~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 12
I spent the next couple of days going between my
apartment and the office, making calls and
checking my notes while waiting for the test results
on the red marks to come back from the lab. I had also
gotten some time in at the shooting range. Keeping
brushed up on my marksmanship is a must in this
profession and aside from jogging it's also a great
way to get rid of some pinned up hostility and well
other frustrations I won't go into because it
well...nevermind.
During one of those two days, I had been invited to
have dinner with the Spiolies at their lovely
home and gotten to know the two of them a little
better. Not wanting to upset them, I didn't mention
that I suspected someone may have been using Mike's
house, *since* his disappearance. The lab results may
shed some light on things.
I got to know a little bit more about Stanley's small
construction company, 'Spiolie Construction'-- which was
currently building out of town--and that Stanley had taken
a trip last summer to Jamaica on business to promote the
little company.
The Spiolies were such a loving couple. I could see
just how much Stanley adored Nancy. He
was very caring towards her, and for her peace of
mind, he wanted to see this whole thing through.
Why is it that all of the good ones are taken?
At that moment the thought of Hobson crossed
my mind and I shuddered, causing the stack of
letters to slip from my lap onto the floor.
Cursing silently, I crouched down to gather them up.
As I slid the letters into a neat little pile, I thought
about the towel woman in Hobson's apartment, wondering
if that was his type.
I questioned myself about what it was I was feeling
for the man, since he and I have nothing what so ever in
common. I'm bold and straight forward. He' s secretive,
kind of shy. I' m with law enforcement. He shys away
from it. I hate cats! He has one. Absolutely nothing
in common. I had no reason for going over to his
apartment in the first place, and what ever
"extracurricular activity" Hobson chose to do in his spare
time, was his business!
The telephone rang suddenly, and I scrambled up
quickly to answer it. It was Winslow informing
me that the test results of the splotches had come
back from the lab, which was a *very* good thing,
because I was just contemplating on marching back over
to the bar to shoot Hobson!
Stacking what was left of the unopened letters on my
desk, I grabbed my coat and hurried out the
door.
********************
Chapter 13
When I got to the lab, Winslow was already there and
so was Jim Kerpinsky, the lab technician.
Both men had their heads down, pouring over some
documents on the desk in front of them. They
glanced up as I entered the lab.
"Brigatti," Jim smiled, peering over the top of his
spectacles.
"Hey Jim. Winslow," I greeted both men.
"Brigatti," Winslow grinned, raking a patch of blond
hair back from his forehead. The motion made his blue eyes
wrinkle slightly in the corners.
Sliding a lock of hair behind my ear, I arched an
eyebrow with curious impatience, looking from
one to the other. "So? What do we have?"
Drawing a deep breath, Winslow took the initiative.
"Well, the results of the tests on those red
marks...splotches... show something very interesting."
He handed me the forms, and I began scanning through
them carefully.
There was a lot of information talking about aluminum
bauxite, sodium silicate solution, carbide
lime and gypsum tailings.... whatever that heck that
was. Scientific technical-sounding terms and names I
hadn't heard since chemistry during my college days.
The word bauxite did seemed to ring a bell with me
though, and I glanced up at Jim for clarification.
"Aluminum bauxite?"
"It's a mineral found in a certain type of dirt used
mainly in construction," Jim said, removing his
glasses.
"Construction?"
"Yeah. Bauxite waste. Red mud is another term for
it." He rose from his chair and walked over to
a large, clear medical cabinet and pulled it open. He
reached in and removed a clear tube marked
'Bauxite' and handed it to me. I examined the
strange-looking substance inside of the glass tubing
and glanced back up at him.
"That's it?" I raised a brow in surprise. "Plain old
dirt?"
"Well, that depends on how you want to look at it,"
Jim chuckled. "Actually, according to some
experts, it can be very useful in the construction
industry. It can be manufactured into bricks or blocks
for building without using the energy firing process
normally used to make clay bricks, making it a lot
cheaper to manufacture and purchase. Using bauxite and
other wastes to make these building material can
have many possible advantages in the very near
future."
I stared at him for a moment, trying to let the
information sink in.
"So, Mr. Spiolie's a contractor. It's a possibility
that maybe he's experimenting with that idea," I
said.
"I thought about that, too." Winslow cut in, "I did
some checking and apparently, there's no
construction company using that type of dirt in
Chicago or anywhere in Illinois."
"Are you sure?"
"Very sure."
Great. "So how would this substance get into Mike's
apartment?" I wondered out loud. "I mean,
where would it have come from?"
Jim shrugged, replacing his glasses. "Well...
actually, there are numerous ways it could have
gotten in there. I mean....some people collect dirt,
or it may have even been brought back on someone's
shoes, tires..."
"Shoes?" I glanced up from the forms.
"It's possible," Jim shrugged in confirmation.
"Is this type of dirt found in Jamaica?"
"Now that you ask, yes. The Jamaica Institute has
been experimenting with the process for years,
but because of lack of funding, it was put on hold and
nothing else really became of it."
I turned to look at Winslow, who in turn looked up
from the paper at me.
"So in the future, housing may be more affordable,
and a lot cheaper to buy just by using this
process."
"Some people think so," Jim added.
Risqué' investment...but that might explain Stanley's
business trip to Jamaica. I looked over at
Jim. "Thanks."
By the time I got home, it was late. I let myself in,
not bothering to turn on the lights, simply
ignored the flashing red light from the answering
machine and plopped down on my bed. There was just
too much information swirling around in my head right
now, and I had developed a headache.
If Stanley hadn't made any visits to Mike's bungalow
since Mike's disappearance, then how the
hell did the dirt get there? Unless of course, Mr.
Spiloie was lying. But why would he lie about
something like that?
The light on my answering machine was beginning to
irritate me. I reached over and tapped the
playback button, then began to undress.
((Beep))!
"Brigatti...th-this is Gary."
I paused, mid-sweater removal, to listen.
"Marrisa said that you came by a couple of days ago..
Sorry I-I missed you. Oh, and you
probably met Meredith ...who's a-a friend of mine.
A-Anyway, I was just returning your call, even though
your call was made by foot."
He let out a nervous laugh and I could just picture
him running his fingers through his hair.
"Ahh...anyway, I'm not quite clear why you came by.
Marissa wasn't sure...she said you didn't
say, and my...ah.. friend Meredith, left me a note saying
that it seemed important. But if it's about my being
at that store, well..well I-I already told you! A-Anyway,
I have to make a quick run tonight, but I'll call you
back tomorrow. Well..talk to you then...er, take
care."
There was a click and he was gone. I sat there
seething quietly for a moment. Of course he wasn't
going to admit that he was on the other side of that
door with his so called friend, Miss Merrymaker! He's
not that dumb!
I resumed my undressing, pulling my sweater off over
my head with a vengeance, tossing it into
the closet. I pulled off my boots one at a time,
slamming them into the closet one by one. Hobson only
made my headache worse!
The answering machine beep again interrupting my
private tirade. It was Winslow.
"Hey Toni. Winslow. Look, I got some information that
I thought you might find interesting.
Right after you left the lab this evening, I made a
few more calls and found out that back in June,
Heather had taken a little trip. And guess where? Jamaica.
Seems she belongs to some type of motorcycle club
too, the name slips my mind at the moment. Our little
Heather it seems is a motorcycle mama," he
chuckled, then continued. "Anyway, I thought that was
an interesting tidbit. She just doesn't look the
type, you know? "
I was stunned by what Winslow had just revealed. So
Heather belonged to a motorcycle club too?
I remembered that Stanley had mentioned that Mike had
no interest what-so-ever in motorcycles, so it was
kind of odd that Heather had gone on a road trip, but
with whom?
My head was pounding. I rubbed my temples, trying to
ease some of the pressure. I was thinking too hard and lay
back across my bed.
I suddenly remembered the phone number in Mexico
Winslow had left on my answering machine
the other day. I got up and pulled out my note pad. I
switched on the night light then flipped through the
tablet until I found the number. I needed to see who
was on the other end of that number. I dialed, let it
ring for a few minutes, and was about to hang up when
an operator came on the line.
"Operator in Mexico. The party you are trying to
contact is no longer at that service and there is
no new number."
Why was I not surprised?
I hung up the phone, switched off the light, and laid
back again, but let's face it--it was useless
trying to sleep. The thought of Heather and Stanley
taking a trip to Jamaica and both having an interest
in motorcycles was simply blowing my mind. The
similarities were just too close for comfort. And then
there was the plane tickets to Switzerland. What was little
Heather up to?
I got a sudden urge to take a little drive out to the
Spiolie construction site. I was fully aware that
Winslow had said that there were no companies using
any red dirt in Chicago or Illinois, but I needed to
check things out for myself. I couldn't sleep anyway,
and felt the drive would do me some good.
I got up and slipped on a pair of jeans, then pulled
on my sweater and boots. I unlocked my
dresser drawer, where I keep some of my guns, then
slid out the case where I kept my little .22 .
Although it's low on the power scale, it's still pretty damn
deadly, and makes a great secondary. I strapped
it onto my leg, then pulled my pant leg down to cover
it. Satisfied, I reached for my main sidearm, a
Glock .9mm standard issue. I checked the clip and
found it full, but something told me that I might want
to carry an extra for good measure. I slid it into my
belt holster and pulled my sweater down over it. I
briefly considered my .45, but seriously doubted that
I'd need that kind of firepower for a simple
reconnaissance. Besides, the Glock would certainly
do the job....if needed. I pulled on my coat,
grabbed my keys, and headed out the door.
Chapter 12
I spent the next couple of days going between my
apartment and the office, making calls and
checking my notes while waiting for the test results
on the red marks to come back from the lab. I had also
gotten some time in at the shooting range. Keeping
brushed up on my marksmanship is a must in this
profession and aside from jogging it's also a great
way to get rid of some pinned up hostility and well
other frustrations I won't go into because it
well...nevermind.
During one of those two days, I had been invited to
have dinner with the Spiolies at their lovely
home and gotten to know the two of them a little
better. Not wanting to upset them, I didn't mention
that I suspected someone may have been using Mike's
house, *since* his disappearance. The lab results may
shed some light on things.
I got to know a little bit more about Stanley's small
construction company, 'Spiolie Construction'-- which was
currently building out of town--and that Stanley had taken
a trip last summer to Jamaica on business to promote the
little company.
The Spiolies were such a loving couple. I could see
just how much Stanley adored Nancy. He
was very caring towards her, and for her peace of
mind, he wanted to see this whole thing through.
Why is it that all of the good ones are taken?
At that moment the thought of Hobson crossed
my mind and I shuddered, causing the stack of
letters to slip from my lap onto the floor.
Cursing silently, I crouched down to gather them up.
As I slid the letters into a neat little pile, I thought
about the towel woman in Hobson's apartment, wondering
if that was his type.
I questioned myself about what it was I was feeling
for the man, since he and I have nothing what so ever in
common. I'm bold and straight forward. He' s secretive,
kind of shy. I' m with law enforcement. He shys away
from it. I hate cats! He has one. Absolutely nothing
in common. I had no reason for going over to his
apartment in the first place, and what ever
"extracurricular activity" Hobson chose to do in his spare
time, was his business!
The telephone rang suddenly, and I scrambled up
quickly to answer it. It was Winslow informing
me that the test results of the splotches had come
back from the lab, which was a *very* good thing,
because I was just contemplating on marching back over
to the bar to shoot Hobson!
Stacking what was left of the unopened letters on my
desk, I grabbed my coat and hurried out the
door.
********************
Chapter 13
When I got to the lab, Winslow was already there and
so was Jim Kerpinsky, the lab technician.
Both men had their heads down, pouring over some
documents on the desk in front of them. They
glanced up as I entered the lab.
"Brigatti," Jim smiled, peering over the top of his
spectacles.
"Hey Jim. Winslow," I greeted both men.
"Brigatti," Winslow grinned, raking a patch of blond
hair back from his forehead. The motion made his blue eyes
wrinkle slightly in the corners.
Sliding a lock of hair behind my ear, I arched an
eyebrow with curious impatience, looking from
one to the other. "So? What do we have?"
Drawing a deep breath, Winslow took the initiative.
"Well, the results of the tests on those red
marks...splotches... show something very interesting."
He handed me the forms, and I began scanning through
them carefully.
There was a lot of information talking about aluminum
bauxite, sodium silicate solution, carbide
lime and gypsum tailings.... whatever that heck that
was. Scientific technical-sounding terms and names I
hadn't heard since chemistry during my college days.
The word bauxite did seemed to ring a bell with me
though, and I glanced up at Jim for clarification.
"Aluminum bauxite?"
"It's a mineral found in a certain type of dirt used
mainly in construction," Jim said, removing his
glasses.
"Construction?"
"Yeah. Bauxite waste. Red mud is another term for
it." He rose from his chair and walked over to
a large, clear medical cabinet and pulled it open. He
reached in and removed a clear tube marked
'Bauxite' and handed it to me. I examined the
strange-looking substance inside of the glass tubing
and glanced back up at him.
"That's it?" I raised a brow in surprise. "Plain old
dirt?"
"Well, that depends on how you want to look at it,"
Jim chuckled. "Actually, according to some
experts, it can be very useful in the construction
industry. It can be manufactured into bricks or blocks
for building without using the energy firing process
normally used to make clay bricks, making it a lot
cheaper to manufacture and purchase. Using bauxite and
other wastes to make these building material can
have many possible advantages in the very near
future."
I stared at him for a moment, trying to let the
information sink in.
"So, Mr. Spiolie's a contractor. It's a possibility
that maybe he's experimenting with that idea," I
said.
"I thought about that, too." Winslow cut in, "I did
some checking and apparently, there's no
construction company using that type of dirt in
Chicago or anywhere in Illinois."
"Are you sure?"
"Very sure."
Great. "So how would this substance get into Mike's
apartment?" I wondered out loud. "I mean,
where would it have come from?"
Jim shrugged, replacing his glasses. "Well...
actually, there are numerous ways it could have
gotten in there. I mean....some people collect dirt,
or it may have even been brought back on someone's
shoes, tires..."
"Shoes?" I glanced up from the forms.
"It's possible," Jim shrugged in confirmation.
"Is this type of dirt found in Jamaica?"
"Now that you ask, yes. The Jamaica Institute has
been experimenting with the process for years,
but because of lack of funding, it was put on hold and
nothing else really became of it."
I turned to look at Winslow, who in turn looked up
from the paper at me.
"So in the future, housing may be more affordable,
and a lot cheaper to buy just by using this
process."
"Some people think so," Jim added.
Risqué' investment...but that might explain Stanley's
business trip to Jamaica. I looked over at
Jim. "Thanks."
By the time I got home, it was late. I let myself in,
not bothering to turn on the lights, simply
ignored the flashing red light from the answering
machine and plopped down on my bed. There was just
too much information swirling around in my head right
now, and I had developed a headache.
If Stanley hadn't made any visits to Mike's bungalow
since Mike's disappearance, then how the
hell did the dirt get there? Unless of course, Mr.
Spiloie was lying. But why would he lie about
something like that?
The light on my answering machine was beginning to
irritate me. I reached over and tapped the
playback button, then began to undress.
((Beep))!
"Brigatti...th-this is Gary."
I paused, mid-sweater removal, to listen.
"Marrisa said that you came by a couple of days ago..
Sorry I-I missed you. Oh, and you
probably met Meredith ...who's a-a friend of mine.
A-Anyway, I was just returning your call, even though
your call was made by foot."
He let out a nervous laugh and I could just picture
him running his fingers through his hair.
"Ahh...anyway, I'm not quite clear why you came by.
Marissa wasn't sure...she said you didn't
say, and my...ah.. friend Meredith, left me a note saying
that it seemed important. But if it's about my being
at that store, well..well I-I already told you! A-Anyway,
I have to make a quick run tonight, but I'll call you
back tomorrow. Well..talk to you then...er, take
care."
There was a click and he was gone. I sat there
seething quietly for a moment. Of course he wasn't
going to admit that he was on the other side of that
door with his so called friend, Miss Merrymaker! He's
not that dumb!
I resumed my undressing, pulling my sweater off over
my head with a vengeance, tossing it into
the closet. I pulled off my boots one at a time,
slamming them into the closet one by one. Hobson only
made my headache worse!
The answering machine beep again interrupting my
private tirade. It was Winslow.
"Hey Toni. Winslow. Look, I got some information that
I thought you might find interesting.
Right after you left the lab this evening, I made a
few more calls and found out that back in June,
Heather had taken a little trip. And guess where? Jamaica.
Seems she belongs to some type of motorcycle club
too, the name slips my mind at the moment. Our little
Heather it seems is a motorcycle mama," he
chuckled, then continued. "Anyway, I thought that was
an interesting tidbit. She just doesn't look the
type, you know? "
I was stunned by what Winslow had just revealed. So
Heather belonged to a motorcycle club too?
I remembered that Stanley had mentioned that Mike had
no interest what-so-ever in motorcycles, so it was
kind of odd that Heather had gone on a road trip, but
with whom?
My head was pounding. I rubbed my temples, trying to
ease some of the pressure. I was thinking too hard and lay
back across my bed.
I suddenly remembered the phone number in Mexico
Winslow had left on my answering machine
the other day. I got up and pulled out my note pad. I
switched on the night light then flipped through the
tablet until I found the number. I needed to see who
was on the other end of that number. I dialed, let it
ring for a few minutes, and was about to hang up when
an operator came on the line.
"Operator in Mexico. The party you are trying to
contact is no longer at that service and there is
no new number."
Why was I not surprised?
I hung up the phone, switched off the light, and laid
back again, but let's face it--it was useless
trying to sleep. The thought of Heather and Stanley
taking a trip to Jamaica and both having an interest
in motorcycles was simply blowing my mind. The
similarities were just too close for comfort. And then
there was the plane tickets to Switzerland. What was little
Heather up to?
I got a sudden urge to take a little drive out to the
Spiolie construction site. I was fully aware that
Winslow had said that there were no companies using
any red dirt in Chicago or Illinois, but I needed to
check things out for myself. I couldn't sleep anyway,
and felt the drive would do me some good.
I got up and slipped on a pair of jeans, then pulled
on my sweater and boots. I unlocked my
dresser drawer, where I keep some of my guns, then
slid out the case where I kept my little .22 .
Although it's low on the power scale, it's still pretty damn
deadly, and makes a great secondary. I strapped
it onto my leg, then pulled my pant leg down to cover
it. Satisfied, I reached for my main sidearm, a
Glock .9mm standard issue. I checked the clip and
found it full, but something told me that I might want
to carry an extra for good measure. I slid it into my
belt holster and pulled my sweater down over it. I
briefly considered my .45, but seriously doubted that
I'd need that kind of firepower for a simple
reconnaissance. Besides, the Glock would certainly
do the job....if needed. I pulled on my coat,
grabbed my keys, and headed out the door.