Rough Trade

you sure?” I asked, my interest piqued. Going through Beau Rendell’s papers I had found no account that was less than sixty days overdue, including the property taxes on his house. If he was up-to-date on the taxes for this parcel, that in itself was noteworthy.
    “I’m sure. I checked with the County Recorders office on-line. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. I can’t find any record of the purchase or the deed in the records you gave me. I mean, if they’re laying out for the real estate taxes, you’d expect them to hold the deed.”
    “Maybe it’s kept under lock and key somewhere,” I suggested, my thoughts turning to the safe-deposit box.
    “I looked it up. The Rendells don’t own the land, and it’s not deeded to any of the holding companies associated with the team. Instead, it appears to belong to a corporation called Debmar, Incorporated.”
    “Who the hell is Debmar?”
    “From what I can gather, it’s a holding company. I traced it through two other shells to another holding company in the Caymans.”
    “In the Caymans? It sounds like somebody is hiding something.”
    “Do you want me to keep looking?”
    “Yeah. Do that. Of course, if there’s any hands-on investigating that needs to be done in the Caribbean, I think it’s better if I handle it personally. After all, I may be in the doghouse, but partnership still has its privileges.”
     
    Late that afternoon a messenger delivered an envelope to my office. Inside was a key. The accompanying note may have been unsigned, but I had no trouble recognizing Cheryl’s handwriting. All it said was It’s downstairs in your parking space.
    I’d completely forgotten that I’d asked her to get me some new wheels. Even barred from communicating with me, she’d managed to do what I’d asked. Propelled by curiosity, I packed up my briefcase, picked up the key, and took the elevator down to the parking garage. There, in my space, was a sleek new forest green Jaguar sedan with chrome Cragar wheels.
    I walked around it once, peering in through the windows, looking for what, I don’t know. Then I unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel. With its leather seats the interior smelled like the inside of a glove. The burled wood of the dashboard gleamed. I put the key in the ignition, and the deep-throated engine purred to life.
    “Not bad,” I thought to myself as I pulled out of my spot and headed down the ramp toward the exit. It wasn’t until I was heading east on Balbo toward Lake Shore Drive that I realized there was no way I could take this car home to Hyde Park. In the alley behind my building a car like this would have a half-life of something like six minutes. I might as well cruise the parking lot where the drug deals went down and hand the keys to the first dealer that I met.
    I fumbled around looking for where the British engineers had hidden the car phone. I eventually located it in the console between the seats, but only after I’d switched on the lights, the windshield wipers, and launched myself into cruise control somewhere in the vicinity of Soldier Field. First I called Cheryl and left a message saying thank you on her answering machine and promising her a test drive. Then I called Chrissy at my parents’ house and asked her if she minded having company for the night. She sounded pleased at the prospect of not being alone, but also preoccupied. When she mentioned that she’d just gotten off the phone with Jeff I figured that was probably the reason and decided not to pursue it, at least not over the phone. Instead I told her to put a bottle of wine on ice and save a glass for me.
    After I hung up with Chrissy I dialed the mobile operator and asked to be connected to the Regent Beverly Wilshire only to be told by the hotel operator that Mr. Rendell’s room wasn’t answering. Frustrated at just having missed him, I left a message for him to call me just as I pulled into the alley behind my building.
    I rolled down the window and offered a kid on a bicycle twenty bucks if he watched my car for ten minutes. Eager for the twenty—hopefully not the hubcaps—he agreed, and I pelted into the apartment and grabbed a change of clothes. I also stopped long enough to listen to the answering machine messages. There was one from my bank confirming the transfer of funds to pay for the Jaguar and another from Cheryl reminding me that I had seventy-two hours to switch my insurance coverage from the Volvo. Then