The Kid Who Wasn't There

By C.M. Albrecht

How could anybody want to harm this innocent innocuous young man? He didn’t bother anyone. He didn’t interfere with anyone. He minded his own business and did what he was told. But he was just the handicapped son of a couple of junk dealers. What’s the big deal?
Well, it’s a big deal to his grieving parents and they want closure. Enter Jonas McCleary, private investigator. But very quickly Jonas feels he’s spinning his wheels and wasting his clients’ money. All that changes however when he becomes involved with a famous artist who has “models”, an influential TV personality who has “people”, a huge Navajo with a chip on his shoulder and a local mob boss who has “a crew.”
Jonas quickly finds himself falling into a black hole of lies, intrigue, deception... and murder. A very black hole indeed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Write Words Inc.
• Release date: Apr 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781613863374

Book preview

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The Kid Who Wasn’t There

Jonas McCleary Series, Vol 3

by C.M. Albrecht

© 2015 C.M. Albrecht All Rights Reserved

First Electronic Edition, Decembder 2015

ISBN 978-1-61386-338-1

Chapter 1

The Recycler

My recently acquired ‘new’ office situated on the second floor of a wooden building was all I could find in the nominally low-rent part of town. Since historic buildings have very high ceilings, to get to my office a person had to mount a long long flight of exterior stairs. One that led to the first landing, one that made a sharp turn to the right and then rose another ten steps to reach the pebbled glass door that bears the tastefully painted black and gold letters: Jonas McCleary and beneath that, Investigations. Since there was no air conditioning, the open window at my back offered no relief at all and only the overhead fan helped save me from suffering a stroke. Not a day for anyone to tackle those stairs.

I sat at my desk doing absolutely nothing, just as I’d done for over two weeks. I was expecting nothing and had just about given up hope of anything ever happening again when the pebbled glass door opened. I looked up, at first with a glimmer of hope, but that dissipated immediately and left me even sadder than I already was.

The man in the open doorway was a pitiful-looking specimen. He stood breathing heavily, but that was understandable since he had just climbed that long flight of exterior stairs to my office in the 1888 building.

He looked like one of the thousands of homeless old men who wander city streets poking in garbage cans or sitting on street corners holding illegible cardboard signs. He wore a dark, dingy wrinkled suit and a denim shirt buttoned at the neck but without a tie. One thing that struck me was the little gold button that closed his shirt collar. It looked like the real thing.

His hands clutched a worn baseball cap. Deep black lines seamed the veined hands with their broken dirty nails. Being a professional, I observed all that while he was getting from the door to my desk. He wore smeary glasses repaired on one temple with a bit of electrician’s tape.

My immediate thought: he was going from office to office looking for a handout and while I don’t condone that sort of behavior, something about his pitiful appearance softened my heart. After all, if he was desperate enough to climb all those stairs in the heat of the day... I wondered if — despite my own financial difficulties — I should break down and give him five bucks. But then, instead of mumbling something about a handout he addressed me by name.

Mr. McCleary?

I looked at him more closely. I hadn’t expected him to be looking specifically for me even though my name was on the door and on a small brass placard at the foot of the stairs. After all, maybe he was just hoping to get a little more sympathy by mentioning my name.

Can I help you? I asked.

I- I — I got problem, he said. His voice was unexpectedly low and husky with a throaty accent. He took a step closer to my desk and twisted the cap in his hands. A scant few grayish hairs floated aimless above his skull.

Well, we all have problems I thought, but I raised one hip and pulled out my billfold. As I had deduced, he was after a handout.

I’m sorry, I said. I can’t help much, I —

Seeing me fumble at my billfold, he waved his cap in the air. Oh... Oh, he said. No. I — I have money. I—

Feeling stupid and confused, I laid my billfold on the desk and smiled. Looking at his shabby clothing and dirty hands and broken fingernails, I felt both foolish and at a loss as to what he was doing in my little office.

You came up here to see me about something?

I had never, so far, had occasion to do any pro bono work. Hadn’t even considered it, but I could listen to this guy. It wasn’t as if I was doing anything else.

He nodded uncertainly and I indicated one of the two chairs in front of my desk. He hesitated but then cautiously sat down on the edge of one.

Eh... your name, sir?

Zaretsky. Bernard Zaretsky, he told me.

I wrote that down on the yellow pad I keep by the computer.

Okay Mr. Zaretsky, you say you have a problem?

He nodded his head. The overhead fan caused his thin gray hair to wave gently about. It... it is my son, David. He — His voice broke and he had to take a few deep breaths and a tear appeared at the corner of one eye.

I leaned back. This looked as if was going to be slow going. Okay... your son David? He’s in trouble?

He looked at me through his glasses as if he didn’t understand and then said, David is dead. My boy is — He choked on the word, but got it out: dead.

I straightened in my chair, feeling stupid for not having realized he had a real problem. I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Zaretsky. Would you like to tell me about it?

He looked blankly at me for a moment, then nodded. After another deep breath, he got his self-control back and said, I am Bernard Zaretsky. Zaretsky Recycling and Reclamation? You maybe hear of us?

I’m not sure. I didn’t have a clue, but I didn’t feel the need to mention that I wasn’t into all that, simply being content to dispose of my recycling items in the proper containers.

Well, we have recycling plant. Biggest in city. I — my wife, Sophie and me, we run it. Well, we can’t do too much these days, but we got help, you know.

Yes, but I believe you’re here about your son.

He hesitated, uncertain how to begin. I waited, figuring the best thing here was to remain calm and let him take his time. Finally he shrugged a little and said, David, well, he is not quite right in head, you know. He is good boy, you know, but not — well, before, he lived with us. We have house at plant. He brightened a little as if the thought of his son living in the house brought back pleasant memories, and went on: We fix up a nice storage shed — with window for David so he can have private room to be alone, but... He dribbled to a stop, apparently uncertain how to continue.

Okay, I said. So David had his own little cabin and a comfortable life. You didn’t make him work too hard at the plant?

His dark eyes widened. Work? David? Oh no. No we never make David work. Oh, sometimes he help a little, but... He spread his hands eloquently.

So what happened, Mr. Zaretsky?

Well, one day... oh, I think maybe one year ago, David just left.

How old is — was — your son?

Next month he would be twenty-five.

Twenty-five. Wow. Okay, and after he left you never heard from him?

He nodded. Yes. We hear. But pretty soon no more. So I go to police, but they said he is twenty-four years, he could come and go. He shrugged expansively. Okay, then maybe six months ago he come by plant. He looked pretty good, you know. He said he is happy. He is working for famous painter and the painter is going to make him painter too, maybe, you know.

He liked to paint?

Zaretsky shrugged. Who knew? I don’t know. Who knew about painting? We don’t have paint at the plant. I mean, not for painting — like real pictures, you know.

A pigeon landed on the sill of my open window and began to coo. I leaned forward. So he had a job and he was happy. Then what happened?

Zaretsky’s face fell. He sat for a moment before raising his head. He living with the painter. In studio, you know. Well, sometimes they have big parties, I think. In the morning after one big party, my David, he is dead and — He broke off as tears welled in his eyes and his voice chocked. He carefully removed his glasses and laid them on the cap in his lap and wiped the back of one hand across an eye.

I sat for a moment, not knowing just what to say, and then asked, So what happened? Was it natural? An accident? You don’t know?

Zaretsky shook his head and put his glasses back on. No. Big party. They don’t know. I talk to police. I think they don’t care much, you know? My boy was handicapped. Innocent. Maybe good-sized kid, but... you know, innocent.

Gullible, I suggested.

Yah, that is right. Gullible.

You know who his boss is, the famous painter?

Oh sure. He is Alejandro Arce, very famous painter. On television, too. I talk to Mr. Arce. He said he give David job because David is good boy and try to do good job for him. He cleaned the brushes and things like that and help to keep the studio clean I think. Mr. Arce he gave him room and board and maybe some money I think.

I looked at my watch and wondered what I was supposed to do here. What did the police tell you?

His shoulders rose and dropped eloquently. Nothing.

Was there some kind of accident at the party? Too much whiskey? A fall... ?

Mr. Zaretsky waved that away. Oh no. My David, he never drink... I don’t know. But somebody strangle him. Strangle him in the bathroom.

He was strangled? I sat back. Wow. Did you talk to his boss, the painter?

Mr. Zaretsky brightened. Yes. He is very nice man, Mr. Arce. Maybe he likes to drink too much, I think, but he say David was good boy. Always willing to help. He clean brushes, and wipe up around the studio, things like that. Mr. Arce said David was very happy boy. He like to paint, too. Mr. Arce say he let David play with the paint, too. Make him happy. He never look happy at home. I don’t know.

I see, I said, but I didn’t really see. I don’t know what I can do for you Mr. Zaretsky. The police have extensive means at their disposal. They should be able to question all those present and get to the bottom of this.

The pigeon fluttered his wings and was gone.

Mr. Zaretsky just sat there looking sadly at me.

I put my hands on my desk. I had to say something. And the police had nothing else to tell you?

He shook his head. They just think I am junkman and my son handicapped boy with no value maybe, you know? They just say they are looking into it. I don’t think they look very hard. Mr. McCleary, somebody murdered my boy. I want to see the murderer of my boy. David —

Wait. Just what kind of handicap are we talking about? I’m a little fuzzy about that. How would say he was handicapped exactly? Mentally and physically?

Oh, David healthy boy. Not too big, but healthy. We drink lots of juice. Carrot juice, like that, and we eat plenty cabbage. Cabbage is very good for health, you know. Carrot juice — David smart enough... sometimes, but I think he live in different world maybe, you know?

Could he read and write? I made a mental note to research carrot juice and cabbage. The thought brought back a vivid memory of my mom’s corned beef and cabbage with carrots, onions and boiled potatoes, a dish she liked to whip up once a month or so. For a second there I actually smelled it boiling on the range.

Oh... Mr. Zaretsky shrugged again. Maybe... little, I don’t know. He don’t pay attention. Hard to talk to David.

Autistic?

Au —? I don’t know what that mean. I don’t know. Doctor never say anything. He say David immature. He has to grow up.

Oh, when was that? I asked.

He smiled sadly. Oh, when he is just little boy, in second grade at school.

Wow. I sat back. This sounded a lot like Wil, my stepson. But with medication and counseling he had come a long way and seemed to be fitting nicely into modern life. I wondered. Maybe this David hadn’t had the same help Wil had received. If a doctor diagnosed him as merely immature at what? Seven or eight years of age and that was the extent of his diagnosis and treatment — aren’t we supposed to be immature at seven years of age? Who knew today what was going on? Still immature at twenty-four... that could mean anything. I knew lots of people older than twenty-four who were still immature. My mother accused me of that many a time. What’s immature? I’m not sure I know.

Still, according to Mr. Zaretsky, the painter seemed to be happy with David’s work. Maybe he wasn’t very demanding. Obviously, Mr. Zaretsky wasn’t going to be satisfied with the police theory and it did sound to me like they had placed it on the back burner. Understandable. A handicapped young man, son of a recycler who looked like a homeless street bum. David probably looked just like a younger version of his old man and acted — well.... As far as they were concerned, David was just another young loser, one of those shabby street kids who don’t shave and wander about the streets apparently doing nothing. Probably figured there was a drunken brawl and David got caught up in it. Lots of times, in cases like that, witnesses dumb up and nobody sees a thing.

There was a party and David got killed. The cops could afford to wait. They probably figured that sooner or later somebody would turn up to tell them what happened. From my own experience, I figured they were right. But Mr. Zaretsky obviously wasn’t prepared to wait around, maybe for years, for closure. Couldn’t blame him for that. David had been his child, and he loved him. I think sometimes when people have handicapped children, they cherish them and spoil them even more. Maybe they feel guilty, as if maybe it was their fault their child didn’t turn out to be perfect... whatever that is.

I could look into this for you, Mr. Zaretsky, I said, but an investigation like this can take some time and cost a lot of money. I don’t know how much time and money you want me to put into this for you.

I have money, he said.

Inwardly I smiled. To look at him, who would have thought? Of course the recycling business evidently did all right for him.

He lifted one haunch and reached for his hip pocket. So... you want I shall give you some money, like — now?

Okay. Sure. If you’re willing to go ahead Mr. Zaretsky. I’ll keep a list of time and expenses. I’ll go talk to the painter first, and I know some police, too. Maybe I can come up with something. Any time you think we’ve spent enough time and money, you can let me know. It’ll be all right.

Before I could even mention my modest retainer, he had a checkbook on his knee and was scribbling.

Maybe I can come by the plant, too, and look around. I’d like to see the cabin David stayed in, if that’s okay.

He tore out the check and passed it over to me. I whistled and folded it carefully and tucked it into my shirt pocket.

"Sure. You come over. I leave you my card, too. He pulled a dirty, slightly wrinkled card from the side pocket of his tired suit coat and passed it over to me. I looked at the card.

Zaretsky Recycling and Reclamation

Metal, Glass, Electrical

Cars, Running or Not

Best Prices

I stood up, holding his card. I’d like to go see your place today, if that’s all right. The place where your boy — David, where he stayed when he was with you. That may help me get a better picture in my mind. I can follow you over.

Mr. Zaretsky smiled shyly. I take bus. I don’t drive.

Wow, I thought, but I smiled. Great, we can go in my pickup then. Okay?

He stood. Yah, okay.

Outside only a few high white clouds floated above us and the heat pressed down like a heavy blanket. We climbed up into the truck.

My seventy-two Chevy pickup was old when I acquired it some years earlier but it was still going strong. Oh, a little maintenance here and there, a water pump, a new clutch a year or so back, a couple of little things, but it was still going strong with its big six and four-speed gear box. Unfortunately it had no air conditioner and only scorching air blew in from the fan.

Following Mr. Zaretsky’s direction, we rolled along streets, business streets at first, over a bridge finally crossing railroad tracks before getting into a more industrial area. A street the city evidently didn’t bother to sweep as regularly as others. Small factories, warehouses, used tire shops, a place that upholstered vehicle interiors and couple of recycling places, but Mr. Zaretsky indicated we should keep going.

A few blocks further along, it looked like a chain-link fence surrounded an entire block. Brown plastic slats had been slipped vertically down through the links to provide privacy, but that had been done a long time ago. Now most of the slats were torn, broken, bent or just plain missing. Rising above the fencing here and there piles of metal and other objects rose high enough to be visible from our vantage point in the pickup. A bit further along a double wide gate stood open and above the gate, the sign told us this was Zaretsky Recycling and Reclamation.

As I drove into the premises I saw off to my right a large open shed with four or five