I made my way up the three flights of stairs—the only downside to my condo. When I’d reached the third floor, the door to the apartment was blocked with boxes. I’d managed to stick my head in the door when I heard Theo speak in a strained voice, a voice I’d never heard before. “I don’t understand,” he said.
A pause, as Theo listened to whomever he was talking to. “But why?” He sounded distressed. “Why would it be that low?” he continued. “I told you last night, I’ve never bought property before. All I’ve had are two credit cards.” Another pause. “Yeah, well, I guess that could be it but…”
As his voice died away, some kind of trepidation said hello to my psyche.
“The business has some kind of trust account,” he said. “Could we use that to get credit or cash?” A pause. “No, it’s a foreign trust. I don’t know much about it, but I could…” An exhale. Another moment of silence. “Oh, okay, so then…” Quiet. “Really?” I heard him say. He sounded now not so much distressed, but like a young man surprised at terrible news.
I hated to hear it. I nudged the door to shove aside the boxes and stepped inside.
Theo stood at the bar of my European-style kitchen, his hair pulled back away from his face, wearing an army-green T-shirt and jeans. He turned as I came in. He threw me a polite smile, as if to say, One minute. Or maybe, Everything is fine here. Yet I could tell it wasn’t.
“All right,” he said. “Yeah, talk to you then.”
I picked my way through boxes, across the room and gave him a hug. “Who was that?”
He held me longer than usual. His back muscles felt taut.
I looked up at him. “Everything okay?”
His brow furrowed. “That was Barb. The real- estate agent. She did a pre-application for my mortgage, and it was…” More furrowing. “It was denied.”
“You’re kidding?” Theo had money. A lot of it, as far as I knew. He and his partner, Eric, started their company—HeadFirst—while in college. HeadFirst’s software allowed people to create their own artistically beautiful websites. The company had performed—overperformed—beyond anything anyone expected, according to the frequent press about the company. Theo and Eric had left college and never looked back, walking into a dream life of travel, private planes and a constantly growing business.
Theo shook his head, still distracted, which was so very unlike his usual life state.
I kept my arms around his back, but I leaned away so I could see him better. “I heard you saying you really hadn’t owned anything yet. Maybe your credit isn’t extensive enough. Especially for the prices you’re looking at.” None of the houses that Theo had viewed had been less than a million dollars, and the one he’d decided upon was almost three times that. “Maybe you need to take out credit cards and then pay them off, that kind of thing?”
He shook his head. “She said there should be a high enough credit score, given my income. Also, I’ve had two credit cards, and I always pay them on time. I’ve never been delinquent on any bills.”
“Well then, what is it? What did she say was bringing your score down?”
“She couldn’t tell from the report. She’s going to have her contact at a credit bureau look into it.” The muscles in his back loosened a little, and he let me go, yet his expression remained stiff. “Right now, she said there’s no way I’ll be able to get a mortgage.”
Who is this guy? The thought boomed in my brain without introduction, without warning. And I could feel the question in my body, too—a wariness that took up residence somewhere deep inside and crossed its arms.
We both looked around my apartment at his stacks of books, piles of boxes, laundry baskets overflowing with jeans and shoes. We both knew that, as we stood there, a new tenant was moving into Theo’s old apartment.
I realized then Theo was staying with me a little longer than I’d thought.
Tick, tick, tick went the silence. It was, I realized, an old clock my mother had given me years ago in college. I’d never noticed the sound before.
“You want to go out for a drink?” I said.
He nodded fast.
Within fifteen minutes, we were seated at the bar at Topo Gigio, an Italian place on Wells. Thirty minutes after that, we were in high spirits, the owner having sent a bottle of champagne after hearing that we’d just moved in together. Soon, we were making plans for Theo’s condo, drawing game-room and bedroom designs on napkins and searching our phones for photos of furniture he could buy.
“Whenever you move to your new place,” I said, “it doesn’t matter.”
“We are what matters, right?” Theo said, leaning toward me, moving his bar stool over.
“Exactly.” I stared into those eyes, nearly breathless in his presence, the whole of him. Any irrational slices of fear were no longer cutting me.
An excited look took over Theo’s face. “I just remembered,” he said. “I have a folder of pictures from magazines that I’ve been ripping out. You know, from home magazines?”
“You’ve been reading home magazines?” I adored him even more, suddenly.
“Yeah, well, my mom bought me a bunch of them. And I just remembered. I’ve got pictures of beds, and oh, these kick-ass chairs for a TV room.” He looked so excited then. “Let me run back and get them.”
“No, let’s just go,” I said, but right then, the bartender delivered the three plates of appetizers we’d ordered.
“It’s a few blocks,” Theo said. He pointed at the appetizers. “You start on these, and I’ll be right back.”
I watched him walk from the room, watched everyone else stare at him as they always did. As always, he didn’t notice.
“I love you,” I whispered. I was sure about it then, sure that he would return the sentiment. “I love you,” I said, trying the words again. And it was then I decided I would tell him as soon as he came back.
But a few minutes later, he was calling my phone.
“Hey,” I said softly, without having to say another word. Because I felt like every word I would say to Theo now would carry those three words in it.
“We had a break-in,” he said.
My mouth opened and closed. In front of me, the bartender told an apparently hilarious story, because the two people listening threw their heads back, their mouths open. But I couldn’t hear anything.
“Back the truck up,” I said into the phone, still trying to meet the anti-swearing campaign goals I’d set last year, despite the situation. “What did you say?”
“You need to come home,” Theo said. “Someone broke into your place.”
7
When I got home, the downstairs door was closed, the keypad still enabled since we’d turned it on before we left for Topo Gigio and Theo had obviously used the code to get in. So then how had someone broken into my place?
I took the stairs fast to the third floor, then stopped when I reached my door. Immediately, my eyes drew down to the keypad. The cover of that panel had been pried off, exposing the wires inside.
I felt something like fear sweep a cold brush over my body. I stopped and thought about the entry system. Many people knew the password to the keypad downstairs. But the keypad to my own condo was known to only a few. Theo was one of the few people who knew it, along with my mom and Q. Apparently whoever broke in didn’t have the code. Or wanted to make it look like they didn’t.
I pushed open the door and stepped into the living room. My eyes moved over the fireplace, looked at the coffee table, where mounds of Theo’s belongings were stacked. I let my gaze scan the couch, the yellow-and-white chair that was my favorite piece of furniture in the house. I looked into the kitchen. The bar counter with the two stools in front appeared the same as when we left it—piled with towels and sheets of Theo’s.
“Izzy?” I heard a voice that sounded like Theo but also a little like someone else.
I jumped, flinching in spite of myself.
Theo stepped into the room. “Iz. Hey. I came home and saw the doo
r panel all fucked up.”
“Are you okay? Was anyone here?”
He shook his head.
“Was anything taken?”
“I was just going through the place, and it doesn’t look like it, but it’s hard to tell, you know? Since I just moved in.” He waved his hand behind him toward the hallway, which was filled with boxes. “And I wouldn’t really know if anything of yours was taken.” It seemed, then, we knew so little of each other.
“You must have been scared,” I said.
He shrugged.
I went to him. “Are you okay?”
He wrapped me in those arms, and I smelled that Theo smell—there it was.
“Did you call the cops?” His shirt, made of a soft fabric that could almost make me think nothing was wrong, muffled my words.
The answer came in a rap on the door. Then another rap. “Chicago police.”
The responding officers listened to our tale while their radios squawked.
“You’re a lawyer, Ms. McNeil?” Officer Potowski asked me.
I nodded. “Yes. Criminal law. With Bristol & Associates.”
“That’s a good firm. High profile. You guys get a lot of publicity.”
I nodded again. Since Q had arrived at Bristol & Associates, we had gotten even more. Q loved a good press release.
“Since nothing is missing,” the officer said, “this is technically just a B and E. A misdemeanor at best. There are no prints on the doors or number locks, either. We’ll file the report, but we can file it closed if you want. And we’ll just check in with you in a little bit—tomorrow or the next day—to make sure everything’s okay. What do you think?”
I almost told them to close the case. I had explained to the cops that I’d been the subject of intense scrutiny from the media before, a place I distinctly did not want to go again. A closed case would be one of the best ways to keep the media’s nose out of our business.
But then a lick of fear swept over me again. Of what? It had something to do with a feeling that this—whatever this was—was not done yet. I looked at Theo. Strange that this had happened tonight, when he moved in.
“Leave the case open, please,” I said to the officer. “And yes. Please check in on us.”
8
Twin Anchors was known for its ribs, but neither person who sat at the middle of the bar was hungry. The restaurant was also known for its love of Frank Sinatra and the fact that Old Blue Eyes had been in that very joint on more than one occasion.
A guy who called himself Freddie (he’d all but forgotten his real name) ordered a glass of Scotch.
His partner asked the bartender if he knew how to make something called a Michelada.
The bartender not only looked stumped, but he also said, “Huh,” then again, “huh.” He looked behind him, as if for backup. “I just took bartending school. I don’t remember that.”
“Don’t worry about it.” A Tecate beer was ordered instead.
They took a few sips, companionably sitting next to each other, not needing to speak right away.
The bartender returned. Apparently, someone at bartending school must have told him that chatting with the customers, whether they wanted to or not, would bring hundreds in tips. The guy pointed at some photos and articles pasted and shellacked behind the bar. “Those are all about Sinatra,” he said. “And the guy from Chicago who wrote a book about him.”
“So fucking what?” Freddie said, taking a sip of his Scotch. The guy had no idea that in Freddie’s past, he had waited in alleys and cut people for reasons much less serious than bugging the fuck out of him.
“It’s true,” his partner said, who was apparently smart enough to sense his menace. “The Chairman of the Board used to hang out here. On occasion. We all know that. Thanks.”
Freddie made a single motion with his hand, shooing away the bartender.
The bartender gulped and had the sense to turn around and start rearranging a wine refrigerator.
A moment passed. “So you think they’re freaked out?”
“Hope so,” Freddie said.
“Do you think they’ll get it?”
“Yeah, I think they’ll get it. Left the downstairs entry system enabled. Let ’em know it’s not so hard to find out their little code.” That was true, for him; he’d worked for the National Fire Alarm & Burglar Association and the Electronic Security Association just to learn how to master every kind of alarm. “Then messed up the panel by her door. Tells ’em we can get in, easy. They’ll get that. They’re smart. She’s a lawyer, and he handles his own company.”
“The company that can’t get itself together.”
“Yeah. But even with all those moving boxes, they’re gonna know someone was in that house. And even though we didn’t find anything pointing our way, it’s a little message that says ‘be careful.’ Really fucking careful.” Freddie had taken another sip of his Scotch, when the dipshit bartender returned, nodding at the pictures of Sinatra.
“Man, I wanna hang out with Sinatra,” the bartender said. “Or at least just have him at the bar here.”
“He’s dead,” Freddie said. And you will be, too.
“Hey, I’m just saying, somebody like him.”
Freddie pushed his glass away. “There is no one like the Chairman of the Board.”
“I know, but I’m saying someone—”
“There is no one. That’s the point.” He looked at his partner. “I gotta get the fuck out of here before I hurt him.” There was no way he was going back to Stateville prison. He was hanging on, hoping to keep his natural violent flair pushed down inside. He was hanging on. Just barely.
9
“Hello?”
“I heard you had a break-in.” The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it.
“Who is this?” I asked.
A laugh. “I guess I should be glad you’re over it. You’re clearly not traumatized by me any longer.”
Recognition grew in my head as the man spoke—the slightly snarly way of talking, the sense that a cruel laugh was right behind his words ready to be shot in your direction.
“Vaughn,” I said.
Across the bedroom, I saw Theo’s eyebrows shoot to his forehead. “Whoa,” he said.
He’d been pulling on a pair of jeans—we were heading out to meet his mother for Sunday brunch. After the break-in and then Saturday—one gray November day sliding into the next, barely a change in light—I’d jumped at the opportunity to get us out of the house, to maybe get back to that “us” that we’d apparently left sitting at the bar at Topo Gigio, along with our good humor and ease.
“You remember me,” Vaughn said in a jokey tone.
I said nothing. Detective Damon Vaughn had made my life a living hell twice in the past year—first when Sam disappeared, and second, when Vaughn suspected me of killing my friend Jane. The fact that I’d beaten up Vaughn on cross-examination in a trial a few months ago had helped. But I wasn’t close to getting over it.
“So I heard you had a break-in,” he said again.
“You heard?”
“Yeah, I heard from someone around here.” His words sounded false.
“‘Around here,’” I said. “What does that mean? You’re acting like you work at a small-town police station, where the guys all sit with their feet on the desks and talk about their ‘beat,’” I scoffed. “I think I know better than that.”
“Oh, that’s right, ’cuz you’re a criminal lawyer now,” he said with scorn.
“That’s right,” I said, sharp on the heels of his words. “I am a criminal lawyer now. And next time I get you on the stand, I’m going to take you down. Again.” I stopped myself short of saying, How ya like me NOW?
For a moment I let myself bask in the glory of that moment when I had Vaughn on the witness stand. I had executed what felt like one of the best crosses of my career.
Vaughn interrupted my little reverie. “Jesus Christ, you’re a ballbuster! I take back that apolog
y I gave you after court that day.”
“Too bad,” I said quickly. Then in a nicer, calmer tone, “I already accepted it.”
A pause. Then two or three.
“So,” I said, pleasant tone still intact, “you were calling because…?”
“Look, cops know what cases other cops worked. And so when you hear something about something—or someone—in one of those cases that someone else has—”
“Then you tell your buddy, the other cop,” I said, answering for him. “Yeah, I get that.”
“Good. I just wanted to remind you what I told you after court that day.” His voice was nearing pleasant now, too, but I didn’t fill in the blanks this time.
“If you needed a favor or anything, I’m your guy,” Vaughn said simply.
Something about his statement—the matter-of- factness, the authoritative assurance—made me feel okay suddenly. Safe. For a moment, the whirl of anxieties in my head stopped.
All morning those anxieties had been like shrieking bats flying around under a bridge, yelling one thing after another in my head. Your house has been broken into. Again! But what’s worse is that you have a pretty strong feeling this break-in has to do with Theo. Because he’s the one who just moved in.
But maybe it’s as simple as that? Maybe someone got in the condo building during the move and somehow hid.
But that doesn’t make sense because there is nowhere to hide on the two flights of stairs.
And hey, so what if it has to do with Theo?
It was always at this point in the shrieking conversation (in voices that all sounded like mine) that a really angry version of Izzy McNeil entered the scene. “So what?” you ask? You’re in love with him. Do you get that?
And quietly, I would answer internally. I get that.
And then the voices would round around. Your house has been broken into. Again!
Question of Trust Page 3
