by Val Bruech
“Are you ready?” he panted, eyes glittering.
“You mean there’s more?”
He grinned and found his pants, pulled out a wallet and fumbled with a wrapper. Finally he shook out a condom.
As he took care of that, I caressed the contours and crevices of his body. He filled me and I savored every inch of him as we rocked toward delirium, then whooped simultaneously. When we were spent he rolled over on his back, taking me with so I was on top. We lay like that, waiting for the adrenaline to subside and the heart rate to return to normal. I combed his light brown chest hair with my fingers.
He opened one eye. “I think we found an area where we’re compatible.”
I smiled dreamily. “You found places I never knew I had.”
“Oh, there’s more. I’ll get to them.”
I smiled to myself at his confidence that there’d be another time, then my smile widened when I realized he was right.
We gathered our clothes. I felt like I was on the moon, free of gravity’s anchor. We dressed and regrouped in silence. What do you say after an encounter like that with someone you’ve known less than a week?
Tite took care to lock the doors behind us when we left chambers. I made it to the elevators, well aware that I was not striding with my usual assurance. Once we started to descend I had to fight a temptation to nuzzle up into him. We exited the courthouse and crossed the large plaza in front, keeping a business-like distance between us till we got to the corner. The police department was two blocks away.
“See ya.” He gave me a lopsided smile, touched my hand, and sauntered across the street. He stopped in front of the bank and stood motionless for a minute. Then he crossed back to me, deep in thought.
“Maybe Brenda told Sam something that incriminated Benton. Or maybe it’s the other way around: he found something incriminating about Brenda from Benton.” He looked at me quizzically.
My ears heard the words but the rest of me was still in Sam’s chambers. Al nodded and crossed the street again, continuing toward the station. He turned and waved before he disappeared into headquarters.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
How could a guy who was such a klutz of a cop be such a wizard in the sack? I basked in the memory of our encounter, then with Herculean effort put it out of my mind and focused on the task at hand.
I locked the door to the office and fished around my briefcase for the object I had retrieved from Sam’s desk drawer. A checkbook, standard issue, blue plastic wallet. I turned it over gently and opened it like a treasure. The checks were drawn on an outfit called Great Midwest Securities. The face of the checks bore only Sam’s name and a statement that they were valid only for an amount greater than $500.00. I thumbed through the check register, scrawled in Sam’s chicken scratch. According to the ledger, he wrote one check on the last day of each month, starting in May almost three years ago. All the checks were written to cash. The first one was for $2,500. The checks remained at that amount until the following October when they increased to $5,000. Deposits were recorded every three months: they averaged twenty grand a pop. Sam didn’t keep a running balance but every couple of pages or so he totaled things up. The last line reflected a balance of $75,000. I ran a total on all the deposits and came up with $240,000 in round numbers.
I tugged the printed checks and the register out of the plastic wallet and felt inside their little compartments. Empty. I put it back together again, closed it up and willed it to talk to me. It remained mute. The account was innocent, I told myself: investments Sam and Betty made, monthly withdrawals to pay bills. But why did Sam keep it at the office, and why wasn’t Betty’s name on the checks?
The Internet revealed that Great Midwest was a regional brokerage firm that catered to the small investor. I called them, pretending to be a potential client and the phone rep gave me the rush about all their products and services. I asked about a checking account and was told that it came with a stock trading account, but checks could only be written for $500 or more.
I needed answers. I dialed Betty at home.
“You were concerned about finances yesterday. What’s going on with that?”
“I hate it when you beat around the bush, Susan.”
“Sorry. I’m wired like that.”
A hefty silence ensued.
“The numbers aren’t adding up the way they should,” she finally said. “Have you found out anything?”
“Does Great Midwest Securities ring a bell?”
A pause.
“Could you say that again?”
“Right. Sorry, Betty, I wasn’t making myself clear. Great Midwest Securities is a brokerage house, stocks, bonds, investments. One of the things they offer is a cash fund that’s like a checking account. Did Sam have an account like that?”
“What are you talking about? I never heard of them.”
I groaned mentally.
“Tell me what’s going on,” she commanded.
I have no problem telling clients the hard truths. But once in a while, with friends, the waffle urge kicks in and I try to protect them from pain.
“Well, after we talked yesterday, I remembered Sam had mentioned something about an investment account. I…I thought that was the name but I was probably mistaken…”
“No, dear. Your mistake is that you are trying to cover something up and failing miserably.”
Heat flashed through my face.
“Do you have a lie-detector in your phone?”
“Tell me what you know. Now.”
I told her about the checkbook and what I had learned from my phone call with Great Midwest.
“So if there’s seventy-five thousand in it now and he wrote checks for five thousand each…how much money are we talking about?”
I did the arithmetic in my head, couldn’t believe the number I came up with, and re-did the math on paper.
“I think the checks total a hundred sixty-seven thousand, five hundred dollars.”
“Where did all that money come from?” Betty gasped.
“And where did it all go?” I countered.
“Sam’s paychecks are automatically deposited in our joint checking account. We have investments, but we live on his salary.”
“Who spends the money?”
“I’ve been paying bills for the last several years. Sam used to, then I felt the need to get a handle on our finances. If Sam needed clothes or a new suit, we’d go together. If we took a vacation, we generally could afford to do it out of our checking account or otherwise we’d borrow a little from savings.”
“Betty, after a lawyer leaves a firm, there’s usually residual payments as cases cash in and outstanding bills get paid. The lawyer gets compensated for work he did on the files when he was with the firm. Do you know if Sam received payments like that from the firm?”
“Not that I know of,” Betty said slowly.
As a name partner, Sam would have had a financial interest in every case in the office. Kevin would know the details.
“He didn’t gamble, did he?”
Her laughter boomed back at me.
“Susan, come on. He was too busy working to even think about that kind of thing. Besides, five thousand a month is a lot of poker money.”
“Good point.”
“Wherever it came from, it was legal,” Betty said confidently. “We certainly didn’t want for anything, so I can’t begrudge him his own account. But I don’t understand how he could have spent that kind of money. I mean, if he needed cash, he’d just go to the ATM.”
Except you can’t just get 165,000 smacks from an ATM.
“And besides,” she added, “he’d start off the week with enough cash in his pocket for lunch, gas and things like that. So, I…I just don’t know.”
“Me, neither.” But I was starting to suspect that wherever this led it wouldn’t be pretty.
“I need to find out more about Great Midwest,” Betty declared. “Do you have a number for them?”
I ga
ve it to her and we promised to talk again soon.
Griffen Bartley had told he was working for Nancy Hunsacker, one of the senior lawyers in Sam’s old law firm, when he was researching in the law library the morning Sam was killed. I called Nancy and she confirmed his assignment, but when I asked specifically if she had requested that he search in law journals, she told me that he turned in such exemplary work that he had free rein to perform the assignment however he pleased. Why did I ask? I made some noise about law journals being more complicated than rocket science. Thankfully someone rushed into her office just then with a more pressing issue and she had to terminate the conversation. Griffen’s explanation for his whereabouts at the time of Sam’s murder could be the truth or a clever fabrication, coin flip. I didn’t see him as a killer but his early entrance into the courthouse on the day of the murder was a red flag. On the other hand, if he was going to kill his uncle, why would he leave such an obvious trail by signing in at the jail just after Sam?
Kelly was my last call.
“Where have you been?” she chided. “I’ve been leaving messages since Friday.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Way too much to talk about on the phone. My trial settled, wanna run?”
“I did that this morning. My back’s killing me.”
“How about this? I’ll go home and change and run in the forest preserve. Then I’ll meet you at the Y for a whirlpool at…” I consulted my watch. “How about two?”
“That’s great.” Kelly said with enthusiasm. “It’ll work out perfect for picking up the kids.”
“See you then.”
Fur raced into the kitchen as I opened the door from the garage into the house. I kneaded her till she moaned like an out-of-control timber saw, then I kissed my index finger, touched it to her pink nose and told her I loved her. I had never done anything so ridiculous in the entirety of our lives together. What was going on?
I changed into my running tights and tee shirt and drove to the forest preserve. It was three miles from the house but well worth the short drive. Years ago, in a rare display of farsightedness, the county had carved out this slice of thick undergrowth and tall oak trees from the middle of hundreds of acres of similar landscape. With all Joliet’s growth and expansion, the site was now an island of nature surrounded by housing developments. I turned off the main highway and rolled down a quarter-mile blacktop road to the empty parking lot. The main trail is about two miles long and loops around the perimeter of the forest. It’s mostly flat but there are tree roots and brush so you have to pay attention. Lesser-used paths crisscross in the forest but they are narrow and can be impassable. At this time of day, someone might be taking their dog for a romp, but it’s often deserted. I parked, locked the car, and stretched for a few minutes. The late winter sun made the barren forest seem more inviting. The air held an irresistible crispness. As I tightened the laces of my running shoes, I heard the first birdcall of spring, but there was no answering warble. I tucked my car key in the pocket of my tights and headed into the woods.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
After a third of a mile, I started to air it out, gradually shedding the concerns of the day. Eighteen minutes later, according to my stopwatch, I finished my first loop and arrived back at the parking lot, not having seen another soul. The Acura had been joined by an orange Plymouth of uncertain vintage. It looked as if it had been totaled at least twice and miraculously escaped the junkyard. Probably some high school kids playing hooky, I thought, and dismissed it. On the second time around the loop, I began with some wind sprints, then settled into a pace which pushed me beyond comfort, but you don’t get better by being complacent. The usual aches and pains that accompany a run were plaguing someone else today, probably because of the spongy dirt cushion, softened by winter’s deposit of dead and decaying leaves. Most of the trees were still winter skeletons, but a few were starting to bud. My constant motion seemed effortless. I was breathing deep and even, my legs were tireless pistons, and my world, at the moment, was in harmonious balance.
The trail gradually ascends, then drops quickly to a flat quarter mile, ending at the parking lot. As I cruised up the rise for the third time, a wild thrashing in the bushes startled me. I glanced quickly to the right, thinking it might be a deer or a coyote. A human figure shrouded in black from head to foot rose up out of the woods about twenty feet off the trail. His face was concealed by a ski mask, but his eyes were small and mean. He brought his right hand up high over his head. Sunlight glinted off the long, slightly curved blade of a hunting knife. For a moment I was frozen jelly, then the fight-or-flight reaction kicked in and I chose flight. I scorched the path to the parking lot, hurtling rather than running, thinking only of escape.
Thirty yards ahead, another human form, this one twice as large, sprang directly into the center of the path, brandishing a short, thick tree limb. He readied it over his right shoulder like a batter and eyed me like I was a hanging curve ball. The growth on either side of the trail was impenetrable: roots and brambles would trip me instantly if I tried to evade him by cutting across the forest. I glanced desperately over my shoulder: the other thug loomed in the middle of the trail, blocking my retreat. He was crouched low like a defensive tackle, knife upraised, advancing on the balls of his feet. His quickness was obvious even at this distance. I chose the tree limb rather than the blade. I barreled directly at the giant, then when I was almost on top of him, darted to his left then shifted my weight and cut quickly the other way. My peripheral vision caught a blur of motion. I dove for the ground, hoping to roll past him and avoid the blow, then spring up and run like hell. I heard a shriek, then darkness crushed me.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I floated through a forgotten galaxy, novas exploding in my head like erratic fireworks.
“Susan.”
Something warm wrapped around my hand. I willed my fingers to squeeze back but they weren’t working.
“This is Kelly. I’m going for help.”
I struggled to understand but the effort was too great and I fell back into blackness.
Later—an hour—a day—other voices buzzed indecipherably. I gathered everything I had and forced out a cry for help that even to me sounded like a screech from a back-alley catfight. The chattering came to an abrupt halt, then a cacophony broke out.
Blurred shapes of gray collided with each other, then glided into place like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, finally resolving into a familiar face.
“Ryan?” I called weakly.
“This is Dr. Lopez. You’re in the hospital. You’re going to be all right.”
I let go and slipped back again into a coma-like slumber. I was swimming through clouds, drifting past childhood playgrounds. When I awoke again, I felt more like myself. Well, myself with the world’s worst hangover. I was in a hospital room. Some yellow pudding-like stuff was on the tray table. It looked as beat-up as I felt. A newspaper appeared. I tried to open it and discovered my left arm was useless and in a sling. The story at the bottom of page three was headlined “Local Attorney Victim of Mugging.” According to the article, I had suffered a concussion and severe bruises and contusions. The police had no leads but were encouraging anyone with information to come forward.
Dr. Lopez came in and told me if I had been smacked eight inches higher I’d either be dead or a quadriplegic. I told him that was more information than I needed.
Late in the afternoon a colorful bouquet of blossoms marched into my room, a familiar face peeking out from behind.
“It’s good to know where I can find you.” Al put the vase on the bed table.
“Not for long. The doc says I can leave tomorrow if there’s no infection.”
“Are you serious? Have you looked at yourself lately?”
I grabbed the remote control and killed the ghastly overhead glow from the fluorescent tube.
He tried unsuccessfully to hide a grin. “A good night’s sleep will do wonders.”
“Do you want to sit down?”
<
br /> He bypassed the hospital chair and hitched himself up onto the bed.
“What day is it?”
I gave the question a lot of thought. “Monday?”
“Oh-oh. Try Wednesday.”
“Know-it-all.”
A searing shock of fire chose that moment to shoot through my shoulder. I shuddered and involuntarily grabbed the sling that kept my left arm affixed to my rib cage.
“Are you all right?” He leaned forward anxiously.
The pain faded. “Yeah.” I took a deep breath. “As long as they keep the pain pills coming. Are you here officially?”
“The flowers are unofficial.” He grinned. “Officially, I need to know what you remember of the attack.”
I told him everything.
He nodded. “Any idea on height, weight, nationality?”
“They wore knit ski masks, the kind that fit over your head and cover everything but your eyes. One was David, the other guy was Goliath. It happened so fast…I can’t tell you much else.”
“They followed you from home, maybe from the office.” He drummed his fingers restlessly on the bed. “The smartest thing you did was to tell your friend Kelly exactly where you’d be. When you didn’t show up at the Y she got concerned and went looking for you. After she found your car she didn’t quit till she found you.”
His expression changed. “If I could, I’d put a guard on you twenty-four/seven. Someone sees you as a threat.”
“No way! It was just a couple of freaks who got their jollies beating up on a stranger,” I protested.
“An ambush in the forest when the victim obviously has no money, there’s no evidence of a sexual assault, and they leave your car keys in your pocket? After they flattened you, it would have been the easiest thing in the world for them to bash your brains in. But they didn’t. This was a warning, Marshfield. They followed you till you were alone and far from help.”