by Don Prichard
“Evedene Eriksson, please,” Betty said to the woman at the desk.
The woman looked at her with deer-caught-in-the-headlights wide eyes. She licked her lips, swallowed, punched a button on her telephone.
Jake’s stomach crimped into a corkscrew. Something wasn’t right. He put a hand on Betty’s shoulder.
A short, broad woman with an ultra-mod haircut stepped into the room and crossed to the desk. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Betty Parker, here to see Evedene Eriksson. I sent a special delivery letter she should have received on Saturday. And this is Jake Chalmers.”
The second woman’s eyes swept across Betty to include Jake. “I’ll need to see your IDs first.”
Betty dug into her purse, but Jake wasn’t about to comply. Since when did you have to show identification to talk to a federal employee? “Is Ms. Eriksson here?”
A tall, craggy man joined them from a hallway in back of the receptionist’s desk. The way he held his shoulders and head, the half-frown on his face—all clamored authority. Best bet, Jake speculated, he and Betty were meeting Bradley Henshaw, U.S. District Attorney. The man’s voice filled the room. “Ms. Eriksson is under the care of the U.S. Justice Department. Before we can proceed any further, we must see your IDs.”
“Is there a problem?” Jake asked.
“Yes.”
How do you counter that answer? Jake took out his wallet, removed his fortunately updated driver’s license, and handed it to the presumed D.A. Betty also complied.
The man gave the licenses a cursory glance and returned them. “I am Bradley Henshaw, U.S. Attorney for the Northern District of Illinois.” He nodded at the big man in the suit and tie, who then stepped forward and handed a document to Jake.
“Jacob Chalmers and Betty Parker,” the man said, “the State of Illinois has issued a protective order against you for the safety of Evedene Eriksson. You may not contact her in any form, written or verbal, nor may you appear within the order’s stated distance to her, her place of residence, nor her workplace.”
Every drop of blood in Jake’s face, arms, chest, on down to his toes, drained away. He was a cardboard prop, no heartbeat, no breath. Only barely enough brains to ask, “Why?”
The answer was something about conspiring with Danny Romero. Didn’t matter that Jake claimed not to know him. That Jake swore he wasn’t a threat to Evedene Eriksson. That, as a matter of fact, Jake was her fiancée.
The quicksand of justice swallowed him whole.
Chapter 20
Was there a telephone booth in Chicago that didn’t stink? To circumvent detection by Bradley Henshaw’s wiretap, Danny Romero made sure he didn’t use a booth a second time or move among their locations in anything other than a random pattern. As long as his informant wasn’t wiretapped, they should be good to go.
This booth smelled of vomit. With one hand he whipped a handkerchief out of his pocket and covered his mouth and nose; with the other hand he retrieved the ringing telephone’s receiver and pulled the cord taut to stand outside the folding glass door. No way he was going to step onto the booth’s floor.
“One-Bee.”
He briefly pulled aside the handkerchief to identify himself with a grunted “What?”
“Your plan worked.” The voice had a smile to it. He allowed one corner of his mouth to twitch up. Of course it had worked.
“Henshaw caught your message to Chalmers on Saturday afternoon and immediately got a judge to issue a restraining order.”
“That’s all?”
“Not enough evidence for anything else. But timely. Chalmers and Parker came to the courthouse on Monday to see Eve, and Henshaw sent them packing.”
“I want him to do far worse.”
The voice softened. “I … saw Chalmers. He’s no looney.”
“Good. All the better to embarrass Henshaw when he discovers his blunder. What does Eriksson say?”
“She doesn’t know about it. Henshaw is keeping her in the dark. He’s determined to protect her … especially from you.”
“He won’t. I’ve got a better plan. It’s fail-proof.” In spite of the handkerchief wadded against Romero’s nose and mouth, the stench from the booth penetrated his defense zone. The contents of his stomach lurched upward. He choked back a swallow, slammed the receiver onto its base, and stumbled backward two steps. Too late. He bent at the waist and retched a sizeable contribution to the dried lumps inside the booth.
Ah,bene—better, much better than a coughing fit. He wiped his mouth with the handkerchief, dropped it onto the pool of chunks, and walked away. For once, he was satisfied with the informant’s phone call.
With the Viet Nam veteran and the old lady out of the way, he could proceed with step two of his plan.
***
“What recourse do I have?” Betty’s voice was shrill even halfway across her huge living room.
Neal Oakleigh rubbed his left ear. Bad enough his wife’s voice could hit that pitch when she was mad. Living in Betty’s house, he had twice the challenge to dodge the two sisters’ emotional outbursts. “I’d let it go, Betty. It appears the Justice Department has taken on Eve’s care in light of her amnesia. It won’t get you anywhere to tangle with them.”
“They were right there waiting for us,” Betty fumed. “Handed us the restraining order as soon as Jake and I walked through the door.”
“Who was ‘they’?”
“The sheriff—or whatever law officer he was—and Eve’s boss, District Attorney Bradley Henshaw, and then everyone inside all those office cubicles. The janitor, if he was there.”
“Your friend? What did she say?”
“Eve wasn’t there. If she was, she would have come running after I screamed her name enough times.”
“You screamed? In the law offices of the Everett Dirksen Courthouse?” He groaned. His wife wasn’t kidding when she told him Betty had come back from that year on the island a totally different person. Feisty was an understatement. “Sounds like confirmation for the need of that restraining order.”
Betty all but stuck her tongue out at him. “I’m going to write Eve another letter and get this all cleared up.”
“Another letter? You’ve been writing to her?”
“I wrote one letter. I don’t have her address, so I sent it to the courthouse since she works there.”
“Which explains why they were prepared to serve you the restraining order.” He approached Betty and put a ham-sized hand on her frail shoulder. Smiled. “Betty, why don’t you tell me about these things? Let me help you?”
“Have you been smoking cigars in the master suite?” she snapped. “You reek of it.”
He removed his hand. Kept the forced smile. “Tell you what. I’m flying to Chicago this weekend. How about if I go to … Bradley Henshaw, you said? … and he and I will have a little talk, attorney to attorney, get this all straightened out. The restraining order forbids you corresponding with her, so writing a letter would be a violation.”
Betty cocked her head to one side, squinted at him with eyes worthy of Doubting Thomas. “All I want is to talk to Eve. Someone could even be there—her boss, if he wants.”
“The restraining order included, uh, that man from the island … Jake Chalmers?”
“You know his name. Crystal has talked nonstop about him.”
Enough that he and Clara were planning to send Crystal off to a boarding school. “Just wanted to make sure I got everyone covered, Betty, that’s all.”
Perfect. He’d take the information with him that Mack had dug up about Chalmers. Neal had a feeling District Attorney Bradley Henshaw would find a man dead at Chalmers’ hands a mighty interesting bit of news.
And before the weekend arrived, Neal expected to hear from the attorneys he’d contacted in the Philippines. Attorneys eager to file a suit for a poor, destitute family grieving the loss of their son murdered by a U.S. citizen.
***
Eve sat at Marianne’s kitchen table, u
nread case files stacked on her left, space for files as she finished them on her right, strong brew of coffee front and center. The only way to get Bradley Henshaw’s cooperation was to plow through her early case files so she could take advantage of his promise to hide her from Romero. If she skimmed them, she’d get through all the files by the time Wonder Woman picked her up after lunch for her Wednesday workout at the gym.
Her first file was slim. Surprisingly, Brad had put her into the courtroom on her own after serving only a few months as an assistant attorney. Her first solo, while not a simple case, had been fairly straightforward—like tossing peanuts to monkeys—but she couldn’t recall the law of the case.
Funny, what she totally remembered was what she’d worn. She’d put every cent she owned into that outfit. An apple green, double-knit wool suit by Kimberly with stitched tucks, skirt modestly just above the knees but showing off her legs in spite of the low, blocky heels fashionable back then. Clearly a confirmation that going into business with Chaplain Peterman’s niece was to be seriously considered.
By the fourteenth file, her heartbeat was up and her passion for the law—for the underdog helped by it, anyway—glowed like neon lights on a dark city street. Six more files, and it was clear Brad had put his finger on what made her heart pound, her temperature rise.
Human trafficking.
Even now, her stomach quivered, radiated hard gasps to her lungs, shook her hands as she flipped pages. She went back over the files and reread every detail. Buried herself in the horror of unchecked human lust.
Her emotions swirled around her like a typhoon, dark, mighty, violent, then surged into a single silver mass and struck down on her like a two-edged sword. This was her heritage from her father’s rejection—the ugly seed taken into her heavenly Father’s hand and planted to bear fruit. Fruit from Him, to her, to the helpless.
The fruit of Justice. The law.
***
“You haven’t said a word since I arrived at your apartment.” Lisa the Wonder Woman followed Eve into Ace’s Gym. “Are you okay?”
The sour odor of perspiration only slightly set off by air conditioning settled into Eve’s nasal passages. “Marianne’s apartment, Lisa, not mine.” She set her bag down and changed her shoes. Today she ran on the indoor track. Ace had moved her up from jogging a half-mile to one mile, finishing with a half-mile walk. “I’m fine, thanks. A bit brain-dazed from reading case files, that’s all.”
And from being thrust through by a two-edged sword.
She warmed up with leg stretches, then set off at a comfortable jog. Four times around the track was a mile. She counted five other people—two women, three men—on the track with her. Whereas her nerves had pricked warily at the proximity of strangers before today, she felt empowered now. As if a two-edged sword was protecting her.
She smiled at the image that came to her mind: a handsome, ruddy-complected man with a beard, auburn hair to his shoulders, muscular arms and legs, a sword sheathed across his back. A warrior. An angel?
Definitely not Wonder Woman.
Confidence flowed into her heart. Her brain. Her bones. Sinews. Muscles. Guts. She stretched out her legs and ran. Ran on clouds. Ran with winged feet. She flew past the other joggers. Laughed. Joy welled up, streaked out her eyes in tears. Blew with her hair, her shorts, her tee.
Yes! She knew exactly what to do. Exactly where she was going. When she got back to Marianne’s apartment, she would call Brad, tell him she would be finding her own apartment, buying a car, moving on with her life.
No more Wonder Woman. No need for her because Romero no longer had Eve cowering in a corner. From now on, she would go to the courthouse office every day. Sit at her desk. Read the rest of her case files. Study. Prompt her memory. Relearn what she’d forgotten.
She was returning to work. To the law. To putting Romero behind bars.
It was Romero who had better look out—for her, and for a sword-bearing warrior who had her back.
PART 2
Chapter 21
September
The Metropolitan Correctional Center in Chicago, only a few blocks southwest of where Eve worked, was an architectural marvel to Jake. Row upon row of five-inch by seven-foot windows perforated the twenty-seven stories of bare concrete like a giant IBM computer punch card. The design shouted an unmistakable message: criminals will pay their dues. Jake had driven past the building several times since its opening seven years ago in 1975. What he had never expected was to see it from the inside out. From a cell. As a prisoner.
Incarcerated. The reality of his situation alternated between the seething anger of an erupting volcano in his gut, and a bizarre nightmare filled with Picasso-like creatures in outsized Pierre Cardin shirts hunting him down. Justice lurked far out of reach. Without Eve’s testimony that he’d been protecting her, was there any chance of release?
The restraining order left him helpless to contact her. But not hopeless. Betty’s attorney brother-in-law, Neal Oakleigh, had promised to appeal the order. And of course there was always the hope Eve would recover her memory. Hope in God too.
But hopelessness found him anyway. Wended its way halfway around the world from the Philippines to his front door a month ago in August. Forced his hands into handcuffs behind his back. Carted him off to jail.
He looked up as footsteps slapped the floor of the jail corridor and stopped outside his cell. A guard peered in at him. “You have a visitor.”
Jake’s heart pounded in spite of his brain scoffing at the hope of anything good coming his way. It certainly wouldn’t be Eve visiting him. Nor Betty, off in Virginia with Crystal. That left Neal Oakleigh. Jake scowled. The man had presented a weak-kneed, addlebrained defense in the courtroom half an hour ago.
He stood for the guard to perform the now-familiar procedure of securing Jake’s hands and feet in chains before escorting him at a clinking shuffle down the hallway. Inmates growled, spat at the guard, rattled the bars of their cells. Harry Weese, the jail’s humane architect, had aimed to appease the detainees’ lot with “accommodating” lodgings, but had failed to consider that no palatable trade-off existed for loss of freedom.
At the visitor’s room, the guard freed Jake to take a seat facing Neal Oakleigh. Between them, a wall framed halfway up with a bullet-proof, hammer-proof, explosive-proof, whatever-proof polycarbonate window separated them. Good thing, because Jake ached to get his hands on the man’s throat. Or at least throw a good punch.
After a glimpse of Jake’s face, Oakleigh’s eyebrows lifted momentarily then beetled over his brow. He pursed his lips, picked up the telephone, and waited for Jake to do the same. “There was nothing I could do.” No apology leaped from his six words, no hint that Oakleigh felt a need to defend himself.
“Which was exactly what you did. Nothing.”
“Mr. Chalmers, all the legalities were in order, the facts undisputed. Worst of all was your own admission that you killed Miguel Galit.”
“Killed unintentionally, and to protect Eve.”
“A factor I couldn’t present without Ms. Eriksson’s presence to support it.” Oakleigh observed him with eyes half-lidded. “My plan, Mr. Chalmers, is to subpoena her when Galit’s lawsuit comes to court. Right now, no judgment has been declared, and you have not been found guilty of any crime. You have been detained to stand trial, that’s all.”
“That’s all?” Jake slammed his fists against the window. “Thanks to your bumbling today, I am being extradited to the Philippines!”
Oakleigh glared back with equal ferocity. “For your information, I have spent the past half hour with the judge, filing an appeal against the extradition. They are seldom granted, but I am fully looking out for your interests.”
Jake sat back and stared at the man. Was Oakleigh, in spite of his performance today, competent … or a bag of wind? Jake had questioned Ian MacBride’s adequacy as a private investigator, and he had more than proved up to the task of finding Eve. Perhaps the same would hold tr
ue for Neal Oakleigh’s skills as an attorney.
Because it mattered. Big time.
If Oakleigh didn’t come through for him, within a matter of days Jake would find himself behind the bars of a Filipino jail cell.
***
Nothing like a five-bag shopping trip in downtown Chicago to lift a girl’s spirits! Eve tossed her stash into the trunk of her new, crimson BMW and drove ten minutes south on Chicago’s Lake Shore Drive to the Beachwood Apartments. Home sweet home, at last, where she could put her feet up and rest, safe and sound from Danny Romero’s monsters.
Two long months had crawled by before she found the perfect combination of location, floor plan, and security. The Beachwood offered several options, and she had chosen one with a generous foyer, off of which all the other rooms— living room, dining area, kitchen with a large pantry, two bedrooms with bathrooms, and a half-bathroom for guests—radiated like spokes in a half-wheel. No hallway for anyone to creep down, thank you. Or creak down, as in the case of Marianne’s apartment.
A doorman guarded access to the building, and another employee monitored cameras of the service entrances. Additionally, each apartment had an assigned parking spot in a well-lit lot also under camera surveillance. No more Wonder Woman trailing her every move. Danger—of abduction, at least—had been reduced to a minimum. Even her boss approved the security measures.
She braked sharply at her parking spot. A shiny, jet-black Audi was backed into it. A slender, broad-shouldered man with hair the color of the Audi, including the shine, was removing packages from the open trunk. She leaned on her horn for a good three seconds and glowered at him.
He jumped at the blare, dropping one of his bags. A head of lettuce, two green peppers, and a cucumber rolled from the bag onto the pavement. He stared at her wide-eyed and made a what? gesture with palms up, arms spread.
Then it hit her. An open trunk … a muscular man … a car backed in for a quick getaway. Her blood drained into a pool at her feet. Numbly, she stared back at him.