Two Nights

by Kathy Reichs

  “Any prints off the fragments?”

  “No.”

  “Opaline Drucker gave me images taken from video captured at the time of the attack. Three men, one woman. Any luck with those?”

  “The images were shit. No one knew shit.”

  “I want to view it.”

  No reply.

  “Tell me about the Forester.”

  “Stolen from the Oakbrook shopping mall, abandoned at a student housing complex in DeKalb. The plate was switched with one taken from a vehicle at O’Hare.”

  “DeKalb. Isn’t there a university?”

  “Northern Illinois. And yes, we looked at the possibility of a student or campus link.”

  “Any E-ZPass use? Tollbooth sightings, that sort of thing?”

  “No.”

  “And the only physical evidence recovered from the Forester was blood, some showing a DNA match to Stella?”

  “And some dog hair.” Nothing in Capps’s tone. “One smear wasn’t consistent with Stella. Sequencing suggested that blood came from a close relative.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “The kid was with her family and it was a bloodbath.”

  “You didn’t find it odd that nothing else was in there?”

  “They’d obviously cleaned house. The stuff was recovered from deep down below the seats.”

  I pictured Stella bleeding on the floor of a van driven by strangers, terrified or unconscious. My mouth went dry. My appetite went south.

  “How large is the group?” I asked.

  “We were never certain it was a group.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We ran the MO through ViCAP.” Capps referred to the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. “Looked at other bombings, other signatures, found no homegrown or foreign groups or incidents that fit our profile.”

  “And no one claimed responsibility.”

  “Nope. No outraged manifesto sent to the press, no jailhouse bragging, no drunk shooting off his mouth in a bar. Nothing. And no repeat performance. It was like these assholes hit, then vanished into thin air.”

  “What’s your theory?”

  Capps’s lips hiked up at one corner and he shook his head. “Which one?”

  I gestured for him to elaborate.

  “The whole thing smelled like amateur hour.”

  “But the amateurs got away.”

  “You know what I love, Ms. Night? Civilians coming into my town and telling me I didn’t do my job.”

  Capps sipped his wine. Slowly set down the glass.

  “The attack seemed sloppy. For example, why not disable the security camera? Why not cover your faces? Why be on that street at all?”

  “Maybe they thought camouflage or vandalism would draw attention.”

  “Why make no demand? Money? Turf? Firing of the headmaster? If you don’t want revenge or a payoff, why blow people up?”

  “Any chance of a gang or mob connection?” I asked.

  “None.”

  “You used the term hate crime.”

  “Then why not use the media attention to further your cause? There were no anti-Israeli tirades. No pro-Palestinian histrionics. No bluster against girls learning to read.”

  I thought about that. “Maybe choice of the school was random.”

  Both men just looked at me.

  “Maybe the group’s goal was less well defined.” I was speaking as ideas popped into my mind. “The city. Authority. Minorities in general.”

  “You talking some crackpot militia?” Capps sounded unconvinced.

  “Maybe the goal was simply to create fear. To disrupt the establishment, the government, the cops. Maybe they viewed the attack as phase one in a broader war. A trigger. Like Charles Manson and Helter Skelter.”

  “Why not continue the war?”

  “Who says they aren’t?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if their MO is to never repeat their MO?”

  “You saying they’re not slack, we’re just stupid?” Capps’s tone now had an edge.

  “How far did you get, Detective?”

  “I worked with what I had. What I had was shit.”

  “You had a video. An IED. A vehicle. A missing kid. Did you know Opaline Drucker paid a ransom for Stella?”

  Capps’s eyes cut to Furr. It was clear he did not.

  “How hard did you look?” I pressed.

  “Hard.” The edge was up a notch.

  Wanting to diffuse the tension, Furr stepped in. “The police worked as diligently as any department in any town would look into a horrific crime in the national spotlight. Devoted as many resources to the case as they could. There were no informants, no witnesses, almost no physical evidence. What more could they do?”

  “You still looking?” I directed my question to Capps.

  “We’re working on a number of theories.” Steely.

  “Look, I get it,” I said. “Every force in the country is stretched to the limit. You did what you could, canvassed, checked the terrorist files, ran the forensics. Bottom line: One year later, a kid’s still missing and you’ve got no solve.”

  For a long, cold moment Capps just glared. I understood his resentment. At one time, I’d been him.

  “Stella could be dead.” Capps tried to interrupt me. I didn’t let him. “Or she could be out there. Captive. Abused. The case is officially open, but admit it. No one’s busting ass digging up leads.”

  The waitress came and asked if we’d finished our meals. Only Furr returned her smile. She cleared our plates anyway.

  No one ordered dessert.

  It was after nine when I left the restaurant. The air felt damp and much colder than when I’d entered.

  I returned to the Ritz, rode to my room, and found a ball game on TV. It was the tenth inning at Wrigley. The Cubs had been tied with the Cardinals since the fourth. I wasn’t much interested but wanted to allow time before leaving.

  I half-listened to the play-by-play and gazed out the window. Agitated. Unable to focus. Seeing only a blood-covered kid in an SUV.

  Twenty-four floors below, the city glittered and pulsed with energy. Not like Charleston, which would be turning back her feather quilts at that hour. Chicago never sleeps.

  Finally, bottom of the fourteenth, one on, two out, the crowd noise hushed, then exploded. The announcers went bonkers. A win for the home team.

  I turned off the TV. After checking the motion detector, I descended and walked to my three-star inn.

  Riding up in the elevator, I glanced at my watch, added an hour for Eastern time. 11:40. I wondered if Beau had crossed to the island to fill Bob’s feeder.

  Thirteen Days

  She has no need of a clock, can tell the hour by the quality of the moonlight. By the slant and sharpness of the shadows. She figures that’s how her mind does it. Isn’t totally sure.

  But it’s different here. She doesn’t trust her instincts, knows only that it’s hard past midnight.

  Her eyes crawl the room. The shapes are off, the corners and angles wrong in the murky gloom.

  They’ve moved. Piled their belongings into cars and vans and driven for hours. To this place. A city place.

  Outside, she hears the soft clickety-clack of a train. The fingernail scrape of a branch on the screen. From the kitchen, the muted shriek of a boiling kettle.

  There are fewer people here. She’s sleeping in a room with just two beds. She prefers not being in the bunks.

  He comes unaccompanied to her now. Sometimes early, sometimes late. When the others are sleeping. Or busy with tasks.

  She doesn’t like being alone with him. The closed door. The drawn window shades. She loves yet fears him. Knows he is her only hope of enlightenment.

  The Testing is one-on-one. Just them. She dislikes the way his eyes move over her body. The flared pupils if she moans or gasps. The quickened breath if she cries out.

  As if he enjoys her pain.

  Which can’t be t
rue. It hurts him, too. He does it for her. To ensure that she has the strength needed.

  Needed to do what?

  She climbs from bed, crosses to the window, and looks down. No redbuds. No crocuses. A small patch of grass, an alley, dark silhouettes she knows to be trees. Beyond the trees, a vacant lot. Beyond the lot, the low glow of neon.

  Voices rise through the floorboards. Passionate. Loud.

  The discussions have become more heated of late. They make her anxious. Her skin itches all the time. She’s given herself a rash by scratching. The bumpy red patches keep her awake.

  But she must have dozed off.

  She listens. Catches random phrases. The Crossing, of course. Talk of that is constant. Of joy. Reward. A better world. But there’s a new intensity that keeps her on edge. Keeps her constantly feeling as though acid’s been poured down her spine.

  She hears words that confuse her.

  Tonight she was sent upstairs early again. He’ll come soon.

  Something is happening. She doesn’t know what.

  Though she won’t ask questions, she vows to find out. But how?

  Eavesdrop? Poke through drawers? Trash?

  Thinking of snooping causes her scalp to tingle. She knows it’s a bad idea.

  But she has no good idea.

  There is only one person she can truly trust. She’ll ask him. If the answer is no, she’ll abandon the scheme.

  She has to find a place where they can be alone.

  The next morning I was still the only person aware of my presence online. The Tribune ad was running. I wasn’t too excited. Placing it was a long shot. Who reads print papers anymore?

  I phoned the desk at the Ritz. No one had tried to contact me there. I called Capps, got his voicemail, left a message.

  At seven, I turned in my key, left the inn, and began walking north. The sky was gray, the wind more biting than the night before. To the east, traffic whizzed by in two directions. Beyond the traffic, waves pounded boulders lining the shore of America’s second-largest Great Lake. Dark questions looped in my head. Was Stella somewhere looking out at that same frigid water? Was her body putrefying within its depths?

  I refused to believe it.

  On Delaware Place, I entered the Raffaello Hotel. Things must have been slow. The clerk let me check in early. Accepted cash, though that took some persuasion. Seventh floor, microwave and fridge, ten bucks for Internet. Gun stowed in the safe, motion detector arranged, back stairwell checked, I again ventured forth.

  My leather jacket was woefully inadequate for April in the north. En route to my room at the Ritz, I consulted the Water Tower Place mall directory, then made a stop on the sixth level. At Abercrombie & Fitch I bought a couple of turtleneck sweaters, a tan wool explorer hat, leather gloves, and a cashmere scarf. I knew Opaline wouldn’t want me wearing synthetics. A quick coffee and a hunk of lemon pound cake at Starbucks, then I hummed up to twenty-four.

  Another call to Capps. Clegg. Another cybercheck. Nada.

  Not sure what else to do, I set up a website and started a blog, accompanying my comments about the school bombing with a photo of Bnos Aliza that I’d found online. I considered using the enhancements made from the surveillance video. Post their faces, let the bastards sue me. Decided against it. Should they show themselves, I wanted the advantage of knowing what they looked like while they were clueless about me. Besides, the images were crap.

  At nine, I went to Bnos Aliza. No one would talk to me. I spent an hour casing the neighborhood surrounding the school. Discovered zip.

  Next I visited the Baha’i House of Worship in Wilmette, a taxi outing that cost my employer a good chunk of change. Nice ride along the lake and through the North Shore burbs. I learned that the temple is the oldest in the world and the only one in the United States. Nothing else. No one there would talk to me, either.

  I wanted to rush out and knock down walls. To waterboard someone into answering my questions. Maybe Capps or Clegg.

  Back at the Ritz, my room phone was flashing. Surprised, I pressed the button. A recording told me I had something other than a voice message and asked that I phone the operator. I did. She put me on hold. Then, “Yes, Ms. Night. There is an item for you at the front desk. The instructions were for personal pickup only. Otherwise I’d have sent it up to your room.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be right down.”

  The “item” was a sealed envelope with S. NIGHT penned in block letters across the front. The envelope bore no Ritz emblem. No logo of any kind. It had no stamp, no return address.

  “Did this come by courier?” I asked the clerk, a fastidiously groomed African American man whose name badge said NOAH.

  “I’m not sure, madam. I’ve just come on duty. Shall I inquire of my colleague?”

  “Please.”

  Noah disappeared through a door to his right, returned to the desk several minutes later.

  “The letter was delivered by a woman who declined to leave her name. My colleague did request it.”

  “When?”

  “Perhaps an hour ago.”

  “Did the woman ask to speak with me? Ask for my room extension?”

  “I wouldn’t know that, madam.”

  “Is she still here?”

  “I’m sorry, madam. I have no way to be certain.”

  “Thanks.”

  I stood a moment with the letter in my hand. Confused. Why specify personal pickup only? Why hadn’t they mailed it? Or, even simpler, phoned me? Why not contact me online? A wish to be untraceable? That made no sense. For a savvy user, the Internet allows complete anonymity. So does a burner phone.

  Then the lightbulb. They wanted to eyeball me. Deliver the envelope, post a watcher, wait to see who picks it up. Maybe snap a few pics. They’d know me; I wouldn’t know them. Clever. But not clever enough.

  I flicked a wave to Noah, casual as hell. Then I cut right, took the two steps down, walked past the fountain with the heron/cranes, and sat in a chair in front of the windows. From there I could observe most of the lobby.

  Pretending that the glare from outside bothered my eyes, I put on my Ray-Bans. Then, faking interest in the envelope, I discreetly scanned my surroundings from behind the dark lenses.

  The lobby held few people. A guy reading a paper. A woman with two kids and a mountain of luggage. A half-dozen Asian tourists waiting for the rest of the group. Or the bus.

  I opened the envelope. It contained one sheet of paper, unlined, the long edge ragged where it had been torn from a tablet or book.

  I read. Felt a high-speed pump of adrenaline. The message was short. It said:

  Tonight. Midnight. Foster Beach. The eastern end of the pedestrian underpass below Lake Shore Drive. Come alone. Disobey, your young friend dies.

  I lingered a moment to calm my nerves, then got up and returned to the desk. Leaning on one elbow, body half-turned, I asked my pal Noah a series of pointless questions while surreptitiously checking the activity behind me. Noting nothing suspicious, I thanked him, walked straight back past the heron/crane lobby, and stopped at a wall mirror just beyond the elevators.

  I readjusted the scarf and hat, eyes on the reflected lobby behind me. Saw no one pretending not to observe. No one rising from a sofa or chair. No one speaking furtively into a cellphone.

  Strung along the wall opposite the mirror, glass cases displayed goodies for sale in the Ritz shops. Far down, by the door, a woman was studying an item on one of the shelves. She wore a trench coat, boots, and a White Sox cap. As I watched she raised a mobile phone to her eye and lined me up with the viewfinder. I dropped to a squat and ran a hand across the tile as though searching for something. She got nothing.

  I debated going to my room for the Glock 23. Decided against it. If someone was tailing me, I didn’t want to lose him. Or her.

  I exited the hotel and turned toward Michigan. Now that they’d found me, I wasn’t sure what they’d do. Or who they were. If it was the Bnos Aliza bombers, they might have Ste
lla. They’d used deadly force in the past. In the note they’d threatened to kill again. Stella?

  Or they might want to take me off the board. Better to stay in a crowd.

  I’m good at surveillance, know all the tricks. I spotted my tail one block south, on the opposite side of the street. The woman viewing the overpriced baubles.

  I continued strolling, stopping at storefronts here and there, hoping for reflected glimpses of her. And to demonstrate what an amateur I was.

  South of Water, Michigan Avenue crosses the Chicago River. Halfway over the bridge, I paused to take in the view.

  The woman didn’t show herself on the bridge. Knowing she couldn’t risk letting me get too far ahead, I picked up the pace, then stopped again at the far end. I spotted Sox Cap moving through the pedestrians ten yards back, on the far side.

  Time to up the ante. Once across the river, I fired to a stone staircase and took the treads two at a time down to the Riverwalk. If my pursuer wanted to stick with me she’d have to sprint. If not, I’d still gain information.

  If Sox Cap didn’t run, that meant she’d either gotten what she needed or was handing me off to a partner. If she did run, that meant she didn’t care that I’d made her. Perhaps because she intended to kill me. Or her partner did. I wasn’t crazy about either possibility.

  Sox Cap didn’t descend the stairs. I never saw her along the Riverwalk. I returned to Water Tower Place by a zigzag route. Didn’t spot her. She wasn’t in the lobby of the Ritz.

  I went up to my room and took off my jacket, hat, and scarf. Got the Glock 23 from the safe and laid it on the bedside table. Ran my hands through my hair. Rotated my shoulders. Laced my fingers, stretched my arms, and cracked my knuckles. Felt totally pumped. A full day of getting nowhere and I was finally seeing action. And I’d outsmarted someone who thought she was outsmarting me. But who the hell was she?

  I hadn’t gotten a good look at the woman’s face. The female bomber? If so, they thought they had an advantage. That I didn’t know them but they knew me. At least the woman did. Pat on the back for not posting their faces online.

  But what if Sox Cap wasn’t one of the bombers? What if she was a scammer looking to score an easy five grand? One of a group of scammers? What if the note had been a ruse to test me? To see how careful I was about the reward. How smart. How armed.