“If by chance, he does call you, could you call me? Don’t tell him I was looking for him, though.”
Carl frowned. “Why not?”
“I’d prefer to discuss that with him. Confidentiality. You understand.”
Carl gave her a tight smile. “I suppose I could do that.”
Sondra scribbled her cell phone number on the back of one of Carl Fisher’s cards from the holder on his desk. “I really would appreciate it if you let me know.” She stood up and handed Carl her phone number.
“Thanks, Mr. Fisher. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Good day, Ms. Ellis.”
Sondra gave him a curt nod and left the office.
FORTY-ONE
He had always hated going out with her. The stares they would get. Women would figure he must be rich and the brothers would wonder how in the hell a guy who looked like him landed a fine sister like her. He sometimes wondered himself. He would never know what made him call her that day. He was so shy around women, no matter what they looked like. Tall, short, beautiful or ugly—his mouth would explode with cotton and his bowels would churn. Girls had made him nervous his whole life. He was a nerd, plain and simple. He was smart, but that didn’t count for much with the pretty girls. Or the ugly ones, since they both pined for the handsome jocks. He’d never been the most handsome or most athletic or “most anything.” Even if you weren’t good looking, if you were at least “Most Anything,” you could get the girl.
But not him. His clumsy attempts at dating were laughable. He’d had a few short-term girlfriends. Nothing of note, really. Nevertheless, for whatever reason, that day, he decided to take a chance and just see if maybe, he might be able to know more about her. His fingers wobbled like Jell-O as he dialed her number under the pretense of seeing if the Vicodin was working for her. He had already rehearsed in his mind how the conversation would go. He would remind her that he had been her pharmacist the other day and he just wanted to see how she was doing. She would sound surprised and say, “yes, thank you for calling” and “wow she didn’t think pharmacists made follow-up calls.” He would chuckle and say he always liked to give good service. Then he would swallow and suggest going to get an omelet. She would pause and say, “Oh, thank you but no, I’ve already got a boyfriend,” or “I’m not interested,” or “I’m really busy, but I’ll call you sometime,” but never would. She would somehow find a way to gently, but firmly shoot him down.
But to his immense pleasure and utter surprise, she’d said yes.
She’d said yes.
And they hit it off. It wasn’t so much that they liked the same things, but more that they had the same outlook on life, thought the same way. He was shocked when she agreed to go out with him again. And when she continued to go out with him. He worked so hard to win her love. He was attentive and sensitive. He masked how oh-so-desperate he was to make sure he wasn’t a nice guy who finished last. And it worked. She fell in love with him and told him she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him.
Except, every day, he lived in fear. The constant attention she got from other men. He didn’t fit in with her friends. Her sister didn’t like him. He even felt distance from her parents. He was terrified they were talking about him, whispering in her ear that he was weird, why was she with him, that she could do better. Another man would come along, better looking, smarter, with more money and she would leave him.
Or her ex, the tall, dark, and handsome, Jack, would sweep back into the picture and take her away from him. He would say all the things she’d wanted to hear when they were together and she would tell Phillip she was leaving. He became frantic. Marriage was the only answer. After they got married, they’d be together forever.
Until death did they part.
FORTY-TWO
Sondra was walking down Michigan Avenue on her way to Channel Four, a cigarette already scissored between her fingers.
It was early evening in Chicago, and Sondra was struck by how much she liked the city. New York was home, no doubt, but if she had to live somewhere else in America, this would probably be it. Or maybe Boston. It was a hot and sticky summer evening, though the breezes coming off Lake Michigan helped a little. Rush hour traffic whooshed down the Magnificent Mile and throngs of people crowded the sidewalks on their way to dinner or one of Chicago’s many tourist-friendly destinations. Sondra took a final drag and dropped the cigarette on the sidewalk in front of her, the orange embers glowing briefly before she stubbed them with the toe of her flip-flop. She breezed through the revolving glass door of Channel Four and right to the front desk.
“Sondra Ellis to see Cicely Anderson.”
“Sign in please,” the guard said as he motioned to the guest book and called Cicely. Moments later, Cicely came bounding through the gray doors and waved her hand for Sondra to follow her to the back.
“Hey, how was the police station?” Cicely asked.
“I saw the autopsy pictures.”
“Oh, God, that must have been awful. I’m so sorry.”
Sondra shook her head. “No, no. I mean it was awful, yes, but that’s not it. It wasn’t Tracy.”
Cicely blinked. “Come again?”
“It wasn’t Tracy in those photos. It was another woman.”
“Are you sure? I mean, people look different in death… ”
“Jesus, now you sound like the detective.” she muttered, annoyed. “No, I’m telling you, if you saw them, you’d say the same thing.”
Cicely shook her head, not sure what to make of this information. “But Phillip IDed the body.”
“Right. And he also had the body cremated.” Sondra raked her fingers through her hair. “And that’s not all. I went to Tracy’s house. Turns out, Phillip left a box of things there and the lady who lives there now gave it to me. I know what was going on with her, why Jack said she was ‘unhappy’.”
“Why, what?”
“Tracy’s diary was in there. Apparently, Phillip had turned into some psycho freak, totally possessive, jealous, said he didn’t want kids after he had told her he did, all kinds of craziness. That’s why she was getting a divorce. She wasn’t having an affair, he wasn’t having an affair—he was just a crazy fucking psycho.”
“Whoa.”
“I just… the pieces still don’t fit.” Sondra’s frustration continued to gnaw at her like a termite. “Did he find out she was leaving him and then he killed her? And if so, where the hell is the body? And who was that other woman? Did she and Tracy know each other?”
“You’re starting to sound like this is some sort of conspiracy or something.”
“I don’t know. All I know is that none of this makes any sense. Does it make any to you?”
“Well, no, but, everything you’re saying sounds so crazy—”
“Listen, Cicely, with all due respect, don’t patronize me.”
“Sondra, you know that’s not what I was doing.”
Sondra took a few deep breaths. “Something happened to Tracy and I have to know what it is.” Sondra softened her voice. “Cicely, this is my baby sister I’m talking about. You have to understand that.”
Cicely folded her arms across her body and looked down at her shoes for several moments. Finally, she brought her eyes up to Sondra’s. “Okay. I told you I would help you any way that I could, and I meant that. But you have got to get a grip.”
Sondra’s shoulders wilted and she leaned against the wall opposite Cicely in the tiny hallway. “I’m sorry,” she sighed. “I know I’m really emotional about this and it’s making me a little nuts.”
“No worries,” Cicely said as she straightened up. “I pulled those tapes for you and I’ve put you in one of our editing bays. Come on.” Cicely walked in the direction of the newsroom when Sondra put her hand on Cicely’s elbow.
“Thank you, Cicely. You’ll never know how much I appreciate all of this.”
Cicely nodded and grabbed Sondra’s hand. “It’s okay.”
The two women wal
ked over to a small cubicle with a computer and dozens of tiny blinking red, green and orange lights. A stack of tapes sat on the small metal chair directly in front of the editing bay being manned by a lanky, young Latino guy.
“Ricky, this is Sondra. Sondra, Ricky.”
They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries and Ricky offered her a seat next to him.
“So, what have we got, Cicely?” Ricky asked.
“Sondra’s working on a documentary about what happened to Tracy.”
Ricky snapped his fingers. “Of course, Sondra Ellis. I love your work.”
Sondra managed a feeble smile, anxious to get down to it. “Thanks.”
“I had everything pulled from our first story when she was reported missing, to the memorial service. It’s probably about twenty stories in all, since we do packages on some newscasts and live shots, readers or voiceover/sound-on-tape for others.” Cicely handed Ricky the first tape on the pile and he popped it into the playback machine.
“Ricky’ll take care of you. When you’re done, just follow the hallway, turn left, and you’ll be in the main part of the newsroom. I should be there,” Cicely said as she stood up to leave.
“Thanks,” she murmured as Cicely smiled and went down the hallway and back into the newsroom.
Taking a deep breath, Sondra looked at Ricky. “Alright. Let’s hit it.”
“Here we go,” Rick said as he hit the play button and waited for the tape to cue up.
The opening music for the Channel Four news shot out of the speakers and a montage featuring all of the anchors for that show, including Cicely, splashed across the screen. Sondra bit her lip, waiting. A somber Cicely appeared.
“Good evening. Topping our news tonight is a story that hits close to home for us here at Channel Four. Yesterday, Tracy Ellis, executive producer of this newscast, was reported missing. She was last seen Friday morning here at the station and her husband spoke with her by phone on early Saturday evening. Channel Four’s Adam Lewis is live in Lakeview with the latest. Adam?”
A hunky blonde reporter appeared, shivering in the bitter wind as he stood in front of Tracy’s house.
“Cicely, as you said, this is an extremely difficult story to report. Tracy has been at Channel Four for five years and during that time she has proved herself to not only be a superior producer, winning numerous awards for her work, but truly, one of the lights of the newsroom, always smiling, always laughing, always full of energy, which is astounding, considering how grim this job can sometimes be. She’s always taken interns under her wing, mentored young writers and producers and, as we can all attest to, is one of the biggest pranksters in the building. Not only are we in shock here at Channel Four, her Lakeview neighbors are stunned as well.”
The story cut to a pre-taped news package about Tracy’s disappearance. There was a picture of Tracy from some station function, all glorious white teeth and happy times. Many of her neighbors expressed their fervent hope that she was found safely soon. They were shown taping bright pink flyers to metal poles and community bulletin boards at churches, grocery stores and even inside the doors of El trains. A shot of Phillip standing on a street corner flashed on the screen. He was holding a stack of flapping flyers, handing them out to shivering pedestrians as they rushed down the crowded city street.
“Tracy’s husband, Phillip Pearson, has been passing out flyers around the neighborhood non-stop since yesterday, searching for any glimmer of recognition from anyone about his wife’s whereabouts.”
Sondra leaned in closer to the computer screen to examine Phillip. January’s biting winds produced a small crust of white around his lips and he licked them repeatedly for moisture. His eyes were red behind his thick-rimmed glasses, though it was hard to know if that was from crying himself to sleep over his wife’s disappearance or from the brutal wind whipping around him. He adjusted his glasses several times and stopped every person who passed him to press a flyer into their gloved hands and ask, “Have you seen this woman?” The story then cut to a shot of Phillip talking to Adam.
“I beg anyone who has any information, no matter how insignificant they think that it might be, to please, please call the police. We love her and we miss her and we just want her home safe with us. Anything that anyone can do to help us find her, we appreciate. We just want her home.”
Sondra narrowed her eyes as she studied Phillip, searching for any sign of insincerity or falsity. She had Ricky rewind this part several times and was dismayed to realize that it was just as Cicely had said; he was frantic to find Tracy.
With a terse sigh, Sondra continued to watch the story. The reporter came back on with a picture of Tracy and a description: African-American, five-eight, one hundred twenty-five pounds, hazel eyes, brown hair, and anyone with any information was asked to call Area Three police. Sondra watched the rest of the tapes in silence. Most of the stories were the same until the discovery of Tracy’s body. Phillip was shown on TV with a brave and stoic face as he talked to neighbors who gave their condolences.
Maybe she’d been wrong. No one was that good of an actor. Phillip was genuinely worried about Tracy and had moved heaven and earth to find her. But she kept coming back to that poor woman in those photos. Maybe in his grief he really did think it was Tracy. Once she was done, Ricky pushed ‘stop’ and Sondra slouched down in her chair, a mixture of sadness and frustration knotting her shoulders.
“You okay?” Ricky asked.
Sondra shook her head. “No. It’s just really hard to watch this, you know?”
“I get it.” Ricky looked down. “Looks like there’s one more tape. You up for watching it?”
“Might as well chug to the finish line.”
Ricky shoved the tape into the machine and waited. Another anchor, a man, came on the screen. “A Hyde Park woman is missing tonight. Thirty-two year old Carol Henderson went out Tuesday night to walk her dog near her home. Neighbors are mobilizing search teams hoping to find her soon, but fear the worst.”
Sondra frowned and leaned closer. Cicely’s intern must have included this tape by accident.
“Carol Henderson is African-American, five-eight, one hundred thirty pounds with hazel eyes and brown hair.”
Sondra almost fell out of the chair when Carol Henderson’s picture flickered in front of her.
It was the woman she’d seen in the autopsy photos.
FORTY-THREE
Nothing had gone the way he thought. He was certain that once they got married, she would want to stay home. He made good money—great money. She didn’t need to work. Isn’t that what women wanted? Find a man to take care of them so they could stay home and look after the house? His mother had done that, and she had been perfectly happy to do so. His father’s word was law and no one questioned it. The house was always spotless, his clothes neatly pressed, breakfast on the table the same time each morning, dinner on the table the same time each night. It had been a wonderful way to grow up.
But she didn’t want that. So she continued to work, to spend time doing things that didn’t include him. And he hated it. All he could think about was all those men hitting on her, all that temptation.
How long would it be before she looked at him and thought she could do better? Though it was his ring on her finger, that question haunted him daily. It made him crazy to have those thoughts jabbing into his brain like a boxer on the rampage.
Then she mentioned having a baby. That had sent him screeching over the edge. He could barely stand to share her with her friends or her family; if they had a baby, he’d lose her forever. The baby would take all her time; the baby would consume her and she would forget all about him. And that was when the fear really set in. He was sure she was plotting to leave him. He’d even read through her diary, thinking he would find a clue there, but nothing. The pages were filled with nothing but love and adoration for him.
He didn’t buy it though. He couldn’t. As much as he tried, he just couldn’t. And even though he knew he shouldn’t
act so irrational, shouldn’t pepper her with constant questions about what she was doing and where she was going and who she was with, he just Could. Not. Help. Himself.
Why couldn’t she just devote herself to him the way he had to her?
FORTY-FOUR
“Oh, my God,” Sondra whispered.
“Wow. She looks just like Tracy. They could be twins,” Ricky said.
“Pause the tape,” Sondra said as she peered in for a closer look. She studied each detail of the smiling woman’s face from a picture taken at what looked to be a family function, stunned at how much Carol Henderson looked like Tracy. Same coloring, hair in a similar style, almost identical.
“Hang on a sec. I’ll be right back.”
Sondra ran towards the newsroom to find Cicely. She found the tiny newswoman dwarfed behind a huge computer monitor, where she was pounding away on her keyboard.
“Cicely, I need you to come back and look at something.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Just, please, come look at this,” Sondra said as she began to walk back to the editing bay. The two women sat down and Ricky cued up the tape. Much like Sondra and Ricky, Cicely almost fainted when she saw Carol Henderson.
“My God, they could have been twins,” Cicely murmured.
“That’s what I said,” Ricky chimed in.
“This is the woman I saw in the autopsy photos. No question in my mind.”
Cicely leaned back in her chair. “Jesus. This is just… unreal. I can’t believe no one made the connection at the time,”
“Ricky, can I get a dub of this?”
“No problem,” Ricky replied, his fingers springing into action as he worked to do the transfer.
“Can you tell me if you have any more stories about her?” Sondra asked.
Cicely turned to the computer next to the editing bay. “Yeah, I can check the archives. Hang on.” Cicely tapped out a few words into the computer and waited. She shook her head, a resigned look on her face.
Live and Let Die Page 12
