cup on the desk, sloshing coffee over the side. “It
is
. And you don't need to say it like that.”

“I didn't mean any harm, Mrs. Hanady. I meant what I said. What I don't get is why you don't have a nanny.”

She glanced out at her car, like she was now doubting her decision to hire me. I looked outside, too. The rain was abating. “We have Ella. She cooks for us. Plus, Mrs. Carmody started the preschool herself. She thought it would be grand if our children played and learned together. She's in our group,” she added.

“Why here, though?” I gestured to the surroundings, and included my office in the sweep of my hand.

“Because the building and land were affordable. And I know what you're thinking. We're not
all
rich bitches without heart out in West County.”

I leaned back in my chair and held onto my protest.

“Besides, the first kindergarten in the country was in St. Louis. But then, you probably knew that already, detective.”

I let the comment slide with a smile. “Mrs. Hanady, does your husband drive a Jaguar?” She nodded. “Is his car missing today?”

“It is. It wasn't in the garage when I returned from the school at noon.”

“Are you sure it was him who picked up Rachel today?”

“It had to be. God, who else could it be? Maybe he just returned early. Maybe he wanted to surprise me.” She grasped the arms of her chair and looked as though she might leap up any second.

“Mrs. Hanady, just one more question. Have you called his office today?”

She settled back in her chair and frowned.“Yes. They don't know when to expect him.” She was looking out the window now, clutching her moist purse.

“Thank you for your time. You can trust that I will do all I can to see that your daughter is returned safely. I have a feeling she's with your husband. In good hands.”

“I wish I had your confidence right now.”

“Let me make some more calls. The policemen you spoke to today will likely be in contact with your husband's office, if they haven't been already. They will also want to come out to your house.”

“To stake it out?”

“To talk to you. And, yeah, to see if your husband, or someone else, returns. If he is back—and I think he is—he'll come home at some point.”

“You're right. I know he will.” She stood and extended her hand. It was soft, her skin supple with lotion. A sensation I had not felt in a woman's hand for too long. I had to fight the crazy notion that I should bend over her hand and bring it to my lips for a kiss. Ed Darvis, courtier extraordinaire.

“I'll call you later this evening. Say around eight?” She nodded. “Good. Please take care getting home, Mrs. Hanady.”

“I will.” I held the door as she stepped out into the diminishing rain and got into the coupe. I wasn't quite sure how those long legs fit in that toyish car and smiled at the thought of examining the mechanics of the arrangement. The rain continued to slacken as she pulled away, and I inhaled the scent of her skin on my hand.

I was fairly certain that Tom Hanady had his daughter. Maybe when he picked her up, he parked on the other side of the building where I couldn't see his car. If so, I have no case. One thing, though, trouble was brewing in the Hanady marriage. Nothing as bad as some I've seen. But still, trouble. Which, for me, is fortunate, seeing as I could use a bit of business.
 

I strolled back to the back room of my office, holding up my hand to my nose. Reluctantly, I washed the scent of Jerri Hanady off my hands in the dirty little sink just outside the tiny john. After I dried them, I smelled the back of a palm: nothing but Lifebuoy. But the disappearance of her scent didn't keep her off my mind. Even before today, she had looked over at my office numerous times. I had even entertained the fantasy that she needed a reason to meet me. Now, she had it, but not because I'm another lonely detective. I told myself, maybe she needed me for something more than finding her daughter. Yeah, and maybe I'll get a swanky office in the Continental Building some day. With a sweet secretary, just like I imagined Tom Hanady had.

I walked back to my desk and propped up my feet. So, Tom Hanady, what is your business? What is it
really
? Tom was the man of the day. And one thing I wanted—and needed if I was to earn my keep—was to get to him before the police did. I decided to try his office in person. If he wasn't there, then I'd try the Hanady estate. If Officer Frederick was staked out there, I could toy with him a little. Give him some practice giving guff to hard guys.

Limited Imports was in another industrial court on the north side. From the nondescript façade of the building, it looked like it might sit well on my side of town. But the court was not as down-at-the-heels as mine was. At least it looked like someone picked up the litter more than once every other week.I pulled into the parking lot around 5:00
p.m.
As I got out of my car, a swarm of employees was leaving for the day. Some of the men loosened their ties and doffed their suit coats into the back seats of the mostly late-model sedans of the aspirational class. Others, women mostly, yelled at one another over the rooftops of their cars, laughing and sharing their plans for the evening. None paid any attention to me.
 
If I hustled, I might catch a secretary.

Inside Hanady's building, a well-lit foyer led to double glass doors. Gilded in gold, no less. Quite a contrast to my smudged assembly-line glass door. Beyond, I could see a reception desk lit from beneath. As if anyone entering the Italian-tiled foyer wouldn't notice it. Behind the desk, I noticed a huge oil painting wrapped in a gilded frame. It struck me as odd that the picture was of dark-skinned workers bent with the labor of packing bananas in boxes for transport, rather than an oil of Mr. Hanady himself. I'd sure as hell get my mug done if I occupied this joint.

Just as I approached the front desk, a woman stood up and switched off her desk lamp. She was slim, just shy of buxom. She wore a smart blue jacket, buttoned at the waist with a matching skirt. Her blond hair was teased up over delicate ears. I started to grow eager for our first encounter, but for some reason she ignored my approach, even though my heels clicked loudly on the terrazzo floor. I like hard-to-get, too.

“Excuse me, Miss?”

“Yes?” Suspicion registered in her face. She stood rigidly with her hands touching the desktop.

I flashed my investigator's badge. “Ed Darvis. Private Investigator.”

“Oh. Is everything all right?” she asked, with no noticeable change in her expression. That was interesting, I thought. Usually a guy like me is upsetting to people, and they start racking their brains for any transgressions from their past. Even in a place as ritzy as this one. Still, I had her attention now.

“Not sure. Perhaps you can help me. It seems Mr. Hanady returned home early today and picked up his daughter Rachel from school.”

“And that's a problem?”

“Not necessarily—if it was, in fact, Mr. Hanady who picked her up. If that's the case, then everything's fine. If not….”

“Are you working with the police?”

“Yeah,” I bluffed. “You know, we'll be sharing information.” Which was true, although they rarely shared anything willingly, especially with me. And sometimes they had to beat a few details out of me, too.

“I see.”

“I'd like to ask you a few questions, if I may?” I took out a pen and notebook, not unlike the ones Officer Hamilton had used in my office earlier. Seeing these props sometimes puts cagey people at ease. Not that I usually do more than scribble and say “Mm-hmm” as they talk.

“Well, it's closing time.” She glanced at a slim wristwath. “Perhaps you could try again in the morning?”

“I promise I won't take long,” flashing her my fine, even row of teeth. Unimpressed, she reached for the desktop telephone. At that, I chuckled and backed away. I'd have to go soft before I made my press. I glanced over to an Eames chair next to a potted palm and pointed to it.

 
“May I have a seat?”

“Mr. Darvis, I really must be going. Security will want to lock up the building shortly.

“I promise, I'll be out of your pretty hair before you can say ‘import tariff evasion'. Or even ‘child labor exploitation'.”

That did it. A wry smile appeared on her face. She looked pretty good with it decorating her face. Not as hot as Jerri Hanady, but it was a definite improvement.

“Won't you have a seat, Mr. Darvis?” Her perfunctory tone returned. The same one I had heard on the phone earlier, when I posed as a grocery owner.

“Sure. Thought you'd never ask.” I sat, laying the pen and notebook down on a side table. I pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

“Oh, I'm sorry. This is a non-smoking building.”

“Whadda you mean by that?”

“No one is allowed to smoke on the premises.”

I stared at her.

 
“Mr. Hanady has allergies. Cigarette smoke is one of them.”

“Okay.” I held the lit cigarette vertically, looked around for an ashtray, and not seeing one, gave her an inquisitive look. She said, “Here,” and walked over and took the smoke from me as though it were a dog turd on a stick. She disappeared around a corner. In her absence, I took in more of my surroudings, with my eyes landing back on the oil painting. Then, admiring the lines of the crafted, wood paneling, I noticed something else. A door. A door, so nearly discreet it would escape the casual inspection of any regular person.
 
A few moments later, I heard a toilet flush.

Then, the secretary returned—with the look of a woman practiced in evasion. You know, tight smile, posture forced into a relaxed look, the suggestion of possessing information you'll never guess or be privy to. Either she could get her shit back together fast, or somebody else was in the back.

“Now, what is it Mr. Darvis?”

“You asked if I was working with the police. Have they been by?”

“No.”

“I see. Any police
call
?”

She almost seemed to warm up to the initiation of an old, familiar game. Her eyes took on a sparkle.

“An officer did call, yes.”

“Officer Hamilton?”

“Yes, it
was
.” The word “was” lurched out, like a car in the wrong gear. “How did you know?”

She gave a little, so I decided to give a little, too, to keep her giving. “He took a statement from me this morning, since I was a witness, and saw what happened at the preschool.”

“And what was that?” Composed again, she folded her arms.

“Didn't Officer Hamilton tell you? About Mr. Hanady's daughter?” I raised my eyebrows for effect. If she didn't know, she would expect the worst and might show some feeling. Instead, she studied my face for a moment, like she knew the game was still on.

“Yes, he did tell me. And I don't see what the fuss is about. Mr. Hanady obviously returned home early and thought he would surprise Rachel by picking her up. I'm sure he's home now. With Mrs. Hanady.” After she spoke, she held her left arm up and stared at her wristwatch.

“Has he returned home early by surprise before?”

“He keeps an erratic schedule. Markets change, seasons change. We're used to it here.”

“Uh-huh. Has Mr. Hanady behaved strangely lately? Anything unusual—outside of his normally erratic schedule?”

“Not at all. He's very pleasant most of the time.”

“Most of the time? ”

She uncrossed her arms, took a step toward me, and leveled her gaze. From where I was sitting, her face dominated my field of vision, she got that close. A pretty face. “What is it you want, Mr. Darvis?”

I grinned. “Nothing, Miss. . . ?”

“Brennan.”

“Brennan, huh? You know the Brennans in Dogtown?”

“I'm quite sure I don't. I'm a transplant. From Pittsburgh.”

“Sure you don't? The neighborhood's right alongside Forest Park. Got it's name from a dog-eating tribe supposed to have camped there during the '04 World's Fair.”

“What charming tales you must know.”

This was all lovely. She looked at me like the old man I suddenly felt like. I was getting quite tired of the game, and now irritated with Miss Brennan's diffidence. I tried to rise from the Eames chair smoothly to get in her face, but I almost lost my balance doing so. I didn't quite flop back into it, but I did wobble. When I managed to stand up straight, I dropped my voice to a guttural register, like a growling dog, and stepped right into her personal space.

“Lookit, lady. You said Hanady was pleasant ‘most of the time'. That means something. What is it?” It was my turn to loom in her face. Only I'm not so pretty up close.

I had let her know this was no longer her game. She exhaled and rather roughly shoved a strand of hair behind her left ear. As she did so, I noticed her hand trembling. “Here are the
goods
, detective. When Mrs. Hanady calls, it's all I can do to be polite. She is a shrew. I would call her a ‘bitch', but then, since I'm in Mr. Hanady's employ, I won't.” Her voice came out strained. The smooth tone of voice from the phone became a kvetching teenager's. “She calls. He gripes. And then he spews obscenities after he hangs up. Often he'll leave after that. The next morning, when he comes in, he seems none the worse for it, but I know better. Or sometimes, he doesn't show up the next morning, and we receive word he's in Colombia. He's a sweet man. She's a drain.” She looked at a wristwatch. “How's that?”

I couldn't help but smile. “That will do.”

“I thought so. Now, will there be anything else?”

“One more question. Just how well do you know Mr. Hanady, Miss Brennan.”

She let the question settle. “Strictly business, Mr. Darvis.”

“I thought so.” I withdrew a card. “If you have any other nuggets you want to toss my way.”

“What else do you like tossed your way?”

Touché.

“Plenty,” I said and smiled at her.

“I bet.” She leaned in a little. I couldn't help but glance down into her cleavage. She seemed to know I would and held her pose for a couple of seconds.

“Well, if I ever get desperate enough for a gumshoe, I know where to find you.” She took a step to the side and gestured towards the front door. “Now, I'm quite sure security is on their way to lock up. I wouldn't want there to be any misunderstanding about your presence.”

“How very giving of you.”

She smirked and made as if to toss her hair. “Well, Mr. Darvis, must I show you directly to the door?”

“That and more.”

“I'm afraid not. It's been a … a pleasure.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

She walked past me to the door and held it open for me, and looked quickly backwards. I followed her gaze to the door set in the wood paneling.

“Say, Miss Brennan, where does that door go?”

“Is that imperative for your investigation, Mr. Darvis?” When she saw I wasn't moving out the door, she added, “But if you must know, it leads to Batman's cave.”

“Never needed him. Thanks again, Miss Brennan.”

“Good evening, detective.”

As I pulled out of the parking lot, a few cars remained, but no silver-green Jaguar. Miss Brennan played the evade-and-distract game pretty well. But she couldn't hide a key tell. She couldn't keep her eyes from
that hidden door. I'd play the odds and bet my money that Hanaday was holed up in that snug little office.

I made for a pay phone. If Bertie was at his desk I might persuade him to stake out Limited Imports. He wasn't. The person who answered might have been the same sergeant as before, and he didn't exactly light up at my name. “He ain't in” was the most I could squeeze from him. I hung onto the receiver a moment. An idea formed.
Why not
?