Chapter 14: Wet Welcome in the Windy City

I WOKE UP IN A STRANGE BED in a strange city. The sounds were not my sounds, the smells were not my smells.

Chicago.

I lay staring straight up at the ceiling trying to put the pieces of the story together that got me in this place. A shipment of antiques. Far East Exchange. Chicago. A harebrained notion to take a midnight flight and check it out personally. I’d gotten to my hotel in Chicago at about six o’clock. It was a decent hotel right in the center of the Loop.

Blessed sleep.

I looked at my watch. I’d slept late. It was nine o’clock. Riley would be in the office and getting my note. I’d better get up and prepare for the indignation. Then I realized that it was only 7:00 in Seattle. I had an hour to get ready at least.

I dragged myself to the window and looked out. Rain pelted the window for about 30 seconds, and then dissipated to a fine mist that clung to the building and cut visibility. I could just see the building across the alley and a pinch of the street below. It looked pretty much the same as Seattle. The rumble of the El a dozen stories below me confirmed that I wasn’t in Washington any more. This was a city that believed in mass transit.

I showered and shaved the two-day stubble off my face, trimmed my mustache, and dressed. I hadn’t brought many clothes in the roll-aboard bag that I packed, but one spare suit and two shirts was likely to be all that I would need since I spent all the previous two days and a night in the same clothes. Once I was dressed and had a tie on, I felt almost human. Coffee would take me the rest of the way.

There is nothing harder than ordering coffee in a foreign city, and when you are from Seattle, all cities are foreign. I stepped up to the coffee stand in the hotel lobby and asked for an Americano. The barista reached for a coffee pot that looked like it had been on the burner for a week.

“No, no,” I said quickly. “Espresso fixed with a shot of hot water.”

“Mister,” she answered, “all espresso is made with hot water.”

She pressed a button on her machine and handed me a cup of something that made me wish I’d taken what was in the pot. Well, Doc Roberts would be happy I was going without coffee again. This was my second day without, and I had the withdrawal headache to prove it.

I ate breakfast in the hotel café and logged into the network on my laptop. I had results for my searches waiting for me. Eating my oatmeal before it got cold, I started scanning the new names and numbers. Every name from the account numbers was coupled with a number of five to ten digits.

An idea crossed my mind and I looked up one of the banks on-line. Indeed it had a log-in screen. I entered the corresponding name under “UserID” and the number under “Password.” There was a momentary pause and the screen refreshed with “my account” highlighted and the current balance: $12,557,827.80, €9,829,098.30, 6,906,933.90, displayed in three different currencies. In this bank alone, Simon had access to over twelve and a half million dollars. I had a list of his user names and passwords for twenty-one such banks.

Before I checked the next one, I looked at the transaction history. The account had been largely idle for the past two years, but in the last ten days, over half the current balance had been deposited in multiple small chunks.

Simon, or someone who had the same information I did, was very much alive and financially active. Since the activity I saw were deposits, I was betting it was Simon.

A waitress came up to my booth at that moment.

“You gonna order lunch now, Pops?” she asked. “If not, you better get outa here. The rush is about to start.”

I glanced at my watch. It was 11:45. Not only was I not ordering lunch, I needed to make the contact that I wanted or the trip to Chicago was a waste. I paid the check and gave the waitress a $20 tip.

“Come back tomorrow,” she called after me. “You can sit here all morning.” I waved and headed out to get a taxi, dialing the office number as I went. There was no answer and I left a message telling Riley I was about to visit Far East Exchange.

I gave the driver the address on Wacker Drive and he wagged his eyebrows; it was only four blocks away. It wasn’t a bad looking building. Small by comparison to the towering behemoths around it, but in good condition. The front entrance was a door beside an oversized garage door. I assumed they must get shipments in here of some sort, though I couldn’t imagine a sixteen wheeler negotiating the angles with Chicago traffic.

I walked in.

I was surrounded by walls of drygoods, furniture, and artwork. An old man in shirtsleeves and old-fashioned arm-garters poked his head up over a handcart of bolts of fabric to look at me. “Are you from the theatre?” he asked. “You weren’t supposed to be here until two o’clock. I’m not ready.”

“I’m not from the theatre,” I answered. “I just stopped in to see if you could answer a couple of questions for me. Are you the owner?”

“Owner, shmoner. I’m the only one here.”

“Do you have a minute that I could ask you some questions.”

“I got no time,” he said. “I got work to do. Theatre crew is coming and they want forty-seven different bolts of Japanese Silk for ‘Madame Butterfly.’ Not the forty-seven that are up here in front. No, they want one each from forty-seven different lots around the warehouse. For theatre! Damn actors will be better dressed than half of Chinatown.”

I didn’t bother to mention that the people in Chinatown probably didn’t dress in Japanese silk. I weighed my options and then made a rash offer.

“Maybe we could talk while I help you get those bolts down,” I said. I couldn’t be in any worse shape than this old guy, I thought. If he can do it, so can I.

“I won’t turn down your offer, but I don’t know that I’ll answer your questions. You from the IRS?” I shook my head. “Police? Homeland security?” Each time I indicated no.

“I’m interested in Asian antiquities and I’ve heard that you are an expert.”

“Eh,” he was noncommittal as he motioned me toward a ladder. “Bolt 1247. It should be red and in that bin right next to the fourth step.” I climbed the ladder, paused to rest and reached for the bolt. I hauled it out and handed it down to him. He motioned me to stay on the ladder as he heaved the fabric onto the hand cart. He moved the ladder to the next bin and rattled off another number. “What kind of antiquities do you want to know about and what do you want to do with them?”

I thought fast. I should really have prepared my story better, but I wasn’t expecting an old man with a silk emporium. “I’m buying a franchise restaurant. Thai place. Thai is really big right now. Everything’s Thai, you know?”

“You’re telling me,” he laughed. “Tom Yum. Phad Thai. It’s all you can get now.”

“Exactly. Well, I heard you could buy Thai antique furnishings for less than you can get repros from the restaurant supply. I thought before I put the money down on the franchise I’d check with a pro who could give me some advice.” I’d handed him six bolts by now and I was panting. Most of the time he just pushed me on the ladder to the right place so at least I didn’t have to climb up and down.

“It’s true you can get a bargain. Of course, it’s cheaper to buy Chinese than Thai. The good thing is that most people can’t tell the difference. If it has an elephant on it they assume it’s Thai.”

“Too many people have watched ‘The King and I’ and figure that everything with elephants comes from there,” I agreed. “I wouldn’t turn down a good deal if it looked reasonable.”

“So who pointed you in my direction,” the old man asked.

“An old friend of mine from college,” I answered casually. “Guy named Simon Barnett.” I handed him the last bolt and he motioned me to get down off the ladder. He walked away from me and I followed. He motioned me to a chair beside his desk and fell heavily into his own.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

“Hamar,” I answered. “Dag Hamar.” All right, I admit. It’s not quite as dramatic as “Bond, James Bond.”

“Yes, Mr. Hamar, and Swedes don’t open Thai restaurants,” he said bluntly. “Why don’t you just come out and tell me why you are here?” Okay. Either he was an especially sharp cookie, or he already knew a lot about the case.

“Simon Barnett is missing,” I said.

“I heard that already,” he answered. “You work for that lousy two-bit partner of his?”

“No,” I answered. His assessment of Bradley Keane matched my own. “Simon’s wife hired me to find him.”

“I’m not sure I like her any better,” the old man said.

“Nor I,” I agreed. “I took it on because Simon left me a note asking me to.”

“If you are a friend of Simon’s, then I’ll help you anyway I can. I’m Earl Schwartz.” We shook hands again.

“Like I said, we went to college together. We used to be a lot closer than we are now. Apparently, though, he thought I could find him.” The old guy just nodded wisely. “Are you expecting a shipment of Asian antiques soon?”

“Yes. It landed in New York Saturday. It was being unloaded and trucked here.”

“Trucked? Why aren’t they flying it on into Chicago?” I asked.

“Well now, that’s a good question,” Earl responded. “Apparently the plane is needed elsewhere.”

“Do you know if Simon was on the plane?”

“I do not, but I don’t think so. When Simon brings in a load of antiques, he sees me directly. It’s a good business if we deal with each other.”

“I take it you don’t get along well with his partner, though,” I ventured. He swore vehemently.

“That sonabitch isn’t worth the paper he wipes his ass with. And what’s more, he’s had a goon sniffing around here this week, too. Guy hardly speaks English, but he’s hard as nails.”

“Big guy, looks like a refrigerator?” I asked.

“That’s him. You know him?”

“He paid me a visit last week.”

“Well, watch out for him. If he doesn’t get what he wants, he takes what he can get.” The old man was angry to say the least. He was going to be even more upset when I told him about the shipment coming into Seattle. I was willing to bet he didn’t know about that shipment from Asia. Before I could say anything, though, a young man came in the door, slapped a button beside it and the garage door began to open. A panel van backed in and Earl said that the theatre was here for their silk. I helped load up the van and they pulled out. Before I could return to my conversation, my cell phone chimed. I flipped it open.

“Where the hell are you?” I expected Riley to be mad at me, but it was Jordan on the phone.

“I’m in Chicago,” I answered, “interviewing the manager of Far East Exchange. What did you find?”