What You Don't See

by Tracy Clark

  I knew it. Nothing on this block got past Muna Steele. “Minor disturbance, not even worth mentioning.”

  “Uh-huh. Says the woman who got conked on the head by a couple of fools not too long ago.” She stood up, picked up her tray. “Have it your way, but if you change your mind, you know where to come. But before you mess up with that man, you better call me.” She loomed over me, watching me eat. “Anything else you want?” She was being sarcastic. What else could I possibly want or have room for?

  “Another shake?”

  Her brows lifted. “Another shake? Lord have mercy.”

  She stormed off toward the kitchen.

  “Thanks, Muna,” I called after her, my mouth full.

  * * *

  I was standing outside Grissom’s office door when he rounded the corner and saw me. The look on his face told me he wasn’t happy about it.

  “How’d you get back up here?”

  “Same as last time. Charm and ingenuity. I need to talk to you.”

  He brushed past me, unlocked the door. I followed him in. He went to his phone, picked up the receiver. “I’m having you thrown out.”

  “That’s a little extreme, isn’t it?”

  He checked his watch. “I’m not talking to you.”

  “Why?”

  His face flushed. “Leave, or I’ll have you arrested.”

  I stood there quietly, waiting for him to calm the hell down. He barked into the phone for security. I watched. “All right. You brought this on yourself,” he said.

  We stood on opposite sides of the desk. He checked his watch again, then reached into his bag and got his cell phone out to send a text. Maybe I was making him late for a date. Maybe it was something else. I’d lay bets on the something else. I heard footsteps approaching from the hall. Security, come to toss me.

  The guard knocked, stuck his head in. “You called security?”

  Grissom looked satisfied with himself. “There she is. Throw her out.”

  The guard walked in, stood beside me, thick thumbs looped into his belt loops. “You wearing out your welcome, Raines?”

  “Didn’t think so. I’m just standing here.”

  Grissom sneered, looked at both of us. “What the hell’s going on?”

  I knew the guard. I’d worked with him on the job. Detective Terrence Johnston, retired. He was how I had got up here last time and this time, too. I’d been surprised to see him at the desk my first visit. This time, I had brought peanut brittle, the kind I knew he liked.

  I pointed at Johnston. “Old friend.”

  Johnston smiled. “Not that old.”

  Grissom balled his hands into fists and pounded the desk. Johnston and I stood watching, not quite sure what we were looking at, neither of us able to look away. After Grissom stomped around a bit, he stuck his arm out, pointed at the door behind us. “Get out! Both of you.” To Johnston, he said, “And I’m reporting you to the administration.”

  Neither of us moved. I stared at Grissom’s left wrist, exposed during the point. On the inside, right above his watchband, was a round, dark birthmark with jagged edges, like an inkblot. I’d seen a similar one on the man I had fought to restrain in the bookstore. I should have taken Grissom’s infantile behavior a little more seriously, but it was difficult to. The birthmark was a link, an opening.

  “You threatening me?” Johnston asked, his voice as dry as dust. He was a solid, sturdy fella still, even after a few years of badging people at a desk. He stepped forward, leveled hard eyes on the man in Gucci loafers who was losing his mind. “You’re going to want to be careful with that.”

  I took a step back, still on the birthmark, thinking it through. Birthmarks were sometimes hereditary, right? What were the odds that two men with a similar mark on the same wrist, connected by the same woman, wouldn’t have some familial overlap? Allen and David Grissom. A lost year. All the flash, with nothing to account for it. I thought I’d found it, a way in.

  “If you’re done,” I said, “can we talk about your son now?”

  Grissom stopped dead. The flush paled. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You. Benita. All those years ago.” I defaulted back to Allen’s given name because of Johnston. An unplanned pregnancy. That would explain Allen’s transfer, her lost year. Maybe that was what they’d argued about. It might even explain all Grissom’s flash. Blackmail? Hush money? I played a hunch. “How much is she paying you to keep your mouth shut?”

  Grissom had had a lot to say just a few moments ago, but that was done, apparently. He stood there, his eyes wandering around the room, as though he were looking for a little help from his knickknacks. None was forthcoming. He tried pulling himself together, straightening his cuffs, adjusting his watchband. Then he turned to Johnston. “You can go, but you haven’t heard the last of this.”

  Johnston snorted and gave me a “Can you believe this?” look. I had once seen him pick a three-hundred-pound bruiser high on PCP off the ground and slam him into the side of a building. By the end of the exchange, the bruiser was sitting in the back of an unmarked car, crying for his mommy. My money was on Johnston. “He’s got threats.”

  I winked at him. “I’ll catch you on my way out. Save me some brittle?”

  “Quit playing, Raines. You know that brittle’s half gone already.” Johnston glared at Grissom, and then eased out, and closed the door behind him.

  Grissom sat. I did, too.

  “You’re guessing,” he said, trying the bluff out for size. “You don’t know as much as you think you do.”

  I pointed to the birthmark. “He has one just like it.” Now I knew why he’d looked vaguely familiar when I’d seen him. He favored both Allen and Grissom, but not overwhelmingly so, not so it’d immediately come to me that she could be his mother. “Not conclusive evidence, but if it comes to it, DNA will confirm.”

  He tapped nervous fingers on his armrests, deep in concentration, maybe trying to find a way out, concoct a lie I might believe. Or maybe he was clicking through, trying to find a way to protect his money and keep Allen squirming on the hook.

  “What’s his full name, and where can I find him?”

  He shook his head, his arms crossed against his chest now, defiant. “Not in my best interest.”

  My brows lifted. “That’s what you’re worried about? He assaulted a police officer. He showed up at that bookstore with a knife. He may be responsible for the deaths of two innocent people, maybe more. You need to start talking.”

  He sat back in his chair, back to cocky. Still, he left me hanging for almost a minute before he spoke again. “So, Benita had a kid. It’s out. That was her choice. She had options.”

  “Benita had a kid?”

  “It was a mistake. I told her I wasn’t on board, that I’d sign whatever I needed to sign. That was the best thing for everybody.”

  “Then what happened? Why the argument? The slap?”

  Grissom grew more and more uncomfortable, squirming a little in his seat. “I told you I don’t hit women.”

  We both knew that was a lie. I waited.

  “She started thinking she’d keep it. We had words. She eventually went through with an adoption but wanted to hold it over my head, bleed me. I was headed to the NBA. She knew it. She saw an opportunity and took it.”

  “But you set her straight.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Which one of you did he find first?”

  He shook his head. “No, that’s enough.”

  “Believe me. It isn’t,” I said.

  We sat in silence for a bit. I wasn’t going anywhere. Grissom finally realized it. “He couldn’t find Benita Ramsey, for obvious reasons, so I set him straight. Let him go bleed her for a while. Why not? She can take care of herself.” He crossed his legs, played with the pleat in his pant leg.

  “I’d have made the hall of fame. I was just that good. After what happened, I got distracted, lost focus. She got into my head with all that mess. Final ga
me freshman year, third period, a minute and a half to the buzzer, I come down wrong, snap my Achilles. Tried rehab, but I never got back to a hundred percent. Game over. NBA out. Hall of Fame gone.”

  “And you blame her?”

  “I wish I’d never laid eyes on her. She got what she wanted. Why shouldn’t I get what I want? How would all her high-class friends look at her if they knew she was just some whitewashed gold digger? I knew she’d pay.”

  Grissom reached into his desk drawer and drew out an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch box and dropped it in front of him with a thud. “My tell-all. All about the price I paid. All about the real Benita Ramsey, not the Vonda Allen she dreamed up out of nowhere.” He grinned. “She’ll keep paying.”

  I could see now how Grissom and Benita might have come together all those years ago. They were the same person—greedy, gnarled, blackhearted—both tangled together like two crabs in a barrel, clawing over each other, neither getting anywhere close to out.

  I thought of the threatening letters. Had Eric sent them to get back at her? Had Grissom sent them, just trying to have a little fun? “Have you been writing her letters?”

  He laughed. “Benita and I communicate only by direct deposit. As long as that keeps going, I’ve got no reason to even think about her.”

  “When did he first come to you?”

  “Couple of months back, and it was a one-time deal. Haven’t seen him since. Doubt I will again. Why hang out with the second string when Vonda Allen’s your mother and she’s loaded? I got the distinct impression he intended to get in on some of that. I hope he does.”

  “You gave him her private number, didn’t you?”

  He smiled. “How else was he going to contact her?”

  “Without caring if he might pose a threat to her?”

  “Benita’s a big girl.” Grissom stood, buttoned his blazer. “And that’s all you get for free.” He glanced down at the box with all Allen’s secrets in it. “The rest you can read about.”

  I got up from the chair, stood there, rooted to the spot. He knew what I wanted. He also had to know that I’d keep coming back until I got it, Johnston or no Johnston.

  “You want his name,” he said, seeming to enjoy the suspense.

  “His last name. I know the first. Eric. He had her sign a book to him.”

  “Then let’s blow this whole thing wide open and see what kind of chaos it starts. His name’s Eric Rogers, no d.” He walked over to the door, opened it, and stood waiting for me to get on the other side of it. “He told me he works at a place called Meisner’s up on the North Side. It’s a flower shop. He’s not exactly setting the world on fire, is he?” I walked to the door. “Tell Benita her lawyers know where to find me.”

  The door closed right on my heels. I should have been elated. I finally had a name, a way to find the man who’d put Ben in the hospital. So why was I beginning to feel sorry for him?

  Chapter 28

  “Look at you passing the ball,” Tanaka said on the other end of the line. I was holding up my end, sharing the lead. Eric Rogers. Meisner’s. “We’ll take it from here. Good get.”

  I ended the call, stared out of my car window at the front of Meisner’s flower shop. Cooperation didn’t mean I was going to just sit on my hands while things went down without me. I had the Mickersons to think about, a job to finish.

  I got out of the car and walked in. I didn’t think Eric would be here. I mean, he had knifed a cop. If it were me, I’d be halfway to Newfoundland by now, but maybe someone here would know where he lived or where he might go if he had to get there ahead of the law.

  It was a tiny shop inside a dying strip mall off Damen Avenue. A giant Costco literally loomed over it from the next block over, a veritable harbinger of doom. Big box? Try death knell. But there was a large empty lot filled with trash, debris, and human castoffs separating the giant from the little shop, a sea of crabgrass and nettles, a tangible line of demarcation between holding on by a thumbnail and raking it in hand over fist.

  It was cool inside, large refrigerated cases with colorful flowers in chilled vases helping the air conditioner along. I took one whiff of the cloyingly sweet flowers and thought, Funeral home. There were plenty of happy occasions, of course, for which people purchased flowers, but for me, flowers always smelled like death.

  There were no customers at Meisner’s. Costco sold flowers, too, or maybe it was just because it was getting late in the day. I walked up to the counter and hit the little bell sitting there, calling for service, and a short white woman of about sixty emerged from the back, all smiles. Her eyeglasses hung from a chain around her neck and hit right at a full bosom. I looked behind her, but she appeared to be alone.

  “Hello. May I help you?” Her smile was polite; her blue eyes were sharp.

  I smiled back. “I hope so. I’m looking for Eric Rogers. Is he around?”

  The smiled faded. I wondered why. “I’m Joan Meisner, the owner. Is there a problem?”

  “Absolutely not. I’m an old friend of Eric’s. Just passing through. His father told me he worked here. I thought I’d stop by and say hello. Catch up before I hit the road.”

  She relaxed. “Oh, I see. How nice.”

  “He does work here? I haven’t come to the wrong place?”

  “He does. He makes our deliveries. Very reliable. We’re quite pleased.” She reached under the counter, and a buzzer sounded.

  I tensed. He’d shown up for work? Seriously? “He’s also very good with customers. Efficient, trustworthy.”

  “Also fast,” I said, “sure-footed.”

  Meisner looked confused, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it. Eric walked in from the back, took one look at me, and froze. I’ll be damned, I thought. There he was. At work. After knifing a cop. Clueless or just plain stupid? I studied him, up close, as his face drained of color and his eyes bore into mine. He stood there, as stiff as a ship’s plank, behind his boss. And then something shifted in his eyes.

  “Eric, don’t even think about it,” I said.

  Meisner looked from me to Eric and back. “What’s happening?”

  Eric took off, bounded over the counter and straight-armed me right in the chest as he barreled past me and out the front door, headed for the open field. The hit to my chest took my breath away, and I saw stars. I wasted several seconds, bent over, trying to recover, then took off after him, shooting out the door. I turned for the field, spotted him sprinting through the tall weeds, in the direction of the train station two blocks up.

  I ran after him, dirt and city dreck beneath my feet, stumbling over old shoes, bike tires, and discarded clothing, not stopping, but not making any progress, either. Eric was fast. But if I didn’t catch up to him before he hit the train, I could hang it up. I dug in.

  I’d envisioned this going a different way altogether. I’d planned on calmly talking to Eric while we waited for Tanaka and Marcus to show up. I’d planned on a quiet end to all this. Now I was racing through an obstacle course of garbage, my chest on fire, and coming up short. I jumped over a rusted box spring. No sign of the cops. When Tanaka had said they’d follow up, I had assumed she meant today.

  “Stop!” I called out.

  Eric turned to see me but kept going. I would have, too. Did I hear him wheezing? Was I actually gaining? Maybe it was the weeds. Maybe he was allergic. He looked back over his shoulder again but didn’t slow down.

  “I just want to talk!” Goddammit. It was hot. I was hot. My boobs hurt. I wanted to stop. I felt something sticky on the bottom of my running shoe and worried about what it might be. I wondered, too, what Joan Meisner was doing. Standing there in all that air-conditioning, smelling the funeral flowers.

  “Eric,” I called again. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  The train station would be my bet. He pulled away from me. My legs burned. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw flashing lights and turned to see an unmarked car speeding toward the edge of the field to cut Eric off at the
pass. Guessed Tanaka had meant now. I tracked the car as it screeched to a stop in front of Eric, kicking up dirt and debris. Tanaka and Marcus jumped out and approached, guns drawn, barking orders for Eric to put his hands up and get on the ground. I slowed, then stopped, then doubled over, wheezing, holding my chest. It felt like I might actually die right here in this skanky field. By the time I straightened up, Eric was in the back of the police car.

  “Cooperation, huh?” Tanaka called out. “Doesn’t count if you toss the ball and then run to catch it yourself.”

  I dismissed her with a wave. It was all I had.

  * * *

  “Need anything? Ice pack? Oxygen?”

  “I would have caught up, Tanaka.”

  She smirked. “Yeah, okay.”

  It was hours later, and we were watching Eric through a two-way mirror. Marcus was in the next room with him, making a big show of things. He had heard about Farraday’s meltdown and had doubled down on his resentment toward me. If Farraday was through, and I hoped he was, that meant Marcus was going to have to haul his own ass into the superintendent’s chair, and he didn’t have that kind of finesse even on his best day. Still, he was in there strutting around, giving it his best. I had no idea which one of us he thought he was impressing, me or Tanaka, but it didn’t really matter. He wasn’t scoring any points either way. Eric Rogers was clean. No run-ins with the police until now.

  “What’d you want with Vonda Allen?” Marcus asked.

  “It’s personal.”

  Marcus circled the table. “Knife in your pocket. What’d you go there to do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You assaulted a police officer.”

  “Hey, those two cops put hands on me first. I defended myself.”

  Marcus flicked a cocky grin at the mirror. The grin was meant for me. He then leaned on the corner of the table, his arms folded. “So, what had you planned on doing with that knife?”

  “I told you, nothing. I use it for work, to cut through the wires on the crates. They came at me. Wouldn’t let me see her. I had a right.”

  “A right?” Marcus reached across the table and slid an evidence bag with a piece of paper in it in front of Eric. “We checked your place. Tell me about this letter.”