by Beverly Long
Robert put on his coat and buttoned it. “I’ll check in with you on Monday.” Check in. That was lame but it was the best he could come up with.
“Thank you, again,” Carmen said. “For today. For waiting for Raoul. For everything.” She stepped forward and brushed her lips across his cheek.
He felt his heart flip in his chest. Didn’t think it was medically possible but was pretty sure that was what had happened.
“No problem,” he lied as he walked out the door.
He had a very big problem.
Carmen Jimenez was getting to him. Big-time.
Chapter Ten
Sunday
Robert was in the office by seven the next morning. He spent a few hours tackling the paperwork that seemed to multiply overnight. He wasn’t the only one working, and somebody had tossed a box of doughnuts on the break-room table so the morning wasn’t a total loss.
At ten, he dialed the number in Gabe Monroe’s file. Victim number three. The only African American in the group. The rest of the kids had been white. Gabe was fourteen and a freshman at Liekert Academy, a charter school that had opened less than ten years earlier. Mom worked in retail and his dad for the park district. Had a much older brother in his third year of a football scholarship at Notre Dame. Had a sister who was just a year older.
The phone rang. No answer.
He waited ten minutes and tried again. Same result.
He looked up the address. It was less than twenty minutes away. And Carmen’s apartment was on the way.
Fifteen minutes later, he was knocking on Carmen’s door. She opened the door a foot and peeked around the edge. All he could see was her head and part of her shoulder. Her silky hair was floating around her face and her skin was bare, with the exception of the narrow straps of her very little blue tank top.
“Hi,” she said. “Shhhhh.” She put a finger to her lips. She smiled self-consciously. “I know it’s almost eleven but Raoul and Alexa are still sleeping. Teenagers,” she said, shaking her head.
“Did I wake you?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’ve been up for hours. Already drank a pot of coffee. Very quietly. Alexa was wired last night. We watched movies until the wee hours of the morning. I think she was trying to avoid thinking about the real world for a while.”
“I just wanted to make sure everything was okay,” he said.
She smiled and stepped out into the hallway, almost closing the door behind her. She was wearing blue-and-white-plaid flannel pajama pants that rode low on her hips and the little shirt. He could see a line of bare skin where the pajama pants stopped and the shirt didn’t start.
Holy hell. He could feel his body get hot.
“I wanted to thank you again for yesterday,” she said. “I’m not comfortable saying much more than this but I want you to know that I’m very grateful for what you did. The movie. The ice cream. It was really just what I needed.”
He nodded. More gratitude. It was nice but not what he was interested in. He edged forward just a little, feeling off balance. His coat felt too tight and the muscles in his legs were jumping.
He couldn’t move. All he could do was stare, like some adolescent boy at his first girlie magazine.
Her breasts were fuller than he’d imagined and he could see the outline of her nipples. Her waist and hips were slim but so feminine. And her skin was a beautiful mocha color.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
Her eyes widened and he knew that he’d surprised her.
Well, hell, this was going to shock her, then.
He reached for her and pulled her into his arms. Then he angled his lips over hers and kissed her.
For the briefest of seconds, she was still.
Then she opened her mouth and welcomed his tongue. He felt the jolt, the sharp shock, all the way to his toes.
He kissed her for several long minutes, learning her mouth, nibbling on the corner of her lips. Then, very slowly, he slid one hand underneath her shirt, running his hand up her ribs. When she didn’t resist, he angled his hand so that his thumb brushed over her bare breast.
She groaned, and he pulled her in tighter to his body. He regretted his big coat but focused on the feel of her hot skin against his hand. He breathed in, taking in her scent, holding it deep in his lungs.
He shifted his hand, just slightly, to cup the full weight of her breast. He lifted the edge of her shirt, desperately needing to taste her.
She moaned and sagged in his arms. He thought his own knees might give out. He bunched the soft material of her shirt into his hand and raised it, exposing one small, round, beautiful breast.
He bent his head and licked her nipple.
She shook in his arms.
He closed his mouth and sucked her gently.
And a door down the hallway opened.
Robert moved fast, pulling the shirt down, shifting so that Carmen was protected from prying eyes.
The old woman, a big purse on her arm, shuffled by. “Morning, Carmen,” she said, amusement in her tone.
“Morning, Mrs. Curtiss,” Carmen answered, her voice muffled by his coat. “Have a nice day,” she added, her voice fading at the end.
“Oh, you, too, dear,” the woman said. She walked down the steps, leaving a trail of lilac in the air.
Carmen didn’t move until the downstairs door opened and closed. Then she couldn’t get out of his arms fast enough.
Her cheeks were pink and her lips, her gorgeous lips, were trembling. She put a hand to her forehead. “It’s a good thing she has a strong heart.”
It wasn’t what he’d expected, but then Carmen Jimenez was a constant surprise. He ran a hand across his own jaw. His own heart was still pumping pretty fast. “It’s likely she’s seen people kiss before.”
She gave him a look that probably made pregnant teenage girls sit up straighter in their chairs. “I think we were a little past that,” she said.
Yeah. But not nearly far enough. “Look, Carmen, the circumstances might not have been perfect but—”
She held up her hand. “Please. I don’t want to talk about this. Not right now. I have to go,” she said, edging back toward the apartment door.
“But—”
She shook her head, stepped inside and softly closed the door.
He knew that he was fast enough that he could get it open again before she locked it. He could force his way into the apartment, force her to talk to him.
But he didn’t do anything like that. He just took his trembling legs and his tingling fingers back out into the cold.
* * *
WHEN ROBERT RANG the doorbell at the Monroe house, he knew somebody was home because he could hear the television right through the walls of the small Cape Cod. This was a section of the city where the houses had all been built in the forties and fifties, mostly of brick, and close together. Garages were all detached and people got to them through the alley that ran behind their houses.
Nobody came to the door. Robert bypassed the bell, took his fist and pounded on the wooden frame. He got someone’s attention because the television got turned down and he could hear locks turning on the door. An old African American woman, wearing a bright orange housecoat and no socks, opened the door.
Robert held out his badge. “My name is Detective Robert Hanson, with the Chicago Police. I wanted to talk to Maurice or Carol Monroe.”
“Maury and Carol aren’t here,” the woman said. “I’m Maury’s mother. It was my turn to watch the dog.”
Robert didn’t see or hear any dog.
“Tippy’s asleep,” the woman said. “She doesn’t hear so well anymore.”
Right. The television had probably damaged her ears. “When will they be back?”
“Tuesday
night.”
They could have another dead kid by the following morning. “Would you have a few minutes that I could ask you some questions?”
She waved him into the house. The furniture was leather, the hardwood floor gleamed with polish and the television was a newer flat screen. There was a fat bulldog sleeping in one of the chairs.
“I’m sorry about the death of your grandson,” Robert said.
The woman nodded. “Gabe was a good boy. His death has been hard on my son and his wife. His brother, too, of course. But probably the hardest on his sister, Trina. Being so close in age and everything, they’ve been best friends since they were babies. I told Maury and Carol that they better get her away from all this for a few days. Especially after that last boy got killed.”
“I was wondering if Gabe played any musical instruments.”
She shook her head, and Robert could hardly contain the disappointment he felt. He’d been so sure that this was the thread that tied the murders together and that somehow, someway, he’d be able to figure it out.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
“I’m his grandmother. I think I would know. His sister played the drums for a few years but Gabe was always more interested in soccer.”
Robert stood up. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“Did all the other boys that died play an instrument?” she asked, proving that she was sharper than he’d given her credit for.
“Yes, ma’am, they did.”
“Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help. I want you to find this person who is doing all these awful things to these boys. I want you to find them and I hope they resist arrest and you blow their brains out.”
She said it calmly, as if she were commenting on the price of lettuce at the store.
“We’ll do our best, ma’am.” Robert closed the door behind him and went back to his cold car.
* * *
JUDY FRANCONI WRIGHT answered the door with a glass of red wine in her hand. The family resemblance to Alderman Franconi was evident, although her features were more feminine, of course. She seemed more relaxed than her brother, who was always wound tight.
Maybe it was the wine.
Hell, if he’d lost a child, he might just stay drunk.
“Mrs. Wright?” he said. “I’m Detective Robert Hanson.”
She motioned him in. “Detective Blaze said that you’d be stopping by. My husband isn’t here. It’s difficult for him, I guess.”
He heard the bitterness and was pretty confident that he got the underlying message. It was difficult for her, too, but she was stepping up, handling it.
“No problem. I know that you’ve provided a great deal of information to Detectives Blaze and Wasimole but I have a few more questions.”
“Can I get you a glass of wine before we start, Detective?”
“No, ma’am. Maybe a glass of water?”
“Of course.” She left the room and returned within minutes with his glass. She’d refilled her own wineglass.
“My son, Henry, was a remarkable young man,” she began.
And Robert let her talk. And when he got the chance, he asked all the questions on his list. When it was over, he felt confident that he’d gotten the information he needed, and Judy Franconi Wright seemed almost happy that she’d gotten to talk about her son, that she’d gotten the opportunity to share significant moments of his life, even if it was with a stranger tasked with investigating the details of his death.
Toward the end, he circled back to the Gottart Studio. While they had been able to connect only two of the dead boys to the place, Robert couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more there.
“You mentioned that Henry played the cornet in his middle school band.”
“First chair,” she said proudly.
“And I understand that he took music lessons at the Gottart Studio.”
“For years. The cornet isn’t his first instrument. He also plays piano and drums. You know, just a couple weeks before he died, someone from the Stalwart Academy contacted him. They were trying to recruit him. One of their representatives had met with him several times.”
While he hadn’t ever heard of the Gottart Studio, he had certainly heard of the Academy. It was a private high school for the arts. Both of Lieutenant Fischer’s kids went there. He occasionally bitched about the tuition but Robert had always gotten the impression that he was really happy with the education and the opportunities. Lots of their graduates got full scholarships to good colleges.
Robert made a note. Stalwart Academy. Recruitment. He looked up. “What was the representative’s name?”
She wrinkled her brow in concentration, then shook her head. “I’m sorry but I never got his name.” She paused. “I guess I figured there’d be plenty of time for that.” She picked up the wineglass that she’d set aside while she reminisced and took a big drink.
Robert stood up and put on his coat. He handed her his card. “If you think of anything else that might be helpful, don’t hesitate to contact me. Anytime.”
* * *
ON SUNDAY NIGHT, at ten minutes after ten, Raoul waited in the shadows near the front entrance of Speedy’s Used Cars and prayed that he wouldn’t throw up. He tilted his head to the right, then the left, trying to stretch his neck. He switched his gun from his right hand to his left and wiped his sweaty right palm across his black jeans. How the hell could his hand be sweating when it was freezing outside?
An hour ago, he’d gone to bed, making a big deal that he was really tired. And then when Carmen and Alexa were in the kitchen, he’d slipped out the front door.
But now he’d been outside for at least forty-five minutes. All the time thinking about Carmen and how disappointed she’d be. He had to make sure she never found out.
“Let’s go, my friend.”
Raoul jumped a stupid foot. His heart pumped so fast he thought he might be having one of those heart attack things that Jacob’s mother was always worrying about.
“Did I scare you?” Apollo wrapped an arm around Raoul’s shoulder.
“No,” Raoul lied, stepping out of the man’s grasp.
Apollo laughed. “Let’s go. We’re going to accomplish two things tonight. You’ll get some target practice, and Speedy will learn not to sell cars that stop running in three weeks.”
He held out his hand. “Let me see the gun.”
Raoul handed it to him, and his heart stopped again when Apollo pointed it at him.
“Bang,” the man said, laughing. He turned away from Raoul. “Now here’s how you hold it. Use two hands. And when you press the trigger, it’s going to give you some kickback. Don’t fall on your butt and embarrass yourself.”
Raoul did what Apollo told him to do. He liked the feel of the gun in his hand. It made him feel powerful.
“Now, here’s what you need to do. Get around that fence and aim at the windshields. Speedy’s going to be sweeping up glass for weeks. Now, go.”
Raoul slipped out of the shadows and ran toward the chain-link fence. At one end, between the fence and the building, there was just enough space for a skinny kid like him to squeeze through. He stood in the middle of the dark lot and pointed his gun at the first car. He squeezed the trigger and heard the sound of breaking glass. Dang. It felt like his shoulder popped out of place. He swung his body to the left, more prepared this time. Another pump on the trigger. More glass. Three times more he repeated the routine.
Dogs started barking. Raoul took one quick look over his shoulder. Across the street, lights flashed on in two different houses. He started to run toward the fence. Just as he went through, he heard the sounds of a siren.
He jerked, ramming his chest into the jagged wire. His coat got caught. He pulled, heard the material rip, and then he was fre
e. He grabbed at the piece of material that was stuck in the wire and then ran the opposite direction of the siren, zigzagging through a backyard and around a Dumpster in the alley.
He ran down the dark alley, his arms pumping at his sides, his breath coming in big gulps. He heard a noise and looked behind him. Headlights, harsh and bright, bore down on him. Raoul leaped to the side, his body crashing into the brick wall. The car screeched to a halt next to him. The front door swung open and Apollo sat inside, laughing.
Raoul wanted to lift his gun one more time.
“Get in, my friend.”
In the distance Raoul heard the sounds of more sirens. He jumped into the car.
“Good job,” Apollo said. “You did good.”
“I’ve got to go home,” Raoul said.
“Don’t worry, my friend. Cops are stupid.”
Raoul didn’t say anything. It took ten minutes for the car to pull up outside of Raoul’s apartment building. Raoul got out, feeling every pound of the gun as he hoisted his backpack over his shoulder.
Chapter Eleven
Monday
“Hanson, wake up.”
Robert lifted his head from his desk. He had either malaria, West Nile virus or the worst hangover of his entire life.
“Go away.” He peered at Tasha through very sore eyes.
“Exactly how many shots did you do with the birthday boy? You know Wasimole drinks like a fish.”
“The next time he turns fifty, I’m not going to help him celebrate.” Robert leaned back in his chair and barely avoided moaning. The room literally spun.
“Get going. Report begins in three minutes.”
Robert managed to drag his poor body into the crowded room. It was quieter than usual, no doubt because at least half the department had been at the party. It gave him little comfort that several looked worse than he did.
Robert sank down onto a chair. He hadn’t had a hangover for years. Now he remembered why. They made you feel like hell. Not that he didn’t like to tip one or two. He knew how to party. A little booze, some cards, a pretty woman. His life. It was a damn good one, too.
