He changes into running clothes, walks outside, and plods at an uncomfortable jog until he can’t take it anymore. He turns around, sweaty and winded, and walks home.
It’s after ten by the time he’s dressed and sitting in his sporty Honda Civic Type R. He’s convinced it’s the most attractive four-door on the market and the cheapest sports car he could find. The zippy engine and stiff suspension do him absolutely no good as he drives to work in constant congestion.
At the station, he finds a fresh door ding in his rear quarter panel. The impact took some paint and left a gash of raw metal. Nothing gets him pissed like others’ carelessness. “You stupid fuck!” he says loudly. “You didn’t know me? You fired without a warning, without a fucking brain in your head? Oh, shit. If I buy one, motherfucker, I ain’t buyin’ it from you.” It’s his favorite Serpico scene and cussing lets him vent. He’s immediately in a good mood. “You know, you’re a pretty fuckin’ weird cop,” he tells himself, still in character. “Yeah,” he admits as Whistler.
He’s happy until he sees Wendell. “Good morning, Wendell,” Whistler says with medium cheer.
Wendell doesn’t look up. “What’s good about it?”
“You raise a legitimate point.” Whistler keeps walking.
Upstairs he takes a tablet and nods to a few of the guys whose names he hasn’t learned. Suzuki isn’t in the squad room, so that’s good. Ruther is in. He walks straight to the inspector’s office. “Knock-knock,” he says.
“Diaz, I just got off the phone with the ME. The report will be here tomorrow. Wednesday morning at the latest.”
It was originally promised by today. So much for Ruther’s clout, Whistler thinks, but is careful to keep his expression neutral. “The sooner the better,” he says flatly.
“Where are things? You get notifications made?”
“Not yet. Couldn’t find next of kin. Her boss was off grid all weekend. I’m about to call.”
“Well, goddamn!” Ruther’s mustache stands up. “What’re you waiting for? Get to gettin’. When you’re done, drag Suzuki in here. We need to discuss next steps.”
“Yes, sir.”
In the conference room Whistler looks over the evidence they’ve sorted. An incomplete picture of Anna Beth’s last few days is developing. There’s no indication of who might have wanted to hurt her or why. His phone calls to her co-presenters at the conference yielded absolutely nothing. The techie for the presentation, Buddy Teutul, sounded sad to hear of Anna Beth’s death. “She was so much fun to work with,” he said. Despite long hours spent, Whistler feels like he’s getting nowhere, pushing paper around. He dials Greg Kidd.
“Kingfisher Consulting. Greg speaking.” He sounds like a man who never had a bad day. That’s about to change. “Mr. Kidd, this is Detective Diaz with Special Crimes here in Chicago. I’m calling about your employee Anna Beth Harpole.” Whistler plows straight into it. “I have some bad news. Anna Beth was found dead Friday morning.” He has the urge to apologize. Instead, he listens closely, trying to glean anything at all.
“Oh no. Oh my God. Wait. Friday morning? Why am I just hearing this? Oh God, it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry. How could this happen? I spoke to her just a few days ago.” He’s upset, says Anna Beth was like a daughter, that she had no family and he had no children, he and his wife had adopted her and the other way around. “Not legally, but in all the ways that matter. Oh my God. Elizabeth will be crushed.”
“Who will be crushed?”
“My wife, Elizabeth.”
“She and Anna Beth were close?”
“Very. They had lunches and went shopping. That type of thing. Elizabeth always wanted a daughter. We couldn’t have children. Low motility. Not Elizabeth’s fault. Bless her for sticking with me. She wanted a little girl. You see what I mean? Do you have a wife, Detective?” Whistler hesitates, decides to answer, but doesn’t get the chance before Mr. Kidd continues. “If you find a good woman hold on to her.”
The call goes downhill from there. Mr. Kidd is progressively more emotional and unfocused. Whistler asks questions and doesn’t give any answers. He learns what he can and makes arrangements to call again once Mr. Kidd has calmed down and gathered documents to better answer Whistler’s questions; once Greg has spoken to his wife.
When the call ends, Whistler is exhausted. Mr. Kidd’s vulnerability has left Whistler feeling exposed. He forgot to eat breakfast. It’s nearly lunchtime. I need food. He wants a drink. Not hot sake. Something cold. Something to take the edge off.
Beloved Racist Kitsch
Tuesday Moe rides Taibbi to a joint in West Lawn a block from the old Capitol Cigar Store with its saluting American Indian mascot reigning above the intersection. The cigar store closed years ago. From her booth by the window, Moe can see the fiberglass Indian wears black retro acrylic eyeglasses. The blue sign affixed to the statue’s chest reads “Eye Can See Now,” a repurposing of the statue into an ad for the ophthalmologist who leases the original space.
She orders a turkey club and hot water for her tea. She doubts the man she spoke to will show, but it’s worth a shot.
She pulls her laptop from her bag and starts typing. Her food comes. She eats and types. She sips and types. She finishes a third draft about Precious and makes a third cup of tea, stirs in honey, takes a deep breath. She’s careful not to scald her mouth.
A man approaches. “You are the reporter?”
“Yes, Mr. Reyes?”
“Si. Yes.”
“Please, sit.”
Mr. Reyes sits. “You don’t look like a reporter.” Moe would normally ask what he thinks a reporter looks like, but she doesn’t.
The man pulls the trucker cap from his head and wrings it with blocky hands. “You want to know about Maria. To write a story.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Reyes.” Moe shakes the man’s hand; it’s rough as a brick. “I want to tell her story,” Moe says, reaching into her bag. “I’m going to record this if you don’t mind.” Moe knows Maria was a sophomore at Hubbard High. A custodian had discovered her body in the parking lot three days after school closed for summer vacation. She’d been strangled. Moe read a brief description of the crime on the Tribune’s digital site. It wasn’t deemed worthy of the print edition. The police report had few details. No one was charged. Moe wasn’t able to get her hands on crime scene images. But the sparse details in the incident report sounded similar to what happened to the woman from San Francisco.
“What was Maria doing at school that day?”
“Forgot her piccolo in the music room. We rent it. I told her to get in the school so I could return it. You see. She didn’t want to play piccolo anymore. She was bad at it. I needed to give it back to the store, you see?” He keeps his hands working in front of him, twisting the brim of his cap, rolling it tighter and tighter.
“I understand, Mr. Reyes. You told the police?”
“Si. Yes. Of course. The custodian who found her, he let her into the school. She got her piccolo. He walked her out and she left. He found her body at quitting time. She was dead. Someone stole her backpack, piccolo, and everything. Her phone. Whatever she had. A necklace from her mother. You see? What kind of person does that?” Mr. Reyes doesn’t expect an answer.
“Do you have any idea why she was killed?”
“The police called it a bad mugging.”
“You don’t suspect anyone? A boyfriend? The custodian?”
“No. No. She was not cute. You understand? She looked like me. She was not a girl that got attention. She was a girl who was ignored. She dressed in sweatshirts and baggy pants. She didn’t wear makeup. She never had a boyfriend.”
His description could have applied to high school Moe. She tries not to judge. Although he seems unfeeling, he also looks ready to shatter. She knows this kind of man. His pride won’t allow him to weep in public. She will follow up with the police. The story will serve as another example of how little coverage crimes against minorities get, but it
won’t help her cousin’s case. Vivian’s leads suck. “Is there anything else?” she asks.
“Si. Yes. The store wants me to pay for the piccolo. They hired a collection agency. Maria is dead. The funeral was expensive. You have to help them understand.” He looks at her pleadingly.
“Mr. Reyes, I don’t know how much help I can be.” His eyes well with tears and he turns away. She relents. “You give me the name of the store and I’ll do what I can.”
“Si. Yes,” he says. He quits wringing his cap and puts it on. He wipes his eye and gives Moe some specifics. When he’s done talking, he leaves without saying goodbye, bumps the table hard, and her tea spills. She scoops up her recorder and laptop and scoots over so tea won’t run on her pants.
Moe juggles her equipment and plucks napkins from the dispenser to soak up the tea. She’s depressed and stares outside. The sinking sun projects the cigar store Indian’s forlorn shadow on a building across the intersection. Its upraised hand waves a sad goodbye.
A Piccolo’s Worth
On Wednesday, Vivian greets Moe as she walks in to Text Block. “Good morning. Right this way.” Moe follows Vivian until they arrive at a closed door with a plaque that reads “Moe Diaz/Executive Feature Writer.” Vivian turns the knob and lets the door swing open. Inside the windowless six-by-eight room sits a desk, a few mismatched chairs, and a lamp. “Well?” Vivian asks.
“Whoa,” Moe says.
“There’s my wordsmith. Welcome to your new office. From here you will wage a mission of journalistic world conquest. In the name of all that is good, of course.”
“Of course,” Moe agrees.
“Take a seat. Put your feet up. Plug in your laptop. I’ll call a newbie you can boss around.”
“No. No newbie. I’m trying to enjoy the moment.”
Vivian’s tone shifts to something more genuine, “It’s not much, but it’s a start. Took me days to make space. I’m sorry. I should have thought of it sooner. I hope you like it.”
“‘Like’ is not the word. I love it.” She hugs Vivian. Not until this moment did Moe know if she was going to live with this promotion or try to buck it. Standing in her own office, she’s in.
“Where are you on the follow-up to the Magnificent Mile Strangler?’
“That has a very yellow journalistic ring.”
“Your friend at Channel 13 coined it this morning. She interviewed an old woman and her long-haired dachshund. The woman lives in the neighborhood and was the one who called the police. There was no news, but she got fresh video. The strangler title is catching on.”
“Fucking Sophia,” Moe says.
“Fucking Sophia indeed. But where are we?”
“The story of Precious is done. I was about to send it. She was strangled. Seems she knew the killer. Crime of passion. Her momma, Loretta, believes it was the ex, Ronnie. He’s got a history of assault and possession. He left the state, and the police let it drop. No resources. Compared to the money being thrown at Miss Magnificent Mile, there’s the beginning of a story about resource discrepancies. Nothing to tie it to the other case, though.”
“No substantial media coverage of Precious,” Vivian says.
“Except us,” Moe adds.
“Except for us,” Vivian agrees. “Send it to me. And the other people on the list?”
“Maria Reyes was strangled and robbed. It smells fishy. But there’s an angle about the shop that rents school instruments being too heartless to waive the cost of a stolen piccolo.”
“What’s a piccolo?”
“It’s about a half a flute.”
“That’s what I thought. What’s the street value of a used piccolo?”
“I’d say almost nothing. I’d bet it was someone who knew her. I’m going to keep digging. I want to look into the father and the man who found her.”
“No connections to our strangler?”
“Not other than superficial circumstances. Two tips down, one to go. But I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
“With an office like this, you’re destined to work wonders.” With that, Vivian leaves.
“But no pressure, right?” Moe calls.
Vivian laughs from down the hall, as if it were a joke.
The Cold Cold Trail
Whistler arrives early, anxious for an infusion of details that might resuscitate his dying case. He’s first in the squad room. He opens the door and flips on the lights, watches the array of fluorescent tubes flash on around the room. Looked better in the dark.
He finds no report from the ME’s office, and it’s too early to make calls. He does some simple math in his head. Five days since Anna Beth died on a hard patch of pavement. Whistler feels he’s letting the young woman down. He’s beginning to like her. At least the version he’s reconstructed. Smart. Driven. Seemingly setting aside a personal life in favor of building a career. More likely making it up as she goes. Not so different from me.
From Elizabeth Kidd, he’d learned that Anna Beth was an only child of Dutch immigrants. The couple had moved to the United States to take jobs in finance. Shortly after arriving on American soil, there was an unexpected pregnancy, and Anna Beth was born. Anna Beth’s father passed away when she was a junior in college. Her mother, heartsick, traveled home to be with family and never returned. She died a few years later.
“Was Anna Beth left an inheritance?” Whistler smelled motive.
“Not really. She got a small monthly payment from an estate her parents arranged. It wasn’t a fortune. For financiers, they were not particularly wealthy. But they left her a safety net. Enough to help out until her career took off. If she lived that long.” Elizabeth’s voice broke.
“Take your time.”
After a long pause: “I’m fine. My point is, cost of living in San Francisco is brutal. Anna Beth had a better lifestyle than she could afford, in a better building than she should be able to swing. She had expensive taste in clothes. That kind of thing. The money from her parents subsidized her spending habit. I think splurging was a way of feeling cared for by her parents. As if they were still alive and doing things for her.”
Whistler could hear her set the phone down and blow her nose. He waited. When she was more composed, he said, “I know it’s difficult. Unreal. But you were about to say something.”
“Nothing really. She always let me pick up the tab when we went out. She knew I liked to mother her. She took advantage a little. It was a playful thing. I never got too offended.”
“What about her social life? Was she seeing anyone? Any bad breakups?”
“She didn’t date. Didn’t seem particularly interested. I tried to set her up more than once. She never went for it. When I was her age, I dated. Not Anna Beth. Men were not her thing.”
“Is it possible she was gay or bisexual and afraid she’d be discriminated against?”
“In San Francisco?”
“I take your point. Perhaps dating older men? Married men? Into open relationships or something kinky she might feel people would judge her for?”
“Anna Beth? I know these questions need to be asked, but you’re barking up the wrong tree. She had boyfriends in the past. She was engaged once. She was idealistic about love. She wanted it to work a certain way. When reality didn’t meet her halfway, she gave up on it. That’s all. Got her heart broken and decided it wasn’t for her.”
“Do you have the name of this fiancé?”
“I’m sorry, no. It was years ago. Before grad school. I don’t think she ever told me his name.”
“What about jewelry? Perfume? She wasn’t wearing earrings or rings. No watch.”
“I feel naked without my jewelry, but Anna Beth rarely wore any. Though, as part of an outfit she might have worn something. Small and silver usually. Something elegant, simple, and too expensive for what it was.”
“And perfume?”
“She was sensitive to scents. She used unscented deodorant and detergent. When we shopped, we’d avoid the perfume counter.”
“That is odd. Shoes were her main accessories. And bags. She liked a good bag.”
Whistler made a note of that. Underlined it. Asked, “Can you think of any reason she wouldn’t have dress shoes with her?”
“She would have rather gone topless than without her heels. I don’t know what to tell you.”
Whistler asked more questions. Elizabeth Kidd was conversational and forthcoming. She was upset but wanted to be of use. She seemed relieved to have someone to talk with. The last thing she asked was, “You saw her after. She didn’t suffer, did she?”
He thought of Anna Beth, the thin skin of her neck dark with trauma, the curve of her crushed windpipe lumpy and wrong. He said, “She didn’t suffer. It happened very quickly.” Though she was a smart woman, and he wasn’t a talented liar, Elizabeth Kidd had seemed grateful for his effort, desperate to accept a fictional version of events.
He’d also spoken again to Mr. Kidd. Anna Beth’s boss explained a bit about his work, about the role Anna Beth played. “She was a real go-getter. She wanted to do more and didn’t want to wait. I was considering giving her a bigger role. Either that, or I was going to lose her. She was too good and too smart to stay here forever. She would have been gone within a year if this hadn’t happened. Sorry.” He had gotten progressively apologetic for being upset. He’d provided Anna Beth’s home address and other personal details. None of it likely to be of use.
Whistler gets coffee going and walks to the conference room while it brews. He wanders deeper into the building, looks into the empty interview rooms. This is where Ruther’s reputation for greatness really stems. Getting a suspect cornered with circumstantial evidence and working it to get a confession, or at least self-incrimination. That is something I’d like to see.
Half Dead Page 13