Dante's Wood

by Lynne Raimondo

  “What business?” I asked.

  “Marilyn’s twins. Randy had a problem, came down with the mumps when he was in the service, and Marilyn had to go to one of those sperm outfits to get pregnant. It was supposed to be a big dark secret, but Marilyn told Sue and she let on about it to Shannon last fall. Shannon went around telling everyone from Carbondale like it was a big joke. Even I had it out with Shannon then, telling her it was a mean thing to do.”

  “Do the twins know?”

  “They do now. They’re nice kids, I don’t think they care much, but Marilyn was furious when it got back to them, afraid they’d think less of Randy as a father. That’s when Marilyn stopped talking to Shannon. Some soap opera, huh?”

  I agreed with her, remembering the phone call to Marilyn and wondering why Shannon had sought her sister’s help if they weren’t on speaking terms. Could Shannon have intended to lord her pregnancy over her sibling? It seemed to fit in with everything else I had learned about her, casting her in an even worse light.

  My next stop was to see Joel Stern, the investment banker Nancy Kim had told me about. He worked in one of the big towers on Dearborn, forty floors up. When I arrived in his office he was packing for a move and I had to maneuver around several Humvee-sized boxes to take a seat.

  “My bank’s been taken over,” he explained, “so my group’s being moved to New York. It’s just as well. Chicago’s fucking dead as far as the markets are concerned. All the big deals are in London now. I’m hoping to get a transfer there one of these days, or if I’m lucky, Dubai. Expensive, but the lifestyle’s good. What I wouldn’t give for a steady supply of Cuban cigars.”

  I pictured him wearing a starched Thomas Pink shirt and patterned braces to go along with the flowery cologne I smelled when I shook his hand.

  He went on in his Gatling gun style. “What did you want to know about Shannon? I already told the police all about her. Corinne!” he bellowed abruptly. “Would you please move some of these fucking boxes out of here? And bring me another Diet Coke. Don’t forget the ice.” He remembered he had company and asked, “You want one?”

  “No, thank you. About Shannon—”

  “I’ve gotta shed some of this fucking weight. It’s the meetings. I can’t help myself when they bring out the snacks. You look like you’re in good shape. I know a blind guy who’s a fund manager at Harris. Goes out running with his dog every day. I don’t know how he does it.”

  “Why, are his legs affected too?”

  “I mean keeps on top of things. Me, I can’t go twenty seconds without checking the screens.” To illustrate the point, he clacked a few keys on his computer and said, “Fucking Fed. One of my clients is waiting for the rate to come down so we can announce a reverse swap. Corinne!” he roared again impatiently. “I’m gonna start pissing sand if I don’t get that pop.”

  Corinne came in and set down a glass on his desk. She began tugging at one of the cartons to my right. “Thanks, hon,” he said to her. “When you’ve finished with that one you can start on the tombstones. Just the deals over a hundred mil, OK? I won’t have room for the others. Fucking Manhattan real estate.” He turned his attention back to me. “What was I saying?

  Not a whole fucking lot. “We were talking about your former girlfriend. The one who was slashed to death.”

  “Oh, yeah. Shannon. Nice-looking broad, but not the kind you’d get serious about.”

  “Why was that?”

  He gargled a mouthful of his soft drink. “Well, not exactly the classy type. Dressed like a Rush Street whore. Didn’t matter to me, I was just in it for the sex. Shannon was a real acrobat in bed. It’s hard to get action like that these days, especially from the skirts around here. If they sleep with you at all, it’s just to move ahead, right? And as soon as you pull out they’re back tapping on the Blackberry. Not that I don’t take a peek afterwards too. Fucking things are like heroin.”

  I wondered whether he kept steering the conversation away from Shannon on purpose. “Did Shannon have any . . . er . . . unusual sexual interests?”

  “Like being tied up, you mean? Nah. If she had, I would have dumped her right away. I don’t go in for that kind of thing. Well, maybe a little doggie style. And some of that Victoria’s Secret merchandise is a real turn-on. You know, the push-up bras and garter straps. I really admire what they did with that brand. Practically owned the market for tramp wear until the other retailers got wise to their act. Too bad about that last quarter, though. Luckily I’d already shifted most of my portfolio to derivatives. You invest much?”

  Maybe he’d like to take me on as a client. “You mentioned ‘dumping’ Shannon. Does that mean you broke it off?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t like all the hints she was dropping about a commitment. We’d only been dating for six months for Chrissake, and already the girl was planning the fucking engagement party. I could just imagine what it would be like introducing her relatives to my folks. Like that scene in the beginning of Deliverance, know what I mean? So I stopped calling.”

  I thought Marilyn Sparrow would enjoy knowing her act had paid off. “When was this?”

  He swilled some more of his soda and belched. “More than a year ago now, I’d guess.”

  “How’d she take it?”

  “Pissed, of course. In my experience, they always are. But she got over it. Last time I saw her she was with another guy, older fellow and by the looks of him, rolling in it. It was at Charlie Trotter’s, last September I think. I was there for a business meeting and she caught my eye on the way out the door. Looked pretty pleased with herself.”

  “Did you get a close look at the man?”

  “Uh-uh. They were across the room and I was with clients so I didn’t stop to say hi. Plus, to tell the truth, I was a little tipsy. We must have polished off six bottles of Bordeaux. Clients were French and they expect that sort of thing. Set my expense account back two g’s. Fucking incredible, though. Went down like a call girl on a john. Are we getting close to being done here? I’ve got a hundred messages and the day’s not getting any younger.”

  “One last question,” I said, figuring he couldn’t resist the urge to brag some more. “Do you mind telling me what kind of car you drive?”

  “Sure. It’s a BMW 5 Series Sedan with a bronze finish. Got it two years ago when I was doing a deal over in Germany. You can buy them there, you know, and have them shipped back. The savings are fucking unreal and you get a big discount on the luxury tax and import duties. If you’re interested, I could get you set up with a dealer . . .”

  Fifteen minutes later I was back on the street feeling no wiser about Shannon than before. Joel Stern may have been a master of misdirection, but I doubted it. He seemed as genuinely removed from reality as anyone in his line of work.

  By this time it was close to noon. The day was fair for May in Chicago, neither bone-chilling nor drenched with humidity, and the streets were beginning to fill up with office workers in search of natural light. I picked up a couple of Red Hots at an Irving’s outlet and walked over to the Exelon Plaza on Madison, where stairs lead down from the street to a sunken plaza with a jet fountain in its center. It was tricky getting past all the sun worshippers lounging on the steps and I poked more than one limb on the way down, feeling like a nuisance each time. When I reached the bottom a man with a West Indian accent offered to help me find a seat and I gratefully accepted.

  While I ate I listened to the gushing water and thought about what to do next. I’d almost exhausted my list of names and was no closer to learning the identity of Shannon’s secret lover than when I’d started out. And even if I found him, what if that too proved to be a dead end? I had no suspect and no motive. True, the more I learned about Shannon the more unpleasant she sounded. But was a malignant personality enough reason to kill? O’Leary had been right. I was getting nowhere by going over the same ground as the police. I needed a fresh approach.

  After a while I had an idea and phoned Yelena on my cell.
r />   Astoundingly, she picked up right away.

  “Borya?” came a voice that could have splintered wood. It was followed by a spate of Slavic I didn’t need a translator to get the gist of.

  “No. Your other true love.”

  “Oh.”

  “Try not to sound so elated. Listen, I need you to do something for me.”

  I explained what I wanted.

  “You’re asking me to spy?” Yelena said when I finished. I didn’t take the offended tone seriously. Judging by the amount of inside dope Yelena had on everyone else in the office she was well-versed in the type of espionage I had in mind.

  “Isn’t that what you people are good at? Besides, it’s not spying. The woman is dead, so she can’t complain. And if anyone asks, I’ll take responsibility. Call me back on my cell when you have the information.”

  “Where are you anyway? It sounds like a beach.”

  “Doctor’s orders. Sunlight and plenty of Vitamin D to help counteract my suicidal depression. Will you do it right away?”

  “I have a report to bind for Doctor Goldman.”

  “Threaten him with a different kind of bondage if he objects. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  I rang off and waited. With a national medical database still a few years away, my hospital, like many others, had set up its own system, which was linked to the offices of private practitioners throughout the city. My fingers were crossed that Shannon’s name would turn up in its records, saving me a lot of digging. For once, the dice obeyed me. A few minutes later Yelena called back with a name and address. I phoned ahead to see whether I could be seen that afternoon. When I heard it could be done, albeit with difficulty, I dumped the remains of my lunch in a trash can and hopped a Brown Line train headed north.

  That spring, the century-old ‘L’ lines were disintegrating from lack of funding while the lawmakers in Springfield fought with the governor over increases to their pay packages. The result was a nightmare of service interruptions and snail-paced trains, with dire warnings of worse to come. Though it was only one in the afternoon, it might as well have been rush hour. I didn’t mind since it meant I wouldn’t have to engage in a debate with someone who insisted on giving up their priority seating for me. No one moved an inch as I shouldered through the packed flesh, eventually ending up jackknifed against a woman rustling a paper bag. The sweet-acrid odor of rhubarb and strawberries wafted up from it, filling my nose with spring. “I bought them at the farmer’s market at the Daley Center,” she explained when I remarked upon how good it smelled.

  When the loudspeaker announced Belmont, I fought my way off the train and followed the steps of the other departing passengers down to the exit turnstile, blinking as I left the station and came out into the bright sunlight. I dug my glasses out of my pocket, pulled my hat brim down low, and set out east in the direction of the Lake.

  Within a block I had hit my stride, holding my cane at waist level and tapping it back and forth in an arc slightly wider than my shoulders. I used a rigid fiberglass cane without one of those silly red stripes. Early on, I’d decided if I was going to use a cane at all, it wasn’t going to be a pretend one with a silver handle and an ebony finish. White-cane laws exist for a reason, and I was more concerned about being mowed down by an unsuspecting motorist than looking like Fred Astaire. The aluminum tip looked like a flying saucer and made a racket like a dying Chevy, but if I paid attention to the sound I could make out some of the things I was passing: a vacant lot, a brick wall. And my cane’s long length—it rounded off just at the tip of my nose—allowed me to move as quickly as I wanted to without risk of impaling myself on an unexpected obstacle.

  I was moving along at a brisk speed when in between the sound of my taps I noticed someone walking not far behind me. Whoever it was had a distinctive squeak to their shoe, like the sole had been worn down from a fallen arch. It seemed familiar, something I’d heard recently, though I couldn’t remember when. The squeak went on for several blocks, never more than five or ten feet away, slowing when I slowed and speeding up when I quickened my step. I began to think I was being followed. The sensation grew stronger and stronger until the hairs on my neck were standing up as stiffly as a marine squad. At Clark I stopped and pretended to consult my wristwatch to see what my shadow would do. He or she passed by and kept going without a pause. I mocked myself for my paranoia and went on.

  Dr. Terry Garland belonged to a group practice called Women’s Wellness Associates on the corner of Belmont and Broadway, smack in the middle of the neighborhood known as Boystown. I didn’t think they got a lot of walk-ins.

  I liked Dr. Garland almost at once. She didn’t sputter and lose the power of speech when I introduced myself, but simply asked if she might show me to her office, and then steered me there with a subtle touch to the small of my back. She had a deep, rich voice tone, bordering on a baritone, and a powerful, spicy scent that made me think of pumpkin pie. We passed down a corridor where doors were being repeatedly opened and shut. Behind one of them an infant was wailing like a bagpipe.

  “I don’t have much time to spare, I’m afraid,” Terry said, after we’d seated ourselves in her cramped office. “You wanted to know about Shannon Sparrow?”

  “Yes,” I said. “You were her obstetrician?”

  “I guess you could call me that, though I saw her only once. It was an accident that I saw her at all—my practice has been closed to new patients for some time—but one of my partners had a family crisis that day and I took over her appointments for her.” Terry rummaged around in her desk drawer, removed something, and asked, “Want one?”

  “Depends on what you’re offering.”

  “Sorry. That was dumb of me. Piece of gum,” she explained.

  “Sure.” I held out my hand, and she deposited a foil-wrapped stick into it.

  “I should warn you, the flavor’s clove. I got addicted to it after I stopped smoking.”

  I bit into the gum and had an instant recollection of a college girlfriend with a fondness for Doc Martens and D. H. Lawrence.

  I said, “I didn’t know they made this stuff anymore. Where did you get it?”

  “There’s a shop up the street that specializes in sixties novelties. They even have Trolls. I used to love those things, had dozens of them.” She laughed, self-deprecatingly. “I know I’m dating myself.”

  It sounded like my kind of store. But I was anxious to get on to what she had to say about Shannon.

  “So Shannon wasn’t a long-term patient of yours, then?”

  “No. Apparently she’d called us as an emergency referral, thought she was miscarrying.”

  “Do you know who referred her?”

  “You’d have to ask my partner. When I heard what had happened to her, I thought about calling the police but I wasn’t sure I was ethically permitted to disclose she was a patient. And, well, I’m always so busy. I’m a single mother myself, and some days it’s all I can do to find time to brush my teeth. But you’re here now, and really how much harm can it cause?”

  “Cavities, mainly.”

  She laughed again. “You’re funny. Were you treating her, too?”

  “No. The boy who’s been accused of her murder. I’m being sued for malpractice for failing to realize she was . . . er, involved with him. That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you could help me out with a little information.”

  “Oh,” she said sympathetically. “I know what you’re going through. You’re not safe these days unless you order every possible test, whether or not it’s necessary, and even when you do, heaven help you if the baby comes out with a problem. I had a mom not long ago, two older boys with autism and ADHD. I deliver the third by emergency C-section, and guess what? He’s autistic too. Except this time it’s my fault. I can only imagine what it’s going to do to my premiums.”

  I commiserated with her and then steered the subject back to Shannon.

  “It’s nothing earth-shattering,” she said. “Just that some of h
er behavior was odd. It made me wonder, especially later when I heard she’d been killed.”

  “Odd in what way?”

  “Inconsistent. It started on the day she came in.”

  “Which was when, exactly?”

  “Let me see.” She fiddled with her keyboard for a moment and said, “February 14. How appropriate. Valentine’s Day. She was about six weeks pregnant then.”

  “So that would place conception around the end of December?”

  “That’s right. Apparently she didn’t realize she was pregnant right away, because she had what she thought was a light period in January. Then, when another one didn’t come, she took a home test and panicked, thinking the earlier bleeding meant she was going to miscarry. She was pretty upset about it.”

  “Did you think that was unusual?”

  “A little. Usually when I see patients like Shannon—single women who haven’t been trying to conceive—they’re not too thrilled about being pregnant in the first place. Miscarriage isn’t pleasant, but a lot easier to handle emotionally than abortion.”

  I nodded. “But she wasn’t miscarrying?”

  “Uh-uh. I gave her a pelvic and asked her some questions. She said the blood flow had stopped only a day or two after it started and she hadn’t experienced any cramping. When I heard that, I suspected post-implantation bleeding. Many women spot a bit around the time the embryo leaves the fallopian tube. Based on what she was describing, I told her she probably had nothing to worry about. She seemed so relieved I thought she was going to cry.”

  That was surprising, given what Shannon’s sister had told me about a possible abortion.

  “So as far as you knew, she was planning on keeping the baby?”

  “That’s what I thought—at least initially. It struck me because she admitted she wasn’t in a relationship with anyone. It’s no easy thing to raise a child alone and I was a bit surprised she wasn’t asking me about other options. I assumed it was a religious issue.”