Searching for Sara Caruso: The Second Bear Whitman Adventure

By Brett M. Wiscons

Bear is back home in Chicago & his agency has been requested to search for the mayor's daughter. But will his past come back to haunt him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781619278493

Book preview

life

ONE

You could smell the lake from where we gathered on that brilliant April day in Illinois. The morning dew was still fresh on our golf shoes. I approached the first-hole tee box on the North Course at the Olympia Fields Country Club with voracity. It was my first time out that season and I’d be damned if I was going to look like a fool on my birthday in front of my group. Our foursome that morning included me, my brother Vinny, brother-in-law Mark Murph Murphy and Chicago Tribune journalist Trent Prince.

Your honor, your honor. Murph quoted Caddyshack often, but not quite enough to annoy me.

Remember, no gimmies, Barry, Vinny said. I was a stickler for the rules and he was alluding to my infamous mantra around our circle of golf buddies. He only called me Barry when he wanted to mess with me. Most people called me by my nickname, Bear.

Don’t fuck up, you ho, Prince said in his best Mike Tyson voice. He did open-mic comedy when he had some free time. He was a damn good journalist and also a member of the country club, so he was able to get us on as his guests.

I gathered, took a couple of practice swings and picked a landmark on which to focus. A sycamore stood out about three hundred yards straight and to the left. I had a natural hook anyway, so I aimed to the right of that tree. The first hole was a five hundred and forty two-yard par five –the only par five on the front nine. I reared back with my Cobra driver, ready to make contact on what I was sure would be the greatest swing of my adult life, when Murph’s phone blared with the ringtone of The Beatles’ Revolution and threw me out of sync. Instead of striking the ball, I struck the ground in front of it and dragged my club eight inches before I knocked the little white object six feet to my right. Murph stepped away to field his call.

Murph! Damn it to hell! Keep your phone on silent out here! I’ll knock the glasses off your face next time! You pull this crap all the time! I yelled. This would probably be our first and last round at Olympia Fields C.C.

I reset for my mulligan drive and again took a couple of practice swings and finally focused on the sycamore landmark. This time I striped it pure and down the fairway a good three hundred and fifty yards. Take that! The notion of the mulligan intrigued me – if only life would imitate art in that regard, things might be more bearable. I might still have my true loves in my grasp. But they packed it up and moved west.

You could usually tell how your golf season would play out by your first swing of the year. I would only count my mulligan on this occasion.

Nice shot, said Vinny through the cloud of smoke of his ritualistic Davidoff cigar.

That’s how it’s done, son! said Trent as he grinned and rotated his lean torso to prepare for his turn.

By the way, I love golf, I usually shoot in the low eighties, said Vinny, polishing off his second beer.

Really? I played along.

Yeah, if it’s any warmer, I just stay home. He tossed his empty can into the receptacle.

That joke never gets old, I said, rolling my eyes.

Hey, gotta keep Dad’s memory alive somehow. He loved telling that one.

That’s true.

Murph quickly rejoined the group. Guys, I hate to break up this little party, but that was Mayor Caruso.

Yeah, what the hell’s he calling you for at eight in the morning on a Saturday? I said.

His daughter is missing. She went to a rooftop party last night in Wrigleyville and never showed up this morning for family brunch at Yolk.

"Let me repeat. Why is he calling you? Why doesn’t he call the real detectives, as opposed to the three jackasses at Murphy’s Law who lure cats out of trees and stake out philandering spouses?"

Because he thinks her fiancé, Sergeant Whitlock, is involved. Wants to play this one close to the chest. Let’s all head back to the office.

Any chance for a birthday mulligan?

Vinny and I jumped in with Murph in his navy blue Cadillac Escalade. The vehicle was basically our office away from our office. Damn near big enough for the three of us to sleep in, if needed. Like the time we surveilled the house of the head coach of the Northwestern football team. Turns out he was indeed two and three-timing his wife with a gaggle of co-eds. We headed towards I-94W and the John Hancock Center.

What’s our play, Murph? I asked.

Well, the mayor wants some guys to dig a little without creating a stir. They don’t want the media hoopla. I suppose we can be those guys.

I don’t like where this is headed, fellas, said Vinny. Something doesn’t smell right.

I agree, but this could be the break we’re looking for to move from the nineteenth floor to the top floor, mentioned Murph.

I’m with Vinny, I said. If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck...

What do you propose, Bear? Just tune out the mayor’s request? This is a very delicate matter – especially in a re-election year. He can’t be seen as fallible, said Murph.

I understand that, I said. I vaguely know Sara, remember? She was acquaintances with Jen.

You don’t know her like Vinny knows her, though, do ya, Bear? Murph said.

That was a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. If Cassie found out about it, I’d be a dead man. But, in my defense, we were legally separated. My lust was justified, Vinny said.

Lustified, eh? Doesn’t Cassie have your balls in a vise anyway, Vinny? Murph could barely get the words out without chuckling.

Grow up, said Vinny, and drive.

The traffic was light that morning. We made it to 175 East Delaware Place just before 9 a.m. I hadn’t worked on a Saturday, let alone my birthday, in some time.

We encountered Murph’s cousin Rosa already in the office doing some filing and making a fresh pot of Joe. She was always working overtime.

Great, the triumvirate of terror. I wanted some peace and quiet. Nice pants, Bear, she winked and pointed. We’d had our moment a little over two years ago. We shared a passionate kiss on New Year’s Eve. We were both single and lonely and the ball dropped and took our inhibitions with it. We were passed that now, I thought.

Thanks, I borrowed them from Murph. Even though the pants I was wearing were mine, they were a bit snug in certain areas and since I was a half-dozen inches taller and 60 pounds larger than Murph, I figured I’d get a laugh. Crickets...

The three detectives took a seat in our conference room and looked over the notes that Mayor Caruso had sent over when we were en route. We perused the facts.

Sara Caruso was last seen at a rooftop party at 3617 North Sheffield Avenue during last night’s Cubs/Reds game. She was seen with a friend named Wendy Goodbody and Wendy’s boyfriend, Patrick Paddy O’Shea. Sara’s fiancé, Anthony Whitlock, was planning to meet them, but he couldn’t get away from work. He was a sergeant with the Chicago P.D. Sara said she wasn’t feeling well, and told Wendy and Patrick she would catch a cab back to her Lincoln Park brownstone. That was roughly 9:26 p.m. It had now been twelve hours since she was last seen.

Top suspects? I asked.

John Doe and probably her fiancé, Said Murph.

What about Vinny? He hooked up with her last year, I said.

Very funny. I was with you last night, jackass. Remember? Early birthday dinner at Ditka’s. My alibi is rock hard.

Unlike your cock, Cracked Murph. OK, ruling out Vinny and John Doe, I’d say we should at least talk to Sergeant Whitlock. See if he has any ideas. But first, let’s get in touch with both Wendy Goodbody and Patrick O’Shea.

Who should I take? I asked.

Bear, take Wendy. Vinny, take Patrick. I’ll take a nap. Let’s reconvene in a few hours. We’ll go out for that birthday cocktail unfailingly, Bear.

Hey, you only turn twenty-nine once. Let’s get some work done and figure it out later.

Unfortunately, I had turned twenty-nine for the last several years, dating back to my actual twenty-ninth birthday. The drinks, steaks and ladies could wait. It was time to get down to business.

TWO

I decided to walk the short distance to the Gold Coast neighborhood and to Wendy Goodbody’s condo at 21 West Goethe Street. I was there in just under fifteen minutes and scrolled through the names on the lobby intercom system. She was just after Andrew Golden in the alphabet. It was 10:38 a.m.

Yeah? Wendy greeted me smugly.

Wendy? My name is Barry F. Whitman. I’m a private investigator. I’m here to discuss your missing friend.

You got ID, or anything?

I’ve got a business card, I flashed it up to the video monitor screen in the lobby. But any jerkoff with a printer could make these at home. It’s up to you if you want to let me in. I do, however, promise to play nice.

With that she buzzed me in and I took the elevator up to the 15th floor. I rapped twice at the door of unit C, and she let me into her abode. She had hit it hard last night. Her high heels were scattered about as were some of her clothes – both under and outerwear.

Sorry, I wasn’t expecting anyone. Saturday’s usually my laundry day. What was your name again?

Barry Whitman. Please call me Bear.

Okeydoke.

She was conspicuously younger than me. Around twenty-six. Single-ish, on the shorter side of 5’3", cropped brunette hair, a button nose and a piercing just below her lip on the right side. Still, she lived up to her surname. Even in her plaid pajama bottoms and oversized red T-shirt, I could tell she had a capable physique underneath. Probably a former college athlete or dancer. Please let her be a dancer.

May I call you Wendy?

You may.

"Wendy, I work for an