A Picture of Guilt

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “Rhonda Disapio was Mary Jo Bosanick’s friend,” I said. “What you don’t know is that she came to see me on the day she died.”

  He looked up. “Why?”

  “She had a pretty strange story.” I told Dad about my encounter with Rhonda.

  “What did she expect you to do?”

  “Put her on TV so she could stay out of jail. She thought I worked for the news. Ryan did make a big point of that, remember.”

  “Why didn’t she go to the police?”

  “She said she was too scared.”

  “I’m not one to speak ill of the dead, but no one would ever accuse her of being the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

  “Could be. But I’m starting to wonder whether it all revolved around drugs.”

  “Drugs?”

  I sketched out my suspicions but didn’t tell him how I arrived at them. He wouldn’t approve of my field trip.

  “So,” Dad said when I finished. “Santoro might not be the innocent you thought he was?”

  “Maybe not.”

  He picked up his scotch. The ice cubes clinked against the glass. To his credit, he didn’t come out with an I told you so.

  “That might also explain why Brashares was so strange,” I said.

  “Santoro’s lawyer?”

  I nodded. “I kept thinking he was just going through the motions. Doing the minimum required but nothing more.”

  “You think he knew Santoro was dirty?”

  “It’s possible. Maybe Brashares didn’t want to expend all that energy on a loser. Isn’t that the way defense lawyers think?”

  “If they do, they ought to stop being defense lawyers.”

  Through the kitchen window I caught glimpses of David and Rachel washing lettuce for the salad.

  I turned back to my father. “I called Brashares to let him know. But he hasn’t called me back.”

  Dad flipped over the meat, then eased himself into a chair. Sandburg had it wrong. It’s age, not fog, that creeps in on “little cat feet.”

  “Ellie, why are you still calling this lawyer? The trial’s over.”

  I shrugged.

  “Ellie…”

  “Okay.” I sighed. “Since the trial, no one will hire me. I can’t even get any callbacks. Karen Bishop, my client at Midwest Mutual, says it’s because of the tape. Apparently, I forced its release, and people, especially corporate people, don’t like that. I’ve lost a lot of credibility. I was trying to do some damage control.”

  “That’s meshuga. Leave it alone,” he said wearily.

  “Dad, I have to work.”

  A peal of giggles came from inside. David and Rachel were playing catch with a cucumber, pretending it was a football.

  “Where is it written that you have to support yourself forever?”

  “Don’t go there, Dad.”

  It was my dependency—or what Barry claimed was my dependency—that triggered our problems when we were married. I only worked when I felt like it, he complained, while he was expected to bring home the regular paycheck. But he was an attorney in a full-service firm, billing two thousand hours a year. He never really understood the nature of freelancing. It never comes in at a steady pace. You can write four proposals for every project you get. Go to appointments, lunches, and meetings that ultimately produce nothing. When I wasn’t actually producing a video, he was quick to call me a princess. Or worse.

  I didn’t intend to revisit the pattern with David. But that was a conversation for another time. I picked up the tongs and checked the meat. “You know, there’s another possibility. About Brashares.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He might be on somebody’s payroll himself.”

  “Whose?”

  “No one liked Santoro very much. Sweeney said—uh—I mean I heard he had a big mouth. Maybe some—someone with influence told Brashares not to try all that hard to get him off. Maybe they were happy to see Santoro take the fall.”

  “Now you think he was framed?” Dad’s voice hardened.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Now I know you’re meshuga.”

  “Hold on. Suppose the business down at the boat launch did have something to do with drugs. We all know that where drugs are involved, organized crime isn’t far away.”

  “You don’t think you’re stringing a few inferences together into a huge assumption?” Dad’s eyes narrowed. “Ellie. You began this conversation saying I was right. That you were wrong to get involved. Sounds to me like you’re getting in deeper.”

  “This isn’t getting involved. It’s just talking. I thought, given your experience, you might have some perspective.”

  “My experience?”

  “Skull. Lawndale. Before the war.”

  My father snorted. “Sweetheart, that was over sixty years ago. And Skull was no mobster.”

  “That’s not what you implied.”

  “Skull was a…a street thug. With pretensions. Anyway, you’re talking about a different world. A different time. Life wasn’t as…as coarse. There were standards.”

  “A shark is a shark. No matter when they attack.”

  “You think so?” He got up to inspect the steaks. “Lemme tell you a story. When I went into practice for myself, a couple of guys came to me with one of those offers. You know. The ones you’re not supposed to refuse.” He faced me. “They wanted to help me build my practice. Said they could steer a lot of work my way.

  “I knew what they were asking me. And I thought about it. It was tempting. You were a baby, and I was supporting your oma and your opa.” He jabbed the steaks with the tongs. “But after a week or so, I called them back and said, ‘Thanks. But no thanks. I’m going down a different path’. They understood. In fact, they said, ‘If you ever change your mind, come talk to us.’”

  “That really happened?”

  “What? You think I made it up? My point is there were boundaries back then. Limits. You could say no, and the Outfit would leave you alone. Not anymore.” He waved the tongs. “Today they’d find a way to finagle it so I’d have to work for them. Threats. Extortion. Blackmail. There’s no respect anymore. I mean, you’re talking about the same scum who ripped off scrap metal from the World Trade Center.”

  “But Dad, in a way you’re just confirming my suspicions. Maybe Santoro was mixed up with these goons. Maybe he pissed them off. Maybe—”

  “Ellie, I love you dearly, but you’re as headstrong as your mother. You can’t live with ambiguity. So you latch onto some crazy idea and try to convince everyone it’s true. Even if it isn’t.”

  “At least I come by it honestly,” I grumbled.

  He waved a hand. “Let’s say you’re right, and he was involved with some scumbags. What are you gonna do about it? You got no idea who they are. They might not even be wise guys. Today you got your Russians, your Eastern Europeans, your Asians—”

  “Tongs.”

  He looked toward the grill. “They’re here.”

  “I meant—never mind.”

  “I’ll tell you what the problem is.” He brandished the tongs. “There’s no respect for life anymore. The sanctity of life. Nobody gives a damn. Take these young suicide bombers. You know, the ones who kill themselves for the glory of Allah. How were these children raised? They’re nothing more than cannon fodder. What kind of people are their parents? It’s a shonda.”

  I watched him spear the steaks and take them off the grill. “You know why they’re doing it. It’s their jihad.”

  “Don’t you believe it. They’re doing it because some crazy Arab seduces these poor shlubs by convincing them they’ll be heroes.” He shook the tongs in the air. “You know, if I had a nickel for all the fools in the world, I’d be a millionaire. And something else…”

  I realized that was all I was going to get out of Dad tonight. But, then, he was allowed; age confers a license to rant.

  ***

  After dinner, David, Dad, and I sat in the family room, trying to ignore the p
ounding bass that vibrated down from Rachel’s room.

  “I spoke to Abdul earlier,” David said. “He said to send his regards. He hopes you’re all right.”

  “Abdul?” I asked.

  He smiled shyly. “He asked me to help him finance the purchase of a chemical plant in Indiana.”

  “Smooth. I guess the rafting trip turned out to be profitable. At least for you.”

  “You helped. He’s very fond of you.”

  My father beamed. “You make a good team.”

  David went on. “I told him about the trial and what’s been going on.”

  I shot him a warning look. I didn’t want Dad to get curious again. I shouldn’t have worried.

  “Wait a minute. Did I hear you right? Abdul?” The lines on Dad’s forehead deepened.

  “We met at the Greenbrier,” I said. “He’s a relative of the Saudi royal family. He owns oil wells.”

  Dad looked over at David, then at me. “You couldn’t find a Jewish sheik?”

  David and I traded smiles. I got up to kiss my father, thinking how lucky I was to be surrounded by the people I love, when the phone trilled. I ran into the kitchen to get it.

  “Ellie?” It was Susan.

  “What’s up?”

  “You’d better turn on Channel Nine.”

  I ran into the family room and punched on the nine o’clock news.

  “According to police,” the anchorman was saying, “the body of attorney Chuck Brashares was found in his Loop office earlier tonight. Police say Brashares was shot in the head approximately three days ago.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  A political scandal in the governor’s office pushed Brashares’s murder off the front page, but the story on page three was chilling enough. His office had been broken into while he was working late. The cops found evidence of a struggle, there were bruises on his face, and it looked like his arm was broken. The office had been trashed, the safe cleaned out. Police speculated robbery was the motive.

  His death cured me of any further involvement. I had no reason to think it was connected to Santoro’s case, but three people were dead: Mary Jo, Rhonda, and now Brashares. That was enough. I forced myself back to the business of living, cleaning closets, washing the car—the key scratch gave the Volvo a tired dignity, I decided—and taking long bike rides.

  David didn’t come in the next weekend, and Barry didn’t take Rachel. Friday night she came into the family room with a smile, a bowl of sudsy warm water, and a cigar box full of nail polish. After soaking my hands, she proceeded to file my nails, tighten my cuticles, and apply not one but three coats of polish. The result was a purple base, green tips, and a thin orange stripe separating the two. My nails were a vision.

  Afterward, we made popcorn and watched a video. The film, a techno-thriller with big stars, great locations, but cardboard characters, was way too predictable, and I was dozing off when two beams of light suddenly poured through the window. Startled, I leapt up and ran to the window. A dark-colored SUV was pulling up to the curb.

  A tiny ice crystal formed in the pit of my stomach. Hadn’t Rhonda Disapio been followed by a dark SUV? And hadn’t I seen one when Susan and I went for a walk? I wondered whether to double lock the door.

  But in that split second between thought and action, Rachel sprinted over and threw it open.

  “Rachel—what are you—”

  She ran out the doorway and down the driveway. A car window slid down, and she stuck her head in. I raced after her, my heart thudding, but there were no shots. No screams. No nothing. Rachel turned around, her eyes beaming.

  “It’s Carla and Derek. They want me to go out with them. Can I, Mom? Please?”

  I sagged against the locust tree. “Whose car is that?”

  Rachel looked at me, then back at the car. “Derek’s parents.”

  I nodded, pressing my lips together. There were probably about five thousand dark-colored SUVs on the North Shore.

  Rachel’s face lit up. “Thanks, Mom. You’re way cool. I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”

  “Hold on.” She’d misunderstood my nod. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “But you just—”

  “That wasn’t permission to go out.” I started back to the house. “Rachel, it’s after ten. You can’t go out this late.”

  “But Mother—”

  “We’ve been through this before. No driving around. No late dates. Anyway, you have that Science Club project to finish.”

  After a pitched battle a few weeks ago, during which I’d maintained it wasn’t a yes or no option, she’d decided it was less humiliating to be a techno-geek than a linguist.

  “But it’s the weekend.”

  I glared at her.

  She threw me a hateful look. “Daddy thinks you’re neurotic, you know.”

  “You don’t live with your father.”

  “Maybe I should.”

  “With behavior like this, I’m open to negotiation.” I looked at the car. Two forms were in the front seat, their heads close together. “You just tell them you’re not available tonight.”

  Rachel didn’t move.

  “If you won’t, I will.”

  Her bottom lip curled, the way it does when she’s about to scream or cry or shout. “You don’t want me to have any friends.”

  “Rachel…”

  “You don’t want me to be popular. You want me to be a freak like you.”

  I pointed to the car. “Go.”

  She trudged back to the car and stuck her face in the window. A moment later, the car backed out of the driveway. As it sped off around the corner, she ran inside, tears streaming down her face, and raced up the stairs. The sound of the door slamming reverberated through the house.

  Chapter Twenty

  Monday I got a call from Great Lakes Oil, which, until their merger with a British multinational, was one of the country’s largest oil companies. An aide to Assistant Vice-President Dale Reedy asked if I was interested in bidding on a potential training video about the process used to extract oil from shale. Reedy would be out of town for a week or two but wanted to meet as soon after that as possible.

  I tried not to accept too effusively. I’ve always felt somewhat proprietary toward Great Lakes; it was our gas station when I was a kid. My mother used to collect the glasses they gave out as premiums. I remember one sunny day riding my bike down to the corner to fill up my tires with air. How I told the manager we only needed one more glass to make up a set of eight. How he slipped me a free one, which I presented to my mother with a flourish.

  The blue and white signs that used to dot the country have for the most part disappeared, but the Great Lakes skyscraper still towers over the Loop, and every time I pass it, I think of those glasses. Indeed, if it were possible for me to feel warm and fuzzy about any corporation, it would probably be Great Lakes.

  I said I’d be delighted to meet Dale Reedy, and we set up a date. I hummed as I got off the phone. At least one corporation was willing to deal with me. And Great Lakes was a first-tier company. This could be major bucks. Things were looking up.

  ***

  “Where are we going?” I asked as David and I headed downtown Friday night.

  “It’s a surprise.” He pulled into the left lane, weaving between cars.

  “Pretty sure of yourself, for someone who didn’t know how to find the lake six months ago.”

  “I had a good teacher. Plus…” he said, gunning the engine, “it isn’t my car.”

  I fastened my seat belt, but I didn’t need to. Chicago takes its cultural cues from the West Coast, and thanks to the snarl of traffic well past rush hour, we’d apparently absorbed their worst nightmares, too. There was no rational reason for the tie-up: no Cubs game, no accident, no construction. Nevertheless, we crawled down the highway for the better part of an hour. By the time we pulled up at the Four Seasons Hotel, I felt as wilted as yesterday’s salad.

  The doorman opened the door, his uniform
festooned with more ribbons and buttons than a veteran on Decoration Day. David took my arm and guided me inside. He’d asked me to put on my black slacks, a white linen blouse, and the dangly silver earrings he bought me that make me feel dressed up. I laced my arm through his. He used to stay at The Ritz-Carlton, but after we met he switched—he was an equal opportunity hotel guest—and we’d spent our first nights together here. Long, languid nights lost in the touch and taste of passion. Thoughts of the most perfect bed in the world danced in my brain. Could Krispy Kremes be far behind?

  I grinned. “Is this the surprise?”

  “Well, sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  He hesitated. “Abdul is in town, and he asked us to have dinner with him.”

  “Abdul?”

  “I couldn’t get out of it, and he really wanted us both to come.”

  My smile faded. I’d only met the man once. As a client of David’s, especially a new client, he merited a modicum of courtesy, but he wouldn’t be my first choice for a dinner companion. I was about to say so when David pulled a room card out of his pocket.

  “This is the surprise,” he said. “After dinner.”

  A warm feeling started to radiate through me. “What about Rachel?”

  He checked his watch. “Katie’s mother ought to be picking her up right about…now.”

  “Okay.” I kissed him. “I forgive you.”

  Our heels clicked across the marble floor of the lobby. We strolled past a polished mahogany table with a huge flower arrangement on top. Behind us was an oak hutch filled with elegant china, to one side a banister with ornate scrollwork. A silk carpet lay beneath our feet.

  I stopped to smell the flowers, a mixture of giant sunflowers, calla lilies, and smaller blossoms I couldn’t identify, though they looked like tiny orchids. Their sweet, delicate fragrance tickled my throat. David leaned over, picked one of the small blooms, and placed it behind my ear. Looking up, I caught our reflections in a gilt-edged mirror. Soft lighting bathed us in a warm, golden glow. The pale, cream-colored flower made a stark contrast to my black curls.

  I touched my fingers to the flower. It was just a tiny flower; people take them all the time. But as I stroked its soft, velvety petals, it occurred to me that, innocent as it was, David would never have done something like that six months ago.