by Jordan Dane
“Was your daughter dating anyone special?” Cronan continued. “Someone named Ethan left several messages on her cell phone. I’m sorry, but we don’t have a last name yet. We were hoping you’d be able to help us. What can you tell us about him?”
“The name doesn’t sound familiar, but Olivia didn’t talk to us about her dates,” Mr. Davenport said. “She’s headstrong, I’m afraid. She resents my…our interference in her personal life.”
Before Cronan asked another question, Mr. Davenport had one of his own.
“Was this Ethan the last person to see Olivia alive?” the man asked. “Do you think he had something to do with this?”
“No, sir,” Cronan said. “I have no reason to believe he had anything to do with what happened to Olivia. We only want information on your daughter’s whereabouts last night, that’s all.” He narrowed his eyes and asked, “Can you give us contact information for some of your daughter’s friends? Maybe one of them can shed light on whoever she dated.”
Olivia’s father stared at him for a long moment. Eventually he let the subject of the mysterious Ethan drop and gave a couple of names for them to check out. Olivia’s friends.
“How did Olivia support herself?” Cronan asked.
“She works for the Department of Cultural Affairs for the city, handling promotions. Musical events are her specialty. She loves music…and travel. That is, she did love it.” Mr. Davenport’s voice cracked after he realized he’d used present tense.
Cronan kept the questions coming to distract him, but when Olivia’s mother fixed her gaze on him, she asked the dark question troubling her.
“How did she die? Did she suffer?”
Without hesitation, he lied. “She was stabbed, one time. And no, I don’t believe she suffered. She lost too much blood. It would’ve been quick, like sleeping and not waking up. I doubt she even knew what happened.”
Mrs. Davenport nodded and avoided his eyes. Maybe she knew he had lied, but Angel changed the subject to make it easier for her.
“Do you have a recent photo of your daughter?” his partner asked. “We’ll make sure you get it back. We’ll scan it and use it when we canvass the neighborhood around the park to see if anyone remembers seeing her. We’re retracing her steps.”
After a long moment, Mrs. Davenport stood and stepped toward a cabinet. She pulled out a burgundy leather photo album from a lower shelf and rejoined her husband on the sofa.
“I started this when Olivia moved out. Whenever she sent photos, I put them here.” She rubbed a trembling hand over the cover before she opened it and took out a photo of her daughter in happier times. “Take this one. She looks so pretty.” Her tears returned when she handed the photo to Angel.
Cronan leaned forward and grabbed the woman’s hands in his, fixing his gaze on Olivia’s mother.
“We’ll find who did this,” he said. “I promise you. Someone will pay for what they did to your daughter.”
Charles Davenport could no longer hold back his tears. He nodded and choked on a stifled sob, slowly losing it. But Elizabeth Davenport looked at him with her eyes welling. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks as she returned his grip.
“All I want is my daughter back,” she cried. “And that won’t happen.”
Nothing would heal the pain of a mother who had lost her only child. That old familiar punch to the gut—the feeling of powerlessness—left Cronan empty inside.
***
Downtown Chicago
Cronan wasn’t doing Angel any favors by being the one behind the wheel. As he drove, he thought about the Davenports and their grief mixed with his own stockpile of dark memories.
“Are you okay?” Angel noticed how quiet he’d been on the ride into Chicago. When he turned into a parking garage off Wabash, she touched his shoulder.
“Yeah, sure. Did you get a chance to look into this corporation, the one linked to our mystery guy?” he asked.
“I couldn’t find anything more than the name, but I did look into Rachel Blevins. She’s a personal publicist by trade. Whoever is behind this corporate entity, she might work for them. Ethan could, too. We’ll see.”
“Whatever business this corporation is into, they must be doing something right,” he said. “…if they can afford to hire someone in the high rent district.”
“Yeah, I’ll say. These are spendy digs.”
Cronan parked the vehicle, and they headed for the garage elevator to the lobby. An escalator took them to the next floor. Rachel Blevins had an office on the 2nd floor of the Trump Tower, a monolith of curved glass located on North Wabash Avenue that overlooked the Chicago River. Cronan didn’t have to know much more about the success of the woman’s business. Her office location said it all. The locale was one of the hottest buildings in downtown Chicago. The tower had a mix of offices, condominium residences, an international hotel, and upscale retail shops.
The Blevins Agency was easy to spot on the second floor, a glass door with gold letters on the entry. Deep blue plush carpeting was accented with high-tech modern furnishings. The tasteful office had an incredible view of the Chicago River and enough plants to replenish the rainforests. In a reception area, a desk for a secretary or administrative assistant was vacant. But the door to the main office was open, and a woman greeted them.
“Hello. I’m Rachel Blevins. Are you with the Chicago Police?”
“Yes, I scheduled the appointment.” Angel made the introductions, and Cronan flashed his badge when his partner did.
“Please come in.” The young woman caught a closer look at Gabe’s bruised face, but didn’t make a comment. She ushered them into her office and offered them a seat in front of her desk, but nothing else. Not even a cup of coffee.
All business, she was dressed in a sharp navy suit with her auburn hair in a knot. She was tall, athletic, and very attractive. No doubt she made use of the fitness center in the building. Cronan pictured her maintaining tight control of her life and her work. Her desk was neat and in order. Her sense of style was impeccable, and he’d bet money Rachel Blevins wasn’t a woman who liked surprises or dealt with them well.
If she stonewalled them to protect a client, they could always add another phone number to a court order and get Ethan’s ID that way. The phone service provider would cooperate, but it would save time and leg work if the publicist played ball.
Cronan decided to sit back and let Angel work her magic, woman to woman. If that didn’t work and he sensed resistance, he had a backup plan. Anyone could do bad cop, good cop. But hot cop, beat up cop with a face bruised like an overripe banana, now that raised the bar.
He settled into his chair and glared at the woman behind the desk. He gave her his best Chuck Norris. And Angel? Well, she was always hot. Rachel Blevins didn’t stand a chance.
“We’re investigating a murder that happened last night. A young woman,” his partner began.
“Oh, my.” The publicist grimaced. “That’s tragic, but why come to me?”
“A corporate name came up in our investigation, and your name is listed as a contact person.” Angel looked down at her notes. “Circle of Fifths.”
Rachel Blevins flinched, a subtle twitch that came and went, but Cronan hadn’t missed it.
“But we’re specifically looking for a man named Ethan,” Angel continued. “Do you know him?”
“Ethan?” The publicist shrugged and pursed her lips. “You don’t have a last name?”
“No, we don’t. But we do have a phone number for him.” His partner read the number aloud.
“That number doesn’t ring a bell.” She shook her head. “How did you get my name again?”
Cronan recognized a stall tactic when he saw one. Plus, when he stared at Rachel Blevins, she took great pains to avoid looking back. She sucked at playing nonchalant, and patience would never be a virtue he could claim.
“Protecting him won’t help.” He finally broke the Chuck Norris code of silence.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard what I said. You’re a publicist, and Ethan is a client. If we have to go public with this information, how will your client take it, knowing you could have kept this inquiry discreet and chose not to help the police? You get my drift?”
Rachel Blevins clenched her jaw and sat back in her chair. Cronan knew the wheels were turning in her head. Whatever she came up with now would be like buffing up horseshit to pass it off as a diamond.
“Perhaps if you told me more about the woman who was killed?” Blevins went fishing and fixed her gaze on Angel, the hot cop. Cronan was determined not to let the publicist gain the upper hand. From years of experience as his partner, Angel would know he wanted into the conversation. Whatever came next would be his play. He leaned and rested his elbow on the desk. With his free hand, he juggled the woman’s nameplate and messed up her tidy corner of the universe.
“You see the thing is, we can come back with a court order and turn this place upside down. I don’t think you want that.” He kept his eyes on her. “The way I see it, you’ve got more to lose here. If we have to come back with paper to force you to release that information to us, we can turn your office into a circus of blue uniforms. Confiscating files until we sort things out isn’t out of the realm of possibility. What would Ethan say about that? Hell, what would ‘the Donald’ say?”
The publicist’s face turned red. In truth, any court order would be used to obtain phone company records, not the files of a publicist trying to protect her client. But by the look on this woman’s face, Rachel Blevins didn’t know that.
“I can’t be sure until I verify that phone number, but you might be referring to Ethan Chandler.” She glared at Cronan before she turned her attention back to Angel. “And yes, he’s a client.”
Angel made a note of the name. “Do you have an address for Mr. Chandler? We need to talk to him as soon as possible.”
The woman hesitated, but when Cronan popped his neck and glared at her without saying a word, she gave in and coughed up the address. More trendy digs in downtown Chicago. Since she had the address memorized, Ethan Chandler must have been a very important client.
“Please, I’m concerned for Ethan. What is this about?”
A cop rarely answered questions, only asked them. It was his partner’s turn to go fishing, and she didn’t miss a beat.
“What’s Mr. Chandler’s relationship to Olivia Davenport?” Angel asked.
With Ethan’s full name, they had enough to do a background check, but if they got more from Blevins, that might develop into another lead. Cronan sat back in his chair, leaving the questioning in the hands of his savvy partner.
“Olivia?” The publicist turned pale. “They’ve been dating, off and on, for the last few months. What’s she got to do with—” It didn’t take long for the woman to do the math. “Oh my, God. Did something happen to Olivia?”
“She was murdered last night,” Angel said. “Her name will hit the news today, now that the Davenport family has been notified.”
Rachel Blevins slumped into her chair. “Ethan will be devastated.”
A strained silence filled the room. The publicist looked surprised by the news, but not broken up over it. Her expression looked more like someone had cancelled lunch.
“We only want to talk to your client.” Angel reassured her. “He may have had dinner with Olivia. We’re piecing together her last hours.”
“No, she never showed,” the publicist said. “I’d made reservations for them at eight. Amandine’s Restaurant on Halsted. Ethan has a performance on Saturday. He’d been busy with rehearsals and hadn’t seen Olivia for a few days. He asked me to pull strings to get them into Amandine’s at the last minute. But when I talked to Ethan that evening, he told me he was at the restaurant, and Olivia never made it. He’d left cell phone messages for her.”
“What time did you call him?” his partner asked.
“A little after nine, I think.”
“We still need to talk to him and get a statement.” Angel looked up from her notes. “By the way, what does Mr. Chandler do to need your expertise?”
“You haven’t heard of Ethan Chandler?” Blevins looked down her nose and gave them attitude.
But Cronan knew how to balance the scales. “No. Considering that you handle his publicity, he may want his money back.”
The woman narrowed her eyes at him. “You know, I can see it now.”
“See what?” he asked.
“How you got those lumps.” The publicist didn’t wait for his reply. She turned to Angel. “Ethan Chandler is a world class violinist and a major recording artist. Absolutely phenomenal. You should see him in concert.”
She sighed and fanned her face like a regular drama queen.
“He’s drop dead gorgeous,” the woman added. “And best of all, he’s blind.”
“Best of all? I’m sure Ethan doesn’t think so.” Cronan grimaced, and it hurt.
“All I’m saying is, he’s a publicist’s dream, and he’s as charming as they come. Circle of Fifths was his idea for a corporate name. It’s a musical chart of sharps and flats, but it sounds uber-chic, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I get goose bumps thinking about it.” Cronan crossed arms over his chest, still clutching the woman’s nameplate.
“Have you ever known Olivia to use drugs?” Angel asked after giving him a sideways glance.
“I wouldn’t know, but nothing would surprise me about her.” The publicist shook her head. “She wasn’t right for him. Whether she was into drugs or not, she was definitely a user. Ethan deserved better.”
Cronan noticed the woman didn’t have any trouble slipping into the past tense when it came to Olivia Davenport.
“Any time she wanted publicity for a charity event,” the woman said, “she made sure Ethan showed up. He was her photo op. I’m not surprised she never showed at the restaurant either. It wasn’t the first time.”
The publicist crooked her lips into a smile. “At least this time, she had a legitimate excuse.” The woman chuckled, but her amusement faded. “I still don’t know what he saw in her.”
Cronan knew. Olivia Davenport had assets even a blind man could appreciate.
“Is that all, Detectives?” Rachel Blevins’ cooperation had dried up.
“For now, but call us if you think of anything else.” Angel handed the publicist her card. “Thanks for your time.”
Cronan handed over the woman’s nameplate after Angel stood to shake her hand. They made their way out of the office and headed for the parking garage. Both of them knew that Blevins would already be on the phone to her client. She’d give him the bad news and be eager to provide a convenient shoulder for Mr. Drop Dead Gorgeous to cry on when it came to Olivia. No doubt she’d prep him for two homicide cops knocking on his door.
He also pictured the woman shining her nameplate to wipe off his fingerprints.
“Wow, she’s a cold fish,” Angel said when they were out of earshot. “Dead is a good excuse to miss dinner with her precious Ethan? What was that?”
“Yeah, and if that guy is famous, how come I’ve never heard of him?”
“That’s ‘cause your idea of music comes a quarter at a time.”
“Ouch.” He grinned. “Low blow, Ramirez.”
They got to the lobby of the Trump Tower and were heading for the parking garage when Angel got a call on her cell.
“It’s Schumacher,” she said after reading the displayed phone number. “I’ve got to take this.”
From what Cronan heard from Angel’s side of the conversation, the forensics investigator gave his partner an update of his findings, but something surprised her.
“Are you sure?” She narrowed her eyes. After she ended the call, Angel took a deep breath.
“I don’t like that look. What’s up?”
“Things just got more complicated, Gabe. The ME did a prelim on the body. It seems our vic had sex shortly before she was killed. He found a trace of Spermic
ide, probably from a condom, but no sperm.” She shook her head. “If she had plans with Ethan Chandler for dinner, a guy she dated, then who’d she have sex with?”
“Any chance Chandler was Mister Lucky? Maybe they had sex to work up an appetite,” he questioned.
“The publicist told us that Ethan had rehearsed this week and hadn’t seen Olivia in days, remember? We need to confirm what she told us, but it looks like while Ethan waited for his date to show up at the restaurant, Olivia Davenport practiced safe sex with someone else.”
Given fiddle boy’s handicap, Cronan’s first reaction was to feel sorry for the bastard—a male bonding thing. The poor sap had waited for Olivia at the restaurant and left countless messages on her cell. Now evidence suggested she had reason not to answer.
Beautiful blonde Olivia was a player.
Maybe she needed more than a handicapped man gave her, even a famous musician like Ethan Chandler. Cheating on a blind guy, who traveled frequently, would have been easy, and Cronan realized something else. He had to flush the first impression he had of Olivia Davenport out of his mind. Whatever he had believed about her before, he would clear the slate forward and let the evidence speak for itself.
“You’re right, Angel. Complicated is the word. Let’s see if Chandler can simplify things. Because you know me, I like real simple.” He unlocked his vehicle as they walked toward his Crown Vic.
Cronan thought about being the bearer of bad news for the second time today. This time would be worse than telling someone that a loved one had been brutally murdered. He’d still have to officially talk about the murder, but telling Ethan the truth about Olivia’s love life made things worse. What guy wanted to hear that while he got stood up, his date had made it with someone else? Bad news, your girlfriend was murdered, but on the bright side, she went out with a bang. No, he wasn’t looking forward to his interview with the guy.
The best Cronan could hope for now—for purely selfish reasons—was that Ethan Chandler was a prick.