by Dorien Grey
That Al had killed your father?
Yes. I should have known, but I didn’t. She kept it so locked up. It must have been terrible for her.
Do you remember everything now?
Almost. I remember that Al knew about me.
I’m sorry?
That I hadn’t died in Africa. I’m not sure how he knew, but he did.
So, you were running from Al all this time? Why?
I wasn’t really running. I just wanted to stay out of his way. When the ferry capsized and I survived, I thought that if my family thought I was dead, it would be easier on my mother and sister—they could avoid conflict with my father. And after he died, I couldn’t go home; I was afraid they wouldn’t forgive me for having hurt them.
You don’t know that. They loved you.
I know. I was stupid. But it was too late. I thought it was just best to keep things as they were.
So, did you have any contact with Al in those years?
Not directly, but I knew he somehow kept track of where I was. That’s one reason I bought the motor home—to make it as hard as I could for him.
Al knew you were coming to Chicago for your mother’s funeral?
Yes, I remember now. I called him and told him I was coming. I didn’t know how to reach Marie directly, and I didn’t want to just show up. It would be too great a shock for her. I’m afraid calling him was a…fatal mistake.
So, you know who…who killed you?
I remember everything up to getting off the plane. Someone met me at the gate. I don’t know how they knew I would be on that flight.
Was it Al?
No. Not Al. One of Al’s friends, I think, from when we were kids.
Charlie Cree?
I’m not sure. I think…yes, Charlie…Cree. Brad said Charlie Cree was murdered.
Yes, and I’ll bet anything Al was responsible for that, too.
I’m sorry. Even now I find it incomprehensible that my own brother…
He was not your brother. And he killed your father.
Yes. I just have to get used to the idea.
Do you remember anything after Charlie Cree picked you up at the airport?
There was another man. He was in the car.
Do you know who he was?
I don’t know. Frank? Frank something. I’d never seen him before. He reminded me of the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Very heavy. Very pale. Round face. He was very friendly. He laughed a lot.
Why did you go with them?
They said Al wanted me to go right up to Lake Geneva. I told them I had reservations at…at the City Suites on Belmont. I was…going to rent a car and drive up in the morning, then come right back after the funeral, but they said Al had told Marie I was coming, and she was waiting to see me that night.
So, I agreed. I told them I’d rent a car there at the airport and drive right up, but Charlie said Al had called while they were on their way to the airport and that he wanted them to pick up something and bring it to Lake Geneva immediately. They said since they had to go up there, too, there was no point in taking two cars. So, I called the hotel to cancel.
And you weren’t suspicious?
Not at first. Frank was cracking jokes and didn’t seem to have a care in the world. I remember we took the Diversey exit and went down Diversey to Pine Grove, then turned down Surf toward Sheridan. There wasn’t any parking available, of course, so Frank pulled into an alley…and…
Elliott was suddenly aware of a powerful wave of emotion pushing him toward consciousness. He fought against it and slowly it subsided.
We’re almost there, John. Go with it.
I don’t know if I can! It’s…I can’t put it in words!
Try, John, please.
Charlie got out of the car to go into a building across the street. Frank kept talking and laughing, and…Charlie came out of the building and came over to the car. He was carrying a small box. He…
Elliott felt cold. He was strangely terrified, and at the same time incredibly sad.
Go on, John. You have to.
I know. But it’s…I’m going to die, Elliott!
Elliott felt as though he was being battered by a hurricane. He was no longer asleep, but not awake, either. He struggled to form his thoughts.
It’s okay, John. Nothing can hurt you now. What happened? Can you remember?
Yes. I remember… He came over to my door and opened it. “I’ve got something you should see, John,” he said. ‘Why don’t you step out of the car so you can see it better?’ I didn’t want to, but I did. He opened the lid of the box with one hand and took out a gun.…
The battering of emotions stopped. There was an eerie sense of calm, like entering the eye of the hurricane. Elliott knew John had accepted what he knew came next.
“This was your father’s gun,” Charlie said. “Al thought you’d like to see it.” I knew what he was going to do. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t yell for help…no help could come in time. I did manage to ask “Why?” and Charlie said, “Al just thought it would be a nice touch.” And then I heard…a siren…and he…and then I was sitting in the chair beside your bed wondering who you were.
Oh, Jesus, John! I’m so very sorry!
Don’t be. It happened. We can’t change it. But now I know who I am, and that’s all I’ve wanted from the minute I saw you in the hospital.
But Al had you killed! He has to pay for it!
He will. Don’t worry. What I’ve told you should help. And if nothing else, he’ll pay for killing our father. Right now, I’m so happy to be free that I really don’t care. Now go back to sleep.
And Elliott had the sensation of a balloon on a string being released by the hand that held it.
* * *
He called Brad and Cessy’s at 7:00 a.m. Cessy answered.
“Hi, Sis. Is Brad there?”
“Yes, I’ll get him. Is everything all right? You don’t usually call this early.”
“Sorry about that. But I wanted to catch Brad before he left for work.”
“Okay. Hold on.”
He heard the muffling of the receiver, Cessy’s voice saying something, and a moment later, Brad picked it up.
“Yeah, Elliott. What’s up?”
“Is there a way you can check cell phone calls made on G.J. Hill’s phone for two or three days before he left for Chicago?”
There was a pause. “Yeah, I think we can do that. Why?”
“Look for a call made to Al Collina. I’m not sure whether it’s to his office or to his home. If you find it, we really need to talk.”
“Look, Elliott, if this is another one of your psychic moments…”
“Brad, trust me. Please. Just check Hill’s phone records.”
There was a long sigh, which clearly conveyed Brad’s impatience. “Okay. But you’d better be right.”
* * *
At nine o’clock his cell phone rang.
“Elliott, what’s going on with you and Brad?” Cessy demanded. “I’ve never seen him this way.”
“What way is that?”
“You know perfectly well what I mean. Did you do something to make him angry?”
“Not deliberately, I can assure you. It’s about the Collinas, and I really don’t want to risk getting him more upset with me by talking about it with you.”
“You can’t talk to your own sister?”
“Not about this. Not right now. I hope you’ll understand.”
“Well, I don’t, but since I don’t have much choice…”
“Thanks, Sis. I appreciate it.”
* * *
Though he did not hear from Brad for the rest of the day, an article on the second page of Tuesday’s Chicago Tribune immediately grabbed his attention:
Developer Charged in Father’s Death
Prominent Chicago real estate developer Al Collina was arrested Monday in connection with the 2001 death of his father, Vittorio Collina…
* * *
He heard nothing from Brad u
ntil Thursday morning. He’d also heard nothing from John, and was mildly surprised to realize he missed their conversations. He wondered whether John, despite what he had indicated about sticking around, had simply moved on now that the question of his identity had been resolved, and Elliott had an odd and uncustomary sensation of loneliness.
Just before noon, as he was forcing himself to go through a new catalog of plumbing fixtures, his cell phone rang.
“Are you home?” Brad asked.
“Yes. I…”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” And with that, Brad hung up.
He responded to a knock at the door fifteen minutes later to find Brad, but no sign of his partner. Standing back, he motioned him in.
“You want a cup of coffee?” he asked.
“No time,” Brad answered, walking past him into the living room. “Ken’s waiting in the car.” He walked over to the window and looked out at the beach. Without turning around, he said, “The DNA from Sophia Collina’s hairbrush matches John’s, so that settles that. The San Luis Obispo police got a copy of Hill’s—John Collina’s—cell phone calls. It shows one call to Chicago at 7:15 p.m. on March twenty-first, the day before John’s murder, to Al Collina’s home.”
Elliott wanted to say something, but thought it best to let Brad do the talking.
“Al’s out on bail, of course,” Brad continued, “and he’s already lined up a team of the best defense lawyers money can buy. Sister Marie’s testimony is the foundation of the Prosecution’s case, and we’ve got someone watching out for her in case Al gets any ideas. But the Defense will try to rip her story to shreds, since she says herself that she had convinced herself for five years that it was an accident. So, there’s a fair chance that Al might walk on it. And unless we can find something solid to enable us to charge him with John’s death as well, we’re in trouble.”
He turned and looked directly at Elliott, and Elliott saw in his face not his brother-in-law but a hardened police homicide detective.
“So I’m asking you again,” he said, “exactly how do you know what you know?”
Again the dreaded question, and again he had no alternative but to lie. “All I can tell you is what I’ve already told you. I don’t know how I know. There’s no way I could possibly know from personal experience. I’m not pretending to be psychic, but ever since the accident I just suddenly get these hunches. And you have to admit that wherever they come from, I’ve been right.”
Brad stood silent, staring at Elliott as though he were a stranger. Finally, he said, “So do you have any other ‘hunches’?”
Elliott, thoroughly uncomfortable, took a deep breath.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. There’s a guy named Frank, an associate of Charlie Cree’s. He was with Cree the night of the murder.”
Brad opened his mouth to speak, but Elliott raised his hand to silence him.
“Please, don’t ask. Just hear me out.”
Brad closed his mouth, but looked at his brother-in-law as though he had never seen him before.
Undeterred, Elliott continued. “They picked John up at the airport. And since Cree was killed and this Frank guy wasn’t, I’d say it was possible that Al didn’t know Frank was with him.”
Another moment of silence from Brad, then, “Do you know this Frank person?”
“No. I know he’s short and fat and he laughs a lot.”
“Hunches don’t usually come with names and physical descriptions.”
Elliott shrugged. “Mine do,” he said. “Do you know who he is?”
“I might. It sounds like one of Charlie’s crony’s, Frank Rigoni. I’m pretty sure he works for C&C Demolition. I’ll check into it. Anything else?”
“Other than that Al’s responsible for John’s death? No.”
“Okay.” And he walked past Elliott toward the door. He stopped just short of it and turned again to him. “I don’t have to tell you not to talk to Cessy about this, do I?”
He shook his head. “No, you don’t. It’s bad enough that you think I’m crazy. I’m not about to have my sister think it, too.”
Brad just gave a curt nod and left.
* * *
Steve called to say the gallery had sold a couple more of his paintings, and that the owner had said he’d be willing to keep one or two in the gallery’s general displays after the showing ended Friday, alternating the others every few weeks. Steve was delighted, and Elliott was happy for him. He offered to take Steve to dinner Friday night, but Steve said he had some business with Devereux, the gallery owner, after the close, and wanted to be there to savor the last couple hours of his first official gallery showing. Elliott understood completely, and they switched their date to Saturday.
He went to bed at his usual time, not particularly anticipating anything from John, and there was nothing.
* * *
At four thirty Friday afternoon, there was a knock at his door. Since there were only a very few people who did not have to have his verbal approval from the front desk before being allowed in, he was puzzled as to who it might be.
He opened the door to find Brad, again alone.
“Hi, Brad. Come on in.” He didn’t ask what Brad was doing there.
“I’ll have that coffee now, if you have some.”
“Sure.” He moved to the cupboard to take out two cups and the sugar bowl. Luckily, he’d made a fresh pot only an hour or so before. Brad opened the refrigerator door and took out the cream, pouring a liberal amount into the two cups. They each put in their own sugar, and then picked up their cups and went into the living room. Neither one had said a word.
Just to break the ice, “Coaster?” Elliott asked, finally.
“No, thanks,” Brad replied, taking a seat on the couch.
Elliott sat in his favorite chair, swiveling it around to face Brad. “So?” he encouraged.
Brad sighed. “You were right,” he said. “It was Frank Rigoni. He was with Charlie Cree when Charlie killed John. He was the one who tipped us that Cree was involved in a hit—John’s.”
“And he just…confessed?”
Brad gave a wry smile. “We didn’t pull out the rubber hose, if that’s what you mean. We brought him in for questioning on Cree’s murder and he denied everything, but when I told him we knew Al didn’t know he was with Cree during the hit—which of course we didn’t, despite your hunches—and that we were going to tell Al if Frank didn’t come clean, he reconsidered.
“He claims Cree had called him to drive the car in case John gave him any trouble. They’d checked the flight schedules and since they didn’t know which flight John would be on—there weren’t that many—they met them all.”
“How did they know which passenger was John?” Elliott asked.
“They had a photo. Al apparently had been keeping tabs on his brother, which had included taking photos of him and his activities.” He paused long enough to take a drink of his coffee before continuing. “Anyway, Rigoni swears he had no idea Cree was going to kill John, and that he’d tipped us about Cree as a good citizen when his conscience got the better of him. After a few more questions, it turned out more to be a matter of his being pissed at Cree for a string of grievances, which culminated when Cree refused to pay him what he was promised for driving the car.”
“But that still doesn’t prove without a shadow of a doubt that Al ordered the hit.”
“True, but I think we might have a way. Risky, but Rigoni has agreed to it in exchange for our dropping the accessory-to-murder charge against him. We had him set up a meeting with Al outside the Conservatory in Lincoln Park tonight at seven thirty. Being in the open like that, we don’t have to worry about a drive-by shooting, or Al’s trying to get Rigoni into a car. Rigoni didn’t want to wear a wire, so we’ll use electronic eavesdropping gear from a distance. We’ll have plainclothesmen all over the area, but it’s still a risk. But we don’t have much other choice.”
“Where’s Rigoni now?”
“He’s with
Ken at the precinct. I just wanted to take a few minutes to come over here to let you know what’s happening. I figure we owe you. I still don’t know how you know what you know, but it doesn’t matter, I guess. It’s the end result that counts.”
“Let me know what happens,” Elliott said.
“I will,” Brad replied, getting up from the couch with his coffee cup. “Well, I’d better head back. If Cessy calls, don’t tell her I was here. I’m not going to be able to make it home for dinner, and she’s not going to be happy about that.”
“She’s used to it,” Elliott said, getting out of his chair and following Brad to the door. “Good luck,” he said.
Brad nodded without looking back and left.
* * *
Elliott returned to the living room. His feeling of anticipation from what Brad had told him was slowly being replaced by one he couldn’t quite put his finger on at first. But then he recognized it—an odd sensation of letdown.
He really didn’t know what he’d expected. After all this time, after the painstaking piecing together of the puzzle, it was finished. Over. Where, he wondered, was the thundering roll of tympani and the lightning flash of a cymbal to mark the last notes of the symphony? He’d expected the 1812 Overture and got “Clair de Lune.”
He had no sense of John’s presence, and he realized he missed him. It had probably been the most unusual several months of his life…but now what?
His spirits didn’t lift even when Brad’s phone call came in at nine and he said simply, “We got him.”
He was relieved, of course, and happy for John that his search was finally over. But even as he drifted off to sleep that night, there was the strong feeling of anticlimax.
Anticlimax? Not at all.
You’re back!
I haven’t really been away. I’ve just been…exploring. It’s great! You’ll find out for yourself one day…but don’t be in any hurry. As I said before, eternity is a long, long time.
Sorry, but I guess I was just expecting, well…more…, something a bit more dramatic after all we’ve gone through.
He once again felt that indefinable light tickling sensation he recognized as John laughing.
You watch too much TV! From where I stand, all of life is an anticlimax. And what “more” did you expect? You’ve helped me find myself, and you’ve found Steve. You’ve got a family who loves you, and a job you like, and you’re young and good looking and healthy…and rich to boot. What more could you possibly want? Who knows what more is out there, waiting for you? Relax and enjoy it.