by Tracy Clark
“Not particularly.”
“Then you got the real Vonda, the one we see. There’s also the fake Vonda, the charming, personable, down-with-the-people Vonda who lights up the room at all the galas and glitzy parties. She’s a great pretender, an even greater manipulator. If you let her, she’ll manipulate the hell out of you.” Sewell stood, smoothed out her skirt. “If she knows who’s doing this, then your job just got a lot harder, because she’ll never tell you. Instead, she’ll do what she always does, throw money at the problem, try to bully it. Let’s hope that works.”
I stood, too, and tried handing the card back, but she waved me off. I slipped the card into my pocket instead, not that I could do anything with it. No one at that firm was even remotely in my price range.
I said, “I don’t think money’s the answer.”
“Then that’s too bad, because that’s all she’s got.”
* * *
“So?” Ben asked when I got back.
I plopped down into the chair beside him. “We’re not working for Mother Teresa.”
“You had to go down the hall for that?”
“I suspected it before. Now I have confirmation.”
“Hewitt?”
“Tough talker, but maybe this time he got pushed too far?” I told him about Hewitt and Sewell. “I’d love to see their office Christmas parties, wouldn’t you?”
“She’s definitely rattled,” Ben said.
“About that. It still bothers me that she hired us and not a firm. ‘Big isn’t necessary,’ she said.”
Ben nodded. “She wants low key.”
I sighed, thinking. “Yeah, I’m thinking there’s more to it.”
Chapter 4
A while later Ben took his own walk down the hall. He said he was going just to make sure things were quiet up front, but I knew better. He was no better at maintaining the bubble than I was. While he was gone, I flipped through one of Allen’s ego-riddled magazines, my legs crossed, my eyes periodically lifting off the page to check the hall, Allen’s door, and whatever else needed a quick look-see, my ears peeled for anything that didn’t sound right.
Kendrick was at the copier. I could hear the clunky whir of the machine. And then there was Chandler, who, for some inexplicable reason, had nothing better to do and was now sitting at the small intake desk outside her office, watching me read. Whenever I looked up, there she was, and to my great chagrin, it appeared she was prepared to keep at it.
“That’s a good issue,” she said.
I lowered the magazine just far enough to expose my eyes. It’s okay, I thought. Great? Hmm. “It’s entertaining.”
“Marlon Hinchey is one of our up-and-coming young performers. He came to us. We didn’t have to put feelers out. Strive is just that good.”
I nodded. For a moment there was a lull in the conversation, mainly because I wasn’t committed to entering into one. Chandler had been quite the cold fish earlier on; now she seemed ready to engage in polite conversation. Why? Allen wasn’t paying me to gab the day away. One might argue she wasn’t paying me to read it away, either, but that was a discussion for another time.
“Not very exciting work. Watching someone.”
I lowered the magazine to my lap, a finger between the pages to mark my spot. I wondered if Chandler meant my watching Allen or her watching me. She stood up, walked around the desk, leaned back against it, arms crossed. Her smile threw me. I checked the hall. No Ben. Shoot. I sighed, stood.
“The less excitement the better.”
Chandler seemed to consider that. “I see your point. Exciting would be bad for Vonda.”
I tossed the magazine onto the chair and walked over. “You must have more important things to do than watch me read.”
“Just making sure things run smoothly. I can’t do that closed up in my office.”
I glanced over at her office. It was half the size of Allen’s but still large enough to corral at least half a herd of cattle. Nicely decorated, I thought, and the desk sat squarely on the floor, like a normal person’s desk should. Score one for Chandler. “Run smoothly for us or for her?”
She lowered her arms, lifted off the desk. “Everyone.” She turned to pace around the tight little rotunda. “You and Detective Mickerson are questioning the staff.” She stopped, turned back to face me. “Despite what Vonda said. I understand why, and it’s good you’re doing it. Find out anything?”
“It’s early yet.”
“Yes, well, I wouldn’t place too much stock in what you’re being told. Philip and Linda have axes to grind. They may not like Vonda, they may even resent her, but they respect her authority.”
I thought back to Philip Hewitt’s dramatic walkout, Linda Sewell’s legal representation, and Kendrick’s liberal use of the postage machine. None of that looked like respect to me.
“She’s tough,” I said. “Strong willed.”
“Absolutely, and if she were a man, those would be considered positive attributes. But I’m sure you understand that. You likely get that yourself.”
“Fair amount. How long have you worked for her?”
Chandler sat down again. “I’ve worked with Vonda almost fifteen years. We started out at the same PR firm. Then we decided to break out on our own, start the magazine.”
“Quite a leap of faith,” I said.
Chandler grinned. “It was. There were some lean years, and for a long time it was just Vonda, me, and a couple of young writers doing everything, but we made it.” She swept her arms around the room, beaming with pride. “We’ll celebrate our eighth anniversary this September. And you’ve heard about the talk show. It’s network, not cable access. National reach. Who knows how far we’ll go?”
“Your original writers . . . Are they still on board?”
“Oh, no. Long gone. They didn’t have the patience to take the long view. When things got tough, they gave up. It takes time to build a successful business. Young people don’t get that.” Her face turned to stone. “I know you think someone here is doing this, but you’re wrong.”
I pressed my lips together. I didn’t think I was wrong. I could think of at least two people right down the hall who might be likely candidates. Chandler apparently saw only loyalty and unity, while I had seen, almost from the moment I walked in here, anything but that. Still, she was entitled to her delusion. I gave Chandler another studied look, then padded back to my spot. “I’d imagine your responsibilities don’t allow for a lot of personal time.” There was no wedding ring on her finger, but that didn’t mean much these days, and marriage wasn’t the only way to be committed to someone, or even to a couple of someones. “All the late hours?”
“You must know something about that, too. I don’t mind them at all. Whatever needs to be done.”
I picked up the magazine and sat. “The letters . . . Do you remember how they came in? What kind of envelopes, maybe? A return address?”
It looked like Chandler was racking her brain to remember. “I wish I’d paid closer attention, but things get so busy here. And then, when Vonda told me to throw everything out . . .”
“Except for the letter you showed Detective Mickerson?”
Chandler stared at me. “I was worried for Vonda. Sometimes she doesn’t know what’s for her own good. You think those things were important?”
The envelopes might have offered a clue to their sender’s identity. At least they’d have given us a place to start. They might even have traced back to Allen’s own postage machine. I offered a small smile. “Could have been.”
* * *
Ben made it back from his canvass but had little to show for it. No one else had admitted to holding a grudge against Allen, he reported, but neither had they exhibited a willingness to invite her out for a drink after work or nominate her for Boss of the Year. In short, Allen’s compliant employees were sad passengers in an oarless canoe hell-bent for Misery Falls.
“Pamela in reception’s got one foot out the door,” Ben whispered
, tapping his fingers on the armrests of his chair. “She’s clocking out for good as of this Friday. Scuttlebutt is Allen pegged her as being thicker than a concrete post, and she took offense.”
“And she’s sticking around till Friday?”
“It’s that or not get paid for the time she’s already put in. She’s paying for night school. And I ran into your buddy Kendrick. He’s got a sneaky look to him. Reminds me of Loquacious Frye. I told you about him. Helped corner him my second year in uniform. He looked clean-cut, upstanding. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Biggest drug slinger on the West Side. Had twenty dealers working under him.” Ben’s eyes narrowed, and his gaze slid down the hall, toward the copy room. “Kendrick’s got Loquacious written all over him.”
I shook my head, getting tired of the whole thing at this point. “Not Loquacious. He’s sneaking stamps, not slinging drugs.” At least not as far as I knew.
“Stamps? Huh. Well, that’s a letdown.” He readjusted the gun at his side. “I don’t see anyone good for the Dear Bitch letters, then. For one, those notes reek of the personal, and nobody down there would voluntarily get anywhere near Allen, unless a lot of money changed hands. Two, Allen doesn’t pay any of them enough to buy flowers that’re only going to end up head-first down the crapper without her so much as smelling them first.” Ben flicked a nod toward Chandler’s door. “Nobody likes that one, either. She pops up everywhere and won’t breathe unless Allen signs off on it first.”
I leaned back in my chair. “Knows all, sees all?”
He sighed. “And keeps her trap shut.” He looked over at me. “What’re you doing?”
I folded my hands across my stomach, closed my eyes. “Sitting.”
“Now you’re sitting?”
I grinned. “Yep, my body’s out here watching out for the body . . .”
He interrupted me mid-snark. “Can it, wiseass.”
* * *
At five, Allen’s office emptied out faster than a brothel during a vice raid. Everyone hit the door at top speed, desperate, it seemed, finally to breathe air Vonda Allen didn’t own. However, Allen, true to her word, stuck it out till six; only then was she ready to be escorted home like the monarch she thought she was.
Her shiny black limo idled out front as the three of us hit the lobby. The driver was dressed as you’d expect in black pants and jacket, neatly pressed, a starched white shirt, and a driver’s cap. His name was Elliott, and he was all business. He held the door for Allen, waited until she got comfortable, and then eased in behind the wheel, never looking back.
Ben sat up front with him; I sat in the back with Allen, in the seat across from hers, so that we were face-to-face. She ignored me, of course, though I didn’t have that luxury. I kept my eyes on her intermittently while also watching the streets as we went along. That was my job. Luckily, Allen didn’t live far, only a few blocks away, in a penthouse condo on North Lake Shore Drive, an area where even the pigeons knew better than to relieve themselves on the sidewalk.
Elliott pulled up into the building’s circular drive and dropped us off. Ben took point, Allen was in the middle, and I held the back position as the three of us breezed past the security desk and stood waiting for the private elevator to take us up to the residences. We didn’t have to wait long. The polished brass doors whooshed open after a few seconds to reveal a sweet-smelling car outfitted in sheeny cherrywood and a thick Oriental carpet. Ben stepped aside to let Allen walk on, and I stepped in after her.
“You see her up,” Ben said. “I’ll hit the garage. Get the car. Meet you down there.”
I nodded; Allen didn’t. The doors closed, and the car rose slowly without a single auditory clue that we were moving at all. No squeaks or groans, no Muzak, no nothing, just the sound of the two of us inhaling and exhaling as we rode up to Allen’s apartment.
“Kaye told me you questioned the staff today.” She didn’t bother looking at me. Her eyes were fixed on the shiny doors. “Contrary to my instructions.”
I watched Allen’s reflection in the sheen. Though it was slightly distorted, I could see her lips pressed tightly, her lifted chin, the hard eyes. “That’s right.”
“I forbid—”
I stopped her right there. “Forbid?”
“I call that insubordination.”
“I call it doing my job.”
We rode up a few more floors in chilly silence before Allen spoke again.
“I assume you have a gun?”
I let a moment go by. “Uh-huh.”
“And that you know how to use it?” Her voice was so low, it came out almost as a whisper, as though she were afraid someone else might hear, as though saying even those few words opened a window into her deepest, darkest fears.
I turned to face her, really took her in, though she still would not look at me. For all her perceptiveness, tough talk, and high-mindedness, I could see clearly now that she was uncharacteristically vulnerable but too proud to admit it—even to herself. Who had done this to her? I wondered. What or who was she frightened of? I faced forward again, watched her in the doors, the stiff set of the shoulders, her defiance, even now, as she fought not to exhibit the slightest hint of emotion.
“I know how to use it. I’m hoping I won’t have to.”
I could almost feel her struggle with herself over whether to say more. Expectant seconds passed before it became clear to me that she wouldn’t. It was yet another missed opportunity.
“Maybe tomorrow you’ll tell me why you needed to know that,” I said.
There was a sudden intake of breath, and then the doors slid open, and she all but bolted into the cocooned safety of her penthouse suite. Only then did she appear to breathe again.
I stood there, my mouth hanging open. If I thought her office was big enough to host a joint session of Congress, it had nothing on this place. The panoramic view of glitz and abundance was so striking that the glare of it nearly knocked me back a step. And the view. Outside Allen’s floor-to-ceiling windows stood the skyscrapers of Chicago in all their steel-girded magnificence, and beyond them, close enough to almost reach out and touch, was the blue-green, undulating sparkle of Lake Michigan, pleasure boats bobbing on the water. Sheesh. All I saw from my front windows were the apartment buildings across the street, and they were nowhere close to being this opulent.
A short, wide Hispanic woman materialized from somewhere and planted herself front and center to await her mistress’s desires. Dressed in a severely starched maid’s uniform of gray under a crisp white apron, her hands clasped in front of her, she nodded at me, smiled, and waited.
“This is Isabella,” Allen said without enthusiasm, handing the woman her briefcase, as she likely did every evening about this time. “Isabella, this is Ms. Raines. She’s assisting me for a few days.” Turning back to me, she said, “You’ll accompany me to the gym tomorrow. Be here at six thirty sharp.” Judgmental eyes swept over me. “Bring workout clothes, if you want.”
I raised an eyebrow, marveling at Old Girl’s recovery rate. As quickly as it had taken her to exit the elevator and relieve herself of her briefcase, she’d managed to get ahold of every hint of vulnerability she’d shown and ram it back behind an iron veil of self-absorbed bitchiness. She then turned on imported heels and clicked away from me without a backward glance.
The elevator doors closed on her exit, and I rode down to the garage in silence, this time watching my own reflection. I looked tired, harassed, like a woman who knew there was trouble waiting around the corner. Something was looming, something dangerous, and I hadn’t the first clue what it was. I assume you have a gun? And that you know how to use it? I scrubbed my hands across my face just as I hit the lower level and the doors whooshed open.
Chapter 5
I slid into the passenger seat of Ben’s old Camaro, clicked the seat belt across my chest, then turned in the seat. “Have you seen this woman’s apartment?”
He grinned. “Can you technically call that an apartment?”
“Whatever you call it, it’s embarrassing.”
“If you had her money, you wouldn’t think so.”
I jabbed a thumb toward the side window. “There are homeless people sleeping in boxes two blocks from here.”
Ben snorted, slid me a look. “She can’t see them from way up there.”
We pulled out into late rush-hour traffic, the street clogged bumper to bumper with cabs, Ubers, daredevils on Divvy bikes and electric scooters, tourist trolleys, and overly trusting pedestrians weaving in and out of it all, their eyes on their iPhones, their heads up their behinds, everybody on the street jockeying to get just ten seconds up on the next fella. One honk of a car horn led inevitably to a chain of frustrated copycats.
“She wants me to follow her around the gym tomorrow,” I said.
“We can change up, if you want. I’ll take the club. You do the perimeter.”
It was a tempting offer, and I almost went for it. Six thirty in the morning was a bit much, and the idea of watching Allen work up prima-donna sweat didn’t sound like it was going to be any fun for me. “Nah, I’ve got it. Besides, you can’t follow her into the locker room.”
Ben checked his rearview. “Ha. Who says?”
I slid back in the seat and stretched my legs out as far as the Camaro would allow. I was unprepared for the sudden jolt when Ben jammed on the brakes to avoid a checkered cab that had just cut him off. I bolted forward, toward the dash, but luckily, the belt pulled me back.
“What the hell?” Ben yelled. “Did you see that moron? Times like these, I wish I had my old ticket book. I’d write that clown two tickets right off the bat—one for the cutoff and one for being a friggin’ jackass!”
I was used to driving with Ben, so I knew the drill. I checked the seat belt to make sure I was harnessed in tight, and then tuned him out. He’d go on for a bit longer about the cab. He was an impatient driver, a hot dog. Both shortcomings came in handy when rushing to a scene or pursuing a suspect, not so much in rush-hour traffic. I was confident he’d stop short of wrecking his car, though.