The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle

by Unknown

  “Money order from Western Union, like always,” he said.

  I thought back. Dede in HR had Suzie's resignation in her email the morning after the burglary, which was the 12th of December. So if harm had come to Suzie that night, then somebody else had obviously been paying her rent.

  “Okay, great, well, I just wanted to make sure she was all set,” I said brightly. “Thanks for your time.”

  When the elevator door snapped open, only I stepped on. Ken Larsen kept walking, presumably to do repairs at another apartment down the hall. Two women were already on the elevator in the throes of a conversation. “So I said to him, 'How can you stand there and tell me that it wasn't you at the bar?'”

  The other woman replied, “And what did he say?”

  “I can't remember the exact words—something along the lines of 'Duh...'”

  Her friend laughed. “So then what happened?”

  “So I told him point-blank: 'Don, my sister said she saw a guy there with a red bull's eye sweatshirt. Who else am I supposed to believe it was?'”

  At that, her friend became even more animated. “Of course! Please! Don practically has that sweatshirt tattooed to his body!”

  “I know!”

  “I mean, if he doesn't want to be identified, then he should change his outfit once in a while.”

  “I know!”

  Suddenly something caught me. It was like a click in my mind. The beginning of a connection...

  The elevator dinged and the doors opened. As all three of us stepped out into the lobby, but I moved in slow motion, as the words of their conversation unlocked something in my memory.

  A strange feeling overtook me then. A hollow kind of sadness, a dread—a fear. It was like a gravity had awakened to pull on me. “Oh my God...” I whispered. “This is real.”

  Chapter 22

  Later that night, I had my laptop open with photos on the screen, and my notes all laid out beside an important article I had printed off the Internet. I couldn't wait for Amy to arrive so I could hash through everything with her, all my scattered theories and ideas. Poor girl thought she was coming over for a fun night of Chinese food; she didn't realize there would be a PowerPoint slide presentation first. Just kidding, it wouldn't be that bad. (At least I wasn't trying to sell her a timeshare.)

  Just as the food arrived, my cell phone rang.

  “Hi, it's Amy.”

  “Hey! When are you getting here? The food just came.”

  “I'm sorry, I'm going to be late. I won't be able to leave the lab until these test tubes fully defrost so I can put them in the compression sealer.”

  She lost me at “late.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Well, just get here whenever you can. I'll put your food in the oven.”

  “Thanks. I promise I'll come as soon as I'm done.” Feeling a bit deflated, I set my phone down and started pacing.

  At this point, Cappy Blackburn had left her spot on the couch to come sniffing and begging. “All you're getting are green beans and white rice,” I informed her. Ignoring me, Cappy stretched up toward the tabletop, resting her front paws on the cushion of a dining room chair. Her nose twitched wildly, refusing to be discouraged. Absently, I began taking containers out of the bags and lining them across the table. My mind was still on Metropolax...on murder...on Suzie Diamanti...on that article...

  When I began pacing again, deep in thought, Cappy followed—literally dogging my heels. She kept jumping up, knocking into my shins with her tiny paws, and then toppling down into a sitting position. As if to say, “Hey, don't forget about little ol' extremely important me down here.”

  “Okay, sweetie,” I told her, bending to rub her head. “I'll give you something.” I went into her jar of treats and pulled out an organic veggie bone (specially marketed for high-maintenance French dogs), and tossed it to her. Cappy trotted it over to the Christmas tree, where she plopped down and began to gnaw. “Now you be good while I think,” I told her. And then I decided to think aloud.

  Just because Amy wasn't here didn't mean I couldn't talk about the case, sort through what I knew so far, did it? Besides, here was an opportunity for my dog to become worthy of her full name, Cappy Blackburn, Ace Reporter. “Let's think about what we know,” I announced. “Okay, first we go back to the beginning. The robbery. According to Detective Frandsen, the police never looked much into it, because the owner of Metropolax, Fritz Sachs, basically called off the dogs. Sorry—that's an expression. Anyway. The question is: why would Fritz take that position? Why not have the matter investigated? Didn't he care about someone smashing the lock on his company's supply room and ultimately stealing from him?

  “Bill and others have said that Jennifer Agnor was the agreed-upon culprit, or at least a conspirator, in the burglary,” I continued as I paced. “Yet—Bill also said that Fritz had a known 'soft spot' for Jennifer. So perhaps, Fritz, too, believed she was involved and he was trying to protect her by sweeping the whole matter under the rug, calling it an 'internal misunderstanding.' It's not like anything really valuable was stolen.”

  Then I recalled what Kendall said about Jennifer being involved with a married man whom she'd refused to name. “What if the man was Fritz?” I asked Cappy. Technically she ignored me, but I could tell she was on the verge of being riveted.

  I continued, “That would certainly explain why he would cover for her. Maybe Fritz was the one who told Jennifer to just leave—not to come back after lunch that day and he would look the other way on the robbery? Maybe he had even made it worth her while financially if she agreed to just go quietly. Of course...the problem with that theory is that it still doesn't explain why Jennifer hasn't updated her PretendR page since all this happened. I mean—where did she go?”

  After diminishing her veggie bone by half, Cappy rolled over on top of it. As she rubbed her back on the nub that was left, I shifted my attention to Suzie Diamanti, the more pinnacle Metropolax staffer on my mind. How had her neighbor, Wendell, described her? “Real sweet,” he'd said. Maria had said basically the same basic thing.

  Go back to the beginning, I reminded myself. I thought back to the first time I'd seen Suzie, last Fourth of July at the Marriott. She had not seemed too “sweet” then, at least not to whomever she was talking to on the phone. To that unfortunate soul, Suzie had seemed taunting, almost threatening. My first thought was that something didn't sync up. But then I started making some connections. (Well, I would call them connections; Ian might call them leaps.)

  This is what I knew: Suzie drove a Mercedes. She obviously had a spiteful side, based on the phone conversation I overheard. Yet, she was “always kind” to Maria the cleaning lady, “real sweet” to Wendell the self-proclaimed grease monkey, and when she'd mistaken Amy for a waitress, Suzie had been as kind as could be to the poor flustered girl. In fact, hadn't she even mentioned that she used to be a waitress herself? If I had to bet, I would say that Suzie didn't always have money. That she was particularly kind to service workers, those lower on the totem pole in terms of pay or respect, because she identified closely with them—because she had been in their place.

  I crossed the living room and reached for the sheet of paper I'd printed earlier. “Why didn't I remember this sooner?” I muttered, looking at the article again:

  UNIDENTIFIED BODY FOUND IN RIVER, POLICE HAVE NO CLUES

  Two fishermen found the body of a woman floating in the North Shore Channel of the Chicago River at approximately seven a.m. this morning. The woman had no identifying marks on her clothes or body, except for a small tattoo. Medical examiner estimates the age of the deceased to be between thirty and forty years old. A physical evaluation will be done to determine the cause of death. At this time no purse or coat has washed up. Authorities are withholding further information from the press in an effort to secure a positive identification of the body.

  Maybe I'd forgotten about this article I had seen last week, because I'd only glanced at it. Because the body was found in Illinois, not
Minnesota. Because my mind was saturated with so many other disparate details that had seemed much closer to home. But when I'd overheard that conversation on the elevator today, I'd suddenly remembered that Suzie had a tattoo. James had mentioned it on the night I gave him a lift; he'd called it a “sexy little tattoo.” Also brought abruptly to mind was this article, which had apparently been filed in the back drawer of my mind.

  According to this, the unidentified woman's body was marked with a small tattoo. The age of the victim matched Suzie's age range. Even though Chicago was a distance from Big Clock, let's face it: the Chicago River ran through several states, and went as far north as Michigan. Just because the woman's body had washed up in Chicago didn't mean that was where she fell in.

  “I need to find out what Suzie had a tattoo of; then I can call the Chicago police and see if the tattoo descriptions match,” I told Cappy. Rubbing my forehead, I added, “Of course that still wouldn't give me a clue as to who killed Suzie and why.” I considered a few of the suspects, and found them lacking. Sure, Kendall had a textbook jealousy issue, and Stu seemed to have an unreciprocated desire to be Suzie's boyfriend.

  I supposed James could be carrying a grudge because Suzie had rejected him. I shook my head, unconvinced. Even if I could buy that motive, it was hard to picture James looting the supply closet. Unless... was his drunk behavior at the party a sign of someone who had addictions?

  “And addictions are expensive,” I remarked, turning toward the Christmas tree. But Cappy was gone.

  Suddenly I became aware of a rustling noise. I looked over and saw my dog's white shaggy body hanging out of a brown paper bag from the Chinese food delivery. “Oh—get out of there!” I yelped and hurried over. She heard me coming and immediately made a run for it, sprinting from the living room. I had to appreciate the whole Ichabod Crane homage, as she galloped past me into the bedroom with the brown bag on her head.

  As I chased after her, I couldn't help giggling. “Cappy—get back here!” I called out. When I finally caught up with her, I snatched the bag off her head, scooped her up and kissed her. “Some ace reporter you are.”

  There was a knock on my door.

  “Amy's here!” I said and set Cappy down.

  As I pulled the door open, I was in the process of saying, “Thank God, I can finally stop talking to myself—” when I saw that the person knocking wasn't Amy.

  Chapter 23

  “Oh—were you expecting someone else?” Already Lucy sounded poised to be hurt. She stood there, looking defeated in long johns and a Westcott sweatshirt.

  “Lucy, hi...” I said, “is everything okay?” With a dramatic sigh, she skulked over the threshold. I tried to hide my disappointment as I clicked the door shut behind her. “What's wrong?”

  “Helmuson never showed,” she said.

  “What? You mean, he stood you up for your date the other night?” Glumly, she nodded. “Oh, God, Lucy, I'm so sorry. What a jerk!”

  “I was so sure he was the one,” she mumbled. “There I was, all dressed up in my brand new orange dress, with that shawl of mine—you know, the purple one with the turquoise beads and fringe that's so pretty?” I nodded (to convey comprehension, not consensus), and Lucy added, “I even bought these cute sunflower earrings to go with the dress!” She took one out of the front pocket of her sweatshirt to show me. The dangling plastic sunflower was eerily close in size to the real thing. “I waited for almost an hour,” she said. “He never even called!”

  Genuinely disgusted, I apologized for him. Then I said, “I honestly can't believe what an asshole he turned out to be, Lucy. But you know, whenever anything like that would happen to me, my mom would say, 'The bad news is, he's a jerk. The good news is, you got to find it out early. Another girl won't be as lucky.' Kind of a grim view, I guess, but it really is true.”

  “I guess you're right.” In my experience, clichés usually were right—they just weren't particularly uplifting. Lucy's mood brightened as she sniffed the air. “Is that Chinese food I smell?” she said, and then walked toward the row of takeout containers on the table. “I thought so! I smelled it from downstairs...wow, looks like you've got enough for a crowd. Are you having a party tonight?”

  “No...”

  “Are you sure? Looks like you could even feed a small army,” she said with a laugh.

  Gee, call me a herd of elephants (again), but I didn't think it was all that much food. In fact, while Amy's steamed fish and veggies were in no danger, I planned to kill the rest of the takeout within a day or so.

  “Mmm...sure smells delicious...looks delicious, too...” Lucy continued, then picked up one of the containers. “Is this General Tsao's chicken?” Reluctantly, I nodded. “That's my favorite!” she gushed. Mine, too—which was why I had planned to inhale the entire container. But by the look on Lucy's face, I had the feeling I'd be sharing it. “Any chance you can spare some?”

  “Sure,” I told her. “Here, I'll get you a plate.” On the one hand, I felt ashamed for being such a hog—but on the other, I couldn't help feeling irritated. Who busted in and glommed General Tsao's off their neighbors like that? And more importantly, how long did Lucy plan to stay? I was eager to show Amy the article and get her opinion on so many things...I couldn't do that if Lucy were hanging around.

  Yet, Lucy was so damn oversensitive and clueless that telling her I was already having Amy over for dinner wouldn’t likely go my way. Especially as I’d invited Lucy to join us last time. “Oh, good, there's egg rolls, too,” she said, breaking my train of thought. “Did you remember to get duck sauce?”

  Haplessly, I looked around to see if any of the bags had sauce packets in it. Meanwhile, Lucy chomped away, not appearing nearly as depressed as when she arrived. At least I'd help to make her feel better. “Aren't you eating?” she said as she took her plate into the living room and set it on the coffee table. “By the way, do you have any soda?” She sat cross-legged on the floor, adding, “This is fun, reminds me of slumber parties when I was little. From what I can remember anyway—I barely ever got to do anything fun. My mother was too busy not giving a damn if I lived or died.”

  “Lucy!” I blurted, then softened my approach. “I mean...that's pretty extreme, isn't it?”

  “So I'm a liar?” she snapped.

  “No, of course not. I just meant—”

  “Okay, fine. She did care if I lived, but only so I could make her look good. Another prop on the stage, folks—lights, camera, action!” Lucy announced, waving her fork in the air. “It's almost funny.”

  “Is your mom an actress?” I said, surprised. Although that could explain a lot. Perhaps the woman was vain or obsessed with fame and her career.

  “Yes,” Lucy replied. “Perhaps you've seen her Oscar winning performance—as an annoying blabbermouth.” She cackled at that, then reached for the remote control and clicked on the TV.

  Just then I realized I hadn't warmed up Amy's dinner yet, so I returned to the kitchen to set her fish and veggies in the oven. I eyed the clock that hung on the wall. The short hand was approaching the Roman numeral VIII. Amy could arrive any time now.

  Suddenly, Cappy appeared at my feet. Although I'd fed her dog food earlier in the evening, she clearly hadn't forgotten my promise to share the rice and green beans. So I set down a small dish for her, then returned to the living room just as Lucy said:

  “Hey, look, It's a Wonderful Life is about to start! I love that movie, don't you?”

  “Yeah...” I replied, feeling distracted. There was no way I could switch my focus to a three hour movie right now, especially one that I'd seen ten times already. “But...it's kind of long, isn't it?” I said, trying to break it gently to her. “Um, what time is it anyway? It's getting late...”

  With a laugh, Lucy said, “It's only eight o'clock! You're way too young to be tired at eight o'clock.” Then she turned the volume up as the music started. Feeling antsy, I paced around a bit, until I finally parked myself on the sofa.

 
I debated how to play this. I didn't want to offend Lucy, and I definitely didn't want to kick her while she was down about Helmuson. But before she'd burst in, I had been hoping to spend my evening making some sense of my investigation—weaving the threads I'd gathered so far into a semblance of a tapestry. Time was of the essence, especially if the woman who washed up in the Chicago River several days ago was, in fact, Suzie Diamanti. As it stood now, I couldn't exactly take my confused pile of speculation, office gossip, and conspiracy theory to Detective Frandsen the Go-Getter.

  If my neighbor weren't so temperamental, I could simply ask her for a rain check.

  I decided to suck it up. To watch the movie, think about Metropolax tomorrow. It wasn't worth making Lucy upset.

  Ten minutes into the film, I reconsidered. I just couldn't do this tonight. “Lucy, um, you know what? I'm pretty tired—no, no, not tired,” I amended before she could reject the idea and tell me I was too young to be tired. “What I mean is, I don't think I feel up to a movie tonight. I actually have a headache.”

  “Oh, then I'll turn the volume down a little. No problem.”

  “It's really pounding,” I insisted, touching my forehead.

  “Well, I don't mind putting the TV on mute, and just reading the Closed Caption,” she offered. I withheld a sigh. God, why did she have to make this so hard? Couldn't she pick up on social cues?

  “I really just need some time alone tonight. To get some rest,” I told her. “You don't mind, do you?”

  Her face dropped.

  Then the remote control dropped. It landed on the coffee table with a thud.

  “I see,” Lucy said, her tone now clipped and angry.

  “I hope you understand,” I began, futilely trying to smooth things over.