“Really?”
“Yes. It looks like he took some lessons but never completed the course.”
“I’m surprised. He seems like the type who would follow through.”
“People stop for all sorts of reasons, you know. Sometimes their ears can’t take it, you know. The pressure. Other times, they move, or their jobs change. It’s not so unusual.”
“No, I suppose not.” I hesitated. “Tell me, is he the only diving student you had with the name of Samir, or Samman, or Sami?”
“Hold on.” A few moments passed. “Yes. That’s it.”
“Then that’s got to be the young man I’m looking for. The address I have looks like he lives in—well, I can’t tell.” I cleared my throat. “The coffee.”
“We have him living in Orland Park.”
“That’s it. Yes. Where in Orland Park?”
She reeled off an address. I copied it down. “Do you want the phone number?”
“Sure.”
She gave me a number with a 773 area code. I wrote it down.
“Oh, hold on. You know what? There’s a “w” by the number I just gave you. I think I might have given you his work number by mistake. Do you want the home number instead?”
“Sure.”
She repeated another number with a 630 area code.
“You’ve been wonderful. You probably just saved my job. I can’t thank you enough. What’s your name?”
“Mary. Mary Rhodes.”
“Thank you, Mary. I’ll be sure to note how helpful you were in our files.”
“My pleasure.”
As soon as I disconnected, I tried the home number, but it was out of service, and there was no forwarding number. Then I punched in the work number. After five rings, a man’s voice picked up.
“Yeah?” Gruff. Breathing hard. I’d pulled him away from something.
“I’m trying to reach Samir Hanjour. Is he there?”
“Who?”
I repeated the name.
“There ain’t no one by that name here.”
“Oh, dear. Maybe I have the wrong information. I thought he worked there.”
“Well, maybe he did, but he don’t no more. I never heard of ’im.”
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you. This—this is—Walgreen’s, isn’t it?”
“Walgreen’s? Lady, you got the maintenance room at People’s Edison.”
People’s Edison? The huge utility that provides most of Chicago’s power? “Oh. I’m terribly sorry. I must have the wrong number.”
I carefully put the phone back on the base. I picked it up a second later and called People’s Edison’s corporate headquarters and asked to be connected to personnel. A moment later an officious voice told me there was no way she could release any information about PE employees unless I had clearance from her department head. I thanked her and hung up.
I stood up and started to pace. An Arabic man named Sammy took scuba diving lessons last year. Apparently, he also worked at People’s Edison. Or did when he started the scuba lessons. I wondered if he drove an SUV.
***
I attacked the lump of dough with a rolling pin like a tiny steamroller. The dough bulged, cracked, and finally surrendered to a higher force. Once it was uniformly thin and even, I transferred it to a nine-inch pie plate, trimmed off the extra, and fluted the edges. I rotated the plate and smiled. Martha Stewart had nothing on me. I was starting in on the filling when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello?”
A click. I hung up and wiped a floury hand across my brow. A wrong number. That’s all it was.
I finished the filling and put it in the fridge. Then I rummaged in the cupboard for onions. As long as I was feeling domestic, I should get a head start on the stuffing.
Damn. I was all out. But it was barely one o’clock. I threw on a coat and grabbed my keys.
I noticed the SUV on the way home from the store. A hundred yards behind. It was still there when I turned onto Happ Road. Two figures were inside. Men.
Fear skittered around in me. I pressed down on the gas and sped past my block, praying that the cops who hide at the side of the road were there. But they must have been taking the day off. The SUV accelerated and kept pace.
My fear spread.
I got to the end of Happ, careened around Sunset Ridge and onto Voltz. I checked the rearview mirror. Nothing. But Voltz twists and turns and cuts off your sight line. At Lee, I turned right and raced toward Shermer.
I needed to find someplace safe. Someplace no one could get to me. The mall? No. Too big. Too isolated. Too many empty corridors. The library? It was close by, and it was my sanctuary as a child. But it had been remodeled recently; there were lots of small study rooms and cubicles. I needed a place where everything was out in the open. Where there were people.
I was still deciding when the SUV reappeared in the mirror. Closer now. Shortening their rope. My heart hammered in my chest. I flew across Shermer, then Dundee, and sped back to the grocery store. I tore into the parking lot, threw the car in park, and sprinted through the door.
My breath was ragged, and I was trembling. Positioning myself so I had a clear view of the front window, I walked up to one of the checkers, a woman I’ve known for years. I hugged my arms across my chest.
“What’d you forget this time?” she smiled, then took a closer look. “Hey. Are you all right?”
“Couldn’t be better.” I tried to take a long, cleansing breath. “How’s the handicap?”
“My handicap?”
“Yes,” I panted. She was a golfer.
“Good,” she said uncertainly, as if she had no idea where I was coming from but was too polite to say so. “I shaved off another stroke this summer.”
I looked out the window. The SUV had pulled into the lot and was inching down the lane where the Volvo was parked. I jumped back from the window and said a prayer. The SUV slowed, stopped, and then slowly pulled away.
“That’s great, Debbie.” I blew out a breath. “Just great. Golf sure is a great sport.”
***
I wandered through the supermarket aisles, thinking I’d hide out there until it was time to pick up Rachel. I was stunned to find heart of palm was over three dollars a can; a tiny jar of caviar was only six. I wandered over to the candy aisle. More my style anyway, but even here, the prices were up to nearly a dollar a bar.
As I scanned the array of brightly colored packages, a familiar itchy feeling rose in my throat, and it dawned on me that a grocery store was not a good place for me to be right now. I felt alone. Defenseless. Out of control. It would be easy to find myself with a case of sticky fingers. I forced myself to walk to the coffee bar at the front of the store, where I bought a latte and made myself sit to drink it.
Once I had Rachel, I drove down to Skokie, taking Hibbard and Illinois instead of the expressway. Every few yards I checked the rearview mirror; no one was tailing us.
“Where are we going?” Rachel asked as we wound through the quiet streets.
“To Dad’s.”
“Is Opa okay?”
“He’s fine. I—I just want to check up on him. “
“Oh.” Rachel seemed abnormally quiet, and I wondered whether I’d subconsciously projected my fear onto her. I needed to be more careful. As we turned onto Hunter, we passed a yard already crowded with Santas, candy canes, and a large sleigh filled with packages.
“Look.” I waved. “It’s not even Thanksgiving, and they’ll probably leave them up until February.”
Rachel didn’t say anything.
“If we can live through this,” I cracked, “we can live through anything.”
Rachel recoiled as though I’d struck her.
“Christmas, honey. The decorations.”
She burst into tears. “I don’t want to go to Opa’s.”
“Rachel, what are you talking about?”
She sobbed. “He’s going to yell at me.
And so will you.”
“Oh.” Now I knew. I pulled to the side of the road. “Honey, that’s not it.”
Her sobs grew louder. I drew her into my arms. She threw her arms around my neck and buried her face in my shoulder.
“I thought—I thought I was going to jail, Mommy.” She wailed.
“Shh.” I brushed my fingers across the curls framing her forehead. When she was little I always thought she looked like one of those angels with golden halos. “It’s over now, honey.”
A few minutes passed. Her sobs began to hiccup. “They—were—so—mean.”
“Officer Davis was mean?”
“Not—her.” She sniffled. “She was—okay.”
I thought she was okay, too. Better than okay.
“The others. The ones who arrested me.” She took a shuddering breath. “They told me if I got into trouble again, I’d go to juvenile detention. They treated me like I was—like—I—was a—a—” She started to tear up again.
“A criminal?”
She nodded, her eyes glassy and wet. “When we got to the station—they took our fingerprints—and then they put me in that cell—and—they handcuffed me to the wall.”
I winced. I remembered the time I was arrested for shoplifting. How frightened I was. How ashamed. How alone. I hugged her tighter.
“Then they asked me all these questions. But in a really mean way. They kept saying they knew someone at school was dealing, and I had to tell them who it was. And then—” She stopped short, a horrified look on her face. “Mother, are they going to tell the school what happened?”
I pushed an unruly curl behind her ear. “No. The school doesn’t know anything about it.”
“What about Opa?”
“I haven’t told him.”
“Mommy…please…don’t.”
I looked over. “I won’t. Unless you say something first.”
“Never.” She shook her head and sniffed. “Never.” She looked up. I saw the determined tilt of her chin. “I never want to see Carla again. Even if I have to make all new friends.”
I forced a smile. “How about we talk about it over the weekend? I don’t want you to forget, but I don’t want it to ruin Thanksgiving. We’ll figure out how to keep our noses clean after Thursday.”
“Our noses?”
“Ours,” I said, silently thanking God hers was on just fine and that she seemed to have survived her ordeal with only minor damage. “Yours and mine. I’d like to spend more time with you.”
She nodded and wiped her eyes with her hands. For the first time in days, the hint of a smile cracked her face. “Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I could set up a chemistry lab in the basement?”
Chapter Forty-one
“My favorite girls!” Dad swung open his door. “What a surprise.”
“We just happened to be in the neighborhood…”
Dad squinted as we trooped inside. He knew I was lying. “Are you okay?”
“We’re fine,” I said hastily, exchanging a glance with Rachel. “We—er—wanted to have dinner with you.”
He looked at me, then Rachel. “Chinese?”
Rachel nodded eagerly, and Dad went into the kitchen to hunt for the take-out menu. Rachel took off her coat and plopped down on the couch.
I prowled around the apartment. With only two rooms and a kitchen, it didn’t take long to make a circuit.
“Sit down, Ellie,” Dad said as I passed the kitchen. “You’re making me nervous.”
I sat at the dining room table. Dad brought in the menu, and after a group consultation, called in an order of egg rolls, sweet and sour chicken, and lo mein with Cantonese noodles. “Can’t fill up too much,” he winked at Rachel. “Not with turkey day coming up.”
My cell phone trilled. I jumped up and dug it out of my purse. “Hello?”
There was no response. “Hello?” Silence. “Damn it.” I looked around. “No one’s there.”
Rachel and Dad watched me with curious expressions. I looked back at the cell, hoping a “missed call” display might pop up along with the number. Nothing. I shoved the cell back in my pocket.
“How about a game of chess?” Dad asked.
“Cool.” Rachel went to the cabinet, pulled out his chess set, and proceeded to set it up on the table.
“I’ll skip this round,” I said.
Dad nudged Rachel. “A comedian, your mother.”
Rachel giggled.
I went to the window. It was close to five, but the skies, swollen with thick gray clouds, were more luminous than usual. A snowstorm was coming. For real, this time. I looked back at Rachel and Dad, engrossed in their opening moves. I ducked into the bedroom.
“Ellie, your schpilkes are driving me crazy.”
I came back out. I was driving myself crazy. “Why don’t I go pick up the food?”
“Awesome,” Rachel said. “I’m starving.”
Dad stared at me through his glasses. “We could have it delivered.”
I felt around in my bag for my cell phone. “I need some air. It’s okay.”
“You sure?”
I nodded. I headed to my car, trying to be aware of everything in front of and behind me. Five painted rocks bordering the lawn. Four cracks in the sidewalk. Two streetlights angling in on the lot. I started to count how many cars were there, but lost count when I dug out my keys.
As I fitted the key in the lock, I felt a sudden presence loom over me. Closing in fast. I didn’t have time to get in the car. What should I do? My key! I’d rake the car key across his face. When I sensed he was almost on top of me, I threw my hand in the air and whipped around.
LeJeune caught my wrist.
I staggered back. “Jesus Christ!”
“I wouldn’t go that far, chér.”
He was wearing a dark, bulky parka, and his “Different Drummer” hat was pulled low on his face. But his eyes smiled down at me.
“Damn you!” I waved my keys. “You almost lost your smooth Cajun skin!”
He loosened his grip on my wrist. “You do have a way with words.”
I shook off his hold. How dare he act as if he was just casually dropping by? As if nothing was wrong, the past week never happened?
“How did you find me?”
“The Bureau has its ways, chér.”
I didn’t know whether to curse him or just walk away. I started to open the car door, but now that he was back, the fear, the not knowing, the sense that things were closing in on me—it all suddenly seemed to be too much. My composure snapped.
“Oh God, Nick.” My voice trembled. “I’ve been so alone. And scared. I’m being followed. And I don’t know who or—” Burying my face in his coat, I started to cry.
He waited patiently, his arms around me, until I calmed down. When there was only a sob or two left, he tilted my chin up with one hand and brushed away my tears with the other. He leaned over, and the next thing I knew, his mouth was on mine. Doing things I hadn’t felt in a long time.
***
As we drove to the Chinese restaurant in the Volvo, I wondered what had just happened between us. But he didn’t say anything, just looked through the windshield with a half-smile on his face. Maybe it wasn’t that important to him. Just the cost of doing business. It was probably in the FBI handbook: kiss hysterical woman, calm her down, then get what you need.
Whatever it was, we’d have to sort it out later. There were more important issues at hand. I told him the SUV was following me again. I also told him how I’d shaken it—for the moment. He nodded but didn’t ask any questions. I wondered why.
“What am I going to do?” My voice sounded shrill as we parked and headed inside. “I can’t go back home tonight. It’s too dangerous.”
“I know.”
“You know?” I looked over. “Damn you again. If you know I’m in danger, where the hell have you been for the past week? Didn’t you get my messages?”
“I got them.”<
br />
“Then why you didn’t call me back? I might have been—Rachel and I might have been—”
As we reached the door to the restaurant, he cut me off. “I was out of the country. I couldn’t talk on an unsecured line.”
We pushed through the door. Basically a carry-out, the restaurant was small, with a high counter that stretched across two thirds of the room. Three small tables sat in front. The sound of splattering oil drifted out from the kitchen, and the scent of Asian spices permeated the air.
“When did you get back?”
“This morning.”
Now that we were in the light of the restaurant, I saw the stubble on his face and the dark pouches under his eyes. When he realized I was checking him out, he dipped his head. I checked the bag of food on the counter. The name Forman was scribbled on the receipt. They always forget the e.
I gestured to the bag. “You want something?”
“Just coffee.”
I nodded at the proprietor, who filled a plastic cup and handed it to LeJeune. As he took it, his movements seemed jerkier, less fluid than usual. A subtle tension seemed to have come over him.
After paying, we headed back to Dad’s.
“Nick, I need to tell you what’s been going on.”
He sipped his coffee. “This is good. They still don’t brew coffee right in London.”
“London? You were in London?” I stopped at a red light. Dale Reedy was from England. I thought about the length of time he’d been gone, what had happened before and since. When the light changed, I said, “You’re on an antiterrorism squad, aren’t you?”
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t.” He leaned his arm across the back of the seat. “A few months ago we received credible information from Saudi intelligence about a planned terrorist attack in the Midwest. Something specifically involving water. It was confirmed by the Mossad. And British intelligence. They said it would go down after the verdict.”
“What verdict?”
“The guy who’s on trial now. If he’s convicted—”
“Which, in all likelihood, he will be….”
He shrugged. “Yeah. Well, if he is, there’s supposed to be a nasty surprise afterwards.”
A Picture of Guilt Page 24