by Jude Hardin
There was a long pause, and then, in a tearful voice, she said, “I’m sorry, Nicholas. This whole thing is just stressing me out. How could they have lost the necklace? And the picture of the necklace? How does that even happen?”
“I don’t know, but the pathologist I talked to today is going to look into it. In the meantime, I can try to get in touch with the man who owned the house that burned, and I can try to find the fire marshal from back then or someone else who was involved with the incident report. If the necklace never turns up, we can always work on finding your mother’s dental records later. If you want me to continue the investigation, that is. If not—”
“I definitely want you to continue,” she said. “Now more than ever. Isn’t it obvious to you that someone intentionally misplaced the necklace and deleted the photograph?”
“Not at all. I’ve been in this line of work for quite a while, and you wouldn’t believe how inefficiently most records are kept. Bureaucracies are infamous for crap like this, especially government bureaucracies. And when you think about how many millions of people there are to keep up with, past and present, it’s amazing that even more things don’t get lost or misplaced. But I have to say, the state of Illinois seems to have a pretty good system of cataloging potential evidence, so I have a feeling the necklace is going to show up. Eventually. I just wanted to let you know that it might take a while—and, that if it doesn’t show up, we’ll have to find an alternate means of identifying your mother’s remains.”
“I appreciate you filling me in on everything. Really. I knew this was going to be hard, but I’m ready to go the distance. Whatever it takes.”
“Good. I’ll be in touch. Don’t hesitate to call me if you think of anything else, or if you just need someone to talk to.”
“Thank you. Oh, wait a minute. I just thought of something. What about mitochondrial DNA?”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“That’s the DNA passed on from mother to child. It’s identical. Couldn’t they test my DNA, and some DNA from the bones, and get a match that way?”
Smart lady. “Uh, I guess they could. How did you know that?”
“Don’t you watch CSI: Miami?”
“Apparently not often enough.”
“Then even if the necklace isn’t found, we should be able to prove she’s my mother.”
“Makes sense to me.”
“Keep at it, and keep me posted.”
We disconnected, and a few seconds later I got a call from Herb Benedict. I gave him directions to my location, and he said it might be a while before he could get there. An hour or so, maybe. Something about having to take his wife to the airport.
I drank another bottle of grape Nehi and played a game of checkers while I waited.
DANIELS
SUNDAY, 3:40 P.M. CST
I sat in the lobby of the Di Caspio Spa and Salon, sipping a glass of white wine and reading the Sunday edition of the Trib. The story about Terrence Rush had made the front page with the headline DEFACER KILLED IN SHOOTOUT? The reporter used several quotes from last night’s press conference with Captain Bains. The piece was accurate, mostly, despite the overly-dramatic headline. Bains made it clear that the case wouldn’t be considered solved until the DNA results came back. In the meantime, it was an ongoing investigation, although the general consensus among police types was that we got him.
The article listed James Grappa’s condition as critical, but I knew he’d been upgraded to serious since the paper went to press. He was awake and talking, and the doctors expected him to make a full recovery.
“Jacqueline, are you doing okay?”
Philippe Di Caspio, my hairdresser, had stepped into the waiting area to check on me. I thought about telling him that no, I was not okay, that wine in the afternoon always made me horny as hell, but I decided to keep that little tidbit to myself.
“I’m fine,” I said. “How much longer?”
“Probably forty-five minutes. An hour at the most. Can I bring you another glass of chardonnay? Something to eat?”
“Are you trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me, Philippe?”
“Ah, if only that was possible.”
I laughed, and Philippe retreated back through the doorway to the salon.
I was halfway through Beetle Bailey when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and looked at it, didn’t recognize the incoming number.
“Daniels,” I said.
“Hello Lieutenant, this is Dr. John Boggan. You spoke to me at my apartment yesterday.”
“I remember. What can I do for you, Dr. Boggan?”
“Well, my daughter just left to go back with her mother for the week, and I was wondering if you might like to stop by and have a drink with me this evening.”
I knew he wanted to ask me out. I knew it the minute I walked through his door.
Ego restored.
“A drink?” I said.
“I know this must seem awfully forward, but I read the paper this morning, and I thought since—”
“We’re not absolutely positive yet that Terrence Rush is our man,” I said.
“But you think he is.”
“We still have to wait for the DNA tests to come back.”
“Which means that, technically speaking, I’m still a suspect in the case, and that it wouldn’t be appropriate for you to see me socially.”
“Technically speaking,” I said.
“One drink,” he said. “We can just chat for a while. Casual. You know, like friends. And then, if you want, we can get together again once the case is all wrapped up.”
I played it out. “How do I know you’re not really the killer? Maybe you just want to get me over there to throw me off your balcony.”
He laughed. “Yes,” he said. “Of course that’s it.”
“Well? It’s possible, isn’t it?”
“Anything’s possible. But if that was the case, I would have tried to get you over here under false pretenses. I would have told you I had some information regarding Bill’s murder. Then you would have had to come.”
“That’s what you should have done,” I said, and I couldn’t help but smile. “It’s what a smarter razor-wielding Defacer kind of guy would have done.”
“Okay, then, let’s start over. Lieutenant Daniels, I have some information that I think might be crucial to the William Shipman murder case. Unfortunately, I can’t talk about it over the phone. Would you mind stopping by my place in a few minutes so that I might have a word with you?”
I had to give the guy points for persistence. Plus, what McGlade had said stuck with me. Boggan had insisted he and Shipman and Renke were like brothers. Even closer. Which made me wonder what they’d been arguing about.
I played it coy.
“You make it hard for a girl to resist, Dr. Boggan, but I’m afraid it just wouldn’t be professional at this point.”
“Call me John. Please. Come on, Lieutenant. What are you afraid of? Do you really think I might have been involved in Bill’s death?”
“They pay me to be suspicious.”
“What possible motive could I have had?”
“I don’t know. We really hadn’t gotten very far into the investigation. We just happened to get lucky and catch a break with that Terrence Rush guy.”
“Not so lucky for the cop who got shot,” he said.
“Right. But you know what I mean.”
“Listen, if you don’t want to come to my apartment alone—which I do understand, by the way—then at least meet me over at Castaways and let me buy you a drink there. I’m scheduled to play racquetball at six, so it’ll have to be a quick one anyway. And you can ask me some more questions about Bill if you want. That way, it’ll feel more like a professional meeting.”
“I’m with a friend right now,” I said. “If I can get someone to pick her up and give her a ride home, I’ll meet you at Castaways. I’ll give you a call back in a few minutes and let you know for sure.”
/>
We said goodbye and disconnected. I called Herb.
“I’m meeting Boggan again. Before you grab Colt, can you pick up his girlfriend at Di Caspio?”
“What? Bad connection, Jack. I can’t hear a word you’re saying.”
I did the standard extend-my-arm-and-wave-my-cell-phone-around-like-a-talisman, as if those extra few inches would get me closer to the satellite. If Herb had joined the 21st century like the rest of us, he would have gotten a data plan on his cell that included texting.
“Meeting Boggan,” I yelled. “Can you come to Di Caspio?”
“The spa?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m nearby. Sure.”
“Thanks, Herb.”
“What?”
Laurie was under the hairdryer. I wrote her a note, telling her that I was going to see Boggan, and Herb was picking her up. She nodded. I called Dr. Boggan on the way out to my car.
John, he reminded me.
I told him he could call me Jack.
DEL CHIVO
SUNDAY, 4:14 P.M. CST
Sergio felt like a spider, sitting in his web. Waiting for the fly to come.
He sat on a crate, next to the front door of the vacant shop he’d broken into. There was brown paper covering the windows, but he peeled back a tiny bit, and had a perfect view of the police station.
His revolver was cocked. He was dressed and ready. The utility knife was in his pocket.
At the first sight of the Marshmallow Man and his partner, it would take less than five seconds to rush outside and shoot them both. Then he would run to the car, looking like he was trying to help, and take their faces.
To pass the time, Sergio hummed an old El Salvadorian folk song in his head. A song about a hero who saved his people.
Maybe someday, they would sing songs about Sergio. About this moment, right now. Killing Americano cops, striking a blow for the common man.
He adjusted the handcuffs on his belt, and began to make up some lyrics, trying to think of a word that rhymed with puerco.
COLT
SUNDAY, 4:16 P.M. CST
Tom Oller, the old guy at the checkerboard pickle barrel, said that he was originally from New Orleans. I believed this to be true because of the way he said NewOahluns, all one word with a distinctive accent—none of that New Or-leens crap you hear in some parts of the country—and because he knew the proper technique to purge crawfish. I wasn’t one hundred percent certain, but I doubted that anyone who’d been born in the state of Illinois possessed that particular bit of knowledge. After Tom beat me at checkers six games in a row and collected thirty dollars of my hard-earned cash, I told him I’d had enough, and I walked outside to wait for Herb Benedict.
The wind had died down, and it felt good to get some fresh air. I sat on a little park bench in front of the store and looked at a newspaper someone had left there. The sun was behind me and starting to get low in the sky, and the building and the single pump island threw long dramatic shadows onto the gravel lot and the two-lane blacktop beyond. The late afternoon was eerily quiet, and again I got the sense that I’d been transported to an earlier decade. I half expected John-Boy Walton to come tearing around the bend in his Model A Ford.
I read the paper and smoked a couple of cigarettes, started wondering if Benedict was having trouble finding the place. I pulled my phone out, and I’d punched in the first four digits of his number when a silver Chrysler 300 sped past the filling station doing about eighty. Herb’s car. Had to be. He’d told me the make and model, and the only other vehicles I’d seen all day were pickup trucks and log carriers.
I trotted out to the edge of the parking lot, waved and shouted hey, but the car was already a quarter of a mile down the highway by then. Herb couldn’t have seen or heard me, but he must have realized the mistake on his own. He braked to a stop, turned around, and gunned it back my way.
Jack was in the car with him. At least that’s what I thought at first. I did a double-take, suddenly realizing that the woman sitting beside him was not Jacqueline Daniels.
It was my girlfriend.
Laurie opened the door for me, and I climbed into the back. Herb eased onto the highway, reminded me to fasten my seatbelt, and then shot toward the interstate like a bullet.
“Herb Benedict,” he said.
“Nicholas Colt. Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Laurie turned around and faced me. She had a big smile on her face.
“Well?” she said. “What do you think?”
Her hair was much shorter than it had been when I left her earlier, and it was a different color. Darker, overall, with several shades of highlights throughout. It was a style that looked great on Jack, but I didn’t really care for it that much on Laurie.
Of course there was no way I was going to tell her that.
“Looks great,” I said.
“Do you really like it?”
“Yeah. I didn’t even recognize you.”
“Philippe said it’s the latest thing in Paris. I spent too much money, but it’s been so long since I did anything with my hair. I was just in the mood for a change, you know?”
“I think it’s fabulous. Sounds like you and Jack had a good time today.”
“We did. Oh, and you should see the pair of jeans I bought. You’re going to love them.”
“I’m sure I will. And you might as well leave your credit cards out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our suitcases were still in the Altima,” I said. “We’re going to have to buy all new clothes.”
“Crap. That’s right.”
“Women are always extremely disappointed when they find out they’re going to get an entirely new wardrobe,” Herb said.
“And now I know some really great stores to go to,” Laurie said. “I saw so many things I wanted today.”
All I could think about was how much this little unanticipated shopping spree was going to cost.
Herb made eye contact with me in the rearview mirror. “You guys want me to drop you at Jack’s house?”
“Please,” I said. “One more night there, and then we’re moving to the Valiant Inn.”
“The Valiant. I think I interviewed one of their clerks a few weeks ago. Guy with a fat cigar stub permanently implanted in his jaw. Kept calling me Mac, like we were in a James Cagney movie or something.”
“That’s the place,” I said.
“The lobby hasn’t been touched since the hotel was built, but I heard all the rooms were remodeled a while back.”
“Good. Hear that, Laurie? All the rooms have been remodeled. Sixty-two bucks a night. You can’t beat it.”
“Don’t get too excited,” Herb said. “By a while back I mean sometime in the seventies. Orange shag, lava lamps, mirrored tiles on the ceilings. You know, groovy.”
“Can’t wait,” Laurie said.
Herb exited the interstate. “I’m going to stop by the station real quick,” he said. “Got an email from Fed-Ex this afternoon. They delivered a package for me last night, something I’ve been expecting.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “It’s a surprise for your wife, and that’s why you had it delivered to your workplace and not at home.”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“How sweet,” Laurie said. “On the way up, Herb told me he and Bernice celebrated their anniversary yesterday.” She winked at me. “Their sex anniversary. The first time they made love. Isn’t that romantic?”
“Do we have a sex anniversary?” I asked.
“Of course we do, silly. And it’s coming up soon.”
“What does one do for a sex anniversary, Herb?”
He shrugged. “Have sex.”
Made sense.
Herb made several disorienting turns and then steered into a parking garage next to a building that said Chicago Police Department, District 26. He pulled into one of the reserved spots near the elevator, unbuckled his seatbelt, popped the door locks.
“Be right back,” he said.
He climbed out and hurried toward a doorway that said STAIRS. I guess he didn’t want to wait for the elevator.
“What happened to Jack?” I said. “I thought the two of you were together.”
“She left the salon to meet with one of William Shipman’s business partners. Guy named John Boggan. She arranged for Herb to pick me up and give me a ride.”
“We owe Herb a big favor. And Jack. We need to take them out to dinner.”
Laurie pulled down the sun visor on her side, looked at herself in the lighted mirror.
“Do you really like my hair?” she said.
“I already told you, it looks fabulous.”
“I wasn’t sure about it at first. It’s so different, so much shorter. But it’ll grow back, right?”
“It’s great. You’re a beautiful woman. I’m always proud to have you by my side.”
She turned around, reached back and pulled me toward her. We kissed. Warmly. Wetly. As passionately as possible considering the awkward position.
“Have I ever told you that you’re the sweetest man in the world?” she said.
“I have my moments, I guess.”
“Herb and his wife have been together for years, Nicholas. And they’re still in love. Was it like that with Susan?”
I nodded, a lump forming in my throat. “Yes.”
“Do you think it could be like that with me?”
I considered the question. Really, truly considered it. Then I answered honestly.”
“Yes, babe. I do.”
I’d never seen her so happy.
And I hadn’t felt this happy in fifteen years.
The elevator dinged. Herb stepped off and walked toward the car. He was carrying his jacket, and his upper body was wrapped in some sort of shiny black rubber thing. It looked like the backside of a heavy floor mat, one of those expensive aftermarket jobs people buy for their custom pickup trucks. There was an electrical cord dangling from one end.
