When the Day of Evil Comes

by Melanie Wells

  28

  AS I LEFT THE FOUR SEASONS, the sky coloring itself in the flaming oranges of a pollution-tinted sunset, I began to think for the first time that day about the night ahead of me. It dawned on me that I had no place to stay. I’d checked out of the Best Mid-Western earlier that afternoon. Once again, I was operating in a plan-free zone.

  I couldn’t shake the urge to get out of Chicago entirely. It was Thursday evening. I’d planned on leaving for home Friday afternoon anyway. I didn’t want to check into another hotel. The Neon’s bucket seats sounded like a pretty terrible option, especially on the streets of Chicago. I’d already had more trouble than I could handle in this town. I wanted to go home.

  A quick phone call to American Airlines brought good news. The last run to Dallas tonight had seats available. I changed my ticket, biting the bullet on the transfer fee.

  I’d promised Christine Zocci I’d try to see her tomorrow. I called her instead. We had a brief, Punkin-like conversation.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I need to go back to where I live.”

  “But why?”

  “I miss sleeping in my own house.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Dallas.”

  “Is Dallas like Mexico?”

  I smiled. “Not exactly. More like Chicago. But without the lake.”

  “When are you coming back?”

  “I don’t know, sweetie.”

  “Will you bring me a present?”

  “I’m going to be gone for a really long time, honey. But I’ll send you a present. I promise.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can I talk to your mommy?”

  “Okay.”

  “Christine?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t forget to pray for me.”

  “Okay” She dropped the phone with a clatter and shouted, “Mommy!”

  I was crazy about that kid.

  Liz and I had a short conversation. I suggested she check on Mariann tomorrow morning.

  “She was in a lot of pain,” I said. “Do you know how long she’s been taking pain medication?”

  “I have no idea. Why?”

  “She had a refill prescription, for a very high dose of narcotic. Usually indicates tolerance for the drug built up over time.”

  “Maybe she’s sustained some chronic injuries from Joe,” she suggested.

  “That could be it. Has anyone heard from him?”

  “Andy’s going to try to talk to him tomorrow. Try to get him to drop the charges against you.”

  “Mariann said she would speak to the police in the morning and clear my name. I don’t think they can prosecute me if she refuses to press charges.”

  “All the same, someone needs to call Joe off.”

  “Wish Andy luck, then. And thank him for me. Maybe you should have Christine put in a good word for him with her angel.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” she said, laughing.

  “Listen, I wanted to ask you … do you know anything about how Joe and Mariann’s first son died?”

  “Not a thing. Only that it was an accident of some sort. No, no, honey. Don’t put your finger in there.”

  Put my finger in where? It took me a minute to realize she was talking to one of the kids.

  “No one in this family talks about anything,” she said to me.

  “Have you ever asked Andy about it?”

  “I don’t think we’ve ever talked about it directly, no. Andy’s a Zocci, remember? Why?”

  “I’m just curious. Would you mind asking him if he knows anything about it?”

  “I’ll ask him,” she said. “He’s pretty tender, though. Especially since he just lost another brother. He’s the only one left, you know. But I’ll ask him.”

  “One more thing. Do you happen to know if Andy ever saw an autopsy report on Erik?”

  “I’m certain he didn’t. He would have mentioned it to me.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Liz.”

  “Be safe, Dylan.”

  “I will. And Liz?”

  “Yes?”

  “I really don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Don’t jump bail,” she said, cracking herself up. “That will be thanks enough.”

  “I won’t. I’ll call you tomorrow from Dallas and check in.”

  The facade of the Vendome loomed in front of me, daring me to come in. I don’t know what I was thinking, marching myself back in there on my way out of town, risking arrest and who knew what else? I’d heard Joseph Zocci instruct Sam Molina to alert hotel security. Knowing Zocci, he’d locked the place up with restraining orders and private security guards as well. But I was hoping no one had circulated a photo of me. Most of the staff, I reasoned, were likely to know me by name only, not by sight.

  And I was motivated. I was on the hunt for Mariann Zocci’s secret. I was convinced Joseph Zocci had been responsible somehow for the deaths of both sons. That he’d pushed them both, either literally or figuratively, to their deaths. And I was closing in on the final piece of the puzzle. Someone was about to hand me the gavel so I could pronounce judgment on this vicious, horrible man.

  So in I went. And this time I went in with a plan.

  I bustled through the lobby and headed straight for the elevators behind the concierge desk. The ones that had brought me up from the catacombs.

  After riding the elevator down alone, I wandered around the basement for a while, as I’d done before, this time passing numerous black-uniformed hotel staff. I’d brought a notebook. I held it like a badge and tried to look official so no one would stop me and question what I was doing there.

  The area I was looking for was fairly deserted, I knew, so I just headed away from the crowd, feeling myself getting closer as the people thinned out. At last, I came upon the right office suite and tried the door.

  The suite was locked. I’d figured it would be since Sam Molina had used a security card to gain entry. Molina, I knew, was a day manager. He would be gone by now.

  The lights in the suite were on, but it was unpopulated, with the exception of one woman, who looked like she was packing up to leave for the day.

  I knocked on the window and waved, a huge, friendly and of course fake, smile on my face.

  The woman buzzed me in.

  She had a pucker on her like she’d been sucking a lemon. Or, more likely, like her lips had recently been collagen-enhanced. With her stiff helmet of brown hair and a manufactured British accent, she was all business.

  “How may I help?” she asked cordially.

  “I have an appointment with Sam Molina.” I started my mental lie tally. That was one.

  “I’m sorry, he’s gone for the day. And you are?”

  I held out my hand, which she took gingerly. “Darla. Darla Jackson.” That was two.

  She didn’t introduce herself.

  “Rats,” I said. “I’m so disappointed. Maybe I got my times mixed up.”

  “Perhaps you should call him in the morning and reschedule,” she said.

  “Listen, maybe you could help me out. I’m a freelance writer”—three for three—“working on an article about historic downtown hotels. I was supposed to interview Mr. Molina. But you’d probably be able to answer even more of my questions than he would. You’re probably the one that really runs the place.” I winked at her.

  No response.

  “You don’t happen to have a few minutes to talk with me, do you?” I said. “I know it’s an imposition and you’re very busy, but it would really help me out. I’m working on a deadline.”

  She looked at her watch. “I suppose I could spare a moment.”

  She seated herself behind her desk, indicating I should take one of the wing chairs opposite her.

  “I’m doing some background on longtime hotel employees,” I said. “You have a porter here, an elderly black gentleman. His first name is Earl. Do you happen to know how long he’s been with the Vendome?”

  Her brow almos
t furrowed, but not quite. Botox.

  “I don’t recall a porter by that name. Are you certain he’s with the Vendome? Perhaps one of the other hotels you’ve researched.”

  “I think it was the Vendome,” I said.

  “I’m afraid you must be mistaken. We have no porters on our staff who match your description. Unless he was hired recently.”

  “No. He’s a longtime employee.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t believe he’s with the Vendome,” she said.

  “Must be my mistake.” I could tell I was losing her. “Maybe you could tell me something. You’re obviously very professional, very polished. Great at your job.”

  “Yes?” Her botoxed eyebrows almost raised again.

  “What’s it like working in management for an iconic hotel like the Vendome? It’s gotta be a lot of pressure.” I nodded and furrowed my non-botoxed and prematurely aging brow, as though I was sympathetic to the crushing burdens of her job.

  “It is an awesome responsibility,” she said, nodding her head vigorously. “The entire hotel, every minute detail, from ash trays to zinnias … it all boils down to the manager. He, or she as the case may be, is the captain of the ship.”

  She’d obviously given this speech before.

  “Wow. That’s gotta be tough,” I said.

  “Not if you’re properly trained.”

  “How does that happen? The training, I mean? Do you start out at some other position and then work up?”

  “The Vendome is a destination hire,” she said. “You come to the Vendome after you’ve been trained elsewhere. The Vendome is not a hotel where one learns one’s job. The Vendome is where one does one’s job.”

  “Wow.” I nodded some more. “How long has Mr. Molina been here?”

  “Going on ten years.”

  “Wow. Long time. As a destination hire, is the Vendome management position one that you keep for a long time?”

  “Most people do.”

  “How about you? How long have you been here?”

  “Going on six years.”

  “And how’s it been?”

  “Wonderful,” she said grandly “I have no complaints.”

  “I saw the photos. Past managers?” I gestured behind me at the waiting area. “Can I take a look?”

  “Certainly.”

  She ushered me out, no doubt grateful to get me out of her office. I perused the photos. There were no dates.

  “Quite a hall of fame,” I said, as if I recognized the names. I chose the one whose photo appeared to have been taken in the Nixon era. Thick-framed glasses, fat polyester tie. The one dressed sort of like Bob Newhart.

  “I’ve heard of this one. McMillan. Wasn’t he here just forever?”

  “You’ve done your homework,” she said. “Charles McMillan. He was here almost thirty years.”

  “Ending?”

  “1993. The year Sam Molina arrived, as a matter of fact.”

  “He’s sort of legendary,” I said, as though I had a clue what I was talking about. I’d lost track of my lies at that point. “Do you happen to know what became of him? Is he still around?”

  “He’s in a nursing home, I believe.”

  “Do you happen to know how I could get in touch with him? I’d love to pick his brain.”

  “Really, Ms …?”

  I couldn’t remember the name I’d given her. Some presidential name. “Johnson.”

  Lucky for me, she didn’t seem to remember either.

  “Ms. Johnson. I wouldn’t have any idea. He retired from the Vendome years ago. It’s not as though we’re socially acquainted.”

  “Okay. Sure, I understand,” I said, making my way toward the exit. I held out my hand. “I really appreciate your time. Thanks so much for talking to me. You’ve been a big help.”

  “Certainly,” she said.

  I bolted out of there, running around madly in the basement maze before I found my elevators.

  I left the Vendome for the last time armed with two valuable pieces of information. No, make that three.

  One: Earl no more worked at the Vendome than I did. Which made me wonder if angels got a pass on lying, in some sort of sin-free way. Maybe he never told me he worked at the Vendome, but he sure implied it.

  Two: Earl was probably Christine’s angel. That could be nothing but good news, since he’d cut me a couple of breaks already.

  And three: I had learned the name of the man who managed the Vendome in 1972, the year Joseph Jr. fell from the twelfth-floor balcony.

  All I needed to do was find the right Charles McMillan. In three hours. In a city of eight million people.

  How hard could that be?

  29

  WHAT I NEEDED NOW was a good library. I went back to the Loyola campus since I knew where it was, making a beeline toward the reference desk. I skipped the computer station and went straight to the librarian. He was paunchy and balding and looked bored—three facts that could only work in my favor.

  “Hi. I’m a visiting scholar”—sort of a lie, but maybe it would pass the Earl test—“and I’m in a hurry trying to meet a deadline. I have a weird little problem I’m hoping you could help me with.”

  He picked up a pen and pad of paper. “Shoot,” he said.

  “Guy named Charles McMillan. Manager of the Vendome in 1972. Need to find him. I think he’s in a nursing home now.”

  He scribbled all this down. “M-c or M-a-c?”

  “M-c.”

  “Let’s start with the phone book.”

  He led me toward the bank of computers.

  “But he’s in a nursing home. He won’t have a listing.”

  “If he’s old enough to be in a nursing home, he’s probably got a wife whose phone is still listed under Mr. and Mrs. Or her name will be Gladys or something.”

  “Genius man.”

  “Thank you.”

  He tapped out a white pages search and came up with seven Mr. and Mrs. McMillans, one Shirley, one Edna, and a Pearl. And, to my surprise, only one Charles.

  “What year did you say?”

  “1972.”

  He scanned the addresses, pointing at the screen. “These two are in the grandma-house areas of town. Old houses, little. Built in the 1950s when the war brides were having their babies and no one minded five people sharing one bathroom. I’d start with those.”

  He printed the page for me.

  “No cell phone use in the library. Phone booths in the lobby.”

  I was in awe. And feeling lucky. The entire search had taken two minutes.

  I snatched the paper from his hand. “Thanks,” I said, already turning for the lobby.

  “No problem,” he said.

  I hadn’t turned on my cell phone in twenty-four hours. They’d taken it away from me in jail, of course, and since then I just hadn’t wanted to deal with it. Every time that phone rang, it seemed to bring bad news.

  Sure enough, when I turned it on, the little voice mail icon beeped immediately. I didn’t even want to contemplate the contents of those messages. I would deal with that later.

  It was supper time, so I felt I had a good chance of catching these folks at home. I dialed the numbers, one by one, and got a hit on call number four.

  “Why yes,” she answered. She actually sounded delighted to be asked. “He was manager there. For almost thirty years.”

  I could barely contain my excitement. I told my lie about being a freelance writer and asked if she minded if I tracked him down at the nursing home.

  “Oh, he would be so excited,” she said. “He loves talking about his work. It’s one of the few things that gives him pleasure.”

  “I don’t know quite how to ask this, but what sort of shape is he in? I mean, will he be able to answer my questions?”

  “Well, honey, it depends on the time of day. He’s better in the morning.”

  “I was thinking of tonight.”

  “That depends on the pudding.”

  “Pardon?”


  “If they have tapioca pudding, he seems to settle down. He loves his tapioca.”

  “So tapioca pudding makes him more lucid?” I’d never heard of the healing qualities of tapioca. Someone should alert the media.

  “I think it just gives him a little something to look forward to. Seems to ease him.”

  She gave me the name and address of the nursing home.

  “Could you send me a copy of the article when you’ve finished it?” she asked.

  What a sweet woman. I hate lying to sweet people.

  “Sure,” I said, feeling like a heel. “I’d be glad to. But there’s a chance it won’t get published.”

  “Well, either way, I’d just like to see it. Charles was very proud of his work at the Vendome.”

  “I’ll see to it that you get a copy.”

  What sort of person was I, anyway? I should have just told her the truth. She would have helped me. But of course, I couldn’t have known that when she answered the phone. And it was far too late to do a take back. I’d have to write her a note and confess after I got home.

  It took me a while to get my bearings, but I found the neighborhood without too much trouble, about twenty minutes away from Loyola. I stopped at the grocery store and bought four lunch-box servings of tapioca pudding.

  The unmistakable smell of urine greeted me as I stepped into the doorway of the Meadowood Elderly Care Facility, which was neither in a meadow nor near a wood. Actually, come to think of it, the nursing home smelled just like Cook County lockup. The inmates were nicer here, and most of them were in wheelchairs or wandering around in bathrobes, but it had basically the same smell. And the same distinct feel of incarceration.

  I found Charles McMillan in room seven. Lucky number seven. Wearing a plaid bathrobe and playing a game of gin rummy. Alone.

  “Mr. McMillan?”

  “He’s not here,” he growled.

  I checked the name on the door.

  “You’re not Charles McMillan?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I do, sir.”

  He looked up. “Who in tarnation are you?”

  His wife hadn’t warned me about this part. I’d assumed the man had dementia. Instead, he just seemed pathologically cranky.