What You Don't See

by Tracy Clark

  “Not much,” he said.

  I sighed. “Only what was in his pockets.”

  I picked up a leather wallet, worn at the seams, its outsides scratched, muddied. There was twenty-five dollars still inside the billfold, and in the slots were a Discover card, an ATM card, and a driver’s license, all expired. I inspected his watch. The face was smashed in; the hands were frozen at 11:36 AM on the twenty-eighth. His key ring had four keys on it. One was a car key, one looked like it might go to a bike lock, the other two looked like house keys, presumably to his grandparents’ home. The ring sported the BMW logo.

  “Did he have a car?” Eli asked.

  I shrugged. “I didn’t ask. I doubt he could have afforded one on what Allen was paying. Maybe the key is to his grandfather’s car?”

  There was nothing else in the plastic bag, and nothing else in the box but a pack of Trident, loose change, and a tarnished Swiss Army knife.

  Eli checked his watch. “That’s thirty.”

  I looked up at him, lost in thought.

  He said, “Call it.”

  I put everything back in the box the way I’d found it, then closed the lid and stood. Eli did, too. He reached for his jacket.

  “Get some rest. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “Wait.”

  We looked at each other, saying a lot without saying anything.

  “Stay?”

  He smiled, walked over, took my hand. We headed back, and I hit the light switch in the hall as we passed it, then stopped suddenly.

  “Wait. Where’s the letter?” I turned to Eli, as if he might know. “The letter of recommendation. Did you see it in the box?”

  I flicked the lights back on, rushed back to the living room, Eli on my heels. I flipped the top off the box and rechecked the hospital bag, though I was fairly sure I’d done a thorough job of it my first time through. “He should have had it on him.”

  I checked the entire box, every inch of it. I didn’t find the letter. Dontell had gone to Strive specifically to get it. The video showed him strolling into their office to pick it up. He’d called his grandparents right after he left to tell them he’d gotten it. So where was it? I looked at Eli. “It’s not here.”

  “Half his stuff probably blew off to the four winds when that car hit him, and could have ended up halfway down the street. Hectic accident scene. Nobody’s going to go picking around in the gutter for every piece of paper.”

  He was right. Of course, he was right. Our eyes held.

  Eli said, “But you don’t think so.”

  The Peetses. Dontell left to die in the street. Hewitt, Sewell, Allen’s own mother.

  “No way.”

  * * *

  I woke to rain beating against my windows but lay there for a time, watching the slanted drops streak down the glass, feeling gloomy, wishing getting wet was the only thing I had to worry about. Eli had left around six thirty, but I hadn’t gotten up. I glanced over at the clock on the bedside table. Three hours I’d been lying here, not getting up, wishing I could go back to before the bookstore and the knife, before Allen. Impossible, fantastical thinking. I’d have to deal with what was, like always, like everybody living.

  I reached over and grabbed my phone, hoping for good news from Carole, but she hadn’t called or left a message. At least that meant no bad news. There was a text waiting from Tanaka, though. I bolted up, read it. Cooperation was a go. She wanted to meet to seal the deal. “Ha! Yes!” That meant speed and access and more hands stirring the pot. “Thank you, Jesus.” I sprang out of bed and darted for the shower, suddenly in a much better mood.

  Tanaka was waiting for me at Tut’s, a dingy, greasy sandwich shop off Roosevelt Road. I found her at a back table, devouring a Gym Shoe sandwich, a South Side rite of passage, or death, whichever way you wanted to look at it. The classic Gym Shoe was corned and roast beef, onions, cheese, gyro meat, all griddled up together and then dropped onto a sub roll. The thing was then topped with shredded lettuce, mayonnaise, tomato, tzatziki sauce, and giardiniera.

  The Gym Shoe was usually eaten in a joint like this, where the cashier and the griddle were both behind bulletproof glass, so whatever went on out here, at the tables, was on you. If you were lucky, someone on the griddle side would call 911 if something went down. If you weren’t, you died with tzatziki sauce on your chin. Tut’s smelled of onions and simmering meat, and the soles of my shoes stuck to the floor as I walked. No menus. You picked your lunch from the board of options on the wall, and since half the letters were missing, you had to take an educated guess. Some Einstein had spelled cheeseburger with two z’s. No credit cards. Only cash. No shoes, no shirt, no Gym Shoe.

  I peeled out of my rain jacket and slung it over the back of my chair, then sat across from Tanaka and watched her kill herself one bite at a time. I laid my phone on the table in case Carole called. We had the place to ourselves, except for the griddle guy and the woman at the register.

  “A Gym Shoe? At ten thirty in the morning? Who hurt you as a child?”

  “It’s my meal break. I’m starving, okay?” There was a slew of balled-up paper napkins littering the table like greasy fake snowballs. Tanaka talked to me between bites. “Besides, it hits all the major food groups, and I only have twenty minutes.”

  I gaped at her but said nothing. To each his own. “Any new developments?”

  She put the sandwich down and wiped schmutz off her hands and wrists. Another snowball hit the table. “We talked to Allen about the letters.”

  “And?”

  She leaned back in her chair, I guessed waiting for the Gym Shoe to Superman its way down to her stomach, bounce, and shoot back up her esophagus. “She says you’re a nutcase. You saw a chance to bleed money out of her by threatening to sell this stalker story to the gossip rags. Blackmail, in short.”

  I almost laughed. “That’s ridiculous, but not surprising. I’m hoping you also talked to Chandler, and that she gave you something useful.”

  “Not a thing. She just stood there. So, no letters, no corroboration, nothing we can do, until there’s something we can do.”

  “This is bananas, you know that, right?”

  Tanaka took a moment. “I know. The bookie angle was Jones’s deal, just so you know, and it didn’t pan out, as we both knew it wouldn’t.” Tanaka’s eyes swept over the room, right to left and back; she watched the door, too. I knew she had it, so I didn’t bother. I did turn my chair slightly sideways, though, so I had a side view of the entrance. “But something’s going on, because two of her employees are lying in the morgue right now.” She began collecting the napkins, brushing them all into a snow hill. “What about you? What’d you come up with?”

  I told her about my visits to Deton Peets and David Grissom, also about Dontell’s hit-and-run, the videos he shot, and the missing letter. “There’s footage of him entering the office, time stamped, and the word of his grandparents that he definitely left with what he came for.”

  “What’s any of that got to do with Sewell and Hewitt?”

  I eyed my phone. Nothing. “Pattern.”

  “So, Vonda Allen ran down Peets and Adkins? One, to shut them up about the magazine lawsuit, and two, to keep the kid from blasting her craziness all over the internet?”

  “In both cases, she got rid of potential problems.”

  “So, Vonda Allen, Chicago celeb, gala queen, is a stone-cold killer?” Tanaka looked skeptical. “A psychopath hiding in plain sight? And what’s her old college boyfriend supposed to be able to tell you?”

  “I don’t know, but there’s something there, too. I can feel it. He’s too coy, too smug. He’s also living too high on the hog for the salary he’s likely pulling in. I don’t believe he’s had no contact with her in all this time. He’s hiding something. She’s hiding something. I’ll take another crack.”

  Tanaka emptied her cup, stuffed the napkins and the sandwich wrappings into the greasy brown paper bag they came in, and then looked around for a trash
can. “This should hold me for another twelve hours.”

  “Or twelve days.”

  “You one of those salad and hay people, Raines?”

  I shook my head. “Had pizza just last night. But c’mon, a Gym Shoe? Get ahold of yourself.”

  She grinned. “Do I look worried?”

  I shook my head. “Death by Gym Shoe. At least it’s original.”

  Chapter 27

  There was a dark car with someone sitting in it parked in front of my office when I got there. It looked like the same one I’d seen pull away from the Sewell crime scene. I leaned over to look inside and saw James Farraday in the driver’s seat. He was alone. That was a problem.

  He was supposed to be riding a desk until the department could figure out how to cut him loose, but here he was, tailing me. In his twisted mind, he likely thought I was the cause of all his troubles, the one single-handedly responsible for the death of his career. Whatever he was here for, I was sure I wasn’t going to like it.

  I kept walking, ignoring him, hoping he’d take a moment, catch himself, then have the good sense to drive away. But my heart sank when I heard the car door open and turned to see him get out of the car and walk toward me. I slung my bag cross-body, over my shoulder, so my hands were free.

  “We’re going to talk.” His eyes were red rimmed; his face splotchy. I could smell the alcohol on him. He was drunk. That meant his judgment was impaired, which made him doubly dangerous. “Right here, right now. You and me.”

  I heard children’s voices and turned to see a double line of nursery schoolers approaching, trailing behind a couple of young women, who were leading them in singing nursery rhymes. They were about a block and a half away. Farraday was oblivious and itching for a fight.

  “Get back in your car, Farraday. I’ll call you a cab.”

  He snarled at me, full of liquid courage. “You won’t be calling anything, believe me.”

  I didn’t want to incite him further, so I didn’t respond right away, but I could hear the kids getting closer. “Fine. Let’s take this upstairs to my office, then.”

  “Nuh-uh. I say where, and I say here.”

  I turned to look. I counted ten little kids. They held each other’s hands as they walked along, cheerful, high-pitched baby voices getting louder the closer they got. I took a step back from Farraday. “You’re a drunken mess. Get back in your car and get the hell out of here!”

  He lunged for me. I ducked and flew through the door to the building, then took the stairs two at a time. As I hoped he would, he chased me in, lumbering up behind me, slowed by his drunkenness, but thankfully off the street and away from the kids passing by.

  I double-stepped it all the way to the third floor, my legs burning, then raced down the hall, slid my key in the lock, tumbled into my office, and locked the door behind me. I dug my phone out of my bag and dialed 911 while I pushed my nap couch against the door to slow Farraday down. No shame in any of that. Live to fight another day. I gave 911 all they needed to know, then hung up and waited.

  I could hear him coming, but he was half in the bag and still on the stairs. Maybe he’d cool down before he got to me. I stood behind my desk, slid my top drawer open, just in case I needed to reach in and get a thing or two to defend myself. I needed to hold out only until the police got there. I peeked out the window; the kids were just passing the building on their merry way. I breathed a little easier.

  After an embarrassingly long time, Farraday’s weaving frame filled the glass in my door. He jiggled the knob, found the door locked. He twisted the knob a little harder, then started banging on the glass.

  “Think about what you’re doing, Jim. Then don’t do it.”

  “Open this door, Raines! Police!”

  That was debatable, I thought. I leaned over and checked out the window again, looking for police cars. Nothing yet.

  “Seriously, do you really want to go out like this? Have a little dignity.”

  The next time Farraday banged on the glass, it shattered into a million pieces, and shards of the jagged stuff rained down on the couch. Now I was mad.

  “That’ll cost you.”

  Farraday then took his big cop foot to the door, busting the lock, splintering wood, and skidding the cheap couch back enough to squeeze himself through. He stepped in, crunching glass underfoot, his shoulders squared. Another quick peek. Quiet as a tomb out on the street. He stood there, swaying. Jeez, had he really driven himself here?

  “You ruined me. You ruined me. Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Jim. Just back up, and we forget this entire thing ever happened.” Not likely. I was filing charges just as soon as the police showed up. I was done dealing with Jim Farraday and his crazy crap.

  “I shoulda done this years ago, when you kept on about that dumb banger. That’s on me. I’m ending it now, though.”

  He unbuttoned his rumpled blazer, flipped it back to reveal the gun in his holster and the detective’s star clipped to his belt. I straightened up and focused. I had a gun in my bag, one in the safe beneath my desk, neither an option right at this moment. Besides, I didn’t want to escalate this into a shoot-out. I slowly lifted my arms over my head, palms forward, watching his every move.

  He pointed to his star and holster. “See these? They say I rule you. They trump that two-bit PI’s license you carry in that rinky-dink private dick wallet of yours. Somebody comes at me, I come back twice as hard.” He tapped the badge. “I earned this. I did. How do I get dinged for Russo getting her head blown off? You set it off.”

  A wave of anger shot through me, setting my gut on fire. He’d killed Russo, just as sure as if he’d put the gun to her head himself. My jaw hurt from clenching my teeth so tightly. I hated Farraday. I’d hate him till the day I died. I just hoped that wasn’t today. I heard the sirens then. My eyes locked onto Farraday’s, but I didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. He could hear, too.

  There was the screech of car tires below, then the rumble of cop feet on the stairs. Farraday looked lost, defeated. I would have pitied him were it not for Jimmy Pick and Russo. I stood stock-still behind the desk, my arms still up, ready to drop and roll if I needed to. Farraday stood weaving just inside the door. We exchanged a look.

  He shook his head, resignation on his face. “Damn you, Raines.”

  The cops were at the door now.

  I glared at him. I really did hate the man and all the heartache he’d caused. “Damn you back, Farraday.”

  Four uniformed cops stared down at the broken glass, then pushed their way in as Farraday slowly raised his arms in surrender and I put mine down.

  * * *

  I’d passed on the Gym Shoe at Tut’s, but now, after Farraday had got escorted out, his career and what was left of his reputation in shambles, I needed comfort food in the worst possible way. There was a temporary door on my office, and I’d have to pay for replacement glass for the second time in as many months, but it was over, and no one had got hurt.

  I walked down to Deek’s and ordered a chocolate shake, fries, a double bacon burger, onion rings, and a slice of banana cream pie before I even sat down, then slid into my booth in back and booted up my laptop. I was done with my office for a while. Muna must have suspected something was up with me when I came in, because when she dropped my shake off at the table, I found it topped with real whipped cream and three cherries instead of the customary one.

  She loomed over me, big hands on full hips. “Heard you had some trouble down there a while ago. You all right?”

  By now, Muna knew everything that’d happened in my office. Word got around fast, which saved me the recap. I took a long drag of the shake, came up for air. “Am now.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You ever think about going into cosmetology?”

  I looked up, sighed. “Would you trust me with your hair?”

  “Good point. Your food’s coming up.”

  She turned and walked away, and I turned back
to my computer and a deep dive into David Grissom’s bona fides. What I was able to access fairly quickly looked wonky. I’d been right. He expended far more than he took in, and there was nothing to indicate that he’d inherited a windfall from some long-lost auntie. At best, he couldn’t make much more than eighty, ninety thousand a year, yet his condo in the building it was in couldn’t have gone for much less than a million or a million and a half. And I found a vehicle registration for a 2020 BMW, so what the frick?

  Muna walked up with my food on a tray. She eyed the tray, me, the laptop, my chocolate shake. “You gonna tell me why I carted all these carbohydrates out here and you don’t weigh but two pounds?”

  I looked up at her, the straw still in my mouth. “I’m hungry.”

  She snorted, put the tray down on the table, then sat across from me, which was a little more attention than I needed or wanted. “Ain’t nobody this hungry. It’s you worrying about Benjamin?” Her eyes bore into mine.

  “It’s just lunch, Muna.”

  “Or maybe you got trouble with that long, tall drink of water you going out with?”

  I slurped the last of my shake, vacuuming along the bottom of the glass with the end of the straw so that it made that slurpy noise everybody hated but couldn’t help making. “You know, sometimes a burger is just a burger.”

  She looked unconvinced. Smart woman. I admit it. Farraday had rattled me. I’d been afraid I might have to shoot him or, worse, he’d shoot me. He had me frazzled, and then there was Ben. She was right about that.

  “Because if it’s Mr. Long, Tall Drink of Water,” Muna said, “I got relationship tips. Guaranteed to set you straight.”

  I grabbed my burger off the tray, along with my fries, the onion rings, the pie. “Haven’t you been married four times?”

  “Right, so who knows better than me?”

  I ate a fry slowly, staring at her. “I’m good. Thanks anyway.”

  Her eyes dropped to my one-woman banquet spread. “Then this is about that drunk cop coming after you down at your place.”