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Jake followed Google Maps directions downtown on Lake Shore Drive. He was on the fastest route despite the heavy Thursday noon traffic.
He exited the noisy road at East Monroe, and headed toward the juice bar where Pinky mysteriously wanted to meet instead of Blind Faith. Despite begging his best friend and confidant for an explanation Pinky refused to reveal the reason, fueling Jake’s curiosity.
After parking the Nova, he switched Google Maps to walking mode, and hoofed it.
It took Jake a few minutes to find the place. The intense sun glaring off the metal sign made it hard to read.
He was looking for a restaurant or café, but this place was nothing more than a concession stand next to a covered cement patio with outdoor seating.
He heard the whipping wind ripple through the canvas awning.
Pinky waved at him from one of the seats, and joined Jake in line.
They ordered two large carrot juices.
When Jake turned toward the patio, Pinky tugged his arm.
“This way,” Pinky said. “There’s something I wanna show you.”
Jake followed him until they arrived at the Chicago Yacht Club.
“What—you’re a sailor now?”” Jake kidded.
“Sorta,” Pinky responded with a smirk. “I joined the club, but that’s not what I wanna show you.”
Jake followed Pinky along the cement dock picking up the stench of dead smelt until his friend stopped at the rear of a yacht Jake gauged to be about seventy feet.
Pinky motioned to the canvas flapping in the wind that covered the stern. A flock of screeching seagulls swooped over their heads. “You do the honors,” he hollered, handing Jake one end of a rope.
“You bought a yacht?” Jake asked.
“Yup!” Pinky said. “Another reason for my kids and grandkids to visit. Give that a yank. I wanna see your reaction.”
Jake tugged the rope with one hand while holding his carrot juice in the other, but the canvas didn’t budge. He handed his cup to Pinky, then pulled with both hands to reveal the unexpected name—My Hero.
Jake threw Pinky a puzzled look.
“It’s you, buddy. You’re my hero,” Pinky explained. “I wouldn’t have money if you hadn’t picked our lottery numbers with your computer. That paid for the investigator that found my kids, allowed me to build my mansion, and buy this yacht to give them reasons to visit me.”
Pinky clasped his hands, and bowed while saying, “So thank you—my hero for making all this possible,”
Jake was dumbfounded. “I’m flattered,” he said. “You didn’t need to do that, but it means a lot to me.”
“And now for the grand tour,” Pinky said as he sprinted up the ramp, and boarded the yacht.
He put on a captain’s hat, and motioned Jake to follow.
But Jake froze.
He hadn’t set foot on a boat since losing Debra. He was still terrified of drowning. If not for that fear he likely would have his own grandchildren by now.
Pinky would be insulted if he didn’t board. That’s the last thing he wanted after receiving this amazing tribute.
Jake balanced himself with outstretched arms, and inched up the ramp. After firmly planting both feet on deck he followed Pinky around grabbing anything within reach to steady himself.
Pinky’s captain’s hat made him look like a thinner, taller, and more muscular version of the skipper from Gilligan’s Island.
He proudly gave Jake the grand tour.
He pointed out several bedrooms and bathrooms—or cabins and heads as Pinky so expertly called them. There was even a head with a Jacuzzi.
He led Jake into the gourmet kitchen—the galley, as Pinky corrected him.
“I saved the best for last,” Pinky said.
Jake followed him into a room filled with leather recliners, a popcorn stand, and a wet bar. The chairs faced a blank wall.
“Watch this.” Pinky said as he punched a button on the wall.
Two panels on the blank wall retracted exposing a huge flat screen monitor.
“I’ve got all the streaming apps, and tons of DVDs,” Pinky boasted.
They settled into the recliners, put their feet up, and nursed their carrot juices.
Jake’s phone squawked.
He wrestled it from his pants pocket. It was retired Detective Roberts returning his call.
Jake had left Roberts a message asking if he knew when Muttle died. He also shared his theories that Rose could be the killer if she lied, and killed Muttle before nightfall, or it could be Dr. Eisenstein if Muttle died the next day.
“I’ll have to ask about the time of death,” Roberts said, “but even if he was killed the next day, Eisenstein didn’t have the opportunity to kill him and get him into the mikvah unless he was the first to arrive at the mikvah in the morning, and killed him there. That woulda been risky, but then again it mighta been a heat of the moment thing.
“On the other hand, if he died at night Eisenstein could still be our killer if Rose helped him cover it up by lying. It’s also possible Rose learned about Muttle taking those pictures. That would give her motive, means, and opportunity.”
Jake gulped some carrot juice, then said, “So knowing when he was killed doesn’t really help.”
“Correct,” Roberts confirmed. “But it gets murkier. Medical Examiner says Muttle received blunt force trauma to his forehead causing his brain to swell, but water in his lungs proves he was still breathing when he entered the water. Coulda been hit by a heavy flat object or smacked into a wall or floor. For all we know he slipped, and fell into the tiled mikvah wall, knocked himself unconscious, then slid into the mikvah, and drowned.”
“Great,” Jake replied. “We don’t even have proof he was murdered.”
“Oh ya,” Roberts said. “One more thing. There was bruising around the eye with the smashed lens. Unclear if that happened before, or after the forehead trauma, but something small and round hit him in the eye. Something like a ball or a rock.”
“Or a fist,” Jake added.