An Image of Death

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  I gripped the cordless, unsure whether that was a compliment or an insult. “I’ll do it.”

  Her voice lifted. “Wonderful! You’ll be glad you made that decision.” Before I could ask what she meant, she went on. “It’s going to be a substantive film, Ellie. Not PR fluff. Important people are backing these efforts. There may even be federal funding involved.” She cleared her throat. “I know you think WISH is a group of frivolous ladies with too much money and time on their hands. But once you meet the guy who’s driving the effort here in Chicago, I think you’ll change your mind.”

  “You mean, the women aren’t—”

  “Ellie, the women you met are very good at one thing. They know how to separate people from their money.”

  “I noticed.”

  “I’m talking about raising money. For charity. The women you had lunch with are consummate fund-raisers. As a group, they’ve raised millions of dollars.”

  I started to pace. It’s no secret that benefits, auctions, and galas seem to grow more lavish—and lucrative—each year. And the North Shore is full of ladies who raise fortunes for their pet causes in between their manicures, tennis, and shopping. I’d even joked with Susan Siler, my closest friend, about what could happen if you unleashed them on the federal deficit. But I hadn’t realized the Women Who Lunch were part of that species.

  “In any event, you won’t be dealing with them. And I won’t be involved much, either. I just wanted to make sure we had the right team in place.”

  “You’d make a good drill sergeant.”

  I heard a rustling in the background, as if she was shuffling papers. “Sorry, what was that?”

  “Nothing.” No need to get churlish. She was handing me a nice piece of business. I took the phone into the family room and raised the shade. An inch of snow had fallen last night, but the streets were clear, and bands of sunlight slanted across the ceiling.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m being pushy,” she went on. “But I set up a meeting for you in Evanston with the man who’s the mover and shaker behind the program. Just you and him. His name’s Jordan Bennett.”

  “When is it?”

  “This afternoon. At one.”

  I paused just long enough, then said cheerfully, “Sorry. No can do.”

  “You—you can’t?” She seemed taken aback.

  “I have another appointment. But I could manage it tomorrow.”

  “Well.…” Her voice turned suddenly chilly. “Here’s his number. Why don’t you call him yourself?”

  “Good idea, Ricki. Thanks.”

  After hanging up, I allowed myself the tiniest smile, then wondered what to do for the rest of the day. I was about to go upstairs and shower, when a movement through the window caught my eye. A white van with large windows on the side pulled up to my neighbor’s house. Five or six women huddled inside. A moment later a woman in a drab olive wool coat climbed out. I saw a flash of pale face and tired eyes. She had no hat or boots, and her shoes disappeared in the snow. She shook it off, one foot at a time, and headed up the driveway. A cleaning lady.

  Fifteen years ago, the cleaning ladies up here came mostly from Poland, grateful to escape a repressive government and make a few dollars to send home. They’d come to my house when I could afford them, and Rachel still remembered a few words: Dziekuje…Dobry…Prosze.

  After the Soviet Union collapsed, though, the Poles were replaced by an influx of women from far-flung spots like Moldovia, Belarus, and remote parts of Russia. These women weren’t escaping repressive regimes: they were fleeing a world where highway robbery, enforced prostitution, and rampant killing were daily events. Life had turned cheap in that part of the world. Or maybe it always was, but it took the collapse of an empire to expose it. Still, the women in the van were the lucky ones. They’d escaped.

  The driver, who’d accompanied her to the front door to translate what my neighbor wanted her to do, headed back to the van. Short and squat, he wore a brown coat and one of those large, fur-lined Russian hats they wore in Dr. Zhivago. He looked like a small bear. Before climbing back into the van, he reached in his pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. As he dug out a book of matches, he turned toward my house, and I got a look at his face. Long and angular, it was the face of a tall man. I had the impression that it had somehow been attached to the wrong body.

  Expelling a mouthful of smoke, he gazed expectantly in my direction as if he were waiting for something to happen. An uneasy feeling slid around in me. Why was he looking my way?

  I started to lower the shade. Which proved to be the wrong thing to do. The man hadn’t realized anyone was at the window, but when he saw the shade move, he started. Flicking his cigarette to the ground, he threw himself into the van and quickly backed out of my neighbor’s driveway.

  I tried to catch the license plate as he sped away. I saw the familiar Lincoln profile and a lot of red, white, and blue, but the numbers were obscured by a layer of muddy ice. I stared at the retreating vehicle. Did he have something to do with the tape? Rachel thought the tape had been dropped off by someone in a van. Was he the man? If so, what was his connection to it? If only there had been a note or a letter.

  As I slowly lowered the shade the rest of the way, I realized there was another problem. Even without a note, whoever dropped off the tape knew where I lived. What if the killers found out, too? What if they learned they’d been caught on videotape and decided to eliminate anyone or anything that connected them to the crime? Couldn’t that eventually lead them to me?

  Maybe I should have confronted the driver. No. Whoever dropped off the tape clearly didn’t want any direct contact with me. If this man was the messenger, I’d already scared him off. And scared people do foolish things.

  I went up to the bathroom and ran hot water until the windows steamed up. Should I call Georgia Davis? No. This was just a maid’s service, for God’s sake. And a man smoking a cigarette. She’d probably tell me I was imagining things. And, to be fair, who’s to say I wasn’t? Maybe the man was daydreaming and just happened to be gazing at my house, his mind a thousand miles away. Maybe the movement of the shade jerked him back to reality, and he jumped into the van, realizing his schedule would be thrown off if he dawdled further.

  The real issue was the identity of the woman on the tape. Why had her life ended in a shadowy room with wall paneling and linoleum tiles? Figuring that out was a wiser use of my time than worrying about a man on my neighbor’s driveway. Assuming I wanted to worry about any of it at all.

  I stepped into the shower, trying to imagine what she’d done to warrant such a vicious, cold-blooded death. I couldn’t come up with anything, but my experience with murder is limited. Unlike the men on the tape. They’d seemed comfortable with their task. Practiced. Ski masks to hide their faces. No hesitation before they attacked. As far as I could tell, they hadn’t even talked to each other while they were killing her. And there were two of them. Someone wanted her dead badly enough to use two men for the job.

  I stood under the hot water, rinsing off soap. If only the quality of the tape were better. A sharper image might have revealed the woman’s face, or at least some distinguishing feature. Something in the room might have told me where it was.

  The police said they were sending the tape to the crime lab. But they didn’t say how long it would take. The lab serves all of Northern Illinois’ law enforcement agencies, including Chicago’s. There could be dozens of videotapes waiting for forensic analysis. It might take weeks, even months, to get anything back. What if the man driving the van wasn’t the innocent I was trying to convince myself he was? Did I want to wait a month or more to find out?

  I toweled off, got dressed, and went into my office. A tiny purple ceramic shoe sits on top of my computer monitor, a birthday present from Susan. She’d attached a card to it that said: “No one will ever fill yours.” I sat down, booted up, and went online.

  A few minutes later, I found an article about video forensics written
by someone in the Chicago area who started out as a videographer but was later “certified”—whatever that meant—as a forensic analyst by the Cook County Sheriff’s Department. When I looked him up, he turned out to be in Park Ridge, a village about twenty minutes away. I punched in his number.

  A gravelly voice answered. “Mike Dolan.”

  I put on my most charming voice. “Good morning, Mr. Dolan. My name is Ellie Foreman, and I have a digital tape that needs some work. I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

  “What law enforcement agency are you with?”

  “I—I’m not.”

  “You with the press?”

  “No.” I hesitated. “I’m a video producer.”

  He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his voice was even more scratchy. Years of smoking, probably. “If you have evidence that a crime has been committed, you should be talking to the police.”

  “I did,” I blurted out.

  “And?” His voice sounded stern.

  “I—I was just wondering, if I wanted to have it looked at privately, how much are we talking about?”

  “Four hundred an hour,” he said, not missing a beat. “And another five for setup.”

  “Are you kidding? Nine hundred just to walk in the door?”

  “You’re a video producer, you say?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’ve got a client, right? It’s not coming out of your pocket.”

  “But I—I don’t have—my budget doesn’t have that kind of flexibility. I can’t afford nine hundred dollars.”

  “Sorry.” He sounded almost cheerful.

  “I can tell.” I disconnected and tossed the phone onto the chair.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I thought I’d stepped back in time when I walked through the door in Evanston the next day. Tucked away in an alley off Sherman Avenue, the building looked like an old carriage house that had been renovated once before but needed another go-round. The entry hall had high ceilings, crown moldings, and a massive door, but the moldings were chipped, the walls needed paint, and the carpeting looked like it had been there since the Vietnam War.

  It wasn’t just the architecture that evoked an earlier era. The walls were papered with colored fliers advertising everything from adoption counseling to yoga for couples. As I squeezed past a couch so battered even the Salvation Army would reject it, I imagined a Movement office next to the Organic Food Coop, which would be next to Benefits for Returning Vets.

  A sign on one of two offices down the hall identified the occupant as Jordan Bennett, PhD, MASC. Underneath his credentials was the word Transitions. The door was partially open, so I pushed through, anticipating a guy with a full beard in scruffy jeans and Birkenstocks.

  The only thing I got right were the jeans, but they weren’t scruffy. Sitting behind a desk was a leaner, lankier version of Denzel Washington. A blue crewneck sweater set off his skin, and when he smiled, which he was doing now, he was definitely “hot,” as Rachel would say.

  “Thanks for rescheduling the meeting.” I pushed a lock of hair behind my ear. I was glad I’d worn the new sweater she’d given me for Hanukkah.

  “Ricki said you were a busy person.” He gave my hand a businesslike squeeze, almost as if he knew what his effect on women was and didn’t want it to interfere with his agenda. He motioned to one of two chairs facing the desk. “Please, sit down.”

  I sat and checked out the office. Despite the high ceilings, the room had a musty smell, intensified by an excess of steam heat spewing out of the radiator. Stacks of folders lay on the floor, and cartons were pushed into corners. A framed poster leaned against the radiator. Nails protruded from the walls, with rectangular discolorations around them, which made me think the previous occupant’s artwork had hung on the walls until recently.

  “You just move in?”

  He glanced around. “Not exactly. As a matter of fact, up until a week ago, I thought I was moving out.”

  “Oh?”

  “I came east from California about a year ago to set up the Chicago office of Transitions. We got up to speed pretty fast, but then—”

  “Transitions? I thought it was called WISH.”

  He looked puzzled.

  “WISH,” I repeated. “Women for Interim Subsidized Housing.”

  He paused, then leaned back. “Is that what the women are calling themselves?”

  I frowned. “Am I missing something?”

  “The organization’s name is Transitions. But we’re new and relatively obscure, as nonprofits go. One of our strategies is to build networks and partnerships. Ally ourselves with other groups.”

  “The women.”

  He nodded.

  “I thought they were your fund-raising arm.”

  “Frankly, I’m not sure how they’re set up. Or why they call themselves WISH. I’m just grateful they’re around.”

  I grinned. “Transitions, huh?” The women probably didn’t want their mission to be misconstrued as a menopause support group.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “Nothing.” I wiped off my smile. “How…how did you hook up with them?”

  “Through Ricki Feldman.” He gestured to the mess on the floor. “It’s her fault the office looks the way it does.”

  “Now you’ve lost me.”

  “This was the cheapest space I could find. I signed a two-year lease, but then last month I get a letter saying the owner wanted to buy out my lease and tear down the building. I met Ricki when I went to her office to persuade her not to.”

  “Feldman Development owns this building?”

  “That’s right.” The radiator clanged and hissed.

  “I get it.” It was my turn to pause. “But you’re still here.”

  Bennett pushed up his sleeves to his elbows. “We struck a deal. She said she’d wait until we had the money to move.”

  “Which she’s now helping you to find.”

  He grinned. “You do get it.”

  “She’s something else.”

  “Yes, she is.” His smile deepened.

  It occurred to me Bennett hadn’t said anything about a family moving east with him. It also occurred to me that Ricki Feldman wasn’t the type of person to let any opportunity pass her by. And with his intelligence, charm, and killer looks, Jordan Bennett had opportunity written all over him.

  “But we’re grateful for support from any quarter. Including video producers.”

  “You’ve been checking me out.”

  “You passed.” He rocked back in his chair.

  “So, tell me about Transitions. Or WISH. Or whatever it’s called. And how you got involved with them.”

  He squared a piece of paper on his desk. “I grew up in foster care.”

  “I thought you said the organization was relatively new.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then how did you—I mean.…” I waved a hand.

  “A woman in Marin County took me in. Taught me how to dress, how to talk, how to eat with a knife and fork. She had connections. It was through her I got a scholarship to UCLA.” He paused. “I was lucky. Some kids aren’t.” He paused again.

  “Did you know almost twenty percent of the homeless were in foster care at some point?”

  A door opened and closed down the hall. I shook my head.

  “Most people don’t. Once a kid is eighteen, he’s supposed to be out of the foster care system. But a lot of them have been bounced from home to home, or they’ve been depending on lawyers and social workers to solve their problems. They don’t have a clue how to rent an apartment, how to buy groceries, how to open a bank account. It’s all too much for them. When they go out on their own, they give up.”

  “Give up?”

  “Some get pregnant and go on welfare. Others get involved with gangs or end up on the street.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Like I said, I was lucky. I’ll never forget the thrill the first time I bou
ght my own groceries. Or put the clothes I bought myself in my own dresser. It’s a high, you know? I decided other kids should experience it.”

  “I thought this was just about subsidized housing.”

  “We also want to teach them how to live on their own. At least to know what’s expected of them.”

  “And you want the video to raise awareness of their plight?”

  He nodded. “We want opinion leaders and legislators to see it. We’re lobbying for changes in the housing codes. Of course, with this administration, it’s like spitting in the wind.”

  “How come?”

  “There’s an Undersecretary at HUD—a holdover from the Clinton years. But he’s fighting an uphill battle, and I’m afraid if we interview him, he’ll lose his job. We need every friend we can muster in that town. Happily, there’s a congressman who’ll say that a few well placed grants will save money in the Section Eight programs. And he’s from southern Illinois.”

  “You want to interview him.”

  He nodded and launched into an explanation of federally funded housing programs and how they were geared toward families, not singles. My mind wandered. David had grown up in foster homes all over Pennsylvania. Had he felt the same way as Jordan Bennett? David had the proper social graces, but I never thought to ask how he’d learned them. In fact, it occurred to me I didn’t know very much about his life before we met. A brown leaf, somehow left over from fall, drifted past the window.

  “My…a close friend of mine grew up in foster care.”

  He looked at me with new interest. “No wonder Ricki wanted you in on this.”

  I was about to tell him Ricki couldn’t possibly have known about David’s background. Then again…. I kept my mouth shut.

  ***

  “You said you could run an eight-minute mile,” Rachel called out as she sprinted past me on Voltz Road.

  “I could, once upon a time.” I picked up my pace, but it was hopeless.

  “You’re slipping, Mom,” she yelled over her shoulder.

  I laughed and let her widen her lead. Rachel’s always been built for speed. I remembered her at six, streaking across the front lawn one Sunday morning chasing a rabbit. It was spring, and she was wearing her Beauty and the Beast nightgown—the one she refused to take off for about a year. She thought we’d bought her a bunny for Easter. We had to let her down easily. Not only did we not buy it, but we didn’t celebrate Easter.