CONSTANCE

Nick Sinclair is my name, and private investigation is my game. Well, that's my name now, anyway, and that's what it says on the glass of my office door. I had to have my name legally changed as soon as I turned twenty-one. Who would have put much trust in a private detective named Irving Gladmyster? Private investigation is my business, but for fifteen years preceding my now chosen profession, I was a homicide detective with the Chicago PD. When I opened the PI business, I wanted to look the part. I had the right look physically, six foot two, dark hair and eyes, wiry build yet strong and athletic. So, to complete the look, I wore a conservative dark suit, slightly wrinkled shirt, scuffed shoes, and short haircut, parted and kept in place with a spot of Brylcreem and topped off with a fedora hat. I looked like I had stepped out of the late forties or fifties, a bit like Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon. You've probably read plenty of tales about guys like Spade and me. But after two years, I hadn't had any work that anyone would want to read about. I had some savings, but it was running low. I also had a nest egg from my father's life insurance, but I'd never touched it, and I hoped I would never have to. Things were looking bleak, and I thought I would have to close the doors. Then I caught a break.

It was sunny but cool in Chicago on that fateful Friday morning in August. At approximately eleven hundred hours, I was sitting at my messy desk, my back to the door, feet propped up on the windowsill. I was on the phone and staring out my window when she walked in. I spun around to see who had come into my humble establishment and then said into the phone, "Bill, someone just came in. I'll get back to you." I tried to make it sound official, like perhaps it was another client, when in fact it was my bookie. Yes, I liked to bet on tennis matches occasionally, a small-time vice and ... well, that's another story.

There she stood, a tall figure of a woman, one who had the right equipment in the right proportions and all in the right places. The sheer beauty of her would make any red-blooded male take a long, hard look and then run for a cold shower. My eyes couldn't help but visually caress her from the top of her fiery-red hair to those trim ankles. Her face flushed a bit. I guess I wasn't all that subtle. She had her red hair pulled back and tied close to her scalp, creating a long plume that hung over her left shoulder and down the front of her stunning green dress to below her breast. The green dress she wore said, "I'm rich." Her demeanor said, "I didn't pay for it." Her nails said, "I don't work." Her skin said, "I'm very pampered." As she stood with her hands behind her, leaning against the door, not saying a word but looking at me as if to say, Drink it all in, boy, and then let's get to work, I felt that it was going to be a very lucky day.

"Good morning, miss. May I help you?"

"It's Mrs., and I wish to see Mr. Nick Sinclair."

"Yes, ma'am, that's me." I stood, wearing my best smile. "Won't you please come in and have a seat."

As she came toward me, I noodled that this woman was skilled in the social graces. She was poised and walked with assurance, and she sat with her knees together and to the side, shoulders squared and her back erect. She hadn't just come into money; she had grown up with it and was bathed in it. Then I noticed her green eyes, exquisite, looking almost like emeralds. She looked slightly familiar, but not the kind of familiar I would have wished for.

"Mr. Sinclair ..."

"Call me Nick. Formality doesn't work in my business." I smiled slightly.

The corner of her ruby-red lips turned up, and with a discreet nod, she said, "Very well then, Nick. My name is Constance Rothstein-Ramos."

I wrote it down, and then it hit me. Of course, now I knew exactly who she was, the eldest daughter of Herman T. Rothstein, arguably the richest man in Cook County. I had read that she had married Stanford Thomas Ramos, or Tommy, as close friends and family referred to him. He was from another old-money family in Chicago. Why is it that money always marries money? The Ramos Family Trust owned the Dwight David Building and, therefore, was the landlord to such notables as yours truly and my friend Duffy. When I moved into the building, I was told I had leased part of what was at one time the Ramoses' office, until they built their own office building. That was why my office had a few extra perks, like a shower, in addition to the usual office restroom fixtures. The Ramos family fortune had been made in real estate many years before by Tommy's parents and grandparents. The Rothsteins had also made their money starting three generations back—in retail, real estate, and banking. They currently owned forty retail outlets throughout the urban Chicago area and forty-five bank branches, strategically placed in retail buildings throughout the city with five more in the suburbs.

"How can I help you, Constance?"

"Mr., I mean, Nick, I'll come straight to the point. I believe my husband is having an affair."

There it was, disappointment and dashed hopes. This was heading for just another snoop-and-shoot job. My heightened anticipation of what she needed dropped. She pulled a lacy, white handkerchief from her slim, black purse and dabbed it to the corner of her eyes, being very careful not to mess up the beautiful makeup job. Yes, sir, catch that tear, but don't let the makeup get smudged.

"And you want me to confirm your fears or put them to rest. If I do catch him in an act of infidelity, you want me to gather photographic evidence and determine the other woman's identity?"

"Yes, and anything else you can determine about her."

"I can do that, but I'll need some information from you." I readied my pen to my notepad and went through my litany of questions, which she answered in complete detail.

During our conversation and between tears, I noticed that she kept looking at me and then at my desk and then around the office. Was she looking for something? Was she having second thoughts about being here, or did she begin to have a change of heart about learning the truth? I had to clarify this before moving on.

"Mrs. Ramos, is something wrong? I mean, you keep looking around as though you're looking for something or someone."

Her posture stiffened, and her smile looked strained. "Nick, you seem to be an educated man, yet your clothes and office give one the appearance of a disorganized, disheveled individual."

I paused for a second, looked at my desk, and then back at her. "Oh, is that it? Well, that's just my shtick. If I appear as the stereotypical detective, I hope to get more work. Besides, I like the nostalgia." I gave her my fatherly smile.

She laughed and seemed to relax a bit. "I think you should rethink that value proposition."

"Perhaps you're right," I said. "Now let's get back to your situation. I have all the info I need to get started and will put a tail on your husband and find out the identity of his mistress, if any."

Then she threw out the words that started me salivating.

"Nick, I also believe my husband wishes to do me great harm, and I'm very frightened. Not so much for me, but ... I'm two months pregnant. You see, it's my baby that I'm most concerned about. My fear is more for him ... or her."

If she was afraid, she hid it well, as well as her body hid her pregnancy. Now my interest was heightened, once again. This had gone from a snoop-and-shoot to possible physical abuse or worse. I gave her my private number. Wasn't that what PIs always called it in the movies? It was really my unlisted home phone. I told her that I would begin immediately on her case but that I would need an advance of $1,000 to apply against the fee. I held my breath, as I was just testing. Hell, I would have, and usually did, take cases without any upfront money.

Without a word, she opened her handbag and handed me a plain white, sealed envelope. "I thought it would be more, so use what's here and let me know if or when you need more."

I put the envelope to the side to show trust and not have her think that I was in need.

She then stood. "Nick, I expect to hear from you soon, yes?"

I stood as well. "I'll keep you apprised. You be careful now ... and call me should you discover anything else."

With a slight smile and a nod of the head, she extended her hand. I wasn't sure if I should shake it or kiss it. With discretion, I chose the former. Then she turned and walked toward the door, a sight worth the view. As the door snapped shut behind her, I grabbed the envelope to examine its contents. There were thirty one-hundred-dollar bills, crisp and new as though she had gotten them directly from the US mint. I could almost buy a new Corvette with that much money! The bills had the slight aroma of her perfume, sweet yet subtle, and a unique fragrance that, from that day forward, would always say "Constance." Little did I know at that moment that I would see her only once more. I put five hundred in my pocket and placed the rest of the money in my wall safe, another free benefit of the former Ramos suite.

It was midafternoon as I drove over to the newspaper office. I wanted to do a little research on the Ramos and Rothstein families to see if old news could drop a clue. When I reached the newspaper building, I took the elevator up a dozen floors to pay a visit to my ol' buddy Howard King, or Hal as I knew him, who covered the police beat for the Chicago Tribune and was also the assistant editor. He was a valuable source of the printed and, more importantly, the unprinted. I had often gleaned a grain of truth from the rumor side of the story from my friend. Much of what I had learned about the Rothsteins was from him. Hal was not what you'd expect in an editor or reporter. He didn't look like Cary Grant or Rock Hudson. He was unusually short but not a dwarf, bald as a cue ball, and built in a way that made it hard to tell if he was walking or rolling. He had a curious habit of hesitating for seconds before he answered a question. I would occasionally tell him that he was going into brain lock when he paused too long. He did clue me in on some interesting facts, or what he called facts, about Herman Rothstein's alleged affiliation with the mob. I say alleged, as no one has ever been able to prove it to the satisfaction of the DA. One thing was certain. Herman Rothstein was a no-nonsense businessman and had devoted his life to his business. Mrs. Rothstein evidently was quite the entertainer with her luncheons and charitable activities, keeping her too busy for child rearing. She had turned those motherly duties over to a British nanny, who had raised them and instilled the social graces.

According to Hal, who seemed really in the know about this family, Constance responded well under this type of tutelage. However, she had a sister, Ashley, younger by three years, who did not respond as well. She instead would go to Alice, a longtime house servant, when she was troubled. Ashley had left a large wake behind her. It turned out she had run away a few times, and Herman had always brought her back. The press reported her episodes of drunk and disorderly behavior. She hung out with people beneath her social status and had many run-ins with the law. The press made numerous comparisons between her and her more proper, older sister. Ashley was infamous for drunk driving, reckless driving, and speeding. Her father's money had bought favors from high-level officials, including the chief of police, who gave orders instructing officers to release her or to take her home, and no reports were filed. Ashley was a beautiful, spoiled, and precocious person. I wanted to know her and keep an eye on her. I saw two rich sisters, both beautiful, Constance in a classy, refined way, and Ashley—well, all I had were black-and-white newspaper photos. It seemed to make for a classic sibling rivalry. The ol' noodle started to say, "Hummmm!" I knew this had possibilities.

Constance went on to marry within her status, as expected, while Ashley,theblacksheep,wasstillsingle.Oh,shehadhadmanyopportunities, and there was one man that she had sworn she would marry, but her father would have no part of it. The man was the antithesis of the Rothstein family. He was full of himself, wild, irresponsible, and a real ladies' man. Ashley was about to elope with him when he suddenly disappeared without a trace. Rumor had it that the old man had him ... removed, shall we say? Be assured that if foul play were involved, he would never be found. Why, it was amazing how many buildings in downtown Chicago were rumored to have had the foundations reinforced with human bones.

Ashley seemed to love to bring up that notion, mostly to embarrass her father at family functions, or any other function for that matter. Society pages were full of the stories. She told anyone who would listen that it was daddy dearest who had ruined her chance for happiness by having her intended killed and disposed of in some sinister fashion. Of course, no one paid any attention to the ramblings of a woman who spent too much time swimming in Russian vodka. I realized that a lot of Hal's information was built on half-truths and rumor, but it was a starting point.

After I left Hal's office, I stopped by the newspaper morgue to get the printed version of what the Rothsteins were all about. I found nothing all that unusual. It confirmed the printable side of what Hal had told me and provided photos of the family.

Wealthy folks are always in the news. I found the usual stuff: charity functions, business acquisitions, grand social affairs, family members and their notables. Mostly, the articles about them were located in the business and society sections. I didn't know at that time that they would soon be front-page news! I got all I needed, so I headed out.

As a private gumshoe, I had to have good sources. Hal was the first of many that I would come into contact with before this job and what came with it were through.

A CHANCE ENCOUNTER

Given the lateness of the day, I decided to go back to my office, compile some notes, check with the answering service, and then see my ol' pal Duffy. Once finished, I flipped off the last light switch and closed the door of my twenty-fifth-floor office in the Dwight David Building, downtown Chicago. The building had been renamed for General Eisenhower after VE Day of World War II when he was supreme commander of the Allied Forces in Europe.

Another week had come to an end. I locked the door and then caught the southbound elevator and rode it down to the ornate lobby. It was filled with granite and marble, large, strange paintings, and red carpet that escorted you to the large, glass exit doors. I had no clue what those paintings were supposed to represent, but then I never did dig modern art.

I walked into the bar that was right off the lobby, saddled up to my favorite barstool, and ordered my usual, J.T.S. Brown on the rocks.

Duffy's is a great downtown Irish bar. When you enter from the street, you see a long bar to your left and tables on your right. Irish flags and decorations adorn the walls. There's also a side entrance directly from the building lobby, which is the entrance that I used. The bar staff is usually a one-man show–ol' Duff himself, or as he would say, meself. About the only time he needs help behind the bar is on, you guessed it, St. Patty's Day when they're stacked three deep around the bar. He has four young gals, two per shift and Irish of course, waiting the tables. Their uniforms consist of the following: a very short, red and black plaid, pleated skirt, a white shirt with a shamrock on the pocket, and a green tie. Duffy wears whatever he wants, usually something out of style, along with the white shirt with a shamrock on the pocket. He's a big man with a strong Irish accent and a beard as red as his hair. He's also the best guy with a joke you've ever heard. He has a million of them and can't wait to tell you his latest. What always amazes me is that he never forgets a one, unlike me, who can never remember a one. He also keeps me up on any good scoop from time to time because, as we all know, a good bartender hears plenty.