Cold Love

by Conell, Zach

  “Yes, I remember. The SS7 vulnerability thing. You should really teach me that trick.”

  “It’s a little more than a ‘trick’ I would say, but sure, in due time. The point is, that didn’t lead me to any new information either. He rarely used that phone, and the few calls he made just confirm his story. I had written down one number that I expected to be that of Mrs. Tiller because he contacted it a few times in the last months, and I guess I was correct, because it is this one.” She held up the paper on which he had written the contact info of Erdmann’s “collaborators,” indicating Mrs. Tiller’s cell phone number with her index finger. Cillian nodded in understanding.

  “I also accessed the phone records of Dr. Leamington’s cell phone—I mean, the number on the business card she gave me—but I didn’t discover anything useful. And now I still need to catch up on all of this,” Rose said, as she continued to inspect the pages containing his notes, “but your descriptions and comments will make it a lot easier to get a complete picture. It must have been so much work though…”

  “It was all right. It only took me until sunrise,” he said dryly after swallowing the last crumb of his toast. “But I really don’t think you have to thoroughly inspect everything right now.”

  “Why not?” Rose asked without looking up from the papers in her hand.

  “Well—” Cillian paused to finish his coffee with a big sip. “—I skimmed through all the text documents and watched all the videos last night, and to me it seemed that they confirm your father’s story but don’t add much to it.” He put the empty coffee cup on top of the plate on the desk and got up to change. “To all appearances, your father’s ‘lecture,’ as he called it, is an astoundingly complete overview of the findings of his own research and the additional information that he acquired with the help of Mrs. Tiller, Mr. Mulvaney, and Mr. Duncan. Of course, it would be good for us both to eventually study all the files more attentively so that we can get a detailed idea of everything involved, but I would propose to attend to a few pressing matters first.”

  “Like contacting the three people you just mentioned?”

  “Exactly,” Cillian affirmed as he entered the bathroom with his clothes under his arm. “By the way,” he added before closing the bathroom door, “it would be great if we could stop by a clothing store sometime today. I didn’t come here all prepared with a bunch of spare clothes like you.”

  “Well, Mr. Cantor, while it may be good to do that eventually, I would suggest that we attend to a few more pressing matters first,” Rose teased him with his own words.

  “Touché, Miss McCormick,” Cillian replied with an ironic smile, “touché.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Lucy Tiller from the Chicago Transparent did not pick up her phone when Cillian and Rose tried the number that Erdmann had provided for contacting the editor-in-chief. The same was true for Mulvaney, while the number for Duncan was no longer in service. When they weren’t able to get a hold of anyone at the general CT headquarters either, Cillian and Rose decided to visit the office in person to see if Mrs. Tiller was in. It was quite a long ride on the “L” train to get there, and Cillian made use of the relative privacy they enjoyed on their route during the off-peak period by addressing some issues that had been gnawing at him for a while.

  “Rose,” he started, just loud enough so that she could hear him over the sound of the train, “I know you are going through a lot, and I don’t want to sound pushy…”

  “Is it about the money?” Rose cut in coolly. “I’m sorry, I know we didn’t even discuss a price yet and I haven’t…”

  “No, please,” Cillian interrupted her in turn, “I wasn’t talking about that at all. I’m doing this pro bono anyway.”

  “Well, it’s cute of you to imagine that, but I’m definitely paying you for your work,” she asserted. “Not to sound crude, but I really don’t need anyone’s charity.”

  Cillian doubted that Rose actually saw his assistance that way, as some kind of “charity” labor. But he had to acknowledge they were still practically strangers to each other, so describing his activities as “helping a friend” would be odd—that’s why he had himself used the term “pro bono.”

  “It’s not charity, but please, let’s postpone these technicalities for later,” he replied, hoping to indefinitely shelve the unpleasant topic of money. “I wanted to discuss something about the case—I mean, I would like to clear up some matters that have been on my mind, and in order to do so, I have to ask you some things. Private things, I mean.” Cillian felt like slapping himself in the face for this awkward phrasing. But Rose clearly did not mind it.

  “I get it,” she answered sympathetically. “Fire away. I’m pretty sure I can handle a few questions. After crying my eyes out for the most part of the night, I feel agreeably numb today.”

  The remark didn’t come across as cynical to Cillian, due to the straightforward way in which she expressed it.

  “Thank you. For understanding, I mean,” he replied, feeling far more relaxed about what he was going to ask than he had anticipated, and he made up his mind to remain as candid and direct as possible. “So, first of all, why is your last name McCormick and not Erdmann?”

  For a split second Rose seemed to turn a little pale in the face, but she recovered so quickly that Cillian couldn’t tell if the apparent change had been in her appearance or in the amount of light falling on her cheeks.

  “My parents never married,” she casually clarified, “and they both preferred my mom’s name for me. I don’t know why exactly—maybe it sounded more ‘American’ to them.”

  “But it’s Irish, right?”

  “Yes, that’s why probably. Irish names are so common here. Anyway, what else do you want to know?” She looked at him with uneasy curiosity. Cillian’s first question had not left her cold.

  “I’ve been wondering for a while about your mother. Is she…”

  “She passed away three years ago from a brain tumor,” Rose broke in when Cillian’s confidence wavered. “They discovered it very late, and after that it went really fast. She died within half a year.” Rose was rushing to the end of her sentences. It was evidently a sensitive topic, and Cillian speculated that she had perhaps rehearsed these few sentences at some point to help her cope with questions like his.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that.” He tried to convey his heartfelt sympathy. “I gathered she had passed away because you never mentioned her in reference to the current situation.” Cillian meant the last words as a euphemism for the death of her father.

  “It’s okay,” she said indifferently, staring at the floor. But when she looked up at Cillian a few seconds later, a visible change had come over her. “I mean it’s not,” she declared frankly, thereby brushing away her empty comment. “I still miss her, but I’ve gotten used to it. One very sad thing is that after she passed away, my dad and I had a falling out. We barely kept in touch since then—that’s what makes this whole ordeal feel extra surreal to me.”

  There was a fire in her eyes that warmed Cillian’s heart. While she had previously been an endearing enigma to him, he now witnessed her transform into an emotional being, and Cillian knew that if he didn’t find a way to psychologically disconnect from this strong yet vulnerable woman before long, there would be trouble. And he had too much of that already, with Amanda still ever present on his mind.

  “I can imagine,” Cillian said, wanting to sound uninvolved but not uncaring. “May I ask what the reason was for you two to…”

  “Disappear from each other’s lives? Because that’s basically what happened…” She took a deep breath. “Well, after she died, my father couldn’t really accept the fact she was gone. He refused to talk about it, and he buried himself in his research. That lack of support was very shocking to me, especially because I didn’t really have anyone else to share my grief with. And unfortunately, by the time he did reach out to me, which was about one year later, I had managed to suppress my pain by turning i
t into resentment and anger, meaning that I was furious with him because that was all I allowed myself to feel. And so I pushed him away and forced him to promise me that he wouldn’t contact me for the time being. And he kept his word, until now…”

  Cillian looked away, fully aware that if he would see the tears in Rose’s eyes, he would once again feel the urge to console and comfort her like he had the day before, by putting his arm around her or holding her hand. That could not happen again.

  “Thank you for being so open with me” was all he managed to say.

  Neither of them spoke for the next few minutes. It was Rose who broke the silence.

  “I don’t think that was your final question, was it?” she contemplated in a self-assured tone.

  “Initially not, but I didn’t want to be a nuisance to you for longer,” Cillian admitted.

  “So what was it? Honestly, I can take it,” she encouraged him. It worked. He did want to ask her one more thing.

  “You really don’t have to answer but, it is about your father’s body. I am curious when we will be able to see it. It is crucial that we inspect it for marks of any kind,” Cillian said calmly.

  “Of course.” Rose nodded thoughtfully. “Sunday—they told me this morning when I called. So that’s tomorrow. I have arranged for it to be brought to a funeral home at the edge of town, where we’ll be able to see it. They will prepare it for a wake on Tuesday evening. The funeral will be on Wednesday, then. It has been a little strange, this whole process. As you know, I went in to identify him on Thursday, and the coroner had his report ready the same day. And yet they didn’t want to release the body until now. They gave me some story about a bureaucratic mix-up with the autographs needed to release it. But they have mostly kept me in the dark about the proceedings. I don’t know if that’s how it normally goes, but it surely shouldn’t be. Oh, I think this is our stop,” she said as the train started slowing down. “Any final questions?”

  “No, you can relax now.” Cillian smiled. “I’m good.”

  Chapter Twelve

  As they walked along a quiet street leading to the office of the Chicago Transparent, Cillian felt weirdly content, particularly considering the circumstances. He presently was not thinking about Amanda, or the suspicious death of Reinhart Erdmann and the difficult task of unraveling the potential murder plot—a responsibility which he had taken upon himself by offering his service to Rose. He wasn’t even contemplating the gravitational pull of her fascinating aura in which he was slowly but steadily being caught. His mind was somewhere else, in the winter wonderlands he remembered from his youth. It was snowing again, and the outside temperature was below freezing point, but since there was no wind and the humidity was low, it didn’t feel very cold. He had felt like that many times as a child growing up in northwest Indiana, close to Lake Michigan, where there was plenty of snow each winter for sleigh riding, snowball fights, and building snowmen. Cillian was just recalling a time when he, as a little boy, had gone ice-skating with his mom on a pond in Riverside and his feet had gotten so cold that she had to carry him back home, when Rose’s friendly voice brought him back to the here and now.

  “I guess it’s my turn to ask you something personal now,” she said as they waited at a traffic light that had just turned red despite the fact that there was no traffic in sight.

  “That’s not necessarily how this works,” he countered nonchalantly.

  “Well, it is now.” She said it in a harsh manner, but the way her lips curved as she looked at him betrayed her true intention. “I’m kidding, of course,” she admitted. “Only if you’re okay with that.” The traffic light finally turned green, and they crossed the street.

  “Seeing as I am unable to come up with a good excuse for why I wouldn’t be, I’ll allow it,” Cillian reasoned, only half-jokingly.

  “Are you still looking for her?”

  “Amanda? Yes, I try, but I have been depressingly unsuccessful so far.”

  Cillian had been aware of the high likelihood that Rose had studied his background, but it nevertheless displeased him that he had no secrets from her. It would have made it easier to act aloof and unemotional toward her if she had not known so much about him already. Now he would just feel silly pretending to be an iceman to someone who was already familiar with his tale of love and loss.

  “Do you have any clues, any leads?”

  “Nothing, nada.”

  “So what will you do after this case?” She looked at him inquisitively.

  “I’m still trying to figure that out, but I want to leave Chicago for sure.”

  “You do?” Rose seemed saddened by his answer.

  “I really can’t stay in this place—there’s nothing for me here. I have never been a city person, and this town is tainted. I’ve accumulated too many bad memories here over the last two years.” Cillian purposely left no room for doubt in his answer.

  “In a way I could argue the same thing when it comes to the past two years, but I don’t feel that those define my future. I believe in, well, redemption, I guess you could call it. It’s never too late to start over,” Rose contended, casting a cautious glance at Cillian. He looked straight ahead, pretending not to notice.

  “I agree when it comes to other people, but I’m not looking to start over myself.” Not yet at least, he conceded to himself. It was not like he planned to wallow in misery in the sort of mental limbo he was in for the rest of his days, but as of yet, he couldn’t conceive of a way out of it. That would require him to get closure on Amanda’s disappearance in one form or another. Either by finding her, or letting go. But he dreaded the latter and feared that the former was unachievable.

  “Maybe not now, but in time…” Rose read his mind.

  Cillian was glad to recognize the Chicago Transparent logo on an office building a short flight of steps up from their side of the street, for he desperately wanted a break from this conversation. He had already exposed himself to Rose and her telepathic abilities for far longer than he felt comfortable with.

  “Look, it’s here,” he pointed out.

  They walked up the stairs and entered the building through a revolving door.

  “Hello, could you please tell me if Mrs. Tiller is in today,” Cillian addressed the young man behind the reception.

  “Mrs. Tiller?” A flush of embarrassment colored the receptionist’s face. “Are you… uh… she…” He struggled to articulate himself. “She passed away,” he blurted out at last. “I’m so sorry. They found her only yesterday.”

  Cillian heard Rose gasp at the news, and even though he had to a certain extent seen this coming, the reality of it affected him greatly and he barely succeeded in keeping his composure himself.

  “I am very sorry to hear that,” he replied sincerely. “Could you tell me how it happened?”

  The receptionist’s face turned from red to white.

  “Well, I-I’m not sure, nothing has been confirmed, and I can’t just, I don’t even…” He stammered, evidently feeling beyond uncomfortable by now. “May I ask, how did you… how did you know her?”

  “We personally didn’t, but my father used to work with Mrs. Tiller,” Rose contributed. “He was her anonymous source for a number of articles. She was supposed to call him yesterday, but when she didn’t and he was unable to reach her, he asked me to stop by her office to see if everything was fine. I fear he will be greatly saddened by this news.”

  “But what was your father’s name?” The receptionist barely made his question audible.

  “I’m afraid I am not in a position to tell you that,” Rose declared with a strict look on her face, “since it would rather defeat the purpose of my father requesting Mrs. Tiller not to disclose his identity, if his daughter went around revealing it to everyone, you see?”

  Cillian couldn’t help but admire Rose’s little performance and the way she bent, or rather “tweaked,” the truth just a little to serve their purpose. She was so convincing that he was certain it woul
d work. And it did; the receptionist relented.

  “Yes I see,” he answered Rose’s rhetorical question. He looked around nervously before continuing in a low voice. “Well, I don’t know anything for sure, but from what I’ve heard, it seems that Mrs. Tiller took her…” He couldn’t get himself to finish his sentence.

  “I understand.” Cillian nodded sympathetically. “Do you know how?”

  “Sleeping pills, I heard. Someone—a neighbor probably—stopped by her house, and when she didn’t answer the doorbell, that person looked through the kitchen window and saw her body lying motionless on the floor. The police arrived shortly after that person called, but it didn’t matter—she had already been dead for hours by then.”

  “How awful,” Rose whispered, shaking her head. “My father will be devastated. He was very fond of her. Do you know who found her?”

  “No. From what I’ve heard, the police were notified by an anonymous caller. Like I said, it was probably a neighbor that for some reason didn’t want to speak openly to the police. Maybe he or she had a criminal record or something,” the receptionist speculated.

  “Maybe,” Cillian responded, as he wondered if the anonymous caller was the same person who informed the police about Erdmann’s body. “And who is in charge now at the Chicago Transparent?” he asked.

  “Well, right now I am.” The receptionist grinned awkwardly. But then, as he realized the inappropriate nature of his joke about being put in charge of the office due to the death of his boss, his face turned apologetic. “I’m sorry—I mean that there is no one here at this moment but me,” he explained, seemingly willing to share whatever he knew in order to make up for his inconsiderate remark. “Everyone else went home when they heard the news. The editorial board will meet on Monday to decide on who to replace Mrs. Tiller with.”