by Dana Killion
“Did they give you anything for the pain? You’re going to have one nasty headache.” He winked, but his eyes were soft and full of concern.
“Hi, Michael. I should make some pathetic joke about not meeting like this, but my head hurts too much to come up with anything clever.”
“You recognize me now. I’ll take that as a good sign.”
“No permanent damage, luckily. I have meds to get me through the night and firm instructions to see my physician in the morning.” I smiled back, grateful for the inquiry and now clearheaded enough to appreciate the rich timbre of his voice. “Not everyone had luck on their side today. What happened? Why is this place crawling with detectives?”
“No, unfortunately, not everyone was lucky,” he said, ignoring my questions and flipping open a pad. “Can you tell me what you saw?”
I ran through the SUV swerving and striking the embankment, the other cars unable to avoid contact, and one bouncing me into a spin.
“Did you see anything that might explain why the SUV driver lost control? Debris in the road? Maybe an animal?”
“No. Nothing. Could have been out of my line of sight, but I didn’t see anything like that.”
He continued his notes, frowning as he tried to piece everything together. We ran through the typical questions of where I was and who did what when that could help diagram the accident.
When he seemed to be wrapping up his questions, I said, “You didn’t ask about what I heard.”
He lifted his head and looked at me. A flicker of confusion shaded his eyes.
“A loud bang. Possibly a gunshot,” I replied, waiting for a reaction. “Is this another highway shooting?” I held my gaze as steady as I could, watching for a glint of confirmation.
The pieces had started to click into place. Over the past month, two shootings had occurred on this stretch of the Dan Ryan; one struck an electrician from Gary on his way to a job site, and the second hit a tourist driving his family into Chicago for a weekend vacation. Both men died at the scene.
CPD attributed the shootings to an expanding gang turf war and their associated initiation rites. Gang problems weren’t exactly news on Chicago’s South Side, but this was pushing the killings into civilian territory. Was this accident a third shooting?
“Hang tight for a bit. I’ll have someone take you home as soon as we can. Obviously your car will have to be towed.”
“Is that a ‘no comment,’ officer?”
He gave me a hint of a smile. “We’re still investigating,” he replied, handing me his card.
Now fully alert, my mind raced with the implications—not just for the city at large—but at the opportunity that had been forced into my lap.
“Who is that guy?” I asked, not ready to abdicate my insider status, tipping my head in the direction of Mr. Gray Suit. “The one who looks like he’s a fed from central casting?”
Michael chuckled. “That’s Karl Janek. He’s heading up the investigation.”
“What’s his story? Was he formerly with the Bureau? Or maybe the IRS? He has that don’t-mess-with-me-because-I-have-no-sense-of-humor look about him.”
“No, he’s cool. He used to head up the Gang Enforcement Task Force before Mayor Rendell disbanded it.”
Michael turned to head back into the fray, giving me another wink over his shoulder.
There it was. I’d been dropped into the middle of Chicago’s hottest crime story. A story that, if done right, could forever eliminate any accusation that I was nothing more than the boss’s wife. A story that could solidify my career.
2
I watched the snarled traffic from the front seat of a Crown Vic as a uniformed CPD officer snaked his way toward my Gold Coast co-op. The benefit of a ride with flashing lights and permission to drive on the shoulder was immediately obvious. Too bad my escort was the strong, silent type. Pumping him for details on the cause of the accident, or Janek, or a connection to the highway shooting investigation, or anything, was yielding nothing more than “you’ll have to speak with the public affairs officer.” Obviously he’d been well prepped. After exhausting my immediate list of questions, I surrendered to the pounding in my head that rattled the contents of my brain with each pothole, wondering why the hell my tax dollars weren’t being spent on highway repair. Leaning back against the headrest, I closed my eyes for the balance of the ride and prayed for smoother streets.
The EMTs had insisted that a responsible adult meet me at the other end of the trip, so I called my closest friend, Cai Farrell, and asked her to come babysit. We’d been friends since the first year of law school at the University of Chicago, where we’d forged a bond over my struggles with contract law. She was brilliant, beautiful, and tough as nails, and I had bribed her with good wine until she agreed to tutor me. After graduation, she was the person who’d talked me through my decision to become a Cook County assistant state’s attorney in the Criminal Prosecution Division, while she went on to a much higher-paying gig with Chicago’s largest corporate law firm.
Cai had been there, too, when I walked away from ten years of tenure with the State of Illinois. The jail cell suicide of a teen I’d prosecuted had thrown me into turmoil. It had been a terrifying decision, particularly when I’d been walking toward something so nebulous. Racked with guilt and self-doubt, I hadn’t been able to live with the consequences. And now, six months in, my nose was still barely above water—but a life preserver might have just been tossed in my direction.
The officer pulled up in front of my eleven-story, 1920s brick building, lights flashing as he made a U-turn and double-parked in front of the door. A concerned doorman rushed out as the officer assisted me out of the car.
“Ms. Kellner, let me help you,” he said, taking my arm. “Ms. Farrell is in the lobby waiting for you. She told me about the accident. I just can’t believe it.”
“Thank you, Norman. Could you bring in my suitcase?”
“Of course, of course, don’t you worry about anything. You just go on up and get rested,” he said to me, then turned to the cop. “I’ll take good care of her.”
I thanked the officer and then walked the fifteen feet into the lobby. Each tiny movement of my head brought a new stab of pain. Cai sat in one of the leather wingback chairs, tapping at her phone, her face glowing in the dark, wood-paneled room. She jumped to her feet as she saw me and sprinted over.
“Honey, you’re a little confused about the concept of vacation,” she said, holding my shoulders, her brown eyes creased with concern. “Let’s get you upstairs. You’re looking wobbly.” She gave me a once over, pushed her long jet-black hair behind her ear, then pulled me across the room.
“Not exactly the afternoon I had planned,” I said, letting her lead. “Am I going to be ruining a hot date for you tonight?”
“Shut up and get in the elevator already, will you. There’s no date hot enough to leave you hurt and stranded.” She took my suitcase from Norman and we headed up.
Stepping off into the spacious vestibule on the eleventh floor, we could hear Walter meow even before I turned the key in the lock. Just the sight of luggage threw him into a bad case of separation anxiety. As I swung open the door, the little gray fur ball shot at my legs. His mournful cries echoed into the hall until I gently scooped him up and felt his body go limp.
“While you make nice with that furry dishrag of yours, I’m going to put your bag in the bedroom.”
“He’s a Ragdoll cat, not a dishrag cat,” I laughed.
“Whatever. All I know is that the damn thing seems to have rubber bones. Now sit your ass down. Last thing I want is for you to pass out or something on my watch.” Cai wagged a finger at me as she left with the satchel.
Becoming a couch potato could wait another minute or two. I had a feeling that once I was down, I’d want to stay there. Instead, I walked through the dining room, past my tarp-covered table and around the stash of toolboxes, nail guns, and ladders that filled the corners of the space, turning my ho
me into a remodeling war zone. The beautiful herringbone floors I’d fallen in love with at first sight were covered with paper. The marble fireplace mantle was shrouded in plastic, a gift to be rediscovered when power tools no longer accessorized the room. Provided I’d be able to keep the apartment post-divorce.
Anxiety over my uncertain financial future could wait for another day. I shut down the thoughts and opened a closet near the kitchen. I grabbed a bottle from the wine rack and returned to the living room with two glasses, a corkscrew, and a Cakebread Dancing Bear Cabernet.
“Is that a good idea?” Cai asked, as she caught me wrestling with the cork. “I know it is for me, but you’re an invalid. I’m fully prepared to rush you over to the emergency room at Northwestern Hospital if I need to, but I can think of better ways to spend an evening.” She grabbed the opener from my hand. “Yum, I see we’re opening the good stuff.” Parking herself on the couch next to me, she poured a finger of the rich burgundy liquid for me and four for herself.
“It’s a horrible idea, but I’m going to do it anyway. If I can’t have my beach weekend, I at least deserve some good booze.” I lifted the glass off the walnut coffee table, and we clinked, toasting the fact that I was only bruised and battered. Leaning back against the down cushions, I winced with the effort, feeling sore from the air bag impact. Walter rubbed against my arm, demanding to be loved.
Cai stood, walked over to open the three sets of French doors to the terrace, then returned to the sofa.
“You need some fresh air in this place. All I can smell is tile adhesive. Now that you’re settled, tell me what the hell happened.”
“Four cars. One guy with a broken leg, a little girl who had to be airlifted. Didn’t look good. And one fatality that I know of.” I spouted off the salient points first, then filled in the gaps, answering her questions as I relived the incident. “It’s going to be a long time before I can think about what was left of that guy’s face without hyperventilating,” I said, shuddering again at the image of torn flesh. I laid my head back and let the gentle breeze of the early summer evening wash over me, hoping it would combine with the alcohol and ease the hammer pummeling my head. If not, the pain meds were in my bag. I looked over at Cai and sighed. “I think the driver was shot.”
“Shot? Does that mean this was another highway shooting?”
The insistent thump of a hand against the carved wood of the front door resounded through the room. “Andrea!” came Erik’s unmistakable voice.
“Not now…” I said, closing my eyes. In the insanity of the afternoon’s event, calling Erik with an update had not even been a thought, but another confrontation was more than I could stomach right now.
“Do you want me to get that? I’d be happy to tell him where to go.”
“And I’d love to watch.” I laughed, which only increased the throbbing in my head. “Tell him I’m okay and I’ll call—”
Just then the door swung open. I hadn’t latched the door. “I’ve been calling you for hours! You said you’d be in the office in fifteen minutes. Then the phone goes dead. What the hell happened? Oh, I see. Playtime get in the way of your job?” He glared at Cai as he crossed the room, as if she, somehow, was responsible for my failure to return.
Not having the energy for his temper tantrum, I let him rant until he was standing in front of me and finally noticed my condition. Watching his face shift from anger to confusion to concern in the span of three seconds. Cai stood patiently alongside him, ready to act as bouncer if I gave the nod.
“I was in a car accident on my way back to the office,” I said. “Multiple cars. One fatality. Didn’t you hear about it? Shut down the Dan Ryan. Borkowski was covering the story. He saw me. Didn’t he call you?”
Noting the shock in his eyes as he shook his head, I softened my tone, but only slightly.
“I’ll be okay, but checking phone messages wasn’t a priority. Sorry to worry you but you really shouldn’t be storming in here like this.”
I watched his body deflate and his eyes stray off as he racked his brain for something to say.
“I, ah, was in off-site meetings. I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were involved.” He scanned my face, my body, as the magnitude of the incident slapped him sober. Fear and the horror of what might have happened, all washed over his face as we looked at each other. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“The car’s totaled, but I’ll heal,” I said, reaching for my wine glass, forcing any remaining feelings I had for him into the pit of my stomach where I couldn’t reach them. At least that’s what I told myself. I had to stay strong. I couldn’t allow this moment to make me vulnerable again, regardless of the pain in his eyes. I’d been there, already. I had that T-shirt, and it was three sizes too small.
Cai remained at attention, her eyes on me, alert for any sign that it was time to give Erik the heave-ho and escort him out. I could read the mix of amusement and contempt in her eyes despite her practiced lawyer mask. She knew my pain and what a manipulative son-of-a-bitch I had married.
“I’ll be in on Monday,” I said, signaling that it was time for him to leave.
Ignoring my cue, he moved around the coffee table to sit next to me. Walter hissed his disapproval of the intrusion. Smart cat. Looking at my bandaged head, Erik said, “That looks painful. What can I do? Do you want me to stay?” His eyes were soft and expectant, his lush voice concerned, having sensed an opportunity to nurse me back to health. And back into his bed.
Cai coughed, fake and hollow. A reminder to me of Erik’s games.
“I need a few days of rest, that’s all. I’ll see you on Monday. At work,” I added, shutting him down.
This time he got the point. After asking me to call any time, day or night, if I needed him, he left.
Cai was already heading over to flip the deadbolt. “You have to stop leaving that door unlatched. I know it’s a private foyer, but women who live alone shouldn’t be so cavalier about their safety.”
“I know, it’s a bad habit. The doormen look out for me.”
Cai gave me a long hard stare. “Then why did they let lover boy come up without a call? Never mind, I’ll save the lecture for another day. But I am wondering what had Erik so tied up that he didn’t know about this.” She settled on the couch and poured another glass of wine.
“Knowing him as I do, it was most likely his latest conquest. A twenty-two-year-old model, ready, willing, and able, could keep him occupied for a long time.”
“Please, half an hour, tops. Wham, bam. There’s always another twenty-two-year-old model.”
I shrugged trying to hold back the painful memories.
“Thankfully, it’s none of my business any longer.”
“Maybe,” she said, her tone skeptical. “But it sure gives you leverage in your divorce. What is it about middle-aged men and young party-girl types, all cleavage and too dumb to ask questions? Sure ain’t the conversation…”
I closed my eyes again as she spoke, forcing down the thorny knot in my throat and holding back the tears that threatened to spill from behind my lids. Cai’s words were true, but a sad, painful testament to my discovery of Erik’s betrayals three months after I started working at Link-Media. I was still raw, the wound only starting to crust over. No longer able to tolerate being the collateral damage in his midlife crisis, I had filed for divorce. But could I keep that damage out of my professional life? I looked around at the wonderful apartment we had purchased together—the home I might need to give up—and was filled with sadness.
“I’m sorry. I’m upsetting you,” Cai said, seeing me start to curl into a ball. “Ignore me. I should know better than to rip off the Band-Aid, especially after the day you’ve had.”
“Just bad timing.” I shifted a pillow into the small of my back, searching for a position that would ease the ache, and took another sip of wine, trying to shake off the dark cloud. “Do you remember Michael Hewitt?” I asked, anxious for the conversation to move toward more constructive
ground. “I worked with him about two years ago on that case with the vigilante deli owner.”
“Of course I remember the case. Damn near devastated you. Hewitt, I can’t place.”
“Well, he worked this afternoon’s accident. He tells me that his partner, the lead detective assigned to this incident, is also the former head of the Gang Enforcement Task Force.”
I pulled myself upright and leaned my elbows into my knees. If a former gang officer was leading the charge, that could mean this incident was related to the prior shootings. The throbbing in my head may have become a barrage, but speculation about a connection between incidents pushed through the pain.
“Janek is in charge?”
“Yeah, you know him?” I’d heard his name in the past, but had no context beyond his title.
“Well, I know that he and Police Superintendent Wachowski had a huge blow-up over the disbanding of the unit.”
“I thought it was consolidated into the Organized Crime Division due to budget cuts? Was there something else going on?”
At the time, it had seemed a nonevent. Nothing more than a little housekeeping by a city with big budget problems.
“You know that our firm handles the personal affairs of a few of the guys in the mayor’s inner circle, and, ah, we hear things.”
I could see the conflicting emotions pass over her face. Which meant she knew more than she could say.
“Obviously I can’t name clients, but what I hear is that Mayor Rendell appointed Wachowski after some dirt bubbled to the surface that could have pulled CPD into the shit hole again. Pulled a quick management switcheroo to handle the clean-up.”
“The abrupt leadership change surprised everyone.”
“Rendell started tossing anyone that added to the baggage. Public pressure will push buttons when a mayor wants to get an agenda passed.”
“You mean when he wants to get reelected.” Rendell’s gubernatorial plans flowed back into my mind. Scandal and failure to police the police didn’t have good optics for a run as the state’s top administrator. “So what were they hiding?”