I decided to have lunch in my office so I could get some work done. I grabbed a couple of slices from Robert’s Pizza and barricaded myself in the office with the lights turned off and the sun cutting its way through the window. I opened an ice-cold can of root beer and allowed my attention to drift between Buckingham Fountain, which was now shooting water several stories in the air, and Kantor’s schedules that Javier had given me.
I was most struck by how busy Kantor had been for a seventy-seven-year-old grandfather who had enough money to retire on his own private island and never have to worry about another meeting or sales spreadsheet. In the span of forty-eight hours, he had ten in-person meetings; fifteen phone meetings; a call with the former president, who was building his presidential library ten minutes south of downtown; a cancer gala where he served as a co-chair; and a school band performance for his two oldest grandchildren.
I was finishing the second slice of pizza when Carolina called in.
“Is this a bad time?” she asked.
“Have you ever heard me say that?” I said.
“I remember that time I called you while you were on the golf course and just about to swing. You hit a bad shot. You got a bogey or double bogey, and it cost you the match. You weren’t very happy.”
“That was three years ago. Ancient history. I’ll never complain again.”
“You have a deal,” she said. “But you also have a problem with that plate you gave me.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“That car isn’t registered to anyone by the name of Jenny Lee,” she said. “The registration comes back as Green Nod Holdings, LLC.”
“Any idea who owns that?”
“The managing agent is a guy named Monroe Connelly. He’s a lawyer with the firm Strook, Connelly, and Levy.”
“You can’t make this shit up,” I said. “A high-end escort who serves drinks on the second shift at a casino discovers the dead body of one of the city’s richest men after showing up for a night of bondage and kink. She also drives around in a hundred-thousand-dollar car registered to an attorney at a fancy downtown law firm. And just for good measure, she has almost the same name as a famous Taiwanese tennis player, but spells her name differently by just one letter.”
“Which is?”
“An e versus an a.”
“Does it matter?”
“When the name is spelled with an e, it means ‘pure and clear’ in Chinese. Jenny’s real name is spelled with an a, which has no real translation that I could find.”
“Maybe it means ‘impure and unclear.’”
“Which, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you came to that biased conclusion based on the delicate nature of her profession.”
“According to you, the activities she had planned for Kantor were anything but delicate.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “What would my life be like without you in it?”
“Ever try a bowl of warm, soggy cereal that’s been sitting on the counter for two days?”
“That’s just about right.”
Mechanic and I sat in his two-year-old silver Prius across the street from the UPS Store on Division Street. He only used this car when he needed to blend in with the surroundings. Adam Mickiewicz came every Saturday afternoon between five and six o’clock to pick up his mail. We didn’t know what he looked like, but Mechanic had convinced Enrique to text us when the mysterious customer appeared.
“I just get the feeling there’s a lot more to this than an old man who overdosed on bad drugs,” I said. “There’s so much that doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Like what?” Mechanic said.
“Let’s start with Jenny Lee. She gets an assignment with one of the richest men in the city, and she doesn’t even know his name or what he does. He’s just some anonymous guy who’s willing to pay her three thousand dollars to rough him up while he’s wearing panties and a dog collar.”
“Rich people do weird shit,” Mechanic said. “And crazy-rich people do crazy-weird shit. That’s what happens when you have everything you want. Nothing is normal anymore.”
“It’s almost like he was leading a double life,” I said. “Business mogul and loving grandfather by day, then at night he was either a sports nut, major philanthropist, or hiding away in his apartment popping Molly while getting tied up and whipped, and who knows whatever else.”
“You think his assistants really didn’t know about it?”
“They had to know something. They were with him every minute of the day.”
“But not at night.”
“No, he was only with his driver Manny.”
Mechanic’s phone vibrated. He opened the message. Blue shirt with a red baseball cap.
We jumped out of the car and quickly made our way across the street. There were three customers in the store. An old woman with a long coat and a small dog in a rolling basket stood at the counter. Mickiewicz stood behind the old woman, and a girl in pink leggings stood behind him. Enrique was helping the old woman. I walked in while Mechanic stayed outside. I stood in line with everyone else. When the old woman was finished, Mickiewicz stepped up, and Enrique turned away from the counter and walked behind the mailboxes. He came back with a large packet of mail, put it in a plastic bag, and handed it over. They exchanged words, Enrique laughed, and Mickiewicz headed toward the door. I let him walk by me, then followed. Once outside, he turned right. Mechanic then followed him as I hung back. When they were halfway down the block, Mickiewicz stopped at a red Audi e-tron SUV. The lights flashed as he got closer. He went to open the driver’s door, but Mechanic jammed his hand out to stop him.
“What the hell is your problem?” Mickiewicz said.
“Adam Mickiewicz?” I said, approaching from behind.
He turned and looked at me.
“Who the hell are you?” he said.
“A big admirer of your ride,” I said. “Nice color. Three hundred and fifty horsepower, right?”
He looked at Mechanic. “Get outta my way, muthafucka,” Mickiewicz said.
“I’m not so sure I’d talk about his mother like that,” I said. “That’s a sensitive topic. She raised him alone while working two jobs. And she’s still alive. Which you might not be for much longer if you continue to piss him off.”
Mickiewicz sized up Mechanic. The stats were definitely in Mickiewicz’s favor. At least on paper. He had Mechanic by about two inches and seventy-five pounds. He was definitely wider at the shoulders, but I could tell his chin was soft, and his legs were like toothpicks. For his sake, I was hoping he chose wisely.
“What the hell is this all about?” Mickiewicz growled.
“Karol’s Angels,” I said. “Cute name by the way. A nice play on Charlie’s Angels.”
“Are you a cop?” Mickiewicz said, keeping his eyes on Mechanic.
“I could be,” I said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you don’t answer my questions, then I’ll make one phone call, and you’ll have a bunch of cops crawling all up your ass, and they won’t be charging you three thousand dollars. They might charge you with accessory to murder.”
“Murder? Are you crazy? I haven’t killed nobody. And you guys ain’t cops, so back the fuck off before this gets physical.”
No sooner had he finished getting that last word out than Mechanic jabbed him under his right rib cage. I could hear the sound of bone cracking. Mickiewicz dropped his bag of mail and bent over. An older woman walking by and pushing a baby stroller shrieked and ran away.
“Jesus Christ,” Mickiewicz gasped. “You broke my fuckin’ rib.”
“You have fourteen facial bones,” I said. “His next punch will crack half of them, and you’ll be drinking your next birthday cake through a straw.”
“Okay, what is it you want?” Mickiewicz groaned. He straightened up and leaned back against the car.
“Does Jenny Lee work for you?”
“She’s one of my girls.”
“You gave her an assignment about ten days ago over at 1425 West Fullerton Avenue.”
“I don’t remember everyone’s fuckin’ assignment,” he said. “I have eleven girls. They all are busy.”
“She says you texted her the assignment,” I said.
“You talked to Jenny?”
“I did.”
“So, what are you after?”
“I want to know how that job was set up. Do you use an app or website?”
“Neither one. I get a message from the exchange service, they give me the information, and I assign one of my girls.”
“And who collects the money?”
“The exchange.”
“How much?”
“What the fuck?”
Mechanic took half a step forward.
“Okay. Okay. They keep a third, and I get two-thirds.”
“How do they pay you?”
“They send me the money through Cash App.”
“What’s their username?”
“Why are you asking so many damn questions?”
“Because I’m a private investigator, and part of my job is to ask shitheads like you questions.”
“I’m done answering your questions.”
“That’s your choice. But it also means you’ll be driving this very fancy car with one side of your face two inches lower than the other side and spitting blood like a faucet. Won’t be very good for those Corinthian leather seats.”
Mickiewicz looked at Mechanic, whose eyes had about as much life in them as a tree stump waiting for the roots to die.
“The username is friendlypartners69,” Mickiewicz said. “All small letters.”
“Who do you work with at this exchange?” I asked.
“Nobody. They text me the info, and I assign it to one of the girls.”
“What’s the exchange’s number?”
“Won’t get you anywhere. They won’t answer the phone, and they won’t text you back unless they know who you are.”
“Thanks for the advice. I’ll take the number anyway.”
He recited the number.
“Who is Monroe Connelly?”
“Never heard of him before.”
“We’re gonna check out all you’ve said, and if some of it doesn’t work out, you’ll be using diapers the rest of your life.”
“I told you all I know,” he said. “I’m just a middleman. Whoever these guys are, they don’t want to be found out, which is fine by me. As long as I get my money, I don’t ask any questions.”
“You should give Jenny her money for that job. You still owe her a thousand dollars. It’s not her fault the guy was dead by the time she got there.”
The look of surprise on his face was authentic.