by KJ Kalis
Lou realized he was at the end of the information Stacy could give him unless he handed her the entire case. He couldn’t do that. It belonged to Emily. It was Emily’s to solve. Emily’s to pursue. “Thanks. I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”
Stacy glanced up from her desk, her eyes focused on the sheet of paper in Lou’s hands. “Any chance I can have a copy of that for my file?”
Lou closed his eyes for a minute and then looked up, “Not this time.” He straightened up, “But I owe you. Know that.”
Lou gave a brief wave as he walked out of Stacy’s office. He could feel her eyes on his back as he pushed his way through the glass door and back out into the hallway. A twinge of guilt landed in his stomach. It would have been nice to pass off the information to Stacy, but he had to keep it quiet for Emily. Maybe when the case was over, he could help. But that wasn’t where he was today.
31
Vince stepped away from his computer for what felt like the first time all day. The combination of staring at the screen and the hangover he had from the celebratory bottle of whiskey he’d drank with his buddies at the bar the night before left him with a headache. He walked into the kitchen, leaving behind his laptop on the table where he’d been working. From a cabinet, he pulled a bottle of aspirin and popped two in his mouth, swallowing them dry. The bitter, chalky taste filled his mouth as he followed them with a swig of water. As he leaned his hands on the kitchen counter, he took a couple of deep breaths. The last day or so had been a challenge, that was for sure. The amazing victory he’d had in signing the deal with the Rossiter’s getting the Lakeview project back on track had been followed by a slew of emails and demands from the company and their project managers. Vince thought he’d be working with Adam directly, but shortly after the signing, he got an email from Adam introducing Vince to a team of project managers that would help keep the Lakeview project on time and hopefully under budget, at least that’s what the email said. Vince walked back to his computer, rubbing his fingers over the touchpad, waking it up. He pulled up the email with the project manager information in it. The email from Adam had been short, “Vince, we’re looking forward to working with you. I want to introduce you to three of our project managers that will be working with you on the Lakeview. We like to have more than one set of eyes on the project to make sure nothing falls through the cracks. I’m sure you understand. Looking forward to progress and success, Adam.”
Rereading the email, Vince’s stomach tightened. He didn’t like being micromanaged, that was for sure. At least when he and Marlowe were working on the project, Marlowe was so clueless that Vince could have asked her to sign an invoice for three tons worth of bubblegum and she would have done it, never being the wiser until she was surprised it showed up on their front door. Vince shrugged his shoulders, trying to get the tension out of them. He was playing in the big leagues now. He had to learn the rules of the game. Apparently, a team of project managers was part of his new reality.
Vince leaned back in his chair, checking the time on his computer. It was nearly four o’clock. He picked up his cell phone and sent a quick text. It was time to have some fun. “Anything going on tonight?” he wrote to a number that had no name attached to it in his cell phone. In reality, he didn’t know who received the messages, just that they had the information he wanted.
“Nine o’clock,” the reply read. There was no location. There never was.
“I’ll be there,” Vince wrote.
Vince got up from the table he was using as his desk in his apartment and walked over to the window. There wasn’t a lot to see. The apartment didn’t have much of a view, but that was okay. If he could make the Lakeview project work, he could live anywhere he wanted to in Chicago. He could even buy a place outside of the city to have as a weekend retreat. A smile crept over his face. He liked the sound of that. A weekend home maybe somewhere on the lake or at least on an inland lake. A lot of people he knew had cabins north, up in Wisconsin or Minnesota. There were a lot of little lakes up there where people went fishing on the weekends to work off their stress. The Lakeview would make him that kind of person, he thought.
After standing up for a minute, Vince realized that all the sitting and the celebrating had left his body stiff and cranky. He checked the time on his cell phone again. There was enough time to grab a good workout, get back to shower and then head to the game. It would be good to work off his stress before he played poker. It’ll help me concentrate, he thought.
Vince wandered to the bedroom and slipped out of his jeans and shirt, changing into shorts and a T-shirt with a hoodie over top. Leaving the building, he took the stairs. The building he lived in had a gym, but it didn’t have enough equipment or weights for him. Luckily, the drive to the place he liked to work out only took a couple of minutes.
Walking into the building under a sign that read, “Cityscape Gym,” Vince could hear the clanking of the iron plates before he even got to the registration desk to scan his card. A pretty brunette stood behind the desk and offered him a towel as he walked by. He took it with a nod. After stowing his bag, Vince adjusted the earbuds in his ears and put on some heavy metal music. The guitar riffs started to throb in his head, overtaking what was left of his headache as he went through his warm-up and then spent a considerable time on the bench press machine. A young woman wearing bright red leggings and a crop top walked by. Watching the young woman in the red tights pass him, there was something about her that reminded him of Marlowe. Part of him wondered how she was doing. He knew she was originally from Montana. He wondered if maybe she’d gone back to cry on mommy and daddy’s shoulders. That would be the best place for her, he thought, chuckling to himself. She’d been in over her head with the Lakeview project from day one. A surge of disappointment ran through him. He should have known better than to take her on, but Vince had been taken by Marlowe’s bubbly personality and her idyllic dreams for the building. He’d use some of her ideas now that he was partnered with the Rossiter’s, that was for sure. Some of those very ideas were the ones that sold Adam Rossiter and his family on letting Vince take the project over in the first place. There was no need to mention they had belonged to Marlowe.
Forty-five minutes later, drenched in sweat, Vince wiped the towel across his face and then hung it around the back of his neck. He took a swig from his water bottle, did a quick stretch, and then headed for the door, dropping his sweat-soaked towel in the bin by the front desk where the same girl stood. He gave her a nod. She smiled back but didn’t say anything.
On the way back to his apartment, Vince rolled the windows down a little, letting the late day air circulate through his Land Rover. He glanced in the back, seeing the clean towel he liked to sit on after his workouts. There was no reason to get sweat on the leather upholstery, but he’d been so busy thinking about the Lakeview project that he’d forgotten. And then there was the matter of the game coming up that night. As he turned into the parking lot, he furrowed his brows. He knew that he owed half a million on one game, but he owed quite a bit more on another. How much, he wasn’t exactly sure. The figures seem to flex and change so much it was hard to keep track. Vince wondered if that was intentional on the bookie’s part, a way to keep the gamblers just slightly off-kilter, enough that they’d want to come back and risk even more money. Vince licked his lips, thinking about the feel of the cards between his fingers. There was nothing like it, he thought, slipping out of the car, hearing it beep behind him as the doors locked and the security system armed.
Taking the steps back up to his apartment, he checked the time on his phone. He’d spent longer at the gym than he planned to. It was nearly six. Vince went straight to the shower, quickly rinsing off and putting on a fresh-pressed pair of pants, a red polo shirt and a sport coat. He’d seen people at the games dress all different ways — some in a suit and tie, one that inevitably had the tie loosened by the end of the evening, some in high-end sweatpants and hoodies that cost more than a custom suit.
He preferred to keep it simple. Slipping into his shoes, he walked back out into the kitchen area, looking for his red notebook, the one that had his bets in it. When he was introduced to the game, after the bookie had vetted him, the young man, dressed in a green sport coat, plaid shirt and black pants handed him the small red book. “Make sure you have this with you each time you arrive,” he said.
In the corner of the kitchen, there was a stack of cardboard banker boxes, the ones he’d used when he grabbed the paperwork from the office to move it to the apartment. He rummaged through the first two boxes with no luck. By the time he got to the third box, a cold sweat had broken out on his brow. If he didn’t have the book, would they let him in? How could he keep track of his bets without it? He dumped the third box out on the floor, the papers and books scattering and sliding. On his hands and knees, Vince dug through the pile and then sat back on his heels. It wasn’t there. The red notebook was gone. Vince stood up, putting the palm of his hand on his forehead. He needed to gamble. He checked the time on his cell phone again. It was just after eight o’clock. With traffic, if he didn’t get moving, he wouldn’t be there in time. From experience, he knew that if he wasn’t in the room by eight forty-five, he’d get stuck with one of the seats that were far away from the dealer. Those weren’t the lucky ones. He liked to arrive a little bit early to stake out the competition, too. For a second, he wondered if the Ukrainians would be at the table tonight. He’d built a true love-hate relationship with the brothers. He loved to win against them and hated to lose to them.
Gritting his teeth, Vince picked up his phone, wallet and car keys and locked up his apartment. He didn’t have his notebook. Too bad. His money was still good. They knew how to get to it. So, what was the problem? He started the Land Rover, checking the glove box on the chance he’d left the notebook there, but the only thing he saw was a loaded pistol he kept just in case he needed it. Chicago could be a violent city. Having a gun made him feel just a bit better about traveling around the city. Slamming the glove box closed, Vince pulled the Land Rover out of the parking lot with a squeal of the tires, nearly cutting off a silver sedan that was just ready to pass the driveway. He didn’t bother to wave.
The drive to the game would take at least a half-hour, Vince knew. Downtown Chicago out to Naperville didn’t seem like a big trip but was Chicago traffic, you never knew. Ten minutes later, Vince found himself stuck in parked traffic on the freeway, a long stream of bright red taillights laid out in front of him. He pounded his palm against the steering wheel, nearly honking at the car in front of him by accident. “Come on!” he yelled. Not that it would do any good, he realized, feeling the burn of frustration inside of him.
Eight minutes later, after passing the Orchard Street exit, the traffic finally started to move at a faster clip than just by inches. Vince knew if someone had taken his blood pressure at that moment it would be sky-high. He didn’t like to be late.
Vince felt himself calm down as he pulled off on the Naperville exit. There wouldn’t be much traffic between the exit and his destination, that much he knew. Naperville was largely a residential area, with high-end homes owned by some of Chicago’s most rich and famous, those that didn’t prefer the hectic downtown lifestyle like he did.
After passing a newly remodeled strip center that housed a big-box grocery store, a café, and a couple of boutiques, Vince turned down a side street. The front end of the area had more modest homes on smaller lots. If he had to guess, Vince would say the homes were around three thousand square feet, probably with three or four bedrooms, complete with a couple of kids in the local school district. Two more turns took him to a gated community. The security person at the gate held up his hand, asking Vince to stop, slipping out of a stuccoed building that sat between two driveways and two gates — one going out and one coming in — and expensively maintained landscaping, complete with professionally designed lighting. “Good evening,” the guard said.
“Good evening,” Vince replied, “I’m heading to the Battaglia’s. They are expecting me.”
“Your name?” the guard said.
“Olivas. Vince Olivas.”
The guard gave Vince a curt nod and turned away, going back into the shack. Vince saw him lean over the desk looking at a clipboard. A second later, the guard looked up, gave Vince a nod and a wave, and the gate opened up.
Unlike the more modest homes that led into the development where the Battaglia’s lived, the gated section that spread out in front of him was expansive and smelled of money. Sprawling homes sat on acres of prime Naperville land, flanked by ponds and fountains and curving driveways. The farther Vince drove in the back of the development, the larger the homes grew. If he had to guess, he thought they’d range between ten thousand and twenty thousand square feet, placed on at least ten acres of land each. Many of them had additional gates and security by the street. Vince couldn’t blame them. While the security guy at the front entrance was a nice touch, the gates and his checklist weren’t much of a deterrent to someone who wanted to get into the development. The people who lived behind the gates had a lot to lose.
When Vince had first been invited to attend the Battaglia’s game — and it was by invitation only — he’d done a little research on the area. That was the good thing about being comfortable with construction and real estate, he thought, turning the wheel to the right. It didn’t take him long to do some digging on property values and sizes. He even managed to pull up the permit set of plans for the Battaglia’s house, so he’d understand the layout when he got there. Based on what he knew about them, changes to the plans had probably been made — changes that weren’t reflected on the permits. People who had secrets to hide knew how to work around the issues, they knew what to do.
The Battaglia’s house — it was more of an estate — sat on eighteen acres at the back of the development. Heavily treed, the builder had carved out just enough space for the home, which was expansive in its own right, topping out at twenty-one thousand square feet. Though Vince had some information before he went there the first time, the man that owned the home, Frank Battaglia, took him on a brief tour the first time he’d gone to the game. At least, as brief of the tour as walking through a sprawling home could be. There was an indoor pool, a bowling alley, three kitchens, eight bedrooms with eight full baths, and the men’s club. That’s where the game was held.
As Vince pulled up to the front door, he parked the Land Rover off to the side leaving the keys in the ignition. His chest was tight, knowing he didn’t have his red notebook with him. He hoped that his regular presence at the game would be enough to get him in the door. After that, maybe a few kind words with Frank would let him gamble. He swallowed, ringing the doorbell, realizing he had no idea what the penalty was for losing his book. He would tell them he misplaced it in the move, or that he ran out the door too quickly after work and forgot it. That was the best route, he decided.
Answering the door was a woman dressed expensively in a pantsuit and four-inch heels. It was Mrs. Battaglia. “Vincent,” she purred. “I’m so glad to see you,” she said, offering him her cheek.
After appropriately air-kissing Mrs. Battaglia, Vince said, “You look lovely tonight. You get more beautiful every single time I see you.”
Mrs. Battaglia offered him a fake blush and waved him off, “You are too kind, Vincent. Frank is waiting for you in the men’s club. Have a lovely evening.”
As Vince walked away, he wondered how many hundreds of thousands of dollars had gone into Frank’s wife. She was a nice woman, to be sure, but it was hard to imagine the amount of lip filler, Botox and surgeries she’d gone through to look as well-preserved as she did. That didn’t even to begin to deal with the cost of her wardrobe. Vince had never seen her in the same outfit twice, nor had he ever seen her in anything less than towering designer heels.
At the double doors that opened into the men’s club, Vince stopped for a second and took a deep breath, steeling himself. These were not people to b
e trifled with. Not Frank, not his bookie, and definitely not the other gamblers. Until that moment, he hadn’t considered the ramifications of his losses. Something about not having his red notebook with him made him feel vulnerable as if it was his golden ticket.
Vince laid a hand on the door handle and pushed it open. The sound of clinking crystal and the smell of food filtered toward him. The room was softly lit. In the center, a professional-style poker table had been erected. Behind it was a long bar and buffet off to the side, chafing dishes with their blue flames underneath keeping hors d’oeuvres warm for the gamblers. Two waitresses, wearing black pants and black button-down shirts moved silently around the room, taking away glasses and dirty plates, making sure the food was fresh at the buffet. Another woman, wearing the same type of outfit stood behind the bar set up, her hands behind her back, gazing at the room, ready to provide any type of cocktail the gamblers could want. Just beyond the poker table was a seating area with a thick leather couch, a couple of armchairs, and a big-screen TV. The area where the couches were positioned was roughly twice the size of the family room area in Vince’s apartment. A humidor and a wine cooler were set up in the corner. If someone was on a really good streak, Frank would break out the Cuban cigars for the whole table. As Vince turned to his right, he saw a group of three gamblers standing in the corner. They hadn’t staked out their spot at the table yet, but he knew that was coming. They were talking to the bookie, Gerald, who was wearing his green jacket as usual, and a young woman, the hostess, Jess, who was wearing a blush-colored sequin cocktail dress and heels she looked like she borrowed from Mrs. Battaglia. All the hostesses at the games Vince went to looked the same, breasts pushed up under their chin, waists cinched in and long legs peeking out from under short skirts. There was something very Vegas about the whole thing. And yet, that’s not where he was. He was in Naperville.