Deadly Interest

by Julie Hyzy

  “Oh?”

  She didn’t fiddle with papers, not that I could tell at least, so she must have had this one memorized. I could hear a smile in her voice.

  “Mr. Dewars is out for the day at a seminar in Mundelein where he’d prefer not to be disturbed. He will be calling in periodically, however, and he wanted me to ask you if you’d be free this evening. He has two tickets to the opening of The Merry Wives of Windsor at Navy Pier. And possibly dinner beforehand?”

  Taken aback, I hedged. “Tonight?”

  “Mm-hmm,” she answered. “If you’re free, the play begins at eight.”

  I had an impish urge to ask what time the play began if I wasn’t free. I didn’t chime in, however, so she continued. “He thought you’d like to choose the restaurant, since he picked last time. Would you like me to e-mail you a list of what’s available?”

  “No,” I said, too quickly.

  “No, you can’t make it?” she asked, slowly.

  Damn, damn, damn. I needed to talk with David.

  I wanted to talk with him about Owen, and about Barton’s problems. Not to mention this reward issue. Lots to cover. And Bass’s Monday deadline loomed. That man made me scream, sometimes.

  But again, here it was. A silver platter. I’d been salivating to see Chicago Shakespeare Theater at Navy Pier since it opened there in 1999. No time, no one to go with . . . name the reason—I hadn’t made it there, yet.

  “No, I don’t need a list,” I said. I’d been to the pier itself a hundred times and I knew the restaurant offerings. Everything from a paper cup full of sugared almonds to McDonald’s to Riva, the white linen, skyline-view restaurant that boasted celebrity clientele. “I have to check,” I said. “Can I get back to you?”

  “Sure,” she said. The smile-voice was back. “He said he’d call again at two-thirty. Why don’t you let me know by then?”

  After we hung up, I started talking to myself, making “if this, then that” deals.

  “Okay,” I said, picking the receiver up again. “If Aunt Lena can’t keep Lucy tonight, I’ll tell David no.”

  Five minutes later, I spoke with a giddy aunt Lena. “A date, Alex?” she asked. “As long as it isn’t Dan, I’ll keep Lucy for you all weekend.” She laughed at her own bawdiness.

  “It’s not like that,” I protested.

  “Don’t worry, honey, she’ll be fine here. I’ll fix up Diana’s room and Lucy can stay the night. By the way, the doctors think Diana might be ready to be released Monday, isn’t that good news?”

  “Fabulous,” I said, meaning it. “But you’ll only have to keep Lucy if I go. I still might not.”

  “You should go, dear. You deserve a night out. You just have fun, and don’t you worry about a thing.”

  I hung up, and headed over to talk to Jordan.

  “William didn’t call,” she said, when I sat at her desk.

  “I wasn’t going to ask,” I said.

  “Sure you were.” Her brown eyes fixed me with a stare that told me Bass wasn’t the only bullshitter I shouldn’t try to bullshit.

  “So,” I said, opening my hands in a gesture of defeat, “Why?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t know why you let it bug you the way it does. Not like he’s the only fish in the water, you know.”

  “I know. I just thought . . .”

  She affected her black girl persona, wiggling her head as she spoke. “I know what you thought.”

  I wrinkled my nose, looked away. “David asked me out for tonight. Dinner and a play.”

  “He ain’t bad-looking for an old guy,” she said with a grin.

  “He isn’t old,” I said, far too quickly, wondering why the sudden need to defend him. I took a deep breath, looked away again. “But that doesn’t answer the other question. Why no word? It’s Friday, and if he hasn’t called by now, I doubt he’ll call over the weekend.”

  I’d said the words, half-hoping Jordan would pooh-pooh that thought, and reassure me that the weekend would afford William plenty of time to call. But she didn’t.”

  “You never know,” she said in a humoring-me voice, “maybe he can’t get service on his cell phone. And there’s that whole time difference thang too.”

  “Thought of that,” I said, frowning at nothing. “So then why doesn’t he call me from his hotel room late at night? He could leave a message on my cell and I’d get it first thing in the morning, you know.” I stared at her. “I mean, really, what’s a couple of minutes before he goes to bed?”

  Jordan lifted an eyebrow at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Maybe when he goes to bed, he’s not alone.”

  “Shit,” I said. That thought hadn’t even occurred to me.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’m just thinking that it’s best you don’t keep hoping there’s something where there’s not.”

  I nodded, stood, tried to smile. “Thanks,” I said to Jordan, who stared up at me with concern. “You’re right. I guess I just needed to hear it.”

  “Hey,” she said to my back.

  I turned.

  “Tonight . . .” she said with a mischievous smile, “Don’t be all worked up about stuff you can’t control. This Mr. Dewars is a good-looking guy—and he’s a rich guy. Not to mention the man is crazy about you, woman. Don’t be thinking you gotta love the dude. Just go out and have some fun.”

  * * * * *

  I called David’s office around one, fully intending to decline. More in the mood to wallow, I decided that a night in front of the television in warm flannel pajamas and an endless supply of snacks might be the best option after all.

  “Ms. St. James,” his secretary said. If it were possible, she sounded even more cheered to hear from me this time around. “I have good news for you.”

  Her version of good news and mine might be at odds, but I let her continue.

  “Mr. Riordan found all the information you were looking for. I don’t quite know what it is.” Papers shuffled; she was looking for something. “I assume you know what he’s talking about.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, as it turns out, Mr. Riordan says it’s far too much to send by fax and so he just made a set of copies for you. He’s heading over to that meeting with Mr. Dewars right now and taking everything with him. So this way, Mr. Dewars can give you the whole file when you see him tonight.” She ended her little spiel on a triumphant note. “Isn’t that perfect?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Great.”

  Cornered again. Damn, I thought.

  Truth was, I wasn’t nearly as disappointed at this turn of events as I should have been. As a matter of fact, I liked the idea that the decision had been practically taken out of my hands. I could use distraction—a night out. And it wasn’t as though David was poor company. I found him intelligent, witty, attentive. Handsome. What more could I want?

  I bit my lip. Maybe that was a question better left unasked.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When I told Dr. Hooker about my encounter with Laurence Grady, his blue eyes made the switch from small talk to down-to-business in a heartbeat. He’d been sprawled back in the same upholstered chair he’d occupied last time, and as I progressed through the tale of my terror-meeting in the dark, he shifted body, eyes, demeanor, all at once. Sitting forward, elbows on knees, his right hand came up to stroke his gray-streaked beard in a gesture that I assumed indicated concern.

  The expression fit the man today. Wearing a muted blue sweater with collared shirt and snug tie underneath, he looked a lot more like a psychiatrist-professor type than when we’d first met.

  “Are you all right?” He did that back-and-forth-stare thing that people do, when they’re trying hard to decide if someone’s telling the truth.

  “I’m fine,” I said, straight on.

  “You’re sure it was Laurence Grady?”

  “No question.”

  Disappointment clouded those expressive eyes. Or maybe it was defeat. In either case the twinkle I’d seen
there moments before fell away as though a protective curtain had dropped, and the show was over. As though he now chose to turn his view inward, to weigh and study and consider, alone.

  “So,” he said, after a moment’s break. “You went to see Diana, after all.”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “I had a feeling you might.” Shoving himself upward he moved into the adjacent kitchen-room, still talking. “What did she tell you?”

  His bulky frame disappeared from my view and I followed him, rather than shout from my chair.

  “Not too much.” He turned to look at me and I shrugged. “She swears it wasn’t Grady who attacked us at the house, and she says he wouldn’t have hurt Mrs. Vicks either.”

  “Tea?” Dr. Hooker asked, holding up two mugs.

  I nodded, leaned against the doorjamb. “But what else was she going to say?” I asked, rhetorically. “I mean, it’s obvious she’s still in love with the guy.”

  He looked at me again, his eyes giving a peculiar glint. “Is it?”

  I moved into the room when he turned his back to make the tea. Leaning against the counter top, facing outward, next to him, I asked, “What do you know?”

  Our two mugs turned slowly in the microwave. He waited for the ding to pull them out and drop teabags in. “I know that you want Grady to be guilty.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “I want to know Grady’s involvement, sure,” I said, “but I don’t want him to be guilty. What I care about is that whoever did it is found. And brought to justice.”

  I’d pushed off the wall, and now reached for the mug he handed me.

  “No,” he said. “You want Grady to have been the murderer because he fits. He’s an ex-con, out on parole. He’s got a history of drug use, a long rap sheet.” Hooker took a sip of his tea before returning to the chair, dropping his hindquarters onto the cushion, while concentrating on his outstretched arms to keep the tea from spilling. He raised his head, and shot those baby blues straight on. “He fits.”

  I resumed my position in the chair opposite. “Okay, you got me. He fits. Why shouldn’t that make him a likely suspect?”

  Hooker shook his head, and the silver-streaked black waves that surrounded his shiny head loosened enough that he ran a hand to push them back into place. “I didn’t say he isn’t a likely suspect, I just said that you’re dwelling on him because you want him to be guilty.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “The truth?”

  “Please.”

  “I believe your efforts are better directed elsewhere.”

  I pressed my lips together to keep from an outburst I’d be sorry for, later. Resisting the urge to address him as Mr. Know-it-all, I demurely inquired, “Why don’t you tell me who is guilty, then?”

  His face split into a wide pleased-with-himself grin. “Are you angry with me, Alex?”

  “Of course not,” I lied. “But it comes down to this: Diana is giving me carte blanche where your records are concerned. Rather than help me . . . in a murder investigation, I might add . . . you’re dancing around the subject and parrying with me like we were fencing, for crying out loud.” I pulled my lips in tight after that, realizing how agitated my voice had become.

  “You are angry.”

  “Damn right, I am.”

  The grin widened further. “What do you want to know?” He spread his hands out before him. “I’m an open book.”

  “Fine,” I said, setting my mug down on the table between us with a clunk. “How are you so sure it wasn’t Grady who killed Mrs. Vicks and who attacked us?”

  Like a slow-motion, silent mirror, he gently set his mug down near mine. Working his tongue around his teeth he stared down at the brew for moment, then up at me, eyes all serious now. “Since Diana is my patient, and Larry is not, I am allowed to tell you this, but I’m treading carefully here . . .” He held up a finger. “I’ve been counseling Diana now for about two years.”

  “Larry?” I asked, surprised. “You called him Larry.”

  Hooker opened his mouth. Closed it again before speaking. “Good catch.”

  “You’ve met him?” I asked. “Has he come here for counseling?”

  I’d have to classify Hooker’s reaction as a wince. “No. Not exactly. Here’s where my dilemma lies. If Larry were a patient, I couldn’t tell you that. I can tell you that he’s accompanied Diana occasionally since his parole release.”

  “But you’re not treating him.”

  Hooker smiled, canted his head, answered slowly. “No.”

  “You mean, not officially.”

  He spread his hands. “I can only reiterate that he is not a patient of mine.”

  Pressing fingers into my brow bone, I hissed out a breath from between clenched teeth. “Okay . . .” I said. “So why does he come?”

  “We make it worth his while. And, I think he likes the idea that he’s helping Diana in some way.”

  “I don’t buy that,” I said. Granted, I’d only met the scumbag once, but in that darkened garage, with one hand clamped around my arm and the other over my mouth, he came across touchy-feely all right, but not in any cerebral sort of way. “That man has issues. He was angry. Two more minutes with him, and they would’ve been rushing me to the hospital’s emergency room.”

  Hooker had stubby fingers—hairy ones that now stroked his shiny head as if remembering days of his hirsute youth. “Alex,” he began, straining so far forward at the edge of his chair that I thought he might jump out at me if I tried to interrupt, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am that so much has happened to you. And in so short a time.” The lower lids of his eyes crinkled up, his stare immobilizing me in my seat. “I am so sorry. More sorry than you can even know. But . . .” He licked his lips as words failed him.

  “But?”

  Working his fists and looking away, his face made a contortion that telegraphed pain. He nodded to himself, several times before meeting my gaze once again.

  “But,” he said, “you’re a strong young woman. Stronger than most would be in such circumstances. And you have to believe me when I tell you that Larry—Grady—isn’t your man.”

  “I believe he’s capable of killing.”

  Hooker shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “God, you’re smug,” I said, not even trying to keep the thought from blurting out.

  “Not smug, but I know people. That’s my job. That’s yours too, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, and I know you’re toying with me. Why won’t you just tell me what you do know? Make it easy on both of us.”

  He gave me a look like a teacher might give to a student who’d failed an important exam. I half-expected him to wag a finger at me. Instead, he scratched his beard. “You know I can’t do that, Alex. Even if Diana has given you permission to talk with me, it goes against everything I stand for to put her life on display for you to tear apart.”

  A thought that had occurred to me earlier, bubbled back up. “Diana is not a wealthy girl.”

  He sat back, folded fingers across his ample stomach. “No, she’s not.”

  With a show of looking around his office, I pressed on. “You’ve got a Loop address. That means high rent, doesn’t it?”

  He acknowledged my point with a nod.

  “So how does Diana afford your prices?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Who’s paying the bills?” I asked.

  “That, I won’t tell you.”

  The hell with being polite anymore. We were wasting my time. I had a goddamn date tonight and I wasn’t about to spend my night with Buddha here. I glanced at my watch. Five-fifteen. I was supposed to meet David at his bank in fifteen minutes. It’d take me ten minutes to walk, but I could always call and be picked up here, if need be. David’s secretary had helpfully provided me his cell phone number.

  “Listen, Dr. Hooker—”

  “Really, Alex, I’d prefer you call me Tom.�
��

  I ignored that. “Forget everything else. Just answer this, and explain it to me like I’m a four-year-old because I’m about to ask you the same question for the third time. How can you possibly know that Grady didn’t kill Mrs. Vicks?”

  “I don’t know. We can never know. But from what I’ve come to understand of the man, he’s hardened all right, and he’s angry, but he’s no killer. I’d stake my professional career on that.”

  I stood up, bit the insides of my cheeks. “I’ll try to remember that,” I said. “The next time he grabs me in some dark parking garage.”

  * * * * *

  By the time I got to Banner Bank, I’d exorcised the bulk of my anger by making the ten-minute walk in just under seven minutes. Grateful that the recent forty degree warm spell had puddled the icy sidewalk that would have otherwise set me on my ass, I’d pounded out a tempo brisk enough to soothe my frazzled nerves.

  Chilly gusts whipped my hair at each intersection where the tall buildings couldn’t offer protection and I tried to picture my tension taking flight out of my head and into the atmosphere where it wouldn’t grate on me at every turn. Visualize, I told myself, and I took a deep, cleansing breath.

  Maybe everyone else was right. Maybe I needed this night out.

  David’s office was on the building’s eighth floor. My first visit to this part of the bank, it smelled richer than the other areas I’d encountered. Lots of glossy wood trim, sage-colored walls, and carpet so thick I couldn’t hear my own footsteps.

  The woman at the nearer desk was most likely the assistant I’d spoken to earlier. I took a cue from the look on her face. “I guess I need to take a minute,” I said, running an embarrassed hand through my hair. “Is there a washroom nearby?”

  David waved away my concerns. “You look wonderful,” he said. “Like a spirit that just blew in from above.”

  I sent his assistant a girl-to-girl look. She stood. “Hi, I’m Linda Farrell,” she said as we shook hands. “We spoke on the phone.”

  “Good to meet you,” I said.

  Her face matched the smooth, cheerful voice. With wavy red hair cropped close to her head and a petite build, this forty-something woman meshed efficiency with warmth in a tidy little package. “Come on,” she said. Gesturing to David that he should wait, she walked briskly back toward the elevator corridor. “I’ll show you the way.”