by Henry Perez
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Tim.”
“Just ‘Tim’?”
“Haas, Tim Haas.”
Chapa reached over and took one of Tim’s business cards.
“So tell me, Tim, why is it that you’re isolated over here? Why don’t those other folks like you?”
The young man’s eyes doubled in size, and he looked around like a meerkat on alert.
“Are you from Internal? Because if you’re from Internal then you should’ve told me that right off. That’s what you’re supposed to do.”
“It’s okay, Tim. I’m not from Internal.”
Chapa pulled out a business card of his own. Tim’s hand was trembling as he took it. Chapa watched Tim read it as closely as he might the warning label on a medicine bottle.
“I can give you someone else’s business card if you’d prefer. I’ve got a bunch of them.”
Tim shook his head as though he’d taken Chapa’s offer seriously.
“Things have been a little tense around here,” Tim said in a low voice.
“I kinda get that feeling.”
“And now with what happened this morning. Are you here because of the gun—”
“No. But really, why are you over here at the office equivalent of the little kids’ table? What do you do?”
Tim wiped his brow with a napkin that had the name of a local pasta restaurant printed on it, then reached in a drawer. There was a pop-shoosh sound from behind the desk.
“It’s my energy drink, would you like some?”
“No thanks.” No wonder the guy is high-strung, Chapa thought.
“I’m the head computer tech around here, though you won’t find that on my job title. I’m not part of the In Crowd.”
“No shit.”
“It’s my job to coordinate with the other techs around the city offices, make sure files and forms are up to date, that sort of thing.”
“And that doesn’t earn you better accommodations?”
Tim let out a heavy sigh, and Chapa knew he’d jabbed a sore spot.
“The cubicles go to the friends and supporters of the mayor, their wives, mistresses, and I’m none of the above. Besides, I replaced the husband of one of the office directors down here. The guy had cut his teeth on a Commodore, didn’t know shit.”
“Let me guess, he got moved up to a better job.”
“Um hmm,” Tim grunted through a long sip, then asked, “Are you here doing a story?” Chapa’s business card still in one hand, his rocket-fueled beverage in the other.
“Why, do you have one to tell?”
“I got a bunch of them.” Tim lowered his voice. “I may be hidden away in this crappy little corner now, but that won’t last. I’m going places.”
“How do you figure?”
Tim smiled but didn’t answer right away.
“So, honestly, are you here for a story?” he asked, rocking back in his tight little office chair.
“No, I’m just friends with Leah, and she’s helping me with something.”
Tim gave Chapa a broad, bar buddy smile.
“Ah, Leah,” he said.
“You know the song?”
“Not as well as I’d like,” Tim said, his smile even wider now.
Chapa remembered he’d once bought her a CD that had the old Donnie Iris hit from the 1980s on it, only to learn she hated the song.
“Did I just hear my name?”
Chapa hadn’t heard her walking toward them.
“Maybe,” Chapa said as he stood, his attention focused on the red file folder in Leah’s hand.
She signaled for Chapa to follow her, and led him away from Tim’s high tech island. Chapa looked back to say goodbye, but Tim had turned his attention back to his monitor.
“So what do you have?” Chapa asked as they turned a corner and started down the hall.
“Not as much as I should, it seems.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She opened the file folder. It was empty. Chapa took it from her and looked at the label. It read James Chakowski, 806 Dwight St.
“He had a file, but there’s nothing in it.”
“That’s really strange.”
“You’re telling me.”
Chapa looked into Leah’s chocolate-brown eyes, saw that they were not hiding anything, and was surprised by how certain he was of that. She seemed to have all sorts of questions for him that had nothing to do with Jim Chakowski’s empty file.
Up until now Chapa had a pretty good idea about what he was going to say to Warren Chakowski. How he was going to explain that bad luck, poor timing, and deco-era wiring were the only villains in his brother’s death. He might’ve gotten philosophical on him, talked about the forces of the universe—not exactly Chapa’s strong suit, but what the hell. Whatever it took to help the man begin the internal process of burying his brother.
But looking at an empty folder that might’ve had vital papers in it just a few days earlier, Chapa knew that version of the truth wasn’t going to cut it anymore.
Chapter 29
Things had quieted down considerably in City Hall. But Chapa was leaving with much more on his mind than when he’d arrived, less than two hours earlier. The fuzzy images and curved lines that seemed to lead nowhere were stubbornly refusing to form a picture in his mind.
Warren Chakowski was in police custody, and Chapa’s commitment to finding out what had happened to his brother carried a lot more weight now. How could he brush off a promise he’d made to a man who had given up his freedom in a crazed attempt to get at the truth? He couldn’t.
That meant devoting more time that he didn’t want to take away from Nikki, and legwork into unfamiliar territory. Chapa was processing all of it as he dodged a few folks who were on their way to one meeting or another, when a meaty paw slammed into his chest and abruptly halted his forward progress. In a single swift move that was part gymnastics, part sumo wrestling, a hand clutched Chapa’s left bicep as an arm swung around his back and directed him into a corner, away from view of others.
Chapa quickly got his bearings again, and after a moment of confusion he recognized the man in the gray suit. The same one he’d seen sitting in the back row of the conference room before Warren busted his way onto the minutes of the meeting.
There was no hint of letup in his vise grip on Chapa’s arm, even when their glares met. And now, as Chapa looked into the man’s eyes for the first time, he saw something that he could not have seen from across the room. There was a well of darkness inside this man, and Chapa sensed that if he got too close or stared too long he might fall down into it.
Though the guy’s build was no broader than Chapa’s, it was clear he was big enough to create a roadblock that could put the state police to shame. If that didn’t work, the bulge by his left shoulder suggested he had other ways of getting a person’s attention.
“Am I right in assuming that you’ve taken over for Jim Chakowski?”
“And who might you be when you’re back home?”
The man in the gray suit leaned away a little and sized up Chapa with no more subtlety than a tailor uses when measuring an inseam.
“I asked you a question.” His sharply pressed suit crinkled a little as he rubbed up against Chapa.
“Good for you. But you already know the answer to yours, now answer mine.”
After another bit of sizing up, he leaned away from Chapa, eased up on his grip, and reached inside his suit coat.
“My name is Martin Clarkson, FBI,” he said and produced a thin, weathered leather wallet which he then flipped open to reveal an official I.D.
“You look better in your photo than you do in real life.”
“Yeah, I must’ve gotten some sleep the night before.”
Chapa rolled his shoulders, trying to coax the circulation back into his arm.
“So why the heavy-handed crap?”
“I wasn’t sure about you.”
“Christ,
I’m not sure about you now. You don’t see me shoving you into a corner.”
Clarkson smiled as if to imply, I’d like to see you try.
“Let’s go someplace and talk, Alex. I think you’ll find we have several things to discuss. My car is right outside.”
“So is mine. I’ll follow you.”
Clarkson looked him over again. Chapa was starting to tire of this.
“Tell you what, sport,” Clarkson said, jabbing Chapa’s chest with a thick index finger, “you pick the restaurant, I’ll follow you, and lunch is on me.”
Chapter 30
Chapa drove out of Oakton, then several miles through newer subdivisions, all of them offering great deals on homes that were supposed to have sold two years ago, and eventually into Naperville, then Warrenville. Clarkson’s silver Chevy Impala remained in tow through turns, stoplights, and swelling traffic.
A few times along the way, Chapa thought about trying to lose him, maybe just to see if he could, or maybe because he didn’t like being roughed up for no reason. But Clarkson did not come across as someone you screwed with.
He put a call in to Joseph Andrews at the Chicago office of the FBI, but got his voice mail, as usual.
“Hey Joe, give me a call when you’re back from catching bad guys. I was confronted by one of your agents today. In fact, he’s tailing my ass right now.”
Chapa had purposely left out the part about how Clarkson was merely following him to a restaurant, knowing Andrews would be far more likely to call back quickly if he thought his friend had done something foolish. Again.
The two had been friends as far back as it mattered. They’d stayed close through the good times and the not so, in spite of the occasional dustup.
The downside of leaving a cryptic message with an FBI agent was that it still left Chapa unprotected, with an armed and determined man in his wake, and no one knowing about it. So after sorting through his options while waiting for a stoplight to turn, Chapa decided to call Erin.
“Hey, how’s Nikki doing?”
“She’s great, a sweetie, but also a complex little girl.”
“Well, she’s led a complex little life.”
The light changed, and Chapa’s Corolla rolled through. Clarkson followed without hesitation, like he’d had one foot on the brake and the other on the accelerator.
“There was something of an incident at City Hall today,” Chapa said, then told her a bare-bones version of the morning’s events, having decided it was best to keep the drama to a minimum, and downplay his role in disarming Warren Chakowski. There would be time for a more complete account later.
“Please tell me you’re not planning to take up his cause.”
“I’m not planning to charge into any conference rooms with a rifle in my hands.”
“Well, thank goodness for that, Alex. C’mon, you know what I mean.”
As he drove past a patrol car that was parked in front of Brinkman’s Pharmacy, Chapa thought about how some people feel a sense of comfort and security at the sight of police on the job. But Chapa had never felt that way. His occasional run-ins and long-standing feuds had done nothing to ease his discomfort around local law enforcement.
A lot of folks would have at least considered flagging a cop and letting them know about the armed guy claiming to be an FBI agent. But that thought entered Chapa’s mind for just a swift and unwelcome moment.
“I’ll make sure Warren is treated fairly. I owe that to his brother.” He heard Erin begin to object, then withdraw. “As far as I’m concerned, Jim Chakowski’s death was no one’s doing. Tragic and weird, yes. Criminal, no. I’m going to try to learn as much as I can about Jim’s work because that will make it easier for me going forward.”
“So what have you learned so far?” Erin asked.
But before he could answer, Chapa’s phone started buzzing in his ear.
“Gotta go, Erin. Joe Andrews is on the other line.”
Chapter 31
“Hey, Joe, do you know an agent named Martin Clarkson?”
Chapa’s eyes were on the rearview, where he saw Clarkson’s car emerge for an instant behind a large black Dodge pickup, then disappear again.
“Can’t say that I do, but there are quite a number of us out there.”
Chapa explained how Clarkson had approached him, and how he’d played the heavy hand.
“That doesn’t sound right, Al.”
“Which part?”
“Any of it. Did you get a good look at his I.D.?”
“I did, and it appeared to be standard issue.”
“I’ll look into it. At the very least he should’ve checked in with our office, and I’m finding no record of that.”
Chapa eyed his rearview again, and saw there were more vehicles separating him from Clarkson. He could lose him now if he really wanted to. Chapa knew these streets, could draw a fairly detailed map of the area from memory alone.
But as he weighed that option, Chapa decided he was curious about the man in the gray suit. It was best to keep Clarkson dangling on the line until Andrews could confirm who he was.
“So when are you going flying with me, Al?”
This again. The latest obsession.
Andrews made a habit of immersing himself in one thing after another. From scuba diving, to hiking, to spelunking, Andrews had devoted himself to the point of becoming an expert. He’d mastered each activity, then moved on. And for some reason, he always seemed compelled to drag Chapa along.
As far as Chapa could recall, Andrews caught the flying bug about three years ago after a fellow agent had earned his pilot’s license.
“One of these days, Joe.”
“I promise you’ll love it, even more than spelunking.”
“I hated spelunking.”
“Well, there you go then.”
Chapter 32
The Burger Stop had been in the same location along Butterfield Road, past a strip of newer restaurants, since the 1950s. It was one of Chapa’s regular haunts. The sort of place that’s found throughout the Midwest, except only locals know to look for it.
Chapa pulled into one of the few empty spots, looked back toward the parking lot entrance, then in his rearview mirror, but saw no sign of Clarkson’s silver Impala. Chapa wondered whether he’d somehow lost the guy until his door swung open and he saw Clarkson standing on the other side.
“This the place?”
“Yes, and please don’t slam the door when you close it for me, or the rest of the car might crumble from the impact.”
Clarkson scoffed and started toward the restaurant, leaving Chapa to shut the door himself. They were greeted by the smell of fried food and soft music as they stepped inside.
Carmen recognized Chapa right off, like she always did. He nodded in her direction and followed Clarkson to the last booth in the row.
“Hey stranger,” her usual hello whether she had last seen him two weeks ago or earlier that same day.
“You know what I want, Carmen,” Chapa said to the twenty-five-year-old waitress who’d been working there since before her high school graduation.
“How ’bout your overdressed friend?”
“Turkey sandwich, coffee, and privacy,” Clarkson said without looking at the menu or making eye contact with Carmen.
“I’ll bring you the sandwich and coffee, but for real privacy you may have to get a room.”
She gave Chapa a What’s his problem look. He responded with a shrug.
As soon as Carmen walked away, Clarkson started right in. “How much do you know about what Chakowski was working on?”
“Only what I read in his stories. He had a beat, I’m a columnist, at least I was. Our paths rarely crossed, and only professionally when they did. Why?”
Clarkson glared at him, and didn’t break eye contact when Carmen brought two cups and filled them with fresh coffee, then left without saying a word.
“Look, Clarkson, or whoever the hell you are, I already placed a call to the FBI
offices in Chicago. They have no goddamned clue who you are or what you’re doing here.”
Clarkson ran his heavy fingers around the rim of his cup.
“You shouldn’t have done that.” Clarkson’s cool faded like the steam from his black coffee. He looked around as though everyone in the place posed a threat.
“This is simple. You’re going to tell me what’s going on or I’m going to inform those nice policemen by the door that there’s an armed man claiming to be a fed in this restaurant.”
Looking smaller now, like he was slowly fading into his suit, Clarkson nervously shook his head, but said nothing.
“All right then,” Chapa said and started to get up.
“Sit down. I’ll tell you some things.”
“Give,” Chapa eased back into the chair and tried to hide how pleased he was with the way he’d turned the situation around.
“My name is Martin Clarkson. I’m a special agent, but I’m not with the Chicago office. I’ve tracked a man, a killer, to this area. By my count he murdered at least seven people in Pittsburgh, and another nine in Baltimore.”
Chapa casually slipped a palm-sized notepad out of his pocket and flipped it open like it was no big deal.
“I believe there were some similar murders even earlier in Cleveland, back in the 1990s. But the evidence on those is a bit sketchier.”
“You got a name for this guy?”
“No.”
“Description?”
“Male, in his forties.”
“That’s it?”
Clarkson nodded.
“Then how do you know—”
“He leaves a signature.”
Many of them did. Chapa had spent more time studying mass murderers than he cared to admit. He’d learned that a lot of them left behind some sort of common detail. It could be a word or marking, or even the way the crime was committed, or how the body was disposed of.
“What kind of a signature?”
Clarkson reached into his sport coat. As he did, the lapel bowed just enough to reveal a dark brown leather holster. He drew a pen from his inside pocket and made a series of crude markings on his napkin.
