Sleep When You're Dead

by Chris Hollenback

  “Elena had me on speed dial,” Ed said. “She called my cell and asked me da pick her up, said it was an emergency.”

  “What kind of emergency?” Nell said.

  “She said da DEA was closing in. An informant dold her dey were going da raid her apartment any day now.”

  “So she wanted to disappear,” Nell said.

  Eddie nodded. “Just for a couple days, until it blew over. She wasn’t planning da disappear for good.”

  “Did the feds raid her place?” asked Casey.

  Eddie shrugged. “Heck if I know. She paid me da disappear, remember? So I came here.”

  Nell exhaled frustration. “Where did you drop her off?”

  “Oh fer cry-yi-yi and a half-a-wheel of cheese. Yer high n’ mighty, ain’t-cha? I’m gonna do what da little lady asked.”

  Casey shook his head, tried to regain bearings.

  Nell readied her gun, and pointed it at Eddie’s knee. “Let’s try this again. You said South Madison Street. Sure you don’t remember the exact address?”

  22

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 25

  Hailangelo sat in his car, parked in the lot outside Elena’s apartment complex. He knew Rihanna Morris and her daughter would return home any minute. They had gone out to eat at McDonald’s like they did every Wednesday, probably so that Shantell could burn off energy in the play structure. The Morris family always left around five-thirty and returned an hour later.

  The Morrises’ old economy car pulled into the parking lot on schedule. Shantell, four years old, hopped out of the car and ran through the parking lot without looking for cars.

  “Shantell, wait!” her mother called, getting out of the vehicle.

  Shantell skipped toward the building obliviously, gripping her bedraggled stuffed-animal kitty, its tail dragging in the snow and marking a thin line up the steps.

  Hailangelo pulled off the plastic cover on his hypodermic needle with his teeth, and slunk out of his car. As Rihanna power-walked toward the steps, perturbed, Hailangelo closed in behind her, covered her mouth with one hand, and injected hydrocyanic acid into her neck with the other. Rihanna—frozen in surprise and fear—struggled less than the others.

  Shantell made it to the top of the stairs and skipped out of sight. Hailangelo figured the girl would stand outside the apartment door.

  “Momma?” Shantell called. “Did you know my nose has two holes for digging? Momma? Momma?”

  For a moment, Hailangelo feared she would come back down the steps and see him. He couldn’t allow there to be a witness. Nobody ever spotted him in the act; he was far too meticulous.

  Shantell kept calling for ten more seconds. By the time he had dragged Rihanna back to the car, she had become limp; he placed her in the passenger seat of the car. He closed the passenger door, hurried to the driver’s side and got in. He extracted the keys from her purse and turned the ignition. It needed a new muffler and the floor was so thin it sounded like it was made of cardboard lined with balsa wood.

  What a beater. He glanced at her. She was older than the others, poorer and more worn, but had a pride and grittiness they didn’t. She would endure. He liked that, and would take great care to preserve that in her statue. He cocked an eyebrow at her and bowed his head like a butler. “Ma’am, allow me to give you the tour of my studio.”

  Nell stepped close to the cabbie. She considered threatening to arrest him and bring him back to Green Bay. Instead, she chose a tactic that psychologists called motivational interviewing. “You don’t want her baby’s blood on your hands, do you?”

  “Oh jeez,” Ed said, running a hand through his thin hair. “No.”

  “And you don’t want to go to prison?”

  “Heck no.”

  “You want to save the baby, and yourself.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then what should you do?”

  He stared at his shoes like a little boy sitting in the principal’s office. “Dell you where I dropped her off.”

  “Very good,” Nell said, winking at Casey.

  Ed looked up at Nell. “I dropped her in front of da church. But she didn’t go inside where I dropped her off anyway.” He tugged on the skin under his chin. “She ran up da sidewalk. Could be anywhere by now.”

  Nell stared at him silently for a moment. “Do you really want to go to prison?”

  “What?” he said.

  “You dropped her off in front of the church. Then you started lying. Where did she go, Eddie?”

  He looked her in the eyes this time, hands on his thighs. “Okay, okay, she went into da church. Said she didn’t want da be deported.”

  Nell grinned and nodded at him. “Thank you, Mr. Plasky. That will do.” She headed for the cabin entrance.

  He reached out toward her. “Wait. How did you guys find me?”

  “Friend of a friend,” Casey said, following Nell out the door.

  They walked toward the Z4 with purpose, got in, and exhaled in unison. Nell started the car and drove down the gravel driveway.

  Casey said, “How did you know he was lying?”

  “He looked up and to the left and tugged on his double chin. It’s his tell for when he’s getting nervous and creative.”

  “Do you think Ed was involved in her disappearance?”

  “No.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Believe me,” Nell said. “I’ve interviewed countless criminals, and I know when they’re bullshitting. It’s not always implausibility that gives it away; some perps are terrific liars, especially serial killers. It’s their posture, delivery. When they’re telling the truth, there’s frankness to it. Ed had that.”

  “What do you make of his story about Elena seeking refuge in the church?”

  “I believe him.”

  Hailangelo parked his car, turned off the lights, and carried Rihanna into the studio under the cover of darkness. He laid her on the couch, bending her knees, tilting her head to the side and kissing her cheek. Something was missing. He’d done this several times before, and had become inured. Like any other addict, he needed to kindle more stimulation to experience the same titillation. But how?

  He could double his pleasure. Yes, and make the kiss between two of his muses. Twice the danger, power, control. He had been tracking one other lovely. He went to his laptop, woke it, logged in, and opened the tracking software he’d installed on her mobile phone. Now blood rushed to his nether regions. His amygdalae lit up.

  To his surprise, his muse had left Green Bay. She’d traveled by car south on Highway 151. Could she be headed to Madison?

  Nell and Casey rode in the Z4, headed home from the cabin, still about thirty miles from Green Bay. Nell said, “Think we could convince Leila to sell Baciare cosmetics?”

  “Ha. Good luck to us.” He yawned into his fist and thought: Elena, on the other hand, could probably sell make-up to a dictator.

  “My mother always said, ‘Never count someone out.’” Nell pursed her lips.

  “Mine always said, ‘Never count Casey in.’”

  “Moms come around.”

  “You met my mother.”

  “She could change. For example, mine never let me wear makeup until my sophomore year. By my senior year, I entered the Pulaski Dairy Princess contest.”

  “No way!” Casey said.

  “Yes, I really did.”

  “No, I mean, no way there can really be a dairy-princess contest.”

  “Don’t laugh. I won.” She playfully stuck out her tongue. “I didn’t have bodacious curves, but I have talent.”

  “Curves shmurves. You have gazelle legs and wit.” His eyelids felt like they were made of iron.

  “Thanks.”

  Casey swallowed the last fourth of his cappuccino. “What was your talent?”

  “Kickboxing.”

  Casey raised his eyebrows.

  “What?” Nell said. “I’m very good at it.”

  “I noticed. Do I want to know your prize?”<
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  “Two hundred bucks and a day off of school, thank you very much. It was so embarrassing, though.”

  “What?”

  “The runner-up and I had to sit on the stage at the city fair, inside this glass dome, like a giant snow globe, refrigerated inside. We sat in chairs while artists carved our heads out of cheese.”

  Only in the Midwest. Casey glanced at her. “With people watching?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re kidding.” This story was like a car wreck and he couldn’t look away. It might even become an article—reporter Casey Thread looks at the unseemly underbelly of Midwestern dairy-princess contests. “That does sound embarrassing.”

  “Get this: a few dirty old men stood off on the side, drooling. Many were my girlfriends’ dads.”

  “Ew.”

  “One of the dads waved to me every time we rotated.”

  “Rotated?” Casey thought she had been making it all up, but this was so bizarre it had to be true.

  “Yes, we rotated like those wax dessert displays at the cashier’s desk in family restaurants. The worst part was the artist who carved my face didn’t use just any cheese,” she said with disdain. “He used Colby.”

  They drove past farmland, and Casey could make out dark outlines of barns and livestock. “What’s wrong with Colby?”

  “It’s part orange, part white. It made my complexion look heinous.”

  Casey grinned. “What I’d give to see that carving.”

  “Check my mom’s freezer.”

  Casey stared at her and blinked slowly.

  “You think I’m crazy,” Nell said.

  “Nooo…”

  “You do.”

  “I’ll tell you who’s crazy—our mothers.”

  Nell laughed.

  “You know what I like most about you?” he said.

  “Aside from my Milan-runway height and voluptuous bosom?” Nell said facetiously.

  “Well, that’s obvious. But I also like that you roll with it whenever I pass out.”

  “My college boyfriends passed out a lot, so I’ve had practice.”

  “And with me, you don’t have the puking.”

  “True. Your narcolepsy is like my grandma’s compulsion to clip coupons. You can’t control it.”

  “Most people snicker when I pass out. They make assumptions. You don’t.”

  “Right, I only tease you to your face.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “It’s a part of you, Casey, and I love everything about you.”

  He looked at her, trying to decide if she were real or a narcoleptic mirage. It wasn’t a straight-out “I love you,” but the reporter in him debated the ethics of trimming the extraneous words.

  23

  WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 26

  When Hailangelo caught up to Leila, she was walking along State Street in Madison, Wisconsin, about two hours southwest of Green Bay. Another woman accompanied her. State Street featured eclectic shops and family-owned local businesses, although more recently a few chains had moved in. The law only allowed pedestrians, bicycles, and city buses on State Street. The air smelled clean and parents didn’t hesitate to bring their kids there for ice cream. Hailangelo made sure to stay half a block away, and pretended to window-shop.

  From the middle of the street, Hailangelo could see the university at one end and the Wisconsin state capitol dome at the other. A homeless man, evidently mentally ill, roamed the sidewalk, but his friendly nature added character. He would make nonsensical jokes and belly laugh. Middle-aged trees lined the sidewalks on each side, and vintage twenty-foot-tall store signs beckoned customers. Leila and her companion ducked into a boutique.

  Hailangelo hastened his way and peered in on them through the storefront window. Leila wore her typical black wool coat. She had a knack for appearing presentable without seeming like she put forth a great deal of effort. She held up a bright pink dress off the rack with a yellow feather boa.

  Her companion laughed. They posed like over-the-top socialites, returned the apparel to the rack, left the store without buying anything, and passed Hailangelo, who had turned away. The women moseyed along the sidewalk and ducked into a coffee shop. Inside, a skinny bearded musician in his late thirties sat on a stool in the corner, playing a folk song.

  Later, Leila and her companion walked to the University of Wisconsin Union at the end of State Street, entered, and sat in a dim room called the Rathskellar. All the entrances were doorless arches seven feet high. Hailangelo sat at the table next to Leila, the backs of their chairs nearly touching. He drank a dark ale and eavesdropped as best he could. Small shaded wall lamps illuminated the medieval German décor. They ordered dark beer in wax-paper cups.

  Leila’s companion was telling a story. “So I’m at my sister’s for Halloween, right? The doorbell rings. My sister says, ‘Amelia, can you grab the door?’ So I do, and there’s a little boy dressed in a superhero costume. I give him a Snickers, and I’m thinking I’ll get a hearty thank you, right?”

  “Right,” Leila said.

  “But he just stands there, eyes and mouth agape like he’d seen a ghost. I turn around and my sis is breastfeeding Baby Jake in the kitchen.”

  “Not sure if that was a trick or a treat,” Leila said.

  Hailangelo drank his ale and briefly contemplated taking them both. Then he thought better of it. He had to remain focused on his true muse, and not allow distraction. Patience, patience, patience.

  Leila said, “I’ve missed you.”

  “You just like free beer.” Amelia smiled, then sipped.

  Leila raised her soggy cup and nodded. “Cheers.” When they finished, she said, “Shall we?” They exited the Union and walked down the steps toward the street.

  Hailangelo followed.

  As they entered the crosswalk, Leila saw something that stopped her movement. A man walked toward her and brushed her shoulder in the crosswalk. She turned toward him and stopped in the street just beyond the yellow dotted line—frozen there like Lot’s wife.

  Amelia laughed. “Come on, Lei, I was kidding—I can’t stomach another waxy beer. Leila. Lei, come on, there’s a bus coming.”

  The bus drove right for Leila. Buses in Madison didn’t stop for pedestrians unless they were over the age of 90—and only then if they had a cane.

  Hailangelo had tunnel vision for Leila; the world around him blurred in kaleidoscopic fashion.

  Amelia lunged for Leila.

  At the last moment, the driver hit the brakes and stopped.

  Hailangelo exhaled relief.

  “Lei!” Amelia grabbed her friend’s arms.

  Leila didn’t flinch. She just stared at the man from the crosswalk as he walked away.

  Amelia guided Leila to the curb. As the bus passed by, the driver opened the door and shouted something indistinct at Leila, but she didn’t react.

  Amelia looked into Leila’s eyes like an emergency responder. “Leila? What is it?”

  Leila was pale. She glanced back at the man from the crosswalk.

  “It’s him.”

  24

  WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 26

  Nell and Casey turned onto South Madison Street in downtown Green Bay and pulled into the parking lot. The temperature was an unseasonably warm forty degrees. The snow had melted to half its normal height. Casey approached the ornate cathedral, looking up at the steeple and a round carving above the door which resembled a doily like the ones his mother used to make. Two statues stood above the door. He recognized one as Saint Francis, whose serenity and kindness attracted wild animals. The world could use more people like that. They entered the narrow narthex.

  Inside, the pews were empty. Nell said, “Let’s start downstairs.” They found the staircase that led down into the community center underneath the cathedral. At the foot of the stairs, an old male parishioner held the glass door for them. “You folks here for the soup kitchen?”

  “Yes, we’re serving dinner,” Nell said.


  “That’s very kind. Where’s the food?”

  Casey glanced at Nell.

  She shrugged. “The other volunteers are bringing it.”

  “We all do our part,” the parishioner said. “Here’s the key. Please give it to Paul, the coordinator, after lunch. God bless you.” The man left.

  They searched the basement but found no sign of Elena. Nell left the key on the counter with a note for Paul. Casey stuck twenty dollars under the note. As they walked upstairs, he kept hearing his mother say, You never finish anything.

  They searched the balcony, including the large organ and pews for the choir, but didn’t find Elena. They checked the altar: nothing. The last place to search in the entire complex was the sacristy. It was locked, of course. Something lay under the door. It was small, black, and plastic. Casey stuck his fingers under the door and tried to grab the object but only succeeded in pushing it further inside the sacristy. He stared at it then exhaled. “We can’t break into a sacristy.”

  Nell smirked. “I never said we should.” She pulled out a tool from her purse that resembled a tiny flattened screwdriver.

  “That doesn’t look like eye liner,” Casey said.

  “It’s not. It’s an offset diamond pick.” She extracted a second object from her pocket—a small black tension tool with a twisted tip, as if someone had cornered the end of a screw driver.

  She inserted the tension tool at the bottom of the deadbolt lock and manipulated the diamond pick in the upper part of the keyhole to move pins inside the lock, feeling her way. She twisted the tension tool to open the lock with a pop. She returned the tools to her pocket and quickly opened the door.

  Casey shook his head. “Holy—”

  Nell turned toward Casey with the universal sign for shush. He had never been more attracted to anyone in his life, and that included Elena the night of his, ahem, unfortunate sleep attack. She flipped on the lights, drew her gun, unlocked the safety and systematically searched the area. Nell approached the closet door and swung it open: there was nothing inside but black frocks and white robes. Nell rifled fearlessly through them with one hand, holding the gun with the other.