“I know you haven’t,” I said, picking up my phone and texting the word GO to Burke. They had a team on standby outside of Weston Morgan’s apartment in Lincoln Park, waiting for my signal. “Your son did. I just wasn’t so sure until I shook your hand.”
Merriweather looked down at his right hand, confused.
“Sure money says Weston wears his wedding band on his right hand. He got married in Denmark. They don’t wear their bands on the left like we do.”
Merriweather pulled his phone out of his pocket and started dialing frantically.
“He won’t be able to answer,” I said, walking toward the door. “Right now he’s handcuffed in the back of a patrol car.”
52
IT WAS MIDWAY THROUGH summer camp, and I’d already had enough of Michael Weiland and his bullying ways. That day he was the worst he had ever been, calling me names, promising to beat me during our sports session that afternoon, and making stupid jokes about my name and fires. I had ignored him at first, but he just wouldn’t stop. We were equally athletic, but Weiland was also wild, a daredevil who grew only more foolish the larger the crowd that had gathered. He was also a prankster who knew no bounds, deriving the most pleasure from belittling and humiliating the weaker kids, who were too timid to stand up and fight back. While I might not have been a daredevil, one thing was certain—I was fearless. I liked to be challenged, and I was a fierce defender of those who suffered under the torments of bullies.
That day was just too much for me. Weiland had put peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in Eric Runyon’s shoes. Runyon was a small immigrant kid from the West Side who panicked at the sight of his own shadow. The PBJ smeared all over his socks and shoes, the rest of the campers roared as Runyon cried, and I grew infuriated as Weiland walked around collecting high fives. That was when I decided it was finally time for Weiland to learn a lesson.
The camp had a naturalist by the name of Mrs. Geddis. She was an affable woman with long red hair and a smattering of freckles that marched across her round face. She taught us everything from information about birds and trees to determining whether a wild plant was poisonous. Mrs. Geddis was also a professional beekeeper, using a small open area on the perimeter of the campgrounds to keep her hives. We weren’t allowed to go near the bee colonies for insurance reasons. One camper had gotten stung many years ago, had an allergic reaction, and almost died. The rules quickly changed, and while we were no longer allowed to dress up and visit the hives, we could stand some thirty yards away and watch Mrs. Geddis go about her work.
I had heard that Weiland had an allergy to beestings, not one that would kill him but one that would cause him to swell pretty badly, to the point he needed medication. During our lunch session that day, I sneaked through the woods to the edge of the property and took one of the little metal cabinets Mrs. Geddis used to keep one of the smaller colonies. I carried it back to our empty bay, opened Weiland’s locker, and set the cabinet inside, making sure I opened the lid before closing the locker door. I rejoined the rest of our tribe outside as everyone was finishing lunch, my absence undetected.
Quiet time always followed lunch. We were allowed to take a nap, read a book, do an arts and crafts project—anything we wanted as long as it didn’t require a counselor’s help and didn’t make a lot of noise. We all returned to the lodge while the counselors sat outside under a nearby tree, as they often did, talking about sports, cars, and girls. I sat on the bench in front of my locker and watched as Weiland and his crew made their way to theirs at the opposite end. They were laughing about something, patting each other on the back. The other campers sat quietly, minding their own business.
Weiland opened his locker, and the scream was immediate. Everyone looked in his direction as the bees flew out, buzzing around Weiland’s head; he was now running circles as he swatted wildly at the swarm. I couldn’t help but smile, the sight of his panic and humiliation bringing a visceral satisfaction that was exceeded only by how it felt seeing the smile on little Eric Runyon’s face.
Now Marco had me in the water, half drowning, struggling to breathe. This was my punishment. The silence of the water was so loud in my head. Everything moved in slow motion, and time seemed to stand still. Marco was on me again, angry that I had almost made it out of the water before he was done punishing me. He gripped my head tighter and put his arm across my throat. My air supply totally cut off, I could feel the energy draining out of my body. My eyes started to bulge. I felt dizzy. I could no longer see my feet. But I could see the image of my mother’s face. She was calling to me, though I couldn’t hear her. She was always present when I needed her. The thought of her gave me confidence and strength. I lifted my head back and could see the brightness of the sun slashing through the water.
I got angry. I was not going to die in this pool and leave my mother sad and lonely. I was going to fight for both of us. I knew that with the air almost out of my lungs I didn’t have much time. So, I went for it. I took both my hands and ripped Marco’s arm from around my throat. Then I jerked my head back and landed it solidly against his chest, which caused him to lean back. I planted my feet on the pool floor, squatted a little, then, with a fast thrust, sprang up and backward, a move that caught him by surprise and sent him tumbling. Free now, I lifted my head above the water’s surface and swallowed as much air as I could. Then I found the nearest side of the pool and swam for it as hard as I could. I kicked my feet with all the force I could muster, just in case he tried to grab me from behind.
I made it to the side of the pool and quickly grabbed the ledge. A hand reached down to pull me out. That was when I looked up and into the determined face of Eric Runyon.
53
I SAT BEHIND MY desk, looking at the stretch of endless blue sky patiently hovering over the lake. At the conclusion of most cases, I typically felt a sense of closure. But this case was different. A promising life had been wasted, while several others had been forever altered, and it didn’t have to be that way. Chopper was in the ground; Weston was sure to serve prison time, but how much would depend on the influence of his family’s wealth. I wouldn’t bet against him walking free one day. Then there was Tinsley, who I was certain was out there somewhere alive.
Carolina encouraged me to let it go, but we both knew that I couldn’t. I needed to see Tinsley with my own eyes and talk to her. I felt it was something Chopper would have wanted me to do: find his butterfly and make sure she was all right.
My cell phone rang. It was Gordon.
“Did you find that rich girl?” he asked.
“Nope,” I said. “She’s still out there somewhere.”
“What about the boyfriend’s murderer?”
I brought him up to speed on all that had happened. He congratulated me, but it felt hollow. My job was still not done.
“I got a DM from morpheusinthesky,” he said.
“What did he say?”
“He wanted to know if there were any updates.”
“Tell him what I told you.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he said. “You found the guy’s killer. The girl is still alive and obviously doesn’t want to be found. Maybe it’s best just to leave things where they are.”
I looked at the door and thought about how Chopper had come through, full of confidence and vulnerability, sitting across from me talking about how special his love was for Butterfly and the line from Othello. Then I thought about his kids and what they would’ve looked like had Tinsley not terminated her pregnancy.
I thought about Blair Malone and what he had told me in that conference room. The Gerrigan family was so perfect on the outside but so dysfunctional inside. I never asked him about how he had chosen his Instagram name, morpheusinthesky. I looked upward—not a cloud for miles. The sun held its position, heating up an unseasonably warm day. I could see all the way across the lake to what looked like the outline of southwestern Michigan.
I kept staring. Just under sixty miles, a straight shot from sho
re to shore. And as I replayed the conversation with Blair, that was when the last piece fell into place.
54
WEALTHY NEW YORKERS HAD the Hamptons, a sumptuous summer playground that knelt at the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. Affluent Chicagoans had southwestern Michigan, their summer enclave on the pristine beaches that collared the country’s third-largest lake. In less than sixty-five minutes from bustling downtown Chicago, I found myself motoring along an undulating tree-lined stretch of lakefront property that had long been closed for the season, while year-rounders hunkered down for what would be yet another frigid winter.
Lakeshore Drive on this side of Lake Michigan was spelled as one word instead of two, and in Chicago, where there were no private homes between the road and the lake, here in these tiny beachfront communities, grand houses stood on the other side of the road with unobstructed views of the fifth-largest lake by surface area in the world. Motorists occasionally got a glimpse of the water when gaps opened between the trees or the road rose high enough to see along the roofline of the houses.
The address I was looking for was in the small town of Lakeview. The GPS on my phone had a couple of problems with some of the smaller streets, but eighty minutes after leaving my apartment I sat outside a stretch of road with an imposing brick wall and wrought iron fence extending for at least half a mile. An army of surveillance cameras peered down attentively from towering fence posts and tree branches.
Two imposing limestone columns anchored a rolling ten-foot gate with metal meshing that obstructed the sight line into the property. I drove by the entrance and about a quarter of a mile down the road found a sign announcing a public access path to the lake. I parked my car underneath a canopy of trees and joined the footpath. The beach was wide and barren, the water a glittery blue under the unimpeded sun. A sailboat about a mile offshore glided aimlessly in the soft wind.
It took me a good ten minutes of trudging through the sand before the compound came into view. A wood fence, less secured than the one out front, ran along the entire back of the property with PRIVATE signs posted every twenty yards. The closer I walked, the more immense the house grew. I slid between the fence, avoided the open portions of the yard, and navigated my way through the wooded area to best avoid detection. A massive stone-and-brick mansion sat elevated in the center of the property, while several other buildings, none of them to be mistaken as modest, occupied their own perch, nestled between the trees with their glorious view of the open water.
I saw her stretched on a chaise longue, her hair pulled back from her face, her eyes hidden behind reflective sunglasses. She wore a fitted white cotton shirt and a yellow-and-black sarong. She stared out at the lake. Her skin glowed in the sun. I took a seat next to her, and she didn’t move.
“It’s amazing how deceptive the water can be at times like this,” she said. “It looks so calm and inviting, so unthreatening. But when you get out there in the middle of it, you realize it’s so powerful and dangerous and unpredictable.”
“I’ve never seen this side of the lake before,” I said. “Something makes it look different. Seems so much more tranquil and welcoming than what we have in Chicago.” She took a sip of her drink, something that looked cool and very sweet. “Tinsley, my name is Ashe Cayne.”
“I know who you are,” she said. “I saw your car as it approached.” She took another sip. “You can actually see some of the Chicago skyline from here. Best to see it during the spring and on a fall day like today. The clouds are blocking it right now, but I saw it last night right before sunset.”
We sat there looking at the horizon, admiring how the sky kissed the earth. The wind blew easily and rustled the leaves.
“How did you find me?” she said.
“It wasn’t easy. But it was something Blair Malone said to me. He mentioned meeting your family out here. Your father has a company called Lakeview Holdings. It’s the only thing that made sense.”
“I got Chopper killed,” she said. Her voice quivered. She kept looking into the lake. “There’s so much I could’ve done that would’ve protected him. We could’ve picked up and left. I had enough money to do it. I never met his uncle before, but I could’ve found him and told him I was worried. He was like a father to Chopper. He would’ve done something. Why didn’t I think? I’m the one who got him involved in this mess.”
“The mess with your father and the charity?”
She nodded softly. “He told me to leave it alone, but I couldn’t. I was so pissed at them for what they had done. Robert and Weston were such frauds. They dragged my father into all of this. But he still shoudn’t’ve done it. My father knows better.”
“Do what?”
“He was trying to help them, but the way he decided to do it was illegal and unethical.”
“Why did they need help?”
“Because they were practically bankrupt,” Tinsley said. “Robert had made some really risky investments; then the crash happened in 2008 and wiped them out. Almost completely. They only had their two houses—the one in Chicago, the one in Florida—and an apartment in New York. But they had mortgages and no real income. Weston was the one who came to my dad. Robert was too proud at first to do it. Weston told my dad how bad things were and suggested they do the land deal through the charity. My father went along with it. It took them a couple of years, but then the money really started coming in. They made all their money back and then some.”
“When did you find all this out?” I said.
“About a year and a half ago,” Tinsley said. “I overheard the three of them talking after dinner one night. They didn’t know I was in the hallway. Weston was talking about some company he had purchased using funds from the charity, and how they were making a lot of money. He’s such a pompous ass.”
“Then Chopper brought you to the guys at Liberate,” I said.
“I told Chopper all about what my dad and Weston had done. I told him how much I hated Weston and how I wanted him to be exposed for the person he really was. Chopper told me to let it go. I wouldn’t. So, he said he would help me if I was determined to do something. When he was in college, he played pickup ball with this guy at DePaul who was big on fighting inequities. He started some campus group that raised awareness. Then, after he graduated, he started working with a bigger group that was trying to shine a light on all the fraud and corruption by the elite in the city. I asked Chopper to introduce me.” Tinsley closed her eyes and shook her head. “Biggest mistake was getting Chopper involved in all this. First, they tried to buy his silence. He would never take their money. Then they threatened him. First my dad, then Weston. But Chopper wasn’t afraid. He was such a man. I loved him, and I killed him.”
“You can’t blame yourself for someone else’s bad decisions. You didn’t kill him. Weston had plenty of options other than shooting him. That was his decision.”
“I should’ve told Chopper about the argument we all had after dinner that night,” Tinsley said. “I was planning to but never got around to it. Then the next night when I left, I should’ve taken him with me.”
“What exactly happened that night?”
Tinsley sighed as she tilted her head back. “Hunter and I had been having the biggest fights, so I wouldn’t talk to her for a couple of days. She was upset about the pregnancy. She was upset because I was considering exposing what our fathers and her brother did with the charity. She blamed Chopper for everything. She said he was making me think backward. She wanted me to leave him for good. I told her that I loved him, and I was doing what I wanted to do. He wasn’t making me do anything. She and I were sitting in her car in front of her house that night. It was the worst fight we ever had. I had never seen her that angry before. I thought she might hit me. She said Chopper didn’t love me, and I was just throwing my life away. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I just opened the car door and ran as fast as I could. By the time I got to Fifty-Third Street, I realized I had forgotten my phone in her car. But I didn’t want to g
o back. I was too upset.”
“Was she the one who drove you to Hyde Park that night?”
“Yes. She insisted on coming to my house to pick me up. I told her I would drive, but she said she needed to get out of the house. Her mother was getting on her nerves. I could relate.” Tinsley fell quiet for a moment.
“So, you came here to get away from it all?”
“I had nowhere else to go,” she said. “I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to be alone so I could sort all of this out. So, I just caught a cab and had the driver bring me out here. I needed someplace quiet where I could avoid talking to anyone. This house is closed for the season. The staff already moved down to open the Florida house for the winter. I should’ve called Chopper and told him where I was, but I really wanted to work things through in my mind first. I finally called him, but his phone went straight to voice mail, which he didn’t have.”
“What do you mean?”
“He never set up his voice mail, so I couldn’t leave a message,” she said. “No one leaves voice mails these days anyway. We just text. Then I called my father to tell him I was all right, and I was just thinking through things, and I was on the fence about whether I was really gonna reveal the scam. As upset as I was that he would do something illegal like that, he’s my father, and I love him, and I didn’t want him to go to jail for doing something stupid. I told him he needed to find a way to make everything right. Make a big donation somewhere or set up a foundation. Some kind of penance for what he did. And that’s when he told me Chopper had been found in an alley in Englewood.”
That explained why they called me off the search. They knew she was safe, and they were giving her space and time to work through everything.
I looked out over the lake and spotted a small prop plane flying in our direction from the northern border. I wondered if they could see us sitting there. The sky was so clear and quiet.
The Unspoken Page 25
