What You Don't See

by Tracy Clark

  “You never discussed the sighting with Seymour? Compared notes?”

  She shrugged. “You’d think we would have, but like I said, Benita was strange. We mostly stayed out of her business, because we knew that’s how she wanted it. Seymour never told me what he saw, and I never mentioned my thing until you showed up. The guy wasn’t wearing his name on his pants when Dennis saw him. I guess I get the scoop again.” She tapped a finger to her temple. “Nothing gets past me. Steel trap, this is.”

  “Would you happen to know where this Grissom came from?”

  Dotson-Hughes looked as if I’d maligned her in some way. “Northwestern. And before you ask how I know that, the school’s name was stenciled down the other side of the pants.”

  I smiled, stood. “Excellent work.”

  “You’ll need to talk to somebody who went to NU about the same time. I got a pal, Mike Kemper. He was a copy editor at the paper before they started the bloodletting. He ended up working nonprofit. Something to do with saving polar bears or marmosets. I’m not into animals. Might be grizzlies, who knows.”

  Dotson-Hughes reached down and pulled a business card and a pen from her backpack and then scribbled something on the back of the card. “Anyway, he’s hooked into their alumni news, and he’s got a good memory. Check him out. He may know Grissom or know of him. Anyway, he’s a good place to start.” She handed me the card with a smile. “I’ll tell him you’ll be in touch.”

  “More daisy chain?”

  “Don’t knock it. It opens doors.”

  I gripped the card tightly. “You’d make a good investigator.”

  She chuckled. “Nah. Looks like you miss too many meals.”

  Chapter 22

  Mike Kemper told me over the phone that he was working at Lincoln Park Zoo the entire day, and so if I wanted to meet with him, it’d have to be there, and it’d have to be within the hour. I sped north up the Drive to Fullerton Parkway, then fought the cars full of sugared-up shorties streaming into the zoo’s parking lot before naptime. I made good time, despite the bottleneck at the turnoff. Kemper had told me he’d be waiting in front of the gorilla house, and that was where I found a middle-aged white guy in Dockers and a short-sleeved button-down shirt. He held two hot dogs, one in each hand, and had a laptop bag hanging from his shoulder.

  “Mike?”

  He thrust one of the hot dogs at me. “Detective Raines.” I looked at the dog circumspectly. “Angie said you might be hungry. I figured local version, no ketchup.”

  I took the dog. It was still hot. “You figured right. And Cass is fine.” I held the hot dog up. “You know, I can afford to feed myself.”

  He chuckled. “Angie’s a bit of a mother hen. She said feed you, so I feed you.” He eyed a bench nearby, gestured toward it. “Let’s sit. I’m coordinating a fund-raising campaign in conjunction with the zoo today, so that’s why I’m here, not in my office. This is my lunch break.”

  For a few moments we just sat and ate.

  “So, Grissom? Frat boy. Maybe on the basketball team. We’re looking for him at NU around the late eighties, early nineties.”

  He swallowed, wiped mustard from his mouth with a paper napkin. “Yeah. I’m not a big sports guy, so I don’t know who played for us, but . . .” He wrapped his hot dog in napkins and sat it on the bench next to him and then took out his laptop. “I’ve got the directory here. Just let me boot up . . . and log in.”

  While I waited, I worked on my own hot dog, watching little kids across the way try to toss peanuts into the animal enclosures with chubby little baby hands. Then I got caught up in counting the number of strollers. The zoo must be a happening place for the toddler set. I was well past a dozen when Kemper drew me back.

  “Okay, I’m in, but if this guy didn’t sign on to it or didn’t graduate . . .” He let his sentence go unfinished.

  “I won’t hold it against you,” I said.

  His fingers tapped over the keyboard. “I’ll be damned. We got a hit right off the bat. Four, actually, within your year range. Kyle Grissom, Feinberg School of Medicine, graduated nineteen ninety-three. He’s with Doctors Without Borders now.” He read on. “David Grissom, Weinberg School of Arts & Sciences, graduated in eighty-nine. He teaches at Columbia College.” He grimaced. “Wendell Grissom, deceased. Guess he’s out. And Stephanie Grissom. Medill, nineteen ninety-eight. New York.” He blew a whistle. “Works at the New York Times. Big leagues.”

  Stephanie was out. “Does it say which ones are black?”

  Mike fiddled with the search, pulling up class photos. “David Grissom. And, hey, he played ball. Point guard. Freshman, sophomore years.” He leaned back, apparently proud of himself. “And he’s a Sigma. Looks like we found him.”

  I finished my dog, balled up the wrapper. “You found him. I just watched.” I stood. “Thanks for your help . . . and for lunch.”

  Kemper went back to his hot dog. “You bet. Hope it works out for you.”

  * * *

  I found Grissom in his office, room 455, texting on his iPhone. He looked up when I knocked at the door, but made no effort to welcome me in, so I took it upon myself. I’d done a quick Google search on him after I left Kemper, so I knew a little about him.

  Old newspaper write-ups highlighted his once promising basketball career at NU, and his future had looked bright until he blew out his ACL sophomore year. That was when the scouts stopped scouting and any NBA aspirations he might have had withered on the vine. I could find nothing on him between graduation and when he turned up here, but then, I hadn’t had time to cover everything. He was in Benita Ramsey’s freshman class, though, which gave them every opportunity to meet, get together, and then part acrimoniously.

  “Professor Grissom?”

  He frowned, went back to the phone. “I don’t see students outside of regular office hours. It’s in section II of your syllabus. No exceptions. Also clearly stated in section II.”

  He was dressed nicely, a silver Rolex on his wrist. When I had looked up his address, it had pinged back to a swanky condo on the Gold Coast. High living for a man who graded papers for a living.

  I stood in front of his desk, quietly waiting for him to look up again and acknowledge my presence. He didn’t for a while. It was a little awkward. Finally, he looked up to glare at me.

  “Persistence will not help in this situation.”

  “I would think persistence helps in any situation, but I’m not a student. I’m an investigator. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Benita Ramsey, now Vonda Allen.” I placed one of my cards on his desk and slid it nearer to him. He picked it up, read it, then put his phone down.

  “Benita Ramsey?”

  “Now Vonda Allen. Yes.”

  I looked around the small office, trying to get a sense of the man. His NU diploma was framed and hanging from the wall, as was his college basketball jersey. He’d also framed a few of the newspaper clippings I’d already read trumpeting his athletic exploits—top scores, game winners, and such. But none of the stories on his career-ending injury had made it up. Too painful for him, maybe.

  “How’d you get my name?”

  I glanced at the chair next to me, then sat down on it, though Grissom hadn’t invited me to. “Wouldn’t you rather know why I’m here first?”

  He tossed my card down, sneered at me. “All right. Enlighten me.”

  “You two have history,” I said. “I’d like to ask you about that.”

  “I knew her. It was a brief thing in college. We moved on. If you’re looking for more than that from me, you’re wasting your time.”

  “A brief thing, an easy split, no hard feelings,” I said watching him. “What was she like?”

  He took a few seconds to answer. “We only hung out a few times. Half a semester, if that. I can’t say I remember what she was like. I played ball. There were a lot of girls hanging around.”

  “Then you got injured,” I said. “But Allen left NU before that. Do you know why?”


  His smile disappeared. “No clue. We’d split up by then. What’s all this about anyway?”

  I flicked a look at Grissom’s wall of memorabilia. “She’s receiving some unwanted attention. Someone she knew back in the day. I thought maybe you might have some idea who that might be.”

  He chuckled. “Unwanted attention? Somebody put a horse’s head in her bed? Slash her limo tires? And you think it’s me after all this time?” His chuckle gave way to an all-out belly laugh. I waited for him to finish, not seeing the humor.

  “When’s the last time you saw her?” I asked.

  “Couldn’t tell you.”

  “And your split was amicable, friendly.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  I shifted in the chair. “So, if someone remembered seeing you arguing with her at UIC and then slapping her, they’d be lying?”

  Grissom tugged on his shirt cuffs, revealing gold monogrammed cuff links. “Yeah, they’d be lying. I don’t hit women.”

  “And whatever you argued about back then and split over, violently or not, you’ve let go of and harbor no hard feelings. In fact, you can’t even remember the last time you saw her.”

  He stood. “We’re done here. Whatever you’re doing, or trying to do, try it somewhere else.”

  “Nice watch,” I said.

  He glanced down at his wrist, pulled down his cuff to cover it. “What’s your point?”

  “No point. Just admiring it.”

  “Do I have to call security?”

  I stood. “No. I’m going. But can I ask where you were two nights ago?”

  “No.” He grabbed up the receiver from the phone on his desk but didn’t dial.

  “Again, not even curious why I’m asking?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “A lot of people are afraid of Allen,” I said. “She’s got money to burn and a vindictive personality. You one of those people?”

  He grinned, still not dialing. “Me? Not a chance. I hear she’s a real prima donna these days, but that’s only because she’s been allowed to get away with it. Someone should have cut her down to size years ago.”

  “You, maybe?”

  He put the phone down. “You know how you tame a lion? You do it by controlling the meat.”

  My eyes held his. “Seems to me a hungry lion would be far more dangerous.”

  “Not if you declaw and defang it first. Not if you make it fear for its life.”

  I wanted to make real sure I understood him. “And Allen’s the lion.”

  He smiled. “You can see yourself out.”

  Chapter 23

  I spent the rest of the afternoon in my office, searching. I didn’t find any sudden windfalls that would explain Grissom’s high living, which left me with a big question mark. I did find Reesa Loudon, though, after checking municipal records, tax liens, all the standard buckets. She lived in Atlanta now, worked for a local news affiliate. I hoped she’d be able to tell me about Dontell Adkins, so I called her, ID’d myself, and explained what I needed. She sounded a bit rattled over the phone, like I was trying to run a scam, but after I had convinced her I was who I said I was, she agreed to talk. She’d quit Strive, just as Chandler had said, but the parting hadn’t been as amiable as Chandler had led me to believe.

  “I just couldn’t stand it one more second. They treated us like indentured servants. I quit and left for Atlanta the next day. I lived with my aunt until I could get back on my feet. It took a while since I couldn’t count on Allen for a letter of recommendation or as a reference.”

  “Why not?”

  “Allen told me and Dontell from the very beginning that if we didn’t work out to her satisfaction, not to expect anything like that from her. It was her way of punishing us, holding us back. She really is a terrible person.”

  “Chandler said you and Dontell were young, uncommitted, and unwilling to make sacrifices.”

  Loudon laughed. “You want to know how Vonda Allen sacrificed? That first year, after telling us there was no money, she bought a big Hermès bag and a Mercedes and flaunted them around, then set off to Paris for ten days, while me and Dontell put the magazine to bed by working all hours. We were committed, committed to not getting taken for suckers.”

  “Chandler go with her to Paris?”

  “Of course. She can’t go anywhere without Chandler. Who’d order her lunch or bring her a pen or whatever else she needs? Vonda said it was some conference they needed to go to that’d help them network internationally and grow the business. That was a lie. Dontell and I looked it up, and we couldn’t find that conference mentioned anywhere.”

  “Any idea what’s going on with the two of them?”

  “No, and I don’t care. I’m just glad to be clear of them.”

  I told her about Dontell and the hit-and-run. She hadn’t known. She’d been in Atlanta by that time. She seemed truly upset at the news, and I gave her a moment to process it before I went on.

  “Tell me about him.”

  “He was still there when I quit, but the way he felt, I knew he didn’t plan on staying long. He dreamed big. I can’t believe he’s dead. Vonda did everything she could to keep him from getting any kind of momentum, and it looked like she enjoyed it. But Dontell was fierce. He planned on exposing her.”

  “Expose her how?”

  “Put it all out there. Tell people how she really operated when people weren’t looking. She was always so into how people viewed her. I don’t think she could deal with everybody knowing what she’s really like. And if Chandler had found out that’s what he intended to do, she’d have fired him long before he even thought about quitting. Poor Dontell. I’m so sad right now.”

  She didn’t remember ever hearing Allen mention anyone named Eric. She also claimed not to know anything about the threats or who might be making them. Just to be thorough, I asked if she had proof that she was in Atlanta at the time of Hewitt’s and Sewell’s deaths, and she e-mailed me receipts from an in-town media symposium she had attended, as well as a picture of herself, heavily pregnant with her first child. Not saying that she couldn’t have faked the receipts or the pregnancy, but she didn’t appear to have much of a motive. She’d left Allen and Strive behind long ago and had done well for herself. I bumped her name to the bottom of my list. Not likely or probable.

  The names of Dontell’s grandparents were mentioned in his obituary, and I was able to find an address for them, but it was getting too late to call on them. It’d have to wait until morning. Still I’d heard nothing from Tanaka.

  I locked up the office, beyond tired. I’d been running all day, and it was just now catching up with me. I should’ve gone home or back to the hospital; instead, I found myself walking over to the lake to stand on the jagged rocks overlooking the water.

  The sun would set soon, and the beach was deserted, except for a lone golden retriever frolicking at the shoreline, its owner, a tall woman, her short gray hair windswept, watching from the damp sand. I glanced mournfully toward the beach house down the path, remembering a rainy night not too long ago and the life I couldn’t save. He’d called himself GI, and he’d lived rough under a tree just beyond the beach house. It was Pop who had looked out for him, fed him, clothed him. It was GI who had helped me find Pop’s killer. I’d almost saved GI, almost.

  I felt like I was drowning, flailing. I wanted to talk to Ben about it but couldn’t. It came to me then. He was the part of me I was missing. Had he really shifted from being a partner, a friend, to having feelings? If so, I hadn’t seen it. How did I feel? What were my feelings? It was all too much.

  My phone beeped. Another text from Carole. Mom’s been crying all day. Doctors haven’t had any good news. Please, tell me you’re getting somewhere. My fingers hovered over the keypad. What do I answer back? I had nothing. I knew nothing. Hurriedly, I typed my response—Following leads. Keep you posted. Then I turned off the phone and put it away, heading off any follow-up. I wanted to be at the hospital, but I was needed out here.
I had people counting on me, and I had nothing.

  Damn it, Ben. Wake up.

  * * *

  There was a kid sitting on my front stoop when I turned into my yard. He was maybe twelve or thirteen, light, skinny, a head of curly hair. He stood when he saw me. I stopped, eyed the building. It wasn’t full dark yet, but the exterior lights were on, set to a timer. Mrs. Vincent’s lights and Gray’s on the second floor were out. No one was home.

  I walked up to him. “Can I help you?”

  Big hazel eyes peered out of a baby face. “Are you Cassandra Raines?”

  My eyebrows rose. “What’s a kid want with me?”

  He shoved his arm out to shake my hand formally, like he was out on a job interview and trying to put his best foot forward. “I’m your brother, Whitford. I came to introduce myself.”

  I shook his hand, taking a long look at the boy. “That so?”

  “But you can call me Whit, since we’re siblings . . . at least half.”

  “It’s just Cass, by the way.”

  “I know.” He squinted up at me. “You okay? You look weird . . . Oh, I get it. I surprised you. It’s okay, though. You don’t have to go all ghosty.”

  I took my hand back. “Ghosty?”

  He gave both his cheeks a playful pat. “Pale. Ghosty. Like you might pass out or upchuck. Are you? It’d be okay if you did. I took Red Cross training last summer. I can do CPR, apply a tourniquet, clear an airway, dress a bandage—”

  “I’m not going to pass out,” I said, interrupting him. “How long have you been waiting here?”

  He glanced down at his watch. “Two hours, thirty-seven . . . Eh, hold that. Thirty-eight minutes. But I was prepared to wait longer.”

  “Two hours?” I looked around the block, up and down at the cars passing by, people walking through. Strangers. In the city. And this little kid sitting on my stoop in the wide open, as clueless as a baby bird tottering toward the end of a tree branch. “Did anybody mess with you?”

  “Nope.”