A Hard-Boiled Detective Book Series
Nod Blake Mysteries by Doug Lamoreux
Series Excerpt
I entered my office, feeling behind schedule as usual, shouting directions over my shoulder as I passed Lisa's desk. “Get a hold of Large,” I told her, referring to a friend and informant of mine who was all that his name implied, plus nosy, who on occasion gave me a hand with everything from threading administrative needles to poking into lions’ dens with a stick. “Have him check with his mole in the Department of Corrections, will you? See if they have any history on a Nicholas Nikitin; N – I – K – I – T – I – N.”
Lisa pushed her glasses up on her nose, pushed a pizza-by-the-slice box to the corner of her desk, began scribbling atop her pile and, through masticated pepperoni and cheese, asked, “Is he Russian?”
“I don't know. He sounds it. Maybe Large can tell us.”
“Right.”
“Then see if Willie Banks has been bailed out yet.” I paused at the door to my office. “If he has, get a hold of him and get him over here. His car is already drawing flies and I expect peasants with pitchforks soon. Tell him to get it off my lot.”
“Right.” She held up a fistful of pink and blue note slips. “Do you want your messages from this morning?”
“Are any of them reporting this building on fire?”
“No.”
“Then, no.” I pointed at her phone. “Large. Tell him I need speed.”
“Wenders didn't look happy this morning.”
I didn't know if she was changing the subject in order to stop me or stopping me in order to change the subject. It didn't matter. I'm not an ogre, I paused again. “How does Wenders not looking happy make today different from every other day?”
She ducked the question and asked another. “Are you in trouble again?”
“I think I should resent that.”
“That was a non-denial denial.”
I gave her the stare, made a noise of derision, slipped into my office, and closed the door. I poked the speed dial button on my phone as I sat.
It was answered uptown in the DMV's office. “Illinois Department of Motors Vehicles. This is Miss Laney, how can I help you?” Though we'd dealt with each other on and off for years over the phone, Kellie Laney and I had never actually met. It was probably just as well. She had a voice as warm as a melted cheese sandwich and, with the images I'd created in my head, meeting her, even if she was a knock-out, might be a letdown for me and surely would have been for her.
“How's your love life?”
“You would be the last one I'd tell,” she said. “What are you doing, Blake? I heard they pulled your license and threw you out of the city.”
“They will when they catch me. But that is neither here nor there. Right now I need a favor, beautiful.”
“That's obvious, you called.”
“It hurts when you talk that way.”
“What do you want, you pest?”
“You. But you're holding out on me.”
“And will continue to do so. Now that that's settled, anything else?”
“I need the skinny on a Nicholas Nikitin.”
“Nicholas,” she repeated. I could hear typing. “N – I – K…”
“I – T – I – N. Nikitin.”
“Is he a bad man?” Laney asked.
“Aren't we all?”
“You don't even want to go there,” she said. My cheese sandwich had gone cold. “When's dinner?” she added. “You've been promising me a dinner for two years. You still owe me.”
“Of course I do. The anticipation is the excitement,” I told her. She made a noise. “Hey, that's not nice. I was sincere.”
“You sincere?” She made another noise. “Are you ready?”
I grabbed a pen. “Ye-ah, more than ready.” She talked and I scribbled – all that she had. “Thanks, doll face.” She asked a question and I couldn't help but wonder if some weird new club was forming. “Well, yes,” I answered. “Now that you ask, I do think I'm Humphrey Bogart.”
She must have been a Bogie fan and, based upon where she told me I could go, must have known he'd starred in King of the Underworld. I decided not to ask, offered a simple “Uh huh” in reply, and quietly set down the receiver.
*
I entered the lobby of the swanky Lake Shore Apartments building just off Lake Shore Drive; the address I'd found on the vehicle registration of the virile Nicholas Nikitin, now verified by Kellie Laney. Locked glass doors and a humorless security guard stood between me and the elevators. She was short, square, and bumping fifty hard enough to break bones; everything I loved in a woman. I waved to her and smiled, making it clear I offered no threat and that she'd probably really enjoy my company. Without any indication she was convinced or that we'd established a life-long friendship, she buzzed me in.
“Hey, how are you?” I asked approaching the desk. “I'm looking for a tenant, Nicholas Nikitin.”
Glowering beneath a protruding forehead and a single eyebrow, the guard said, “We don't give out tenant information.”
I brightened the smile. “Not even for me?”
“Who do you think you are?” she asked staring icicles, “Sam Elliott? We don't give out tenant information.”
“Well, of course you don't. I'm not looking for information, just your tenant.” I handed her a business card. “I'm Mark Pullman,” I lied, “Illinois State Lottery. Nikitin is a multimillion dollar winner and he hasn't responded to our letters. Guys a millionaire, but doesn't answer his mail.”
“Really?” Finally, life in her eyes. “A millionaire, here? Damn!”
“You said it. I go home every night to an arthritic dog and a wife and dinner that are both frozen.”
She scowled. “We all got problems.”
Ah, the motherly type. “Sure, but before I go home to my problems, I spend my whole day handing out four, five, and six figure checks to complete strangers.”
“Yeah, that would suck. What d'you say this guy's name is?”
“Nikitin. Nick Nikitin. Course, now he's a millionaire, he'll probably stick with Nicholas.”
The guard began to hunt and peck on her computer keyboard. “No. He ain't here. Wait a minute.” More hunting. More pecking. The green screen didn't help her sour complexion. “Yeah. No wonder I don't know him. He moved out six months ago. How long ago did he win?”
“I've been looking for a while. In fact, he's about to expire. You know, if you don't claim your winnings in a year, it's bye-bye winnings. You wouldn't have a forwarding address, would you? I know it's probably breaking the rules but, if he knew you helped him out, and if you wanted I could let him know that, and then he'd probably show his appreciation.”
“Sure.” She looked again and, a minute later, though it couldn't afford to, her face fell. “No. Nothing.” She was disappointed but not nearly as much as I was. I thanked her pleasantly, escaped the confines of the glass cage, and paused outside to consider my next move.
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