What You Don't See

by Tracy Clark

  Ben snorted. “You’re telling me. I think they’re trying to starve me out.”

  I stood at the bed rail, gave his arm a squeeze. “How do you feel?” We exchanged a look. We’d exchanged millions of them in our time together, but somehow this one felt different. I pulled my hand away, suddenly self-conscious, and slid both into my front pockets. Ben took a sip of orange juice from a little plastic cup.

  “Like I got flattened by an eighteen-wheeler, but I’m out of here tomorrow, and not a minute too soon. This place gives me the creeps.” He winked at me. “Drugs are damn good, though.”

  “Almost makes up for the bacon, then.”

  Ben snorted again. “Hell, it does. They should be ashamed of themselves.” He tossed the fake bacon back onto his plate. “So where are we with Allen? Who’s Ginsu Guy?”

  “Ginsu Guy?”

  Ben made a slashing motion with his hand.

  “Not funny,” I said.

  He patted the bandages around his middle. “Tell me about it. So?”

  “Marcus and Tanaka think he’s connected to one of Hewitt’s bookies. That maybe since whoever it is couldn’t get the money out of Hewitt, he figured he could get it out of Allen.”

  “So they think the bookie shot Hewitt? Before he got his money?”

  “They didn’t say. I didn’t ask.”

  “Because if that’s what they’re thinking, that’d make him one dumb bookie. You bleed the fish. You break his jaw, bust his kneecaps, smash his knuckles. You don’t blow his head off. Dead men don’t pay, and anybody with half a brain working knows that. As for Allen, I don’t think she’d pay to ransom her own mother.”

  I shrugged. “There are dumb bookies.”

  Ben pushed his tray away. “A dumb bookie is a broke bookie. And since you’re here and not with Allen, I assume you told her where to stick it.”

  “Sorry about the boat.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Who’d I think I was, anyway? Onassis?”

  “We offered our help. She turned it down,” I said. “Let Tanaka and Marcus figure out her problem. I’ve got other work, and you have some healing to do.”

  “Sure as hell can’t babysit her in my condition,” Ben offered with a sour smirk. “So that knocks us both out.” He stared at me. “You let him get away so you could futz around with me, though. That’s twice you’ve saved my life.”

  “I made the right call both times. And since when are we counting?”

  Many seconds passed. “I said I’d let you know when I was ready to talk. I’ve had a lot of time to think lately, seeing as they took my pants and I’ve had jack to do but lie here like a dead carp.” Ben picked at the flimsy hospital gown. “It’s just one indignity after another in here. Anyway, I’m almost ready, is what I’m saying.”

  “You want to give me a hint?”

  He smiled. “You’ll know when you know.”

  A small nurse walked in, smiling, carrying a tray of needles and medicine vials. “Time for meds.” She turned to me. “And you need your rest.” That was my signal. I moved to leave.

  “Get some sleep,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I stepped out into the hall, gave him a last look. “Eat that bacon.”

  “Stop calling it bacon. Hey, tomorrow bring me an Italian beef from Carmine’s, dipped, with extra peppers.”

  “Bye.” I headed for the elevator, a grin on my face, but Ben was still talking.

  “Tell them to double the giardiniera!”

  * * *

  I jogged up the stairs to my office, stopped cold when I saw my father, Ted Raines, standing outside my door, looking lost. Of course, he’d be here. Why not? I’d had one hell of a night, I’d just quit my job, and Ben was in the hospital. Why, this was the perfect time to have to also deal with a prodigal father. Yep, Cass Raines, you are one lucky woman.

  Until two months ago, I hadn’t seen Ted Raines since the day he dropped me on my grandparents’ front stoop. I was twelve, and my mother had been buried two days before. It had been a jerk move. I neared my door, fishing in my bag for my keys.

  “Hey, there you are,” he said. “I was just about to slip a note under the door.”

  I looked him over. When he’d stepped into my yard months ago, he’d been dressed like a stiff-necked banker in a stuffy suit. This time he was wearing a navy blazer and khakis, and the collar of his white polo shirt was unbuttoned.

  I slid the key in the lock, led him in. “More notes.” I slung my bag onto my nap couch and moved to stand behind my desk, where my hands gripped the back of my swivel chair. Since we last met, he’d taken to writing me letters on the regular. I’d received maybe a dozen at last count, though I hadn’t yet read a single one. “And another surprise visit.”

  “I said I’d be back. You didn’t believe me.”

  “You’re right. I didn’t. Either time.”

  When he’d left me at twelve, he’d promised to come back and get me. He hadn’t. Now here we were.

  He looked around the small office. “I said in my last letter I’d be coming. Guess you missed it. It’s all right, too, if you didn’t read the letter, or any of the others. I’ll follow your lead on this.” His eyes landed on the wooden coatrack by the door, a worn black crook-handle umbrella hanging from it. “Hey, I used to have one of those racks back in the day. Even had an umbrella like that.”

  “It was Pop’s,” I said. “The umbrella, not the rack.”

  I could tell he didn’t want to talk about Pop. He’d admitted to some resentment of him after his death, blaming Pop for having stepped in to be the father he had refused to be. I’d been so angry at his return after half a lifetime that I even thought it possible that he had killed Pop just to take him from me.

  “I brought Sylvia and Whitford this time.”

  “Your family.”

  “Yours too . . . if you want.” He fiddled with his jacket cuffs. “Sylvia said maybe the letters weren’t the right thing to do, but I needed to say things I couldn’t with us standing like this. I thought maybe we could go to dinner someplace nice, all of us. Get to being comfortable with one another. I’ll understand if you don’t want to.”

  “How old is Whitford?”

  He grinned, proud. “Twelve going on twenty. He’s anxious to meet you. So’s Sylvia.”

  It was times like these that I missed Pop’s quiet counsel, though at times I still heard his voice in my head, my grandparents’, too, guiding me. They’d have pushed forgiveness. I’d have pushed back. They’d have won in the end. The sound of my name drew me back.

  “Sorry?”

  “I said I’ll leave now if you’ve got work you need to get back to. Will you think about dinner? Whatever night you say, anywhere you say. It could even be lunch . . . or coffee. No, tea, right? I remember from last time.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “The Fairmont. There’s a restaurant there, if that’s easier.”

  I’d swear I could feel Pop’s gentle hand on my shoulder. So real was the feeling that I nearly wept. “Dinner’s fine. Today’s bad. Can I let you know when?”

  He beamed. “You sure can. Absolutely. Anytime. Anytime at all.”

  “I think we should talk first, just you and me. Breakfast tomorrow?”

  He looked as if I’d stunned him. “Yes,” he answered in a rush, as though I might change my mind and rescind the invitation. “Yes.”

  “Nine? You know where I live.”

  “I can bring juice, doughnuts, fruit? Anything, really.”

  “Just come for breakfast.”

  He smiled, gave me a thumbs-up, which I returned, though not as enthusiastically.

  “Breakfast at my daughter’s.” He walked to the door, opened it. “Can’t wait.”

  Then he was gone, and I stood there, behind the desk, not sure what I’d just done. I couldn’t feel Pop’s hand anymore, but I knew he’d be back the next time I got stretched beyond the point where I felt comfortable. I sat in my chair, exhaled deep, then sli
d a look at Pop’s umbrella. Forgiveness was a big thing, a hard thing. I’d taken the first real step but wasn’t at all sure about the second. I was crawling into the unknown with a heart scarred by grief and loss and half a lifetime of hurt. God help me.

  I spent the next couple of hours getting paperwork in order, sorting files, busy work. Allen’s five-thousand-dollar check in my bank account took the urgency out of my having to rustle up a new client right away, so I was taking it leisurely, stopping on occasion to glance out the window, my feet propped up on the desk, thankful that Ben was on the mend. When my stomach grumbled, I called down to Deek’s for a chicken salad sandwich, but there was no telling when I’d get it. Jung Byson, Deek’s delivery guy, was as slow moving as pond water. I put music on, put my head back, and closed my eyes to wait. I had a lot to think about—fathers, knives, Italian beef with extra giardiniera.

  I sat up at the knock at my door, then watched as a young white man in an ill-fitting three-piece suit and a tie eased in, carrying a grungy-looking briefcase. It took me a moment to realize it was Jung. It took another moment to believe it. He’d slicked his spiky blond hair back, and he was wearing horn-rimmed glasses. Instead of his usual flip-flops or combat boots, there were shiny wing tips on his feet. I stared at the briefcase, trying to put it together. Dippy Jung. Briefcase. Suit. Nope. Didn’t compute.

  I got up, circled him. “What am I looking at?” I reached over and pinched the suit fabric between curious thumb and index finger. He was real. I wasn’t hallucinating. “Jung? Jung Byson?”

  He grinned, bowed. “At your service.”

  I took a whiff. He smelled nicer than he’d ever smelled before. “Huh.”

  A student on the lifetime plan at the U of C up the street, Jung, as far as I knew, had no plans to graduate anytime soon. Instead, he half worked at part-time jobs and kept it loose, his description of his life choice, not mine. He’d surprised the heck out of me back in June, when he had told me he came from money, but it explained his capricious attitude. A poor Jung would have had to hustle.

  “How do you like it?” He twirled around, showing himself off.

  I eyed the briefcase. “You get a new job?”

  “Nope. Still in the delivery game.”

  I leaned in. “Then what’s in the case?”

  He unsnapped the latches, drew out a white deli bag with Deek’s logo on it, handed it over. “Your chicken salad. Muna threw in an apple and a chocolate chip cookie. On the house.”

  I craned to see what else was inside, but the case was empty. I went back to my chair, sat the bag on my desk. “So, what gives?”

  He eased down into my client chair, crossed his long legs, and leaned back, the case at his feet. He wasn’t wearing any socks. Yep, now, that was the Jung I knew. I smiled. The world made sense again.

  “I’m conducting a social experiment, not related to my coursework. I wanted to see how it feels to be just another cog in the wheel of the workaday, to feel firsthand the confinement, the regimentation, the total lack of bliss in your average nine-to-five situation. Deek was nice enough to double up on my hours.”

  I scoffed, dug my sandwich and cookie out of the bag. “Nice enough, huh? Deek. The Deek down the street? The Deek who once tossed an old lady out because she asked for extra cream for her coffee? That Deek? A’ight. How’s that going?”

  He loosened the tie around his neck. “It’s been two days, and honestly, I’m not feeling it.”

  I took a bite of my sandwich, chewed, swallowed. “Two whole days, huh?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow the enjoyment will kick in. Did you notice the time?”

  I checked my watch. Just seventeen minutes had passed from the time I placed my order to the time I got my briefcase delivery. Not trusting my eyes, I tapped the watch face to make sure the thing was still running. It was. Well, I’ll be damned.

  He shot me a satisfied look. “I am now—at least temporarily—a slave to the j-o-b.” A beeping started, and Jung reached for his watch. “And that’s time.” He stood, reached for his case. “As much as I’d like to sit and ponder the universe, commerce must have its due. Ciao.” He opened the door to leave and nearly barreled into Kaye Chandler as she approached. “Whoops. My bad.” Jung slid past her. “Can’t stay. Gotta make the almighty dolla.”

  Chandler watched him race away and then stood in the doorway, looking uncertain as to whether she wanted to come in or not. I braced myself, hoping Allen wasn’t waiting in the hallway for a formal introduction, too regal to come in unannounced. Honestly, I’d had enough of her, both of them, really, but Chandler was, I supposed, the lesser of the two evils.

  She walked in, and then stood there staring at me, my desk, my sandwich. There were badly concealed bags under her eyes, makeup caked into the creases, as though she hadn’t sleep well, if at all. “I know I should have called, but after . . . Well . . . I didn’t think you’d agree to see me. How is Detective Mickerson?”

  “He’s better. Thanks for asking.”

  She nodded, smiled slightly. “I’m glad.” She walked over to my client chair but didn’t sit. “That man . . . Do you think he really meant to hurt Vonda? That he’s the one who’s been calling?”

  I gestured for Chandler to sit. “I can’t answer either question.”

  She eased down into the chair. “She’s hired a security firm. Titan. Do you know them?”

  I glanced at my sandwich, my bonus cookie. “By reputation. They’re expensive but competent, as far as I’ve heard.”

  “But they’re not investigating, only escorting. They’ll never find out who’s harassing her or if Philip’s death has anything to do with that.”

  My brows lifted. “No, but that’s CPD’s job now.” I paused, stared at her. “Sorry. I’m confused. Why are you here? I didn’t think I was at the top of your or Allen’s hit parade, especially after last night.”

  Chandler’s eyes focused on the window behind me, with its view of the apartment building across the street. She didn’t say anything for a bit. Meanwhile, the sandwich kept calling my name. The cookie, too. The heck with it. I reached for the cookie, unwrapped it from the cellophane, and took a bite. Chandler was still ogling the building, off in a world of her own. I’d have rushed her if I had anything pressing, but since I didn’t, I was okay with watching her space out in front of me. It wasn’t costing me a dime.

  She tuned back in to find me working on the chocolate chip. “Another letter showed up. Much worse than the others. It mentions the bookstore. He was angry he hadn’t been able to speak to her. When I think how close he came . . . how many people could have been hurt . . .”

  I held out a hand. “May I see the letter?”

  “I shredded it. She insisted.”

  I pulled my hand back. “Did you tell Tanaka and Jones at least?” The guilty look on her face told me that she hadn’t. “The two of you are not helping matters.”

  “What if I wanted to hire you myself?”

  “To do what?”

  “To get everything to stop.”

  I frowned. Nuh-uh. No way I was signing up for Allen duty again. I’d tried helping her, and Ben had, too, and she’d clammed up like a frightened witness testifying against the Mob, that is, when she wasn’t trying to bat me around like a ball of yarn. Not to mention Ben nearly dying. Nope. I was good and out.

  “The police are your best bet.”

  “Detective Mickerson was very lucky.” There was a fuzzy look in her eyes, which made me think for a second that she might be on something. “He could have been killed, or you could have.”

  I put my cookie down, eased back in my chair, folded my hands in my lap. “You want a piece of advice?” I waited for her nod. “You have a connection with her. Use it. Get her to stop all this secrecy.”

  “And if there are more letters?”

  “Call the police.”

  “She’d see it as disloyalty.”

  “But she’d be alive to see it.”

  She spaced
out again, then stood up to leave. Maybe the stress of this whole thing was finally getting to her. “I spoke to him. He called to speak to Vonda, and Kendrick transferred him to me. I thought it was just a crank call. We get them all the time, people claiming to know her, wanting to get her on the phone. It’s my job to screen them.”

  “How many crank callers ask if their flowers got delivered?”

  Chandler tensed. “He was calling from an unknown number. He wouldn’t give his name. I told him not to call again. There wasn’t much more I could do. I considered the matter taken care of.”

  I took a bite of sandwich, then reached down into the trash can, retrieved one of the first copies of Strive, and opened it to the masthead. I ran a finger down the list of names—Allen; Chandler; two staff writers, Reesa Loudon and Dontell Adkins. “Could either Loudon or Adkins be holding a grudge?”

  She shook her head.

  “What about blackmail? Any sign that someone’s putting the heat on her for whatever it is she’s holding back?”

  “Not everyone is comfortable revealing themselves. Can you really be so sure she is holding back?”

  “Yes.”

  She pushed the chair she’d sat in back to where it’d been. “Well, I’m not. She’s a private person, and she wants to keep it that way. That may be all this is. All of this could blow away tomorrow, and it’d have nothing to do with her, not really. But you’re right about one thing. I should talk to her. She won’t like it, but it has to be done.”

  I stood, too. “I think that’s the right way to go. Chandler? What’d you two argue about a few weeks ago?”

  Her sculpted brows lifted. It looked like the information was news to her. “We didn’t argue. We never argue.”

  “Maybe you were fed up with how she treats you? I haven’t seen a lot of respect flowing your way.”

  The smile she gave me wasn’t anywhere close to authentic. It was strained, tight. I believed Kendrick. She had argued with Allen. So why lie about it?

  “She’s nervous about what’s been going on,” Chandler said. “I don’t blame her. It must be awful knowing there’s someone out there targeting you and there’s nothing you can do about it. She tries to hide it, but I can see she’s afraid. But you’re wrong. Vonda does respect me. She couldn’t do half the things she does without my being there. Why else would she have named me an executive producer on her new show? It’s been a long journey, but we’ve finally made it. Vonda’s on her way.” She gave the office a final look. “Thank you for your time. It helps to talk things through. I just wish—”