by Tracy Clark
I tore into it, hoping I’d reached a turning point in this whole mess. She was Kaytina Chandler, shortened to Kaye. High school, community college, whatever. Work experience, not much. Office assistant at a Realtor’s, manager at a local department store. I looked up. “What position was she hired to fill?”
“Executive assistant,” Halliwell said. “She was the best we ever had. She eventually moved up to handle her own accounts. Managed them wonderfully, working closely with Vonda.”
“There are no references here.”
“We had Vonda’s word she was just the person we needed. She was right.”
Hold on. I read the address she’d listed, then smiled. “Her address. It’s the old Robert Taylor Homes.”
“That’s important?”
“That’s where Allen grew up.” I stood, smiling. I held up the résumé. “You wouldn’t happen to have a copier around, would you?” I called Tanaka from the car to fill her in and to find out if she’d learned anything about that gun found in the park.
“You’ve forgotten how long this takes, right?”
I hadn’t, but one could hope. “They came from the same place, knew each other, well enough for Allen to vouch for her at Halliwell’s, long enough for them to be the keeper of each other’s secrets. I need to talk to Senator Devin’s daughter. An address might help.”
There was silence on Tanaka’s end. In my opinion, it went on far too long. “Fine,” she said finally, “but remember, cooperation.”
“How could I forget?”
I hung up, started the car, and pulled into traffic. By the time I hit the first light, Tanaka had texted me an address, and I was seriously starting to wonder about Senator Devin’s heart attack.
Chapter 34
Sabrina Devin taught nine-year-olds in a public school on the Southeast Side. It was another couple of weeks before the start of the fall term, but it looked like the school was open and running some kind of summer event in the playground. Kids were clustered around a tall white guy directing a lively word game involving letter tiles laid out on a giant game board on the ground. The kids appeared completely enthralled by the game play, laughing, cheering, working the tiles. It was still technically summer, but no one looked like they minded throwing in a little learning early.
I’d found a photo of Sabrina Devin by Googling, so I recognized her standing off to the side, watching the kids play. She was heavily pregnant, at least six or seven months, and she looked hot and uncomfortable in a sleeveless maternity dress, her long, curly hair pulled back into a ponytail. I walked up to her and introduced myself, told her what I needed, watching as her friendly smile disappeared and the walls went up.
“Fun game,” I said, hoping to get her back.
She glanced over at the kids. “They love it. They don’t even care they’re learning.”
“Mind if we talk inside?”
Reluctantly, she signaled to another teacher to watch the kids, and then led me inside. We walked up two flights in silence, slowly for Devin’s benefit, and into an empty classroom that smelled of fresh paint, chalk, and disinfectant. Devin took a seat at the desk at the head of the room and pulled a lunch bag out of the drawer.
“You don’t mind if I eat while we talk?”
I didn’t and told her so. There was a full-size chair next to the desk. I sat there, thankful I didn’t have to try to squeeze into one of the tiny kid chairs lined up in rows behind me. While she got herself situated food-wise, I looked around at all the clean metal desks with pressed-wood tops and the empty cubbyholes, which in just a few weeks would be crammed with backpacks, sweaters, and superhero lunch boxes.
Devin unwrapped her lunch. “I would offer you some of my sandwich, but it’s a little unusual—ham, cheese, sweet pickles, mustard, and chunky peanut butter.”
I made a face. Couldn’t help it.
Devin chuckled. “That’s what I thought. Second trimester. It’s weird what I’ll eat these days . . . and at what hour. So, what’s she done now?”
I wasn’t sure if she was referring to Allen or Chandler. “And by she, you mean . . . ?”
“Vonda. She obviously crossed someone.”
“Any idea who?”
She shrugged. “Haven’t seen her since my father died. It could be anyone, really. She’s not a very nice person.”
“Not close, then?”
“She had an affair with my father while he was still married to my mother, so, no, we weren’t close. When the divorce went through, things quieted down, but then he died.”
“A heart attack,” I said.
“No one saw it coming. He was healthy, or so we thought. You’re never ready to lose a parent. At least, I wasn’t.”
“It’s your impression of Allen that I’m trying to get a sense of.”
She bit into her sandwich, thought about it. “She’s cold, distant, cruel. Self-absorbed . . . polar opposite of my father. I don’t know what drew them together, except that I think she really wanted to be a senator’s wife. He died before she could pull that off. Up until then, they both seemed to be getting what they wanted. My father got a trophy on his arm. Vonda got a free pass into a very exclusive club—celebrities, politicians, power brokers. They photographed well. They were both very vain.”
“And after he died?”
“Vonda got a lot of mileage out of their relationship, which by then was no big secret. She started Strive with connections he had helped her cultivate. The rest, I don’t know about. There was no reason for me to pay attention to her after that. The last time I laid eyes on her was at my father’s funeral. She cried more than I did, but believe me, it wasn’t genuine.”
“What about Kaye Chandler?”
Devin hesitated, fiddled with her sandwich. “Yes . . . very efficient.”
“Devoted,” I said, watching her closely, noting the change in her body language, but Devin wouldn’t look at me. “You don’t want to talk about Chandler. Why?”
“You wanted to know about Vonda.”
“I’m quickly learning you can’t discuss one without including the other. She seems oddly devoted and hangs on Allen’s every word. But I found out just today, surprisingly, that it’s Chandler who drives the bus. I’d like to know what you think. Is she stable? Prone to lies? Capable of violence?”
Devin put her sandwich down, wiped her hands on a paper napkin, glanced down at her stomach. “I didn’t know her that well. I can’t say.”
“I think you can say but won’t.”
She looked up at me. “She is prone to lies, and she’s more than capable of violence. I don’t think she’s completely stable. I’d rather you didn’t tell her I said so.”
I sat back. “Okay then.”
Devin exhaled, placed a gentle hand on her middle. “In a crowded room, you wouldn’t even notice her. Chandler. She’s like a lamp, a coffee table, and who notices a lamp? But come too close to Vonda, and she’ll sure notice you. For a while, when all those deaths began to happen, I thought maybe Chandler. . . but when I read in the paper that she was shot, too . . .”
“What’d you think?”
“It sounds crazy. It is crazy. My senior year of college, during school break, I came home with a new puppy, Mimi. At my father’s place, Vonda had all but moved in, and of course Chandler was always with her. This time, they were all working on a speech my father was to give to some women’s group somewhere. Vonda didn’t like dogs. She wasn’t allergic to them or anything. She just didn’t like them, so I tried to keep Mimi away from her. Somehow, she got to the speech, chewed it to pieces. There was no backup, apparently. To this day, I don’t know how she got into the study.”
I smiled. She couldn’t be serious. “So, Chandler killed your dog?”
“Yes.”
I looked for signs that she might be putting me on, but she wasn’t joking.
“I found Mimi on her bed, under a blanket. Her neck had been broken. I don’t have any proof that she did it, but I know she did. Vonda
didn’t like the puppy. Vonda was furious with the puppy. Chandler got rid of the puppy. I never stayed at my father’s house again.”
“Ms. Devin—”
She interrupted me. “I know it sounds crazy, but after, when I was cleaning up, I found Mimi’s food and collar in the kitchen trash bin. The things had been thrown away before I found her. Chandler knew I wouldn’t be needing any of that stuff anymore, so she just tossed it away, but she left Mimi for me to find. How sick is that?”
Chapter 35
I had my hand on the car door, wondering about Chandler. Margaret Halliwell and Sabrina Devin had painted quite a different picture of the dutiful fixer who stood behind Allen, taking orders, handling the details, while “the boss” worked the room. What if she was actually running the show, the one holding the strings? She was as close to Allen as anyone. She knew everything that went on in the office. She knew the Peetses and Dontell Adkins. Had she known Allen’s mother, too? She must have. Allen didn’t like problems. Chandler was her problem solver. Was it that simple? I needed to know what Tanaka had turned up on that gun from the park. Maybe it held the key to this whole thing. I sensed someone behind me and turned to find a man and a woman in dark suits standing too close.
“Cassandra Raines?” the man said. He was white, stocky, solidly built. I stared at him, then at the white, stocky, solidly built white woman standing next to him. They both wore sunglasses, Men in Black–style.
I slid a glance toward the playground. Empty now. Minutes ago, it had been swarming with happy kids tossing letter tiles around, and now, when I might need a witness, zilch.
“Absolutely not.” Cocky right to the end, that was me. They’d likely allude to my cockiness on my tombstone. HERE LIES WISEASS. SHE SHOULD HAVE SHUT UP, BUT SHE JUST DIDN’T HAVE IT IN HER. RIP.
“That’s her car you were about to get into,” he said.
I noted the use of the past tense, a little worried about what that might be leading to. “Borrowed it. Mine’s in the shop.”
The stocky twins smiled.
“Relax,” she said. “Ms. Allen would like to see you.”
These jokers were Titan Security hacks? I exhaled. I’d been accosted on the street before, and none of those encounters had been pleasant, but knowing this one was some of Allen’s diva mess, and not the start of a one-way trip to Dead Town, put my startled mind at ease. Then it pissed me off.
I looked up and down the street, and my eyes landed finally on the black SUV parked two cars down from mine. “Were you two following me?”
Neither answered, which meant yes.
“And for how long?”
“Ms. Allen doesn’t have all day,” Mr. Stocky said. “Mind coming with us?”
“Very much,” I said. “I’m working, and not at Allen’s beck and call. If she wants to meet with me, she knows where to find my office, or she can call me herself, and I’ll consider coming to her. This little . . . whatever this is . . . doesn’t work for me. Now, if the two of you will excuse me?”
“This doesn’t have to get ugly.” Ms. Stocky said it with a tone. Like she had just stepped out of a Mafia movie and she was Al Pacino, if Al Pacino had sixty extra pounds, a bad perm, and hit five-nine in flats.
I looked up at her, my brows lifted, and I let go of the car door. “What exactly doesn’t have to get ugly?”
He sighed. “Ms. Allen doesn’t like waiting. Let’s go.”
I didn’t move. They didn’t, either.
“You deaf?” he muttered.
I glared at him, at his partner, then back at him. “I heard you. My answer’s no.” I said it as bold as you please, then stood there waiting for them to challenge me on it. “Do I really have to say the words ‘buzz off’?”
The woman grinned. “You’re getting in the car.”
I pursed my lips, pretended to think it over. “Nope. I don’t think I am.”
“Yeah you are,” he said.
I shook my head. “Um, nope, and I’m done talking to—”
That was as far as I got. Swift as anything, they grabbed me up off my feet and shifted me horizontally, one holding me at the chest and arms, the other at my knees and ankles, and hauled me along. For a second, it was almost like flying. I was in the backseat of the SUV before I knew it, and all I had seen during the brief—and it was surprisingly brief—lift and carry was snatches of black polyester blend and hands. Hadn’t had time to yelp or cuss, not that it would have made a difference. Under different circumstances, I might have marveled at the speed of the grab. Not today. I was in the backseat of a strange car, bookended by two wannabe tough guys. Trapped. Squeezed. On my way to Allen’s, like she’d ordered out for PI pizza and I had fifteen minutes to get there. There was a driver up front, not Elliott, but he acted like he didn’t see me.
Mr. Stocky chuckled. “Told you.”
“Unlawful restraint,” I said. “The minute my feet left the sidewalk. Illinois Criminal Code, Article ten, section ten-three, ‘A person commits the offense of unlawful restraint when he or she’—that’s you two ninnies—‘knowingly without legal authority detains—’ ”
Mr. Stocky shoved me into Ms. Stocky; Ms. Stocky shoved me back. “Can it,” he said. “What are you worried about? It’s a meeting. You got the round-trip ticket, so settle the fuck down.”
Nobody talked as the SUV pulled away from the curb and drove away. There was no use fighting about it, so I sat back, folded my arms across my chest, and fumed.
“Exactly how long were you following me?” I hadn’t noticed a tail, but frankly, I hadn’t been looking for one. I had had business to take care of.
“Does it matter?” Ms. Stocky asked.
“I’ll need it for the police report.”
“Then just put down too damn long for you not to notice,” she said. “What kind of private dick are you, anyway?”
I clenched my fists, closed my eyes, praying for calm. Allen had now officially worked my last nerve. She’d tried before and failed, but she’d finally gotten to the last one. I inhaled deep, exhaled deep, then settled in for the ride, which took about forty minutes in pre–rush-hour traffic. When we got to Allen’s condo building and turned into the garage, everybody piled out, and I got pushed along toward the private elevator.
“The kidnapping charge kicked in the second we pulled away from the curb,” I announced. The elevator doors opened, and we got on.
Ms. Stocky turned toward me. “Did anybody ever tell you, you were a pain in the ass?”
I gritted my teeth. “You bozos came looking for me.” The doors closed. The elevator started up. “And, as you know, kidnapping’s a federal offense. You do every day of federal time. You get twenty years, you do twenty years.”
Neither said anything.
“And if somebody steals my car while I’m held up here, I’m holding you two idiots personally responsible.”
They snickered.
I glared at them. “Yeah, keep it up.”
The doors opened on Allen’s place, and I was shoved off into her spectacular entryway. “I hear the federal penitentiary is lovely this time of year. You will remember me fondly when you’re bumming smokes in the yard, won’t you?”
Isabella stood there in her crisp uniform. She looked surprised to see me.
“Package delivered,” Mr. Stocky told Isabella. “See ya, motormouth.”
“You’ll see me, all right. This isn’t over.”
They both chuckled, then Ms. Stocky said, “Yeah, it is.”
It took a lot to rile me. It took even more for me to forget myself, but Allen’s wild ride had propelled me dangerously close to my breaking point. Isabella gestured for me to follow her, and I tucked in behind her as we walked down the hall toward my meet with the great lady.
The hall was lined with all kinds of expensive doodads and artwork. Allen was such a pretentious woman. With every step, I fought the childish impulse to take my shoe off and hurl it at the most expensive-looking thing. I could feel heat rise under
my collar, but I kept my eyes on Isabella’s back, using it as my focal point, until we stopped at a door that was slightly ajar. Isabella turned, smiled, and then politely knocked, and Allen’s voice called back.
“I’ll let you know when I’m ready for her, Isabella. Have her wait in the great room.”
I wasn’t sure I’d heard right, so I asked, “What’d she say?”
Isabella looked like she didn’t want to answer. I gave the door a death stare you wouldn’t believe. If I’d had lasers for eyeballs, there would have been a burned hole in the middle of the door, outlined by a ring of desperate fire. I breathed. I bargained with Jesus. I then turned calmly to Isabella.
“Would you mind stepping back, Isabella?”
She gulped, her eyes wide, and then moved slowly away from the door. I squared my shoulders, counted to five, and then kicked Allen’s door in.
Chapter 36
When the door banged back against the wall, Allen shot up from behind her desk, a desk, mind you, that was almost a carbon copy of the one in her magazine office. Her mouth hung open. I’d startled her, then angered her. She looked at me as though I were a marauder storming the walls of the citadel. “What do you think you’re doing?”
I rushed toward her. She stopped talking and fell back into her chair. That was when Jesus came through and stopped me before I reached her. I pointed a warning finger at her. “Not another word.” I was just a few arm lengths from her, a good safe distance. “One syllable. You so much as clear your throat . . .”
Her mouth clamped shut, but I could see she was livid. She squared her shoulders and tried to look unfazed, as though I hadn’t scared her. I bobbed around in a tight circle, wound up, working off adrenaline. The nerve of the woman.
“Your suing me is bad enough, but this. This . . .” I took a step toward her but caught myself again. “Big mistake. Big.”
A small smile flickered across her face. How swiftly she transitioned from off guard to right back at it. She stood, realigned the diamond necklace around her neck, then glided calmly over to the couch and sat, as though she were entertaining a guest for tea. “You wanted to talk. I cleared the time. If you don’t want to . . .”