by M. K. Gilroy
I’m not supposed to remind her she doesn’t pay her taxes and she is no saint.
I only met her at the beginning of this week. She was much more composed in our first few meetings. I don’t think it’s all me—despite what Don said about my effect on people—but she seems to be unravelling a lot easier than I thought someone with her poise would. She’s preoccupied. I nailed her hard on the set-up date with Kevin and she mumbled an apology. I’ve never heard the queen of elocution mumble or apologize.
It probably didn’t help that Squires, Martinez, and Randall paid her a visit last night to question her on whether she had ever visited Jack Durham in his condo. The Martin girl told Don she thought Barbara and him spent time together. That got everyone buzzing for a second—but Bobbie’s alibi the night of the murder was rock solid.
“Is there a secret to pulling these things on? Like Vaseline on my hips?”
“You’ll figure it out.”
She slings something over the door.
“Try this top with the jeans.”
No way. No way.
• • •
Bam. Bam. Bam. I’m pounding up the steps of Section 1. I hit every step from A to Z and am working on the double letters—DD, EE, FF, GG . . . Bam. Bam. Bam.
I am at the local high school football stadium. One of my favorite workouts is running every step on the home side of the field. Sometimes two or three times.
I am wearing an old pair of my NIU soccer shorts and a sleeveless Under Armor sport top. It’s form-fitting but feels wonderful after my ordeal of pulling on a pair of Dolce and Gabbana jeans that cost more than a thousand bucks along with a maddening array of tops and heels high enough that I can barely stand, much less walk in them. On the Dolce and Gabbanas I thought the butterfly embroidery was cute and the pink leather patch with their gold logo on the back pocket was a nice touch, but 1,200 bucks with tax? People can afford this?
“You’ll probably get to keep everything we buy for you,” Bobbie said. “Except for the jewelry,” she added. “We’re borrowing that. But someone is getting a wardrobe upgrade.”
But what will I do with the clothes I get to keep? Take the jeans for instance. I’ll have to admit, they looked surprisingly unbelievable on me, but dressing to wow people is not what I’m about. That’s my sister, Klarissa’s department. Even if she wasn’t a media star, she’s always been a girly girl. Dolls and dressing up like Ariel from The Little Mermaid were her thing, while I got in dirt clod battles with the guys and held my own.
Klarissa has been after me to dress up my wardrobe. Heck, Don, the most neatly dressed detective on the CPD, lets me know my taste in clothes could be better. Much better. Then he starts on my shoes. He wears only Allen Edmonds, which cost at least $350 a pair. He loves to let us know that. But even if I wanted to buy expensive shoes—and I don’t—let’s face it, comfort has never been the priority for women’s shoes. Why would I ruin my feet in high heels? If that’s what impresses a guy, he probably isn’t the guy I want to impress.
Heck, I don’t know what I’m talking about. The one constant accompaniment in my wardrobe is a black leather holster that goes over my shoulder and keeps my handgun of the month within easy reach halfway between my side and the middle of my back.
Monday night I am going to a Bears game in five-inch heels—I dug in and refused the six-inch stilettos—and jeans designed to asphyxiate me with the all the efficiency of a boa constrictor.
At least I can wear my Urlacher jersey. Bobbie said a fitted jersey completes the ensemble.
I might be done with undercover by the end of the evening. No way will I fit in. It will be a relief when that happens. Everyone else is doing real police work. I’m doing a personal makeover reality show.
Maybe I can take the jeans back to Bloomingdales and trade them for a couple of items that fit me.
• • •
Showered, I flip channels. There’s Klarissa anchoring the WCI-TV late edition of the evening news. She is incredible. You don’t get a gig in Chicago when you’re twenty-six—her age when she got promoted from a Kansas City, Missouri, station to the third largest market in the US—if you aren’t incredible. I know the news business isn’t what it used to be—that’s what she tells me anyway—but I could see her having her own show on a network or major cable outlet in the not-too-distant future.
“The brutal slaying of Jack Durham, eldest son of Chicago billionaire businessman and philanthropist, Robert Durham, Sr., still has Chicago buzzing, in part because there appears to be no progress on the case.”
Thanks, Sis.
“In a new development the elder Durham has issued a press release through his attorney, Stanley McGill, that he is disappointed in the lack of progress by the Chicago Police Department. As a result he is now offering a reward of one million dollars to anyone who provides information that will lead to the capture and conviction of his son’s murderer.
“For more on that story I send you over to WCI-TV news correspondent, Trevor Jenkins . . .”
Ruh roh.
When a million bucks reward is attached to a case, you better believe our job just got more difficult. Every con artist and person who thought they saw a shadow in the last month will now be calling it in.
I should listen to Trevor but click the off button. I know my sister has her job to do but couldn’t she sound a little less forceful about our lack of progress? She doesn’t know how hard we are working this. Durham’s dad doesn’t know. And whoever this Trevor guy is who is reporting from City Hall, he doesn’t know either. But this is the kind of newscast that gets the politicians looking over our shoulders and often does more harm than good to an investigation.
I think we’ve made some strategic progress. But I guess we have nothing to show for it. Yet. Maybe we’ll get a breakthrough from my date on Monday night. Bobbie sent my picture to one of Durham’s closest friends who wanted to meet and take someone new to the game. A bunch of Durham’s friends are meeting up at Robert Durham’s luxury suite at Soldier Field. He emailed her back with a yes. Batter up. Kristen to the plate.
I pad back to my bedroom with a notebook that provides biographical background and details on Jack Durham’s friends and acquaintances, moving from closest to most casual. Everyone is considered a suspect. I’ve already gone over a second notebook with pictures and descriptions of Bobbie’s independent contractors. All beautiful. Not nearly as much detail. Many of them are doing quite well financially from their line of work. But I can’t imagine in a million years that this could make you feel good about yourself.
Just thinking about this crowd makes me feel like taking another shower. I guess that makes me judgmental.
23
I’M ON THEIR radar. But so are a lot of others. Am I standing out?
I didn’t like the way Detective Conner looked at me. In fact, I just didn’t like her. But she hasn’t been back. Shouldn’t matter . . . but I’m glad. She’s trouble.
I thought it was a good idea to point the investigation in another direction so I mentioned to the detectives . . . can’t keep the names straight now . . . that I thought Barbara would visit Jack at his condo from time to time. Which is true. But they’re not looking at her. It figures she would have an air-tight alibi that night. The Chicago Symphony. She has moved up in the world.
Does that mean he did it? Or am I missing someone else? He’s the only other one that makes sense. He’s not the only one close to him that hated Jack but he did have guaranteed access.
My biggest problem remains the same. I have left my DNA all over the crime scene. I don’t know how accurate the CSI TV shows are, but no question, I am physically linked to that night. I’ve talked to an attorney. I was surprised to learn the investigators can’t request a DNA sample from me unless they can show probable cause. If they can force that, I’m as good as convicted. I vomited in his bedroom. But they need something else on me before they get to that. My lawyer wants me to let the police know I was there so that withh
olding that doesn’t come back to bite me later.
I could just leave. I have money. I have an extra passport. Paris. London. Buenos Aires.
Why not? If I leave I’ll have more than I’ve ever had in my life. But a lot less than what is due to me. If I can just manage this a little longer.
Is it worth the risk?
Jack told me he loved me. Then he told me I was only after his money. I did want some of his money—I deserved it. But that’s not all I was after. I couldn’t make him understand and now I never can.
Sometimes late at night I still see his battered head. That open socket just stares at me.
• • •
Who is calling me this close to midnight?
“Conner,” I mumble into the phone.
“Miss me?”
“Austin?”
There’s a long pause.
“I thought you didn’t have a boyfriend.”
“Who is this?”
“Gary. We punched together. Fast hands. Semper Fi. I know you remember me.”
“Why are you calling me at midnight?”
“It’s not midnight yet. The evening’s young. Thought you might still be up and want to meet me at a club.”
“Are you kidding me? Are you serious? Where is your girlfriend?”
“We broke up. I’m a free agent.”
How do I do it? How do I attract the emotionally stunted guys I do? Maybe it’s my own emotional immaturity.
“Gary.”
“Yes, Kristen?”
“Listen to me real close.”
“I’m listening baby.”
“Number one, I’m not your baby. Number two, you woke me up and I am going back to sleep. Number three, don’t call me again. Delete my number from your phone.”
“I like a woman who plays hard to get.”
“One other thing, Gary.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve been drinking. Call Uber or find a friend to drive you.”
“How about you, baby?”
I hang up, put the phone on the nightstand, roll over, and plump my pillow up. My phone vibrates. I pick it up and look at a text:
Not very nice. Let’s start over tomorrow. Want to work out together? I’ll be a good boy.
Is Gary going to be a problem?
24
I WENT TO church early and helped Kaylen teach Kendra’s Sunday School class. She stayed close to my side the whole hour. She did laugh at me when I colored outside the lines on Noah’s ark. I heard her whispering to her friend Holly that I always have a gun on me. Holly looked over at me with awe and fear. She’s probably going to go home and tell her parents that her Sunday School teacher is packing heat.
I am designated as the guardian for James and Kendra if anything were to happen to both Jimmy and Kaylen. I am honored but I can never let myself think of anything bad happening to them. So I’ve not even asked myself whether I would make a good parent. I’m not sure it’s possible for a single parent that is a homicide detective to pull that off.
I am sitting in a pew toward the front with Kaylen and Klarissa. Klarissa went to another church for awhile but has come back to good old Calvary Community Church. I doubt it bothered Jimmy and Kaylen too much, but you never know. Preachers are human and whether or not they try to hide it, I’m sure they feel pride over their work. Everybody says nobody goes to church anymore so I guess they have to work hard to keep their market share.
Kendra used to sit with us and I’d scratch her back until her eyes glazed over, but we started doing a separate church service for kids. I’m sure that’s a good idea. I remember how painfully long and boring church was when I was a little kid—though it has crossed my mind that if I had to suffer through that as a kid why shouldn’t she. But on another level I wonder if kids should be with their parents in big people church and not segregated once again. It’s not like families spend too much time together—my family being the exception. But then again there are a lot more kids than parents here, so if parents are dropping them off and heading to JavaStar for a cup of coffee, then having a separate service for them is probably good.
We sang about twenty-five minutes, standing the whole time. I wonder how the old geezers hold up. I got dirty looks from Kaylen for shifting my weight from foot to foot and generally fidgeting the whole time we stood. Maybe she and Zaworski have been talking. The words to the songs are projected on two screens up front. We have old fashioned hymnals in racks that are fixed to the back of the pew in front of us that haven’t been opened in years. I guess we don’t want to look old fashioned.
Mom sings in the choir, which I think probably makes us look a little old fashioned no matter what else we try. I never hear her sing anywhere else. I wonder if she is in the choir just so she can be up front and keep an eye on me.
Not that I’m paranoid.
After offering and announcements and a solo that was just a little out of tune, Jimmy got up to preach. He is thirty minutes on the nose with his sermons, but then he usually preaches another five-minute sermon before he dismisses us to leave. I don’t think he knows how to close. Today he read the story from the Bible about the woman caught in adultery. The Pharisees were going to stone her and Jesus forgave her. Jimmy is preaching against judgmentalism. I know I’m supposed to just nod and agree with the preacher, even if he is my brother-in-law, but for some reason I’m not sure I agree with him today.
I believe in grace and forgiveness and not holding things that have been forgiven against people, but I can’t help but thinking that judgmentalism is a little underrated in our society. I think that sometimes the most judgmental people I’ve run into are the ones that are judging judgmental people. My line of work will make you judgmental. Every six months we go to a training day and invariably one of the required seminars will be on not judging people based on race, creed, lifestyle, or appearance. In other words we’re not supposed to profile. I mostly agree with all that, but believe me, I and everyone else in my field still profiles.
“Jesus judges the self-righteous more than the sinner, it would seem,” Jimmy says.
Now I know Jesus is God and He can do anything He wants. But isn’t Jimmy still talking about judging? I’m going to get worked up and start an argument with him at lunch today. Mom won’t be happy. She says I argue too much. I’ve watched Jimmy with people after church and he is the most caring person and the best listener I have ever seen. But for some reason he gets a little awkward around his wife’s sisters, so we never really engage in important conversations. But that’s okay with me, I’m not going to judge him. I smile at that thought. I look up front and I think Mom’s eyes narrow a little. I wonder if she is wondering what I’m smiling about.
The passage Jimmy read said that after Jesus forgave her he told the woman to go and “sin no more.” So if she kept up the adultery stuff after being forgiven could the Pharisees have stoned her then? Forget the stoning. Would they have been okay to judge her?
Based on the way I go about life and interact with others, people don’t believe I think about things like this. I guess that makes them judgmental or at least profilers.
My mind starts to wander. Bears on Monday Night Football tomorrow night and I’ll be there in a luxury suite. Cool.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and someone gives me a little shake. It is Kaylen. Why is she standing? I look around. Everyone is standing. Their heads are bowed, thankfully. I wasn’t paying attention. I pop out of my seat. She scowls at me—pretty judgmental if you ask me—then shakes her head and gives a little laugh. Jimmy says “amen,” we open our eyes, sing a song, say a prayer in unison, and head for the exits.
Lunch at Jimmy and Kaylen’s as usual. Wonder if Jimmy wants to talk about today’s sermon.
• • •
“How is Marjorie?” Stanley McGill asks Robert Durham, Sr.
“Bad.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“She’ll be okay. She’s in Manhattan. Shopping will take her mind
off things.”
McGill said nothing. He knew better. He and his longtime boss and client—and maybe even sometimes friend—were eating eggs benedict on the thirteenth floor of the Ritz Carlton, hidden behind the looming hulk of the McCormack Place. Robert, Jr. was supposed to be joining them but was late. Unusual. He was his father’s clone. Intelligent. Driven. Tireless.
What in the world had happened to Jack in the years between leaving home for college and his murder?
“Hey Dad . . . hey Stanley . . . sorry I’m late.”
“No problem, Son,” Robert, Sr. said.
“I was on Skype with Moscow the last couple hours. The deal is good to go. The man himself cleared it. We’re about to own a stake in the East-Prinovozemelsky natural gas fields.”
“Nice work, Son!”
“Well done, Bobby,” McGill said.
“It’s a long-term play with shale production booming here and sanctions against Russia over the Ukraine conflict lingering. But that’s why we got it for a song.”
Durham and Durham was named for Robert, Sr. and his brother, now in semi-retirement. The day was coming soon when the name would reflect the father and son. The plan was one day it would be run by the brothers—now an impossibility, McGill thought sadly.
No question, Robert, Jr. was his father’s son. Jack had been dead for just two weeks but it was business as usual for the powers behind Durham and Durham. He wondered if Junior had remembered what his dad said and called his mom to tell her that he and Jack had been getting along. It might cheer her up a little.
25
I’M RUNNING AS hard as I can. I have to get there before the car door slams shut. I lengthen my stride, grit my teeth, and try to stoke my internal engines to push even harder. My hands pump higher and harder with a mind of their own. I call on all the discipline I have to follow my training when I ran track back in high school. I loosen my shoulders and lower my hands but continue to pump them as fast as I can, knowing my legs will follow.
