by Wally Duff
“You really got crunched,” Cas said. “Do you still want to write Hannah and Micah’s story?”
“I do.”
“What if your bomber finds out what Micah is doing in his lab?” Cas asked.
“And that you’re living here and working on his story,” Linda continued.
I hesitated before I answered. “I don’t want anyone to be injured or die because of the bomber’s misguided way to protest abortion. If he’s alive and free, I’ll do whatever it takes to make certain he’s caught.”
“Maybe you can change the story a little,” Molly said. “Kind of make it a personal interest story about Hannah and Micah and leave out the scientific stuff.”
“I agree. I doubt the bomber, if he’s even still alive, will read about it in a paper with a minuscule circulation like the Lakeview Times.”
Hope I’m not wrong.
94
“Linda, do you have any new information on the spending from Hannah’s trust?” I asked.
“I have been over it several times from several different angles,” Linda said. “I’ve reached the same conclusion: her trust fund has contributed only twenty-five million dollars to the project.”
“Did the Dallas bank account provide the rest of the money to fund the lab?” I asked.
“It did. Over one hundred fifty million dollars to date.”
“Yikes,” Molly said. “That’s a lot of cash.”
“It is. I broke down the spending by Loring. He’s been a busy boy writing checks. He’s even spent over four hundred seventy thousand dollars on mice.”
“Wish I was a mouse farmer,” Molly said. “Sounds like an easy way to make money.”
“Do you know what kind of mice Micah is using in his lab?” Cas asked.
“Give me a minute here,” Linda said. She took out her iPad. “Let me look it up.”
“While we’re waiting, Molly, what about Hannah?” I asked.
“We went to lunch at the Wishbone today.”
I pictured Molly cutting up Hannah’s food.
“And how did it go?” I asked.
“It was fun.”
“How did you get to the Wishbone?”
“We walked.”
“Did you have to help her?”
“No, why would I?”
“Because she limps and has to lean on her kids when she moves around at the park.”
“Didn’t happen today.”
“No limp at all?”
“Nope.”
“What about her eating?”
“She did better than I did.”
I waited.
“I spilled my ice tea.”
“It happens, but she had no problems?”
“None. I think it’s from the new treatment Micah is giving her.”
“For what?”
“For what, what?”
Talking to Molly was always fun. “Let’s try it again. Is Hannah sick?”
“For sure.”
“Did she say what’s wrong with her?” Cas asked.
“Not exactly, but I figured it out.”
“And?” I asked.
“It’s a bad kind of arthritis.”
“She said that?” Cas asked.
“Not exactly, but today on The Doctors TV show they had a woman on it who acted exactly like Hannah, so I’m sure it’s what she has.”
Molly was doing her assignment, but she was inserting her conclusions instead of providing facts. I was convinced Micah was treating his wife for a crippling disease, but I didn’t think it was for arthritis.
“Oh, and one other thing,” Molly said. “I talked Hannah into having playgroup at her house.”
“Great,” I said. “Firm up the date and text me when you have it.”
Linda glanced up from her iPad. “Have the mouse data, Cas. Take a look.”
She looked over Linda’s shoulder and read what was on the screen. “Those are mouse models used to study multiple sclerosis.”
“You think Hannah has MS?” I asked.
“If he’s using those mice in his lab, I do.”
“But we have no conclusive proof that’s what Micah is doing his research on.”
“Or if he’s treating her for MS,” Cas said.
“Molly, we really need to have playgroup at Hannah’s house,” I said.
95
On the way home from the park, I called Carter. “Honey, have a sec?”
“Sure,” he said. “What’s up?”
I told him the new information about Hannah.
“Based on the type of mice Micah is using in his lab, your conclusion is Hannah has multiple sclerosis and Micah is treating her for this disease, is that correct?”
He sounded skeptical.
“Yes, but I don’t have objective evidence to prove it, which is why I called. Have any doctors or medical research labs in Chicago advertised for MS patients to enter a Phase I clinical trial?”
“Easy enough to find out.”
He clicked on his keyboard.
“One week ago, Dr. Bruce Loring purchased an ad for that type of a trial. He needs twenty patients who have MS and are willing to come to his lab to be evaluated for an upcoming clinical trial. It is scheduled to run in next week’s print and Sunday’s online editions.”
That can’t be right.
“The clinical trial hasn’t begun?”
“Not here in Chicago, but they might be doing it in another town. I’ll flag the ad, which will allow me to follow it for you.”
“Great, thanks. See you tonight. Love you.”
The Phase I trial had not begun, but according to Molly, Hannah was better.
What is happening here?
96
All day Tuesday, I played with Kerry, ran errands, and did my mommy work around the house. When I had a chance, I researched multiple sclerosis online. My major conclusion? I was glad I didn’t have it.
On Wednesday morning, Tony called me on my cell phone. “Need your help.”
“Will it be risky?” I asked thinking Carter would freak out if it were.
“Probably not, but if it is, you got me to protect you.”
Hard to argue with that.
Two hours later, while Linda babysat for Kerry, I rode with Tony in his white BMW to the Rosemont Park Cemetery. After a forensic autopsy, the police had released Donna’s body, allowing her remains to be buried.
The interior of Tony’s car still had the new car smell, an alien scent to me since our van always reeked of interesting odors from my daily activities with Kerry. His light brown leather seats were baby-skin soft. Before I climbed in, he asked me to take off my sandals because he didn’t want me to track in any dirt or baby glop. I took advantage of it to rub my toes around on the plush, dark-brown carpet.
Heaven.
He parked his BMW about half a block from the funeral service. He kept the engine running and the air conditioner on full blast.
“Where’s your partner?” I asked.
“I’m working off the clock. Our department doesn’t have enough money in the budget for this.” He stared out the front window. “Know any of these people?”
There were about thirty adults in attendance. The majority of them were young women. Al-Turk wasn’t there, and I didn’t recognize any of the men.
“The only ones I know are Sammy and Corky. They’re the two standing in the front row. They work out at Xsport Fitness with us. They’re also employees at the Twenties.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen them there.”
We watched the service for several minutes.
“I have an idea,” I said.
Opening the passenger door, I stepped out into the humid Chicago morning. The wind from Lake Michigan blew the fragrance of the flowers and recently-mowed grass toward me. I slipped into my sandals and walked toward Sammy and Corky. An usher handed me the funeral program as the minister began the final prayer.
After he finished, the crowd stood in painful silence. The two girls t
urned around. Their eyes were red from crying, and neither wore any makeup. They were dressed in black, but the simple dresses could not disguise their fantastic figures.
I walked up to them. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Corky put her arms around me and began sobbing. “It’s so unfair. Donna was like our best friend in the whole world.”
Patting her shoulder, I waited for her to speak. She didn’t. All she did was cry. I glanced at Sammy. She cried too. I held out my other arm and led them to where the cars were parked.
“Did Donna have any family here?” I asked.
Corky stopped crying and wiped her nose with a tissue. Sammy did the same.
“I don’t think she had anyone,” Corky said.
“She might have had an aunt in Iowa, but that’s all I know, Mrs. Thomas,” Sammy said.
“Please, it’s Tina.”
We arrived at their car, a black GMC Envoy. I peeked at the license plate. It was the same one I’d seen Donna get out of at the dentist’s office. And the one I’d found parked in the lot of an apartment building behind the Twenties.
Maybe that’s where you girls live.
“Would you like to grab a cup of coffee? I’ve been through tragedies like this and have learned that talking with friends is one of the few ways to get through the grieving process.”
“Thank you, so much,” Sammy said. “Neither of us has ever had a friend who was murdered and it’s...” She began crying again.
“...something no one should ever have to go through.” I glanced back at Tony’s car. “Tell you what. Meet me at Starbucks in Lakeview in ten minutes.”
This is the part of investigative reporting I hate.
I was in a perfect position to comfort them and at the same time use their anguish to my advantage to hopefully break this story.
But I have to do it.
I felt the surge of the excitement I used to get when I was about to snag the information I needed. It was what I’d lived for as a reporter: to make a difference when lives might be at stake and, at the same time, write a terrific story.
I’m not back yet, but I’m getting closer.
97
I climbed into Tony’s car. “I’m meeting them at the Starbucks in Lakeview.”
He fired up the engine and pulled out. “I’ll drop you there.”
“Great. I need any new information on the Lorenz murders to help me question them.”
“It started when he moved next door to you because of the C4 on the trash samples.”
“Why me?”
“You were his only lead. His first move when he got here was to put a GPS transponder on your van and tail you.”
“Hoisted with my own petard,” I mused, more to myself than Tony.
He blinked but didn’t respond. Hamlet wasn’t one of his strengths.
“How did you figure it out?”
“Found it on your van, but the second device is well hidden.”
Second?
“There are two?”
“First one is under the rear bumper. Second one is smaller than any of the ones we have. It’s attached to the engine mount.”
“Why two?”
“If you found the first one, would you search for a second one?”
“Probably not.”
“Feds are smart. They expect you to find the standard device, but not check for the second one.”
The feds had been following me since the day Lorenz arrived.
“It was last Wednesday,” I said.
“What?”
“I drove to the Twenties to see if there was another new car parked there. It had to be how Lorenz made my connection with the strip club.”
“Fits the time frame of what happened.”
“What’s your take on the Twenties?”
“Called the Chicago liquor license department. Club’s under new ownership. They’ve been watching it.”
“And?”
“It’s clean. No drugs. No prostitution. No nothin’.”
“Not surprising. Al-Turk seems to know exactly what he’s doing.”
“Agree, but got another problem. Al-Turk’s listed as the owner of the Twenties but not his house. Can’t find out why.”
“I already know.”
I told him about the Arun Corporation.
“I’m sure Lorenz knew about it too,” I said.
“How?”
“He researched the Twenties and backtracked from there.”
“Dude had the resources to find it.”
“And because of that, the FBI knows Donna worked as a stripper at the Twenties.”
“That’s why the feds are here,” he said.
“Here?”
“We’re not the only ones watching this funeral. See the guy standing by the grave?”
“The cemetery worker?”
“Look at his shoes.”
He wore thick-soled, black, cop shoes. “FBI?” I asked.
“Most likely, or the DEA, if they’re going to work the case together. Probably has a friend sitting over there.” He pointed at a white van about twenty yards away. “Taking pictures would be my guess. They’re here because of Donna. They work funerals of murder victims and take pictures of the crowd.”
“So they took my picture with you and they know we’re involved.”
“They do. You got a problem with it?”
“No. I want to find out as much as I can. I owe that much to Donna.”
“What are you talking about?”
“If I hadn’t gone back to the Twenties, Lorenz might never have discovered it and Donna wouldn’t have been killed.”
98
As Tony drove, I kept looking around trying to spot a tail.
“Are the feds following me? I asked.
“Could be, but they probably aren’t — for the same reason I’m working this off the clock. Budget cuts. Takes a lot of manpower to physically follow one person twenty-four hours a day.”
“So they won’t see me with Corky and Sammy.”
“Again, I doubt it. Probably no more than three people replaced Lorenz on the case, maybe only two. They’re in a location where they can have cameras on your house and the house across the street. Might have one or two people on the Twenties, but more likely, they’re using cameras there too. And they have access to the GPS devices Lorenz planted on your van.”
“And I'm riding with you so they don’t know where I am.”
He pulled up and stopped. “You’re clean. Now get to work and help me on this.”
I stepped out into the humidity but couldn’t control myself; I scanned the neighborhood trying to identify watchers. I didn’t see any and walked into Starbucks.
Corky and Sammy were already there, sipping lattes and staring into space. I sniffed and savored the coffee aroma filling the room. I bought a skinny latte and gave them hugs before I sat down.
“Donna was such a sweet girl,” I said. “Do you have any pictures to remember her?”
I needed to see who was in the photos with them.
They took out their iPhones and scrolled through their pictures of the trio touring Chicago landmarks. There were numerous selfies snapped with men in bars and restaurants. I didn’t recognize any of them.
“Who would murder her?” Sammy asked, after she clicked off the pictures. “She wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“It could be the dentist was the target, and she just happened to be with him,” I said.
“If you’re right, then this sucks even more,” Corky said. “He was a creep.”
“I can’t understand why she wanted to hang out with him,” Sammy added. “He made me uncomfortable.”
“Me too,” Corky said.
“Uncomfortable?”
“He kept asking me and Corky about drugs and money and stuff like that.”
Exactly what I would have done. “That’s all he wanted to talk about?”
“He bugged us about Mr. al-Turk too,” Corky said.
&n
bsp; I pretended I didn’t recognize his name. “And Mr. al-Turk is who?”
They stared at each other several seconds.
“He’s our boss,” Sammy said. “He gives each of us our own free apartment. And he paid for Donna’s funeral.”
“Plus, with our salary and tips, we make great money,” Corky said.
“And we get free medical care,” Sammy said.
“Does Mr. al-Turk ever chauffeur you around in a Mercedes or a Range Rover?”
Corky smiled. “Oh, no. Jamie drives us in his Envoy.”
“Who is Jamie?”
Now Sammy smiled. “He’s a cute guy who lives in our apartment building.”
“What does he look like?”
“You should know,” Corky said. “He works out at XSport Fitness and hits on all the women in there.”
“Is he tan and muscular?”
“You got it,” Sammy said.
“Does he do spinning?”
“He does all the classes he can, plus lifts weights,” Corky said.
“Does he work for Mr. al-Turk?”
“I doubt it,” she said. “Jamie never comes to the Twenties.”
“He’s just a guy in our apartment building who lets us use his Envoy when he’s at work,” Sammy said.
“And where is that?”
“Not sure it ever came up,” she said.
“How does he get to work when you use his truck?”
“He has a Harley too,” she said.
Was Jamie connected to the story, or was he a horny guy living in an apartment building with a bevy of strippers and driving a car registered to the Arun Corporation? Did the corporation pay him and give him free rent too?
Too many questions need to be answered.
I couldn’t write this story without proven facts. I had to keep digging.
99
“Is Mr. al-Turk the owner of the Twenties?” I asked.
“He runs the club, but I’m not sure if he owns it,” Corky said.
“And from what you said about all the benefits he gives you, he’s a nice guy, right?” I asked.
Corky’s face clouded over. “I wouldn’t say that. He’s like super strict. He won’t let us near any drugs, and we can’t drink alcohol at the club.”