by Rick Polad
Stosh noted that the London police had run into the same problem they were confronting—how do you keep the women off the streets? The women had kept going back out because it was either earn a few pennies or starve. There was a greater chance of dying if they hadn’t gone out at night.
He closed the dog-eared book and leaned his chair back. He hadn’t read anything that would help, but he would ask for a check on Jack the Ripper copycats. The main part of the storm had moved through, and the rain was now falling gently as the sky turned from black to gray. Lacing his hands behind his head, Stosh let the drumming of the rain on the roof lull him back to sleep.
Chapter 31
Spencer squeezed his eyes tight and then opened them wide. When he realized the ring was the phone, his first thought was who the hell is calling me at this hour on a Sunday morning. Then he glanced at the clock and saw it was almost ten. He answered the second ring with a sleepy hello.
“Morning Spencer, it’s Ben.”
“Hey. I’ll call you back.” He quietly hung up the phone.
Rosie was still asleep, her body half wrapped in the sheet and her reddish-brown hair sprawled across the pillow. She looked soft and lovely. Rosie stirred as Spencer got out of bed, but she just burrowed deeper into the pillow.
Grabbing a pair of shorts, Spencer headed for the kitchen, poured a glass of orange juice, and then dialed Ben.
“Hello, Spencer. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Nope. What’s up, Ben?”
“I read the story about the girl in the alley and was wondering if you’ve learned anything about Laura.”
Spencer gave him a brief overview, including Laura’s real name and home.
“Think we should call the parents?”
“You can do as you please. I’m going to watch her a little more. Something about it is odd, but I’m not sure what’s going on. And she is twenty-four, Ben. Old enough to do what she wants.”
“Yeah, but what she’s doing might get her killed.”
“Ben, the bottom line is, that’s her choice. You could say the same about me.”
“Jesus, Spencer, why don’t they stay off the streets with this nut out there? It’s insane.”
“Because they have to earn a living. If there was some guy targeting lawyers, would you stay out of court?”
“Well, no, but that’s different.”
Spencer rinsed out his glass and placed it on the edge of the sink with a few other dirty dishes. “Not much different at all, Ben.”
“It is different. I have to go into court to do my job.”
“And where do streetwalkers go to do theirs?”
“They don’t...”
Spencer cut him off. “Hey, it’s Sunday, day of peace and rest. I’m just playing devil’s advocate. You figure out a way of keeping them off the streets and the Chicago police force will pin a medal on you.” Out of the corner of his eye, Spencer saw Rosie walk into the kitchen wearing one of his sweatshirts. “Gotta go, Ben. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”
“Thanks.”
“Welcome.” He hung up the phone and smiled at Rosie. “Good morning. You look...”
“Gee, thanks. That bad, huh?”
“No. That good.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “Just couldn’t find a word good enough.”
Rosie pulled her head away from his shoulder. “Are you crazy? I can imagine what I look like flopping around in your sweatshirt. I...”
Spencer kissed her, and then picked her up and carried her back into the bedroom.
Chapter 32
On the drive north Monday morning, Charles Lamb thought about which project he would do first. He had trouble deciding because it really didn’t matter; they would all be done at some point and there was no urgency to any of them. But as he drove and absently glanced at the sun rising above the calm surface of the lake, he found himself thinking of Amanda’s office. That was where he wanted to be; the rich woods, the thick carpet that absorbed even his heavy footsteps, and the view of the lake out the large picture window had been in his thoughts many times over the weekend. He felt very peaceful in her office.
Traffic was light and Charles had left early to avoid having to talk to Sarah. He left while she was still in the shower. It was 8:10 a.m. and he was not due until nine. Leaving the car at the end of the driveway, he made his way to the beach and slowly walked to the water’s edge, leaving large footprints in the wet sand. The only vessel visible through the bright glare was a small sailboat slowly heading south.
Charles took several deep breaths of the cool, fishy air and looked around for a place to sit. Twenty feet to the north, the sand narrowed into a ledge made of granite boulders and limestone slabs that stretched for two hundred feet. Charles headed toward the rocks. On the side of the rocks was a chain link fence and trees that hid the ledge from the houses beyond. Climbing the rocks, he neared the fence and noticed a shabby-looking man lying on a small patch of grass behind the rocks. The man was asleep but was tightly clutching a black, plastic garbage bag that was wedged in between him and the rock. Charles hadn’t seen him until he stood at the edge of the last slab.
Charles peered into one of many deep cracks between rocks and couldn’t see to the bottom.
He climbed back down to the sand, carefully picking his steps. Sitting on the rock nearest the water, Charles tilted his face back into the sun and let the waves gently lap against the tips of his shoes.
A pigeon landed nearby, and Charles lost himself in watching the bird peck about for food. The time went by quickly. Reluctantly, he stood, brushed sand off the seat of his trousers and headed for the house. As he walked, he decided he would come back to the rocks to eat his lunch and wondered if the bum lying behind the rocks would still be there.
Not wanting to just barge in, Charles chose not to use his key and rang the doorbell. Amanda answered the door herself, explaining that Margaret was sick and would come on Wednesday if she felt better. She wore a baggy sweatshirt and her hair was pulled back in a pony tail. Apologizing for the way she looked, she led Charles to the kitchen and offered coffee. He declined, telling her she looked just fine. Actually, he thought she looked a lot better than just fine; he had to make a conscious effort to keep from staring at her.
As Amanda poured herself a cup of coffee and stirred in cream, which she added from a tiny ceramic pitcher, she asked, “What would you like to start on this morning?”
Charles hemmed and hawed a bit like a kid who knew what he wanted but was afraid to ask because he might not get it. Pretending that it really made no difference, Charles answered, “Well, I guess I might as well start with the office upstairs.” He fidgeted with the back of the wooden chair he was standing next to as he waited for an answer. When Amanda didn’t quickly agree, he added, “You know, replace the molding and the baseboard.” When she still didn’t answer, he wondered if he had said something wrong and asked if he had.
Amanda took a sip of coffee and answered. “Oh no. I’m sorry. I was just thinking about what I have to do. If you feel comfortable starting there, I can arrange it. But you see, Monday morning is when I settle my accounts from the week before and arrange my appointments for the next week. It’s pretty silly, but I’m a creature of habit. I really could wait if you want to work in there.”
She paused, taking another sip, and looked up at Charles who seemed nervous. Still wondering why this beautiful woman was being so nice to him, he finally stammered that he could start anywhere, and that the kitchen might be a good spot.
Amanda agreed and said that would be fine.
They chatted for a few minutes about the work in the kitchen. As she refilled her cup, she told Charles to help himself to sandwich meat and rolls for lunch. Cradling the cup in her hands, Amanda took a sip, wished Charles luck, and headed upstairs. Charles watched her walk until she turned the corner at the landing on the stairs, looking longingly at the curve of her jeans. When she disappeared, he turned to
the cupboards and thought about his work plan. They had decided that he would remove the old cupboards. Then, when the walls were bare, they would make some drawings and talk about the new cabinets.
As Charles carefully emptied the cupboards, he wondered about what Amanda did for a living. It was obviously something important. This house was old but it was worth a lot of money. Remembering that she had mentioned working on her accounts, he wondered if she was some type of accountant like Sarah. Amanda certainly made more money than Sarah, but Sarah worked for a company and Amanda worked for herself. Charles knew that people who had the initiative to start their own business could make much more money. Sarah worked hard, but she had no initiative. She wouldn’t be able to start her own company. They managed to get by, but they could be doing much better if she had initiative. Amanda obviously did, and she attracted important people.
Charles thought back to the man in the limo and decided that, yes, Amanda had all the initiative she needed.
Chapter 33
Staring into the glare of the sun, Spencer pulled into the parking lot next to the Greendale station house. He planned to get to Wrigley Field about noon and meet a friend for the Cubs/Dodgers game at one-thirty. But first he wanted to stop and ask Stosh if he had read up on Jack. It was a silly idea but something about it was gnawing at him.
“So what brings you to the palace?” asked Stosh, as he thumbed through manila folders and slid one of the files he was holding into a drawer.
“On my way to Wrigley and thought I’d see if you had read about Jack.”
Stosh continued to file. Spencer watched.
“So?” Spencer asked.
“So what?”
“So, did you read the book? And why do I have to ask twice?”
“Yes. And you didn’t ask twice.” He looked at Spencer with raised eyebrows and a look that left Spencer feeling he had missed something.
“Yes, I did. I said I stopped in here to see if you had read about Jack.”
“Right. At least your memory is better than your grammar skills. That is a statement, not a question.”
“Jesus. Your day isn’t hard enough without giving me a hard time?”
Stosh smiled and closed the drawer. “Giving you a hard time is what helps me get through my hard day.”
“Great. Glad to help. What about Jack?”
“Nothing. At least nothing helpful. Both target prostitutes and both like to use a knife. Other than that there are no similarities. And no clues.” He shrugged and rolled a pencil across his desk.
“Did they catch him?”
Stosh shook his head. “Not officially. Like I told you, there was this fellow, Kosminski, who was a good suspect—hated women, especially prostitutes. The police arrested him but couldn’t hold him. But they were sure it was him and stayed on his tail. He ended up in a nuthouse. And like I told you, as soon as they started watching him the murders stopped.”
Spencer thought for a few seconds. “Did the book say why he hated prostitutes?”
“Nope.”
“I wonder why. I think we can assume the new guy hates them also. Look for someone with a reason.”
Stosh laughed. “Thanks. That narrows it down to thousands who don’t like prostitutes.”
“Not don’t like. Hate—enough to kill. Something happened to this guy that’s making him do this.”
Stosh nodded. “Okay, makes sense. I’ll put somebody on records.”
Spencer replied, “Hopefully he has a record.”
Stosh slowly let out a deep breath. “He doesn’t.”
Spencer’s eyes opened wide. “And how do you know that?”
“There’s a good print on one of the coins. The guy’s not in the system, or it’s somebody else’s print.”
“Bad break. Mind if I borrow the book?”
Smiling again, Stosh pointed to his basket. “Be my guest.”
Spencer picked up the book and thumbed through it.
“I hope you have better luck than I did,” said Stosh.
“Thanks. I’ll take good care of it. Wanna join us at Wrigley?”
“Some of us have to work for a living. Us? What’s her name?”
“Not a her.” Knowing Stosh would wish he could get away, Spencer added, “I’m meeting Donald. You know, just soak up some sun, drink a few beers, and watch over-priced outfielders drop fly balls. See you later.” He turned and started out, knowing Stosh couldn’t let it lie.
“Hey, Spencer, what time’s the game?”
Spencer laughed. “One-thirty, you’re screwed.” He waved over his shoulder with a big grin and enjoyed leaving Stosh frustrated. Stosh was a huge Sherlock Holmes fan and Donald Starre was president of the Chicago chapter of the Sherlock Holmes Society.
“Say hi to Donald. Give him my best.”
“Will do.”
Chapter 34
Charles spent most of the morning emptying the cabinets. He was extra careful with a cabinet full of fragile cups and saucers, some of which looked like antiques. He studied the patterns on the sides, thinking that he had never seen anything so beautiful, and carried them gently to the dining room table. He placed them in the middle so there would be no chance of them falling off. Shortly before noon, he decided to stop for lunch and started up the stairs to see if Amanda wanted to join him.
The thick, rich carpet sunk under Charles’ heavy footsteps as he slowly and quietly moved up the stairs. He thought he would like to walk barefoot on this carpet. Turning left at the top of the stairs, he walked down the hall to the office and looked in. Amanda wasn’t in the room. Charles stood in the doorway and admired the view of the lake through the large picture window. He was a few steps into the room before he saw the ledger book lying open on the desk. He glanced down the hall. Seeing and hearing no one, he walked over to the desk.
The pages were filled with names and phone numbers. Beneath each name were single words like leather, nurse, cop, and others. Charles lovingly ran his hand over the carved edge of the desk top. He never heard Amanda come up behind him.
“Pretty, huh.”
Charles jumped and looked startled.
Amanda asked if he needed something.
“Yes. I’m sorry to bother you. I just wanted to let you know I was stopping for lunch and to see if you wanted to join me.”
“Thanks, Charles, that’s sweet.” She touched his arm. “I’m going to work for a while more. Why don’t you make something and take it out on the beach. It looks like a gorgeous day.”
He said he would. As he walked away, he felt his heart pounding and wondered if it was from the scare or the touch on his arm. When he got to the stairs, his thoughts changed to what he had seen in the ledger. Remembering the black limo, Charles thought about what the words might mean. He didn’t want to think Miss Amanda might be a prostitute. There must be another explanation, but he couldn’t think of it.
The hot, noon sun was cooled a bit by a gentle breeze off the lake. Charles scuffed through the sand over to the rocks and set his plate and glass on a flat spot on top of a greenish boulder flecked with bits of black. The bum was no longer around. Probably out looking for cans, Charles thought.
Chapter 35
With his glove tucked under his arm, Don was waiting when Spencer got to the ticket booth at the front of Wrigley Field.
After finding their seats in the right field bleachers, Spencer scanned the park while Don looked for a beer man. When he was a kid, Spencer and his dad had come to the park a couple times a month. They had seats in a reserved box, but Spencer’s best memories were of days spent in the bleachers. The ivy-covered walls and the perfectly manicured field were best admired from the cheap seats. And if you listened carefully, and the wind was blowing just right, you could just barely hear the cheers of every Cubs fan who had ever slapped his buddy on the back and uttered those famous words, “We’ll get ‘em next year.”
Don passed Spencer a beer.
“Stosh sends his regards,” Spencer said, “
and his regrets that he couldn’t join us.” After the grilling Don got when they were last together, Spencer thought Don had no regrets.
“Well, say hello. He certainly is a colorful character.”
“Yes, he is that. But beneath that bluster is a heart of gold.”
“And the man knows his Holmes. I’ve been meaning to call and get him to come to one of the meetings.”
“Yeah, that’s just what you need.” Hearing a yell of “hot dogs”, Spencer turned and saw the hot dog vendor in the next section above them. He waved. The man nodded. Spencer waited for him to make his way down the aisle. Coming to Wrigley Field wasn’t about winning or losing, it was about hot dogs and ivy on the walls of one of the last ball parks in the country that had any character. Spencer snapped back to Don in mid-conversation.
“I think he’d make a great guest speaker with all the stories he has to tell. Sometimes we bury our faces too far in the books. A dose of real life is good once in a while.”
“I’m sure he’d love to come,” Spencer responded with one eye up the aisle. “But you’d have a hard time getting him to stop.”
Don laughed as he watched the outfielders warming up playing catch. “That’s preferable to the hard time I have getting speakers.” As the players started to trot off the field, the right fielder turned and tossed the ball up into the bleachers.
“Now that’s baseball,” Don said.
“Yup,” Spencer agreed as he reached into his pocket for money. The hot dog man had arrived. Spencer held up two fingers. The grizzled man with one eye half shut tossed two dogs down the row.
As he took a bite and savored the taste, Spencer said, “Nothing better.”
“Agreed,” responded Don as he unwrapped his dog. He took a bite and asked Spencer what he knew about the prostitute murders.
Wiping mustard from the corner of his mouth, Spencer said, “Not a whole lot more than you if you’ve been reading the papers.”
“But a little more?” Don teased with a glimmer in his eye.
