Deadly Interest

by Julie Hyzy

  “Whoa,” I said as we stepped inside. This wasn’t a washroom, it was a women’s lounge, much like the ones in the fancy Michigan Avenue stores like Nordstrom and Lord & Taylor with inviting couches, pale wallpaper, and all sorts of female doo-dads like hairspray and deodorant aligned neatly on the granite counter.

  “Yeah, it’s nice,” she said, watching me as I tried to settle my hair back into decent shape. “You have no idea how glad I am that Mr. Dewars is taking you out tonight.”

  Puzzled by the non-sequitur, I met her eyes in the mirror. “Really? Why’s that?”

  She made a face. “It’s none of my business, of course,” she began.

  My ears perked up.

  “It’s just that he’s been under a lot of stress lately. He’s such a sweet man, and so easy-going—he doesn’t usually flip out over small things, you know?” she asked.

  “Mm-hmm,” I said, to keep her talking

  “Maybe I’m wrong, but since Mrs. Vicks got killed, God rest her soul,” Linda laid a hand across her chest, “he’s been impossible to deal with. Not only is he broken-hearted about her death, he’s also very worried about the bank surviving this.”

  I turned to her. “That’s what I don’t understand. Why would any of this reflect badly on the bank? It doesn’t make sense to me.”

  She pulled her lips in tight for a moment, considering this. “You’re in the media, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re going out with Mr. Dewars socially, right? You’re not covering any kind of investigation of the bank, are you?”

  Here was a woman who wanted to spill the goods, all right. I just needed to appease her protective instincts.

  “I’m sure we’ll talk about Mrs. Vicks tonight,” I said. “And I know he has those records you mentioned for me . . .”

  I let the thought hang, but she didn’t pick it up.

  “Beyond that,” I added, “I don’t think the bank is any of my concern.”

  “Good, that’s what I thought,” she said. In a belated move, she poked her head around the wall that separated the gathering area from the stalls. Glancing back at me, she grinned. “Nobody here.”

  I smiled encouragement.

  “It’s this audit,” she said.

  “I thought it was scheduled, right? A routine audit.”

  Her expression said, so-so. “It was definitely ‘scheduled,’ but only because the FDIC started coming down hard on us. Wanted us to explain a bunch of discrepancies that they thought they found.” A roll of her eyes told me exactly what she thought of these requests. “They threatened us with big penalties if we didn’t comply with their request for a full audit. So . . . here we are. But, technically, we scheduled it. Allowed them to come in as of last Monday.”

  When she looked backward to lean against the countertop, I shot a surreptitious glance at my watch. Five-forty. David said he wanted to be out the door by quarter to six. I pictured him staring down the hall where we’d disappeared into this female haven, tapping a foot. Probably muttering.

  Oh well.

  “Same day as Mrs. Vicks’ funeral,” I said, just to prod Linda along.

  “As a matter of fact, that became a very big deal, too.” She held up quote-fingers at the words “very big,” and her eyes widened as she spoke. “Mr. Dewars was very upset that he had to miss it. If it weren’t for this damn audit, we’d all sleep a little better at night. Anyway,” she continued, “It’s looking like somebody was messing with accounts. We’re not sure who, just yet.”

  “But you have a guess.”

  “I shouldn’t tell you this but . . .” she said. “A woman in the loan department that Evelyn Vicks worked for. And if we find out that it’s true, and there’s the kind of money missing that it looks like . . .” She shook her head, a dire look on her face. “It’s going to look real bad for the bank that Mrs. Vicks was killed just then.”

  A woman in the loan department. A woman Mrs. Vicks worked for.

  “I don’t know,” I said, feeling her out. “I know I’ve only met Maya a couple of times—”

  “I didn’t say it was Maya,” Linda said quickly, nearly jumping from her perch against the granite. “I never said her name.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, raising a hand to calm her. “I’m not going to say anything. I promise. I just guessed.” Turning back to the mirror, I strove for nonchalant. As if that bit of information didn’t faze me at all. But I could feel the prickle of something growing in my busy little brain. This was worth examining later.

  The startled panic in her eyes began to dissolve as she leaned back again. “Wow. Good guess. But now you understand where Mr. Dewars is coming from?”

  “I do,” I assured her, smiling. “And I’m really glad you told me. Maybe tonight will take his mind off his troubles.”

  I’d said the right thing, apparently. She pushed forward again as I finished my makeup and hair ministrations. “That’s what I’m hoping for,” she said, smiling like we were old girlfriends now. “I swear, the only time he’s in a good mood lately is when he’s talking about you.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “You look great,” he said, when we emerged from the washroom. “Let’s go, we’re running behind.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  He touched his hand to my right shoulder blade, guiding me toward the back of the building, through a dark utility corridor. He pulled at a gray painted metal door, sending a hot whoosh of air at us from the vent above, mixed with the cold from the outside. David’s car, the SUV, idled in the alley with Roger at the wheel.

  When we appeared, the chauffeur stepped out of the car, held the passenger door open for me, and I shot David a surprised glance when he climbed into the driver’s seat.

  As if he read my thoughts. “This is a date, Alex; I prefer to drive myself.” He winked. “It’s not like we need a chaperone.”

  Roger tipped his hat to us in an informal salute as we took off through the alley, headed for Navy Pier.

  David shared moments from the day’s off-campus seminar. The man certainly had a talent for making dry situations sparkle. He talked, maintaining control of the road even as he conversed, totally at ease.

  “So,” he said, his voice as relaxed as his demeanor. “You and Linda were in the washroom for a long time. Should I be concerned about her spilling all my deep dark secrets?” He shot a high-wattage smile my direction.

  “Your secrets are safe,” I answered.

  “Mysterious, aren’t we?” he said with a playful lilt. “So, do I take that you mean she didn’t tell you my sordid life story, or that you are a woman who can be trusted with the information?”

  My turn to smile. “Isn’t this where we turn?”

  David pursed his lips, amused, as he completed the right turn onto Illinois Street. A few minutes later the big bulbs of Navy Pier’s carnival-like entrance came into view. “I love it here,” I said, with a sigh, as we joined the queue of cars waiting to be waved into the parking area.

  “Then I’m glad that we could make this work tonight,” he said. Glancing at the clock on the dashboard as he dug into his jacket pocket, then reached into the back seat where his cell phone sat atop his briefcase. “Here,” he said, pulling it up front. “The last number I dialed is the restaurant. Why don’t you give them a call and make sure they hold the table.”

  Before dialing, I glanced back there. “That information Owen was getting for me . . .” I began.

  “Got it,” he said. “It’s in the briefcase. You don’t want it now, do you?”

  I did, but politeness won this round. “No.”

  “Remind me to give it to you later.”

  I noticed the name of David’s cellular service. Same as mine. That meant we could call each other any time of the day or night for free.

  The woman who answered told me not to hurry, that the evening’s rush for dinner hadn’t yet kicked into gear. In one of my many phone calls to Linda over the course of the day, I�
��d given her my decision on where we’d eat. I’d chosen the very casual, very busy, Bubba Gump’s rather than the ritzy Riva. We parked in the pier’s garage and as we headed in and the hostess led us to our booth, he asked why I hadn’t gone for the glam.

  “I’ve been there,” I said, with a shrug. “Wasn’t terribly impressed.”

  As we slid into scuffed wooden benches on either side of a clutter-decorated table, he leaned forward, more to be heard over the din than anything. “What does impress you, Alex?”

  Our waitress, a raven-haired girl with a heavy Irish brogue, interrupted then, greeting us with an explanation of the nifty gimmick that sat atop the table. Two license plates hung from a stand. The entire restaurant’s theme based itself on the movie Forrest Gump and the top license plate, green, said “Run, Forrest, Run.”

  Pointing to it, she said in a slightly raised voice to be heard over the music and the laughter from tables nearby, “If y’have everything y’need, and you won’t be needing to be bothered, you keep this one hanging.”

  Flipping the contraption, to the plate behind it, she pointed. This one was red, with the words. “Stop, Forrest, Stop.”

  “Now,” she said with emphasis, “if you be wanting anything, or if you be needing me to stop and check on you, you put this one out and I’ll be here in two shakes.” She smiled at us both, canting her head. “What’ll you be wanting to drink?”

  She departed, leaving us to study our menus. Lots of seafood, and plenty of other choices as well. As I debated ordering a steak, I shot a look up at David. To my surprise, I caught him watching me.

  “You’ve decided?” I asked, nodding toward the menu face-down on the table.

  “I always know what I want right away,” he said. A smile played at his lips. “And I generally have the means to get it.”

  The dangerous sparkle in his eyes made mine shoot back to the list of offerings. I felt the weight of his gaze on me as I tried to decide if I had a taste for the “Bucket of Boat Trash” combination.

  “So, I’ll ask you again, Alex. What impresses you?”

  I considered the question. Looked up at him. “Sometimes I don’t know till I find it.”

  “Fair enough,” he said.

  Colleen, the waitress, came back bearing my iced tea and David’s Vodka twist, setting them down, and taking our orders with cheerful efficiency. I settled for crab-stuffed shrimp, one of Bubba Gump’s specialties.

  “How is the investigation going?” David asked.

  I wiggled my hand in front of me to say so-so. “The detective in charge doesn’t tell me squat,” I said with a roll of my eyes, “and even though I’m doing my best to find answers, all I come up with are more questions.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “There’s another suspect,” I began.

  His dark eyebrows lifted, till I saw them over the tops of his glasses. “Oh? “

  I gave a quick and sketchy explanation of the connection between Diana and Laurence Grady, ending with: “And this psychiatrist fellow is convinced I’m barking up the wrong tree where Grady’s concerned.”

  David speared into his salad with a crunch, and held the fork aloft as he spoke. “What do you think?”

  I moved my lettuce around. “I’m not sure.”

  He waited.

  I shrugged, looked up and out the nearby windows. The view from my vantage point was limited, but just beyond the edge of the pier, I could see a small slice of water, ever darkening as evening settled on the city. Quick glints from the moving water as it caught the remaining light, coupled with the smell of the place, sizzling shrimp, beer, and the burgeoning spring, gave me a wistful feeling of vacation. Of getting away.

  And of Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco.

  I should have been on that trip. I should be out there right now.

  I sighed.

  “Alex.” David touched my hand, bringing me out of my reverie.

  I couldn’t decide if that was genuine concern in his eyes, or if he was simply annoyed that I’d checked out of the conversation, however momentarily. But David, with his theater tickets and dinner on the pier—David, attentive date extraordinaire—was here, and William was not. It wasn’t fair for me to let my mind drift.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “You were a thousand miles away.”

  “A little more than that,” I said. “What were we talking about?”

  “I asked you what your assessment was of all this.”

  “If I could only get into that detective’s mind,” I answered, stirring my iced tea with the straw. “But as much as he wants my cooperation, he’s not very forthcoming with information. Not to mention, he has a deep-seated hatred of media people.”

  “I met him,” David said. “Lulinski.”

  Colleen set our steaming platters of food on the table before us, with a reminder to change the hanging license plate if there was anything we needed. She encompassed us both with her comments, saying, “That way I won’t be disturbing you if you’d rather be keeping to yourselves.”

  “What did you think of him?” I asked David when Colleen left.

  “Not much,” he said, with a slow shake of his head, surveying the New Orleans shrimp entrée before him. “I mean, come on. How does the man keep his job? It’s been over a week and they haven’t arrested anyone.” He met my eyes. “What do you think of him?”

  “I get the impression that he’s methodical. Tenacious, even.”

  “Yes, well, if he had any brains he’d haul Barton Vicks in for questioning.”

  I’d been about to repeat that I wasn’t yet convinced Barton did the killing when David interrupted.

  “But I do know why your meticulous detective hates the media.”

  “Oh?” I popped a small bite of stuffed shrimp into my mouth and nearly groaned with delight as the garlic and crab tastes dissolved on my tongue. “This,” I said, pointing down at my plate, “is fabulous.”

  David smiled. “Want to hear the story?”

  Great food, pleasant company, and the potential for enlightenment on the good detective? I was in.

  “How well do you know Dan Starck?” David asked.

  I searched his eyes for some sense of guile, wondering if he knew that Dan and I had a history together and was just playing me here.

  I answered slowly. “He and I went out for a while.”

  David’s subtle body shift told me that had come as a surprise. “Then you must know about the bad blood between them.”

  I enjoyed another bite of shrimp. “No,” I said, thinking hard. “I don’t think Dan ever mentioned Lulinski’s name.”

  David drained his drink, then switched the table sign to get Colleen’s attention. Half-a-minute later our capable waitress appeared up at the table, asking what she could do for us, then switching the sign back. “Another one, please.” David said, holding up his glass.

  Colleen grabbed my half-finished tea. “I’ll refill yours too, while I’m at it.”

  David adjusted his glasses, and the pink glint from a neon sign over the windows reflected there, momentarily obscuring his eyes. “That doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “I would figure Starck would want to keep this one buried.”

  Colleen set our drinks before us, and, hands on hips, cast an appraising look at the progress we’d made on our meals. “I’ll check on you again in a bit,” she said as she left.

  “That bad?” I asked.

  “You know Dan,” he said “He’s only happy when he’s on top.”

  I resisted further comment that direction. “In any case,” I said, trying to segue back into the story, “what happened?”

  David chewed, sending his gaze up near the ceiling before bringing it back to me. “Had to be seven years ago. Maybe ten.”

  A gear clicked into place as I tried to remember where I would have been back then. I waited to hear more.

  “Starck was doing a series of stories on a guy that Lulinski had arrested for murder. A real lo
w-life. Lulinski had a history with this guy, having arrested him before, and Starck broadcast a slew of fan-the-flames interviews with the gangbanger’s family and friends. They accused the detective of bias. It was a hot story, I can’t believe you don’t remember it.”

  “Ten years ago I was in grad school in Florida, and seven years ago I was interning at a small station out there.”

  David’s face broke into a smile. “Yes, of course,” he said, with evident pleasure. “You are so young.”

  “Back to the investigation.”

  He smiled. “Starck had a screaming headline for his supposed exposé. ‘Good Police Work or Set-up?’ was the title. On top of that, Starck came up with witnesses who swore that their buddy couldn’t have committed the murder. Had them milking the camera every chance they could. They provided enough of an alibi that the gangbanger’s attorney got the judge to reduce the bond and the guy got sprung from County.” David looked across the table at me.

  I raised an eyebrow. “So what happened?”

  “Day after he gets out, he murders the young girl who testified against him at the Grand Jury,” David said, with a sad shake of his head.

  Nothing gets ratings like the portrait of an innocent man, wrongly accused. I remembered Dan saying that one time. I thought he was speaking in generalities.

  I winced. “No wonder Lulinski hates him.”

  “Most everyone does,” David said, and I knew he was right. Dan had that effect on people and it made me wonder again why I’d willingly given up almost a year of my life to be with him.

  “You know a lot.”

  “It’s my business to know what goes on in Chicago.”

  Truth be told, I seemed to remember the story, in a vague way. But, as a student, twelve-hundred miles from home, with papers due and a social life, I’d paid less attention than I should have. And back then, I hadn’t yet met Dan.

  Without being summoned, Colleen cleared away our plates, inquired about dessert and left a leather binder with the bill on the table near David’s hand. He pulled out a credit card and set it back at the edge of the table for her to grab on the next go-round.