by M. K. Gilroy
“So, Dell, you still enjoying our fair city? Work going okay?” Jimmy asks. I’m a little disappointed that my little melodrama with Klarissa is being ignored by everyone at the table. And that Kaylen did an end-run and invited Dell over without me knowing about it. If I’m going to get this ended completely, I am going to have to get some cooperation from my family.
“Actually, I’m loving it here,” Dell answers. “Work couldn’t be any better, which means the company I’m consulting for has tons of problems, and that means job security for the foreseeable future. I’d rather not move again.”
“What are some of the places you’ve lived, Dell?” my mom asks.
“Better question may be where haven’t I lived,” he answers with a smile. “Not having family, I’ve enjoyed taking in different areas of the country, and honestly, I’ve found something I like in every place I’ve lived. But I’ve spent more time in Colorado than anywhere else, and that’s where I keep a permanent address. Some day you folks need to come see it. It’s beautiful.” My non-boyfriend is inviting my family to his place again. What is wrong with this picture?
“So at some point you’ll lay down roots in Colorado and stay there, you think?” Jimmy asks.
Where the heck is he going with that question? Maybe he aims to find out what kind of dowry the family might expect to pay out if Dell wants me for a bride.
“I think about it all the time,” he answers. “I may just be a victim of circumstances. After college I worked two years in Denver with a company that ended up going Chapter 11. The economy there was miserable at the time, so I took a contract job in Albuquerque. I made more money doing contract work, so when that gig was up after a year, I took a couple months off to roam the country a little, and then signed up to do a project in Phoenix. I think Portland was next. Then it was Atlanta. I stayed there a year after my contract was finished and got my MBA at Emory. There was work waiting for me in Colorado Springs, so I printed a business card with a phone number and email address and kept moving around. I was in La Jolla before landing here in Chicago. The only thing I’ve done to lay down roots is to build that little home outside Durango. The problem with that is I’ve only been in it myself for about three months total.”
I’m impressed and a little embarrassed. Am I so self-absorbed that after six months of knowing him, my family now knows as much about his history as I do? He’s glanced my way a couple times. I think this is when a real girlfriend, a good girlfriend, would jump in with an encouraging comment. I’m neither so I say nothing.
“So the house just sits there?” my mom, ever the pragmatist, asks.
“I’ve got a real estate firm that leases it out, so it doesn’t sit that much,” Dell answers. “The two problems are that I always forget to reserve time for myself during ski season.”
He takes a drink of iced tea.
“What’s the other problem?” Klarissa asks.
“Well, with renting the place out and having strangers living there all the time, I’ve never figured out how I’d like to decorate it to suit my own tastes. As a result, I’m not even sure what they are. My tastes, that is. So my little cabin looks like a million other vacation homes. When I do spend time there it feels an awful lot like a hotel. It could use a woman’s touch.”
He smiles and looks at me. Surprised, I frown, shake my head, and roll my eyes. Klarissa looks at me triumphantly and smiles. Thank God for Mom. She’s relentless. She could work with Tom Gray in Internal Affairs.
“Well I hope that you feel at home here,” she says, not about to let him swoop me off to the Wild West . . . yet. “Chicago’s not such a bad place to live if you don’t mind cold winters.”
“You all are way too kind to me,” he answers. “I’ve never been treated better. I always find a church as soon as I hit a new town, but I’ve never had so many fabulous home-cooked meals. I actually have to go to the gym an extra day every week just to keep the weight off.” Mom beams. So does Kaylen. Jimmy looks very pleased, too. James is busy shoveling the last of his mashed potatos into his mouth so he can get to apple cobbler—and my Beretta. Klarissa smirks at me. She is enjoying how uncomfortable I feel way too much. I’ve had enough and am suddenly ready to show young James my gun—dessert can wait.
Before I can get up and make my escape Kendra says for the table to hear, “You never asked how I did in the soccer game, Aunt Kristen.”
“I’m sorry,” I say with enthusiasm, relieved to have a change in the conversation. “How did my star Snowflake do?”
“Two goals.”
“I had a hundred,” James yells.
“James, stop interrupting,” Jimmy says sternly. James gives his apple cobbler a pouty look—and then devours another bite.
“Very cool,” I say. “And how did the rest of the Snowflakes do?”
“We won!”
“Way cool. Mrs. Kimberly must have been a good coach,” I say, not believing my own words.
“She didn’t coach,” Kendra chirps. “Tiffany’s dad did.”
Really? No way! I’m coach!
I look up at Kaylen but she is suddenly studying one of her fingernails.
• • •
I show James and Kendra my gun. I remove the magazine and double-check that no bullets are in the chamber, of course. I give a perfunctory lecture on handgun safety and let both of them hold and aim it. I put the magazine back in, holster it, and wander from the game room where James is pretending to shoot bad guys with a candlestick. I push the door to the kitchen open and look over the counter into the living room. Jimmy and Dell are watching the Cubs contentedly and talking in low tones without feeling any need for eye contact. Dell is filling out a scorecard just like Dad used to do. I have no problem with that at a game, but it seems weird when you’re watching it on TV. Of course, he has a diversified portfolio and I have a single savings bond.
Klarissa is closing her purse and getting ready to leave. She gives Kaylen and Mom long, warm hugs. I get a quick, mostly one-arm embrace and a quick peck on the cheek. I really do have to get checked for leprosy or body odor. Kaylen walks her to the door and it’s just Mom and me in the kitchen.
“So when are you and Klarissa going to stop fighting and start getting along?” she asks.
“Mom, we’re not fighting any more than we ever have. It’s just how we communicate with each other.”
“Then it’s time you two start communicating better. You’re like teenagers fighting over a boy.”
“Well, if that’s what this is all about, she wins. She can have the boy.”
“What’s wrong with Dell?” Mom asks with a sincerely hurt expression. “I like him.”
“I know you do. I do, too,” I retort. “Doesn’t mean I have to marry him does it?” There’s challenge in my voice.
“You’re thirty, so don’t you think you should start thinking about marriage? You make it sound like settling down, getting married, and having kids is something bad. You can’t keep people at arm’s length forever, you know.”
Ouch. Not sure what hurts worse. Mom thinking I don’t want to be close to anybody or the reference to thirty. I’m not thirty yet.
I say my goodbyes and head out to my car. Jimmy and Dell are engrossed in conversation about the rookie right hander that just got called up from Des Moines and barely notice my exit. Good. I need an easy escape from Dell. I’ve got the incident notebooks at home so I’m not going to stop by the office. I push in the clutch and turn the ignition. It grinds but doesn’t start. Jimmy and Kaylen live on a flat street. Great. What now?
I end up slinking back up the sidewalk to ask for help. I get back in the driver’s seat. How embarrassing. Jimmy and Dell get behind the car and push me into the street and get me rolling. I can hear them laughing. I make sure the car has enough momentum, pop the clutch, and wonder for a second if the engine is going to turn over as it pitches and sputters. It roars to life and I’m out of there. Tomorrow for sure. I’ve got to get the starter replaced.
&
nbsp; But my mind’s on the crime scene, not my car, all the way home.
• • •
After three solid hours of reading non-isolated event stream notebooks, I jog over to the high school football stadium a mile from my house, intent on running up and down the stairs of every aisle. My surgically enhanced knee will protest, but I’ve got to do something to clear my mind. It’s a jumble of Dell getting a family invite despite having done a revenge date two weeks earlier; Tiffany’s dad coaching my Snowflakes and winning; Tom Gray from IA grilling me and invoking my dad’s name before he left; and a bad man killing independent, successful, attractive women in my city and my desire to stop it.
It is a cool, pleasant, early spring evening that’s already dropped into the upper sixties, but I sweat like it’s an August boot camp in southern Georgia. My mind starts to clear and my spirit lightens just a little, but I can’t help thinking about the latest victim, Candace Rucker.
20
CANDACE RUCKER’S APARTMENT was as gruesome as we knew it would be. No one demurred when offered cotton swabs with a drop of ammonia at the door. The smell was still overpowering. Same MO. He—I’m not arguing that we need to be thinking it’s a woman anymore—did his work and then left with the heat turned up full blast.
With a violated body nearly floating in a pond of blood, there were tons of forensic evidence. The problem is that though all of the evidence points us to a particular person, it doesn’t help us find him. It simply confirms a profile and provides us with everything we need to convict him if we ever get him in our hands. I kept my focus and took copious notes like a good soldier. But the only thing we really learned was that it was the same person doing almost exactly the same thing that Virgil has already alerted us was going to happen in our city. He is careful. Precise. Sick. And good at hiding.
Candace Rucker, thirty-two years of age, a junior member of a major Chicago law firm, divorced, no kids, and no live-in, is dead.
• • •
“So, did you have a good weekend?” Don asks as we slide into a diner booth for some breakfast.
We spent most of Saturday at the Rucker crime scene, so it would be more accurate to ask if Sunday was good.
“So-so.”
“Your girls win?”
“Yep.”
“Nice. Isn’t that like the first win of the season?”
“Second.”
“Cool.”
“We’ve only got one more regular-season game. Who knows, maybe we’ll get win number three.”
“There’s the Vince Lombardi we all know and love. So how’d Sunday dinner go? Dell back in the picture?”
I cock my head and look at Don across a Formica tabletop, a cup of steaming diner coffee in my hand and almost to my lips. I want to see if he is giving me a hard time or just being a nice, normal human being who is interested in other human beings.
“Sunday dinner was nice. Yes, Dell was there.”
“So you two are back together?”
“Not in my book, which made his presence awkward. He acted like nothing had happened. I guess that puts all the awkwardness on me.”
“No surprise there.” He laughs. “So, if you feel awkward being with him, why did you invite him over in the first place?”
“I didn’t. My mom did.”
“You’re kidding me!” he says with a laugh. He spills a little coffee on the tabletop and nearly jumps out of his seat in fear that a couple drops will stain his monogrammed, starched white shirt. I think Reynolds’ FBI “uniform” is rubbing off on him.
It’s my turn to laugh. “Don’t even ask why. My mom has always had a soft spot for stray cats and lost puppies. Dell is now her favorite lost puppy. Actually, my whole family adores him. Just for the record, Dell and I didn’t drive over together. Kendra and James sat between us at the dining room table. He was just there and it seemed like the most normal thing in the world to everyone—except me. In fact, he was still there watching the Cubbies with Jimmy when I left.”
“No way,” Don says.
“Well, actually the last I saw of him, he and Jimmy were pushing my car down the street so I could start it with the clutch.”
Don laughs again and shakes his head.
“Ready to order?” the waitress says. We both answer yes. We have a task force meeting in an hour, so we thought it’d be a good idea to grab a bite before the possibility of lunch or dinner disappears. Even though it’s early, I order tuna salad on whole wheat. Lettuce and tomatoes, with a pickle on the side. A big glass of water and an endless cup of coffee. After living on JavaStar for the past couple years, diner coffee tastes almost watery. I can live with that if it gets the job done and wakes me up. Don orders a full bacon and egg breakfast, adds half a bottle of ketchup on the hash browns, and chases it down with blackberry pie. I notice that he’s put on a few pounds since this serial killer thing started. He doesn’t show it, but he must be feeling some stress, too. I promise, I will make no reference to his weight today.
“Don’t you think it’s a little strange,” he says as we finish, “that you—the most controlling person in the world—have no say in your love life?”
“Did you just say ‘love life’?” I ask him, ready to stare him down for as long as it takes. Maybe I should mention those extra pounds.
He breaks the gaze, laughs, and says, “Okay, let me rephrase that. This guy looks and acts like your boyfriend, and he’s in the middle of your family life, and you don’t even know what you think about him. And you’re okay with that? Doesn’t sound right to me.”
“What I think about him is becoming increasingly clear. Now can we change the subject?” I ask.
“Hey, I’m just trying to be a good partner and I am tempted to point out that getting close to a member of the opposite sex can be a fulfilling experience. He seems like a nice guy to me.”
Et tu, Brute? I look up to argue, but he holds up his hands in surrender. I hold my tongue. I’m worn out and don’t have the energy for a battle of insults. Come on, coffee, do your thing.
“So, how was your Sunday?” I ask instead. He is trying to suppress a smile, which makes me think he’s been waiting for me to ask.
Don’s bursting to tell me his news. “Vanessa sold another house on Saturday, so it was a great weekend,” Don says.
“She take you shopping?”
“Maybe she did.” He holds up his silk tie. I guess I was supposed to notice that it was new. It’s nice, but a tie is a tie. Don doesn’t look at it that way. He then turns sideways in the booth and kicks a leg out in the aisle, high enough for me to see his foot. I’m assuming the shoes are new, too. I’m looking at a shiny black loafer with a tassel.
“Nice. New Eddie Arnolds?” I ask, teasing him.
He rolls his eyes and says, “Allen Edmonds. I’ve been wanting to buy some Graysons. They’re not made quite as narrow as the other AE models, but they still feel great.”
“That’s two new pairs of shoes in two weeks.”
He doesn’t answer but just smiles. He and Klarissa should go shopping together. Make a Saturday of it.
“What do they cost? More than a hundred bucks?”
“Almost 400,” he answers quickly, pulling his foot back under the table and crossing his arms with a frown. I’ve hurt his feelings. I feel a little bad for purposely gigging him. But not that bad.
We’ve canvassed the first crime neighborhood in Washington Park, where Sandra Reed was murdered, since six this morning. It’ll be back to Rogers Park for Candace Rucker’s murder later, but we wanted to catch the early-to-work crowd from the first murder as they were leaving for the office or airport or wherever they go on a Monday morning. It’s been two weeks and we still haven’t been able to interview everybody on the block yet; we figure that even if we catch someone for a second or third time, maybe they’ll remember something they forgot to tell us earlier. It’s a good idea, but not very fruitful. We talked to a total of six people, all more interested in their wristwatches than u
s. I wonder if anyone even remembers that a real human being—their neighbor up until a couple of weeks ago—is dead.
“Have you finished reading all the notebooks from the other cities?” I ask.
“Yeah. But to tell you the truth, I didn’t find anything. How about you?”
“Me neither. This guy is a ghost.”
“I love that the FBI is involved and is bringing all these resources to the table,” he says, “but it seems to me that we’re going to catch him with old-fashioned police work. Until he makes a big mistake, we’re going to be spinning our wheels. I keep thinking that the AA meetings might lead to a breakthrough.”
“Would be nice of him to leave a business card or something, preferably with his confession written out, wouldn’t it?”
“We can hope and pray, but I’m not counting on that.”
“Well, tell Vanessa to pray, then. You say that God answers all her prayers.”
“She got me, didn’t she?”
I roll my eyes. We look at our watches, finish the last bites on our plates, and get up without a word. I pull seven crumpled dollar bills from my wallet and leave them on the green check the waitress has left. Don makes a face at my offering and leaves a crisp ten-dollar bill and two more ones. I’m no math wiz, but I figure that’s about a 40 percent tip.
“You need change?” she asks our backs.
Don turns and says, “Keep it.” To me he says, “I bet she’ll love what you left, Scrooge.”
“I’m not married to a real estate mogul,” I shoot back.
I hustle out the door and down the sidewalk to the driver’s side. Whoever gets there first, drives. Neither of us like being second. I hold out an open palm and he drops the keys in my hand with a frown.
“You limping?” Don asks as we pull out of the parking lot. I don’t answer, but my knee is barking after last night’s stair run.
• • •
Dell called last night to see if I wanted to go out for a quick dinner. I politely declined and spent my evening again going through the remaining notebooks, created by a computer I’ve named Virgil. A notebook for each city. A green tab in each notebook with an overview of that area. A red tab for each victim. Yellow tabs in the back with theories and data.