Part 12 (1/2)
”There's nothing to add, Ms. Delaney. My connection to the Mississippi Delta is a cash flow from a bank. That's all.”
Night had blanketed the street when I walked to the waiting cab. My cell phone rang as the driver took off for the hotel.
”h.e.l.lo, dahling,” Cece said. ”I wanted to give you an update. Jimmy Baby is taking me to Memphis for dinner.”
”How's Oscar?” I'd been away less than a day, but in my absence anything could have happened.
”The same. Oscar and Gordon have stabilized, but there's no improvement. The two realtor ladies have improved, but only marginally.”
Thoughts of Tinkie made my head throb. ”I'll be home tomorrow on the first flight out.”
”Find anything of value?”
”Sonja Kessler is getting a nice cut of the Carlisle pie, which Luther is doling out per Gregory's dictates. She claims she doesn't want any more than she's getting.”
”And when will she be canonized?” Cece's tone was dry.
”My sentiments exactly. But so far, there's nothing to contradict what she said. She says she hasn't filed any claim.”
”Well, you may have chased that rabbit into a hole, but I've got a lead.”
”What?”
”Jimmy Janks is not who he pretends to be. And don't say what you're thinking--that neither am I.”
”I wasn't thinking that at all. But what did you find out?”
”He's not from Mobile, and he doesn't come from old money.” She laughed. ”In fact, dahling, he's about the worst imposter in the world. He knows enough about Mobile to get himself into trouble talking about it.”
Cece had spent several summers visiting relatives in the oak-shaded lanes of Spring Hill, the zip code destination of that port city.
In the 1800s, Spring Hill was the place to survive yellow fever epidemics that raged along Southern waterfront towns like Mobile and New Orleans. The wealthy moved out of town and into the higher elevations, while the poor died of mosquito bites down in the flatlands along the Mobile River and Mobile Bay.
”I'm sorry, Cece, I know he struck your fancy.”
”I'm a journalist first and a burning love machine second,” Cece said. ”The first time I went out with Jimmy, I realized he was a pretender to the throne of Junior League date material.”
”Tell me.” Chicago whisked past the cab window.
”Dahling,” Cece continued, ”he held his fork like a savage. I sat there thinking, has he adopted the Continental style for some reason? Then I realized he had no style at all. He clutched his flatware as if readying to attack his plate.”
I couldn't help but laugh. There were more important things than proper table etiquette in Cece's life, but not many. ”I'm surprised you didn't rap his knuckles with your bread knife.”
”I considered it, but I knew if I chastised him for lack of upbringing, I'd never extract any information.”
”And did you?”
”Enough to know he bears further research. In fact, that's why I'm calling. While you're in Chicago maybe you can track down his background.”
”Here? In Chicago?”
”Yes, that would be the Windy City located in Illinois. Look around you.”
”Save your sarcasm for your witty newspaper articles. I'm just shocked. Did he say he was from here?”
”He's not quite that dumb. The give-away was the fifteen-minute dissertation on the glories of the Chicago Bears, not to mention his intimate knowledge of the places Jimmy Hoffa might be buried. He knows Chicago and he doesn't know Mobile. Ergo, he might be from Chicago.”
”Did you find anything on him? Something to help me get started?” Hunting down the background of someone in Zinnia was a different case than in Chicago. In Zinnia, I could most often turn up someone who knew everything, or most everything. In a city like Chicago, it was impersonal. While facts were concrete, they seldom told the whole truth.
”Preliminary Internet research showed nothing. The only thing I could find on Jimmy was his company and a list of the development projects he's done.”
”College degree?”
”He never attended Ole Miss. I checked that out but didn't get any further. I would say Jimmy is definitely public school. That doesn't help much, I know.”
”Could it be coincidence that he's from the same place as Gregory's illegitimate daughter?” How bizarre was that?
”You know what they say about coincidence, Sarah Booth. Look, I've got to go. He'll be here any minute.”
The cab driver took a corner sharply, and my stomach lurched. The sensation did nothing to alleviate my concerns for my reporter friend. ”Be careful with him, Cece. He may simply be a liar and con man or he could be dangerous.”
”I'm on the double-alert. And I'll pump him as much as I can, and I don't mean in a s.e.xual way.”
”Behave, and don't put yourself in danger,” I said. ”Promise me you'll call Coleman and fill him in.” We'd pulled up in front of my hotel and I rummaged through my purse for the fare. The minute my feet touched the pavement, my stomach settled.
”Will do. By the way, Sarah Booth, you're a d.a.m.n determined investigator and a better friend,” she said. ”Tinkie should count herself lucky.”
”No, I'm the lucky one. Don't take any risks,” I warned her. ”When I get home, we can tackle Jimmy together.”
”Tackle . . . humm. That's an image I like. Ciao, baby.”
”Cece!” But she was gone. It wasn't a good sign when she started using Italian phrases.
I paid the driver and gave her a fat tip. ”Where are the public school records kept in Chicago?” I asked.
”It's a central location, not too far from here.”
I asked her to meet me outside the hotel at eight in the morning. Before I left town, I wanted to pursue Jimmy Janks and his upbringing.
The night had grown downright cold, and I hurried into the lobby. The elevator lifted me twenty-two floors to my room. As tired and worried as I'd been, I still noticed the hotel decor, the strategic lighting, and the plush carpeting. There was even a spa service, if it wasn't too late for a facial or ma.s.sage. A stay in a luxury hotel could do wonders for a girl's weary spirits.
When I unlocked the door, I froze. Something was wrong. The fresh, masculine scent of aftershave teased my senses. Someone had dimmed the lights, and a room service cart with a single red rose and covered platters for two commanded the center of the room.
A tall, dark stranger, a shadow in the minimal illumination, came out of the bathroom. ”Your wish is my desire.” His accent was vaguely Eastern European. Like Count Dracula. In the dimness, I couldn't get a clear look at him.
”I don't know who you are, buddy, but you'd best take your cart of food and beat it.” I wasn't in the mood for some hotel gigolo. My concern turned to annoyance. I'd have the hotel manager's head on a pike for this. A secure room was the least they could provide.