Borrowed Time

by Tracy Clark

  “You’re bent on ruining us, aren’t you?”

  “Not you, him. He’s the one I want to stop.” I held the photo higher. “Her name?”

  Anne Spada stood silently for a time, her world destroyed, her options dwindling. “She’s our housekeeper. Nada. She cleans, she cooks, she picks up my dry cleaning—all of it badly. Nick hired her.”

  “Do you know anything about her? Where she’s from?”

  She shook her head, said nothing.

  “Her last name? Anything?”

  Anne Spada buried her head in her hands, pulled at her hair. “I don’t know. I don’t. I told you Nick hired her. Nick hires everyone. She’s just a housekeeper. Now go away.”

  She took off, heading back toward the front room. I didn’t have time for this. The movers double-timed it when they saw us heading back. Their morbid interest gone now, they wanted no part of this train wreck and fled for the door. Some were carrying boxes, some running empty-handed. Anne Spada paced around the room, wringing her hands. She had no one else to call. She looked to be close to emotional collapse.

  “Would he run to his boat?” I asked again.

  She continued to pace, and didn’t answer. Which one of us did she hate and distrust more at this point, me or her husband? I waited, wanting to grab her and shake the information out of her. The movers snuck in, slid boxes out, and disappeared again. Anne glared at me, no doubt considering which side to come down on.

  “He hates that boat. He won’t even set foot on it.” The words shot out of her mouth like nails out of a nail gun. “He won it in the divorce, not that he wanted it. He just didn’t want her to have it. She was a horrible woman, a bitch, that’s what Nick said.”

  “Is that why he let Vince Darby stay on it? Because he didn’t care what happened to it?”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Vince? Why would he let his driver stay there?”

  “Darby was his driver?”

  “He’s whatever Nick tells him to be. Why did you say ‘was’?”

  “He’s dead. Murdered. Horribly.”

  She lost it. “That’s a lie. You’re lying.”

  “Where are your children?” She shot me a confused look. “I saw photos in his office of a family—you, kids.”

  “Another lie. The photos are fake, studio shots he got from somewhere. Men with families are thought to be more trustworthy, he said, but he never wanted us to have children of our own.” The shock was gone now; now she was angry, hurt. “He wouldn’t even consider it. We don’t even have a dog.” Tears trickled down her flushed cheeks. “I want you to leave. Haven’t you done enough?” She turned to the movers, who were hustling like heck to get every box on the truck so they could get the hell out of there. “You too, all of you. Get the hell out of my house.”

  “Darby was an ex-con. Maybe your husband is, too. And I don’t think Spada’s his real name.” She went ghostly white, deathly pale. “If your husband is an ex-con,” I added slowly, “and if he’s got another name . . .”

  That’s as far as I got. She took off running toward the back of the house. I followed. At the end of the long, empty hall, she burst into a room filled with stacked boxes the movers hadn’t yet touched. She began tearing into them, searching for Lord knew what. I stood and watched her go at it all, frenzied, half-crazed.

  “‘Never come in here.’ That’s what he said,” she screeched, eyes wild. “His office. His things. I knew. Deep down, I knew he was lying to me.” Paper fluttered to the floor, the boxes gutted, but Anne kept at it.

  “What are you looking for? What was he lying about?” If I had to guess, I’d say everything, but I needed to hear it from her.

  “The papers. Where are the papers?” She dropped to her knees, closer to the boxes.

  I picked a few of the sheets up from the floor, but they didn’t look like much. “What papers?”

  She stopped, and then burst into tears—mean, angry, duped tears. “That son of a bitch! They’re gone!”

  “Will you get a grip on yourself? What the hell are you looking for?”

  She looked up at me, her face streaked with dumped-wife tears. “Last week, I found papers on his desk that didn’t make sense.” She stood, wearily, as though even that was too much. She glanced around the near-empty room, maybe seeing it as it had been back when she was happy and oblivious and important. She leaned against a wall, and hung there for a time, staring at nothing.

  “They were for an Edward Horvat, but Nick’s photograph was attached to them. He said Horvat was a client . . . he was so damned convincing. He’s always so damned convincing, but his photo, and the look on his face. I’d never seen that look before.”

  I looked around the floor at all the wasted paper. Was Spada’s real name Edward Horvat, or was it the name of another victim?

  “None of it’s here now,” Anne said. “He’s taken it. He’s taken everything.”

  “You’ve heard about Timothy Ayers’s death. He had to have mentioned it. Where was your husband the night Tim died?”

  She looked over at me, no expression. “If asked, I was to say that he was at home, here with me.”

  “But he wasn’t.”

  “No,” she said. “He wasn’t.”

  Anne Spada looked like she was in some kind of trance. There was nothing I could do to lessen her shock. Her entire world had just come crashing down on her. I dug my phone out of my pocket, stepped out into the hall, and called Marta. The good news was I now had the hit woman’s name, which might give her some leverage. I also had another name for Spada, which she needed to check out. The bad news was that whatever his name was, he had a huge head start.

  Chapter 47

  I raced down the stairs of the Spada home more than an hour later, and only after I’d made sure there was nothing else in the boxes that could put Spada/Horvat behind bars for good. I was glad to be free of Anne’s misery. She’d finally gotten it together enough to call a friend to come over and comfort her. When the friend had walked in, she seemed surprised to see an unfamiliar black woman holding Anne’s hand, trying to soothe her. Suspicion followed, and I got the distinct impression that she thought I was the help, but I left her to it. I didn’t have time to run it all down for her. I had a murdering psychopath to catch.

  I slid into my car, called Marta again, my brain worrying at the edges of a recollection. “Anything?” I asked when she picked up.

  “Leave me alone. I’m up to my ass in lawyers.” She hung up on me. I glowered at the phone, then startled when it rang in my hand. It was Barb.

  “Jung’s gone.” She sounded hacked off. “After lunch, he went downstairs to take a nap, and when I went down later to see if he needed anything, the apartment was empty.”

  I plastered my forehead to the steering wheel, considered banging it, but didn’t. Nick Spada, now Jung. I couldn’t catch a freaking break.

  “What time did you last have eyes on him?”

  “About three-thirty?”

  “Are you down in the apartment right now?”

  “I’m standing in the middle of it, next to the air mattress.”

  “Look for a note. He’s strange, but he’s not a complete moron. He wouldn’t go off without telling us where.” Except for the last time he did exactly that. “Check everywhere.”

  “I’ve checked. No note.”

  “Considering this is Jung we’re talking about, try looking someplace dumb.”

  Barb told me to hold on and I listened to the muffled sounds of her searching the empty apartment. I was going to kill Jung. I was going to skewer him and roast him over a roaring fire pit. I was going to shave him bald, slather him in honey, and deposit him in the middle of a swarm of angry bees.

  “Found it. Guess where?”

  “I don’t care. Read it.”

  “It was in the kitchen, taped to a box of Pop-Tarts.”

  “Barb!”

  “I’m reading. I’m reading. It says, ‘I’m no coward. I don’t need anyone to fight my battles. Ki
llers always go back to where it all started. I’ll be waiting. And thanks for the air mattress. It rocked. Where’d you buy it? Never mind, I’ll find one.’” Barb started to chuckle. “I’m sorry. This isn’t funny.” She cleared her throat, started again. “He signed it, ‘Jung Byson.’”

  I started the car, squealed away from the curb. Back to where it all started. That meant the marina. “Barb, call Ben. Tell him I’m going to the marina. Jung’s there.” And I hoped to God he was alone.

  I slid into the marina lot, but didn’t see Jung anywhere. There was no one in the small lot, on the footpaths, or on the boats moored in the slips. I looked around for a shock of blond hair attached to a lanky, clueless body, but came up empty. Cap’s office was dark, the blinds drawn. There was a storm coming and the sky was darkening fast, but that did little to cool things off. It was sticky and buggy and there wasn’t a single breeze anywhere. The rank smell of fish and algae spread like a miasma along the water’s edge. I was alone, and, apparently, the only one misguided enough to skulk around a marina in weather like this.

  Was Spada here? Not if he was smart, and he’d been smart up until now. He had to know he’d have no hope of getting away by boat. CPD had a marine unit, and if by some chance he managed to get beyond their jurisdiction, there was the US Coast Guard to contend with. Unless he wasn’t planning on getting away; unless he intended to end things right here in the slips . . . and take Jung with him? I headed toward the boats on high alert. Jung had promised he’d stay put and he’d broken that promise. I understood why. I’d have likely done the same. But that didn’t mean we weren’t going to discuss it.

  Traffic on Lake Shore Drive whizzed past, oblivious to Jung’s predicament . . . or mine. The constant procession of taillights and headlights was a taunting reminder that the world didn’t stop, no matter what went on in it. No sign of police lights yet. I held my watch up toward the streetlamp. Just twenty minutes since I’d left Spada’s house; enough time for this place to be swarming with cop cars. Hadn’t Barb been able to get through to Ben?

  I hung back behind a tree and watched Tim’s boat. Nothing moved on deck, and all the lights were off. Was Jung hiding on board, waiting for Spada? What if he didn’t come? Was Jung prepared to lie in wait indefinitely? I headed that way, but stopped when I heard scuffling behind me. I reeled to see two dark figures on a boat moored some feet away from Tim’s—three slips down, to be precise. It was Spada’s boat, the Magnifique; the one Darby was living on in order to keep tabs on Tim; the one Spada’s wife said he refused to step foot on.

  I pedaled backward, out of the dim glow of the lights, my eyes glued to the top deck of Spada’s boat. The figures walked slowly topside, both keeping low, the figure in front moving unsteadily. They moved like men, not women, I thought. The figure in front was tall, thin, like Jung, but I couldn’t be sure it was him.

  Suddenly the figure in front fell and the one behind reached down and dragged him along; then someone yelled out, “Dude!”

  My breath caught. It was Jung. Who else could it be? Spada had him and he was going to kill him. I marked the distance from the tree where I stood to the boat. There was no way I could make it without being seen, and the only chance I had was the element of surprise. If Spada saw me coming, he’d kill Jung on the spot. I searched the Drive for cop lights, sirens. Nothing.

  Spada disappeared around the side of the boat, taking Jung with him. When I saw him again, he was alone and standing at the boat’s controls, his back to me. Was he taking the boat out into open water? Finally there was the sound of sirens; I turned, hoping to see the blue flash of police lights, only there weren’t any yet. The cops were coming, but they weren’t nearly close enough to be much help. I turned back to the Magnifique just as Spada started her up, the loud rhythmic rumble of the engine as loud as rolling thunder. He’d apparently heard the sirens, too, and he was taking off. I raced for the slip, the sirens louder. Now I could see the blue pulse of police lights as at least a half-dozen squad cars streamed up the Drive from Balbo and raced over from Michigan Avenue, heading my way. But the Magnifique was heading out now. They weren’t going to make it in time. I dug in, desperate to hit the slip before the boat tore away from the dock.

  My lungs on fire, my heart in my throat, I hit the pathway, the boat almost clear of the slip. I was too late. I slammed into the marina gate. It was locked. I shook it, kicked it, then grabbed hold and clambered up and over, landing hard on the other side. The boat was going. Jung was going. I raced down the dock, watching the boat’s towline drag along the surface of the water, trailing behind the escaping vessel like a tiger’s tail. In Spada’s haste to get away, he’d failed to retract and secure it. I shot a quick look toward the lot. It was now lit up by flashing lights. The cops were here.

  I watched the towline as it slowly disappeared below the water, the boat’s powerful engine churning up waves. The Magnifique, seconds from escape, steamed ahead toward the breakwater. There was no use yelling for the police. They wouldn’t hear me. I watched dejectedly as they headed for the marina office. The wrong way. Out of time. I couldn’t wait.

  I raced to the end of the dock and dove in, landing squarely in the boat’s wake, my hands fumbling for the end of the sinking towline. It took a few terrifying moments before I managed to grab hold of it underwater and clutch it tight, bobbing and twisting in the midst of the muddy chop, winding the thick rope around my forearms so I wouldn’t lose it in the dark. The shock to my system that the cold water gave me nearly blasted my hands from the line more than once, but I held on.

  Where was Spada headed? How long would I be able to hold on to the line? As I rolled in the gunky water, gulping it in, spitting it out, holding my death grip on the line, the marina and the cop lights got smaller and the jagged tops of the city’s skyline melted into the night sky. The boat gunned it past the breakwater, then past the Shedd Aquarium. The skyline was now just one big blob of white light. We had to be miles out now. If I let go of the line now, I was as good as dead.

  My legs and arms were going numb and I felt as if I’d already swallowed half the lake. I needed to get out of the water fast. Then, through walls of rushing waves, I caught sight of something shiny along the side of the boat. It looked like some kind of handle, or grab bar. If I could get to it, I’d have something sturdier to cling to than the line.

  Just then, the boat hit a rough patch and I went under and rolled, sputtering back to the surface seconds later, not quite sure if I was upside down or right side up. Chastened, but not deterred by the cruel dunking, I pulled myself up a little higher on the line. My arms were weakening, the lights from shore now the size of dancing fairies. It took everything I had to focus on the shiny thing. I squeezed my eyes shut, opened them again, blinking through the wake. It wasn’t a handle; it was the rung of a ladder. A swim ladder.

  Another ladder? What the hell?

  I’d have to let go of the line first. I couldn’t grab for it without my hands. And if I missed the grab, I’d lose the line, too. I took a moment to visualize the intricate release-grab move I’d have to make. Risky didn’t begin to cover it, and I’d only get one shot at it. If I missed, I’d have to drink the lake dry to come out even. I tried banking a lungful of air, but drew in a mouthful of water instead. I coughed, sputtered. When I could see straight again, I went for it, swinging myself along the side of the boat, letting go of the line. My hands, nearly frozen now from the cold, clawed through air, clutching for metal before finally smashing hard against the bottom rung. I snatched at it, got it, and held tight, wrapping my arms around so completely that it would have taken the Jaws of Life to pry me loose.

  I hung there for a time, trying to catch my breath, my legs dragging along the top of the water as the boat sped along. The thought of having to do more nearly brought me to tears. My arms were spent; my legs weren’t that much better. I trembled all over as fatigued muscles revolted, but I started my climb, stopping for air and rest every rung or two. Both hands were c
overed in bleeding blisters, my forearms in welts. Grabbing for the ladder, I’d scraped the skin from my knuckles and they were bleeding, too. My jeans, shirt, and sock clung to me like a second skin and felt as though they weighed a thousand pounds. Every rung was both triumph and suffering as the wind batted at my face. Spada wasn’t fooling around. He meant to get as far away from the cops as he could get on one tank of boat gas.

  At the top, I swung my legs up and over and slid spread-eagled onto the slippery deck of the Magnifique—all in, but lucky to be alive. I squinted up, but couldn’t see the captain’s chair from where I lay, but if I couldn’t see it, Spada couldn’t see me, either, and that was a good thing. I took a moment to breathe, rest, center. Jung. Right. He was probably below deck. I needed to get there.

  I counted to twenty, giving myself just a little more time, and then stood, my legs trembling, my body compensating for the sway of the boat. Suddenly the boat’s engine stopped and the boat went whisper quiet. Why? I bolted for cover, crouching low, and slammed chest first into a dark niche under the boat’s overhang, my wet Nikes squeaking. It wasn’t much cover, the niche. If Spada passed by, he’d surely find me, but I had nowhere else to go.

  Had I been spotted? Is that why the boat stopped? I made a move, and my shoes squeaked again. I had to ditch them. I kicked them off, along with my socks, but I couldn’t leave them here; I underhanded the shoes and socks into the lake. Good money gone to waste. I checked my gun, tucked into the holster at my back. The Glock was soaked, just as I was. I held the muzzle downward to drain the water out of it, and then waited for another chance to move.

  Above me, I heard Spada leave the wheel and head toward the cabin door. I tracked the sound of his footsteps overhead all the way to the narrow stairs, listening as the cabin door opened and then shut behind him. I needed to get Jung and me off this boat alive. I didn’t much care how Nick Spada left it.

  Chapter 48

  The sound of angry voices rose from below, Jung’s and Spada’s. I couldn’t make out much, but I had a good idea what was going on. The knob on the door turned freely in my hand. Still, I drew my hand away and stepped back. It was narrow below deck, confined, too easy to get cornered with no way out, certainly not a place for a confrontation. I needed Spada to come out here instead, preferably without Jung.