by Ana Medeiros
“I can’t discuss the investigation with you.”
“That’s always your excuse. You’ve already told me things you shouldn’t have. The fact that you’re not looking into the club makes me question you and your integrity as a cop.”
“My job is everything to me, Meredith.”
“Then why didn’t you arrest Tatiana at Julian’s condo that morning? She stole someone else’s identity.” Meredith made sure to reiterate that it was Tatiana who had committed identity fraud. “You had told me, weeks prior, you were going to arrest the woman passing as Alana.”
“I said she was using a stolen identity. I never told you the police were looking for her or that I was going to arrest her. I’m a homicide detective. At the time, it wasn’t my problem.”
“You led me to believe it was. You knew I thought the police were after her.”
“You came to that conclusion on your own.”
“Are you listening to yourself?” Meredith spoke loudly enough to catch John’s attention. He raised his eyes from the newspaper.
“Keep your voice down,” Pam ordered under her breath.
“You’re a cop. If you tell me someone is wanted for identity theft—a federal offense—I’m going to assume the police are looking to arrest them. How did you find out Alana wasn’t really Alana?”
“When you approached me and told me about a woman named Alana who worked at Bucket O’Blood, I got them to give me a list of their employees. Alana Stewart was on it. I did a background check, and that’s when I found out that Alana Stewart was dead and that her Social Security number was being used. I showed a picture of the real Alana Stewart to the bookstore owner and he confirmed she wasn’t the woman who worked there.”
“Did you know she was one of the Dulgorukova twins the day you met me at the diner?” Meredith asked.
“No. I had no idea until the night of the murder. When I got to the New Jackson, I found the pictures of her and Julian, but I still didn’t know her real name. It wasn’t until we found her ID with the name Sofia Dulgorukova hidden under the mattress. Then, there were her fingerprints all over the room.”
“How do you know they weren’t Tatiana’s fingerprints? They’re identical twins.”
“No two sets of fingerprints are exactly the same,” Pam explained. “Not even identical twins.”
“Well, did you find any of Tatiana’s fingerprints in the room?”
“We did. We found Tatiana’s fingerprints as well. And her purse with her ID.”
Meredith could tell that didn’t sit well with her stepmother. It helped Davis’s theory that Tatiana had been the one renting the room at the New Jackson Hotel while maintaining a relationship with Julian.
“Pam, at this point, what can you prove?”
“I can prove that Tatiana was in her sister’s hotel room. And, considering the condition and location she was found in—badly beaten and near the New Jackson—I’m quite sure Tatiana knows who murdered her sister.”
“Let’s suppose Tatiana happened to witness her sister’s murder. Do you really think if Julian killed her sister that Tatiana would have taken shelter with him?” Meredith asked. “Where was Thompson that night?”
With her jaw set, Pam didn’t reply.
“Tell me, why didn’t you arrest Tatiana that morning? You had a homicide on your hands and, as you said, she’s a legitimate witness. Instead, you walked out with Julian and left her with me. Why?”
“I fucked up, Meredith. OK? I should have arrested her, but I was shocked to find her alive. I had come for Julian, and that’s who I wanted to speak to.”
“I don’t buy it. Why?”
Pam threw her head back and sighed. “I guess I felt for her.”
“You felt for her?” Meredith didn’t see her stepmother as the type of person who would allow her emotions to interfere with her job.
“You know what I mean.” Pam chugged down half of her coffee. “When Colton and I arrived at Reeve’s condo I was convinced the murdered woman was Sofia. Then this woman, who looks just like someone who is supposed to be dead, shows up. I had no idea we were dealing with identical twins. Or that they were the two girls I had read about in Reeve’s file.”
“Neither did Julian or I.”
“Her marks and bruises were a man’s handiwork. Women don’t beat each other like that. I couldn’t bring myself to arrest her right then and there…she looked like a victim, not a criminal.”
The weight of their exchange lingered in the silence between them.
“I don’t know where she is,” Meredith finally said.
“Has she contacted you?”
“She knows you and I are related. I’d be the last person she would contact.”
“How about Reeve? They have a shared history. She’d turn to him and he’d help her.”
“You’ve seen him. He’s broken. He can barely get out of bed much less help anyone. Have you checked with Thompson?”
“We’ve searched his house.” Pam shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Thompson could have—”
“What’s with your obsession with Thompson, anyway? Do you know something I don’t?”
“I could say the same about you and Julian.”
“Please tell me you’ve given up on the idea of writing a story on The Raven Room and Reeve.”
Meredith refused to answer.
“Please Meredith, you’re the closest thing I have to a daughter. What I do and say is with the intent to protect you. Always remember that.”
She sounded sincere, but Meredith couldn’t let go of the feeling that her stepmother might be lying.
Chapter 6
“You keep giving me strange looks,” Isaac grinned.
“I’m sorry.” Meredith tucked her hair behind her ear. “I had imagined you to look different, that’s all.”
Trying to hide her blush, she reached for her rum cocktail and took a long sip. “When we spoke on the phone your voice made you sound older. What are you, thirty?” She saw the expression of amusement on Isaac’s face and covered her eyes with her hand. “I’ll stop talking. I shouldn’t have asked your age.”
Isaac laughed. “I’m thirty-five. And please don’t stop talking. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had this much fun with someone.” He swallowed his drink. “Maybe I should invest in a more erudite, grown-up look. Something that better matches how I sound.”
Meredith eyed his dark jeans and faded denim shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “I blame it on your accent. I pictured you as a bald, potbellied sixty-year-old British man.”
It was Isaac’s turn to almost choke on his drink. He continued to laugh. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
After an exchange of e-mails that extended several weeks, Meredith had reluctantly agreed to meet with Isaac Croswell, the managing editor of Features at the Chicago Tribune. When he had suggested they meet at Lost Lake, a tiki bar on the border of Avondale and Logan Square, she should have realized that her assumptions of the man were off.
She had wanted to impress him with her intelligence and journalistic talent but now, as she sat across from him, she wished she had worn her new Chloé summer dress and fussed a bit longer with her hair and makeup. Perhaps she would feel more confident. Instead, she had picked a boring white dress shirt and black skirt that, she thought, made her look like her father’s secretary. It was the first time she’d tried to impress a man without relying on her sexuality, and she felt awkward, unworldly, and dull.
Isaac caught her staring at him. “What now?” he asked, grinning.
“Oh, God, I’m usually way more socially adept than this. I can’t tell you.”
“You must.”
“I must be more socially adept, or I must tell you what I was thinking?”
“Both.”
Meredith sat up straighter in her chair. If she were to embarrass herself even further, she would do it with her head held high. “I’m curious, where are you from?”
“I thought we had established I sound like a bald, potbellied sixty-year-old British man.”
Meredith rubbed her forehead with her palm. It had been a while since she had felt this way in the presence of a man. “I know, but—”
Isaac didn’t let her continue. “What you really want to know is what’s my ethnicity.”
“No,” Meredith was quick to reply. Isaac raised an eyebrow in response and she knew it was obvious she was lying. “OK, maybe…” Her cheeks felt like they were on fire. “It’s not that it matters at all and I don’t want you to—”
“Meredith, I get—”
“I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” she jumped in, now being the one to interrupt. “I don’t know what’s wrong—”
“Meredith.” Isaac rested his hand on her arm and gave it a little squeeze. “It’s OK. I know you meant nothing by it.”
She moved her arm from under his hand and reached for her glass. She wasn’t a big drinker but she found comfort in alcohol when nervous.
“I’m half Nigerian thanks to my dad and a quarter British and a quarter Chinese thanks to my mom.”
“Before you moved here, did you always live in the UK?”
“I think I’ve lived in over ten countries. I was born in South Africa but because my parents were both professors, we traveled a lot. I’ve called Chicago home since I’ve moved here after doing my Masters at City, University of London.” Isaac rested his elbows on the table, his eyes not leaving Meredith’s face. “Does that answer all your questions?”
“Not quite. Where does the name Croswell come from? I like the sound of it.”
“I go by my mom’s maiden name.”
“Why?”
“People wouldn’t get past the second syllable of my dad’s last name.”
“Please tell me.”
Isaac shook his head. “That’s a hard-earned secret.”
“What do I have to do to earn it?” As soon as she spoke, Meredith wished she could take back the question.
She read the answer in the look on his face. Had he been another man, she would have seized his blatant expression of desire and turned it into a no-strings-attached night of pleasure and fun. But that wasn’t what she wanted out of Isaac Croswell, so all she did was smile.
“I’m happy you agreed to meet. When I didn’t hear from you after my first e-mail I thought I might be pushing my luck by e-mailing you a second time,” Isaac said. “In your reply, you told me that you’re no longer interested in publishing the piece on The Raven Room. Does agreeing to meet with me here tonight mean you’ve changed your mind?”
“I’m afraid not.” Meredith was pleased the conversation had reverted back to what had brought them together in the first place. “I agreed to meet you tonight to tell you in person.”
“Why?”
“You’re a successful journalist. I admire your career and I didn’t want to pass the chance—”
“I meant, why don’t you want to publish the piece?” Isaac cut her off.
“I haven’t even written the piece. Just done some research.”
“You’ll have time. I didn’t expect you to be handing it in right away.”
“Mr. Croswell, a lot has happened since I first told Professor Harris about my interest in writing that story.”
“I can take you walking away from me, but I can’t take you calling me Mr. Croswell.”
“OK, Isaac, I cannot express how appreciative I am of the opportunity to work with you but—” Meredith paused, taking a deep breath. “I can’t do it.”
“Forgive me for prying—why, Meredith?”
He was tenacious. She appreciated that trait in people.
“Tell me, what would you say?”
She frowned. “Excuse me?”
“If you wrote the piece, what would you say?”
“Say? I don’t understand.”
“What would you want to tell your readers?”
Meredith was quiet as she circled the rim of her glass with her fingertip. “The truth about The Raven Room.”
“And what’s the truth? C’mon, I want to hear you pitch your piece to me.”
Isaac’s genuine enthusiasm almost succeeded in rekindling her own, but she promised herself she wouldn’t betray Julian.
“I don’t have proof to back up my suspicions,” she finally said.
“I can help you find the proof. What are your suspicions?”
Meredith met Isaac’s dark eyes. “Corruption, trafficking, murder. Those are my suspicions. Can you help me find proof for that?”
“If that’s what’s going on, then yes, I can help you.”
“What if there’s a possibility of you or me getting hurt?”
“When Harris told me about your idea to write an investigative piece on The Raven Room I was thrilled.” Isaac lowered his voice. “Over six years ago, when I started my job at the Tribune, I was young and needed to assure my boss that hiring me was the best decision he ever made. I was slaving away at my desk until ten at night, seven days a week, and I became somewhat friendly with this journalist who was there before I arrived every morning and was still there when I left every night. I heard he wrote about finance, but he never spoke to anyone and, if you asked around, you wouldn’t find a single person who knew how long he had been working there. The man had created his own office—four walls, taller than me, of stacked crates filled with newspapers around his desk. He had a 1960s TV on his desk that didn’t work. He was eccentric, to say the least. His name was Owen Glendon.”
“He and I started chatting, usually when it was just the two of us in the office. I remember one evening there was this awful snow storm and I decided to just work through the night rather than deal with the hassle of getting home,” Isaac continued. “That’s when he told me about this members-only underground club called The Raven Room.”
Isaac locked eyes with Meredith. “Before that, I had never heard about such a place. And I hadn’t heard anything since, until you. During our chat I remember Glendon saying that since its inception, only the city’s most powerful people had access to The Raven Room. Glendon had three journals filled with research notes on the club, all of which he showed me.”
Meredith was stunned. “Why was he researching the club?”
“He didn’t say. I’m assuming to write about it.”
“But he never did?”
“Four years ago, Glendon stopped coming to work. I’ve no idea what happened to him.”
“Did he retire?”
“As I told you, I have no idea. He was somewhat unstable. Who knows what happened to him. Hell, he could have packed his bags and moved to Florida to wrestle crocodiles.”
Meredith raised an eyebrow.
“You never know. Sometimes people surprise you.” He smiled at her incredulous expression. “After Glendon abandoned us to pursue his dreams, his files ended up in boxes in my office. They wanted me to see if there was anything in there I might need. To me, they just looked like piles of loose sheets of paper with illegible writing on it, so I threw everything in storage and never looked at it again.”
“Do you have his Raven Room journals?”
“I might. They could be in one of those boxes. If you decide to write the piece and the journals are there, they’re all yours.”
“Can I have them regardless?”
Isaac pretended to be offended. “You’re a horrible negotiator.”
“I don’t want to negotiate with you.”
“Because you’ll lose?”
“No.” She ran her hands through her hair and hoped her frustration wasn’t obvious. “I wouldn’t be shocked if your coworker’s disappearance had something to do with his research.”
The comment didn’t seem to surprise him. “But that’s exactly it, Meredith. The Raven Room is a once in a lifetime story. This is your chance to write a piece that will show Chicago what the one percent of this city are up to when no one’s looking.”
She considered Isaac�
�s response.
“If people connected to the club have been killed, that’s even more of a reason for you to write this bloody piece,” he added.
She chuckled, softening her expression. “You know, I say The Raven Room is connected to the death of a woman and then you say bloody piece,” she paused, suddenly feeling foolish. “Forget about it.”
“After all these years, even though I still have an accent, I speak like an American 98 percent of the time. But, once in a while, a word or two escapes me and the timing is always flawless. And, when I say flawless, I mean that ironically.”
“So, you’re not afraid of what might happen to you or your career if you publish my piece?”
“I have never shied away from a little danger. It keeps the blood flowing, you know? Keeps me young,” he replied, his tone playful.
The approachable, energetic quality of his demeanor enthralled Meredith. “I highly doubt danger is what’s been helping you keep your good looks.”
“Be careful, I might start thinking you want to shag me,” he said, winking.
“Don’t take it personally. I want to shag most people.”
Isaac’s laughter proved to be contagious as Meredith found herself laughing with him.
“I’m confident you and I will work beautifully together.”
“I wasn’t aware I had agreed to working with you at all,” she replied.
“Meredith, you want to write this piece. That’s clear. You’re just dealing with a case of cold feet, which is perfectly normal. If you weren’t nervous I’d be concerned. It would mean you weren’t taking this as seriously as you should.”
“So you’re hoping to warm up my cold feet?”
“With any luck, not only your feet.”
Meredith wasn’t sure how to act now that she realized she was openly flirting with Isaac and he was reciprocating. Their banter felt natural. Maybe besides their professional interests, the desire to cross the line of propriety was something else they had in common. Meredith was surprised by Isaac’s straightforward nature but she pretended to be more shocked than she was. “Are you flirting with me?”
