The Big Freeze: Sussman - Glick mystery trilogy, #3

The manuscript turned up on Andy Sussman's doorstep at ten o'clock on a snowy March morning—dropped ingloriously by a rookie postman, who could have stuck it inside the storm door or possibly even rang the doorbell, both permissible under postal regulations. Instead, he left it upside down on the welcome mat, so that by the time Andy opened it, the snow had seeped through the Jet-Pak mailer and was forming watery ringlets around the cardboard box.

Sussman put his coffee down and stared blearily at the package. He had just flown back from the West Coast and his senses were still in Los Angeles, where it was barely seven—why hadn't he stayed an extra day? He'd still be sleeping, and when he did wake up it would be coffee and Danish on the beach, where it was a toasty seventy degrees, instead of this wet, freezing, miserable excuse for a climate.

Andy tried to make out the return address, which was now hopelessly stained. J something. Cranston . . . Realty? He looked at the postmark: Sunburst, Colorado. His network was televising a World Cup ski race from there in a few weeks. Some real estate shark must have gotten his name from a mailing list, and sent him what would assuredly be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to purchase a deluxe alpine condo with hot tub, sauna, and wet bar, only minutes from the slope. A bargain for three hundred and fifty grand. But which soon-to-be-fired intern had given out his home address?

Sussman tossed the Jet-Pak envelope away and looked at the cardboard box, sealed tight with Scotch tape. His name was scrawled across it in blue Magic Marker: andrew hoops sussman.

That explained it.

Only Murray used that name. He'd tagged Andy with it years ago, when they both attended the University of Wisconsin and Sussman was broadcasting Badger basketball games over the student station. The name hadn't exactly stuck in anyone else's mind, but Murray Glick was not one to be dissuaded by the public's tardy recognition of his genius. Now, fifteen years later, at the peak of a career that had taken him from the broadcasting hinterlands of Madison and Green Bay all the way to New York, where he was currently doing network play-by-play of NBA games, he was still Hoops—to Murray, anyway. And to no one else.

Andy peeled the tape off the box, expecting to find another of Murray's notorious promotions for Glick Investigations. You had to give him credit, Andy thought. His buddy had taken a basically seedy and low-rent occupation and given it a facelift for the nineties. Murray had begun the makeover several years before, when he had relocated his office in the second level of a glitzy shopping mall in suburban Chicago, a few doors down from Neiman Marcus. Now he had his own Crimestoppers Column in the suburban newspapers. He'd organized Murray Glick Mystery Cruises in the Caribbean. He advertised on the Home Shopping Network. He was considering franchising out the whole operation. And somehow, every once in a while, he even found the time to actually solve a crime.

Andy grabbed a letter opener—the box was wrapped up like a mummy. He was expecting a stack of four-color brochures, or possibly Murray's Detective Swimsuit Calendars, or maybe even a videocassette promotional tape. What he found was . . . pages. One hundred and twelve of them.

Andy emptied the box, to make sure this wasn't some half-baked marketing scam of Murray's, with a pop-up, battery-charged gizmo lurking at the bottom. There was nothing, save the manuscript. The typing was messy but readable. Murray had a state-of-the-art computer in his office, and a slightly less than state-of-the-art secretary, but it didn't look like he'd taken advantage of either one.

Andy scanned the first few lines, sipping on his tepid coffee. He decided almost immediately that the manuscript was going to require a fresh cup, not to mention an easy chair, with some Willie Dixon blues turned low in the background.

And slippers—the soft, warm, fur-lined slippers that Susie had given him for his birthday, with the note that he could lounge around the house all day in them while she was trapped in Manhattan, slaving away at her law practice. It was meant as a joke, of course, but in truth, his wife WAS in Manhattan, presumably slaving away—she had left the house at six in the morning, in a driving snowstorm, so she could get to the train station in time to stand outside freezing for an hour before riding the commuter train into work, part of which consisted of representing him in contract negotiations with the network. It was bound to be a trying day for her, and Andy thought it would be an awful show of ingratitude if he didn't at least wear her slippers.

On the other hand, Susie would surely disapprove of her gift keeping his toesies warm while he read anything with Murray Glick's name on it. In what Andy regarded as one of those odd, unexplainable female quirks, his wife steadfastly misinterpreted Murray's inventive, entrepreneurial nature as the trademark of what she called (charitably she thought) that pompous, scheming, chauvinistic sleaze. About the best thing Susie could say about the entire production of pulling up roots and moving to New York after their wedding last September was that they had left Murray Glick in Chicago.

It was what Andy missed most about the place.

Oh well, Sussman mused, as he pulled on his slippers and settled into the leather recliner, I'll just keep it out of her sight. Slip it in between the Sports Illustrateds, she'll never see it.

Andy put his blues record on the stereo. He stretched his legs and looked out the window. It was a rotten day; he had nowhere to go. He poured a few drops of Jack Daniels into his coffee. On second thought, he poured in a whole shot.

He picked up the manuscript and began to read.

PART ONE

Chapter 1

You could tell she was trouble in the twinkling of an eye, and boy, did those eyes twinkle. They were baby-blue peepers, slightly tinted by designer contacts. Long wavy lashes bounced over them like Rockettes, backlit by sea-blue eyeshade, melting gently into sleek, jet-black brows. They were starlets' eyes, models' eyes, manufactured to close a client—they could knock you over with one cockeyed flutter if you didn't know better.

I knew better.

Because in my line of business that twinkle may be all the time you have to make a judgment, and it had damn well better be the right one. Maybe she was just another gorgeous suburban mom, jogging in from Lord and Taylor's with a new fifteen- hundred-dollar outfit on her way to aerobics class, flashing you a mysterious wink and a smile, casually wondering whether the old man really is playing bridge at the country club every Tuesday night. Or maybe I was staring into the eyes of a trained killer.

I'm paid to know the difference. I'm Murray Glick, private investigator. The mall is my beat.

I'm new at this, the woman said, nervously tapping her fingers in a way that told me she wasn't. Her name was Barbra Kaplan. She crossed her long, sleek legs in front of me, batted those lashes again and licked her lips, and when I didn't melt away like a cup of cheap margarine she continued. I was referred by Carol. Carol Berman; you helped her with little Josh.

Sure, right, I said, flipping through a file. Not that I needed any reminders about Carol. Tall, leggy, a bleach blond, women's tennis champion at Birchmoor Country Club three years straight. Had a sixteen-year-old kid running with the wrong crowd, so she thought. Late from school, gone on the weekends. Fatigue, listlessness, telltale signs. Turns out he'd been doing volunteer work at a county vocational center downtown, part of the Outreach Program at New Trier. Fell hard for a social worker from Hoffman Estates. A helluva long commute, it was wearing him down; the poor kid never had a chance. Truth is, it wore me down too, but it was a gig and Carol and I had a fun stakeout while it lasted. We work in a tennis game every now and then, to keep the reflexes sharp.

Carol said you'd be discreet about this; it's very important that my husband doesn't know about it.

Discreet is my middle name.

Barbra glanced up at my P.I. certificate on the wall behind my desk. Your middle name is Arthur, she said, flashing me a knowing smile, and for a moment I wished we were both ten years younger, although to be truthful thirty-five isn't really so old, and since I moved into Northbrook Court I've done a hell of a lot better than I ever did, even in my salad days. So I guess I really just wished that she was ten years younger, although experience does count for something and Barbra Kaplan looked like she could do things with those long legs that Mary Lou Retton hadn't even begun to consider.

It's about my daughter, Barbra said softly. She trapped me in her hurt pussycat gaze for a few seconds, then took a photograph out of her purse and set it on my desk, touching my hand as she let it fall. Her name's Dani. She's nineteen.

Aha. I looked at the Polaroid snapshot The girl had honey-blond hair, several shades lighter than her mother's. She had a thin-lipped smile, her right arm was wrapped around a tall, dark-haired kid with a rugged, Colorado tan; she glanced at the camera like it was a temporary distraction. They do grow up fast, I said. Dani?

Short for Danielle.

What about him? Or does it matter?

Barbra's eyelids drooped for a second; I thought there might be a few telltale lines around the edges, but it would take an archeologist to find them. Casey Wright. He's a ski instructor at Sunburst. Are you a skier, Mr. Glick?

Former quartermaster of the Hoofer's Bacchanalia Express.

Excuse me?

The University of Wisconsin ski club. Known for its marathon bus trips to exotic locales. We did Jackson Hole my senior year—I was in charge of refreshments.

Barbra smiled at me. She was wearing a scarlet and black pant-suit and it didn't take much imagination to picture her in a tight-fitting ski turtleneck. I take it you can afford to fly these days? she said, her eyes measuring me for a pair of polyurethane long johns.

Makes it a little easier. You do lose that sense of the land, though.

We have a condo at Sunburst. Three bedrooms, pool, and sauna. Sam and me and the kids. It's where Dani and Casey met.

Private lesson?

Group. He picked her out.

Ski instructors have that knack, I said, and felt a pang of envy for a moment, thinking of all those pretty young lasses that stroll past my office each day on their way to the Rekord Rak or the Slice O' Pizza. Easy pickings for the Casey Wrights of the world, but jailbait for me. I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to believe that ten years from now Wright would be an apathetic, washed-up ski bum, wandering aimlessly around Hollywood, looking for a guest shot on Knot's Landing. It made me feel a lot better.

I've got nothing against a little romance, Barbra said, and I believed her. I mean what's a parent supposed to do? She was a freshman in college, I'd given up trying to run her personal life. Thank God she still spent a few weeks with us.

But it became more than a little romance, didn't it? I knew what was going to come next. Runaway suburban daughters fall just behind wayward husbands and surprise anniversary presents among my clientele.

A lot more. She spent last summer with him at Sunburst. This fall she quit school and went out there to live with him.

Where'd she go to college?

Northwestern.

Sounds like a bargain for you.

Barbra batted those bright-blue peepers at me and tried to suppress a smile. A year's tuition at Northwestern could put us both in San Moritz for the winter, but neither of us were packing our bags. I reached for my leather cigar canister and pulled out

one of Fidel's finest. Mind if I smoke?

Not at all. Barbra leaned back on my plush-leather guest chair and gazed admiringly as I puffed a chain of perfectly circular smoke rings toward the vents.

So Dani and Casey find a cozy loft in Sunburst. He spends his days turning glitzy Easterners into schuss-boomers while our future lawyer/mom and director of the women's tennis ladder at Birchmoor ends up making Indian jewelry and bussing Coors empties at the Antler Inn.

Barbra pursed her lips. She pulled out a container of Tic Tacs and popped one in her mouth. Tsk, tsk, Mr. Glick. Dated any Jewish girls since your bar mitzvah?

A few. And call me Murray, please.

Look, Murray, Dani was no princess. Straight A’s her first year; she was studying art history. Taught tennis in the summer, paid for her board.

Maybe the pressure got to her. Maybe she'll take a semester off, then come back. She's as bright as you say, she'll see him for an over-the-hill ski rabbit soon enough, be back in Evanston faster than you can say BMW.

She already left him.

I took a long puff from my cigar and stared at Mrs. Kaplan. You don't look happy about that, Barbra.

She shook her head. I don't know where she went. She never told me anything, she just cleared out. She's been missing ten days—

How'd you find out?

I called. The phone was disconnected—there was no forwarding number. I tried the ski school. Casey was gruff; he didn't want to talk to me. He said she'd walked out—they’d broken up.

When?

A couple of weeks before.

It took you that long to find out? I tapped an ash from my cigar. Dani Kaplan may have left the nest, but I knew Jewish mothers. I couldn't believe Barbra would let two Sundays go by without calling her daughter, even if she'd run off with Attila the Hun.

Sam and I were in Majorca for three weeks. We sent postcards.

I glanced sadly at my snow-dusted overcoat. And when you came back, your daughter had disappeared off the face of the earth?

As far as I can tell.

And what did your husband have to say about all this?

Barbra's lips tightened, her eyes sunk into a look of extreme disgust. I had the feeling that poor Sam Kaplan had had about as much fun on Majorca as Robinson Crusoe. I balanced my cigar on an ash tray and blew one last smoke ring toward the air conditioner. I do have to ask the obligatory question regarding the presumed notification of the authorities and the proffered assistance of our law-enforcement agencies.

Out of the question. Barbra sat up straight now; a steely gaze shone through the tinted contacts. Sam wouldn't allow it if he knew, and I don't want him to know. She hesitated, edging closer to my desk.

Do continue, Mrs. Kaplan.

Barbra dropped her voice. Sam was furious when Dani ran off to Colorado. He wanted to cut her off completely. He wouldn't talk to her on the phone—my God, he wouldn't even let her call collect.

Serious business, I said, knowing that the words, Will you accept a collect call from your daughter? have achieved biblical status in our modern-day faith. So you never talked?

I had to go next door. For three months I was buying the Wolfes' groceries, just to cover the phone bill.

And what did you discuss on the phone all that time that kept the Wolfes in fresh produce?

I thought I saw a blush filter through Barbra's cheeks, but the signal was faint. Girl talk. Mother-daughter talk.

Nothing to indicate a falling out with darling Casey?

Barbra shook her head. She was crazy bout him. Casey was going to be head of the ski school. Casey was getting into marketing. Casey was going to be a very big man at Sunburst.

I picked up the Polaroid again and looked at the young girl clutching Wright's waist. She had a look of total devotion, but I knew how fast that could change. Where'd your daughter work at Sunburst, Barbra? I assume she did work.

She clerked at a little grocery store in the village. I never got the name. She did some volunteer work at the art center. Dani was a good photographer; she had some prints exhibited once in high school.

Right. I tapped another cigar ash. Nikon camera, I take it? Gitzo tripod, the whole getup?

Barbra winced; she shook her bangs back smartly. No, she used a Brownie. We dressed her in rags, she saved up her allowance and spent it on surplus cheese. Would that make you happy, Mr. Glick?

Easy there, I said, taking Barbra's hand; I'd gotten a rise out of her, I could feel her trembling.

Listen, Murray, the world's tough enough as it is. We struggled for years building a foundation for our family. Am I supposed to apologize for providing them with the best?

Not at all, Barbra. That's why you're here, after all.

I want you to find Dani, Barbra said, retrieving her hand and taking out her pocketbook. She filled out a check payable to me, leaving the amount blank. She tore it out and placed it on my desk. I don't want the police in on this. I don't want Sam to know.

Mum's the word.

You're welcome to use our place at Sunburst. I've already covered it with the rental people. She took a white business envelope out of her purse. The keys are inside. There's a map, maintenance information, a list of restaurants, and tourist information—

I'm sure I won't have time for entertainment, Barbra. I placed the envelope, the check, and the Polaroid in my desk drawer. I don't suppose you'll be making a visit anytime in the next few weeks?

Barbra smiled and gave those eyelids one last flutter. I've got my own key. She closed her purse and pushed her chair back. Find my daughter, Mr. Glick.

Absolutely Mrs. Kaplan. I got up to show her out. Thanks for stopping by. Don't forget the shoe sale over at Naylor's.

I'm late for tennis. Send me a gift certificate. Barbra Kaplan headed for the door. We'll talk later, she said, without turning around.

I hurried to open the door for her, but she was already outside. By the time I'd followed her through the front office she'd disappeared into the walkway and down the escalator, lost in the faceless march to Neiman Marcus.

Chapter 2

Tuesday, 12:35 p.m. I leaned back In my desk chair, my feet kicked up on my blotter, polishing off a frozen treat from 31 Flavors—I figured It would be weeks before I'd be able to eat another ice cream sandwich without looking over my shoulder. Peggy, my receptionist, waltzed in with my airline tickets from the travel agency on the first level. She set them down on my desk, next to a parka I'd bought at the sporting goods place downstairs, a ski sweater from I. Magnin across the corridor, and some thermal undies from Eddie Bauer, three stores down.

Too bad you can't get the plane to taxi up to the parking lot, Peggy said, glancing at my skis and ski boots and the luggage I'd bought at Lord and Taylor. You might actually have to hit fresh air between here and Sunburst.

No problem, my dear, I've got to acclimatize myself to the mountains sometime.

Make sure the limo driver opens a window.

Peggy gave me that sweet, bewitching laugh of hers. She's a tall redhead, with freckles from head to toe, begging to play connect-the-dots. She's been my girl Friday for five years now— starting the day after she divorced the assistant State's attorney. I must admit I considered that useful experience at the time: she'd gleaned all sorts of tidbits from the County Building that made life easier for a fledgling PI, and the way she modeled Magnin's sweaters didn't hurt either. But the truth is, this is one relationship that's been strictly business from square one. There's not one shred of information that I won't share with her—she knows where I am twenty-four hours a day, and she's got the key to the safe. I'm a loner, sure, but even when you write your own ticket you've got to trust one person in the world, and Peggy's my choice.

You sure you don't need an assistant on the slopes? she said, giving me a quick back massage and fitting a new blue-and-silver stocking cap over my ears.

Someone's gotta mind the store.

Lock your office. Hire a temp to shoo the customers away.

Sorry, Peg, there's work to be done. We need business data and tax info on Sam Kaplan. He's at Kozlo Realty; get an update on their holdings—

I'll deliver it personally. Just tell me which run you'll be on, and we'll rendezvous at the top of the chairlift—

No sale. Our customers get a special feeling of security from your voice on the telephone.

Peggy put both hands on my stocking cap and breathed a long, trenchant sigh. Boss, she said, pulling the hat over my eyes, have I ever mentioned that I'm madly in love with you and we should run away to Acapulco for the winter, maybe forever?

Last time it was Kauai.

The travel place has rates to Mexico.

I pulled the hat off. I stood up and kissed Peggy on the cheek. Sorry, kid. No work for gringo Pi's at the Princess. Here, enjoy. I gave her a month's worth of coupons for the Orange Julius and stuffed the parka and long johns into my suitcase. Peggy helped me with the zipper, then stuck the airline tickets in my pockets and tossed me my overcoat.

Murray, she said with a sardonic grin, I can't live on dreams forever.

Take lots of vitamin C and have a drink before dinner. I gave her another kiss and hauled my luggage outside.

Murray, hang on! she shouted as I wandered into the mall, clattering my skis behind me. I stopped and turned around, just as she caught up to me. Murray, don't you think you should pack some heat with you to all that snow?

Miss Terrell, begging doesn't become you.

That wasn't what I meant. She turned her thumb and index finger into a derringer and stuck it in my ribs.

Don't worry, Peg. Just a missing kid, no reason to bother all those nice people at airport security. Any problems, I'll call—you can FedEx it.

You sure?

Absolutely.

Just be careful, boss.

Careful's my middle name.

Arthur's your middle name.

I'm having it legally changed. I tenderly placed Peggy's derringer back in her holster, then picked up my skis and headed for the escalator. See ya, kiddo, I shouted. A few minutes later, I was gone, Peggy was back at her telephone, and the Colt .38 was in my bottom desk drawer.

Something told me I shouldn't be leaving either one behind.

Chapter 3

It started to snow a few minutes after I touched down at the little airport a few miles north of Sunburst, Colorado. By the time I got the papers straightened out on my rental Land Cruiser, the tarmac was cloaked in white; I knew there wouldn't be any more flights arriving that night. The terminal was shutting down; visions of sensational powder skiing danced through the minds of employees and tourists.

Not that I'd forgotten the business at hand. I was just imagining the best possible scenario—a headstrong college kid gets her first serious jilt, crawls into a hole for a few weeks, surfaces in Evanston right behind the Easter Bunny in time for Spring Quarter. I'd chase down all the leads between ski runs, give Casey Wright a lecture on chivalry, maybe rattle his bones a little for good measure. Maybe I'd find a nice ski instructor of the female persuasion, we'd share a bottle of champagne, invent old times. I'd book her on my Christmas Mystery Cruise; we'd be friends for life. Somehow I knew it wasn't going to be that easy.

I hadn't told Barbra Kaplan, but I'd actually skied Sunburst before, back in my college days when it was just a couple of broken down double-chairs and a T-bar, rising