A Shot to Die For

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

As we sat down, Aunt Ava began a rapid-fire discourse in what I assumed was Greek. Jimmy answered back. The woman folded her hands and smiled. “Kalos.”

  “What was that about?” I asked after she’d left.

  “Ava says she knows what you want to eat.”

  “She does?” I’d been wondering why she hadn’t given us menus.

  “It’s her little ritual. She tells everyone what they want to eat so that when she brings out whatever it is she’s cooked, they’ll think she made it especially for them.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be delicious. Whatever it is.”

  “It usually is.”

  He went to the bar at the back of the room while I burrowed into my chair, the cushion of which was surprisingly soft. Jimmy examined several bottles of wine in a wine rack. He chose one, then grabbed an opener and two glasses, and brought them back to the table. Opening the bottle, he filled one glass with white wine and handed it to me.

  “What about you?”

  He shook his head. “Still on the clock. But you go ahead. You’ll like it. It’s the closest thing you’ll get to a Greek Chardonnay.”

  “How do you know I like Chardonnay?”

  He shrugged. “Isn’t that what you were drinking at the gala?”

  He was observant. Good thing in a cop. I took a sip. “It’s good.” Then, “You’re going to eat, too, aren’t you?”

  “And risk the wrath of the mother goddesses if I don’t?”

  Was Jimmy married? I didn’t recall him saying anything about a wife or family. As he sat down, the door to the restaurant opened, and Kim Flynn stepped in.

  I tried to suppress my shock.

  She glanced around and saw me, then Jimmy. She frowned. “Special occasion, Jimmy?”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “Thanks for coming by so soon, Kim.”

  My nerves jangled. It was Kim he’d called on his cell.

  “You got me at a good time,” she said coolly. “The restaurant being closed and all.”

  He gestured. “Please join us for a drink. Lunch, too, if you want.” He called to his mother in Greek. She answered, but this time her smile faded.

  “Kim, my mother and aunt extend heartfelt condolences,” Jimmy said, pouring her a glass of wine. “And of course, you have mine as well.”

  She nodded and took the glass.

  “How’s your mother?”

  “You mean since you ran us through the mill?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “You’re right, Jimmy. You were just doing your job.” She recited it like it was rote. “So, what’s going on?” Kim asked. “Why did you want to see me?”

  He looked at me, then at Kim. He kept his mouth shut.

  I took the hint. “Why don’t I just go to the ladies’ room?” I stood up.

  “Thanks, Ellie.” Jimmy looked relieved. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know when we drove over—”

  “Hey. Don’t make her disappear on my account,” Kim broke in. “I don’t have anything to hide. The whole fucking town knows our business anyway.” She glanced up at me. “Plus, she’s dying to know what you want.”

  I stood there, a little nonplussed by Kim’s token, but accurate, observation.

  Jimmy shrugged and waved me back into my chair. I sat down. Kim folded her hands on the table.

  “Kim, did you have a guy working for you a month or so ago?”

  She nodded. “He washed dishes. Picked up supplies. But he only lasted a few weeks. Why?”

  Jimmy ignored her question. “Why didn’t he last longer?”

  “He wasn’t reliable. He’d come in late, sometimes as much as two hours. He would leave for long periods of time. Once in a while, he wouldn’t come back.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Let’s see.” She looked off, like she was thinking. “Billy, I think. Billy Watkins.”

  Jimmy nodded.

  “Why?”

  “The Walworth County Sheriff’s office busted a meth lab out near East Troy. In a barn. When they went in, they found a body inside. It’d been there awhile. Two or three weeks, they figure.”

  I winced.

  “His ID said he was William Watkins.”

  Kim’s eyebrows shot up. “You know, I had a feeling about him.”

  “How come?”

  “He was pretty vague about his background. I figured he might have done some time. But I wanted to give the guy a chance. Did he have a record?”

  “About a mile long. Mostly possession. Intent to sell.”

  “How did he die?” she asked.

  “He was shot. With his own rifle. They found it in the woods a hundred yards from the barn.”

  Jimmy watched Kim’s reaction. It wasn’t much. She took a sip of her wine. “Pretty gruesome.” She put her glass down. “How did you figure out he worked for us?”

  “He had a pay stub from Mount Olympus in his things. When did you let him go?”

  “It’s been a while. Before Daria died, I know that.”

  “You remember the day?”

  “Not offhand,” she said. “But I can check. Why all the questions?”

  “Just trying to tie up loose ends. You were his last employer.”

  She looked him in the eye. “Jimmy, we’ve known each other too long for that kind of bullshit. You call me, ask me to meet you here, and start pumping me. What’s going on? Do you think there a connection to Daria? Or my father?”

  “Do you?”

  “How would I know? I do think it’s a hell of a coincidence.” She took a sip of wine. “But you’re the police. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a hell of a coincidence, too. Especially when you factor in the rifle.”

  “The one they found in the woods?” I asked.

  “Yup. They’re checking it for prints now.”

  A sick feeling crept over me. “It was a Remington Bolt Action 308, wasn’t it?”

  Jimmy nodded.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The same gun that was used to kill Daria.

  I turned to Jimmy. “Does that mean Watkins is the sniper? The shooter who went after Daria?”

  “Not at all. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of those rifles around,” Jimmy said. “Like I said, I just think it’s a hell of a coincidence. Right, Kim?”

  “I don’t think he ever met Daria,” Kim said, not missing a beat. “She wasn’t around the restaurant much. But then, come to think of it, neither was he.” She looked at Jimmy. “Have you told my mother?”

  He shook his head. “I just found out.”

  “So what happens now?” she asked.

  Jimmy didn’t say anything.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Actually, Kim, I’m not going to do anything.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  He hesitated before answering. “I’m going to recuse myself from all the investigations. The sheriff’s office is taking over.”

  Kim looked shocked. “Why?”

  “Because—because Luke is my friend. Staying on would be a conflict of interest.”

  “Luke?” Kim said. “What does that—”

  I cut in. “Are you saying there’s a connection between Daria’s case and what happened to Herbert Flynn? And this—Billy Watkins?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  It wasn’t a no. But it wasn’t a yes. “I’m confused,” I said.

  “Join the club,” Kim said.

  I tried to recap. “Daria is murdered, maybe by a sniper, maybe not. Herbert Flynn is murdered. Luke’s being questioned about his sister’s murder. And Herbert worked for Luke’s father when the sister died.”

  Kim laced her hands together. Jimmy looked solemn. I could understand why he removed himself from the case. The mere recitation of the events seemed to connect them, to give some legitimacy to their linkage. But even if they weren’t connected, it would be impossible for him to be objective. He’d been an integral part of both families’ lives.

 
; “Will removing yourself free you up to do things on an ‘unofficial’ basis?” I asked.

  “No. I’m out of it,” he said firmly. But the look on his face made me think he was as apprehensive about the outcome as I.

  His mother came out of the kitchen carrying a large tray. She brought over two plates loaded with moussaka, dolmades, and slices of roasted lamb. On separate plates were hearty portions of Greek salad, toasted bread, and a whipped pink dish that I think was caviar dip. I scooped up a forkful of moussaka and shoved it in my mouth. Hot, tangy, and creamy at the same time. I took another bite. Then another. Despite the situation, or maybe because of it, I was ravenous. I looked over at Jimmy’s plate. He hadn’t touched his meal.

  “Eat.”

  He gave me a small smile. “You sound like my mother.”

  “We read the same handbook.”

  He picked up his fork and dug in. For a moment, the only sound was the clink of forks and knives. Kim watched.

  “You should try some,” I said to her.

  She shook her head.

  After making a considerable dent in the food, I wiped my napkin across my mouth. I felt calmer, more in control. Jimmy seemed more relaxed, too.

  “Is there anything we can do for Luke?” I said. “What if we tried to establish an alibi for him for the night his sister died?”

  Kim turned to me. “Why would you want to do anything for Luke Sutton?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “The DNA tests will be a big piece of that,” Jimmy replied, ignoring Kim. “If they exonerate him and he has an alibi that can be confirmed, he might be okay.”

  “But that’s at least six weeks from now.”

  “Talk about coincidence,” Kim cut in.

  Jimmy looked over. “What, Kim?”

  “I think it’s mighty coincidental you decided to remove yourself from the investigation. Your timing couldn’t have been more perfect.”

  “What are you getting at, Kim?” he said.

  “What I’m getting at is that the Suttons get people to do their bidding whenever they choose. My father was alive a few days ago. Now he’s not. You should be on this like a laser beam. Instead, you’re backing off because ‘Luke Sutton is your friend.’ That’s what I call a coincidence.”

  A muscle in Jimmy’s jaw flickered, but his reply was calm and deliberate. “Kim, it’s actually in your interest to have me off the case. Because of my association with Luke. The sheriff’s department won’t have any conflict.”

  I interrupted, hoping to forestall an argument. “Kim, why did your father come back after such a long time?”

  She looked over, paused for a minute, then said, “Mother had the stroke. She was on the edge for a while. He—he just showed up.”

  “It had to be a shock seeing him, after thinking he’d been dead all those years.”

  “It was.” The slightly dazed look on her face seemed genuine.

  “What did your mother tell you when he disappeared?”

  “She said he was going to Milwaukee or Chicago to find work. But then when he never came back, she said he got sick. Had a heart attack or something. And couldn’t get in touch with us.” She fingered her glass abstractedly, as if she just realized how inadequate her mother’s explanation had been. But then, children tend to accept the inexplicable from an adult. Especially a parent.

  “Except now it turns out she was in touch with him all along.”

  Her contemplative mood shattered. “What does that matter?” she snapped. “The point is he’s dead. And everyone, including our brave chief of police, wants to give the family who forced him out of town to begin with a pass. Don’t you see? It’s happening all over again,” she fumed. “And how is Luke going to produce an alibi after thirty years anyway? You think he’s going to remember where he was and what he was doing on a particular night? Even if he could, who would believe him?”

  “You never know,” I said, forcing myself to remain calm. “I can remember thirty years ago. It was the summer Nixon resigned. I was glued to the TV. Remember, too, we’re talking about the night his sister was killed. I’ll bet he can recall exactly what he was doing.”

  Jimmy’s brow furrowed, as though he was trying to call back the years. He glanced at Kim. “Wasn’t that the summer Luke managed the airstrip?”

  “The airstrip at the Lodge?” I asked.

  He nodded. “When the Playboy Club owned it, we all worked there over the summers. Luke managed the airstrip. Made sure the performers got in okay, got them into a limo, and took them up to the hotel. I worked with the grounds crew. You worked there, too, didn’t you, Kim?”

  She gave us a curt nod.

  “Well,” I said, “what if we can prove he was working the night his sister died? Can we check the logs or something?”

  For a moment, Jimmy sat up straighter, looking interested in spite of himself. Then he slumped. “There won’t be any records.” He shook his head. “The place has been through two or three owners since then.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “There won’t be anything. If there ever was. I couldn’t be involved in finding it anyway.”

  “But I can.”

  “Why are you so interested in helping Luke Sutton?” Kim cut in.

  I looked over. Her expression was angry and probing, but something else was there, too. Something almost predatory. I chose my words carefully. “Because I don’t think he did it,” I said after a pause.

  Her eyes narrowed, and I could tell she didn’t believe me. But there was no way I was going to share my feelings about Luke with her. I turned back to Jimmy. “What about witnesses?”

  He shrugged. “I would imagine it depends who they are.”

  “There’s you,” I said.

  “Forget me. Conflict of interest is written all over my face.”

  “What about Kim?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” she scoffed.

  “Ellie,” Jimmy said, “finding someone who saw Luke on a particular night at a specific time thirty years ago—it’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Impossible.” He scowled. “And I shouldn’t be having this conversation. I’ve already said too much.”

  “Hold on, Jimmy. Just for a minute. Suppose that—for some crazy reason—we could find someone. Wouldn’t that help Luke?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “But it wouldn’t hurt.”

  “No. It wouldn’t hurt.”

  I looked at Kim. She was staring straight ahead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  I went over to Mac’s the next morning. Hank had created some dazzling eye candy in the form a three-dimensional cube with transparent sides. Each side of the cube contained a shot from one of the locations we’d filmed at the Lodge. As the cube twisted and rotated across the screen, a freeze-frame from each location came full screen and then shrank back to its side of the cube. The effect was similar to one of those screen savers on your computer, but better. The pacing between transitions was deliberate but not sluggish, and each freeze-frame was a Cartier-Bresson moment.

  My cell trilled while we were running through it.

  “Ms. Foreman?” I recognized the honeyed voice right away.

  “Detective Milanovich. How are you?”

  “Excellent, as a matter of fact.”

  I’d never heard him so cheerful.

  “We think we may have found the pickup that was used in one—or more—of the sniper attacks. It was abandoned in the forest preserve. Off Dundee Road. Not far from you. I was hoping you’d have some time to take a look at it.”

  I doodled uneasily on a yellow legal pad. This was a good thing, wasn’t it? Whatever they found—particularly if it led to the driver or the shooter—would put an end to all the speculation and conjecture. And lead them away from Luke. “Of course.”

  “Good.” Milanovich reeled off an address in the Glen. “We’re borrowing the North Shore Task Force facility. When can you get here?”

  An hour la
ter I was in the part of Glenview that was once part of the Naval Air Base but had been sold to developers. I’d produced a video for the Glen for one of those developers. I drove down Patriot Boulevard and turned in to a parking lot in front of the new fire station. Hiking around to the back, I came upon a huge building that occupied most of an otherwise vacant field. The entrance was open so I walked in. It looked like an old airplane hangar with high ceilings and a concrete floor. Two white trucks with NORTAF stenciled on their sides were parked against a wall. The green pickup was parked behind them.

  Milanovich was hovering near the pickup. He was wearing the same navy shirt and chinos as the first time I’d seen him. The truck had been raised on a frame rack and was hanging a few feet off the floor. Two men, who by their uniforms and bright purple gloves were probably evidence technicians, were working over the vehicle. One was dusting the surfaces with a thick gray paste; the other leaned into the bed of the pickup with what looked like a hand-held vacuum cleaner.

  The detective greeted me with a rare smile. “Nice to see you again, Ms. Foreman.”

  I nodded and started to walk around the pickup. “It’s okay for me to do this, right?”

  “That’s why you’re here.”

  The pickup was dirty, the camper shell had been removed, and the license plate was gone. I made a large circle and came back to Milanovich. “I don’t know.”

  He looked disappointed.

  “I only saw it for a few seconds. It looks like the same one, but I can’t swear to it.” I shrugged. “I’m sorry.”

  He made some notes on a clipboard. “That’s all right.”

  The tech who’d been searching the back of the pickup came up behind us. He was holding a small plastic bag. “Hey, Walt. You might want to take a look at this.”

  Milanovich twisted around. Inside the bag was a small brass cylinder, less than an inch in length. Milanovich eyed it carefully, then arched his brows so high I thought they might stretch past the top of his head. “Well, now that’s a whole different kettle of fish.”

  I peered at the bag, trying to figure out what the brass cylinder was.

  Milanovich took pity on me. “It’s a shell casing, Ms. Foreman. The protective covering that wraps around a bullet.”

  I blinked.