The Alchemy of Noise

by Lorraine Devon Wilke

  “I’m still confused, but let me say that I always knew where he was going if he was going out, which was rare. But I certainly wasn’t tracking him in some weird way to know where he was every second of the night.”

  “So it’s possible he could have, say, spent time in a certain neighborhood, engaged in certain activities on certain dates, and you wouldn’t necessarily have known.”

  “Look, I get what you’re trying to do and it’s not going to work.”

  “What are we trying to do?” Lieu asked.

  “You’re trying to get me to contribute to this bullshit scenario where Chris is a voyeur or a peeker or whatever idiotic things he’s been accused of, and I’m not going to do that, because I know he isn’t. His car broke down. He grabbed a hose near the curb and used it. Maybe he shouldn’t have done that, maybe he shouldn’t have stepped into a private yard to turn the water on, but most people wouldn’t have a problem with someone doing that. The people accusing him are either profiling him as some nefarious black man in the neighborhood, or they’re just confused.”

  “Does the fact that three different witnesses pointed to his picture and said, ‘That’s the guy’ have any impact on your thinking?”

  “No. People mistakenly identify other people all the time. Google it. Eyewitness testimony is predictably unreliable. And it may be a cliché, but white people still tend to think all blacks look alike.”

  “That may be true,” Lieu countered, “but what if we told you we have fingerprints?”

  And there it was: the dreaded fingerprint dangle.

  “Right.” Sidonie was purposefully dismissive. “You’re not the first cop to mention that.”

  “What other cop mentioned it?”

  Sidonie realized it might not be wise bringing Mike Demopoulos into this. She didn’t know why that might be, but it somehow felt politic to avoid his further involvement. “That’s not relevant. What’s relevant is that you’re pretending you have Chris’s fingerprints and—”

  “We’re not pretending. We do have fingerprints from the location where more than peeking occurred. A thirteen-year-old girl was raped.” Lieu didn’t look so pleasant now.

  Sidonie wanted to continue her charade of imperviousness, but the hardness of his face, the cut of his words terrified her. “Okay. I’ll bite. Whose are they?”

  There was a pause. “Chris Hawkins’s.” Brittle, cold.

  Before she could respond, and as the dreaded, familiar whoosh of disassociation crept in, Nunzi leaned in with another tack. Sympathy. Commiseration. Understanding.

  “Look, Sidonie, I know this is a lot to deal with. You think you know this guy, you live with him, you probably love him. But you would not be the first woman to be fooled by a clever sociopath. There are lots of men who seem like the greatest guys in the world, but they’ve got a darkness inside that makes them capable of things you could not imagine—men whose wives and girlfriends were absolutely convinced they were incredible husbands, incredible fathers, yet they were guilty of rape, murder . . . horrible crimes. The mind is a strange thing, and you can’t let yourself be fooled into ignoring what’s really going on.”

  Sidonie steadied herself, then looked up at them both. “Are either of you married?”

  Lieu and Nunzi glanced at each other. She answered, “He’s married. I live with someone. Why?”

  “You know how you know that person? How you’ve shared enough life to know who they are? You’ve seen them in their smallest moments, their most intimate, subtle circumstances, and you have a sense of them? You listen and watch and exchange enough life that you have a gut knowledge that says this is a person to marry, this is a person to live with. Well, just like you, Detective Lieu, know your spouse, and you, Detective Nunzi, know your partner—well enough to know who they are, who they really are—I know Chris. And he’s not a rapist. He’s not a peeker. He is one of the best men I’ve ever known, and whatever you think you have on him, you don’t. You’re either lying or mistaken. You don’t have your peeker and you don’t have your rapist. So I suggest you keep looking, because that guy is still out there.” She stood up. “I have nothing more to add, so am I free to leave?”

  Nunzi closed her notepad. “I get it, Sidonie. I get what you’re saying. And I appreciate that you believe what you’re saying. But do me a favor: keep your mind open. If you see anything, hear anything, if you think of anything that might change the dynamics of this case, give us a call. You may be surprised by what you remember later on, or what you might find as things reveal themselves. I get your point, but I hope you get ours.”

  Sidonie had no response. She almost ran out the door.

  SIXTY-SIX

  THERE WAS A BRAND-NEW JEEP CHEROKEE, BLACK WITH tinted windows, parked in the garage when Sidonie got home. Its unannounced presence was startling; it didn’t seem possible Chris could’ve wrangled this event in the short hours she’d spent wandering the Lincoln Park Zoo after her police interview.

  “What happened to our car date? I thought we were doing this together!” she wailed like a disappointed child.

  “A lot’s happened since we made that plan, Sid, and I needed to get some wheels. You were gone when I got up, so Hermes came over and we just, quick, got it done, no big deal.”

  “But it is a big deal! We aren’t exactly doing much together these days and, silly as it was, I was looking forward to it.” Not exactly true —car shopping wasn’t high on her list—but it made the point.

  “Then I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would matter. I have to get over to the police impound yard, so I wanted to get this done.”

  “What’s happening with the old Jeep?”

  “The guy told me they ripped it apart looking for evidence, which didn’t exist, so I’m welcome to come pick it up. Solid of them, right? Especially since they’re charging me for every day it’s been there. It’s nothing but salvage at this point, so Victory Towing is hauling it away for scrap, but I need to grab a few things out of the back, some cords and stuff.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  He looked at her, conflicted. “Sid . . . I just want to fly over there and get it done, okay?”

  “Okay.” Her response was listless. She turned toward the stairway. “I’m going to change for the gym.”

  “Oh, I figured that’s where you were.”

  “No . . . ” She wasn’t sure if telling him about the interview was wise, then decided there was no way around it. “I was being interviewed by two detectives on the case.”

  “Really? When were you going to tell me that?”

  “As soon as we had a minute. You were still sleeping when they came by, so I dragged them to that hideous café down the street. It was all pretty basic stuff.”

  “Was it Lieu and Nunzi?”

  That was unexpected. “How did you know that?”

  “They interviewed me too.”

  In the never-ending list of surprises with this case, Sidonie felt herself bouncing between concern and real annoyance on a regular basis. “When?”

  Chris stooped over carefully to tie his shoes, nonchalance affected. “The other day—you were at that meeting in Schaumburg. I got called in. Philip went with me. It was routine, according to him, and they asked all the same stuff they did the first time: ‘Did you ever look in people’s windows on that street? Did you break into any houses on that street? Have you ever been on that street before?’ They rattled off some dates when these things supposedly happened, and I gave them all the same answers I gave before: ‘No, no, and no.’”

  “So when were you going to tell me about that?”

  “I figured we’d talk about it the next time we discussed the case together . . . which I guess is when you were planning to tell me about your interview.” He gave her a sly grin, trying his best to turn the mood. It worked . . . marginally.

  “I guess so.” She sighed. “But, please, can we promise to be more vigilant about sharing what’s going on? I feel like things are so
crazy right now we need to stay in better sync.”

  “Okay. We’ll spend some time together later, get caught up with each other, maybe watch some Netflix.”

  She agreed, but knew they wouldn’t. He didn’t stay up late these days, wasn’t interested in anything on TV, and repeatedly commented that he didn’t feel like talking. He remained in the lift chair—said getting up from a flat position still hurt his ribs too much—so there wasn’t even the comfort of a shared bed. Right now all they had was coping. Enduring. Waiting. Dreading.

  After he left, she called her sister to report on the interview. Karen’s professional opinion was that Sidonie had done pretty well (her petulant attitude with the cops left out of the debrief), but when she hung up, Sidonie was hit with an emotional hangover. A feeling of doom, of something not being quite right.

  What was it? What particular thought was niggling at her brain, stirring this unsettled feeling? She followed the thread back to where it started: the detectives’ reaction when she mentioned the walks. Chris’s walks. That’s what was sticking. Not just the fact that it piqued their attention, but that it piqued hers as well.

  She thought back to the first night they’d spent time together, when he talked about his love of walking and observing life in the process. She’d found the predilection charming, but the regular appeal of those walks, and the fact that he seemed to enjoy them alone, now rippled like a red flag.

  She hated her reaction.

  Because those walks were innocent. They were endearing. A quirk, nothing more. Nothing.

  Goddammit. They’d gotten to her. The detectives had fucking gotten to her. Chipped away at her conviction. She had to make sure that stopped right here and now. The walks meant nothing. Nothing.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHRIS WAS BACK AT THE CHURCH. MAINTAINING THE pretense that everything was fine—on his part and everyone else’s— took herculean effort and was ultimately a charade. The staff was careful and solicitous. Frank patted him on the shoulder at least twice a day. Al checked repeatedly if he needed anything, Jasper was concerned that Chris might shatter in the volume, while Sidonie forced herself to stay out of the performance room all together. Heroic attempts were made by everyone to frame his return as “getting back on track.” But it wasn’t. He wasn’t. They weren’t. Nothing was.

  For him it was like being back at the scene of the crime. He lost count of how many times he glanced at the parking lot door, half expecting gun-toting cops to burst through at any moment. His body still ached and his ever-present headache ate up whatever energy he had within the first couple of hours. The satisfaction he typically derived from designing sound cues and organizing unique stage setups was gone, and though he was determined to act “as if” for his own sake, he was fairly certain Sidonie could see through the façade.

  She, meanwhile, focused on convincing herself that the usual minutia of the job was productive, essential to those whose show or event was of utmost importance to them. She tried to hold creeping cynicism at bay, but when clients called to make sure the appetizer salsa was cilantro-free, or the dressing rooms had the appropriate mineral water, it was all she could do to keep from beating the phone to pieces.

  Still, there was some comfort in being there together, doing their jobs, checking in with each other, making an effort to retrieve normalcy. That was the goal. Normal.

  Thanksgiving came and went, and since they each had familial obligations, they went their separate ways. Sidonie spent the day with Karen and family, inclusive of an uncomfortable FaceTime chat with Marian and Steve down in Florida (who’d been given no information about Chris’s situation), in which Steve remarked that “if I get any tanner, I might get deported!” No one listening, not even Marian, found the comment humorous.

  Chris, meanwhile, went to Hyde Park to celebrate with his family, which, given Vanessa and Hermes’s continued separation, was dominated by the strained scenario of their children demanding that “Mommy and Daddy sit next to each other!” They did, but tensions were high, Chris had little appetite, and Delores, though disappointed in the overall ambiance of the night, insisted there was still much to be grateful for.

  The week after the holiday brought another round of forced routine and exhausting pretense. There were no updates on the case; no confirmation on the fingerprints; no further interviews. And while Chris lost hours of sleep each night rolling it through his mind, he still hadn’t discussed the plea deal with Sidonie. With Christmas moving quickly to the fore, and work demands requiring dogged attention, the plan was to proceed as if nothing hung over their heads.

  Yuletide decorations went up at the club.

  Chris gave it his best shot, had given it his best shot, but on that particular Wednesday, after supervising the procurement of ornaments from the storage space for a waitstaff giddy with holiday spirit, he walked into Sidonie’s office, sat in the chair across from her, and changed their lives once again.

  “I can’t do it. I’m sorry, Sid. I just can’t. I’ve made sure I’m covered for the next four weeks, which will hopefully be enough time for you to find a replacement, but I’m giving my notice as of today. I can’t work here anymore.”

  She’d gotten so accustomed to life spitting unpredictability at her that the gut punch of this was almost . . . predictable.

  “Okay.” She felt like a bomb had been dropped but wanted to say the most useful things she could before it exploded. “I know this is hard, Chris, but I’m wondering if—”

  “Sid, it’s not a negotiation,” he said, gently enough to convey his real regret. “It’s the culmination of time and thought, resulting in the conviction that it’s not working. My heart’s not in it, and if my heart’s not in it, I’m not the best person for the job. I love everyone here, it’s been a great experience, but I’ve only got so much I can deal with right now, and I can’t deal with this. I can’t be here. I just can’t. I’m sorry. I hope you understand.” He stood up.

  “I’ll try, but is there no way for me to talk you out of this?” The desperation in her voice echoed what she was feeling. It seemed like she’d been losing him, step by step, since the night of the arrest, and not having him here, at the club, driving back and forth, having common issues to share, to debate and discuss, felt like the death knell of another chapter of their life together. She feared if many more little deaths occurred the whole thing would lose its bone and muscle and end up in a heap on the floor. “I don’t want you to leave.”

  “It’s not that I want to leave. It’s that I have to. If you don’t understand right now, I hope you will later.” He turned toward the door. “Do you want me to talk to Frank?”

  “No. I’ll tell him.”

  “Okay. I’ve got Andrew set up for tonight, and, like I said, the next four weeks are fully covered. There’s nothing for you to worry about.” He paused uncomfortably at the door. “Okay then . . . I’ll see you at home.”

  “I won’t be late.”

  Frank had left by the time she went in to talk to him, which was a relief. There was a pall of failure to this information, specifically in regards to Frank. She hoped she’d feel differently when the time came tomorrow.

  Before she left for home, a text came in from Patsy:

  Sid, I’m not sure you’re up for giving this your focus, but have a hot prospect. A women’s investing club is looking to finance women-owned businesses. That’d be us. They love our business plan and want to meet to talk ideas. Let me know if you want me to pursue this, and if so, let’s find a time to talk. Hope you’re doing better . . . been thinking about you. P.

  It was good news. Progress. And she felt not one ounce of enthusiasm.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  HE WAS LYING IN THEIR BED WHEN SHE GOT HOME, THE first time he’d been there since the event. She took it as a good sign. She climbed in next to him and gently put her arm across his waist. He pulled her close.

  “I’m glad you’re home,” he said, almost as if it had not been expected.

>   “Me, too. Frank left early so I just slipped out.” She pressed her face into his neck. “I miss you, Chris. I miss . . . this.”

  “Me too.”

  “Let’s make love,” she whispered.

  He leaned over to kiss her forehead. “I can’t yet,” he replied softly. “There isn’t a position that wouldn’t hurt.”

  “I’ll get on top. You won’t have to do anything. I’ll do all the work. You can think of it as physical therapy,” she teased.

  He smiled sadly. “Sounds good but even that would hurt. I’m sorry . . . I want to. I’m just not there yet.”

  Undeterred, she trailed her hand down his leg, back up his hips, over his taut stomach, his chest. Her touch was soft and light, hoping to dispense, if not pleasure, at least a little comfort. He cued her continuance by breathing more deeply, closing his eyes and leaning his head back, allowing her caress to stir something in him beyond ache. When her hand trailed back down, his sharp intake of air told her that, despite his caution, she could still sway him with the power of her touch.

  Emboldened, she gently opened his zipper and pulled down his jeans, a task made easier by the weight he’d lost during recovery. When he lay naked and open to her, she took a moment to gaze at his body, realizing how successfully outside forces had kept them from intimacy. Tears sprang to her eyes, a rush of loss and longing, and she kissed his stomach with the whisper of her lips. “Now just be still . . .”

  When she took him in her mouth and drew his thoughts and feelings to that point of sensation, she felt as if she were giving him a gift, the gift of forgetting and remembering, both desperately needed to shift the trajectory of their journey. She could feel the gratitude in his response.

  After the brief but meaningful encounter, Chris leaned over and kissed her. “Thank you . . . that was unexpected and really nice. I owe you one. I owe you many.”