Soon the Nunez-Ocampo marriage becomes stormy. Turns out Nunez is also an alcoholic. He drinks himself to unconsciousness most nights. Nicomaine becomes unhappy with her matrimonial choice, a giant step down from husband number one. The couple begins to argue all the time. And, when Nunez is drunk, basting in that hot Latin temper of his, he gets slappy and shovey … and sometimes chokey. A restraining order was issued; but, after time passes, they rekindle. De jure, he’s not supposed to be within a hundred feet of her; but, de facto, that’s how these things sometimes play out. The woman gets lonely, feels guilty, or, quite frankly, she phones the guy for sex.
Evidently, that was the fatal mistake that occurred this evening.
Nunez comes over. They have sex. They have a meal. He starts drinking. They argue. Nunez, wasted and angry, figures he’s tired of taking her endless shit, and lets Nicomaine have it with a steak knife. He realizes what he’s done, drinks more, and ultimately passes out on the couch. He comes to an hour or three later, sees her lifeless body … and calls 911. Nunez doesn’t deny killing Nicomaine, claims he remembers nothing, but he’d been holding the knife, and the crimson trail leads to him and the sofa. And, considering his blood alcohol level, Nunez was still intoxicated when the police arrived at the scene.
“They’re about ready to haul Nunez to the station for booking,” said an impatient-looking cop who came up from the street to join us.
“Can you buy me five minutes, Wabs?” Kippy said.
I got an obligatory four-second introduction to Gimm’s partner, Officer Wabiszewski—“Wabs” to those in his inner circle. He looked about my height, hovering at that six-foot-nothing mark, but appeared as though he spent all of his free time at the gym. Not being a member of the inner circle, I got the stink eye.
“How do I stall them? Pull my gun?”
“Talk balls or pucks for Christ’s sake—this is Chicago,” Kippy said. “Better yet, tits and ass ’cause you’re all shitheads.”
“Three Grey Goose,” Wabiszewski said, as though bidding on a used car.
“Screw that. I’d flash my chest for three Greys,” Kippy bartered back. “Three shots of the house brand.”
Wabiszewski gave a slight nod to seal the deal, spun on a dime, and headed back to the police car containing Nunez, shouting something enthusiastic about the Blackhawks.
“I could spring for some Grey Goose, if you’d like,” I mentioned.
“What?” Kippy’s verbal cues indicated time was of the essence.
“Nothing.”
“You ready to go in?”
Internally, I turned and ran, abandoning Vira and sprinting as fast as I could back to Koreatown, where I hid behind an alley dumpster. Externally, I looked into Kippy’s brown eyes, wondered what it’d be like to run my fingertips along the curve of her neck, and announced, “I’m ready.”
CHAPTER 19
“I can’t have that mutt compromise my crime scene,” Detective Alan Triggs said immediately after introductions. “Stay the hell out of our way and, if there are no narcotics, get the hell outside and we’ll talk later.”
“Understood,” I replied.
Kippy had led Vira and me in a serpentine manner about the entryway, keeping us hugging close to the wall as we crossed the living room, until we stood a few paces outside of the kitchen and peeked at the drama currently unfolding in there. Detective Triggs was a short man, balding, with gray nasal hair in dire need of snipping. Behind Triggs, I spotted a pair of pink slippers lying haphazardly on the tiled floor, the feet that once fit them lying near the stainless-steel dishwasher. I saw the lower portion of a pink robe, its down-side soaked in crimson. There was blood spatter the size of silver dollars about the floor, and several CPD forensic experts huddled about what I took to be the late Nicomaine Ocampo Nunez. A forensic photographer was hard at work documenting the scene.
“What the hell’s your dog doing?”
Detective Triggs’s question tore my attention away from the kitchen scene. I looked down at Vira. Even though we were thirty feet away from the body, Vira fought through another one of her episodes, jiggling, mouth wide open, face scanning side to side like a windshield wiper.
And then it was over.
I looked back at the detective. “She’s getting her bearings.”
“Bearings?” Triggs said. “I thought she stuck her tail in an outlet.”
“Should we check upstairs, sir?” Kippy cut in. “See if Nunez has a stash in one of the bedrooms?”
“That and the basement, too, but stay the hell out of the living room and kitchen. Don’t fuck up my blood trail.”
* * *
“You saw it, didn’t you?” I asked as Kippy and I stood alone in the second-floor master bedroom.
“Yeah.”
“Vira can catch the scent or vision or whatever the hell she does at ten yards away.”
“It started as soon as she caught sight of Nicomaine Ocampo lying on the floor,” Kippy said. “What the heck do you think happens to her?”
“That’s the million-dollar question,” I said. “Remember, this is all new to her. Vira’s still a novice as a cadaver dog, and now she’s dealing with this other thing. It’s like she takes it all in, inhales it or something—disappears for a moment, inside herself or somewhere—and then comes back with some kind of … insight.”
“Insight?”
“I guess that’s as good a word as any.” I shrugged. “What do we do now?”
“Now we walk Vira by the squad car; let her get a good look or sniff or whatever at the suspect. You need to hold tight to her leash, Reid, because that restraining-order bastard Nunez stabbed his wife to death. Vira will go ape at the sight of him and prove our theory.”
* * *
Officer Wabiszewski was leaning against the driver’s-side window, smiling, and chatting away as though he and the cop behind the wheel were a couple of old veterans who’d not seen each other since they’d stormed the beach at Normandy. As we walked toward the rear of the squad car—where a cuffed Nunez sat—I caught Wabiszewski staring dagger eyes at Kippy. I also noticed the cop behind the wheel glance at his watch, likely for the tenth time in ten minutes. Kippy walked around to the driver’s side to buy me a few seconds, and I wasted no time.
“Him, Vira?” I whispered, crouching next to my dog and the rear passenger door. I pointed a forefinger at Nunez, who slowly turned his heavy-lidded gaze our way. His eyes were bloodshot and cloudy; the man looked like he was still more than several sheets to the wind. Blunter yet, Tom Nunez looked shitfaced. “Is it him, Vira?”
Vira jumped up against the back passenger door of the squad car. She and Nunez stared at each other through the window for several seconds. Neither one said a word … nothing spoken or snarled.
“Hey, hey, hey,” the officer behind the wheel began yelling at me, his head turned my way. “Get that damned dog off my car. I’ve got to go.”
We pulled back and an instant later the squad car was heading toward Pulaski Road.
A moment after that, Officer Wabiszewski said, “Either of you want to tell me what the hell that was all about?”
* * *
“I call bullshit,” Wabiszewski said, his sole focus on his fellow officer.
Kippy shrugged. “It was a test.”
“I don’t get it,” Wabiszewski replied. “I know you’re punking me somehow, but I don’t get the joke.”
“It wasn’t Nunez,” I said. I’d taken a knee next to Vira and started to remove the choke collar from around her neck.
Wabiszewski stared down at me as though seeing me for the first time and said, “Who the hell are you again?” Then he turned back to his partner. “You might want to tell this guy the stats behind court-issued restraining orders.”
“It wasn’t him.” I had confidence in my golden retriever; she’d dismissed Nunez with hardly a second glance … or sniff.
“If something happens to some poor girl, always grab the shithead with the order out on him. Sl
am dunk, case closed.”
“It wasn’t him.” I held firm. “Nunez didn’t kill his wife.”
Wabiszewski sighed. Kippy stared at Vira, a meditative look in her eyes.
Across the street, a couple of car doors shut. Vira went wild. She sprang into the street, snapping and snarling. My fingertips were still working the choker, and I flew forward, rib cage landing on the curb. I lost my grip on her collar but landed on the leash and was able to latch on to it as it strafed forward under my jeans and T-shirt. I grabbed the strap with both hands, an anchor in a tug-of-war contest, which snapped Vira to a halt. She continued to strain against the leash, growling and barking.
“No, Vira,” I spoke into her ear, using my command voice, my arm now firmly wrapped around a pair of golden shoulders, keeping her from any further sprints. “Sit.”
Vira froze and then sat, suddenly quiet, but her focus stayed on the car parked across the street. I glanced up and spotted the dark figures that I’d first assumed were plainclothes police officers in the Subaru BRZ I’d parked behind. The two had stepped from the vehicle, stood in the avenue, but now stared our way. In the streetlight, I could somewhat make them out. One was a woman, salt-and-pepper hair—maybe late fifties—who clutched a satchel to her chest as though to protect her from the attacking beast. The man standing next to her was much younger, dressed in khakis and a dark polo shirt. He also appeared stunned at the turmoil in front of him.
“Who’s that?” I asked Kippy, who had stepped beside me.
“The son,” she said. “John Ocampo Jr.”
CHAPTER 20
“I was at home, streaming Netflix,” John Ocampo Jr. told Kippy. “Why are you asking me these questions? You’ve already arrested the drunken bastard who killed my mother.”
I made Vira sit and stay still by the front tire of my F-150, several yards from where Kippy dove in headfirst, confronting the Ocampo kid. I kept Vira’s leash in both hands just in case. At first, she’d shot me a questioning glance, but had since kept her eyes focused on John Jr., watching him closely for any false move.
“Why are you asking John these questions?” said Evelyn Shertzer as she stepped between Kippy and Ocampo. Shertzer was the grief-counselor-slash-social-worker who’d been assigned to help Ocampo Jr. deal with a host of bereavement issues—sadness, regret, anger—as well as help him manage the thousand and one arrangements to be made. “You’re not even a detective.”
“What the hell is going on out here?” Detective Triggs crossed the road with Officer Wabiszewski—who’d run inside to fetch him—in tow. “First we hear what sounds like a goddamned werewolf movie, then Officer…” the detective pointed at Wabiszewski as he stumbled trying to remember his name and quickly gave up, “then this guy comes to grab me about some ruckus in the street.”
“I’ve been discussing with John the various stages of mourning over a significant loss, especially one that occurred in such a distressing manner,” Shertzer spoke first, “and suddenly that dog nearly attacks us. Then Missy here runs over and starts giving John the third degree. That’s what happened.”
“I’m not so sure Nunez did it,” Kippy said to the detective. “And I think you need to start looking at other suspects.”
Triggs stared at Kippy for several seconds, as though she were a fresh pile of something Vira may have pinched off in the road. He then looked at Officer Wabiszewski. “Get your partner out of here immediately.” He turned back to Kippy. “Expect a conversation with your lieutenant.”
Vira’s leash strained tight in my hands. Somewhere in the unfolding excitement, Vira moved to the back of Ocampo’s Subaru BRZ, placed her front paws on the back bumper, stared straight at the trunk, and started to bark. A second later she began batting at the back of the BRZ with a right paw.
I looked up to find five sets of eyes staring back at us. Triggs’s, Wabiszewski’s, and Shertzer’s were filled with confusion … bewilderment. Kippy’s eyes were full of righteous indignation. But John Ocampo Jr.’s eyes were filled with fear.
“She smells something in the trunk,” I said.
* * *
“You need a warrant,” Ocampo said.
“You’re making me suspicious, kid,” Triggs said.
“It’s just the principle of the matter … civil liberties. I’ve been at protests over this kind of stuff.”
“Exactly what I need in the middle of the night,” the detective replied. “A revolutionary.”
Somewhere in the mix Officer Wabiszewski pulled a vanishing act. He had been standing right there, staring at Vira, his mouth agape as though he were being fit for braces and then—poof—he was gone. It seemed an odd moment for a bathroom break, but the muscle-bound cop returned and said, “The car is registered to Nicomaine Ocampo Nunez.”
John Jr.’s head twitched. “The car is mine. Once I get done paying Mom back the loan, the title goes into my name.”
Triggs had been grinning since Wabiszewski’s reappearance, since he’d heard who truly owned the vehicle—the corpse in the bungalow’s kitchen. “Time to open the trunk, son.”
I’d just backed up the F-150 as far as possible, till my rear bumper kissed the Altima parked behind me. I dropped a fistful of Jerky Treats on the passenger seat for Vira. She gave me a look that said Seriously?
“You earned them, kiddo,” I told her, and then jumped out to join in the excitement.
Ocampo Jr. twisted the key, popped up the trunk lid, stepped aside, and extended both arms in a what’d I tell you gesture.
The trunk was empty.
Triggs turned to me and said, “Hell of a dog you’ve got there.” Without another word, the detective headed across the street, back to his crime scene.
Kippy began working her way through the Subaru’s vacant cargo space, methodically, with her flashlight, inch by inch. I climbed back into the cab of my pickup and hit the headlights to make her task easier. I then watched from the curb as Kippy scanned the carpeting in the floor of the trunk. A few seconds later, she stopped and straightened her back.
“Detective,” Kippy called, her eyes never leaving the cargo hold. “I see blood-spotting, drops the size of dimes.”
Triggs had made it halfway up the bungalow’s steps, but he came jogging back. Somehow—in the sprint—a pair of glasses appeared on his face. He looked where Kippy pointed, took her flashlight, and bent deep into the cargo hold.
“Looks fresh,” he shouted, though we all stood nearby. “I need Pauline,” he ordered, “have her bring the kit.”
Kippy scampered back to the bungalow to flag down the CPD forensic specialist known as Pauline.
Triggs pulled himself upright from the tight space and stood. “Your dog caught that through a locked trunk?”
“Although I’m training her in drug detection,” I continued the lie and then peppered in some truth, “she’s originally a cadaver dog.”
“I’ll be damned.”
Vira began to bark from inside the cab of my F-150, and all heads snapped her way. Shertzer hadn’t moved an inch. In fact, she clutched her satchel so close to her chest, she looked in need of bereavement counseling her own self. John Ocampo Jr., on the other hand, had taken the opportunity to softly step backward and was now two car lengths away, hovering at the edge of the beam kicked off by my headlights.
Officer Wabiszewski gave Ocampo Jr. his undivided attention. “Don’t make me chase you, sweetheart.”
CHAPTER 21
“So your mother is still quite active?” Silver Years Retirement Home director Shelley Fedorchak said.
“God yeah,” the caller replied. “Not as much since Dad passed, but my wife, Maureen, and I are always on her to keep busy, you know, keep doing things with her circle of friends.”
“That’s very caring of you,” Director Fedorchak said. “At Silver Years we make it a point to get all of our residents—our guests as we call them—involved in some activity or another, no matter how big or how small. Did you see the list of pastimes on our websi
te?”
The caller said, “Yes, most impressive.”
“We don’t want to push these activities on our guests too hard. In a perfect world, we’d like for them to show up of their own accord. But we worry about any shut-ins and work with their families—their sons and daughters and even grandchildren—to try to assist in getting them to participate, to try to get them to come out of their shells.”
“You won’t have to worry about Mom being a shut-in,” the caller replied. “The main thing Maureen and I worry about is Mom staying fit.”
“We do have an exercise room, with classes on fitness led by certified physical trainers.”
“That sounds great,” the caller said. “But, you know, even with Dad gone, Mom loves her nature walks, being out and about in the fresh air. Does Silver Years have anything like that to offer?”
“Funny you should ask,” Director Fedorchak said. “Gomsrud Park is just down the street—within walking distance—and it’s full of both hiking trails and bike paths.”
“Hiking trails?”
“I’m positive there’s at least a mile or two of footpaths,” the director said. “They twist and circle about, and are enclosed by trees and flowers and foliage. And, if I remember correctly, sculptures by art students at Thornton Fractional—Thornton’s the local high school—are positioned at every turn.”
“Wow.”
“If your mom likes to hike, I know she’ll love it here. We have one guest—a lovely spirit by the name of Weston Davies—who spends half his day on the Gomsrud trails. Mr. Davies heads out after breakfast and we’re lucky if we see him back by lunch. I know Weston would be willing to share the ins and outs and best pathways with your mother.”
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