He looked twice.
I stretched my neck side to side. I didn’t like wearing a collar, and this suit was much too tight.
“Jonathon DiMarco.” I walked closer and greeted him. “What a coincidence.”
“Jack Valentine? I’d be surprised if this was a coincidence.” He looked me up and down. “You didn’t strike me as the type of guy to attend these things, however, I must say, you’ve scrubbed up quite well.”
He looked over his shoulder at the other people mingling behind him and nodded for me to follow him. We stepped out of the main room, into a hallway, and walked through the door to a commercial kitchen. The kitchen was buzzing with people rushing around, ensuring the two hundred and fifty attendees would be well-fed. I didn’t question where we were going. A few of the staff looked at us, but DiMarco kept moving. He knew where he was going. He stepped past the team of people washing up the dishes, through another door, and into the alley behind the building.
It was a narrow space, only just wide enough for a car, and the lighting was non-existent. There were a number of large bins near the exit, and bad graffiti covered the walls.
“I have to give a keynote speech about the justice system in an hour, so we’re going to make this quick.” DiMarco said as he stepped down the five steps to the alleyway. The dumpster next to us was full, and a few puddles lay further down the alley. The cars moved past at the end of the alley, at least fifty feet away, and the shadows could’ve held any number of dangers. “I imagine that you’re more comfortable out here than in that hall.”
He was right. “And I imagine that you do a lot of your wheeling and dealing in places like this. Perhaps even convince your followers to take action for you.” I stepped close to him. “Or perhaps this is the type of place where you organized how to murder a group of lawyers.”
“Don’t get too close to me.” DiMarco held up one hand as a stop sign and stepped back. “Who have you been talking to?”
“A cop named Stan McMillian. He had a lot to say about you and it seems you have quite the thing for hunting lawyers.”
“Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
“Literally.”
He looked up and down the alley before he squinted at me. “What are you implying?”
“That you’ve had a hand in the deaths of these lawyers.”
“That’s quite a wild accusation, Mr. Valentine. I hope, for your sake, that you have evidence to back that claim up. Because if you don’t, and you take that complaint to the police, I’m not sure you’ll find many people willing to investigate it for you.”
“There’s been four criminal defense attorneys who have committed suicide over the past fifteen months that have a lot of connections to you.”
“You’re saying I pressured them into it?”
“I’m saying they didn’t kill themselves. Matthew Wilkerson and you were seen outside Waltz’s apartment on the day he died.”
He shook his head. “It’s—”
The door to the kitchen swung open and a staff member walked out with two trash bags. He froze the second he saw us staring at him. The staff member looked around, nodded to us, and then proceeded to throw the bags in the dumpster as quickly as he could. Once the bags were in the dumpster, he moved back inside and shut the door.
“I know Stan McMillian. He’s about as dirty as they come.” DiMarco raised his chin. “So, I’ll only warn you once. Stay away from me, stay away from my people, and stay away from my organizations. Stop digging into my business. Stop trying to tarnish my reputation with these claims.”
“And if I don’t?”
“If you think I kill lawyers for fun, imagine what I could do if I was threatened.” He smiled and stepped closer to me. “Go on, Valentine. I dare you to test me.”
He brought his face within five inches of mine, huffed in and out, and then stepped past me, back through the door into the building.
I didn’t bother following him. I loosened my tie, pulled it from under my collar, and walked through the shadows, down the dark alley.
My job was done. Those under pressure are more likely to make a mistake, and I just applied an almighty amount of pressure to the main suspect.
Chapter 21
After my encounter with DiMarco, I returned to the office. It was dark out, but Casey was still there, two empty takeaway coffee containers on her desk, reviewing footage she’d obtained from nearby Larry Fittler’s house. She’d managed to sweet-talk one of the neighbors into sending their personal door camera footage to her, and it provided a remote view of Fittler’s door across the street. I couldn’t comprehend how she managed to get people to do things like that, but then, I didn’t have the same charm that she had.
“Anything?” I asked hopefully as I took off my dinner jacket and hung it on the coat rack near the entrance.
“Nothing. I’ve managed to get footage from two neighbors, two businesses, and one parking lot at the end of the street. I used a little sweetness, and the older men happily gave me access to the footage. Out of all the video, this is the best angle, it gives us the view of his front door from across the street, but there’s no movement at all,” she said. “There’s nothing. No strange people scoping the place out, nor any sign of DiMarco, Wilkerson, or Carpenter. There’s no sign of any suspicious cars, or any hint of what is about to occur. It’s another dead end.”
“Whoever is doing this, is very well prepared.” I sat down at my desk, the chair sinking under my weight. “There hasn’t been one witness, one piece of video footage, or one piece of evidence left behind at any of these deaths. How are they getting in and killing these lawyers without a struggle?”
I turned on the computer and checked my emails, scanning over numerous bills that needed to be paid. While reading the emails, I could sense that Casey was itching to say something.
“Go on. What is it?” I turned to her.
“It’s just…” She stood and walked around to the front of her desk, leaning against it while she thought out-loud. “Maybe we’ve got this wrong. There’s never been any sign of a struggle. There’s no fighting in any of the scenes. Maybe… maybe the killer is hypnotizing the lawyers? Maybe they’re doing it during the day and then the lawyer is convinced that they have to go home and kill themselves? I’ve seen a documentary on television about hypnotherapy, and people do strange things while under the spell. Maybe the killer doesn’t actually pull the trigger?”
“Good theory, I like that you’re thinking outside of the box, but hypnotherapy doesn’t work like that. The brain automatically breaks any trance whenever it’s threatened. It’s a survival instinct. But I like the idea. It’s outside the box, and that’s what we have to be thinking about.”
“Right.” Casey bit her lip. “So maybe the killer is threatening the lawyers? Forcing them to shoot themselves?”
“What would the killer threaten the lawyers with? All these lawyers see themselves as the most important person on the planet. There isn’t one thing that you could threaten them with that is more important than themselves. The only thing more important than their life is their reputation,” I mused. “Is there anything in their past that connects them? Anything that exposes them? We know they went to different schools; we know they worked for different firms, and we know they lived in different neighborhoods. But is there anything else?”
“They’ve all worked together at various times during their careers, but that’s not surprising given they’re the best lawyers in their fields. Their paths were bound to cross at one point or another. They all knew each other at least. Maybe they made a suicide pact?”
“It’s not a bad theory. Maybe we’re looking at this all wrong and they did kill themselves.”
Casey circled her desk, back to her chair and as she sat down, she gave my clothes one look up and down. “You know, for such a thug, you scrub up quite well.” She winked. “How’d the function go with DiMarco? You’re back early, so I’m guessing it was either very successful or
very unsuccessful.”
“My chat with DiMarco went as expected. He was nervous to see me there and wouldn’t talk to me in front of the others, so he led me through the kitchen at the conference center hotel and into the alley to chat. He was clearly shaken by my presence.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me not to dig any deeper into his business.”
“Did he actually use the word ‘dig?’ Like the note stated?”
“That’s the exact word that he used. Could be a coincidence, but my guess is that it isn’t. If he’s the killer, then he knows we’re close and he knows he’s vulnerable.” I put my hands behind my head and leaned back. “But now we have to do the hardest part—we have to sit and wait for him to make a mistake.”
Casey spent another hour in the office, reviewing more of the footage before she called it a night just after 10pm. She offered to leave together, but I wasn’t ready to stop reviewing the files yet. She said goodnight, and I stayed in the office, brewing another pot of coffee.
I wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway. Not after my encounter with Hugh Guthrie. Some people had a way of getting under your skin, a way of pushing you to the limit, and for me, that was Guthrie. Every time I shut my eyes; I saw his stupid face. He supplied the gun to my wife’s killer, and killed another man, and he should’ve been seeing out his days at the Cook County Jail. But Guthrie had a good defense lawyer, someone who knew the law better than most. The lawyer exposed a loophole, charmed the judge, and then Guthrie walked out of prison. Maybe there was something to the serial killer’s rage that I was starting to understand.
The police had done their job, the legal system had done its job, but Guthrie still walked away, thanks to the skills of a defense lawyer. The defense lawyer was also doing his job, doing his part for the justice system, but in the end, he was defending a criminal. If I couldn’t nail Guthrie, would I go after the defense lawyer? I didn’t think so, but I understood the killer’s thinking.
As the clock ticked past midnight, I struggled to keep my eyes open any longer. I’d searched file after file after file for anything that might help us expose DiMarco, and I came up with nothing. Nothing. Not a clue, not a hint, not one piece of evidence. We were close, but we were missing something.
After I locked my office door, I looked down the corridor that led to the elevators. Out the farthest window, the one closest to the street, the night sky was aglow with the buzz of city lights, and I tried to remember the last time I’d left in daylight. My workload was getting heavier by the month, not that I complained about the long hours. I liked the work, and I knew long ago that this was what the job entailed.
I continued, and walked the street to the nearby parking lot, checking for any potential problems. Legend said that werewolves came out after midnight, but in my experience, the drunken idiots were a bigger problem. There was no movement in the shadows, but still, I was wary. As I entered the parking lot and walked towards my truck, my mind was thinking about a drink of whiskey, and then my head hitting the pillow, but then I spotted Casey’s car still in her parking space.
Unusual, I thought, but concluded she must’ve gone to get something to eat before returning to her car. Perhaps even a date. A woman like Casey never found getting a date any real challenge. She could walk into any bar and instantly be the center of attention. Second dates, however, were a lot harder for her. Most men were scared off by her ability to beat them into the ground. I’d seen her go to work on the heavy bag, and knew she packed a punch. She might’ve been dainty, but she was no pushover.
I needed a whiskey tonight. I needed to try and calm the constant thoughts barreling through my head. There was no doubt that Casey and I would be at the top of DiMarco’s list next. I’d been threatened with murder many times before, and no one had even come close, but this felt different. These murders were well-planned and well-thought out. These deaths weren’t at the hands of a random brute, these deaths were at the hands of a crazed, and clever, psychopath.
As I stepped closer to my truck in the multi-level parking lot, something in the air didn’t feel right.
A light rain fell, and I stepped over the puddle that was beginning to pool near the ramp that led to the street. With my keys pointed towards my truck, I went to unlock it. But in a moment of distraction, I stepped towards Casey’s BMW. She’d saved a long time for that car. It was the car she always wanted, the one she always dreamed of.
I looked at the driver’s side of her car. Nothing. No one in the vehicle. None of her belongings left on the seats.
I looked over my shoulder, back towards the elevators, then back towards the entrance to the lot. The owner told us that he’d never had any problems with the parking lot, which surprised me. There was a security gate on the bottom level, and cameras at the main exit. An attendant was in the booth during the day, but usually left before night fall.
I heard a sound, a low groan from nearby. Fists clenched, I waited. I looked to the shadows. There was no other sound. No other movement.
I heard the groan again.
It was from the far corner of the parking lot, near the stairwell, where the lights were blown. I checked my holster. Unclipped it. With my hand on my gun, I stepped towards the shadows, squinting to see any other movements.
As I came closer, my eyes adjusted to the darkness.
“Casey!”
Lying on the concrete, head down, blood next to her, was Casey.
“Casey!”
I fell to my knees, cradling her head, holding her tight.
“Casey! Talk to me. Casey! I’m here.” I held her, her face bloodied. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”
“Jack?” She began to open her eyes, blood dripping from her mouth. “Is that you?”
“I’m here, Casey.”
“I... I got him, Jack. I got him. I landed a punch on his jaw,” she whispered. “The guy took me from behind, but I managed to get in a left hook.”
The punch was the only reason she was still alive. I didn’t doubt that. I looked over my shoulder, around the parking lot. There were no other noises. No other people.
“It’s all right. You’re safe now. That’s all that matters. I’ve got you.”
My voice sounded confident, firm, reassuring Casey, but in truth, I was filled with doubt. I knew this attack wasn’t random. I knew this wasn’t a mugging gone wrong.
And now, I had a new reality to face—the killer was moving faster than expected.
Chapter 22
Winston, my always happy golden retriever, bounded up to the gate in the dog park. It was five-past-seven in the morning, and the sun had started to throw a soft orange glow over the park. I loved the beauty and calmness of the early morning daylight. The sun was starting to slip through the gaps in the clouds, casting its gaze on the city of Chicago, melting away the frostiness. There was a dampness to the air, not freezing, but fresh. The fenced dog-park was the size of a football field, landscaped with various trees and obstacles, with enough room for the dogs to run free and uninhibited.
The dog park was one of my most regular spots, besides the office, my apartment, and my favorite bar. I took the leash off Winston, letting him run free in the empty park, and walked over to the bench. I wiped the dew off with the sleeve of my jacket, and sat down. I didn’t know how much longer I could stand up. It’d been a long night and sleep was beginning to call me.
I was only seated for five minutes before Derrick Booth, a former detective and unofficial manager of the dog park, walked up to the entrance gate. He looked twice when he saw me sitting on the park bench. I was leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, staring at the grass in front of me. The bench at the east end of the fenced dog park was basically owned by Derrick Booth. He was in his late seventies, a little overweight, but still sprightly. He was the cornerstone of the park, always there with a word to say about everyone and everything.
“You’re here early, Jack.” He called out to me. “Did you get kicked o
ut of the house and had to sleep here? I’d imagine a guy like you doesn’t leave his bed until after midday.”
“I haven’t slept yet,” I replied as he approached me.
“Well, no amount of beauty sleep is going to help your face.”
Derrick had lost his wife more than ten years earlier. She was his organizer, his social manager, and after she passed, he was lost. His twice daily trips to the dog park became the one escape from the walls inside his home. Every person who came to the park knew Derrick, and Derrick knew them. Even though he was slowing with age, he hadn’t lost his memory, nor his quick-witted banter.
He approached and sat next to me on the bench as our dogs ran around the park together. His was a fellow golden retriever, a few years older than Winston. A good dog, a loyal dog, the type of dog that’s there with a grinning smile when you need him.
I never wanted a pet, but Claire wanted a dog. It was a test-run before we started to try and have children. I wanted to be a father, I wanted to raise Claire’s children, and so I agreed to a trial dog. When Claire was murdered, my dreams of fatherhood evaporated. I couldn’t imagine having a child without her. But I was left with her dog. And as so often happens, Winston found a way into my heart, and I couldn’t imagine life without him now.
“Are you going to fill me in.” Derrick sat down on the bench next to me, leaning his arms over the back. It was a statement, not a question.
“Casey, my assistant, was attacked last night.”
“Related to a case?”
I nodded.
“Is she ok?”
“I took her to the ER, and spent the night there with her. Her sister arrived early this morning to look after her. Casey was all dosed up on drugs, so there wasn’t much use in me staying. Her sister will care for her now. She’s in good hands. She doesn’t need me there.”
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