Lies in High Places

by Dana Killion

  Lies in High Places

  Dana Killion

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Did You Enjoy the Book?

  Next in the Series

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  1

  Which version of the truth was this?

  Making no effort to be subtle, I glanced at the clock on the wall and let out a breath. I was sitting at a conference table with fellow journalist Art Borkowski and Erik Martin, my boss and soon-to-be ex-husband. A desperately needed long weekend beckoned me, and I was anxious to get out of the office. Unfortunately, the conversation had drifted into male bravado. The men were spouting off journalistic fish tales experienced while scouring the streets of Chicago for a recalcitrant snitch or shadowing morally flexible cops. I knew that each telling of these stories grew more Herculean than the last. The boys were now playing a game of professional one-upmanship that stretched the imagination. And my patience. Of course, the exchange excluded me, the lone female in the room. It also made me want to retch. Just whip them out already and see who wins the prize for size. I sure didn’t care.

  “Guys, this is great fun, but could we get back on track?” I said, struggling to sound less annoyed than I felt. “I have a date with a beach chair in Michigan and wanted to be on the road half an hour ago.”

  “Of course, Andrea,” Erik said, flashing one of his you-know-you-love-me smiles. “Sorry we got off course. You know, war stories…”

  He’d somehow found a way to make me feel excluded and insecure, all in one sentence. Not that insecurity wasn’t something I’d felt every day of the last six months anyway, but I sure didn’t need it aired in front of Borkowski, the pro recently hired away from the Chicago Tribune. I was just the boss’s wife who had arm-twisted her way into a career change with her husband’s digital news organization, Link-Media.

  “I’ve got two actual stories in the works right now,” I said, moving the conversation back to the agenda items. “The proposed privatization of Midway Airport and an investigation into some funky financial transactions by Mayor Rendell—not sure if there’s anything there, but I’m digging.” I flipped back a few pages in my notebook. “We talked about running the Midway story next week. I’ll have it pulled together by end of day Monday.”

  Erik double-checked his production calendar, running his hands quickly through his sandy blond hair as he contemplated the schedule. “Perfect. We’ll post Tuesday, but run it by me first.”

  I nodded, struggling to ignore the huskiness of his voice.

  “Andrea, privatization will funnel a lot of dough into the local economy. I hope you’re not going to piss on that. Non-government workers gotta eat too,” Borkowski said, pushing his tortoiseshell reading glasses up to the spot on his head where five forlorn strands of hair were fighting their last, losing battle.

  I gripped the arms of my leather chair and pushed myself upright.

  “Are you telling me to slant a story, Art?”

  “I was suggesting you think about the financial implications of this deal for the city before this story is published.” A vein in his right temple pounded visibly and condescension dripped from his voice. “You’re not in a courtroom anymore. Doesn’t hurt to remember that this is more complex than the work you’ve done in the past. You’ve been here, what? All of four months?”

  “Well, Art, it’s been six months and this isn’t an op-ed piece,” I fired back, not giving him time to respond. “It sounds to me like you’ve got a personal opinion that you’d like shared with the world. Our job is to present the facts, not my singular viewpoint. There are winners and losers in this. At all levels. Those facts, that truth, that complexity, is what I will write.”

  Borkowski’s words were still ringing in my mind twenty minutes later as I drove south out of Chicago on the Dan Ryan Expressway. As was the pain of the divorce that had yanked my emotional compass straight out of my chest, placing hard jabs direct to my heart in the process. Emotionally, professionally, everything in my life was buried under a mantle of pain. I pulled some deep breaths into my lungs as I drove and pushed them out slowly, willing myself to leave the irritation behind and relax into the much-needed weekend of solitude.

  A call rang through the speaker of my Audi. Erik. Damn. I thumped my hand against the wheel, then reluctantly pushed the Bluetooth connection.

  “Hi Erik. What is it?”

  “I need you to come back to the office.”

  “Seriously, Erik? I’m almost at the Skyway.” The nearer we got to finalizing our divorce, the more often Erik seemed to fabricate reasons to keep me close. “I need this time alone,” I said, my voice a near whisper as I attempted to control emotions that were raw and bloody.

  Please, not this weekend. My body craved the release, the isolation, the time to focus on nothing but reading a good book and taking long, mind-clearing walks on the beach.

  “How far along are you on the piece about the mayor’s campaign contribution?”

  I sighed. “I have proof that Rendell has been depositing a number of large checks into a personal account. Campaign dollars? It’s not so clear. The source of the funds is the eyebrow raiser, but right now I don’t have adequate proof.”

  I could hear his other line ring in the background and the clicking of keys as he checked something on his computer.

  “Why the rush?” I asked. “Re-election mode won’t kick in for another thirty days, at least.”

  “Wrong. I just got word he’s about to announce a run for governor.”

  Damn! The 63rd Street exit was fifteen feet in front of me. I pulled off, turning left on the overpass, and swung back around, entering the northbound expressway. My mood had changed from irritation to excitement by the time I’d merged into traffic. It was only 2:30; traffic was light for a Friday and moving at a decent clip. If everything went smoothly, I could still be in Saugatuck in time for sunset.

  As Erik continued to fill me in on the developments, I ran through the details in my head, debating how I wanted to present the story. Circumstances were forcing my hand. I just didn’t have this tied up yet, but I’d have to proceed with what I had and backfill later. If all went well, Erik could make his edits, and I’d still have my weekend.

  “So you need to get on this. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how important this is. We’ll work with what you’ve got, but Andrea, we’re going to need that source.” A pause. “Or, if your vacation is more important, send your research over to Art.”

  “I’m already on my way back. Should be there in fifteen…”

  The Chicago skyline was fully in view when a deafening boom rattled the windows of my Audi.

  “What was that? Andrea, you there? Andrea
?”

  The call forgotten, I scanned the landscape for the source of the sound but saw only the black SUV four cars ahead of me flung into the concrete barrier. Stunned, I watched it ricochet off the embankment and veer right. Vehicles scattered like bumper cars in its wake and my world moved into helpless slow motion as I was broadsided. I gripped the wheel and struggled against the impact. Battling frantically for control, my hands were no match for the thrust, and my car was pulled into a tailspin.

  Hurled into the barricade, I was punched instantly in the chest and face with the air bag. Left, right, north, south, all sense of direction and place left me. As the car came to a stop, I gasped for breath. It was as if my lungs couldn’t fill completely with air. My body trembled as adrenaline and fear coursed through my veins. Lifting my head up from the dash, it felt heavy, throbbing from the jolt. Light smoke hung in the air, giving off an odd acrid smell. Afraid to move, I slowly flexed my limbs, wincing with the effort. Nothing seemed broken, at least at first impression. I fumbled for the seatbelt release, then pushed into the door with my arms, terrified of staying in the crushed metal a second longer as hissing steam rose from the front end.

  Stumbling out of the car, I took deep, slow breaths trying to coax my lungs back to full expansion. Leaning against the rear door, I struggled to control the shaking that had overtaken my body. A warm wetness dripped down my forehead onto my cheek. Lifting my hand to my head, I winced at my own touch and pulled back blood. While I fought for control of my breathing and my limbs, I looked around watching people exit their cars and fill the expressway on foot, some to escape, others to offer assistance. Debris and crumpled vehicles lined the pavement around me in the northbound lanes, as drivers in the southbound slowed to gape.

  The wail of sirens bounced through the fray as police and medical personnel began to arrive. Damaged vehicles hissed and smoked as EMT’s scurried to assist the victims. The stink of gasoline wafted past me as I watched, fixed in place, my body quaking. I could do nothing but will my legs to support me as I watched the chaos around me. The Toyota that had hit me sat disabled about ten feet away, its hood folded like a fortune cookie. The driver, a man in his early thirties, had pushed himself out through the missing front door and lay on the ground writhing, grabbing at his twisted right leg. Bone poked through the skin of his calf, blood trailing down from the wound as the medic stabilized his limb.

  In the next lane I could see a young girl who I guessed to be about eight, laying unconscious, sprawled across the pavement. Instinct and shock moved me toward her and the burgundy Dodge Caravan laying on its side. The girl’s hysterical parents hovered screaming for the paramedics’ attention, oblivious to their own wounds, pleading for her to wake up. She wasn’t responding. I stepped aside as two techs with a stretcher swooped in to assess her injuries. Checking her pulse, her pupils, her vital signs, the men worked to stabilize the girl while I stood immobilized by the parents’ panic and my own fog. Unsure what to do. Unsure where to go. My mind unable to function, unable to pull myself out of the vortex, I simply stood until the stretcher was moved to the ambulance and there was nothing more to watch.

  Reluctantly, I walked away, fearful for the girl’s outcome. Would she survive? What pain lay in front of her if she did?

  The black Escalade that had caused the accident rested on the shoulder. Terrified by my imagination, but unable to resist, I inched toward the car. The driver lay splayed on the pavement twenty feet in front of the vehicle, apparently thrown through the windshield.

  Shards of glass glistened around him like glitter, reflecting bursts of light and color against the black asphalt.

  Slowly, through the haze, my basic reporter instincts kicked in. Male. Dark, matted hair. Blood pooling in large swathes. Police and ambulance sirens continued to scream as additional support teams arrived, drilling their urgent demands into my head. Officials with dark uniforms and medical gear rushed past me, calling out codes, their voices insistent, but controlled. Blocking the chaotic activity around me, I continued toward the SUV. Unable to stop myself, I stepped closer, past the EMTs too occupied with their work to notice me. My chest tightened again as I got within five feet. Something was terribly wrong. His face was missing.

  Blood ran in streams toward my shoes. I stood frozen, staring at him, unable to help. Unable to do anything. It was far too late.

  I felt a hand on my arm pulling me away, but I couldn’t divert my eyes or control the choking horror in my throat.

  “Ma’am, are you okay?”

  I looked up into soft brown eyes. A man. Familiar. Someone I knew. But I couldn’t bring a name or place to the surface.

  “Are you injured?” The eyes scanned my face, did a once-over on my body, then returned to my forehead. “Andrea?”

  “He’s dead,” I said, fixated on the body in front of me.

  “Were you in the vehicle? Do you know this man?”

  “No.” My eyes were again locked on the expanding pool of blood. So much blood. I began to crumble, my legs no longer able to support me.

  Brown Eyes put an arm around my shoulder, steadying me, pulling my attention away from the body.

  “Andrea, are you hurt?” he asked again. Only then did I become aware of the police badge clipped to his belt.

  He seemed to know my name, but I couldn’t think, couldn’t place him, couldn’t get my head focused on anything but the pool of red in front of me.

  “My car is over there,” I choked out, nodding in the direction of my pile of twisted metal.

  “Let’s get that gash on your forehead looked at.” Gently, he steered me over to an ambulance. We stepped over scraps of plastic and chunks of metal. Past first responders. Past the injured. And the dead.

  He left me with an EMT, promising to check back. Police vehicles had barricaded the area now, shutting down the Dan Ryan Expressway, a major artery into Chicago. Numbly, I watched the police officers work the scene as the female technician dabbed at my head. She asked questions about what hurt and where, but it was as if someone had turned down the sound.

  As my head was bandaged, I was given instructions for dealing with the bruising of my chest that was sure to come from the airbag impact, and a cautionary note about being mindful for signs of concussion. Then the EMT rushed off to assist others.

  Slowly, the throbbing in my head pushed through the blur. I could now more lucidly observe the whole of the turmoil around me from my slumped, cross-legged spot on the blacktop. Time was hazy and I couldn’t tell how long I’d been sitting here. Long enough for the press to arrive. TV news helicopters hovered overhead, and reporters schemed to try to get the shot or the quote that would set them apart from the guy next to them. On the Garfield Street overpass above, I spotted Art Borkowski trying in vain to get a few comments from one of the officers pushing back the crowd.

  Oh, right, this is news. I should be doing something other than sitting here on my ass. I shifted my weight and tried to pull myself up, but the world around me spun and I landed on my elbow. Leaning back against the concrete, I took deep yoga breaths, releasing them slowly, and tried to regain control of my body. Just a few more minutes, I told myself. I watched as Borkowski struck out with the cop and was forced back behind a barricade with every other journalist who’d been angling for an exclusive comment. Just then he spotted me down below on the highway.

  Borkowski glared at me across the expanse, as if somehow I had arranged to put my life on the line just to scoop him on a story. I could almost hear the thoughts running through his head: What’s she doing here? Who tipped her off? I doubted he had even noticed I was sitting with a wad of cotton taped to my head and a bloodstained shirt. Would he have the balls to try to use me as a source? Would his ego get past the fact that he wasn’t the only Link-Media reporter on the scene?

  He was the only reporter if I was going to sit here, I realized. I kicked myself into gear and managed to get to my feet. Like it or not, I had a ringside seat to this mess, and it gave me an edge
.

  I looked around to get my bearings, taking note of the position of the vehicles, the personnel on the ground, the fine points of my surroundings. A medical helicopter had arrived, and the little girl would be airlifted, probably to Children’s Hospital. Her mother was still sobbing uncontrollably. On my right, a crowd of state police officers, CPD officers, and medical personnel gathered around the dead man. My focus was returning, journalistic instincts were kicking in. Techs measured, photographed, and tagged pieces of debris. I pulled out my cell phone and grabbed a few photos, careful not to draw attention to myself.

  About thirty feet ahead of me, a tall man in his early fifties seemed to be directing the investigation. I watched as uniformed cops and plainclothesmen checked in with him, took his lead. I didn’t recognize him. He was broad-shouldered with close-cropped blond hair and none of the swagger of a typical Chicago detective. This guy was buttoned-up, almost an FBI type; it was clear this was the man in charge. But in charge of what? I took another look. There were an awful lot of guys in gray suits running around the scene for a traffic accident, even one with fatalities. Was something else going on?

  “How’s your head?”

  Brown Eyes was back at my side. I tucked the phone quickly back into my pocket. With the shock of the accident subsiding, I was now lucid enough to recognize the man in front of me as Detective Michael Hewitt. We had worked together on a case a few years back, before I had resigned my position as a Cook County assistant state’s attorney for the dream of a journalism career.