We walked back to his pickup where he put down the leaf blower. “But why are they after you?”
“I—I’m not entirely sure. I did meet with Rhonda Disapio before she died. She was the one who told me about the two men. She thought she was being followed. Maybe they saw us together.”
He pulled out a rake from the truck. “But this has been the only incident directed against you? Since the trial?”
I thought about the SUV I’d seen when Susan and I took a walk. You couldn’t really call that an “incident.” I wasn’t even sure it was significant. “There was nothing,” I said, “until Brashares died.”
“And he died—they broke into his office and attacked him.”
“Tossed the place and cleaned out his safe.”
Fouad was quiet as he raked the separate mounds of leaves together into one large pile. Then he looked up. “Perhaps there was something in his office that connected them to you.”
“In his office?” I kicked a few leaves and watched them swirl in the air before settling. I hardly knew Brashares. I’d only been in his office once. In fact, since the trial, we’d only talked once or twice. Most of our communication was on answering machines. Playing phone tag.
The phone.
I looked up.
“What?” Fouad asked.
“I left a message on Brashares’ machine.”
Fouad’s jaw tightened.
“I said something about Santoro and the men at Calumet Park. I hugged my chest. “Do you think that’s it? I mean, if they were following Rhonda, they already suspected I knew something. And then, when they heard the message…”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that the people who broke into Brashares’ office might have listened to the messages on his answering machine. And heard the one where I mentioned the ‘men at Calumet Park.’ That could be the link.” The temperature was in the fifties, but my palms were sweaty. “Oh God. Me and my big mouth.”
Fouad tried to comfort me. “The Koran says, ‘Allah does not impose upon any soul a duty but to the extent of its ability.’ You were only doing what you thought you should.”
“Even so, it backfired.” I chewed on a finger. “Fouad, what do I do? The police don’t believe any of this.”
“Then you must convince them.”
The plink of piano chords floated through the window. “How? I don’t have any evidence.”
He smiled. “You will find it; I am certain of that.”
I wasn’t quite sure how to take that, but coming from Fouad, it had to be a compliment. He bundled the leaves into a canvas tarp, tied the ends, and carried it to the back of his truck.
I followed him. “Oh. I almost forgot. I met someone from your part of the world the other day.”
He looked over.
“A new client of David’s. A Saudi oil sheik. He says he’s related to the royal family.”
“What’s his name?”
“Abdul Al Hamarani. He’s trying to buy a plant from Great Lakes Oil.”
“There are thousands of royals in Saudi Arabia,” he said. I must have looked crestfallen because he added, “I have a friend from Riyadh. I’ll ask about him when I see him at prayers.”
I went into the kitchen to think about dinner.
Rachel called from the living room, “Next week is the end of Science Club, you know.”
“Already?” Where had the time gone?
“Well, the first session. They’re having Parents’ Day on Friday. Are you coming?”
I missed a lot when Rachel was young. Swimming lessons. Soccer games. Her violin recital. I remember thinking they couldn’t possibly be as important as my work. After the divorce, my priorities changed. Now I try not to miss anything.
I went into the living room. “Of course I’m coming. Why? What’s up?”
“It’s a surprise.” She grinned. “But you’ll like it.”
I swatted her on her rear end. “Tease.”
***
O’Malley got back to me that night. “I called down to Area Three and talked to the dicks handling Brashares’ case.”
“And?”
“They’re sticking with the program.”
“A botched robbery?”
“They say he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Convenient, isn’t it?”
“Ellie.” O’Malley cleared his throat. “I know you had problems last summer. But lightning doesn’t strike twice. Unless you can give me something, there’s nothing I can do. Christ, I wouldn’t know where to start anyway. Your story covers almost every friggin’ police jurisdiction in Cook County.”
“It’s not a story.”
“Well, it isn’t a case.” He paused. “Look, you know how it works. Give me something I can work with. Otherwise, all I got is a suspicious fire. Which could have been set by anyone.”
I thought about the message I’d left on Brashares’ machine. That wasn’t evidence, either. At best, it was conjecture. But it was obvious O’Malley wasn’t eager to take me on.
I kept my mouth shut.
Chapter Twenty-three
I’d always considered our village a quiet place where nothing much happens, until I discovered some history no one talks about much. Apparently, there used to be a bar behind the train station. It was a popular watering hole, especially on Fridays, when the owner took it upon himself to cash his customers’ paychecks. Except for one Friday morning around three, when four masked men robbed the place at gunpoint and escaped with fifty thousand dollars. The community was shocked. Shocked. What sort of people would keep that much cash on the premises? It came out later that the owner was running a “finance and loan” business on the side.
The bar is now gone, but the owner’s family isn’t. Specifically, Joey DePalma, aka the Surgeon, and his brothers. They were part of the old Grand Avenue crew but moved to the suburbs in the Sixties. His brothers didn’t stay; their bodies were found in a Wisconsin field a couple of years later. DePalma made a precipitous retirement after that.
I once asked O’Malley why they called him the Surgeon. He said DePalma was known for his skill with a knife. But that was a long time ago, he added. DePalma led a quiet life now, enjoying his grandchildren and garden. And the careful scrutiny of village cops.
The next morning found me driving down a residential street a mile from my house. Some of the homes, products of remodeling, were upscale two-story structures, but most were modest splits and ranches. Midway down the block was a brown brick ranch with a cedar shake roof and a well-tended lawn. I was surprised how well the house blended in; I’d expected something showier.
I climbed out of the Volvo and made my way to the front porch. The screen door had one of those fancy Ds in the middle. I was about to ring the bell when I stopped. What was I doing? You don’t just drop in on a mobster for tea. I started back to the car.
“Can I help you?”
I spun around. Coming around the side of the house was a man pushing a wheelbarrow. He appeared to be in his seventies and had a big belly that spilled over baggy pants, but his shirt revealed brawny arms and shoulders. He wore thick black glasses, and his skin looked as if he’d had a bad case of acne as a youth. Oddly enough, that made him seem more approachable.
I pasted on what I hoped was a sincere smile. “I was just—I was just admiring your garden.”
He flicked his eyes toward his flower beds, which, since the frost last week, consisted of dead marigolds, withered salvia, and a few scraggly petunias.
“I mean, over the summer,” I stammered. “It must have been gorgeous.”
He looked me up and down, then picked up the wheelbarrow handles. “If you’re selling something, we’re not interested.”
“I’m not selling anything,” I said. “My name is Ellie Foreman. I live in the neighborhood.”
He paused, then straightened up and motioned toward the house. “My wife Lenora handles the charity donations.”
I turned around. A soft, round woman was watching us from the door. She wore beige stretch pants and a long, flowery tunic, and her hair was tinted a brassy red. She was wearing glasses, too. Oversized, with blue frames.
“I’m not here for money, sir.” I took a breath. “The truth is—I need your help.”
He gave me another once-over. “You say you live around here?”
“A few blocks away.”
After a long moment, he beckoned me to follow him and went inside the house. As he brushed by his wife, he said, “Go into the kitchen, Lenora.”
She disappeared without a word.
I followed him in. To the left was the narrow hallway Lenora had just passed through, to my right a sunken living room. The carpeting was beige, the furniture, too. A crucifix hung over the fireplace. End tables were crowded with photographs of small children and young parents, most with sunny smiles on their faces. But the hall we were standing in was gloomy, and the open door hadn’t filtered out that musty smell that clings to old people’s homes.
“What’s the problem, miss?”
“I think someone may be trying to kill me. But I’m not sure who it is or why they’re doing it.” I felt the trepidation in my voice. “I—I’m afraid, and I want it to stop. I don’t know who to turn to.”
His eyebrows arranged themselves into an annoyed expression. “I’m a retired senior citizen, living on a pension. Whaddaya think I can do?”
I swallowed. “I think it might have something to do with my testimony at Johnnie Santoro’s trial.”
His expression didn’t change.
“Somebody thinks I know something. But I don’t know who it is or what I’m supposed to know. I’m a single mother. I have a daughter.” I looked over at the photographs. “I’m all she has. Sir,” I added.
DePalma looked me over for what seemed like a long time, though it probably was only a few seconds. Then, “You have a problem, get in touch with my lawyer. William Casey. At Brickman, Casey, and Scott. He’ll help you.”
“Mr. DePalma, with all due respect, your lawyer can’t help me, and I think you know it.”
“Young lady, like I said, I’m just a retiree on a pension. I can’t help you.” He took a step forward. “And now, you’re gonna have to leave.”
My stomach twisted. “Please, Mr. DePalma. I was almost killed in a fire the other day. It was arson. But the police don’t know who’s behind it. And it doesn’t seem like they want to find out.”
He paused. “Where was the fire?”
“In Northbrook. At a video studio.”
He pulled out a clean, white handkerchief from his pocket. I took it as a hopeful sign.
“I thought perhaps you’d consider looking into it, and… well maybe…” My voice trailed off.
He held the handkerchief to his face, blew his nose, and tucked it back in his pocket. Then he placed his hand on my arm. The back of his hand was covered with dark hair, and his fingers were thick and stubby. I could see that hand wielding a knife.
“Ms. Foreman, it’s time for you to go.”
The Surgeon guided me out. The door closed quietly behind me.
***
David was en route to London and wasn’t reachable until evening. Because of the time difference, I woke him up. When I told him about the fire, the drowsiness in his voice vanished.
“My God, Ellie. I’ll fly back tomorrow.”
“Don’t. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
My throat was scratchy, and I still thought I smelled smoke everywhere, but he didn’t have to know that. “I’m sure.”
Silence. Then, “What about Rachel?”
“She’s fine. Katie’s sleeping over. It’s Halloween.”
When I was young, Halloween was my favorite holiday. Not anymore. Grisly costumes and nasty pranks have stripped the holiday of all its charm. I can’t understand people who spend hundreds of dollars to celebrate the macabre.
Happily, Rachel was too old for trick-or-treating, but one of her friends was having a party the following night, and the girls were trying on every article of clothing in Rachel’s closet in an effort to pull together some costumes.
“…isn’t good, Ellie.”
I realized I hadn’t been listening. “I’m sorry, David. What was that?”
“I said this isn’t good.”
“I know. But, at least no one was hurt, and—”
“No,” David cut in. “Not that.”
I stared at the broom closet. The door was half open. Maybe I should close it all the way. “What?”
He paused. “I’m concerned you might be in danger. I want to be with you.”
“I don’t need your protection.” I bit my tongue. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“Maybe you did.”
“David—”
“Look, I know you can take care of yourself. But when you care for someone, at least when I do, I want to make sure they’re safe.”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but don’t you think you might be projecting a wee bit?”
“What if I am?” His voice rose. “I’ll admit I’m not a big risk taker.” He paused. “The biggest risk I ever took was falling in love with you.”
I swallowed.
“I didn’t say that to make you feel guilty. I—I guess—I just wish none of this had happened.”
“Do you think I should have kept my mouth shut? Even though I didn’t—and still don’t—believe Santoro killed Mary Jo?”
I heard his sigh over seven thousand miles. “No, of course not. But there isn’t a day that passes that I’m not afraid for you.”
I cleared my throat. This probably wasn’t the time to tell him about DePalma.
“Ellie, I don’t want this to sound like an ultimatum. But I’d like to suggest we both do some thinking.”
I gripped the phone. “About what?”
“About us and how we can make this work. We’re such different people.”
“I thought that’s why you were attracted to me. You know, action woman meets pensive man.”
I heard a strangled sound on his end. I closed the door to the broom closet.
“Why don’t we both do some thinking?” he said after a pause. “I’ll call you next week.”
“David?”
“What?” I heard the rise of his breath.
I bit back a reply. “Nothing. I—I’ll talk to you later.”
I hung up and started to load the dishwasher, but as I transferred a plate to the machine, it fell to the floor and shattered.
“Dammit.” I kicked the cabinet under the sink. “Shit.” My toes throbbed.
By the time I swept up the pieces, it was dark outside, a thick, heavy darkness in which objects lose definition. I put the broom away. What was I doing? Why was I picking fights with David? He was right about one thing. The bubble wrap of suburban life was no guarantee of safety. But his response was to avoid risk. Insulate himself with routine. Mine was to rush the front lines wielding a saber, refusing to cave in to fear.
It was a problem.
Chapter Twenty-four
Mac called with good news on Monday. The insurance company would pay for most of the cleanup, plus the equipment replacement. In fact, Mac had decided to upgrade to a better Avid. Faster chips, better processor, and the ability to author to DVD.
“So everything in the tape room is gone?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, Ellie. I know a lot of your shows were in there.”
“No. I’m the one who should apologize.”
“Why?”
“I may have been the target.”
“Yeah. The police asked me about that.”
“What did you tell them?”
He didn’t say anything, but I heard an entire conversation in his silence.
“Mac?”
“Look, Ellie,” he said. “I have a lot of rebuilding to do. I have a family to support. If someone was sending us a message, I heard it loud and clear. I
don’t want to get involved.”
“So you’re—”
“I don’t know who was responsible for the fire. Or why. And I don’t want to. I just want it all to go away.”
“So I’m out there on my own.”
“You don’t have to be.”
I changed the subject. “How’s Hank? I’ve tried calling, but we keep trading messages. Has he recovered?”
Mac laughed. “Let me put it this way. If this is how he reacts to stress, I’ll have to pile more on.”
Sandy must be something.
I hung up and looked outside. The sky was that heartbreaking shade of blue you only see in autumn. I called Susan to walk, but she works part-time in an art gallery and had already left the house. I threw on sneakers and sweats, feeling resentful toward everyone who had a place to go and a job to do.
I stretched and jogged over to Voltz Road. Twisting and turning through the forest preserve, Voltz has no sidewalks, just narrow shoulders of gravel. Huge trees shield the estates on either side. But the canopy of leaves now looked ragged, and leaves crunched under my feet.
Two years ago Rachel and I were driving down Voltz when we saw a fawn lying in the middle of the road. As we drew closer, it started to make small jerky motions, and I saw blood seeping out from under it. The creature’s legs and back were broken, and it couldn’t roll over, much less stand up.
We stopped and called the cops. Then I carefully picked it up and carried it to the side of road. As I lowered it into a ditch, the fawn’s large, obsidian eyes locked onto mine, and I was sure I saw an awareness in them that this was not the right order of things. That something very fundamental in its young universe had irrevocably shifted.
When the cop showed up, he inspected the fawn and said, “You know what I have to do.”
“No,” Rachel cried, clutching my arm.
I pulled her to me and spoke over her head. “Could you—would you wait until we leave?”
I led my sobbing daughter to the car and drove away. A shot rang out. Neither of us looked back.
Now, as I jogged past the ditch, caught up in the ache of the memory, I barely registered the black limo that eased past me. But limos weren’t unusual in this neighborhood. Neither were SUVs, and I didn’t make any connections when a dark green one passed behind the limo, followed, seconds later, by a gray sedan.
A Picture of Guilt Page 13
