by Ian K. Smith
“Does Tinsley see it that way?”
“Probably not all the time, but I think she gets the overall intention. Violet tends to be a worrier. It’s her natural disposition.”
“If your daughter’s not lost, then where do you think she might be? No offense, but you don’t seem overly concerned.”
Gerrigan smiled expansively. “This is a big world, Mr. Cayne. Tinsley is an explorer at heart. Not to sound cavalier, but she could be anywhere.”
“And you’re not concerned that no one has heard from her in almost a week?”
“Not in the least. This isn’t the first time she’s decided to strike out on her own. She’s a very independent girl, even stubborn at times. I can’t blame her for it. She gets it honestly. I myself was a handful growing up. Tinsley is strong and smart. It’s in her genes. She can take care of herself.”
“So, you think I’m wasting my time.”
“Your words, not mine.”
“Your wife doesn’t think so.”
“Then maybe your real purpose is not to find Tins, but to make Violet feel better.”
“Does she need to feel better?”
“Don’t we all?”
“How well do you know your daughter?”
“I guess as well as any father could know a twenty-five-year-old young woman. She can be complicated. She can be sweet. She can be disagreeable. But I love her unconditionally.”
“Disagreeable?”
“Like I said before, Tinsley has a strong will. She makes her own decisions. Some of which I don’t agree with.”
“Like her romantic choices?”
“She’s made better decisions.”
“Care to expound?”
Gerrigan tilted his head slightly and gave me that master-of-the-universe smile. Then he said, “I think you understand what I mean.”
“I really don’t.”
“I’ve never met him before, but from what I’ve been told, he isn’t exactly what I had in mind for our daughter. And it’s not because he’s black. I don’t care about that shit.”
“So, what is it?”
“His background for starters. I know all about his uncle and his line of business.”
“But the kid doesn’t have anything to do with that.”
“He’s close enough. That kind of lifestyle has a way of sucking you in without you even realizing it. It’s insidious.”
“Does your wife know about him?”
“She knows. But not much more than I do. She’s not doing cartwheels either. We are being tolerant for the sake of peace.”
I stood to leave. “Times are different,” I said. “Differences for this generation are more of an attraction than a taboo.”
“Do you have any children yet, Mr. Cayne?”
“Only if you count a three-year-old rust-colored cockapoo.”
“Well, let me tell you. Every father wants someone he thinks will do the best by his daughter. In my book, Chopper is not the best Tinsley can do.”
12
IT WAS ONE OF those perfect fall nights when the wind was gentle but warm, and the clouds stayed away so that you could see the stars in all their sparkling glory. Couples pushed babies in strollers, and young toughs with slim, muscled physiques and a collage of tattoos walked their equally muscled dogs on heavy chains. I had finished my daily update with Violet Gerrigan and had been sitting outside of Stanton’s apartment for an hour. I could see his shadow occasionally moving behind the closed curtains. He came to the window one time and looked out, the way people do when they’re checking to see if it was raining.
Twenty minutes later a Chevrolet sedan pulled up along the curb, an Uber sign lighting up the front window. Seconds later, Stanton emerged wearing a light jacket over black pants and a shirt. He wore his clerical collar, the one he was never supposed to wear again due to his agreement with the church and the victims. He quickly jumped into the back seat of the sedan. I followed a couple of cars behind as the driver made his way south through a maze of narrow streets before turning onto the expressway. Stanton pulled his phone out and talked on it for a few minutes before ending the call. The driver entered the local lanes and worked his way through the light traffic until he took the Garfield Boulevard exit, where a group of young boys with sagging shorts and shiny white sneakers loudly beat drumsticks against empty buckets, panhandling for tips from the drivers stuck at the red light. A gas station advertising a $2.99 fried-chicken-and-fries special washed the corner in a neon glow. Dark figures walked nonchalantly through the parking lot, disappearing in the darkness of the adjacent vacant lots.
The Uber driver made a right turn on Garfield, then headed west, the drummers holding up their empty hands in disappointment. What was Stanton doing in this struggling South Side neighborhood, far away from the comforts and safety of the North Side? And what was he doing wearing a clerical collar? I followed closely as they left the black neighborhood and turned right onto Ashland, where the Hispanics mostly controlled the streets. The stores were all dark, the heavy padlocked gates protecting their windows. Most of the signage was bilingual, and the businesses were mostly related to cars—used-tire shops, glass replacements, auto parts, body shops. The streets were mostly deserted save for a late-model sports car with tinted windows and chromed-out rims that sparkled like diamonds in a tiara. Its music was loud enough to shake the windows in my van.
I continued following Stanton’s Uber through several turns, then down a couple of side streets and into an area that was predominantly residential. Two-story buildings and small town houses dotted the narrow roads. The Uber driver finally pulled over in front of a low, flat building with two large windows. Light emanated from behind thick curtains. Two young boys in jeans and polo shirts stood outside the unmarked door, typing on their smartphones. They looked up and smiled and put their phones away when they noticed Stanton emerging from the back seat of the car. He gave each of them a hug, ran his hand along their heads, then walked through the door with them following quickly.
I pulled over and turned off the van and waited. Within minutes, others suddenly appeared, families pouring out of rideshares, some arriving enthusiastically by foot and bike. Mostly young Hispanic and African American men made their way through the small unmarked door, many of them coming alone or with sisters and girlfriends. They were dressed in jeans and sweatpants and solid-colored T-shirts; the girls wore shorter dresses, their hair falling below their shoulders and makeup carefully applied.
I got out of the van, locked the doors, and walked across the street, joining a small family that had just pulled up in an old Nissan. I could hear the music when I hit the sidewalk. A soulful guitar joined an equally rhythmic percussion ensemble and piano. The door opened into a surprisingly large room lined with several rows of folding chairs that faced a small stage in the front of the room. The rows of chairs toward the front were completely filled, so I quickly took a seat in the back against an aisle. A gaunt old Hispanic woman with dyed jet-black hair sat next to me, her head bowed and eyes closed as she held rosary beads. Her lips moved softly in prayer.
The bright rectangular room felt like an office space whose tenants had suddenly packed up what was most important and left behind a bunch of worthless metal folding chairs. The walls had been freshly painted a dull cream, and the one window on the right side of the room had been covered with a black shade that had several cracks from sitting exposed to the sun for too long. Two standing fans pushed around warm air, their hum occasionally heard during gaps in the music. Mark Stanton sat authoritatively in a cheap replica of a throne you’d expect to find in an old English castle. The serenity in his face was heightened only by the self-righteous grin that didn’t part his thin lips. This was his flock, and they had come to see him.
By the time the music had slowed to a harmonious ending, Stanton was standing in the middle of the small stage, no lectern, just holding the microphone in his left hand and waving triumphantly to the audience with his right hand.
“To the highest,” the audience responded collectively.
“From him all blessings flow,” Stanton said, walking across the small platform.
“To him we give the glory,” the audience replied.
A teenage boy walked up from the first row and handed Stanton an open Bible. Stanton placed the microphone back in the stand and softly ran his fingers through the young boy’s thick hair. Seeing this made my heart pound and my muscles tighten. He was a calculating predator who pretended to come in love and peace, when really he was simply waiting for the right moment to attack. I wanted to run up there and pummel his pretty face until it was bloody and his nose was left hanging by only the skin. But this was not the time or place nor sufficient justice. He deserved to suffer.
Stanton smoothly led the gathering through scripture that told the story of Abraham and Isaac and why Abraham was lauded for his unrivaled faith in God. Abraham had been promised by God that one day his descendants would be a great nation. However, God then asked Abraham to take his only son, Isaac, to the mountain and sacrifice him to the Lord. He explained that even though Abraham went ahead and killed Isaac, God had never intended for him to actually kill his son, as this was merely a test to show the type of faith that Abraham possessed. Stanton implored the audience to have faith in God and his works and to be willing to sacrifice even the most precious things if called upon to do so. The room erupted in a cacophony of spiritual utterings and cries to God. Some leaped out of their seats, clapping, while others fell to their knees, praying sorrowfully between tears.
Stanton motioned for the musicians to play a hymn as he walked around and touched the bowed heads of many in the front rows. As the music softened, he called those who wanted to take Holy Communion to line up in the middle aisle. The boy who had handed him the Bible now passed him the Communion tray and held on to the chalice. I had taken as much as I could tolerate, so I made use of the commotion to slip out the door unnoticed.
In the van, I turned on some vintage Biggie and waited. Thirty minutes later, the first trickle of people slid through the door and out into the dark street. Minutes later, they came out in heavy waves, hustling into their cars, hopping on their bikes, and getting into the back seats of rideshares. They seemed so happy and peaceful, the vulnerable innocence of the ignorant. Stanton finally appeared carrying a small trash bag. The kid who had handed him the Bible was at his side. They exchanged a few words; then the kid hugged him and walked south as Stanton watched, his look lingering too long. When the kid had disappeared in the shadows, Stanton walked into the alley around the side of the building and then reemerged a few seconds later without the bag. He pulled out his phone, and the display lit up his face. He looked like he had been crying. He walked to the corner of Ashland, and a minute later a car pulled up to the curb. He got into the back seat, and I watched as he slithered away underneath the orange glow of the streetlights.
13
THE NORTH SHORE OF Chicago is a wealthy enclave of homogenous small towns elegantly clustered around the less populated portion of Lake Michigan’s shoreline. Even their names sound superior—Winnetka, Kenilworth, Lake Forest, and Glencoe. I had read somewhere that not only did the North Shore have some of the wealthiest zip codes in the entire country, but three of the towns ranked in the top 5 percent for US household income. Full of rambling mansions and scenic vistas, this moneyed corridor of power has been a longtime location favorite for Hollywood, featured in iconic movies such as Risky Business, The Breakfast Club, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, and Home Alone.
After a dizzying array of winding roads and security checkpoints, I arrived at the Gerrigan compound. It sat on the east side of Sheridan Road, staring into Lake Michigan as if daring the waves to encroach on its tediously manicured lawns. Violet had agreed that I could come and look at Tinsley’s room in the hope that I might find something that would help.
After I received clearance at the guard booth and the heavy iron gate allowed me onto the property, I followed a meandering brick driveway that itself must’ve been a mile long. The Gerrigan landscape was nothing short of breathtaking, not one blade of grass or one boxwood hedge branch out of place. I had the urge to touch them to see if they were real.
I’d as yet had only a glimpse of the property, but it was obvious the Gerrigans employed a small army of servants to maintain their gargantuan estate. It reminded me of something I had once heard my father say: “Rich people aren’t always the best dressed in the room, but their houses are masterpieces.”
I passed by several buildings, most of which would’ve been exceptionally large houses on their own. Then the driveway took a quick turn near the top of the hill, and the extent of the Gerrigan wealth became clear. A stone-and-ivy behemoth sat atop a massive clearing, so large it looked like they had taken several houses and welded them together to make one. I noticed three security guards making best efforts to be inconspicuous. One was on the east side of the roof, pacing slowly, sunglasses on and a wire running into his ear. Another was stationed near the seven-car garage, tucked behind a large maple. The third was sitting in a golf cart between the front lawn and a formal garden heading off to the side of the house. They were all packing underneath their jackets.
Gerrigan seemed to have no problem protecting his homestead. Made me wonder why with all his resources he couldn’t do a better job protecting his only daughter.
As I reached the top of the limestone steps, the substantial black door swung open. A slim Filipino woman with round glasses too big for her face and a light-blue uniform too big for her body greeted me with a pleasant smile and slight bow of the head. She escorted me through a labyrinth of cavernous rooms with the grace of someone who had grown bored with their mind-numbing lavishness. We stopped at what looked like a sunroom. It was all glass and pastel-colored furniture. The sun was bright, but not hot. Soft classical music piped in from the ceiling speakers. Violet Gerrigan was in the far corner of the room, sitting in a chair that looked more like a throne. She was wearing fancy reading glasses that probably cost more than the three suits that hung in my closet. She was concentrating hard on the New York Times crossword puzzle. Half of it was already done. In pen.
“Show-off,” I said as I approached. “Most people need two pencils with strong erasers to work that puzzle.”
Not until I spoke did she lift her head. The reading glasses for some reason made her appear even younger and more attractive.
“Helps keep my mind off Tinsley,” she said, resting her pen and folding her glasses into a beaded case. “But the longer she’s gone, the less effective the distractions are becoming.”
“Waiting is always the toughest,” I said.
“Easy for you to say on your side of the matter,” she said. “Very different from where I sit.”
There was no response to this that didn’t sound either patronizing or argumentative, so I moved on.
“I met Tinsley’s boyfriend,” I said.
She answered by raising one of her eyebrows.
“Did you know much about him?”
“Tinsley and I didn’t discuss her romantic life.”
“He’s from the South Side. Grew up pretty tough but turned his life around. Graduated from DePaul with honors.”
“That much I knew,” she said.
“They’re serious enough to consider spending the rest of their lives together.”
“That much I didn’t know.”
“He thinks your daughter is a free spirit, generous, and strong. He admires her as much as he loves her.”
“Does he know where she is?”
“He does not.”
“Does he think she’s okay?”
“He does.”
“When did he last speak to her?”
“The night she was supposed to be sleeping over with Hunter Morgan. He texted her later that night, but she didn’t answer. He called twice the next day, but her phone went right to voice mail. He ca
lled Hunter to find out if anything had happened, and Hunter said Tinsley never showed up. He still hasn’t heard from her.”
Mrs. Gerrigan looked away. I knew she was fighting back tears. But her stoicism held up.
“Your husband doesn’t seem to be too worried about her disappearance.”
“Randolph is in total denial,” she said, still looking out the window. From our vantage point we could see clear into the expanse of the lake, nothing but water and light and the occasional yacht sliding by. The waves crashed softly onto their private stretch of beach. I wondered if Chopper would ever be allowed to stand where I now stood and take in this amazing vista.
I continued to stand there quietly. Silence was often a good interrogation tool. I wanted her to give me more. She did.
She inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Randolph loves Tinsley more than life itself,” she finally said. “The two of them don’t always see eye to eye on things, but they’re thick as thieves, and he always wants her to be happy.”
“Even if her happiness means dating a kid from the South Side?”
“Race is not an issue in my house, Mr. Cayne,” she said. “The quality of the person is what’s most important.”
I stood there again in silence, hoping to draw more out of her, but she stared out into the lake. The sun was dancing on the waves. Whatever fortune they’d paid to erect this colossus, this view alone made it worth every cent. After a minute or so she turned to me all composed and said, “Shall we go see her room?”
I nodded. “Seventeen across. Residency.”
She looked at me with a furrowed brow.
“Seventeen across in your crossword puzzle,” I said. “Residency is the answer. That’s what they call a doctor’s training program.”
After an elevator ride to the third floor and a trip down a carpeted hallway wide enough to drive two eighteen-wheelers side by side, we arrived at Tinsley’s room. Mrs. Gerrigan decided to wait outside. She instructed me to call out if I needed her.