Plane in the Lake

by Neil Turner

  Daddy Rice turns a baleful look on Michelle. “Get a grip on your daughter! I will not be spoken to this way.”

  Michelle grabs Brittany’s arm. “That’s enough out of you!”

  Brittany throws off her mother’s hand. “What’s the statute of limitations for assault, Mom?”

  Michelle’s eyes go wide. “What?”

  “The frying-pan incident?”

  Michelle replies with an uncomfortable laugh and waves a hand dismissively. “My goodness, Brittany. You know that was an accident.”

  “I’m not an idiot, Mother,” Brittany retorts in a tone that makes mother sound like an epithet. “I was there. I saw what happened. That wasn’t an accident.”

  “Of course, it was. The frying pan was a little greasy. It slipped.”

  Brittany does an eye roll. “Riiight. Come on, Mom. Why don’t you just admit that you had one of your temper tantrums and attacked Dad?”

  Prescott Rice has heard enough. “Stop, goddamn it!” he shouts while pounding a fist on the table.

  I’m surprised none of the bouncing tableware topples to the floor. Michelle and especially Evelyn are mortified when the stares of our fellow diners settle on Daddy Rice, who doesn’t notice at all.

  “Even if Tony is determined to try to make something out of this story, it isn’t happening,” he proclaims.

  “If I wanted to make something of it?” I retort. “If I’d wanted to make something of it, I would have done so when it happened.”

  He carries on as if I haven’t spoken. “There are no witnesses to what happened, anyway.”

  “What about me?” Brittany shoots back indignantly.

  Rice’s tone is dismissive when he replies, “You’re a child. Your father has poisoned your mind against your mother. We’re talking about his word against Michelle’s in a court of law, for God’s sake. A serial liar who should be in jail for his time at Sphinx! His word against my daughter’s?” he says after leveling a finger at me. A harsh laugh escapes him as he sneers and mockingly challenges me to “Bring it on.”

  I ignore him and lock eyes with Michelle. “You didn’t tell Daddy about my visit to the hospital?”

  “High drama!” Rice exclaims as he slams a fist on the table again and turns his malicious eyes on me. “Angling to get a piece of my fortune by faking an injury? Hell, even for you, boy, that’s pathetic.”

  “That’s right,” I shoot back. “I faked thirteen stitches and a third-degree grease burn.”

  His eyes widen a smidgen. I guess Michelle didn’t give him all the details. I’m happy to.

  “The ER doctor didn’t buy our little story about how the frying pan slipped,” I continue. “She wasn’t fooled. She referred the matter to the police and recommended a battery complaint. They talked to me, you know. I’m sure there’s a record.” How would throwing that out in court square with avoiding any public unpleasantness, asshole?

  The potential embarrassment of my going public with this tale lands on Daddy Rice and his daughter like a sucker punch. I can all but hear the gears grinding in their minds as they seek a way to turn this to their advantage. Good luck with that. Rice throws his napkin down, stands, and commands his wife and daughter to follow as he stalks out of Gadsby’s.

  “Guess we won, huh?” Brittany says with a sheepish grin.

  I smile back. “What were you doing reading through that lawsuit?”

  “You should be careful where you leave things. You’re not mad at me, are you?”

  I slap my hand over hers and squeeze. “Of course not. Thanks for sticking with me.”

  “No worries,” she says breezily.

  It’s a nice sentiment, but I know better than not to worry about her future. Especially with the Rice family gunning for me. Not that she needs to waste time worrying about her future. That’s my job.

  “Just stay the hell out of my stuff,” I say gruffly, making sure to temper the admonishment with a wink.

  Chapter Twenty

  I should have done this a long time ago, I think while Trish Pangborne sashays away from our intimate table for two at Cité, “Elegant Dining at the Top of Lake Point Tower,” which is on the seventieth floor of an exclusive condominium tower along the lakefront. The restaurant had been Trish’s idea, and it’s a great choice—especially at our window table. She had tactfully declined the first table the hostess had brought us to, pointing down at the bright lights and the Ferris wheel of Navy Pier as she protested, “Oh, please, not a Navy Pier view.” She’d then wrinkled her nose in distaste as she touched the woman’s arm and stage-whispered, “There’s nothing romantic in that view, is there?”

  I take the liberty of ordering a second glass of wine for each of us when our server returns. Wine is one of the many things I know crap about, but Trish has selected something from somewhere in Germany… or maybe France? From some river in Europe that starts with the letter R, anyway. Then I sit back and enjoy the view framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows while I await Trish’s return. Our table looks down on the sweep of Lake Shore Drive curving away south across the Chicago River with the skyline rising above it. The mirrored interior walls reflect the blue-and-gold accent lighting and the outside view back onto the glass, casting a decidedly soft and romantic ambience on the crisp, white linen tablecloth and intimate candlelight that flickers from within a low crystal holder. Even the polished stainless-steel utensils that reflect the lighting seem to have been chosen to complement the mellow mood.

  I’m enjoying spending time with someone who’s completely removed from my current routines and stressors. Joe’s visit is a week in the rearview mirror, all appears to be copacetic in Italy, and I got through Friday the thirteenth not only unscathed, but with something of a victory over Prescott Rice. I’m in a good place tonight.

  Trish is an attorney who works at Fleiss Lansky, a big corporate law firm where I plied my trade for a few months last year. They fired me because they didn’t like the optics of my defending an alleged murderer (my father) while also waging a very public battle to save our neighborhood from the wrecking ball. Fleiss Lansky also played a big role in funding the startup of our law firm. Penelope negotiated a substantial settlement after filing a wrongful-dismissal lawsuit on my behalf. The law firm is, of course, where Trish and I met. She made no secret of her interest in me, and I certainly took notice of her. Who wouldn’t? Trish is an alluring woman in her mid- to late thirties, petite, with lustrous wheat hair that hangs to the middle of her back. Her almond-shaped hazel eyes are mesmerizing, especially with the candlelight flickering in them. Tonight she’s wearing a silky, deep-blue, knee-length dress that suggests rather than advertises the subtle curves beneath it. A delicate gold necklace is draped around her throat, and diamond earrings dangle an inch or so beneath her earlobes. Her glistening hair picks up highlights from the lighting as it bounces gently on her shoulders. She glides back from the washroom, enjoying my stare every step of the way. As she sits down, I’m struck by the realization that her face bears a resemblance to that of Melanie Likens. Interesting… and not a bad problem to have.

  Small talk isn’t one of my fortes, but Trish is easygoing and has graciously overlooked more than a few of my malapropisms. After she settles back into her seat and meets my gaze with a warm smile, I show off my stellar conversational skills by noting that her surname isn’t a common one. “You’re my first Pangborne. Is that your married name?”

  “I wasn’t bringing any of my ex along when I left,” she says while reaching across the table to touch her fingertips to the back of my hand. A playful smile plays on her lips. “You’re my first Valenti.”

  The touch is electric. How did I resist Trish all the time I was at Fleiss Lansky?

  My phone comes to life and vibrates on the table. I should have turned the damned thing off, or at least silenced it. “Sorry,” I mutter while reaching to power it off. A reference to Brittany in the text message from Pat that has just arrived stays my hand.

  Is B there?


  I assume Pat means at 47 Liberty Street. Why would she think that? I glance up at Trish. “Babysitter. Mind if I make a quick call?”

  Trish smiles and shakes her head. “Of course not.”

  Pat picks up on the first ring and asks, “Is she with you?”

  “No. What’s up?”

  “Probably nothing. She went to drama rehearsal at Jocelyn’s house with Bobby. They’ve done it a few times now. He walks her home afterward. They’ve never been late before.”

  “I assume you’ve called?”

  “A few times after I sent several texts. Straight to voicemail.”

  The ignored calls and voicemails aren’t surprising—kids don’t talk on or answer their phones. The unanswered texts, however, are out of character. I force the memory of Brittany and Bobby exchanging longing looks across the dinner table last week out of my mind. Well, I try to. “That’s odd for her.”

  “Yeah, but listen to us,” Pat says with an uncertain laugh. “It’s hardly after nine on Saturday night. I’m sure they’ll be along soon.” She’s probably right.

  I say, “Have her text me as soon as she gets home.”

  “One of us will. Hearing your voice seems to have settled my nerves. Thanks for calling.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What are you up to?” she asks.

  I look up and find Trish’s concerned eyes on mine. Well, isn’t this awkward? “I’m out for dinner with a friend,” I reply in a tone I hope doesn’t invite further inquiry, then wonder why. Pat has made it clear that she’s not interested. Trish is interested. I’ve got nothing to hide and nothing to feel guilty about. Mel made it clear that even I deserve happiness.

  “Oh!” Pat says in surprise. “I’ll let you go.”

  Trish’s eyes are still on mine when I disconnect, silence the phone, and jam it into my rear pants pocket.

  “Everything okay?” she asks.

  “Yup. My daughter’s just a little late getting home.”

  Trish cocks her head to one side. “Your babysitter doesn’t know you’re out for dinner?”

  “Long story,” I reply without mentioning shootings, custody battles, or any of the other complications I could cite to explain why my daughter isn’t living with me at the moment.

  She accepts the explanation with a nod and then fixes me with an amused expression. “Isn’t your daughter fifteen or sixteen?”

  “Fifteen,” I reply.

  She laughs a deep smoky laugh that stirs something inside of me, then injects a little note of challenge in her voice when she asks, “What time did you get to stay out until on Saturdays when you were her age?”

  I must sound like the ultimate parental ogre. “Midnight, maybe?”

  Trish leans back in her seat and pastes a mock scowl on her face. “She’s a girl, so she can’t stay out?”

  I chuckle and shake my head. “It’s not like that! The babysitter’s a little skittish, that’s all.” For many good reasons, I don’t add.

  Trish covers my hand with hers. “Just teasing you a little, Tony. She’s a lucky girl to have a father who cares so much.” Something in her tone and deep in her eyes makes me wonder if maybe her father wasn’t all he should have been to his daughter.

  Supper is excellent—the food and especially the company. We’re polishing off cherries jubilee for two when Trish leans closer and smiles. “I’m really enjoying this, Tony.”

  “Then I guess we both are,” I say with an answering smile.

  Her eyes continue to hold mine. “No need for the evening to end yet. We can have coffee or a nightcap at my place.”

  “That sounds perfect,” I reply while a little thrill passes through me. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt the ache of anticipation when a woman looks at me the way Trish is doing right now. I signal to the waiter and mimic signing a check.

  “Where to?” I ask as we leave the table two minutes later.

  She takes my hand in hers. “Just to the elevators and down to the fifty-third floor.”

  She stands close and smiles up at me while the elevator takes us down seventeen floors. Her perfume is a very subtle and appealing fragrance, dabbed on so lightly that it’s only noticeable at close quarters. We step off the elevator and saunter along a carpeted hallway to the door of her condominium. She lets us in and flicks a light switch, powering on a pair of wall sconces that cast little pools of intimate yellow light on the ceiling. The light reveals a sprawling living room with floor-to-ceiling windows that follow the rounded contours of the building. They say this building is oriented to afford every suite its own unobstructed view of Lake Michigan. It seems to be true.

  My eyes stray back to Trish when she asks, “You like?” She’s posed like a game-show hostess displaying a prize while she awaits my verdict with a smile playing on her lips. Is she asking about the living room? The view of the lake? Or her?

  “Yes,” I reply while holding her gaze. It’s the correct answer to all three possibilities.

  She glides close and eases up on her toes to plant a kiss on my cheek. “Thanks. I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Glad to be here,” I reply as she lingers with her shoulder brushing up against me.

  She smiles and steps away. “Drink?”

  “Bourbon?”

  “I’ll join you,” she purrs before she steps over to a bar, takes two crystal tumblers off a shelf, and fills them from a bottle of Knob Creek bourbon. It’s a brand I used to indulge in back when I was pulling down a corporate lawyer’s ransom. She hands one drink to me, and we touch glasses before taking a sip. It’s spicy, sweet, and smooth as melted butter, a definite step up from my usual Maker’s Mark bourbon—which comes as a surprise after I’d convinced myself that I can’t tell the difference between it and premium bourbon. Maybe being with Trish just makes everything better.

  “To good friends and good times,” she says while peering up at me over the rim of her glass.

  “Indeed,” I reply hoarsely to the promise in her eyes.

  Her eyes linger on mine for a long moment before she smiles and sets her drink down on a nearby glass coffee table. “I’m going to go freshen up a bit. Back in a minute,” she says over her shoulder as she sways away.

  My imagination edges into overdrive as I watch her slip into what appears to be a bedroom no more than fifteen or twenty feet away. I settle at one end of a supple wine-colored fabric sofa, pull my phone out from where it’s digging into my butt, and give in to a niggling voice that has been nagging at the back of my mind even as thoughts of Trish fill my head. I’m surprised to see a couple of new text messages and a missed call from Pat. Nothing from Brittany. The red voicemail icon is flashing. Shit. I can’t not check in. Hopefully, Trish won’t walk back in while I do.

  Pat’s voice is filled with worry when I listen to her voicemail. It’s thirty-five minutes old. “Why aren’t you answering? Having both of you out of reach is making me crazy.”

  Which means she still hasn’t heard from Brittany. I scroll through the text messages. Same story. The most recent one was sent ten minutes ago. Not good. I think of my date “freshening up” only several feet away. Why now with the Brittany drama? I wonder as Trish emerges.

  “What’s the matter?” she asks as she settles close beside me on the sofa with her warm thigh touching mine.

  “Brittany still hasn’t been heard from.”

  “Hmmm.” She lifts my wrist and looks at the face of my Rolex watch. “You’re worried,” she says when her eyes come back to mine. Hers are soft and warm. Concerned… with maybe just a hint of the disappointment I feel lurking beneath the worry.

  I nod, taking note that she hasn’t returned in a slinky nightgown or a robe with nothing beneath it. Whatever “freshening up” entailed isn’t obvious, not that she needed to do anything to improve on how lovely she looks tonight.

  Trish’s hand slides from my watch to my hand and squeezes reassuringly. “Call.”

  Our eyes telegraph a mutual hope that the cal
l will put the matter of the missing Brittany to bed for tonight.

  “Tony!” Pat exclaims in relief. “Is she there?”

  I again assume she means our house on Liberty Street. “I’m not home,” I remind her.

  Pat is silent for a moment before she blurts, “Where the hell are you, then?”

  “With a friend.”

  “She’s still not answering her phone or my text messages,” Pat anxiously announces after a beat. “Did you know that your land line is out of service?”

  “We don’t have it anymore, Pat. I got rid of it when we gave Papa Britt’s old phone.”

  “Oh. I called Bobby’s parents, and he isn’t answering, either.”

  What are those two up to? Drugs? An accident? Who knows what other trouble kids get themselves into nowadays?

  “Maybe she needs you and went to the house to see you,” Pat says impatiently. “I thought you’d check after we spoke earlier.”

  I probably should have. I swallow a little bubble of guilt. What if Brittany went home and ran into one of Joe’s boys, or Joe himself? “I’ll go now,” I announce, and wince at the disappointment that seeps into Trish’s eyes.

  She lays her head on my shoulder after I end the call and looks up at me. “Maybe I’ll come with?”

  There’s no time to explain the many ways in which that’s a bad idea. I lift Trish’s chin with a fingertip and look into her eyes. “Any other time that would be a wonderful idea, just not tonight. There’s some dangerous stuff going on around our place that I won’t expose you to. Lame as this sounds, can I have a rain check?”

  She gives me an ineffably sad smile and nods.

  Does she think I’m bullshitting her? I take her face in both hands. “I promise you, Trish. I hate that this is happening tonight. It’s just… complicated, and I don’t have time to explain.”

  I can tell that she wants to believe, but there’s hurt somewhere in the depths of her eyes that won’t let her.

  I cradle her face gently. “Did you see the news about the retired cop who was shot and killed in Cedar Heights a couple of weeks ago?”