“Perfect.” I smiled.
The 11am shift in a bar usually meant few customers, and small tips from those who did arrive, but that was good for me. A few dollars thrown in the right direction after the first drink and she’d be all ears, and hopefully a bit of mouth too, I needed some information and hoped I could get her to talk.
I looked at my watch. Enough time to down a coffee or two—double strength and black—while I read the full file on Chase Martin, and then find myself at the bar by 11am.
“Keep me updated on what you find out about the surveillance footage of the area.” I nodded to Casey as I walked back out the door. “I’m going to check out the ex-wife. See if she can give us a hint.”
Within the hour, I was three coffees in, well-read on Chase’s life, and ready to walk through the doors of the Malt and Hops bar in Logan Square.
“What’ll it be, hon?” asked an attractive but world worn looking blond in a low-cut top.
I liked the name ‘hon.’ It’s instantly welcoming, warming, and transported me back to a time when my grandmother used to bake cookies on Sunday morning. My Grandmother and I were close. I’ll never forget the words she wanted on her headstone: “What are you doing in here with that hammer?” She liked that sort of humor. But I wasn’t there for jokes, I was there to talk with Chase Martin’s ex-wife, and Millie’s mother, Tanya.
“I’ve had a rough month. Just after a beer and an ear.” I threw a fifty on the table, and Tanya’s eyes lit up. “Keep the drinks flowing and the conversation rolling.”
She poured a pint of beer, with a head slightly too big, and placed it on the bar in front of me.
The bar was too bright for my liking, too many windows. Its menu was too long, with far too many fancy options, and the smell was pine fresh. Someone had recently mopped the floor, the long wooden bar was wiped clean, and the area outside the door even had green plants.
Not my sort of place, but it must’ve worked for some.
“So what’s up?”
“My Dad’s been diagnosed with cancer.” It was a lie, an attempt to strike a chord with Tanya, my father was long gone, and I was pleased about that too, the sorry SOB that he was, always beating on my mother, until I came of age that is and turned the tables on him.
“Doesn’t have long left,” I continued.
“Oh, sweetheart.” She reached out and touched my hand. ‘Sweetheart’ was a name I liked as well. “I know how that feels. My father has only a few months left. Cancer as well.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t want to upset you too.”
“It’s okay, it’s good to talk,” she said, encouragingly.
“I don’t have anyone to talk to about this. No one close enough. Not since…” I trailed off with a little shake of the head. “At least I’ve got the kids. They’re too young to really understand but they’re a good distraction, really keep me busy. How about you?”
She smiled, and I could tell she was picturing Millie.
“I have one with my ex-husband. Luckily, my father has enough energy to still play with her. Millie, she’s only five, but hopefully she’ll remember the time she got to spend with her grandfather.”
I spent the next fifteen minutes spinning a long lie about kids and history, and I felt bad about doing it. There was something calming about Tanya, a gentle soul with a caring touch, that I found comforting, even alluring. But I wasn’t there to judge people, I wasn’t there to make friends—I was there to try and find a little girl. Her little girl, Millie. Knowing what I knew about Millie’s kidnapping, which Tanya wasn’t even aware of, felt like the worst kind of deception. But I told myself it was the only way, the only way I stood a chance of finding her. I had to let it play out. And so, despite the temptation, I said nothing, I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, not at this stage anyway, but that’s not to say if things changed for the worse in the next few days or even hours that I wouldn’t. After all, a mother had a right to know and Chase Martin be dammed. But right now, even she was a suspect.
“My father has been talking about euthanasia,” she poured me another beer. “He doesn’t want his granddaughter to remember him at his worst. And he’s so sold on legacy. He wants to leave something behind for Millie. He always worked hard, so hard, and he was always honorable, but he had nothing. He’s got no money to leave behind, he’s got no savings, and he’s got nothing to leave her. That must be hard to work through. To know that you’ve left nothing behind.”
“Are you doing it all alone then? Bringing up Millie by yourself?”
“Well, that’s another story.” She shook her head, and poured herself a glass of soda. “My ex and I signed a prenup. I thought I was marrying for love and family, so the prenup didn’t matter. My father was angry about that, and when the marriage fell apart after a year and a half, he was really angry. Especially when it comes to child support. My ex just has no idea how much it really costs to feed, clothe, house and generally look after a child. And besides, I’m too ashamed to ask for more. Dad stayed in touch with Chase, that’s my ex, thought he might be able to coax him around to giving more. Until recently Chase kept him at arms’ length. But,” She held back a nice smile. “After my father was diagnosed with cancer, Chase was more open to contact and letting him help out with childcare, things like that, whenever it’s needed. Chase understands that Dad doesn’t have long left, so is helping out. I never knew my ex had a heart, so that was nice.”
“Prenup, eh?” I grunted. “That’s pretty crazy. I’ve never met anyone who’s signed one of those before.”
And then, for just one moment, I saw a glint of anger in her eyes, a fleeting moment of disguised rage. “Don’t get me started.”
The door to the bar opened behind us, and an elderly well-dressed couple walked in.
I nodded to Tanya, knocked back the rest of my beer, and left her to the couple.
There was anger behind Tanya’s wall.
Perhaps enough anger to take revenge on the man she hated.
Chapter 7
Ruby Jones wasn’t hard to track.
She posted about her every movement on social media, her every step was a walking documentation of her vapid boring life. She was pretty, I guess, in a younger girl sort-of-way, tall with long red hair and the voice of a playboy bunny. Too high-pitched and squeaky for my liking. She was all a bit ice cream and sprinkles for me, all looks and no substance, an empty vessel that made the most noise, which tended to be a whine that was mainly about herself.
After I talked with Tanya, I followed Ruby’s steps and found her taking selfies outside The Bean—one of Chicago’s many famous sculptures. Shaped like a giant bean, around fifteen-feet high, and made of reflective metal, it was a piece of art that I could appreciate. It was a conversation point, something to marvel at, something to take photos of. But the central feature of Ruby’s photos was always the same: herself. This pose, that pose, a sideways glance at the camera, then one from the other side, eyes front, a smile, a frown, a bit of cleavage, some leg. To say the girl was self-obsessed would be a gross understatement.
If she could have married herself, I’m sure she would have done it.
She silently screamed ‘Me! Me! Me!’ all day long, constantly checking herself out in the windows of shops and cars, and boy did she like what she saw. It was funny, as although I could understand her physical appeal to some, to me she was ugly. An effortless grace, an intellect, and sharp wit was attractive to me, and she had none of the above. In fact, she had a downright deficit in those departments.
At mid-afternoon on a Sunday, the area around the Bean was filled with tourists and families. There were couples with strollers, the middle aged with their adult children, large extended families with grandparents, aunties, uncles and cousins in tow, and lots and lots of sightseeing tourists. Sitting on the park bench, staring back at the city behind the Bean, it made me think about kids. As I entered my forties, the notion that I might have kids was becoming less of a possibility, s
till a chance, but less so. Did I even want kids? With Claire, absolutely. But the thought of letting the past go, leaving my deceased wife behind, was still heartbreaking.
She was killed in a school shooting, a teacher caught in the line of fire, trying to protect one of her students. It broke my heart every morning when I woke and reached across to her cold empty side of the bed. No one had been there since, nor did I expect or plan there to be.
The man who provided the shooter with the weapon, Hugh Guthrie, was due to be in court the next day, facing charges of murdering a fellow newscaster. I had a hand in that arrest, finally giving myself a sense of justice for Claire. Guthrie had set the school shooter up, pushed the shooter to the limits, and then armed him with the tools to make it happen, all for the purpose of making a documentary.
I could’ve sent Hugh Guthrie to the afterlife, but I decided to let the courts deal with the scum.
Claire wanted kids. She loved them and wanted to have two. A boy and a girl was her dream. I went along with it, I went along with most things she wanted, but never really gave it much thought. Now, with Millie, those thoughts were running through my head, running wild and tormenting me.
Deep down, I think the answer was yes, I did want kids. Or at least I would have liked to have had them with my Claire. But did I want them with someone else one day? I wasn’t so sure. Undecided, I guess. But if I did then that would mean moving on from Claire, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for that, if I ever would be. To do so would feel like a betrayal of her.
Ruby Jones was still striking poses in her low-cut yellow dress. She looked like an emaciated model to me, with long skinny legs that seemed to run on forever. Although most of her life was tracked via social media, there was a patch of radio silence yesterday, the day of the kidnapping, the first time she hadn’t posted on social media for a day in more than a year. It was a big red flag right there. Although correlation doesn’t automatically mean causation, it was extremely suspicious, that’s for sure.
I took a deep breath, patted down my hair, and made my way over to her.
“Do you know where the nearest Starbucks is?” I questioned when in range.
“Starbucks?” She looked annoyed that I interrupted her selfies, that I had dared enter the sacred space of one so great and that she was far superior to me.
She pointed down the road dismissively. “That way,” she said with a condescending flick of the back of her hand.
Before she could turn away, I followed up.
“One of my followers said that the Starbucks near the Bean was the best Starbucks in the country.” I tapped the metal structure with my right hand. “I hope it is, because I need a coffee right now.”
Ruby looked me up and down, clearly doubting I even knew what ‘followers’ were, let alone whether I actually had any.
“Followers?” she said with a marked air of disdain.
“Yeah. On Instagram. I’ve got over 500,000 followers, and whenever I travel, the locals are more than happy to give me advice. Normally pretty good advice too.”
“You have 500,000 followers on Instagram?” She was shocked, and rightfully so. I didn’t even know how to navigate Instagram, let alone post on it. “I don’t believe you, old man.”
I had to give her credit, she was forthright and to the point.
And I won’t lie, the ‘old man’ dig hurt.
I was feeling it more and more of late, picking up constant niggling injuries at the gym, most recently a sprained ankle, but I wasn’t going to let her know that.
“Ok.” I shrugged. “You don’t have to believe me. Thanks for the directions. Have a nice day.”
I began to walk away and that confidence caught her attention. Most men would have been intimidated by her looks but not me. And it clearly threw her.
“Wait. Do you really have that many followers?”
“I do.”
“What’s your handle?”
If an ‘old man’ said that he had that many followers, then I’ll admit, even my curiosity would be peaked. Luckily for me, the system could be manipulated easily and Casey knew how to do that. Followers could be bought, pictures backdated, and profiles set up within a few minutes.
While I was talking to Tanya, Casey set up a fake profile with my smiling mug on the front, and a range of pictures throughout LA, my face nicely Photoshopped into pictures with celebrities. The page would only be available for a day to convince Ruby of my celeb status, and then deleted.
“I’m a movie producer. I’m traveling from LA, looking at finding new talent for my next movie.” I stepped closer to her. “My Instagram handle is @Movies.Producer.LA.”
Sometimes the simplest profile can be the most convincing. Ruby scanned the profile quickly, saw the pictures of me on movie sets, at award ceremonies with the great and the good, even on a yacht with a certain former president, and was convinced. I’m sure if she spent more than five seconds looking at any one of those pictures, she would see that they were fake, but I wasn’t going to give her that chance.
“You should join me for that coffee,” I stated confidently. It wasn’t a question, more an assertion. And she did as instructed.
She smiled, and for the first time since I’d been watching her, she put her phone away and followed my lead.
The walk to the coffee shop was filled with small talk, I was doing my best to name drop, casually of course, and Ruby was doing her best to look fabulous. She wanted in on that movie. She explained that she had 50,000 followers, she was famous, and she was ready to hit the big time. She talked of the acting classes she’d taken, the modelling she’d done, how she could sing and that she had even once worked as a dancer. It was all too obvious what she was after. I pretended to be interested, as if impressed with such a boring list of credentials.
“What’s your account handle?” I asked.
“A.Star.Is.Born.Chicago.”
I took out my phone and looked at her profile.
“How come you took a day off yesterday, you’ve posted consistently until then, some good material, but it’s unwise to kick back and take a break,” I said pretending to be surprised at the absence of any postings for the day in question.
Her one-word answer was sudden – ‘sick.’ Too quick, and too rehearsed.
We entered Starbucks and ordered our coffees.
“Got anything to tie you to Chicago?” I asked after we sat down on the outdoor seats along Michigan Ave. “Boyfriend? Husband? Kids?”
“No kids.” She answered suddenly. “My family is here. My father, Frank Jones, would do anything for me. I could ask him to drive to New York City and buy a salmon bagel for me, and he’d do it without question.”
“Sounds like a great dad.”
“Not really. He was violent, and he used to beat my mother and I when he got drunk. But when he’s sober, he’d do anything for us. He’s a mechanic, but he’s got mob connections, and he loves us. He’s still the centerpiece of my family.”
“Boyfriend?”
“My dad? No. He’s still married to my mother.”
“I meant you,” I smiled. It was clear that Ruby was about as sharp as a bowling ball.
“I do have a great boyfriend, but he would be happy to move anywhere. He’s older and rich. We’ve got a good life.”
“Does he have kids?”
“Not really.”
“Not really?” I laughed. “What does that mean?”
“I mean,” she paused for a few moments and bit her lip. “He does, but she just gets in the way. She’ll be gone soon anyway.”
“Gone? Why?” I leaned forward.
The question caught Ruby off-guard and she sat up straight. “Her mother wants more time with the kid. That’ll be good for Chase and me anyway. We can travel more then. Maybe even move to LA. It’s somewhere I’ve always wanted to work.”
My list of suspects was growing, and that wasn’t helping me one bit.
Chapter 8
Sometimes the smallest acti
on could annoy me.
Like the way those born into money and privilege hold their little finger out when they drink.
That annoyed me.
But at least those who were born rich didn’t know any better. What annoyed me even more was when people faked it to look like they were born with a silver spoon in their mouth, like they were from good stock or something, and were better than the rest of us mere grunts. And that was especially so when it was someone I already found annoying. Like Chase Martin doing it, while delicately sipping his tiny little espresso from one of those silly miniature cups. Yeah, that’ll do it, gets my blood boiling every time.
And yes, most things I had discovered about Chase Martin so far had annoyed me. I had no doubt that Ben was telling the truth when he said that Chase was running scams. Everything about him shouted con artist, at least to me; I guess to those he managed to con he came off as confident and sophisticated, a man who knew what he was talking about and who would look after them and especially look after their precious money, those who didn’t know any better.
His apartment wasn’t built for children—there were prized and delicate artifacts everywhere, almost waiting to be broken by an over enthusiastic child, which spoke volumes about his authoritarian and regimented parenting style, where he no doubt stamped out any exuberant free play in favor of organized and controlled order. I was sure some of the artifacts were bought off the black market and that their legality was questionable at best. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were smuggled into the US in breach of the laws of this great country, as well as the laws of wherever in the world they first originated.
I was surprised he even bothered with Millie at all. She didn’t seem to fit his lifestyle.
“Tell me about Ruby.” I sat down on the couch.
“Ruby? You think she’s involved?” Chase finished his espresso and ran his hand through his hair, flicking it back at the last minute with a flamboyant confidence that annoyed me even more.
Stolen Power Page 4