Chicago Blue: A Red Riley Adventure

by Stephanie Andrews

  “Freeze!” the blonde yelled, pulling a gun. Guess they were going full bad cop.

  I screamed and dropped the glass jar, which shattered on the floor spraying blue disinfectant everywhere. The blond one reached me and shoved me back against the workstation, gun in my face, while the other two rushed into the back room, having drawn pistols of their own.

  I screamed again, and Blondie leaned harder against me, grabbing my neck with one hand and pressing the gun under my chin with the other. “Shut up!” he screamed into my face.

  The other two returned from the back room.

  “Clear,” they both said at once.

  “Where is she?” Blondie spat at me.

  I just blubbered.

  “Tell me!”

  “Who?” I spluttered, “who?”

  “You had an appointment at 3pm. Where is she?”

  “She was early,” I gasped, gulping. “I finished dyeing her hair and she left about 10 minutes ago.”

  He half threw me across the room to the counter near the front door.

  “I want her information,” he rasped. “From the appointment.”

  I put my left hand on the strap of my leather bag, which was sitting on the counter.

  “Are you the police?” I demanded in a shaky voice.

  “Yeah, we’re the police,” snarled one of the other two with a sneer.

  “You can’t treat me like this. I’ll call the mayor!”

  Blondie started toward me when we heard the sound of approaching police sirens. They all froze for a brief second, during which I snatched my bag off the counter and pushed quickly out the door. The window next to me shattered at the same instant I heard a gun fire. I dropped to the sidewalk and scooted between two cars stopped in traffic, dragging my bag behind me. I popped up on the other side and chanced a look back across the hood of a silver Jaguar. Through the smashed window of the salon I saw them start toward me, but as the sirens wailed more loudly they stopped, turned, and headed to the back.

  Across the street the SUV roared to life and careened out into traffic. They must have left a driver in the vehicle. I watched it screech around the corner, then suddenly realized I was standing in the middle of traffic with police cars less than a block away. I had to get out of there!

  As I turned to run the Jaguar beeped its horn. It was such a polite, friendly “beep beep” that I turned to look at the driver, who had rolled down her window.

  There, wearing a fashionable pair of sunglasses, was the unmistakable face of the woman from Farnham’s office. White catsuit woman!

  “Need a lift?” she asked, with a mischievous grin.

  I turned and ran across the street, and through the first door I came to. I rushed through racks of snowboards and winter clothes and out the back fire door, setting off an alarm. I raced down the alley opposite, and then ducked behind a parked car. I pulled a long black wig and an orange button-down sweater from my bag and put them on.

  Two minutes later I was sitting at the bar at Ditka’s Restaurant, wondering what drink went best with adrenaline and fear.

  Sixteen

  I kept my head down self-consciously as my hard shoes slapped the linoleum floor of the hospital hallway. It felt strange to be back in uniform. These were my own clothes, but I felt more an imposter than in any of the disguises I had put on so far. I kept my hat down low over my face and held a bouquet of flowers in front of me, blocking where my name tag would usually be pinned.

  The intensive care unit was quiet. There didn’t seem to be much police presence on hand, except for me. Just one officer near the nurse’s station, and he was easy enough to sneak around—he was busy chatting up one of the nurses. They must have decided that Vincente wasn’t in any further danger, though I’m not sure what they based that on. If someone was trying to remove the leadership of Illcom, they had failed with Arthur Vincente and Aldo Frances. They were both still alive.

  I entered his room quietly to find a woman seated next to the bed. Her hands were folded and her head was resting on her chest. She was either praying or asleep, I wasn’t sure which. She was plump, but expensively dressed. Her hair was curly, but not an afro, and it had likely been colored, as it was a dark brown, even though she must have been close to seventy years old.

  I was hesitating in the doorway, not wanting to disturb her, when she suddenly gave a jerk of her head and opened her eyes, pulling herself up straight.

  “Oh,” she said, in a lovely voice, “hello there.”

  I stepped into the room, and placed the flowers on a side table below the television, which hung from the ceiling. I sat quickly on the other chair in the room.

  “Hi,” I said with a smile. “I’m Riley Wilcox, from the citizen relations office of the Chicago Police.”

  “There was a young man on duty here, a moment ago,” she said with a puzzled look around. “I’m not sure where he’s gone.”

  “Don’t worry, he’s just down the hall. I just spoke with him a moment ago. I’m just here to see how you are doing, Mrs. Vincente. To see if there’s anything we could do for you.”

  “Well,” and her face lost its smile. “You could find out who did this to my Arthur.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, trying hard not to itch my blond wig. “So Mr. Vincente hasn’t said anything at all, yet?”

  She looked at me strangely.

  “I’m afraid you haven’t heard, Ms. Wilcox. Arthur hasn’t woken up, and he’s not expected to ever wake up.” Her voice broke at the end and she began to sob, leaving me feeling like a jerk.

  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize. I was only just assigned this case.”

  “Yes, well,” said Mrs. Vincente, who really seemed like a class act. “It’s okay, dear. I really don’t care anymore if they find out who did this. You’d think it would be the top thing on my mind, but what’s the point?”

  “Well, for one thing, ma’am, we need to make sure that you yourself aren’t in any danger.”

  “Me? Why on earth me?”

  I sat on the edge of my chair and straightened my back.

  “It’s possible, ma’am, that this was done by someone close to Mr Vincente, and therefore close to you as well.”

  She looked aghast.

  “Surely this is about Illcom, and the other explosion, the one at the Farnham Building.”

  “Yes, that is likely. But that doesn’t mean that someone from one of those two companies wasn’t the perpetrator. Can you think of anyone who was particularly upset, or angry, at Mr. Vincente or Mr. Blalock over the last few months?”

  She looked up and to her right, absentmindedly searching her memory.

  “Arthur was the Chair of the Board. So of course there could be someone else on the board who was jealous of him, but I’m afraid I just don’t know. I think his appointment as interim CEO was unanimous. It doesn’t really make any sense at all.” She began to cry again. “He spent so much time helping that company, though I’m not sure why.”

  “Did he work for Illcom before joining the board?”

  She pulled a tissue from her sleeve, just like my grandmother always used to do, and wiped her nose.

  “No, just as a consultant. Arthur worked for Ma Bell way, way back. Then when they broke up, he headed up sales and marketing for AT&T in the early days. Lord, he could’ve convinced Alexander Graham Bell himself that he needed another phone line in his house.”

  I laughed at this, even though she’d probably told that joke ten thousand times, and nodded encouragingly.

  “Well Ferris Farnham hired him as a consultant when they rolled out their first subsciber plans— back then people weren’t quite sure how to handle the voice and the data, both on the same phone. It was all new.”

  “Mmhmm,” I agreed.

  “Well, he did such a good job that Carter Blalock hired him too.” She looked over at her husband’s motionless form. “Over the years I think he came to like Carter the better of the two. Ferris Farnham can be a bit of a cold fish.�
�� She made a face. “A bit holier than thou, if you know what I mean.”

  I leaned forward.

  “Do you think Mr. Farnham could have had something to do with it?”

  She shook her head.

  “It doesn’t seem like he would have it in him, but then who? That’s just what I keep asking myself. Who? Who would want to do this? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “We will find out,” I assured her as I rose to my feet. My time was running out.

  “You know what?” she said, standing also. “Good! I know I said it doesn’t matter, but I’ve changed my mind. I do care who did this It’s not right. He was a good man, a good black man who grew up in a rough part of this city and made himself rich and successful.” She was building up a head of steam now, and I began to back toward the door.

  “If the police don’t find out who did this,” she continued. “I will. I’ve got the energy, the money, and all the time in the world, now that Arthur is gone. They better watch out!”

  “Yes, ma’am. Yes, indeed,” I agreed, and took my leave.

  Seventeen

  Belinda Blalock seemed surprised to find someone at her front gate who wasn’t a reporter. At least the woman said she wasn’t a reporter; more than one journalist had given false credentials to try to get an interview.

  She looked again at the security monitor. The woman drove a fairly nice Lexus that didn’t look like the kind of car a journalist would drive. Ditto the very fashionable suit. She hit the buzzer, and the heavy metal gate rolled slowly to the side.

  A few minutes later, Mrs. Blalock perused the business card she was handed. “Wilcox Reinsurance?” she asked. “I don’t think I’ve heard of it.”

  “Well,” said the woman, who had introduced herself as Hadley Neff, “reinsurance companies insure insurance companies. I know that sounds ridiculous, but—”

  “I know what reinsurance is,” said Blalock in a pointed voice.

  “You do?” chirped Ms. Neff brightly. “Fantastic! You have no idea how much time I spend explaining it to people. People you really think should already understand such things,” she added in a conspiratorial undertone. She had bobbed blond hair, a lightly freckled nose under fairly thick glasses, and a nervous habit of crossing and recrossing her legs as she sat.

  “What’s this all about, Mrs. Neff?” asked Blalock. “I have an incredibly busy schedule, as you can imagine, and most of the insurance issues are covered by Illcom people…”

  “Call me Hadley, please,” said Hadley Neff. “And no Mrs., I’m afraid,” she chuckled, mostly to herself. “Just me, and the cats. Jay-Z and Beyonce. And Mittens. And Fluffers, of course.”

  Belinda Blalock cleared her throat.

  “Yes, sorry. I know you’ve suffered a terrible, terrible loss, and I wouldn’t presume to trouble you at home, it’s just that…”

  Neff crossed her legs uncomfortably and adjusted her glasses, looking uncomfortabe.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, when I was going through everything on our end I noticed that none of the considerable coverage listed you as a beneficiary, or your daughter. I just wanted to make sure that there wasn’t something, ah, ‘unusual’ going on.”

  Blalock raised her eyebrows. “Unusual? Yes, I see what you mean, and I thank you for your diligence, but Bianca and I have nothing to do with Illcom at all.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No, we never have. There are completely separate trusts for the two of us, funded by Carter’s early successes. We don’t own any part of Illcom.”

  “Well,” said Neff, with a sigh of relief, “that is wonderful to hear! Just wonderful! I’m embarrassed, however, that I wasn’t properly briefed. I am going to have a stern word with Jerry K. when I get back to the office. We call him Jerry K. because there’s another Jerry, Jerry Bingham. We call him Jerry-“

  “B, yes, I see. You’ll forgive my impatience,” Blalock said, rising and smoothing her cream skirt, “but is there anything else I can do for you, Ms. Neff?”

  Hadley stood. “Well no, that should do it! Just, I guess I’m a bit confused. If not you and Bianca, then who takes ownership of all of Mr Blalock’s shares of Illcom?”

  “Well, the same as always, you know, there’s always been an agreement that…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well,” mused Belinda Blalock, her eyes narrowing, “it seems to me that you should either already know that, or perhaps you aren’t supposed to know that at all.”

  “Yes, ha ha, I see what you mean!” the woman laughed, reaching up to adjust her glasses again. Only this time one of her rings caught in her hair, and when she dropped her hand back down she inadvertently pulled the blonde wig from her head, revealing a bright red swoop of hair.

  Blalock jumped back.

  “What the hell?”

  That’s right, it was me, if you hadn’t guessed, and I had just earned myself a photo in the spy’s encyclopedia under the listing for “Blown Cover.”

  I tried to shake the wig off my hand, but it was really stuck on the ring. Still shaking my hand, I started to back toward the front door, but Belinda leapt forward and grabbed my wrist, hard. Tennis player, I’m guessing.

  “I know who you are!” she exclaimed, her excitement making her bold, and frankly stupid if I were really a dangerous criminal. I stepped toward her rather than away, throwing her off balance, and struck her in the solar plexus with my right fist. Oh Jesus, now I’m assaulting widows. Just add it to the list.

  She might be in great shape, but she was not used to being hit, and I took the moment of her surprise and shock to yank my left hand out of her grip. I turned and raced to the door, not looking back until I had reached it and yanked it open.

  She was kneeling on one knee on the carpet, one hand on the arm of the sofa and the other clutching her chest. I stood still for several seconds until she finally got her wind back with a huge, rattling gasp.

  “I’m so sorry!” I blurted, and turned and ran from the house. The woman was having the worst month of her life, and I had just added a strange, unprovoked assault to the list of things no one should ever have to endure.

  Outside I made for the stolen Lexus, but halfway there I noticed that the driveway gate was closed—I was not getting out by car. I tracked right and hit the fence with a running jump, just able to use my momentum to grab the top and haul myself up and over the seven-foot railing.

  On the way over and down my skirt caught on the spikes, and with a horrible, expensive ripping sound I flopped to the ground, landing on my ass and my elbows. I looked up at where my skirt still hung from the top of the fence, swore, and then turned my head to find myself looking directly into the security camera, mounted on the top of the gatehouse wall.

  “Crap,” I said aloud. I was going to be on the six o’clock news, again, for sure. This time with my underpants showing, and not my most stylish pair. I struggled to my feet, Put the wig back on my head, and looked around quickly. Response time out here was probably about ten minutes, unless there happened to be a cruiser already in the area. I’d better get going and get out of sight.

  The skirt was still hanging from the top of the fence, and was clearly a lost cause. I took of my suit jacket and wrapped it around my waist, holding it closed with one hand as I trotted past several leafy Glencoe estates, behind the Center for Jewish Living, and inot the kitchen entrance of the Lake Shore Country Club, where I called Ruby to come and get me while I hid in the bathroom. The world’s most glamorous spy.

  The look on Ruby’s face held an entire lecture. I slumped into the passenger’s seat and averted my eyes.

  We drove in silence for all of two minutes.

  “I’m sorry,” I began, but she cut me off.

  “That woman and her child were kidnapped. Kidnapped!”

  I looked over at her in surprise. “What are you talking about?”

  “I just got my hand on the report,” Ruby elaborated. “Three men, one blond and two dark-haired, in dark su
its—“

  “That sounds familiar,” I snorted.

  “You bet your zadku. Unfortunately, they look are so nondescript that the description doesn’t help. Took them from car outside the Art Institute. She was chaperoning her daughter’s school trip.”

  Oh boy, here it comes. I slouched down in my seat like a teenager.

  “Because she’s a good person, Kay. And they took her and her daughter and held them until Carter Blalock put a bomb on his arm and walked into the Farnham building.”

  “Oh, my god.”

  “And you broke into her house! And you stole a goddamn car.”

  “It’s just that—“

  “No. Quiet. I’m helping you. I’ll keep helping you.” She turned a corner aggressively, her anger coming out in her driving. “But you’ve got to slow down and be thinking this through. You want to become a criminal?”

  “No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Maybe?”

  I turned in my seat to look at her. “Ruby. This whole thing has been crazy. But it’s made me realize how unhappy I was.”

  “And becoming a criminal will make you happy?”

  “It’s not that. It’s just that, for the first time and in a really intense way, I feel free. And alive.”

  She shook her head and sighed.

  “Well, you’ll be neither of those things if the police or the men in black catch up with you. You need to lay low for a while.”

  “I promise.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  Eighteen

  I laid low for the next four weeks. Too many close calls, one after the other. Plus, I was waiting on some information. Among other things, Marty was researching the other Illcom board members to see if there were any possible leads there. He wanted to take a look at their individual financial situations, to see if any of them had made large investments that were in any way connected to the success or failure of Farnham or Illcom. Obviously, what he was doing was highly illegal, which I have to say didn’t bother me nearly as much as I thought it would. It was just taking a really long time.