Artistic License

by Julie Hyzy

  * * * * *

  George rang the doorbell again.

  “What do we do if he doesn’t answer?” Bill asked.

  “Somebody’s home. That garage door didn’t open by itself.”

  Bill took a step back, assessing the house. “We don’t have probable cause, do we?”

  George ran a hand over his face. “No, but I got a real bad feeling about this one,” he said as he pressed the doorbell again, holding it till he could almost hear the electricity buzz back into the switch. “Let’s see if he’ll invite us in for a friendly chat.”

  The click of a deadbolt grabbed their attention.

  Richard DeChristopher opened the door himself. “Yes?”

  George and Bill introduced themselves as they displayed their identification. “I’m glad we were able to find you at home, Mr. DeChristopher. When no one answered the doorbell after two rings, I became apprehensive. Especially with your garage door left open like that.”

  “Well, thank you for your concern, Detective. And I apologize for the delay in answering. I’m just getting ready to leave, myself. I must not have heard the earlier rings.”

  George nodded. “We have a few questions to ask you.”

  “Of course,” he said, amiably. “Is this in regard to one of my pending cases?”

  Bill answered him. “No.”

  The well-known lawyer appeared bewildered. “Then I don’t know if I can make the time for you gentlemen right now. I’d be happy to talk with you later, if you’d be so kind as to call ahead.”

  As he began to close the door, George stepped forward, catching a glimpse of the foyer and remembering all Pete had told them. “Looks like your wife has been doing some redecorating,” he said with feigned interest.

  Richard DeChristopher ignored the comment and looked at his watch. “Really, gentlemen, I am pressed for time. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Can we speak with your wife, then?”

  “I’m sorry, she isn’t here at the moment.”

  Bill scratched his nose, then pointed to the garage. “Both your cars are here.”

  DeChristopher moved to open the door a little wider, emphasizing his terse words with a gesture. “She isn’t here, Detectives. I’m home alone.”

  George caught a glimpse of something behind him as the door cleared his line of vision. A backpack, looking out of place in the otherwise impeccable hall. Patterned with a collection of masterpieces, it looked familiar to him. He knew he’d seen it before. George smiled. “I’m very sorry, Mr. DeChristopher, but this is important.”

  “So is my meeting with the mayor.”

  Bill took a half step forward. “Well then, if we can get started, sir, you’ll have a better chance of being on time.”

  * * * * *

  Sam watched the two detectives from the corner of a neighbor’s garage. There was no way in hell he could stay back, not knowing what was going on. He’d parked far enough down the block to keep them from noticing him and he’d worked his way over on foot to have a look around. Annie had driven Sam past the DeChristopher house once before and she’d pointed out the high window that faced out the right side of the house. She’d used that window as the focal point in order to describe to him what the playroom looked like inside.

  Richard DeChristopher was at the door, gesturing. So, this was the man. Sam paid attention to his body language. It didn’t appear as though the detectives were having any luck getting inside. He knew Annie was in there. He just knew it.

  Sam banked on DeChristopher keeping his attention on the two detectives at his door. He wandered around the side of the house till he could see that upstairs window. Very high up. He’d held half a hope that there would be some way to access the room while DeChristopher was occupied. He walked backward, secreting himself in a small forested berm with a great line of sight, trying to see if there was any movement in the room.

  * * * * *

  Annie’s mouth, secured shut with her own masking tape, began to bleed from paper cuts from the tape’s edges. Timothy had warned her to be quiet, but as though he’d read her mind, when he spied the tape on the table in the playroom, he’d used it to assure her silence. She stood in the corner, her hands bound together in front of her and she felt prickles begin as the tight stricture restricted her blood flow to her fingers. The tape around her head itched against the sides of her cheeks, and the edges cut into her lip, but under his constant gaze, she couldn’t even attempt to remove it. Standing in the doorway, his bulky presence eliminated any chance of escape.

  She moved her head to try and adjust the tape wrapped around her head. The movement caused the stickiness to pull out strands of her hair and a waft and taste of glue assailed both her nose and her mouth at the same time.

  Timothy kept an eye on her, but he leaned out the room’s door, obviously straining to hear the conversation going on in the hall downstairs.

  Thoughts of Sam, her worry for him, and her fear for her own predicament welled up and a single tear slid down her cheek, lodging under the edge of the tape and spreading downward toward her ear. Leaning her back against the wall, she stared out the window at the blue sky, wondering where Sam was, hoping to send him her thoughts and trying to figure a way out.

  A movement caught her eye below. Her body reacted, standing straighter, and she stifled a small gasp. Sam. Looking up at this window. She willed her body to slacken itself, so as not to arouse Timothy’s suspicions, but she stood directly in the window, watching as Sam held a hand over his eyes, shielding them from the sun. Staring up.

  Timothy hadn’t noticed her movement, remaining intent on the conversation downstairs. She heard her breathing come faster and her heart jumped at the chance of rescue. If Sam was outside, he had to know she was here. He had to. But he didn’t move. He continued to stare upward, his hand at his eyes. It dawned on her then. He couldn’t see her because of the brightness of the sun.

  If there were only some way to let him know . . .

  Voices from downstairs rose, grabbing Timothy’s attention and he turned his body more toward the stairs, giving Annie a moment to move. She looked around for something to signal Sam with, her panic and fear that he’d walk away soon driving her to distraction. Annie sidled over to her open tackle box of art supplies, her mind repeating a thought, like a prayer, as she hatched what little plan she’d devised. Don’t leave, Sam. Don’t walk away. Not yet.

  Her hands shook and she waited till Timothy turned, facing down the stairs as if to hear better. She wiggled her hands into the bottom section and pulled out one of her small glass jars of paint. Great. Green. It would blend in with the grass. She palmed it and grabbed in again, hoping to beat the return of Timothy’s gaze. Quick, she reached, in and out, coming up with another glass jar, this one gray. She moved back to look for Sam as quickly as she dared.

  Timothy straightened up, a perplexed look on his face. He started toward her, whispering, “What are you . . ?”

  Stepping away from the window, she shook her head. Timothy came up, grabbing her arm to keep her from running and he looked out the window, muttering to himself when he saw Sam. He reached into his back pocket, pulling out a cell phone. He dialed with one hand.

  Timothy held her so close Annie could hear DeChristopher’s tight voice answer, “Yes.”

  “We got a problem boss. We got some guy snooping around outside in back.”

  She heard a hiss of anger come through the phone and DeChristopher’s words, clear. “Well, take care of it. I'm with some police officers now.”

  Timothy hit the “end” button, terminating the call. He pushed Annie into the corner nearest him and kept her there with a look of pure malice in his eyes. He reached around his back, pulling out a pistol and a silencer, which he attached without needing to look. “Don’t move from there,” he said, giving her a hard stare. He turned back toward the window. “Unless you wanna watch. One hit from this and he’s history. And nobody’s gonna find him in there for hours.”

&nb
sp; With a deft movement, he propped his hand against the bottom of the window frame and aimed the long pistol out the window. Annie reacted by throwing herself against him, clawing at his face. Half afraid of being hit by a bullet herself, she kicked and fought, lifting her bound hands high, pounding the two glass jars against Timothy’s head, until one broke with a solid crush, cascading green paint all over the big man’s face. He took a couple of seconds to react and Annie jumped up, looking for Sam, but he wasn’t there any longer. Still, she heaved the other jar of paint out the window.

  Timothy muttered under his breath, wiping at his eyes. Shards of broken glass in his skin sent rivers of red down from his temple to drip from his cheek. He backhanded her hard, and she felt herself reeling as he shoved her into the closet. Black spots swarmed in front of her eyes. “Stay in there and keep quiet.” His harsh whisper seethed with rage. She tried to bang on the doors, and attempted to yell, hoping to make her voice heard over the tape, but caused herself to gag in the process. Timothy’s voice warned her. “Listen. I got my gun here. I got a silencer. You keep quiet or I’m gonna use it. You understand?”

  Annie leaned her back against the wall of the small area and let herself sink to the floor. Please Sam, she thought, please go tell the police.

  * * * * *

  “And I’m telling you that I don’t have time for this!” Richard DeChristopher’s voice rose in indignation.

  George knew he was on shaky ground. DeChristopher didn’t need to let them in, wasn’t required by law to answer any of their questions. Being a high-powered lawyer, he knew that as well as they did. The man’s cordiality had disappeared and he was close to slamming the door in their faces when George, pen in hand, pointed to the floor behind him. “Whose backpack is that?”

  As DeChristopher looked back, they heard a series of scuffles from above. George and Bill looked at one another and Bill asked, “What was that?”

  Something flashed in DeChristopher’s eyes before he regained his outward calm. He pulled himself up to his full height and stepped backward as though to shut the door. “I have two sons, detectives. They’re rarely quiet.”

  “I thought you were home alone?”

  Richard blinked. “Forgive me. I was referring to adults at home. In that sense I’m home alone,” he said, clarifying. As he was about to continue, the phone in his suit pocket rang for a second time. He hit the “talk” button with one hand as he closed the door with the other. “Call my secretary to set up an appointment, detective. Have a good day.”

  * * * * *

  Into the phone he said, “What the hell was that?”

  Timothy was on the line. “We got a problem. She might have thrown something out the window.”

  “To the guy out there?”

  “Yeah, but he was gone by then.”

  “Okay, listen. Forget about that. I need time to sort all this out. Those two cops are going to follow me, I can feel it. Let me head over to my office. They’ll think they have me covered. You take her to the house and find the goddamn picture. Call me when you have it and I’ll meet you back here. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  Richard hurried to his Jaguar, making a show of looking at his watch several times for the benefit of the two men, now settled into their own vehicle. He pulled away fast, screeching his tires as he spun out onto the street.

  * * * * *

  Sam raced from around the side of the home, holding a broken glass that dripped with dark gray paint. He’d turned the corner just in time to see the detectives’ car pull away.

  He stood in the shadow of the big house, paint staining his fingers. Annie was up there. He needed to get to her.

  * * * * *

  Richard chuckled to himself. These cops were so predictable. So lame. They would follow him all the way downtown and then what? Wait outside his office for him to make an appearance and try to question him again. By then Timothy would have gotten the drawing, and taken care of the Anne problem. Charles would be happy and another two-and-a-half million dollars would make its happy little way into Richard’s offshore account. Of course he was going to have to come up with some alibi when Anne turned up missing. He shook his head. He was a lawyer, used to manipulating the facts to suit his purposes. This wouldn’t be a problem.

  He looked into his rear-view mirror and saw the dark sedan drop back. So, they were going to try and be unobtrusive. He could play this game.

  * * * * *

  “What are we doing?” Bill asked as George let a fifth car slip between the unmarked and DeChristopher’s.

  As the Jaguar left their field of vision, George tossed his half-smoked cigarette out the window and pulled a hard right to double-back the way they came. “Just a hunch,” he said.

  * * * * *

  Timothy tossed away the towel he’d used to try cleaning himself. He hadn’t been successful. The streaks of paint, mixed with the seeping blood, made his face a mask of crimson and green. He reached down and pulled Annie up by her elbow. His grip pinched into the softness of her arm and Annie tried not to cry out as her body banged against the closet doors. He held her arm with his beefy left hand, and kept the silencer-laden gun down by his leg, in his right. “Come on,” he said. “We’re gonna go find that picture.

  ”

  * * * * *

  Sam dropped the paint, rubbing his splattered hands against his jeans. She was in there and he needed to get inside. DeChristopher had pulled away in a flash, too fast to have been able to get Annie out of the attic room to join him. Quickly checking the backyard and the other side of the house for easier access, Sam ignored his nagging fears and headed back to his original position. “Annie?” he called up, in a stage-whisper to the open window. She couldn’t hear him, he was certain of that. There was nothing else to do but go to the front door and confront whoever answered.

  He’d just turned the corner to the front of the house when a hand clapped over his mouth.

  * * * * *

  “Be quiet,” George warned in Sam’s ear. “I thought I told you to stay home.”

  “She’s in there,” Sam whispered. “She threw some stuff down to me.”

  George nodded, taking the lead position, gesturing Sam to stay behind. Within minutes he saw the DeChristophers’ garage door rise again, the Lincoln inside already backing out. He ran forward toward the car, shouting into his radio, then at the car backing up down the driveway.

  “Freeze!” he yelled. “Police!”

  The car responded by speeding its descent, but Bill had already pulled up, blocking its path off the driveway. The Lincoln, still in reverse, careened onto the lawn, in an attempt to get around the unmarked sedan. George sighted the tires and shot, blowing one out.

  A buzzing bullet, shot through a silencer, went high and wide over George’s head as the driver returned fire through the open passenger-side window, his accuracy blown when the car hit a red and yellow Big Wheel that’d been left on the grass. George watched the guy adjust his weapon, grateful that this guy had the silencer attached, since that meant he had to manually rack the slide on the automatic back each time to chamber another round. George aimed, and shot again, taking out another tire. He waved Sam over, indicating for him to stay low to the ground and he shielded Sam as the two ran for cover on the far side of the police car, to join Bill. Knowing he had only seconds to decide his next move, George tried to predict what this guy, the bodyguard, would do next. He tried to get into the big lug’s mind. A loyal employee was still only an employee. No matter what went down here, DeChristopher’s cover had been blown and he wouldn’t be able to explain his way out of it. This bodyguard couldn’t do anything to change that. His best bet now was to get out, alive.

  As if on cue, he jumped out of the driver’s-side door, and using the car as a shield, fired again, poised to run. His face was a grotesque mixture of red and green, glistening as bright drops of sweat dripped from his head. His expression was pained and murderous.

  Another bullet dinged
the car right by the detectives’ heads. The guy’s aim was good, and George knew that unless they got a clear shot of him alone, it was just a matter of time before one of his shots got lucky. Knowing that the backups were on their way gave George added comfort and he decided to wait, to let this bodyguard make the first move.

  Silence between the two cars lasted less than ten seconds when the reassuring sound of sirens in the distance played like music in George’s ears. He peered over the top of his hood, seeing that the bodyguard had heard them too. The guy looked both ways, apparently judging his best route for a run. The big man looked both ways again, then sprinted to his right. He’d taken two steps when George aimed and squeezed the trigger. Slowly, knees buckling as he attempted another step, Timothy’s body crumpled and he fell to the ground.

  * * * * *

  Sam raced over to the open Lincoln and helped pull Annie out from the back seat. She’d managed to work the tape away with her fingers while she listened to the gunfight. Weak in the knees, she reached out to Sam, who held her as she fought to stop the tremors that shook her body.

  “Annie,” he said.

  Unable to speak, she just held tight, as they waited for the paramedics to arrive.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Richard DeChristopher snapped his cell phone shut again and glanced at his watch. Surely Timothy had found the Durer by now. Why the hell wasn’t he answering? Scenarios ran through his mind as he stood up and walked over to the window to stare out over Chicago’s Loop, his hands behind his back. That Anne Callaghan was a wily little thing. He swore to himself and tried Timothy’s number again.