Lies in High Places

by Dana Killion

  Brynn could dig. If there were a live link buried somewhere deep on a server in Russia, she’d locate it. I opened the French doors to the terrace and picked up my phone to call her, parking myself on a chaise before delivering the news.

  “Sorry to interrupt your Saturday, but I wanted you to know that yesterday after you left, Erik fired me.”

  “What? He can’t do that.”

  “Yeah, he can. Apparently, he disagreed with how I handled Platt. The timing isn’t ideal, but we were on this path one way or another.”

  “What happens to the highway story?” she asked, and then, her voice softer, “What happens to me?”

  “I’m not sure.” It seemed unlikely that Borkowski would pick up the story and even more unlikely that Brynn would be given a shot at stepping beyond administrative work. “I wish I could give you some assurances.”

  “Don’t worry about me, I’ll figure something out. But, this story will get buried if you walk away. Whatever you need, I’ll be there. You’ve gotta find a way to get at the truth or we’ll never know why these people were killed.”

  I’d already come to the same conclusion. I promised Brynn I’d be in touch and ended the call.

  The warmth of the sun felt magnificent as I leaned back on the chaise and surveyed the terrace that wrapped three sides of the apartment. I’d fallen in love with the luxury of the large outdoor space the moment I’d seen the apartment. Now sporting slate tile, lushly planted boxes, and a smattering of comfortable furniture, it had been my first renovation priority. A grand lady who had been loved and then neglected, the co-op had been quietly begging to be made beautiful again. I thought I was the one to restore her plaster walls, coffered ceilings, and inlaid flooring. But after yesterday, would someone else have to do the honors? Would I lose my cherished home along with my job and my marriage?

  I stared at the skyline, hoping for a flash of genius to strike. Instead there was a ping as an email came in on my phone. A response from sgnt1764. I bolted upright and read. Thank god Erik hadn’t cut off my account access yet.

  Illusion and mirrors. Deception and lies. What is the goal? What is the prize?

  Have you asked the right questions? Can you see through the haze? Are you up to the task or lost in the maze?

  Who stands to profit? What’s the secret within?

  Killer or thief, the goal is the same.

  I Know Who He Is!

  Heat flushed the back of my neck. The highway sniper. This guy knew the highway sniper. I read the note again. Deception. Goal. Prize. He was telling me the cops had it wrong—that there was more to the story, just as I suspected. And for the second time he’d used the word profit.

  “When can we meet?” I immediately shot back. I stared at my inbox, willing him to be patiently waiting, ready to give me an instantaneous response.

  Deception. Were the shootings being credited to the wrong people? My initial instinct had been targeted hits, not random stray shots. But the victims had checked out. Average Joes with average lives, going about their business. Michael had dismissed Angel Velasquez’s past gang association as a motive. Maybe random was the point? What’s more frightening than a sniper on the loose with no rhyme or reason to his targets? Any one of us could be next. What did the sniper want us afraid of? Gangs were obvious. Was that the deception—a misdirection?

  Or was that the distraction? If so, what was the goal, other than fear? What was the prize? Location? Were the shootings tied to the real estate activity? If so, that explained his reference to profit.

  Giddy with new purpose, I returned to the dining table.

  It had to be the location. I pulled a map out of my folder and spread it out on the table. Brynn had already marked the shooting locations in red. I added a blue dot at the paintbrush factory and another for the neighboring building to signify the sales. Riffling through my tote bag, I pulled the transaction list out of the file folder and started working down chronologically, marking each sale on the map.

  “Botox won’t take care of a saggy neck, so I’d give more thought to your posture if I were you. Chin up, honey. Keep it taut.”

  I’d been so engrossed in my work, I hadn’t noticed Lane standing in the center of my living room. Once again, I’d forgotten to latch the door.

  “The doorman is supposed call before sending anyone up,” I said, folding up the map and sliding it back into the folder.

  “Norman and I are buds. He knew you were home so…”

  “If you’ve stopped to buy me lunch, I’ve already eaten. I’ll take a rain check, though.”

  The dig slipped out before I could catch myself. Her indebtedness had gotten so out of control that three years ago I’d set up a spreadsheet to track my contributions to the Lane Kellner emergency fund. She was always just one more big deal away from settling up. Maybe when pigs flew, or it snowed in July, or I just stopped feeling like a guilty shmuck.

  She plopped into the chair across the table. Her bleached hair blown out too big, her tight, red crepe skirt too short, her print blouse one size too small, and one too many buttons undone. I guess we both broke the conservative Midwestern dress rules. The gray and navy pantsuits of my legal career had quickly been replaced by a curated selection of architecturally inspired wardrobe basics.

  “You know me, Diet Coke and a Clif bar get me through the day.” She flipped a loose strand of hair out of her eyes and wiggled in her seat like a kid about to get the super-sized hot fudge sundae. “I’ve got a proposal. An amazing deal, actually. It’s time you start thinking about next, don’t you think? Your financial next. Life post-Erik. Invest some of that divorce dough. Protect yourself.”

  She leaned over, fishing around for something in her bag.

  “Lane, please! Flashing me your boobs isn’t going to get me to do anything but run screaming from the room. Button it back up.”

  “When did you become a prude?”

  “Hardly. But getting a peek at my sister’s nipple is not in my top five good surprises.”

  She humphed and straightened up. And, thankfully, adjusted the gapping silk.

  “I think you’re on to something with your tip on Englewood. It’s been a while since I’ve been ready to invest myself, but I looked at the market conditions, and I can see a tremendous upside.”

  Her sales voice was switched on, and I knew already that I wasn’t going to like what came next. She shoved a couple of documents across at me as I waited for the pitch.

  “I talked to one of my banking contacts. It’s not official yet, but this could be solid.” She tapped her finger on the page. “Said he hasn’t talked to anyone else, but the deal won’t last. There are two conjoining properties.”

  “What are you talking about? What properties?”

  “Right here.” She moved the document closer to me. “About a block east from that factory you talked about, marching fast toward bankruptcy, and we have the inside scoop. I figure we can get in for about $130,000, might go as high as $145,000 each. We do a quick clean and paint, contact the boys who bought the factory, then flip the suckers for twice what we paid within six months. Or sit on the sidelines for the cash flow.”

  I felt my jaw clench and my head swing side to side. I should have known my questions would light up the greed region in her cerebral cortex— “Deal, deal, deal!” in flashing red lights. And I was supposed to be the finance guy.

  “We? I can guess what that means,” I said, unable to keep my tone neutral. “Do you really think I need to complicate my life any more than it is already? You want me scrubbing floors and wielding a paint roller as I field calls from divorce attorneys, and—by the way—try to do my job?”

  “You’re being dramatic again,” she said, inspecting the gold bangle on her wrist and shifting in the rickety chair. “I know people. We hire out. This is what I do, remember? I promise you wouldn’t even chip your manicure in the process. You’d be the silent partner.”

  “You mean I’d be the banker.” I pushed the doc
ument back at her.

  With a sigh, she flopped back in the chair, and shook her head. As if this were merely Monopoly money and a damn good deal obvious to anyone smart enough to see it.

  “Lane, don’t go there. You’re into me for a solid twenty grand right now. I’m not your damn bookie.”

  “I’m not asking for a loan,” she shot back. “I brought an investment opportunity to my sister. You know, even if you do get alimony, it won’t last forever. Think about it. You’ve got adjustments to make. Your salary isn’t going to fill the gap between the lifestyle you’ve been accustomed to and your new reality. Renovation costs, new furniture, and the monthly HOAs on this place aren’t exactly cheap. I’m not saying you’re going to be left with a beans-and-rice budget; your attorney’s no novice. But if it were me, I would’ve gone with more of the pit bull type. Bury Erik in subpoenas and see when he plays chicken.”

  “Thanks for the divorce strategy advice, but I don’t want to hear it. Backseat driving isn’t helpful. Surprising, I know, but I’d prefer not to hate my ex-husband.”

  “Okay, okay. Touchy subject. I’m just looking out for you.” She laid an MLS printout on the table, tapping her finger on the two properties. “Honey, it’s time to get smart. Think about it.”

  I was getting smart all right. Smart to Lane’s schemes. I tried to push the truth of my financial vulnerability to the background. Reality could wait.

  Divorce attorneys had a way of taking what seemed simple, straightforward, and twisting it into some Rubik’s cube. Pre-divorce assets. Marital assets. Depositions. Motions. Was that stupid, god-awful ugly ruby necklace he gave me eight years ago a gift, or something to add to the balance sheet? And that didn’t even factor in my current employment status.

  A ball of foil gum wrapper bounced off my forehead and pulled me back to the here and now.

  “You with me? Or did you shift off into dreamland?”

  More like a waking nightmare. I glared at her. How could she even bring a real estate purchase up right now? “Lane, I can’t go there. It may be a good investment, but I just can’t cope.” I turned back to my computer, ready for this conversation to be over.

  She sighed one more time, then grabbed her notes.

  “All right, but you’re missing a great deal. I thought I should make the offer, sister to sister, but I’ll move on to someone else.”

  “How about putting a dent in what you owe me before you move on?”

  Again, the jab came out before I could stop it, but this one I didn’t regret. I was frustrated. I was angry. I was hurt. And if Lane was going to be the one to turn the knife, she should expect whatever venom spewed out.

  She smiled sweetly as she stood, yanking her skirt back into place.

  “Got a sale closing next week. I’ll send you a check off the top.”

  “Sure,” I said, not looking up from my laptop. Been there. Done that. Got the stupid T-shirt. And didn’t have the energy to remind her of any of it.

  She swung her purse over her shoulder and headed off to look for a more gullible partner, while I turned my attention back to my computer and forced back the tears. Damn it! Why was I crying? Was it the truth of Lane’s financial warning, the continuing agony of Erik’s betrayal, or the endless responsibility I felt for Lane?

  I wiped my eyes, took in a deep breath and shut everything out of my mind, everything except the shootings.

  24

  Cai sat at a small table on the outdoor patio at Nico next to a lushly planted box of herbs and trailing vines. A burgundy slip dress accented her pale, delicate skin. Her wine glass was half empty, and her thumbs were rapidly tapping out a message. Quintessential Cai. An alpha girl who never squandered idle minutes.

  “Sorry I’m late.” I maneuvered between the tables and around the plants, then leaned in for a quick hug before taking the seat across from her. “Lane hijacked me this afternoon. Took me down another rat hole and I lost track of time.”

  My eyes followed pedestrians as I settled in, conscious of any gaze that lingered, anyone who seemed to hover expectantly. A man leaned against a lamppost thirty yards south, a Cubs hat blocked his face as he tapped into his phone. Was he the guy? I hadn’t been able to shake my discomfort since the threatening phone call. I knew I should tell Michael but I’d held back.

  “Anything good? Or just her usual plea to have you play mommy?” Cai asked. She inhaled the rich aroma of her Cabernet and took a sip, my answer a foregone conclusion.

  “She’s considering buying some investment property. Wants me to come on board. You know Lane, always looking for a quick buck.”

  “And you’re the ATM. I assume your response had something to do with hell no.”

  “And hell freezing over.” I signaled the waiter to bring two glasses of whatever Cai was drinking. We both knew the wine menu at Nico well enough that favorites had been established. “I also got fired yesterday, so even if my resolve were weak, the bank account is a good deterrent.”

  “What? Wait a minute. Erik fired you?” Her glass came back to the table, and she leaned forward, her eyes round. “What happened?”

  “I made the mistake of challenging the male ego. Pushed ahead on the highway shootings even though it wasn’t my turf. I defended my right to keep the story and got canned for it.” I raised my glass in mock salute.

  “In other words, insubordination. That is, if you’re female. A man would be called tough. Well, that should add an interesting new layer to your divorce. Have you talked to counsel yet?”

  “Yesterday, but about another issue. My list seems to grow daily.”

  “There’s more?”

  I sighed, feeling the emotion of the last twenty-four hours draining me. “I overheard a phone call earlier this week. It sounded like the business might be in financial trouble. I think Erik’s looking for a partner.”

  “Lawyer up, honey, lawyer up. This could leave you holding the bag, as in a bag of shit. Employed or not, Link-Media is a marital asset. If he dilutes that asset through investment or debt…”

  “I know. I’m screwed any way I turn.”

  “So what are you going to do? Keep feeling beaten down and sorry for yourself? Or come out swinging?”

  Cai looked at me, her eyes full of challenge. Prodding me to shed the hurt and the pain. Knowing the questions that were forming in my mind.

  “Can’t I have the weekend to wallow in self-pity and failure?”

  “Self-pity is boring. Honey, it’s time for some tough love. You’ve grieved enough already over Erik, the jackass. Time to shake it off, move on. It’s time for offensive maneuvers. Start by running a credit check on both Erik and the business. See if he’s hiding anything. I’ll email you the contact info for that PI I’ve used. I know you haven’t wanted to go that route, but you might want to reconsider under the circumstances. This guy can dig so deep Erik will feel like he’s had a colonic with a fire hose. Hell, I’ll even foot the bill if I can be there to see the look on his face when a judge slaps him upside the head for lying, via his bank account.”

  “Can I finish my wine first?” I laughed, awkwardly, emotionally exhausted. I was letting Erik control the situation, allowing my future to be defined by a man who treated me badly. I knew Cai was right. It was time to shake this off.

  “Cheers,” I said, raising my glass. “Thanks for the reality check.”

  “That’s me, here to kick your ass anytime. And I expect the same in return.”

  “Actually,” I started, “if I put aside this most recent setback, the way out of this mess hasn’t changed. My probing is making someone uncomfortable. I have to keep on this.”

  “What are you saying? Uncomfortable how?”

  “I got a phone call. Some guy warning me away.”

  “A threat! Andrea, who have you told?”

  “I’m being careful. Look, I need this story. I need to find out who’s behind these highway shootings, what’s really happening. That’s a story I can sell. Right?”

&
nbsp; My cell pinged me with a new email, and I pounced.

  “Tonight. 7:00 Corner of Cermak and Wentworth. Bring company and I’m gone.” Sgnt1764, yes!

  “I’ll be there.” I typed back. My shoulders relaxed, and I let out what felt like the first full breath of air in days. Finally, a break.

  “A smile. I hope someone sent you a naughty text because you’re making me nervous with this talk about crazy phone calls.”

  I glanced at the clock on my phone, 6:15, calculating how long it would take me to get to my car and then to the meeting location.

  “Something better. I’m going to run. Wine’s on me,” I said, throwing a couple of twenties on the table. “I have a source who’s been sending me emails. I think he knows who the sniper is. He wants to meet tonight.” I grabbed my phone. “I’m sending you a text with the location of the meet and the guy’s email address.”

  “Wait,” Cai said, putting her hand on my arm, her voice filled with alarm. “Are you going alone? You can’t be serious. Someone’s threatened you. This isn’t smart.”

  I smiled and squeezed her hand hoping to reassure her and myself. “If you don’t hear from me by ten, call Michael Hewitt and tell him where I went.”

  The street teemed with visitors ogling the hanging duck carcasses and mooncakes artfully displayed in the Chinatown shop windows. The dinner parade was as much a part of the experience as chopsticks and menus with pictures. I stood, my back against the brick wall of a gift shop at the intersection of Cermak and Wentworth, listening to the screech of the Red Line train and smelling the garlic and deep-fried fish that emanated from the restaurants around me. Locals hurried home with bags full of bok choy and long beans, while tourists swung their heads from sight to sight, in awe of the foreignness of it all. I scanned faces, watching for a gaze that hung on a bit too long, a subtle nod of acknowledgment. Nothing.

  Had I missed an email? A change of time or place? I pulled out my phone. Nothing. Twenty-five minutes past our meeting time and counting. How long should I wait? Or was this just some stupid game? I shifted my weight from right foot to left and wiggled my toes, trying to relieve the pinch. The shopkeeper inside had now poked her head out to look at me for the third time, probably starting to wonder if I was a working girl. With nothing else to do, I scrolled my email and continued to scan the street, craving an order of vegetable pot stickers.