A Simple Suburban Murder (19 page)

Without a word he pulled the car to the side of the road. He jammed the gearshift into neutral.

"You can't park here," I said, staring straight ahead.

"Look at me," he commanded.

I did. His eyes searched mine, troubled and concerned. Very softly he said, "When you get stubborn you take yourself far away."

"I'm not being—"

He cut off my denial. "Yes, you are. You've got one thing in your head, finding the murderer, but you're making decisions you can't have as much confidence in as you pretend."

I opened my mouth to retort, but he said, "Let me finish, please."

Several drivers beeped their horns as they pulled around us. The shoulder was narrow, and we were only half off the road. I glanced back at Keith. He listened on the earphones contentedly.

The quiet thrum of Scott's angry voice filled the car. "Look, Tom, I don't disagree with what you've done. You're angry. So am I. You want to find the killer. So do I. We both want to protect those kids. Fine. I disagree with the order you have for solving this. I disagree with your protecting Sylvester and Armstrong. Your reasons are probably right. And I know you promised them. All of that's fine. But I've got a right to state my objections without you becoming so God-awful stubborn. That is not okay. That kind of stubbornness shuts me out. I don't like it when you distance yourself from me like that."

I listened to him. I watched his serious blue eyes. I saw the concern there. He'd called me on my stubbornness before. He was right. I got hold of my pride. I eased a couple of deep breaths in and out to give myself time to cool down. "I'm sorry, Scott. You're right. I got carried away." I gazed at him evenly.

He smiled gently. "Okay. We'll be all right." We resumed our trip to the Evanses' home.

After repeated knocking Mrs. Evans answered the door. Hair uncombed and makeup awry, she led us to the living room. Keith, still tired from last night's adventure, wandered upstairs without argument.

"I'm sorry Keith has been such trouble," she said softly and lifelessly.

"He's been no trouble," Scott said.

She folded her hands in her lap and stared at them. She looked lost and defeated.

I questioned her about her activities the night before.

She didn't answer my questions. Instead she plucked dispiritedly at the sleeve of her dress. She said, "My husband is dead. My oldest boy is gone. My family is lost." She continued speaking without expression or gesture. "I'm a rotten mother."

"Mrs. Evans," I said, "you've been under an awful strain. We realize that. We want to help."

"Yes, help," she echoed plaintively.

I tried again. "Mrs. Evans, what made you go hunting for Phil last night?" To her continued silence I said, "How did you know to go looking in that bar?"

"Everybody thought I didn't know anything. Half the time they treated me like I didn't exist."

"Who, Mrs. Evans?"

"Everyone. My husband, Phil, even Keith nowadays. But I listened to everything I could. I heard things."

I was afraid to press her, but I wanted any information she had.

"How did you hear?" I asked.

"Oh, on the phone, on the extension."

I was confused. "You did this last night?"

"No, when my husband was alive. When Phil was here."

"What did you find out when you listened?"

"Everything. I knew my husband was an evil criminal, all of it."

"All the illegal stuff?" Scott was incredulous. "All."

"The prostitution? The gambling?" he continued.

"All is all," she said simply.

Now he was mad. "How could you keep silent?" he demanded.

She shrugged. "You weren't here. You didn't know what it was like. There was nothing that could be done."

I said, "Mrs. Evans, you claim to have secretly known what your husband was up to. In effect you snuck around gathering knowledge to no effective purpose."

"Yes," she whispered.

"Why didn't you tell all this to the police?" I asked.

Her voice became even softer. "I couldn't."

I shook my head. "Listen, Mrs. Evans, now you expect us to believe that somehow last night this magic knowledge led you to one particular gay bar?"                         '

"That's part of it," she answered.

"And what's the other part? What made you go looking last night?" "There was a call." "From whom?" "He didn't say."

I gritted my teeth. "What did he say?"

"'If you want to see Phil, you better come quick.'"

"And then he told you where to go?"

"Yes."

"What time was the call?" "Around ten-thirty." "You went by yourself?" "Yes."

"Going to one bar doesn't take all night." "I didn't find him there so I searched." "Where?"

"I found one of those little magazines in that first bar that gives the addresses of gay places. I went up and down the streets."

"Clark, Halsted, Broadway?" "All those, yes, and more." "You went in all those gay bars?"

"Every one that was open. Every one that would let me in."

"All night you did this?" "Yes."

"Why didn't you ask for help?"

"From who?"

"You asked me once."

"And you didn't bring Phil back."

"You withheld a great deal of information that could have helped me the first time you asked. Mrs. Evans, you don't make sense to me."

She responded in her softest tones yet. "The whole world doesn't make sense to me."

We sat and listened to time pass.

She didn't break down sobbing or go to pieces. She simply said, "It's all quite useless. Do as you wish. Take my children, my home, my life. I give up."

I wasn't about to leave her alone in this state. Before we left I called Heather Delacroix. Quickly I explained the situation to her. She promised to come over to handle the immediate problems of the Evans household. We waited for her to show up, then left.

We drove to Greg's house and picked him up. I introduced him to Scott. Scott's fifty-thousand-dollar sports car may have impressed him as much as meeting Scott. I explained everything to him about Phil's situation and the status of the Evans family. He seemed genuinely concerned about Phil's plight. I also told him about his sister and the disc. He didn't act too surprised about his sister's occupation. I asked him about this.

"She never told me," he said, "but I sort of guessed. Mostly I tried not to think about it. Who wants to admit his sister"—he paused—"does what she does?" he finished.

At first his sister wouldn't let us in. It was Greg's pleading that got us past the door. In the living room she sat more silent than a stone Buddha, but far less serene.

First Greg tried to get her to give us information about the escort service. She ignored him.

After several minutes of this I made my plea for help.

She didn't react to me. Instead she turned on Greg. "Why'd you come with them?" she said.

"I'm worried about Phil," he answered.

"Was he your lover?" "No."

"Then what do you care?"

"He was my friend." Greg looked at us helplessly.

"Phil could be in a lot of danger," I said. "We need the name and address of whoever ran Adonis-at-Large with Jim Evans."

She snorted contemptuously at me.

"We know you worked for him, and you lied when you said you didn't know about the computer disc when we were here last. We found your name along with many others on the disc."

"Then why don't you go ask them?"

"They would be at least as reluctant as you, and far more surprised and threatened."

"That isn't my problem."

"Come on, Sheila," Greg pleaded, "be reasonable."

"I am being reasonable. I got my freedom and my livelihood from Jim Evans and his service. I got out of the house. I've got my own place, a life of my own."

"But you're a whore," Greg said.

"That's right, little brother." Her answer was surprisingly mild.

"It's not right," Greg insisted.

"And what is?" she demanded quickly.

He opened his mouth to answer but none came. He flapped his arm on the chair in defeat.

I tried another tack. "You lied to us the first time we were here. You said you broke off with Evans three years ago."

"I didn't lie," she said. "I stopped screwing him three years ago. I never stopped working for him. You didn't ask the right questions."

"If I ask the right questions now will I get the truth?"

"I doubt it."

Her complacency infuriated me.

Greg said, "Sheila, I'm scared for Phil, and for you."

For the first time a slight softness crept into her voice. There was even a ghost of a smile on her lips. She said, "There's nothing to be frightened of, Greg."

"Then why won't you help?"

"It's my income, Greg. It's how I live."

From another room came the sounds of a waking baby. Sheila began to stand up, but Greg stopped her. "I'll get him," he said.

He returned with the child cradled confidently in his arms. He smiled at us shyly as he sat down next to his sister. "I baby-sit all the time." His teenage gawkiness had disappeared. Sheila smiled at the two of them. For a moment all the tension evaporated from the room.

Scott interrupted this domesticity. "Greg baby-sat while you went out to turn tricks?"

Greg looked crestfallen. Sheila swore. The phone rang.

She went into the kitchen to answer it. We couldn't hear the conversation. She was only on a minute and a half. We heard her hang up, but she didn't return for five minutes. When she came back she had changed from her old blue jeans and T-shirt top to a dress that clung so tight that the outline of her panties was clear underneath. She wore no bra. She had her winter jacket with her.

"Greg, could you sit tonight?" she asked.

"Sure," he said, dumbfounded. The baby was already asleep in his arms.

"Your friends are welcome to stay as long as you want them to."

"Sheila," I called to her retreating figure. But she slammed the door. We listened to her receding steps.

"I'm sorry," Greg said. "She's really a great person, honest."

I glanced rapidly around the living room. "Maybe there's some clue in the apartment," I said.

Greg began a protest, but I was up and moving. Scott followed. Burdened with the baby, Greg was too slow to stop us. How much opposition he'd have shown I don't know. His feelings seemed torn. I gave a brief word of assurance to him as I started to hunt.

We searched all the rooms. Besides the living room, there were only the kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom. Greg followed us watching from the doorways.

After thirty minutes we came up empty. We'd even found the dope hidden in a fake frozen orange juice can in the refrigerator freezer. Finally we stood in the bedroom looking at each other helplessly.

"I'm really sorry, you guys," Greg said. He still held the baby. I ran my eye back over the room. Green wallpaper hung on the wall. The floor was bare wood. The bed had no headboard. The blanket was thin and patched. The dresser showed signs of several poorly done refinishing jobs. The only bit of color was the baby's crib. I held up the tiny mattress of the crib, idly thunking it against the dresser. "It's hopeless," I said.

"Is that something?" Greg asked.

"Where?" I asked.

He pointed at the back of the mattress.

"That's the do-not-remove-under-penalty-of-whatever tag," Scott said.

"No, on the back of it," Greg said.

I'd only glanced at the label, now I looked more closely. Inked to the back of it was a list of names, addresses, and phone numbers.

"Clients," Scott guessed.

"Maybe, but look at these." I indicated the bottom two listings.

"What about them?" Scott asked.

"They're the only ones without a name and not in the Joliet area," I said.

"Maybe they're special clients," Scott said.

"Possibly, but look again at the addresses. This one with the line through it is the Evanses' address in Mokena, I'm almost certain. Now look at this address underneath it on Orleans Street in Chicago. It's in separate color ink."

Greg asked, "What does that mean?"

I examined the addresses again. I mulled over the possibilities for several minutes. Then I said, "I think it was added recently, probably since Evans's death. I bet it's her new contact. Now look at the address itself. That's this year's trendy section of the city, from the Merchandise Mart north to Chicago Avenue and east from the river to Lake Michigan. And I think this is the address of the art gallery of John North, an extremely wealthy gay artist, bar owner, and activist. He lives in this old gargantuan three-story house that's wedged between two highrises. I pointed the block out to you, Scott, the last time we came home from Carson's Ribs."

"I think I remember," Scott said.

"I'm sure of it. In the old house the art gallery is the first two floors. He lives above it."

I ripped off the label. Leaving Greg there, we drove to the city.

"We can't just barge in there," Scott said as we drove through the November night.

"Yes, we can," I said. "I think those two addresses are connected. My guess is Evans and North were in this together."

"That's a hell of a stretch of the imagination."

"It's all we've got."

His okay sounded fatalistic.

"What I want to know," I said, "is who called Mrs. Evans. And I also want to know what happened between that call and the one Keith received from Phil. There's over an hour gap that is unexplained. And I want to know why the person called."

"You don't want much," Scott said.

"If I can answer those questions, we'll be able to find Phil and I bet be a long way to finding the murderer."

"You think there's a connection?"

"Between the murder and the kid's disappearance?"

"Yeah."

"If you'd asked me that a couple days ago, I'd have said no. Now I'm almost certain there is. We'll find it."

Later as we drove onto the Ohio Street off ramp, Scott said, "I'm surprised at the number of lies you and I have been told."

"I'm not," I replied. "They all want to protect themselves. I think it's fairly normal."