An Image of Death

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “The sister, the brother, and the girl with the tattoo.”

  “Right.”

  “So what does it mean?”

  “Nothing conclusive,” Olson said. “It could be the dentists knew who killed the girl and didn’t want them to get away with murder.” He leaned back. “Or maybe Grigorev knew the real killers and talked her cousins into giving her the tape.”

  “Which she then got Petrovsky to drop off at my house.”

  Olson nodded.

  “But it backfired.”

  He nodded again.

  “Because someone—the real killers—figured out the dentists gave me the tape? And decided to make an example out of them?”

  “Something like that.”

  “But who knew I had the tape? It’s not like it’s been on the news.”

  Olson hunched his shoulders. Davis refused to make eye contact.

  Of course. Celestial Bodies. Someone at the strip joint told the killers we’d been asking questions. Showing photographs. Distributing business cards. That’s how the word got back. Who was it, I wondered? Sofiya? One of the girls? The bouncer?

  I studied the gray carpeting in Olson’s office. Our visit might have triggered the death of the dentists—maybe Halina Grigorev’s too. It also meant that someone at Celestial Bodies knew the killers. I almost asked Olson and Davis what they thought, but I stopped just in time. I didn’t know how much Davis had told Olson about that night. Or what she’d said in her report.

  I stole a look at Davis, trying to tread cautiously. “Has anyone been back to Celestial Bodies?”

  Olson nodded. “After the crime lab came up with zilch on the ballistics of that gun Davis found in the bathroom—” he flashed Davis an odd look—“Davis went back to nose around.”

  I cleared my throat.

  “The girls had heard of the dentists.” Davis took over. “Apparently, it’s where you go when you’re an immigrant and you don’t have much money. But no one knew them personally. Or at least admitted to it.”

  “What about Petrovsky? Has anyone seen him?”

  “We can’t find him.” She tossed her head. “If he’s smart, he’s on the run. Grigorev, too.”

  “Unless they’re already dead,” Olson said.

  “One of the ‘dancers’ seems to have disappeared, too,” Davis added.

  “Which one?”

  “The one that.…” She snuck a look at Olson. “The blonde. With the spiky hair. They said she didn’t work there anymore.”

  The one whom I’d chased down the hall. Who had riffled through my bag. “You can’t track her down?”

  “It’s not like she left a forwarding address.”

  I swallowed. It was clear Davis hadn’t told Olson everything about our drop-in at the club. Still, two people were dead. And three more—Grigorev, Petrovsky, and the blond “dancer”—were missing. Were they dead? Was there a link between them and the tape?

  I kept coming back to another question, too. Why did Petrovsky drive from Mount Prospect to Celestial Bodies in the middle of a snowstorm in the first place? Clearly, he had some connection to the place, beyond that of “customer.” He’d gone backstage as soon as he arrived, and he knew the layout well enough to make himself scarce when Davis questioned the girls. I wanted to ask Davis what she thought, but I didn’t dare with Olson in the room. I might have to explain how Davis “found” the gun in the bathroom. And what happened after that.

  Olson ran a hand over the top of his skull as if he expected to find a full head of hair. “Maybe the girl on the tape ticked off someone. She gets killed. Then the dentists tried to blow it wide open, and they get wasted, too. These people have nasty tempers. You don’t want to piss them off.”

  “So I gather.” I folded my arms. “At least the note’s a step in the right direction. Maybe it will help you get to the bottom of this. Especially if you’re able to get some prints.”

  The cops exchanged another look. Then Olson spoke. “The truth is, we may never get to the bottom of this. Even with the note.”

  “Why not?”

  “Des Plaines is handling most of it now.”

  “What does that mean.”

  Olson shifted uncomfortably. “The case file will stay open.”

  “I hear a but.”

  “We won’t be actively pursuing it much longer.”

  “But you don’t know who killed her. What about her family? Someone is probably going crazy wondering what happened to her.”

  Olson sighed. “Ellie, we don’t have a body. Never did. Not that it makes a huge difference, although it might in court, if we ever got that far. But more important, we just don’t have the evidence. No one’s talking. To them, we’re as much the enemy as the scumbags who killed the girl. Unless that note shows some type of dramatic evidence, which, frankly, I don’t think it will, we just don’t have the time and resources to keep going.” He flipped up his palms. “I hope you understand.”

  ***

  Davis kept her mouth shut as she walked me out of the police station. “I wish there was something more I could do.”

  “You’ve done more than anyone else would have.”

  She shook her head. “It wasn’t enough.”

  “You’ve gotta stop getting down on yourself.”

  She shrugged and opened the door. “Listen.…”

  “What?”

  She shook her head again. “Nothing. You be careful, Ellie, okay?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I got in the car and cracked the window, pondering what Olson and Davis had said. I understood why Olson was winding down, but I also understood Davis’ warning. It was clear in the note I’d handed over.

  Please. You keep. Not safe for me to have. I come back.

  The person who sent me the tape knew it was dangerous to keep it, so they passed it to me. Which meant that if someone wanted to eliminate anyone or anything that linked them to the tape, Rachel and I were an easy and—particularly now that the cops were winding up their investigation—unprotected target. Davis knew that. We were vulnerable. They—whoever “they” were— would be coming back. Whatever danger we had been in was possibly escalating. And the cops couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do anything to help. I rolled up the window, suddenly chilled.

  There had to be something I could do. But what? I didn’t know who or what I was looking for: Petrovsky or the two men on the tape? Or someone else? I considered trying to trace the tattoo myself—a few e-mails, phone calls, some Web surfing might get me somewhere. But then what? What if I uncovered an organized gang or cell of the Russian mafia? And they learned I’d been nosing around in their business? How could I defend myself against that?

  I turned south on Waukegan Road, weaving between a minivan and a bus, both of whom drove as if they owned the road. I’d been foolish to get involved in the first place. The woman on the tape, the killers, Petrovsky, were all strangers—the kind of strangers, it was turning out, most safely viewed from a distance. The vague notion of responsibility I’d felt now seemed misplaced and naive. If something happened to Rachel.… I chewed on a nail. The police were giving up. I should, too. I hoped it wasn’t too late.

  ***

  I honked when I got to Susan’s. She came out, looking perfect, as usual. She’s the only woman I know who can wear a white turtleneck, flannel pants, and a Harris tweed jacket and not look like a Barrington horsewoman.

  She settled herself in the front seat. “So, where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I cut over to the Edens and headed downtown. Susan smeared lip balm over her mouth. She always takes care of herself. We chatted about inconsequential things, knowing after ten years of friendship not to force issues. But when I merged onto the Kennedy, she pointed to one of the green road signs. “You passed Peterson.”

  “I know.”

  Susan used to live in Sauganash, and Lakeview before that, and she knows Chicago as well as I. She shrugged. But when I exited on Kimball and drove
east on Belmont, she whooped. “Cinnamon rolls!”

  I grinned.

  “I figured it was either that or pizza. When you passed the exit for Malnati’s, I knew.”

  Ann Sather’s, a Swedish restaurant, is a popular place for plain, wholesome food, especially breakfast, which they serve all day. But they’re famous for their cinnamon rolls: dense, moist creations laced with cinnamon and topped with a dollop of icing. One of them has enough calories, cholesterol, and fat to kill you. But you’d die happy.

  Although Sather’s has five restaurants, they make the rolls at the Belmont location, and real connoisseurs won’t go anywhere else. I parked around the corner, and we trudged down cracked sidewalks to the front door. The décor—clean, bright, and workmanlike—hasn’t changed in thirty years. We grabbed a booth near the fireplace.

  “Did you know at the turn of the twentieth century, Chicago had the second largest Swedish population of any city in the world?” Susan said, sliding her napkin onto her lap.

  “No.”

  “And did you know it was Swedes who built Wrigley Field? And founded Walgreen’s?”

  “Do you have some Swedish blood you never told me about?”

  She laced her fingers together. “I used to date a guy whose parents were from Sweden. He taught me the only Swedish I know.”

  “What’s that?” I imagined some endearment or romantic expression. Maybe something more graphic. You know the Swedes.

  “For yag tala med Erik.”

  “And that means…?”

  “It means ‘May I please speak to Erik.’” A flush crept up her neck. “I wanted to impress his mother when I called.”

  A waitress, in dark slacks and a navy polo shirt with a green face imprinted on it, took our order. She seemed disappointed when we only ordered cinnamon rolls.

  “You want to split an omelet?” I asked.

  Susan shook her head. “The last one I had—not here—” she smiled up at the waitress—“looked like it had been run over on Willow Road. It kind of put me off eggs.”

  I flashed the waitress an apologetic look. She gave us her back.

  “So, Ellie.” Susan twiddled her thumbs. “Why are we here?”

  “There’s been a major disaster.” I explained what happened in Philadelphia. She winced when I got to the part at the airport.

  “I should have known,” I grumbled.

  “Known what?”

  “He’s a chip off the old block.”

  “How so?”

  “Remember how his father and mother got together? David’s apparently inherited those genes.”

  “What genes?”

  “The ‘I-can-do-anything,’ opportunistic ones.”

  She frowned. “From what you’re saying, this—this Brigitte is the opportunist. David sounds like the victim.”

  Tears suddenly stung my eyes. “I—I don’t know, Susan. I’m confused. And angry. I can’t think straight.”

  She laid her hand on my arm. “Don’t worry, sweetie. We’ll figure this thing out.”

  I went quiet, trying to gather myself together. Then, “You know what I don’t understand? If he fell under her spell in Europe, why did he let me come to Philadelphia? And spend time with his uncle?”

  “Maybe he wasn’t sure. Maybe he needed to compare.”

  “So now I’m a piece of fruit in the supermarket?”

  She shot me a look. “I know it’s hard to believe, but he could be just as confused as you.”

  “If he is, then that’s the least of his problems. This woman is deceiving him. Perpetrating a fraud. And he doesn’t see it.” I paused. “You know something? Maybe I should let her. I mean, she’s obviously a master at manipulation. Maybe we could learn from her.”

  Susan ignored my comment. “Has he called?”

  “Twice. I haven’t called him back.”

  The cinnamon rolls arrived with two cups of coffee. I speared a huge piece with my fork and stuffed it into my mouth. A sweet, melting sensation rolled over my tongue.

  Susan cut a tiny sliver and chewed meticulously. “Talk about self-serving people. I know it’s not the same thing, but I have to tell you what happened to Andy last week.”

  Andy is Susan’s son, a cheerful ten-year-old who loves baseball, soccer, and stamp collecting.

  “What?”

  “He hooked up with another boy to sell tickets to the Boy Scout pancake breakfast…you know, the one where the proceeds go to the Settlement House? They get points toward a badge, depending on how many they sell. So the boys decided to split the points down the middle. Fifty-fifty, no matter who sold what. Well, then Andy gets the flu, remember, and could only sell ten. The other kid sold twenty-two. And guess what. The kid reneges on the deal. Takes all the points for himself.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What could I do?”

  “Call the mother.”

  “Andy made the deal himself. I can’t get in the middle. It’s one of those hard-knock experiences I guess he’ll learn from.” She pushed her plate away. “But can you believe it? The whole thing was for charity to begin with. What’s the point?”

  “The badge,” I said.

  “Yeah, and this kid will get his. But the way he went about earning it was totally alien to the spirit of the thing.”

  “What else is new? There are always people who need to have an edge. Preferably at someone else’s expense.”

  “Oh, Ellie, stop the psychobabble. It’s was greed. Pure and simple.”

  “Better Andy learns that now, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe.” She sipped her coffee. “But it was a hard lesson.”

  A siren shrieked past on Belmont, its wail rising to a crescendo, then mournfully fading away. The waitress hovered nearby. I waved her off.

  “You really do need to talk to David, you know,” Susan volunteered.

  I stiffened. “I can’t. I don’t know how he’ll react. After believing for so long that he was alone, that he had no living relatives, finding his uncle has to have triggered a sea of feelings. And not just on a personal level.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s got to be a sense of victory, too. You know, triumph that the Nazis didn’t destroy everyone in his family.”

  “I guess. But what does that have to do with this—this Brigitte?”

  “She’s linked to his family. Indirectly, perhaps, but she’s Jewish, and she’s German. And she’s been the person who’s been closest to his only living relative.” I stopped. “My God. I just got it.”

  “What?”

  “Brigitte. Who does that remind you of?”

  “Lisle,” Susan said, not missing a beat. “His mother.”

  “Maybe that’s the attraction.”

  “That she reminds him of his mother?”

  I nodded.

  “But this woman’s a con artist. A charlatan.”

  “He can’t see that. He might actually believe this woman is his destiny. Especially if she reminds him of Lisle.”

  “Ellie, that’s irrational.”

  “Of course it is.” I played with my spoon. “But, let’s be honest. David’s quest—his obsession to find his family—has never been entirely rational to begin with.”

  Susan didn’t answer. Then she cleared her throat. “About ten years ago,” she said softly, “before you and I became friends, I was convinced Doug was having an affair.”

  I almost choked on my coffee. Susan’s life was supposed to be perfect.

  She ran a finger up the edge of her knife. “He was coming home late at night. He wouldn’t tell me where he’d been. I was devastated. Ready to call it quits. File for divorce.”

  “Was he?”

  She held up the knife. “I took the kids and went to my mother’s. I know, how trite can you get? Anyway, she sat me down. It was probably the only real conversation we ever had. She made me realize that I wasn’t pulling my weight in the relationship.”

  “What do you mean?”
<
br />   “I mean, I was going to the grocery store, doing the cleaning, raising the kids. I thought that was what I was supposed to do. The problem was I wasn’t thinking about Doug.”

  “How?”

  “He was going through a hard time. The market was down. Things were tight financially. But I didn’t know it. And he didn’t tell me. It turned out he’d been moonlighting, trying to scrape together a few extra dollars.”

  “He never told you?”

  She shook her head. “He was afraid to. He thought I’d think he was a failure and leave him.”

  “Which you almost did.”

  She smiled ruefully.

  “What happened?”

  “My mother told me to go home and talk to him.”

  “Did you?”

  “I thought it over for a day or two. But then, yes, I went home.” She put the knife down. “We talked all night.”

  “It obviously worked out.”

  “When we realized how much we cared about each other, the kids, and the marriage, we started to see options. Doug realized he didn’t have to shoulder everything by himself. I realized I could help and went to work. It’s not a lot of money—but it’s there. He started to relax. I eased up on my expectations.” Her eyes twinkled. “And now, well, things are pretty good.” She looked up at the ceiling. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “If it doesn’t kill you, it makes you stronger.”

  She shifted. “The point is you have to talk to David, if you think there’s any chance to fix things.”

  I shook my head. “It’s too risky.”

  “Ellie, since when have you run away from anything?”

  But Susan didn’t realize how profoundly inadequate I felt where relationships were concerned. I pushed my plate away. I felt like I was perched on a diving board, but I didn’t know if the pool was full or empty.

  ***

  The neighborhood that Ann Sather’s occupies is a work in progress. It used to be just the “North Side.” Then it became “New Town.” Now it’s called “Lakeview,” even though it’s blocks from the lake, and there is no view.

  After leaving the restaurant, we walked down the block past several antique shops, a new hair emporium, and a Thai restaurant. The sex shop that used to be on the corner has gone, but the tattoo parlor across the street was still there.