A Shot to Die For

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  The best part of the day was watching my father and Willie. They immediately settled themselves under the umbrella on Susan’s patio, and within minutes, a cloud of smoke from my father’s Havanas rose above their heads. It could have been an Impressionist painting: two elderly gentleman—my father, small and wiry, his bald head reflecting the sun as he bobbed in and out of the shade; Willie, tall, even formal in sports shirt and slacks. Both men were determined to overcome the language barrier, and between their Yiddish and Willie’s pidgin English, they seemed to be succeeding. Willie periodically ran his hand through his thick white hair—now I knew which side of the family David’s came from—and I saw lots of gestures.

  The two men had a lot to talk about. Both were German Jews who’d gone through the war and bore the scars to prove it. My father had been drafted, while Willie was on the run from the Nazis. They shared something else as well. My father had been in love with Lisle, Willie’s sister. David’s mother. They’d had an affair before the war, but it ended when Lisle fell in love with David’s father.

  It was nearly eleven by the time we got home from the fireworks. Willie pled exhaustion, and I made up a bed for him on the family room couch. Afterward I tiptoed into the kitchen thinking I’d open a bottle of wine. As I rummaged in the drawer for the corkscrew, I saw the blinking red light of the answering machine. I wasn’t expecting any calls. Rachel and Dad were with me; Barry was probably with Julia. I went to the machine. Three messages had come in. I punched Play.

  “Hello. This is Mike Corbett from the Trib. We’d like a comment from you about the sniper attack for the morning edition. If you could give me a call—we’re extending our deadline.” Three phone numbers followed: the office, his home, and his cell.

  Which sniper attack? Both had occurred weeks, even months, ago; why would a reporter be calling me for a comment now? I advanced to the next message. It was another reporter, a woman full of sound and fury. I didn’t catch her name, but her question was clear. “Miss Foreman, did you happen to see the man described by the witness in Chicago at the Lake Forest oasis?” She, too, left three phone numbers.

  What man? Where? There was one more message on my machine. I played it. “Miss Foreman, Detective Milanovich.” His soft, honeyed voice was unmistakable. “Would you mind calling me as soon as you can?” He reeled off one number.

  I checked the clock. It was too late for the news, and turning on the radio in the kitchen would disturb Willie. I rubbed the back of my neck. Then I hurried up to my office.

  A minute later, I was reading the story on a local TV station’s website. Without the prattle of reporters and anchors, the silence was eerie, and the website’s powerful graphics made it more disturbing. A third shooting had occurred at the O’Hare oasis near Schiller Park, a rest stop off Interstate 294. The story was chillingly familiar. A green pickup with a camper shell had pulled into the oasis, circled the perimeter, then slowed less than fifty yards from the restaurant. A young single mother was coming out of the restaurant, her two children trailing behind her. The woman was shot twice, once through the chest and once in the throat. She died instantly. The pickup accelerated and raced out of the oasis.

  I covered my eyes.

  “What is it, Ellie?”

  I hadn’t heard David come in. I twisted around and pointed to the screen. He came over and read, then put his hand on my shoulder. “What does this mean?” he asked softly.

  I took a breath. “I didn’t tell you before, because I didn’t get a chance, and well, I didn’t think…I mean, who would have….”

  “What’s going on?”

  I explained what happened to Daria Flynn. To his credit, David listened without interrupting. I was grateful. I didn’t need any comments about putting myself in harm’s way. “Apparently, there’s been another attack.”

  “So I gather.” He shook his head. “What an unnecessary loss. And on a holiday.”

  I nodded. David certainly knew about loss.

  “So why are people calling you about it?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  I figured it out when I read on. Buried deep in the fourth graf of the story was a female witness’ claim that she’d seen the shooter. She was exiting the restaurant at about the same time as the victim, and had seen a flash of someone in the bed of the pickup just before the camper shell’s window closed. The article described a white man wearing a tank top with something—a necklace or lanyard perhaps—around his neck. The witness had the impression of hair swept off his face with a headband, scarf, or bandana. And that the man had a beard. She also was able to get a few numbers of the license plate. The State Police had issued a number to call for anyone with more information.

  “That’s why,” I said aloud.

  David squinted at the monitor.

  I gave him a minute to read it. “They want to know if I saw anyone fitting that description at the oasis where Daria was killed.”

  “And did you?” he asked gently.

  I faced him, a mix of emotions roiling my stomach. “No.”

  ***

  Milanovich picked up on the first ring. The number had to be his cell.

  I identified myself. “I heard about the shooting. I’m so sorry.”

  “Not as sorry as I am, Miss Foreman,” he said wearily.

  “Her kids—how old are they? I mean, what will they—”

  “Let’s not go there right now.” His voice was tight.

  I glanced over at David, who moved a pile of folders and eased himself down on the daybed.

  “You see the news?”

  “On the Internet.”

  “Then you know a witness saw someone in the back of the pickup.”

  “I just read that.”

  “It may have nothing to do with the Flynn girl. And the witness was at least fifty yards away from the vehicle. So the details are sketchy.”

  “The article on the website said long hair, tank top, bandana. And a beard.”

  “What do you know?” he said dryly. “They got it right this time.”

  I mentally replayed the events at the Lake Forest rest stop, trying to call back the details. I remembered the man with the cell phone, the elderly man and woman—

  “Hey.”

  Milanovich picked up on it. “What?”

  “A couple of teenagers came into the restaurant. They were wearing tank tops.”

  “What colors?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Colors stay with you, Miss Foreman. Just relax. It’ll come.”

  I took a slow breath and squeezed my eyes shut. “One of them was red, I think. Another was white. Or gray.”

  “Red? Are you sure?”

  “I think so.” Had the witness spotted something red on the shooter? “But I don’t think any of them had a beard.”

  He ignored that. “How long after you saw them was the victim shot?”

  “It couldn’t have been more than two minutes.”

  “Did any of them come out while you and the victim were talking?”

  I knew he was trying to work out whether one of them might have had enough time to exit the restaurant, make a run for the pickup, and swing back up the ramp firing a high-powered rifle. But I’d had a clear view of the door during our chat. No one had gone in or come out. I told him.

  He grunted dismissively. “So…you see anyone else at the rest stop? Anyone at all? With or without a beard?”

  I mentally replayed the rest of the tape. “No one.” Then a thought occurred to me. “What about the pickup? Was it the same one as the other two?”

  He didn’t answer for a minute. Then, “It’s already leaked to the media, so I’ll tell you. It looks like this one matches a pickup that was stolen from the Ace Hardware parking lot in Glenview last winter.”

  A chill ran through me. The store was ten minutes from my house. “Oh, God. Does that mean the sniper—”

  “It means nothing. Ace Hardware’s a popular place. Lotta workmen stop in for supplies. The
shooter had his pick.”

  “But this one is so close….”

  “Not to Schaumburg, which was where the other one was stolen.”

  “Hold on. You said last winter?”

  “I did.”

  “So this could be the same pickup that was used in the first shooting back in April.”

  “Miss Foreman—”

  “But not in the second.”

  He cleared his throat. “So you never saw anyone fitting that description at the Lake Forest oasis?”

  He hadn’t answered. “No,” I repeated.

  “What about the driver? Anything come to you since we last talked?”

  I thought back. The sun visor had been pulled down. I’d seen nothing.

  “No.” I chanced another question. “Detective, do you think all three attacks are linked?”

  “I don’t think anything, Ms. Foreman. I collect evidence.”

  “I get the feeling you think the same truck was used in the first and the third shooting, but not in Daria Flynn’s.”

  “There are similarities,” he conceded. “But there are differences, too.” Which, by his abrupt silence, he wasn’t about to tell me.

  “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful, Detective. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Just call if something else comes to you.”

  “I will.” I looked over at David. He was trying hard to control his impatience. I should get off the phone.

  I turned back to the computer. “Detective, are you—well—I suppose…no. It doesn’t matter anymore. Forget it.”

  “Forget what, Ms. Foreman?”

  I didn’t know whether to say something. Tonight’s events probably made it a moot point. But hadn’t Milanovich just said to tell him if I remembered anything else? I gripped the phone. “I learned something up at Lake Geneva. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the case, and you may already know….”

  “What is it?” he said tiredly. I wondered how many more calls he would be making this night.

  “Well, I was talking to a waitress at the Lodge—that’s where I’m shooting the video.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, apparently, one of the sons of a wealthy family up there met Daria Flynn for drinks at the Lodge right before her death.” I hesitated. “And given that she and her boyfriend had a fight, a boyfriend who still isn’t—”

  “Who was this man, Ms. Foreman?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I don’t have time for games,” he said impatiently.

  “I’m just asking whether you already know about this—this situation.”

  He cleared his throat. “The name, Miss Foreman.”

  I took a breath. “Luke. Luke Sutton.”

  “Sutton?” He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “I’ll look into it.”

  “Okay. But like I said, I don’t think—”

  “Thank you for the information, Ms. Foreman. Have a good night.” He disconnected.

  I held the phone for a minute, then put it back on the base. A moment later, a pair of hands massaged my neck. “All done now?”

  I stretched, then reached back and covered David’s hand with mine. “For tonight.”

  “What are your plans? For the rest of the night, that is?”

  I twisted around. “Don’t think I have any. Why? You have an idea?”

  He smiled, bent down, and kissed me. I registered the familiarity of his lips, the lingering smell of his cologne—a new musky scent. When had he switched from Aramis? I barely had time to turn off the computer before he pulled me out of the chair and steered me toward the bedroom.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I rubbed grit out of my eyes the next morning, wondering why it seems to show up only in summer. Something to do with sweat, I guessed. Or humidity. Today’s weather augured both. It was only eight, but the sun was blindingly harsh, and a southerly wind gusted in hot, angry air. I flipped on the air conditioning.

  I hadn’t slept much, and when I did, unsettling dreams tumbled through my brain. There had been a lot of red in one, followed by a hiss of air that at first I thought was a tire deflating. Then the hiss turned into Daria Flynn’s last breath, and I watched her collapse in slow motion. I came awake all at once.

  When I got downstairs, Rachel was already gone, and the note, explaining she was at Julia’s, was the same one she’d written the other day, except that she’d scratched out “Wednesday” and written in “Friday.” Underneath her scrawl was David’s careful penmanship: “Out for a run.” The splash of running water from the bathroom told me Willie was showering.

  I turned on the TV in the family room. The latest sniper attack was all over the news. After a rehash of the events, illustrated with tape, the anchorman pondered whether the third Chicago shooting would affect summer travel. There was file footage of the DC and Ohio sniper attacks a few years ago. “Is this the beginning of a new wave?” the anchor posed in his wrap-up. “Should you change your vacation plans?”

  I went back into the kitchen, filled the coffeepot with water, and opened the cabinet where I keep coffee and filters.

  “Damn.”

  I barely had enough for two cups. Sighing, I threw on a pair of sandals, snatched my purse, and ran out to the car.

  In the grocery store, I grabbed a cart without thinking and steered it to the coffee aisle. We were planning to meet Dad for brunch later, so I didn’t need much more than a can of French Roast. After dropping the coffee in my cart, though, I started to wander through the aisles. I wasn’t really conscious where I was headed. Something was closing in. Something I didn’t want to confront. Was it the sniper attack?

  I ended up opposite the caviar in the gourmet food aisle. At least a dozen small jars, both red and black, lined the shelf. I reached up, took one, and checked the price. Twenty-eight dollars. Were they kidding? I started to put it back. Then I stopped. I wanted the caviar. I deserved it. I looked carefully up and down the aisle. I wouldn’t necessarily have to pay for it; no one would know. I opened my bag.

  All at once, a familiar itchy sensation crawled over me, and awareness kicked in. Years ago I used to shoplift. I like to think I was sick during that period of my life, and in a way, I was. My marriage was collapsing, my mother was dying, and I felt inadequate as a mother to Rachel. Stealing was the only way I knew to make myself feel better. The high, the rush of taking something and getting away with it, was exhilarating. After a while, I began to crave it. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t so bad; I never took anything expensive. Just candy, pens, the occasional bracelet.

  The problem was it was a crime. And it became an even bigger problem when I was caught. One day a department store sales clerk saw me stealing a blouse. She called security; security called the cops. Barry eventually came to the rescue, and I joined a twelve step program. I learned—or so I thought—to control my impulses. I got divorced. I buried my mother. Gradually the compulsion subsided. So why was it back today?

  I gripped the cart with a clenched fist. The caviar was in my other hand, grinning at me, daring me to palm it. I squeezed my eyes shut. As I did, an image of David flew into my mind. Not just David. David and me in bed. Last night. And with it came a memory.

  Decades ago, before I was married, I went to southern Illinois to shoot part of a documentary for Channel Eleven, the public television in Chicago. I drove down the night before, planning to meet the crew in the morning. That evening I stopped into the hotel bar—a disco, really—where a two-man band played a medley of Loggins and Messina. They weren’t bad, and after three whiskey sours, they were even better. In the dim light, the lead singer looked just enough like Kenny Loggins that I started to imagine things. He apparently did, too, because, a few hours after the last set, we ended up in his bed.

  The next morning, in addition to a hangover, I was nursing a powerful case of bedder’s remorse. In daylight, the singer didn’t look a thing like Kenny Loggins. He looked like the stranger he was. And while I certainly wasn’t
a prude, I felt waves of shame sweep over me. I fled back to my room and showered for about an hour. Eventually I forgave myself, but I vowed never again to sleep with a man I didn’t love.

  And I didn’t. Until last night.

  I thought I wanted to. I’d invited David out to visit. I’d even made room for his uncle. I tried to summon up the heat I used to feel, and for a short time, I pretended it was there. When he fondled my breasts, I arched up to meet him. And when his hands found my hips and rocked into me, the tension built.

  But then, without warning, the feeling disappeared. I didn’t want to make love. The problem was we were already so far into it, I didn’t know how to stop. I sank back against the bed, my muscles suddenly lethargic. His hands felt rough. His weight suffocating. I went through with it anyway. I tried not to dwell on it, and I wondered how much longer he would take. Eventually he finished, but it was perfunctory.

  Afterward David lay on his side, his expression shuttling between uncertainty and sorrow. I steeled myself for the inevitable confrontation, but it never came. At one point he lifted his eyebrows fractionally, but when I didn’t say anything, he sighed quietly, almost imperceptibly, and rolled away from me. I got up and took a shower.

  Now, in the store, my hand clutched the cart’s handlebar so tightly my knuckles went white. If I let go, even for a second, the caviar would end up in my bag. I was afraid to look at the caviar. I was afraid to look away. My legs felt like they’d been nailed to the floor.

  “Ellie…how are you?”

  The voice was as sharp as a siren. I whipped around. A woman wheeled her cart up to me. I knew her. We worked out together.

  “Cindy. Hi. I—I’m good,” I said haltingly. “How are you?”

  She grabbed her shoulder-length hair and flipped it to one side. “You know. Same old same old.” She paused. “I haven’t seen you at Bodyworks recently.”

  Her voice came at me from a distance. Did she know how close I was to the edge? I swallowed. “I’ve been—working on—on a new show. You know. Up at the crack of dawn.”

  She flashed me a smile. “I know how that is. I just finished my shift.”