After several text message exchanges, Lacey Vinton, Manny Acevedo’s ex-girlfriend, and I agreed to meet at the Foxtrot market in Streeterville, a couple of blocks from my building. Everything seemed to be out in full force: the sun, the pampered dogs, and lots of tanned flesh. I had snagged the last outdoor table, next to a woman who looked like she hadn’t eaten in a month and should be featured on a billboard for dermatology malpractice. I tried not to stare at her plump lips, but they were too much of a spectacle to ignore.
Lacey Vinton was much younger than I had expected and extremely easy on the eyes. She wore a tight, cropped, backless green halter top and a pair of acid-washed jeans that looked like they would have to be peeled off that night for her to get in bed. Her dark hair had been pulled back into a long ponytail, putting the beauty of her tanned face on full display.
“Thanks for meeting with me,” I said as she took her seat. “I won’t take up much of your time.”
She looked down at her phone. The bejeweled protector shined in the sun. “I still have another hour before I need to leave for work,” she said.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a docent at the Art Institute.”
She must’ve read the slight adjustment in my expression, because she said, “Don’t worry, I don’t dress like this when I’m giving a tour.”
“Would be worth the price of admission,” I said.
She unleashed a smile that I was certain had crushed at least a thousand hearts. “Kids need to learn it’s cool to like art,” she said, “and you don’t have to be a hundred years old to appreciate or understand it.”
“I’m willing to bet that you get more attention than those old masters hanging on the walls.”
“You’d be surprised,” she said. “But it’s not really the kids. It’s more the teachers. Kind of creepy when they ask me for my number right in front of their students.”
I looked at how snug her top fit and found it completely understandable why they would shoot their shot.
“So you and Manny were seeing each other,” I said.
“Only for a minute,” she said. “Nothing too serious. One day, I was heading home from work, and we sat next to each other on the train. We had a nice conversation. He was funny. He asked me if I wanted to grab something to eat. He seemed nice enough, so I agreed.”
“How long ago?”
“About two years.”
“He’s been married for six.”
“That’s why it didn’t last long. I ended it once I found out. I didn’t have a problem with him being older. I’ve always liked older men. But I didn’t want to get caught up in some entanglement. I have friends who dated married men. It was nonstop drama. I didn’t need any of that in my life.”
“Did you know he worked for one of the richest men in Chicago?”
“Not at first,” she said. “He told me he worked logistics for a private company. I never really pushed him about his job. I didn’t care what he did. He was cute and nice and made me laugh. It wasn’t like I was trying to marry him, so his job didn’t matter.”
“How did you find out who he worked for?”
“It was All-Star weekend, and all the NBA players were in town for the game. We were having drinks one night, and his cell rang. He answered it, had a quick conversation, then got up and said he had to go. His boss needed him. I called bullshit on him. What boss needs someone at one in the morning? He said he was on call to the owner of the company, and the owner had just decided he wanted to go to Jordan’s party. I told him I wanted to go too. He told me it wasn’t a good idea. He had to drive his boss, then take him into the party and stay with him. I figured his boss had to be someone important, so I asked his name. He told me.”
“Did you know him?”
Lacey smiled. “Of course,” she said. “I walk by his name almost every day. The Kantor Wing of Contemporary Art. He’s a legend in the art world.”
“Did you ever meet him?” I said.
“Only once,” she said. “By accident. He came to the museum for a board meeting. I was filling in for a friend working the morning shift. We were in the elevator together. He was wearing a name badge. He was very nice. Asked me about my work and what my favorite painting was.”
“What did you say?”
“Boy and Dog in a Johnnypump.”
“Basquiat.”
“You know his art?”
“Know it but can’t afford it. That’s the painting the billionaire Griffin bought for a hundred million in the middle of the pandemic.”
“It’s really disgusting how much cash these guys have,” she said. “They have money to burn. You like Basquiat’s work?”
“For sure. I like his philosophy and message as much as the art itself. He was the people’s artist. Focused on New York City street life. Interested in painting what he called the saints and heroes of the street. I read somewhere that he wanted to put these skeletal male figures in some type of regal history to be admired and remembered.”
“I’ve seen the Johnnypump painting a hundred times, and each time I’ve seen something different in it,” she said. “Too bad that’s the only piece we have of his. Well, sort of have.”
“What do you mean?”
“The museum doesn’t actually own the painting. It was loaned to us for an indefinite period of time so the public can enjoy it. He’s done that with a lot of his collection.”
“‘Among the rich you will never find a really generous man even by accident. They may give their money away, but they will never give themselves away; they are egotistic, secretive, dry as old bones.’”
“Well done,” she said, smiling. “I feel like I’ve heard that before.”
“G. K. Chesterton, English writer, philosopher, and art critic.”
“A private investigator who quotes philosophy.”
“And plays the fiddle with his teeth.”
“Are you serious?”
“No, but it sounded good.”
She laughed.
“Did Manny ever talk about Kantor?” I said.
“Not really. He would just say if he was busy with the boss or had to run an errand for him. He said sometimes Kantor could be grumpy, but overall, he was a nice man. Said he treated him more like family.”
“Did Manny ever talk about Kantor’s extracurricular activities?”
“What kind?”
“The adult kind.”
She shook her head. “Never.”
“Nothing about the Bahamas or trips on his private plane?”
“Manny said he had a big estate down there, but that’s about it. What do you think happened to him?”
“Between you and me?”
She nodded.
“I think someone killed him,” I said.
“For his money?”
“High up on the list. Most murders are related to money, sex, or revenge. Did you ever hear Manny talking to Kantor on the phone?”
“Several times,” she said.
“Anything catch your attention?”
She thought for a moment, then said, “Not really. But I wasn’t paying much attention, to be honest.”
Lacey started gathering her belongings. I found myself staring at her, thinking how lucky Manny had been, even if only for a short time.
“You know, there was one thing that was funny, now that I think of it,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“I remember one time Manny and I were just talking. I don’t remember what we were talking about, but Manny was laughing to himself. I asked him what was so funny. He said something I said reminded him of a conversation he overheard. His boss had called someone, and when the other person answered, he spoke in a soft voice and called himself Plutus.”
“Plutus?”
“Yup.”
“Are you certain?”
“One hundred percent. Because I asked Manny if he knew who Plutus was, and Manny got confused with Brutus from the cartoon Popeye. I told him Plutus was a Greek god. I joked that his boss must’ve had a real ego to refer to himself as a god. But to each his own. I guess we all can be gods and goddesses in our own minds. We have that right.”
“Especially you,” I said.
She smiled. “You’re kinda cute.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“And modest too.”
“Honesty is the best policy.”
“You know, we could have a lot of fun,” she said.
“We could, if I wasn’t already taken,” I said.
“Are you in love?”
“Something like that.”
“Is she in love with you?”
“I hope so. Otherwise, the dream is over. Little hurts deeper than the raw death of an illusion.”
Lacey smiled and stood up, and the traffic on McClurg Street came to a stop. “I work at the museum from one to five, Monday, Thursday, and Friday. If you’re ever in the mood to vibe over some Basquiat, lemme know.”
“And if you ever need a mystery solved, I’m your guy,” I said. I stood and extended my hand. She grabbed my shoulders instead, pulled me into her, and kissed me on the cheek. She winked, then turned and walked down McClurg. Even the best-in-class Shih Tzus and Pomeranians stood still and admired the view.
That evening, I sat in my office, staring at my evidence wall. I had pinned up Thompson’s photo next to Kantor’s. I stared at the similarities of their deaths that I had written beneath their pictures. But I didn’t have anything that directly connected them. Mechanic walked in, grabbed a cold Sam Adams out of the fridge, and took a seat across the desk.
“Plutus?” he said, looking at the wall.
“Greek god of wealth,” I said. “That’s what Kantor called himself.”
“Like a nickname?”
“I’m not sure. A gorgeous ex-mistress of his night guy, Manny, told me that’s how Kantor referred to himself while talking on the phone.”
“Did she laugh when he said it?”
“She didn’t hear it, but knowing her, she probably would have. Manny told her that Kantor had called himself that.”
“Why are rich people so damn crazy?”
“Because they have everything else in the world they want, so they need something different to keep themselves entertained.”
“But everybody’s got problems, I guess.”
We sat there in silence for a few moments, then I explained to him my conversation with the trainer Malcolm Boyd.
“You believe him?” Mechanic asked.
“I do.”
“You don’t find the whole situation a little weird?”
“I do.”
“You think there really was a third guy?”
“I do. And maybe something didn’t go as planned.”
“Or maybe it did.”
“Which is why finding the third guy could help fill in some of these gaps,” I said. “Let’s take a little field trip.”
“Where?”
“Back to the scene of the crime. Kantor’s apartment building. Let’s do some old-fashioned detective work.”
“Which means?”
“Knock on some doors and ask some questions. People know a lot more than they think they know.”
An hour later, we stood on the porch of a salmon pink brick home just a few doors down from the Manor on Janssen Avenue. Two planters full of purple and red petunias lined the railing leading up to a fire-engine red door. A heavy brass knocker in the shape of a boar’s head hung prominently below the number 2334. I pulled it back and tapped softly, trying not to scare whoever might be inside. Seconds later, we heard the lock slide back and the door creak open. A short, older woman with a mash of silver hair welcomed us with a friendly smile.
“How can I help you gentlemen?” she said.
She had a trace of an accent. Maybe Slavic. I wasn’t sure which country.
“We’re canvassing the neighborhood, trying to find information about the apartment building a few doors down at the corner of the street,” I said.
“Are you looking to buy?”
“Nothing like that,” I said. “I’m a private detective.”
I took out one of my cards and handed it to her. She studied it, then looked up at Mechanic.
“He works with me,” I said. “He just doesn’t speak much.”
“Did something bad happen?” she said.
“There was a car stolen from the building several weeks ago. We’re trying to identify who might’ve stolen it, so we’re just asking the neighbors to see if they saw anything suspicious.”
“This is the first I’m hearing of it,” she said. “I’m surprised such a thing could happen here. This is a really quiet street. I’ve been here longer than you are old. Never any problems.”
I pulled out my phone, brought up a photo of a Bentley that looked like Kantor’s, and showed it to her. She stepped closer, tilted her head back slightly, and adjusted her large glasses as she examined the photo.
“I’m afraid I’m not going to be of much help,” she said. “I don’t know anything about cars. I couldn’t tell one make from another. I don’t pay much attention to them. What night was it stolen?”
“May second.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. I can barely remember what happened two days ago, let alone a couple weeks ago. But I know someone who might be able to help. My neighbor Emily, four houses south of me, tends to stay on top of these things. And she’s a lot younger, with a much better memory.”
“Thanks for all your help,” I said. “We’ll go and talk to Emily now before it gets too late.”
“Unfortunately, you won’t find her there,” she said. “Her mother broke her hip a few days ago and had to have surgery, so Emily flew out to Phoenix to be with her. But when she comes back, I’ll give her your card and have her call you.”
“We’d appreciate that,” I said. “And if you think of anything or hear from any of the neighbors, please give me a ring.”
“Will do.”
She smiled again and closed the door. Mechanic and I spent the next half hour walking up and down the street, knocking on doors, talking to people, approaching neighbors who had just come home and were parking their cars. They all said mostly the same thing: This was a very quiet street, and they were shocked someone had their car stolen. Did this mean they should be worried about more crimes coming to the neighborhood? It wasn’t until we were almost two hours into our search that we got a hit. Miles Carthew lived at the opposite end of the street. He was a divorced software analyst who worked long hours downtown and lived alone with his pug, Felix. He had never seen the blue Bentley, but he did remember something strange one night a couple of weeks ago.
“I was walking Felix up to Fullerton,” he said. “I typically walk up the west side of the street, but Felix had gotten neutered earlier that day, and the vet didn’t want him getting excited and jumping around. There was another dog about ten yards away, heading in our direction. Felix is really friendly, so I knew he’d want to jump all over the other dog. I crossed the street to stop that from happening. We were walking along the side of that apartment building, just a few yards from reaching Fullerton, when we almost got hit by a door I didn’t even know existed.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“I’ve walked by that building a thousand times, and I never knew there was a door on the side of it. Suddenly it swung open out of nowhere and almost hit us. A small man rushed out and headed south on Janssen.”
Mechanic and I locked eyes without saying anything. We both knew it was Kantor’s secret door.
“You remember what he looked like?” I asked.
“Not really,” Carthew said. “He was wearing all black. Jeans, hoodie, boots—everything was black.”
“Did you see his face?”
“Not much of it. He was moving so fast. I do remember he had a small diamond nose ring. It shined under the streetlight.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Nope. He just put up his hand to apologize, turned around quickly, and kept going. And he had a funny walk.”
“What do you mean?”
“He had a limp, like his hip was hurting.” Carthew closed his eyes for a moment. “He was leaning to his left side.”
“Do you remember the specific night this happened?”
“Not off the top of my head. Wait. Hold on for a minute.” He pulled his phone out and slid through a couple of screens. “One second.” He tapped the screen a couple of more times, then said, “May second.”
I looked at Mechanic, then back at Carthew. “Are you sure that was the date?” I said.
“A hundred percent.” He turned his phone so I could see the calendar he had brought up. “Felix had his neuter appointment that morning.”
“Do you remember what time it was that you saw the man leave the building?”
“Not exactly, but I know it was after ten and before midnight. I was at a dinner that night with one of our clients, and we left the restaurant just before ten. So I figure, by the time I got home and got Felix out, it had to be after ten o’clock.”
“Did you see anyone else enter or leave the door that night?”
“Nope. Felix and I walked up to Fullerton, turned around, and went home.”
Nothing like good old-fashioned detective work. Carthew had just helped confirm the timeline.