Lies in High Places

by Dana Killion

  As I viewed the scene, piecing together which cars had gone where, I tried to diagram them mentally from impact to obstacle to resting place. But the haze of having been in the middle of the incident was clouding my memory. As an attorney, I’d been on the other side of this conversation many times, prodding a victim to re-create an incident. I’d heard the hesitation, the uncertainty, the it-all-happened-so-fast that was such a common part of human traumatic memory. More challenging still were the victims who were one hundred percent certain their memory was spot-on, only to be proven completely off by concrete facts. Now here I was, experiencing my own version of fluid memory.

  The shooter had probably been only a few feet from where I stood. What scuffle could have inadvertently delivered that shot? None. It wasn’t possible. He chose his target. I took a few more photos, then crouched down to the level of the tallest weeds to check visibility.

  “Ma’am, please step away from the fence.”

  I turned toward the voice. Detective Michael Hewitt and Detective Karl Janek stood three steps behind me.

  “You’ll have to share your secret route out of the Loop,” Michael said.

  I got to my feet and smiled, but quickly slipped the phone back into my pocket. The set of Janek’s jaw told me he wasn’t thrilled to find me poking around.

  Michael gave a harder look to the remnants of Friday’s accident still branding my forehead before finding my eyes. “I trust we got you home safely on Friday.”

  “Yes, thank you. Just some nasty bruising. Nothing that won’t heal.” Aside from the woozy Friday afternoon and our brief encounter earlier today, we hadn’t seen each other since the deli case, but my memory of those gorgeous chocolate eyes and strong shoulders certainly hadn’t been faulty.

  Michael’s smile flickered briefly as Janek cleared his throat.

  “Detective Janek, this is Andrea Kellner. She was one of the victims in Friday’s incident.”

  Janek was tall, topping Michael by a few inches, with intense blue eyes, a chiseled face, and closely cropped blond hair. He was built more like a distance runner than a cop.

  “And why are you here, Andrea Kellner?” Janek asked, ignoring my outstretched hand.

  I fished a business card out of my bag and handed it to him. His brows contracted, and he pushed the card back at me.

  “Keep it,” I said. “You never know when we might be able to help each other out.”

  “Not likely. The last thing I need is somebody wordsmithing my statements. You can get what you need from the press liaison like everyone else.” He turned to Michael, who swung his eyes from me back to his partner. “Did you know she was press?”

  “She’s also a witness,” Michael reminded him, not missing a beat.

  The man could stand up to Janek. Good. That scored him a point or two.

  “I asked what you were doing here,” Janek repeated, his gaze drilling straight into me.

  As expected, he was the straight-talking type, a quality I could respect. “I was curious about what makes gang rivals shoot across a highway. Looks more like target practice to me.” I hadn’t consciously formed that thought before I said it, but the idea had been gnawing at the back of my mind.

  “As we’ve already told the press, some pressure exists between two rival gangs in this neighborhood over control of boundaries. Unfortunately, a member of the general public got caught in the crossfire.” He’d pitched that line before. I guess he could dish out political rhetoric if he had to. But did he believe that was the full story?

  “You mean three, don’t you?” I shifted my feet, squaring off with Janek. “Three members of the general public just happened to get caught in the crossfire. And now they’re dead.”

  Janek’s jaw clenched, and a vein on his left temple throbbed as we stared each other down. Michael’s expression suggested he couldn’t tell whether to cheer me on or toe the company line.

  “Regrettably, yes,” Janek replied. “There have been three fatalities.” His voice had softened, but there wasn’t the slightest shift in the hardness of his face. “I know people like you think in soundbites. You’ve gotten yours. Gang violence. Happens every day in Englewood. Pull the official statement from the press office and just cut and paste. It’s what you people do best.”

  “Okay, you think journalists are a step above sewer water. I get that. I even agree with you most of the time. Lazy permeates this business. Let me show you I’m not one of the pack. Work with me. Give me something I won’t get on Twitter. Tell me something you haven’t released. Let me dangle the bait and help you reel in someone who knows what really happened. What have you got to lose? We both want the shooter behind bars.”

  “I’ve said everything I need to say.” He stepped away, dismissing me, moving south along the fence through the weeds.

  “Okay. We’ll play it your way,” I said to his back. “Are you trying to suggest that the Gangster Disciples and the Black Disciples are fighting for control of northbound versus southbound lanes of the Dan Ryan?” I continued, shooting for incredulous.

  It was a wise-ass question, but I wanted to push Janek, to let him know I wasn’t going to be satisfied with vague remarks about gang problems, as if who, how, where, and why didn’t matter. Janek’s tone also had me feeling prickly. The press was a thorn in his side, and I was just another part of the bramble. But I could use that. Would pushing his buttons loosen his self-control?

  Janek stopped and turned to face me. His bitter gaze told me everything I needed to know about his fortitude. But it was progress of sorts—at least I had his attention. For a second, anyway.

  “Based on your handy-dandy police tape, we seem to have a shooter who was standing at the eastern edge of the expressway fence, roughly within ten feet, more or less, from where we are, aiming southwest.” I gestured toward the ground between us, toward what I guessed to be the location of the shooter. “He then delivered a direct hit to a target moving about forty miles an hour in northbound lane number two. This driver careened into the right barricade, played bumper cars with everyone around him, including me, flipped a couple times, finally coming to rest, literally and figuratively, on the far-left shoulder. Have I summed up the course of events correctly?”

  “Yes.” Janek said nothing more, but his glacial eyes told me he was anticipating my next question.

  I paused a moment, glancing at Michael. He wisely stayed silent, scanning the west frontage and letting Janek squirm.

  “If you still want me to believe this victim got caught in the crossfire, then who or what was the real target?”

  10

  I jumped out of a taxi at Franklin and Chestnut to meet Cai for a drink. Stepping to the curb, I checked the plunge on my Helmut Lang dress, hoping I’d achieved the proper balance between sexy and sophisticated. The smile of the guy grabbing my cab said that I had. I smiled back, getting into the mood of the evening.

  It still felt odd to go to favorite restaurants without Erik, places we had shared tender moments and fonder memories. I was keenly aware of my singleness as I pulled open the glass door at MK and stepped inside. Pausing in the entrance, I gave myself a minute to adjust to the dimmer lighting. The setting sun filtered down from the large, peaked skylight in the dining room, casting shadows on the tall floral arrangements and the Richard Serra prints on the walls. The double-height wooden trussed ceiling added to the elegant warehouse feel of the space. Subdued chatter and light jazz filled the air from the fully booked dining room.

  “Ms. Kellner, how nice to see you.” Jose, the mâitre d’, had caught sight of me and hurried over to say hello. “I didn’t see a reservation. If you can give me just a few moments to clear a table, I can get you seated. Is Mr. Martin joining you this evening?”

  “No need to hustle anyone away from their meal. I’m meeting a friend for a drink in the bar.”

  “Very well. Let’s get you seated.” He led me over to a cafe table next to the steel-framed industrial windows. “If you decide to join us for
dinner, just let me know. Chef Williams has an outstanding scallop preparation this evening.”

  “Thank you. It sounds lovely.” No sign of Cai. A waiter appeared shortly after I settled into my seat. I ordered a Pellegrino with lemon and a glass of Nebbiolo. The heavy dose of girl time was Cai’s way of keeping an eye on me. After telling her about last night’s moment of weakness with Erik, she’d apparently decided I must have suffered a minor brain injury when I hit my head on the steering wheel, and insisted on another checkin tonight, despite assurances that I’d come to my senses. Bribing me with a trip to my favorite restaurant had sealed the deal.

  As I listened to David Sanborn and sipped my wine, I scanned the Link-Media website, pleased to see that my Midway story had posted. I’d spent most of the afternoon tracking down the source on my mayor story, eventually cornering her as she left her new job. Unfortunately, when pressed for details, it became clear that she was nothing more than an employee with an active imagination and a pink slip. I jotted Erik a note that the story had flamed out, then opened my email. A couple of newsletters, early reader feedback on my story that suggested I’d hit a nerve, and a note from Erik that he wanted to talk about last night. Sorry, nothing to talk about. I was too confused and angry to respond. Angry with myself for the crack in my armor and angry at him for whatever financial maneuvering he was involved in.

  Annoyed all over again, I pulled my attention back to the mail. As usual, it was mostly junk, but on the off chance I had missed a story lead or something else of substance, I scanned the subject headings one more time.

  The subject line, “Killer or Thief?” made me pause. The sender, sgnt1764@hotmail.com was unfamiliar. It sounded like spam for the latest health scare: You too can be saved by sending $29.99 for our special herbal supplement. I opened it anyway, expecting Delete to be the next key I hit. Instead, I stared at the words on the screen, reading them over and over, trying to decipher the nebulous message.

  Violence and blight and injustice deceive. Discarded lives and discarded dreams. Throwaway people that nobody sees. Shielding the truth. Hiding the greed. How far will they go? How many will bleed? Will you take on the task? Uncover the deed? I know who he is.

  Could the sender mean the highway shooter? Was someone trying to give me a tip? Or was this just gibberish from an individual with mental health issues? I had the feeling I was being baited. Being dared to engage with an author who chose not to reveal his name. Construing this as a message about gangs and the residents of Englewood was reaching. However, the words echoed over and over in my mind. Or was I overreacting? Hoping for a lead because I wanted one? Needed one?

  “That dress suits you.”

  I looked up from my phone to find Michael Hewitt on the opposite side of the table. The rich indigo of his crinkled cotton shirt added depth and sparkle to his brown eyes, even in the dim light. His smile was warm and relaxed, giving me the impression he was pleasantly surprised to see me—or maybe it was just the off-duty atmosphere. If blushing were one of my tendencies, I would have gone pink at the look on his face.

  “Are you coming or going?” I tipped my head toward the restaurant.

  “Just finished dinner with a college buddy who’s in town for a few days.” He glanced at the empty chair. “Are you meeting someone?”

  “A friend who seems to be running quite late. Would you like to join me?” The invitation slid out without a second’s hesitation, and it felt good. Easy even. Was it Michael, or was I just getting comfortable with the idea of dating again?

  “Must be a weird moon or something. I haven’t seen you in over two years, now all of a sudden, three times in one day.” He pulled out the chair and sat. “Your date isn’t going to swoop in and play tough guy is he? I’d hate to cause a scene that would get me kicked out of one of the best restaurants in town.”

  I laughed. “My ‘date’ is my dearest friend, Cai. And if she walked in and saw me having a drink with a man, she’d send over another round and cheer me on. I assure you, no testosterone-fueled confrontations will be required. Although given the state of my life these days, it sounds kind of appealing.”

  “That’s a good friend to have.” He chuckled, leaning back in his chair and looking at me as if he were trying to figure out if I was serious.

  Our waiter reappeared and Michael ordered a small-batch scotch that I’d never heard of while I declined a refill. After overdoing it last night, one glass was plenty. We listened to the sultry horn in the background and filled the space with chitchat about work and people we knew in common until his drink arrived.

  “Do you do a lot of origami?” Michael asked a moment later.

  I laughed. “Where did that come from?”

  “Well, the way you keep folding that cocktail napkin, I thought maybe a baby swan would be gracing the table.”

  I looked down at the paper mangled in my fingers, shook my head, and sighed.

  “Uncomfortable?” Michael asked.

  His eyes were soft, but probing, drawing me in. He twirled the ice cube in his glass waiting for me to answer.

  “No, just out of practice being alone with a man in a social situation.” I answered honestly, perhaps more honestly than I should have.

  “Ah, you’re new to dating as a grown-up.” He held up his left hand with its bare ring finger and nodded knowingly.

  “Have yet to make that maiden voyage after fourteen years of marriage.”

  I didn’t want to be reminded of Erik right now, or my failed marriage, or the uncertainty of my financial future, or even work. Tonight I needed to enjoy the moment. To feel myself flush from male attention. To feel the anticipation of a touch or a first kiss. Did I even remember how?

  Michael’s gaze flickered over my face as if he wanted to say something. I sat unable to meet his eyes, instead watching his fingers as they trailed over the smoothness of his glass, imagining those same fingers tracing a path on my skin. Torn between the awareness of my attraction to him and the knowledge that even the suggestion of a relationship between us was ill-advised, I let my words hang in the air. We both knew better than to make this personal. Didn’t we?

  “Does it get easier?” I asked after what seemed like an endless silence.

  “Well, a few butterflies are a requirement of any good date don’t you think?”

  We let the drinks and light conversation do their job, changing the subject, putting us both in a more relaxed mood. Our chatter drifted through families, favorites, and avoided the details of our respective failed relationships.

  A server appeared, placing two small plates in front of us.

  “Chef Williams sent this out with his compliments, Ms. Kellner. Enjoy,” she said.

  Michael and I devoured the small plates of seared sea scallops with asparagus and fava beans, simultaneously releasing an appreciative sigh.

  “I don’t get here often, but all I can say is ‘wow.’ Do your friends hit you up for your MK connection? Obviously you’re a regular.”

  “I rarely bring anyone here. I’m afraid it will become one of those places where it takes six months to get a reservation.”

  I could feel my cell phone ping a new message through the leather of my clutch, resting on the seat next to me.

  “I’m sorry, I have to check this,” I said, pulling my phone out of my bag. “It’s probably my friend officially blowing me off.”

  Yep, a text from Cai had landed. A deposition had run over and she wasn’t going to be able to join me. The email from Sgnt1764 was still gnawing at me and I stole another look, all thoughts of Cai rushing out of my brain as I read.

  “Is everything all right?” Michael asked.

  My mind froze. Running through the strange poem, trying to read between the lines and understand the message he was sending me. I wanted to shake it off, turn my attention back to Michael, but there it was, taunting me from the screen.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t normally bow to the smartphone gods. My friend did cancel, but I also received s
ome information on a story. A piece of the puzzle may have just come through.” The urge to share the email with Michael washed over me, as did the urge to pump him for information on the highway shootings. But my timing was horrid. Nothing productive would come of that, professionally or personally. So I turned off the phone and stored it. The message could wait until I was alone and had thought through my response.

  “Hey, my job isn’t exactly nine-to-five either. As long as you’re not scouring Amazon because you’re bored. I have a bit of experience with puzzles myself. Maybe I can help?”

  He laughed, but I could see a flicker of something in his face. Annoyance? Disappointment? Curiosity? A desire to check his own email?

  “24-7 jobs can be tough on relationships,” I added, taking liberties with his response. We hadn’t gotten to the point of sharing our romantic war stories, but, something in his expression made me want to ask.

  His shoulders slumped as his finger trailed the condensation on the side of his glass. “So is the possibility of coming home in a body bag.”

  “Your wife couldn’t deal with that?”

  “Theory and reality sometimes don’t mesh. She had visions of me behind a desk, knocking heads with politicians, not punks.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  “I like to dig in the dirt. To solve those puzzles. Desk work isn’t messy enough.” He stared out the window, lost in his memories for a moment, as I watched the pain that even the cop in him couldn’t hide. “It was an impasse we couldn’t work around,” he said.

  A flush of heat ran up the back of my neck. I decided then and there that I really liked this guy. Despite his profession, despite his need to be a guy who couldn’t be ruffled, in this brief moment and with only a few words, he had shown how deeply he could feel.