An Eye for Murder

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  I shook off his arm, annoyed but at the same time surprised he thought I had that kind of clout. Then I remembered he was a reporter. “If you’re fishing, try a different lake. I’m just a hired hand.”

  “Bingo.” He pointed a finger at my chest. “You see things.”

  I pointed a finger back at him. “Do you always think something subversive is going on or is it just a job requirement?” He held up his hand and ticked off his fingers. “Marian had a meeting that wasn’t on the schedule. No press. No media. No Wolinsky. But you were there.” He hesitated. “And I hear things.”

  “What things?”

  He shook his head.

  “Come on, Lamont. You’re too shrewd to let that drop without a reason.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Tell me who’s sending me anonymous E-mails.” I stared at him.

  “No names. No IDs. No return paths. Just one-line notes.”

  “Which say?”

  “That I should take a closer look at the Iverson campaign.” I felt an uneasy twinge. “Someone’s sending you mail?”

  “They are.”

  “It’s probably the other side. A dirty trick or something.”

  “You think so?”

  “You can’t think it’s me.” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Lamont, even if I did know something, how can you think I’d spill my guts to you?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “You know something? You’re probably right. I’ll ask Marian who you and she were meeting with. She’s been pretty open with me, and even if she isn’t, her reaction will be interesting.”

  He had to be bluffing. He couldn’t do that. She’d know I was eavesdropping.

  He watched me carefully. “Then again, there could be something else you can help me with.” He smiled innocently. “That woman, the Hispanic one? I don’t see her around.”

  “You mean Dory Sanchez?”

  “That’s the one. What happened to her?”

  I bit the inside of my mouth. He must have figured out I wasn’t supposed to be in that meeting. Maybe he saw me wander into the room by mistake and used that knowledge, playing me, manipulating me right where he wanted. Either I told him what he wanted to know, or he’d tell Marian I was spying on her. He had me, and we both knew it.

  “She’s been let go,” I said in a low voice.

  “When?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. But if it gets out—”

  “Not to worry.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m one of the good guys, Ellie Foreman. The question is are you?”

  While Mac loaded the gear on the return flight, Lamont grabbed the seat next to me. Glowering, I thought about switching seats, but Ms. Perky had deposited herself next to Mac’s sound man, and the only seat left was next to Roger. I burrowed into my seat.

  But Lamont didn’t pump me on the return trip. Surprisingly pleasant and talkative, he regaled me with backroom stories about the mayor and a city council member considered to be his nemesis. Though I knew it was just another tactic— if bullying doesn’t work, try charm—it still rattled me when Marian turned around and saw us with our heads together. I didn’t like what I saw on her face.

  The only saving grace was that I didn’t think about my fear of flying on the way back. How could I be concerned about that when the man she’d been meeting with was Jeremiah Gibbs?

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  My message machine was blinking when I walked in the door. Pam called to say she’d received a letter from the Chicago Corp lawyers. Despite the summons, we might be able to work something out. I should call her right away. There was also a message from Mac. I’d sent him an E-mail with the editing schedule, but all he got was a garbled page with my name on the return path. Would I please send it again? I made a note to call my ISP; this was the second or third time my E-mail had been acting up. Then a thin, reedy voice came on the machine.

  “Ellie. This is Marv. Your father’s friend? Look, sweetie, I don’t want you to worry, but…” I stiffened.

  “Jake, I mean, your Dad is okay. They’re just keeping him for observation, and…”

  I didn’t listen to the rest. When Dad’s phone didn’t answer, I called the home. Twenty minutes later, I walked into Evanston Hospital.

  I hadn’t been here in several years, and the remodeled lobby, with its modern sculpture, recessed lighting, and block benches, resembled a museum more than a hospital. They needn’t have bothered. Death sucks, no matter how prettily you dress it up. My mother died here. From pancreatic cancer.

  The woman at the information desk said my father was on the fifth floor. The blue and yellow arrows that used to line the floors had been replaced with neutral carpeting and new linoleum, but the walls still reverberated with deep silence. I’d spent a month here, helplessly watching the life seep out of my mother. I’d vowed never to come back.

  The fifth floor nurse’s station was depressingly familiar, as if it had been transplanted from the oncology ward. Cheerful paneling covered the desk, and there was abstract art on the walls, but the files held the same charts, the patient board listed the same names. Even the diet Coke can on the counter was the same. A nurse with precise, exotic Asian features frowned at her monitor as she typed.

  “Excuse me. I’m looking for Jake Foreman.”

  The woman looked up. “Down the hall. 5110.” She threw me a smile. Everyone here was so polite and solicitous. So goddamned caring.

  Dad was sitting up in bed watching TV, one side of his face swathed in bandages. His skin looked pasty and fragile, but he was sipping through a straw on the other side of his mouth. I wanted to cry and throw my arms around him. Instead I said, “I go away for a few hours, I don’t even leave the state, and look what happens.”

  His eyes brightened, and he tried to smile. I saw him wince.

  I ran across the room, knelt down, and buried my head in the crook of his arm. Tears stung my eyes. “Oh Daddy, are you all right? I was so scared.”

  He brushed his hand over my head. “I’m all right, sweetheart. I’m all right.”

  “What happened?” I said between sniffs. “Someone tried to mug me in an alley last night.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “We were going to see a movie. The new Danny DeVito one. It got great reviews. The other guys went last weekend and told us we hadda see it. So Marv and I went to see the late show. He drove—he still has a license—and he let me off at the end of the block while he looked for a parking spot.” He zapped the remote. “So there I was, minding my own business, about fifty feet from an alley, when these two goons grabbed me and forced me into it.”

  “What did they do?”

  “What do you think they did? They tried to beat me up.” I delicately touched the side of his head. “Looks like they made some headway.”

  “Ha.” He leaned over and opened the drawer of the bedside table. “They didn’t count on this.” He pulled out a can of mace.

  My mouth opened. “How long have you had that?”

  “Honey,” he croaked, “I’ve had this for years. Never leave home without it.”

  “Did you try to fight them off?”

  “I did fight them off.” His spine straightened. “Don’t ask me how, ’cause I still can’t really tell you, but somehow, as I was going down, I managed to pull that sucker out of my pocket, and I started spraying.” He chuckled through his grimace. “The guy in front of me dropped like a rock, and the other guy—well, I guess he got scared—because he dropped his hold.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What any sane person would do. I got up, stumbled out of the alley, and screamed like hell. Of course, by the time the cops came, they were long gone.”

  He looked inordinately pleased with himself. I wound my arms around his waist.

  “Dad, do you know how close you came to—I mean, my God, you could have been killed.”<
br />
  “It takes more than two punks to stop Jake Foreman.” His bravado notwithstanding, I started to tear up again. “Sweetheart,” he crooned. “Stop crying. I’m going to be fine. It’s just a bump on my keppe.” I shook my head.

  “What is it?”

  “There were two guys, right? Did one of them have a fishing hat?”

  He angled his head. “Maybe. Some kind of hat.”

  “The other—did he have a ponytail?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  I bit my lip. “You were attacked because of me. It’s my fault.”

  “You? Now I know—” He stopped. “How do you figure that?”

  “There are a few things I need to tell you.”

  I plumped his pillows, smoothed out his sheet, and let it all spill out. The breakin. The theft of Skull’s things. Boo Boo. The tan Cutlass. I told him about showing Marian the Movietone newsreel, her mounting uneasiness with me, her strange reaction to David, her meeting with Jeremiah Gibbs.

  When I finished, he steepled his hands in front of him.

  The veins on his forehead protruded. “Is that everything?”

  I nodded, relieved that someone besides me finally knew everything. “Someone’s going after all the people who knew Skull. You knew him in Lawndale.”

  “Why? What do they want?”

  “I don’t know. But whatever it is, it’s apparently worth killing for.”

  “And you think it’s Marian and this Gibbs character?”

  “I’m not sure. If it weren’t for the fact that we know Skull was trying to find Lisle, I’d say there were two different situations.”

  He ran his tongue over his lip. “I don’t like it. I want you to quit working for this woman.”

  “Dad, I’ve got to finish the video.”

  “Ellie, this is your life we’re talking about. Who the hell cares about a goddamned movie?”

  “But she’s already paid me.”

  “So let her sue.”

  “Dad, listen to me. Why would Marian Iverson be coming after me in a tan Cutlass? She doesn’t need to. She sees me all the time.”

  “But this Gibbs person was talking to her about eliminating you. How much more proof do you need?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I’m a tough old bird, Ellie. But you. You should make yourself scarce. Stay out of sight. Especially Marian’s. Until we can figure out what to do.”

  “I can’t. I have responsibilities.”

  “Your responsibilities are to me. And your daughter. You need to keep yourself alive.”

  I didn’t have a comeback.

  Chapter Forty

  After a mostly sleepless night, I cut across the yard at dawn. The grass, still wet and slick from dew, chilled my bare feet. I looked both ways down the street. No one was there. I grabbed the paper. Lamont had filed an innocuous story about Giant City. Back inside, I brewed coffee and made a decision. A compromise of sorts, for Dad. I would finish editing the tape at Mac’s; I wouldn’t go downtown. That would take two or three days. Then I’d regroup and figure out what to do.

  I was rinsing my cup in the sink when a red Honda roared around the corner. David parked and climbed out, casually dressed in jeans and a green T-shirt. My pulse started to pick up. I opened the door before he knocked.

  “How was your trip?”

  “Fine,” I lied, stepping outside. “Until I got home.” I explained about my father.

  Shock swept across his face. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing.”

  I considered telling him about the men in the Cutlass. But David didn’t know anything about Skull, except for exchanging a brief E-mail. He didn’t need to be worried.

  “Is he still in the hospital?”

  “They’re keeping him another day.” I walked over to uncoil the hose. “Really. He’s okay.”

  He nodded. An awkward silence followed. Then, “I went down to the steel mill the other day.”

  “Iverson’s?”

  “Yesterday. It was surrounded by a chain link fence. But I climbed over and poked around. Looked through some windows.”

  I turned on the hose, imagining him crawling through dirt and dust, a little boy exploring forbidden territory. I almost smiled.

  “It was strange, you know. I almost thought I sensed my mother’s presence. Being in the same place she’d spent so much time.” His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes glowed. I had to look away. “Iverson must have been some businessman to build the place from the ground up.” He stepped over the hose. “You’ve been looking into him. What was he like?”

  I waved the hose over the impatiens. “I don’t know. Sort of a twentieth-century robber baron, if you ask me.” I adjusted the spray of water.

  “Do you have any pictures of him?”

  I tightened my grip on the hose. “You know, I don’t think I do.” Why was he asking me questions? Why was he here at all? He’d made it clear what kind of relationship he wanted— or didn’t want from me. I don’t do “friends” well. He should go back to Philadelphia. I looked up. “David, there’s—”

  As if he sensed my thoughts, he interrupted me. “Ellie. That’s not the reason I’m here.”

  Here it comes. The girlfriend. The fiancée. “I want to explain about the other night.”

  I looked away. “You don’t have to.”

  “Yes. I do. There isn’t anybody else, Ellie.” I froze.

  “It’s just that, well, I’m a middle-aged man. I never expected to meet someone like you at this point in my life. And with all this attention on my roots and my parents, I was afraid to trust—oh God, this is hard…”

  The hose spat water on the dirt.

  “Your father. Your daughter. You attract people. It’s as if they’re the moths and you’re the flame. You create a sense of family around you.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Let me finish. It’s not just your father. Or your daughter. Even your gardener—”

  “He’s my friend.”

  “That’s what I mean. You turn everyone into family. And I…I want to be part of it.”

  My heart thumped furiously.

  “But I was—I mean—after what happened between your father and my mother, I was—”

  “You know about them?”

  “When a man loves a woman, it’s hard to disguise it. It was all over your father’s face. That’s why I left the other night. I didn’t know how you felt about it. Whether you cared. I was afraid.”

  The water from the hose pooled around the impatiens, and the run-off spilled across the front step. I bent down and turned off the water. “Let me understand. You were afraid how I might react then, but now you’re not?”

  “I’m terrified. But I decided if there was a chance—any chance you had feelings for me—despite what happened with our parents—I’d take it.”

  Goosebumps danced on my arms. I went to front door, opened it, and held out my hand. He took it and followed me in.

  Chapter Forty-one

  By evening, we were both starved. At least I was. I threw on his T-shirt and scrounged in the refrigerator. With Rachel gone, the choices were limited.

  As I cracked eggs into a bowl, I heard his step on the stairs. I turned around. He was wearing pants but no shirt, and the hard cut of his muscles made me groan with desire. As if reading my mind, he drew me into his arms. I traced the line of his neck with my finger, remembering the feel of his body on mine. How we touched each other gently at first, then more insistently. How we found our rhythm quickly but made sure to go slow. How we came together at the peak of passion, and then did it all over again.

  “I hope eggs are okay.” I turned to the stove. “It’s all I have.”

  “Eggs are perfect.” He nuzzled my neck from behind.

  A shiver ran through me, and I arched into him. “You keep doing that, there won’t be any eggs.”

  “You win.” He dropped his arms. “I’m hungry.”

  I took out English muff
ins and put them in the toaster. Then I got silverware out of the drawer. As I was setting the table, he grabbed my hand. Smiling, I flicked my eyes over, but when our eyes met, my smile faded. His face was shadowed in sorrow.

  “What’s wrong?” He didn’t say anything. “David?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Forget it.”

  My stomach started to churn. “You can’t do that.” I withdrew my wrist. He still didn’t say anything. “David, this isn’t the way it works. We’re supposed to talk to each other. Communicate.”

  “Okay.” He nodded. “Okay.” He twisted around in the chair.

  “Why didn’t you tell me the truth about Linda Jorgenson?”

  I froze. “Who?”

  “Linda Jorgenson. The woman who knows the history of Chicago steel companies.”

  I turned back to the stove and poured the eggs into the skillet. “What are you talking about?”

  “Remember when you waved me off the police? And told me they wouldn’t be much help?”

  “I was right, wasn’t I?”

  “But not about Linda Jorgenson.” I pushed the spatula through the eggs.

  “You knew I got her name at the library. When we finally connected, she said someone else had called her about Iverson recently. A woman. Who was making a film for his daughter’s campaign.”

  I blinked.

  “Here’s a woman who might have valuable information about my mother, and you’d talked to her. But you never mentioned her to me. In fact, you tried to talk me out of calling her. I just want to know why.”

  I kept my mouth shut.

  “Communicate, Ellie. Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to work?” Beads of sweat broke out on my forehead.

  “You know I’ve been looking for answers to my past. I thought I could trust you to help me.”

  “You wouldn’t understand.” I clutched the spatula. My voice sounded small and puny.

  His voice was quiet, not accusatory. “If I thought that, I would never have brought it up.”