by Julie Hyzy
When I answered, Lisa’s voice was all business. “Is this Alexandrine Szatjemski?”
“Yeah.” I lapsed in to what I hoped would pass for a standard down-on-her-luck, yet eager, woman.
“Lisa Knowles calling. I’m so sorry,” she said, though her voice sounded anything but. “There’s been a mixup. I somehow hired two of you for the same position. And since there’s only one opening, currently …” She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.
“You mean I’m out?” I was stunned—”Why?”
Lisa heaved a sigh. Total affectation. I could tell that even through the phone lines. “I’m very sorry.”
At this point, I realized my acting talents weren’t going to make much difference. My undercover plans had been shot sky-high. Politeness took control over my disappointment. I thanked her and hung up.
“Shit!” I said.
Bass held his hands out; they might have been trembling. “What? What happened?”
As I related the conversation, I felt an enormous rush of disappointment. Even though I had no plan to get “promoted” past the level of shampoo girl, I had intended to gather information for as long as I could. Something changed that killed that chance for me. The timing was lousy and I could only wonder what had triggered Lisa’s move. Because I didn’t for a moment believe her story about accidentally hiring two girls for one job.
Bass was quick to point out that it left us with a hole in our investigation. Except he didn’t use the word “us.” He’d stood up to pace, gesticulating as he walked. Coming to my side of the desk, he looked ready to spit as he warned me that this was a serious problem. He pointed in the general vicinity of my chest. With anyone else, I would have taken it to have sexual overtones. With Bass, he was just too agitated to notice how close he was. He told me that I was going to have to come up with another idea. And I better be pretty damn quick about it.
“Listen,” William said, “we don’t know who killed Matthew Breczyk or Milla Voight. That’s true. But there is a story here that we can explore. Sophie isn’t going to go on camera for us. We know that. And we wouldn’t want her to. But we can tout this as an ongoing investigation. Alex has contacts with the Chicago Police Department. I do, too. What if we throw out a net?”
Bass’s skeptical look was gentle, compared to the tone of his voice. “Net?”
“We’re not the authorities, we don’t have to play by the same set of rules. We can talk about the alleged prostitution ring, we can talk about the exploitation of immigrant girls who’ve come to the United States for a better life, and we can write a kick-ass show, without using a single name or identifiable reference.”
“This is a net?” Bass asked again.
“Sure. Because what do you think will happen when the show airs? Some of the girls are going to start to worry about getting caught. They’re going to wonder if they’ll go to jail when the full story gets out. And that’s when some of them might step forward. And they’re more likely to step forward to a television station than they would to a police department. Especially if we guarantee anonymity.”
We’d never done anything quite along those lines. It was a bit chancy. Bass, seated again, was making that very argument, and since I had no doubt about what he would say, I let my mind wander a bit. While I’d been skittish about what to do if they’d ever try to set me up on a “date,” I also knew that there would have been no better way for me to gather information. I wondered again about Lisa’s reneging on the job she’d promised me. I still wished there was some way to exploit the undercover angle.
“Hey,” I said, half to myself.
They both looked my direction, Bass’s mouth half open, mid-sentence. He wiped at the tiny beads of spit around his mouth.
“What? You think William’s idea will work?”
I sat up, excited, buying myself a moment to allow the thoughts that had jumbled in my mind to find some order. “Okay, what if …” I realized I was thinking out loud, which sometimes gets me into trouble when I don’t take the time to edit myself ahead of time. But the ideas needed to be spilled. The two of them could help me sort through and massage the plan into place. “What if we went undercover after all?”
William cocked an eyebrow at me, but said nothing. Bass frowned. “How are you going to do that? You can’t be a hooker anymore, they just fired you.”
“Yes, but,” I had my hands up, gesturing, working out the energy I felt so that my brain could remain calm enough to explain. “The problem with my plan, even if it had worked perfectly, was that I depended on overhearing conversations to build our story.”
They both nodded. Good.
“To actually prove that a prostitution ring existed, to actually prove that Lisa exploited young girls, I would have had to cooperate, and whenever she would have set me up with my first ‘date,’ I would have fled. End of our stream of information, right? Because it would have been too dangerous for me to actually follow through on that.”
Again, the double nod, though Bass seemed less certain than William.
“We could still prove the prostitution ring. Without Sophie’s cooperation. Keep her completely safe.”
I felt my own eyes widen as I spoke and my words came out fast, like they always do when I’m excited. “What if we sent in an undercover john. We have him contact Lisa to set up a date for himself. Then capture the whole exchange on videotape.”
William’s quizzical look forced me to add, “I don’t mean that he’d actually go through with any …” I struggled for polite phrasing, “… physical contact. But if we could set up the hotel room ahead of time, and our guy could get her talking …”
“Yeah,” Bass said. The word came out with a slow, thoughtful bob of his head.
William leaned forward in his chair, waving the pen in his hand to interrupt the flow of conversation. “What about the girl? We air any of it and she’s toast.”
“No, no,” I said, jumping back in. “We can do this, I think, without them ever realizing what went down. We get enough information and we hand it over to the police. They take it from there. We’ve worked with them before in some of our investigations. They get the arrests, we get the exclusive story.”
“Okay,” he said, “but, remember that the reason you started to follow this story in the first place was because a young woman was murdered. And now Matthew Breczyk, who purportedly tried to bring the organization down, is dead too. If your suppositions are correct, we’re dealing with some dangerous people here.”
“Which is why we’ll be extra careful,” I said.
“Right,” Bass chimed in. He looked back and forth between us and licked his lips.
I tapped at my teeth with a fingernail. “Let’s say for a minute that we do this. Who do we send in?”
Bass shook his head in a move that communicated that the answer was obvious. He pointed. “Billy here, ought to do it.”
I heard William’s sharp intake of air.
Billy? I thought. Since when was he “Billy”? I shook my head. “I was thinking we’d hire someone. Like an actor or something—”
“Why?” Bass asked. “This isn’t the kind of story we want leaked, is it? Of course not. Other than the three of us here, I don’t think anybody else should know about it. We keep it safe that way.”
The story. He was always thinking about the story.
“What about William? What if they find out he works here? Then what?”
William cleared his throat. “This situation is no different than the one you put yourself in when you applied for that job with Lisa. You were taking a risk.”
“Yeah,” I said, “But …”
I caught myself. I’d been about to say that the difference was that this was my story, not his. But then I remembered his offer to help out. I’d been on my own so long in this job that I wasn’t used to dragging anyone else through the quagmires I inevitably created.
In an effort to cover up the near-blurt, I said, “But … are you wi
lling to go through with something like this?”
Something akin to pain crossed William’s features, and he gave an abrupt nod. “What I need to know is, what then? Where do we take it from there? Once we get our feature?”
Bass’s eyes flickered with nervousness. “What do you mean? Once we get the story we’re done, right?”
William turned to him and I felt a chill in his gaze. “These people are preying on vulnerable young women. Women who’ve come here for a better life and who made a bad decision. Look at what happened to Sophie. She tried to get out. Are we in this for a story? Or are we in this to make a difference in these peoples’ lives?”
William’s voice had grown quieter even as it intensified. I had to admit it—the little shiver that ran down my spine as he spoke had nothing to do with the ambient air temperature. Wow. I liked this guy. Couldn’t have said it better myself. We both waited for Bass’s reaction.
With trapped-animal jumpy looks toward both of us, he nodded, a bit too enthusiastically. “We want to make a difference in their lives,” he said. Then added, “Of course.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Father Trip,” I called, stopping him mid-stride.
He was crossing the parking lot adjacent to the church, likely on his way to the school for his daily check-in. I knew that Mass was celebrated every weekday morning at nine-fifteen, so my appearance here just before ten was no accident.
I caught up with him, encouraged by the fact that he was smiling. Chances are nothing was wrong. And I was over-reacting.
“Alex! Good. I was going to call you later.”
He resumed his brisk walk toward the school. Wearing black pants, black gloves and a black polyester jacket with the furry collar turned up against the chill, he could have been a cat burglar.
“Everything’s okay?”
He wiped at his red nose. “Yes, of course. Sophie had an uneventful night.” One hand snugged the collar a little tighter as he pointed toward the convent with his chin. “The sisters took care of her. Made sure she felt at home.”
“Where is she now?”
He stopped walking. While his expression remained calm, his eyes flickered with a touch of alarm. “At the convent. I checked on her early this morning. She was up at dawn, helping the nuns with their chores.”
“She’s not there now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sister Mary Mildred told me she ‘went to go see Father.’” I looked at him. “I assumed she meant you.”
Dead center of the asphalt lot, we were a perfect target for the biting wind. I could hear it whistle as it streaked past my ears, leaving the tops of them feeling that first numb of the season. My nose ran a little, and as I wiped at it, I was glad I’d worn a pair of knitted gloves. My hair felt as though it was being twisted by a cyclone and my eyes watered. Even though Father Trip’s hair was short, the tiny silver ends lifted up as we stood there. He looked away, his jaw set, his eyes inscrutable.
Though the elements made for a cold, harsh discussion venue, neither of us moved. Father Trip puffed out his cheeks, then blew out a pursed-lip breath that curled out white before him. “No. Not me.”
Despite the many layers I wore, I swore I could hear my own frantic heart beats. “Where would she go?” I asked, knowing even as I did that Father Trip would have less of idea about that than I would.
“Maybe she just went home to pick up a few things?” he said.
He sounded about as convinced as I did when I replied, “Maybe.”
He walked with me back toward the convent where we asked Sister Mary Mildred what time Sophie had left. Both Father Trip and I were surprised to find out she’d been gone for over two hours.
“Damn,” I said as we left the convent.
We stood for a moment at the front stoop. I watched some of the remaining leaves try to hang on tight against the wind’s plucking fingers. They twisted and turned, like wind socks, some holding firm, some losing the battle—catching a ride on the wicked breeze.
I wanted to talk to Sophie. To get some insights as to how William should approach Lisa Knowles. If there was some sort of code, or bit of knowledge that would keep him from raising the woman’s suspicions. The undercover operation had been the only thing on my mind since our impromptu meeting. I was worried about the story. Worried about making it work. But mostly worried about William. Not just about safety issues either; he seemed to want to tell me something as the meeting wound up. He’d left me with a meaningful look I didn’t understand, and the cryptic line, “We need to talk.”
“Alex,” Father Trip said, breaking into my thoughts. His words, gently spoken, cut through the soft autumn sounds in a lonely way. “I’m sorry.”
“It isn’t your fault,” I said.
He put his hand on my arm and I felt the priestly paternal squeeze. “Sophie’s a grown woman. She decided to leave, for some reason. And just because she did, doesn’t mean that anything’s happened to her. She may be on her way back, right now.”
I nodded, “Thanks, Father.”
Father Trip smiled. “Whatever I can do to help, let me know.”
I drove back to Sophie’s apartment, without a lot of hope of finding her there. Mabel and Casimir were surprised at my knock, but they hadn’t seen Sophie this morning either. It might have been the look in my own eyes that alarmed them, but Casimir asked me to please let them know when I found her, and Mabel pressed a note with their phone number into my hand.
The fifteen-minute ride had given me ample opportunity to think, however. The nun who told me Sophie left, said that she was going to see Father. When I questioned her further, Sister Mary Mildred remembered Sophie digging out change for the bus before she left. Which meant that she hadn’t been going to see Father Trip after all. Which is why I was now on my way to visit Father Bruno.
Emil answered the door. Rumpled as ever, he wore a different flannel shirt than he’d been wearing the first time I met him, but I swore it looked as though he’d slept in it. His face, pinkened on one side and his constant blinking, gave me the impression that my surprise visit woke him up.
He scratched at the side of his face, near his temple, as though trying to massage a headache away. “Don’t I know you?”
His breath backed me up a step, but I smiled. I wanted information after all. “I was here the other day. With Sophie?”
Dropping the hand from his temple, he used it to point at me. “Oh yeah,” he said with what sounded like pleasured approval. “I remember.” His eyes raked over me from head to toe and back again, and he gave a small frown when he looked in the direction of my chest. “I hate winter.”
Puzzled by the non-sequitur, I was just about to ask about Sophie, when he added, “Makes people wear too many clothes.” And then he winked at me.
Thank God for down jackets, I thought. What an idiot.
“Have you seen her?” I asked, changing the subject.
It seemed to take him a second to make the leap, to understand what I was asking. “Sophie?”
Exasperated, and wishing I could get away, I bit the insides of my mouth, “Yeah, has she been around?”
“Oh, she’s been around, that girl. Let me tell you …” His eyes lit up, and I interrupted before he could go any further. The gleam in his eyes made me want to retch, right there. And aim for his face.
“I mean, did she stop by here this morning? To see Father Bruno?”
“I dunno, she might have. Bruno headed over to the church early this morning and said he needed to meet with one of the girls. Coulda been Sophie.”
“One of the girls?” I decided to press, just a bit. Dealing with Emil made my skin crawl, but he might have useful information. “You mean one of the girls he helped come over from the old country? The one’s he’s gotten … jobs for?”
Wariness jumped into Emil’s expression. I hadn’t thought him capable of it.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
I forced a smile. “You know what I me
an.”
His eyes raked over me again. “You a working girl?”
I ignored the question. “What would Father Bruno think of it if I was?” I asked.
He shook his head as a small smile played at his lips. Which he licked, twice, before beginning to answer.
“Emil!” A voice from the sidewalk interrupted our conversation.
I turned to see Father Bruno make his way up the concrete steps. He shot me a chilly smile.
He wore old-fashioned black robes. Skirt-like, they hung out below the bottom of his beige winter jacket, swishing around his legs as he climbed the stairs. Atop his head he wore a fur hat, Russian style. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like real fur to me, and I wondered how many of God’s creatures had given up their lives in sacrifice to his head-warmth.
He puffed as he crested the top stair, years of smoking taking their toll. “Alexandrine,” he said with what seemed more like surprise than pleasure. The pale brown eyes, watery from the cold wind, didn’t communicate the welcome his smile seemed to strive for. “We were just talking about you.”
I tried to tamp down the jolt of optimism. “With Sophie? She was here?”
“Yes, of course,” he said, pushing past Emil through the rectory’s open door. I followed, catching a whiff of the secretary’s body odor as he swept his arm to guide me in, in what looked like an attempt at a gallant gesture. I wondered if the man ever bathed.
“Where is she now?” I asked, holding my hand up near my nose in a reflexive action, though it did no good whatsoever. “At church?”
Bruno pulled the fur hat from his head. Silver hairs stood out in all directions, and he wiped a beefy hand at them, coaxing them down. He headed into the same room where we’d met the first time. I thought it had been dark before. Now the dreariness was overwhelming. If parishioners came here for guidance, I wouldn’t wonder that they left more depressed than they were when they came in.
Making his way around his desk, Bruno stripped the jacket off and tossed it on a chair with the hat in a smooth motion.
Grabbing a Kleenex, he blew his nose, several times. Robust blows, one nostril at a time, keeping an eye on me as he did so.