Read Online Chump Change by G. M. Ford - Free Book Online Page A

Cops, cruisers, and yellow crime-scene tape everywhere.
    “She’s gotta be there,” he said. “We don’t get that many triples.”
    He may have said something else, but I missed it on my way out the door.

     
    SPD had the whole North Greenwood Manor apartment complex cinched up tighter than a frog’s ass. Nobody in, nobody out. To a man, they seemed remarkably unimpressed with my PI credentials. Took me fifteen minutes of solid bitching before somebody even sent word inside that I needed to see Dr. Duvall, and another fifteen before she put in a guest appearance. The set of her jaw said she was seriously annoyed. She kept the yellow crime-scene tape between us.
    “What, Leo?”
    “Sorry to bother you,” I said.
    She wanted to go off on me, I could tell. The muscles along her jawline writhed like snakes. “Guy’s wife wants a divorce, so he kills himself and the kids.”
    “Some folks just can’t let it go.”
    “Kids are four and six years old. A boy and a girl. He took a linoleum knife and . . .” She stopped herself before she slid off the rails.
    If there was something you said at a moment like this, I sure didn’t know what it was, so I kept my big mouth shut.
    She took a deep breath. “To what do I owe the honor . . . ?” she asked.
    “I know who he is. The guy with the scars.”
    Her green eyes flickered. “So do I,” she said, disgustedly. “Now . . . if you’ll excuse me . . .” She spun on her heel and started back toward the building.
    “How do you know that?” I said to her back.
    She stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “His sister picked up the body earlier today. Said they had a family plot they were going to put him in.”
    “He doesn’t have a sister,” I said.
    An awkward moment passed. She thought about walking off. I could tell from her body lean. Instead, she turned back my way.
    “You’re sure?”
    “Yes.”
    “She had his birth certificate.”
    “I’ve got a copy in my car,” I said.
    “Why would someone claim a body they had no right to?” she demanded. This kind of thing had always been difficult for her. She’d always toed the straight and narrow, and, on one level at least, couldn’t imagine why anyone would do anything else.
    “No idea,” I admitted. But then again, there were a whole lot of things about ol Gordo’s living and dying that I didn’t understand. Primary among the mysteries was how whoever picked up the body even knew he was dead. It’s not like anybody notified his next of kin. Then there was the little matter of those horrible scars on his back, and changing his name in his mid-forties, and, of course, the ever-popular Where the hell’s Missy Allen and all that damned money?
    I’d stopped at Carl’s hoping to put this thing behind me. So I could jettison Gordo and his missing millions from my consciousness forever, and get back to my favored states of procrastination and sloth. The visit had, however, produced exactly the opposite effect. Seemed like the closer I got to Gordon Stanley, the less I knew about him.
    Rebecca was pissed. This was a woman who didn’t tolerate mistakes. Hers or anybody else’s. She must have been called down to the morgue this morning. No way anybody in the ME’s office was gonna let a John Doe go without her say-so, and now she felt like she’d mailed it in, because it was a Saturday and maybe she wasn’t as careful as she might have been during regular business hours. She started to walk off and then stopped. She turned back my way. “I can’t leave here right now,” she said.
    “I know.”
    It got quiet enough to hear the traffic on Greenwood Avenue.
    “I’ll be in the office early tomorrow.”
    “Tomorrow’s Sunday,” I said.
    “I’m aware of that.”
    “See you there,” I said.
    “I don’t like this at all.”
    “Me neither.”
    “The scars . . . somebody claiming to be his family . . . this is all very sinister.”
    I nodded in agreement.
    “Be careful,” she