“That’s why a woman will always be a mystery to a man,” Sharon said with a little smile. “We do too much to ever share it all.”
“Well said.” He picked up his notes. “She’s happy,” he said, looking at the page. “That’s what a summary of her life looks like.” He shook his head. “I haven’t found any signs of her expenditures changing recently. What she was doing, who she was talking with, fit with this place and the people now around her. The phone logs show names that seem familiar to me, either from here or from our prior neighborhood. It’s going to come down to her living her life when she stepped out of this apartment with her keys in her hand.”
“A normal week.”
“It feels like it. Maybe someone in the choir was dropping by sheet music, and she ran downstairs to get it; or she had borrowed a book and went out to return it and swap for another one; or Mom walked over to the commons building to mail a letter—she still writes letters by hand. It’s going to be simple, Sharon. She left this apartment for a simple reason.”
She considered that answer. “The trouble she ran into may be unrelated to what she intended to do. It came at her from another direction. Possibly the wrong place, wrong time.”
“Or,” he suggested, “trouble from me spilled over on to her.”
Sharon nodded. “Tomorrow we’ll get into the undercover work you did here in Chicago. Your FBI friends are already digging there.”
“If someone went after my mother to get me back in Chicago . . .”
“Like I said, a topic for tomorrow,” she said briskly. “It’s too complex to move that rock tonight.” She reached into her pocket, took out a key. “Cops will be in and out of here tonight. The manager has an empty furnished apartment one floor up, and it makes more sense than a hotel. I had your bag taken there. Bryon will call you if there’s news. I’m heading out now for a few hours of shut-eye myself.”
He didn’t protest. He knew he needed about five hours’ sleep before he tried to go another full day. Sharon without doubt also needed rest. He glanced at her left hand to see if there was a husband waiting for her.
She noticed the look. “A couple of dogs and my sister will likely be waiting up for me. If Kelly’s on her normal schedule, she turns on the lights at the bakery around two a.m. and wakes me up with fresh croissants at seven. A nice arrangement.”
“Sounds like it.” He accepted the key. “Thanks for today, Sharon. For the priority you’ve put on this.”
“You’re welcome, John. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
She disappeared, he heard a few words with the cop outside, and then her footsteps faded down the hall. He looked once more at the paperwork of his mother’s recent life and then closed the folder. He’d seen for himself the cops were good. Bryon and the others would be working through the night to find his mom.
He pushed to his feet. Her son had learned to be a good cop too. Tomorrow she’d be back to this life she loved. Another outcome didn’t bear considering.
TWO
The clock read 5:12 a.m. John shoved back the blanket and swung to his feet. The dreams from the short night were, thankfully, not remembered. The phone hadn’t rung yet—there hadn’t been a ransom demand, telling him how much it was going to cost to end this nightmare.
He turned the bathroom sink water on cold, held his face under the water until he couldn’t hold his breath any longer. For shock value, it fully woke him up. He toweled off and reached for the clean shirt he’d pulled from his bag.
He didn’t bother to shave. If this whole thing was being orchestrated by someone to cause him distress, he’d let them see they were winning. I want my mother back safely was his message, every way it could get out there. After she was safe, he would find the person or persons responsible.
He gathered up his belongings, zipped the bag, and hoped he wouldn’t need this apartment a second night. He walked across to the commons building through a morning brisk with the snap of winter. The snow needed to hold off for another forty-eight hours, because searching in a winter snowstorm would shred any hope he still had.
Some volunteers were already in the commons lobby, signing in for their assignments. John nodded his thanks as he passed, knowing he’d never remember the names of all the generous people giving their time.
The officer standing outside the conference room leaned in, spoke to someone, and cleared John in. The shift hadn’t changed over yet to the day crew. Bryon was on the phone. It had been a long night for everyone, and John could see it on their faces.
He scanned the boards. Gray van had been marked off, so they had closed that item as a concern, as had taxi. Staff background checks had been completed, area hospitals contacted again. He then realized from the notations that the hospitals were being called every three hours, and the list of names for further inquiry were down to a dozen. Given the number of people the police would have sifted through overnight, it was real progress. John had been involved in enough investigations to appreciate what he was seeing. Detective Bryon Slate knew how to make work flow.
A question remained open: Bobby Sail. Alibi for Monday night confirmed? The banker Mom had lunch with on a regular basis was a definite lead to tug. John wanted to know where they were with that item.
His phone chimed. John read the message, replied with an affirmative, and pocketed the phone. Friends he’d called for help had been pulling an all-nighter on the question of his past cases being a trigger. The information they had collected would shape part of his day. The lists on the walls here would shape the rest of his priorities.
John wondered how many apartments were unoccupied like the one he’d stayed in the night before. He looked at the building blueprints and found the apartment he’d slept in had been marked as cleared. Someone else had had the same thought.
Officers would be focused on apartments today, knocking on doors, asking questions, requesting permission to make a visual check inside. If they were met with a negative, that unit would attract a great deal of focused interest. Clauses in each rental agreement allowed staff to access an apartment for routine maintenance needs. A day, two days, to give whatever notice was required by the agreement and every room and closet would be cleared. Leaving any portion of the property unsearched wasn’t on the table.
John thought his mom would have been found by now if it was a medical problem or simply an accident. If she was on the property, the search under way would find her shortly. If that also came up blank . . . the planning needed to focus beyond the Village.
“John.”
He turned, surprised to see Sharon heading his way. “Couldn’t sleep, Lieutenant?”
“I got enough. Had breakfast?”
“Not yet.”
“Let’s find some food and talk for a bit.” She caught Bryon’s attention and indicated she was stepping out.
“I’ll take that concealed-carry permit if it’s still being offered,” John mentioned as they crossed through the commons building.
Without comment she pulled her wallet out, removed the paperwork, and handed it to him. He’d have a word with a friend from his time in Chicago to secure himself a firearm.
Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, hot coffee—the breakfast the Village staff had arranged was simple but sufficient to keep officers and volunteers well tended. He waved Sharon through the line, then filled a plate for himself. They found seats away from the others.
“A night of pondering. Speculate for me, Sharon.”
She picked up her coffee. “She’s not on the property. We need to confirm that, but my gut tells me Martha isn’t here. It’s too easy to get her into a car and drive her away.”
John nodded. “If she is here, the search under way will find her. We need to think beyond here.” He pushed warm eggs onto his fork with his toast.
“The timeline hasn’t resolved itself. That bothers me,” Sharon mentioned. “I’m hoping the interviews this morning will clarify matters. It would be perfect if someone saw your mother on a wal
k around the bike path early Tuesday morning.”
“It’s possible—she does walk for exercise and enjoys the outdoors. But early? In this cold?”
“It’s wishful thinking. I need a tighter timeline for when she went missing. It would focus matters and not leave us so scattered.” Sharon ate her eggs. “The number of volunteers distributing flyers will be roughly double yesterday’s number. We’ll go back to every resident in the complex, try to cover every business in the area. Your mom’s photo will be on the 7:00 a.m. newscasts. We’ll be able to see the calls here as notes are created downtown, so we can work them in real time. Officers will go out to follow up on any viable leads. But you and I”—she pointed her fork at him—“we’ll start looking that other direction: that this isn’t about your mother, but about you. Someone used your mother to get you back to Chicago.”
John nodded. She was going where he knew they had to turn.
“It would take a serious enemy, John, to involve your mother this way.”
“I’ve got a few, mostly from my days working undercover. Friends here are looking into it, Sharon, have been since I got the call Mom was missing. They didn’t need to clutter up your search group by being on-site. I’ve been getting texts on their progress. So far they’re in a similar position to you. A lot of names marked off the board, but no workable thread to pull. Being undercover for six years, I made some serious enemies.”
“I didn’t realize it was that extensive. I knew you were Chicago PD, worked undercover for part of it, got promoted up the ranks, then got offered the Cheyenne chief of police job.”
“A good summary. I worked hate groups mostly when undercover. Anglo-pride types that went after Asians, Latinos, blacks. Harassment, threats to drive them out of neighborhoods, vandalism of their businesses and property—we broke the groups apart and sent their leaders and a good number of their members to prison.”
“I’m trying to picture you as a biker type. I bet you were good at it.”
“My cover held until the trials.”
“Give me the top of the list.”
“A group called Just Whites, with JSW tattoos, would be the most violent.” He pushed back his plate. “What time is the morning briefing?”
“Seven.”
“I’ve got some people I want to caucus with. Let me borrow the wide-screen monitor so I can video-connect with something larger than a laptop, and you can join us.”
“Now?”
“As good a time as any.”
“Sure. We can quiet things down enough to use the equipment.”
They walked back to the conference room, Sharon talked briefly with Bryon, and Officer Martinez helped get things set up.
John opened the connection and entered the temporary password. “Lieutenant Sharon Noble,” he announced, “some of the people I used to work with here in Chicago.” Eight faces were looking back at them from the tiled screen. Two additional tiles were close-ups of whiteboards, one full of names. “Introductions can come later. That work list is pretty long, Scott.”
“People you arrested, put in prison, old grudges. We’re dividing them up, tracking down where people were on Monday and Tuesday. There are no rumors out on the street—that’s either good or bad, depending on your perspective. If this was JSW getting together again, I think there’d be talk of payback and inquires about who’d be interested.”
“It’s not just that it’s quiet, John,” an older man in the left frame said, “it’s that there are no conversations going on about much of anything with JSW. It feels dusty, broken, like a shattered network no one’s bothered to pick up. I’ve been going back to your old confidential informants, looking for rumors, speculation. They’re willing to talk; there just isn’t much happening.”
“I get that impression too,” a young woman on the right remarked. “I mention people that used to generate some passion, and it’s like they simply don’t matter. It almost feels generational, that what was shattered is irrelevant to the way racial fights are carried on today. Still as racist, just a different expression. More about ‘economic warfare’ and ‘oppressive government’ kinds of rhetoric.”
“I’ve been away from Chicago so long that this shift is hard for me to grasp. Bill, what’s your opinion?” John asked.
“As soon as I heard your mother was missing, I thought ‘Kelly Green’ or the ‘Kern brothers.’ It’s such a personal move, and not many are willing to go at a cop that directly. But I had them eliminated in the first hour. It would take someone with a deep, personal hatred to do this. But I agree with the others. This isn’t an organized thing, like JSW re-upping its game. But someone from the old days, likely still in prison, who could hire outsiders—that’s the option still open to explore.”
“I admit, I’m surprised at what you’re telling me,” John said. “Back in the day, it felt like the gangs had the energy and hate to live forever. Okay. At least it eliminates this direction. If the street is quiet, what do we know about those in prison?”
“I can help with that answer, John,” a man in a blazer and tie said. “The FBI is taking a look at phone traffic, visitors to the guys you helped put in prison. They’ve kept a lot of Chicago links active, but the majority of calls are to relatives. It’s going to take some time to fully rule it out. So far, though, it’s come up dry.”
“What about that kid from Sweden, the one who liked to use a baseball bat on his victims?” someone from another of the squares asked.
“Jorge,” another replied. “I tracked him down to New York. He’s doing time for aggravated assault.”
“The two brothers John tangled with just before their arrests—Christopher and Anthony—did we locate them?”
“They’re doing time in Houston for robbing a motel,” another individual answered.
John thought for a long moment. “The teenager who caught me in the side with a knife after his father was arrested . . . Abraham, Isaiah? It’s a biblical name—”
“Elijah Abrahams. Yeah, we definitely need to track him down. I’ll take that one.”
Scott said, “We’ll keep working names, John. If there’s something to find, we should at least get a whiff of it. You can’t arrange something like this without tipping your hand.”
“I appreciate that, everyone, and what you’ve all done already. Sincerely. I know it’s been a long night for most of you.”
“If it’s coming from your past, it’s personal to all of us. Let’s caucus again end of day if there’s not something hot before then.”
“Agreed.”
“Wear a vest, John. Somebody got you back here to Chicago,” Bill cautioned.
“Yeah.” John nodded his goodbyes, cut the link, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, that was not as useful as I’d hoped.”
“It was useful for me,” Sharon assured him. “You’ve got my team mirrored with another that’s exclusively digging into problems from your Chicago past. I couldn’t begin to do what they’ve accomplished in a day if I had a week and the manpower.”
“They’re good friends,” he commented. “I’ve had a similar group looking at matters in Cheyenne, but while I’m the public face there, having a case from Cheyenne link to locating my mother here—I just haven’t been there that long to generate that kind of enemy.”
“Ruling things out is progress, John. If something is back there, it sounds like they are the right people to find it.”
“They are.”
“Your friend was right about the vest,” she said. “I’m going to dig one up for you. Bryon can do the seven a.m. briefing while we watch Martha’s photo air on the newscasts, and then I’m cutting him free to get some sleep. You and I are going to work the phone calls that come in. If there aren’t enough possible leads by eleven, we’ll talk about putting you on camera at noon.”
“Okay.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “If she was mugged, robbed, dragged into a closet—” he paused, blew out a breath—“finding her requires someone only opening t
he right door. But if she’s with someone, her fate depends on who it is and why. Maybe it’s best if I put my face out there for the noon newscasts regardless. He’s got to make a move, contact me, something.”
“That’s a decision for a couple hours from now. You want more coffee?”
“Can you IV it straight into my arm?”
“You can say hi to Annabelle, get a cup from her, then come watch the newscast.”
John got the coffee, talked with Annabelle, watched the newscast. He thought again how beautiful his mother was, and the image of her with MISSING in the caption broke his heart. He pushed away the sadness to go speak with some of the volunteers and was introduced to more of the staff. He followed Sharon back into the conference room.
He was growing accustomed to the lieutenant’s working style. The room keyed off Bryon, because she had him directing matters, and she backed him up on decisions. She was letting her team do their jobs. And it was the small things—the lieutenant fetching paperwork off the printer, taking the phone calls complaining about the police searching cars leaving the property, passing over her own just-filled coffee to someone else—that made the officers working this room give her the extra effort. John even saw her slip Bryon a roll of sweet-tarts.
The phones were ringing somewhere downtown, calls were being logged, and the notes were showing up on-screen as they were entered into the database.
Sharon scanned the room. “Martinez.”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“How long have you been in this room?”
“Oh, I don’t know, ’bout thirteen hours.”
“Can you give me two more?”
“Absolutely.”
“Your youth is showing,” Sharon remarked admiringly. “We need a dispatcher on the calls. Why don’t you print them out, decide what is worth acting on, ignoring, what we should jump on. Hand me the latter, the rest can be worked by your favorite officers.”
“Can do.”
“Bryon—”
“I’m a walking zombie, and I want a month in Aruba,” he said before she could ask.
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