Mourn the Living

by Henry Perez

“If I’d known that I would’ve picked her up from school.”

  “No need. She’ll be home soon.”

  Chapa nodded, then continued to take in his surroundings. Lush carpeting gave way to tiles that disappeared down each of the four hallways leading to the rest of the house. Various tchotchkes, which Chapa assumed had come from other countries the couple had visited, rested on tables and otherwise useless pedestals. A mirror that had been placed far too high on a wall for anyone to look into, reflected the elaborate light fixture hanging from the middle of the ceiling.

  “Alex, are you sure you can take care of her?”

  “She’s my daughter. I took care of her for six years. I’m not new at this.”

  Chapa saw the concern on his ex’s face. No matter his problems with Carla, and they were great in both number and scope, he knew she had worked to be a good mother from the moment Nikki was born. Though Chapa also understood it wasn’t something that came naturally to her.

  Some of the choices she’d made for their daughter troubled him. He had objected to the way Carla’s new husband had been brought into his daughter’s world. There had been very little time for Nikki to adjust to a major change in her young life.

  So many changes in such a short time.

  “She’s a small child, she’ll adapt,” was how Carla had defended her decision.

  He had fought the decision to move to Stephen’s hometown of Boston, where his family had established a name for itself five generations ago and spent the last hundred years building a series of successful businesses.

  But none of Chapa’s objections had ever made much of an impression on Carla. Until now.

  Standing in the middle of the multi-million dollar home in one of Boston’s most exclusive neighborhoods, he knew the polite thing to do was ask how things were going, and about her legal career and her husband’s various real estate deals. But Chapa was never much into small talk. And he knew he’d never get over the fact that Carla had taken his daughter from him, then done everything in her power to keep them apart.

  “Nikki’s homework?” Chapa asked, breaking through the heavy silence.

  “Will be waiting for her every morning, along with her assignments. She just has to log on to the school’s site and put in her password. Have you been able to afford a computer?”

  Chapa was poised to deliver a response he might later regret, when the sound of a door closing stopped him. He turned and saw Stephen put down a briefcase and start walking toward them. Carla’s husband was wearing a beige suit that clung to his sides as his brown loafers clacked across the floor. There was some sort of a bright green shirt under his sport coat that maybe harkened back to his preppier, Reagan-worshiping days. He forced a smile across his face as he extended a hand in Chapa’s direction.

  Chapa didn’t take him up on the offer, instead he simply stared at the Boston Celtics polo shirt inside the thousand-dollar suit.

  “I know, kind of loco,” Stephen said without prompting. “It was a casual day, and we decided to take a golf meeting. A conference on the fairway, if you will.”

  Chapa had never liked Stephen, and it wasn’t just that he’d married his ex-wife, and conspired to take his daughter from him, though that would be more than enough. Stephen was decent, more or less, and very successful, but also something of a schmuck. He just didn’t come across as a regular guy. Chapa didn’t like the way Stephen wouldn’t look him in the eye, his gratuitous use of foreign words and phrases, and his chronically soggy handshake. The fact that he was a Celtics fan made Chapa dislike him all the more.

  Chapa looked at his watch, then back at Carla.

  “Any minute, Alex,” she said. “But she doesn’t even know you’re here. None of us knew you were coming. Maybe we should all ease into—”

  “I have twelve days with my daughter. It’s not much, but it’s the most time I’ve had with her in two years. I’m not going to wait until you’ve decided we’ve eased into it enough.”

  “Let’s turn down the heat a little, why don’t we, no need for agita,” Stephen said, then smiled wide, exposing dueling rows of unnaturally white teeth. “If there’s anything I can do to make all of this run smoothly, just ask. That’s how I roll.” Then Stephen affected what Chapa assumed was supposed to be a look of empathy. “Alex, just like you, our first concern is what’s best for our Nikki.”

  Chapa nodded as he let all of it sink in. Cocking his head away from Carla, he said, “Can we have a word, just you and me?”

  “Sure, which room would you prefer, mon ami?”

  “Like I give a shit,” Chapa said, then noticed how the expressions on their faces suggested this house was at the epicenter of a No Swear Zone.

  Chapa pointed to a door in the next room. Stephen nodded his approval and asked him to lead the way. They walked into a home office any Manhattan CEO would be proud to call his own. One wall was lined with bookshelves, another with framed photos of Stephen with various celebrities and politicians. A large window behind an oak desk looked out over lush green grounds that were neatly landscaped. But there wasn’t a hint of playground equipment or any sign that a child had ever set foot on the evenly trimmed grass.

  “Would you like a drink, Alex, there’s probably a lot you and I—”

  Chapa interrupted him by invading his personal space, close enough that he could smell how Stephen’s expensive cologne was competing with his overpriced aftershave. Chapa wasn’t wearing either.

  “If you ever try to take my child from me again—”

  “Alex, I wouldn’t—” Stephen started, but Chapa stopped him by raising a single finger.

  “If you ever try to take my child from me again, I will punch those veneers through the back of your fucking throat. Do you understand me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. That’s how I roll,” Chapa said, then smirked, and added, “Capiche?”

  Chapa heard the front door open. He hurried past Stephen, who started to say something, and stepped out into the hallway. Nikki was wiping her feet on the mat, a bulging backpack draped over one shoulder.

  She looked up, and her face was overtaken by a spontaneous smile.

  “Daddy!”

  Nikki broke into a full sprint as Chapa knelt down and extended his arms in anticipation of the massive hug that was rushing toward him.

  Chapter 5

  In the two days since he’d left Boston, Chapa had formed a mental checklist of all the things he and Nikki were going to do. He had figured out how to cram a year’s worth of bonding into a single week. But now things had become a bit more complicated.

  Just past Hammond, Indiana, a few traffic-heavy miles shy of the Illinois border, Chapa pulled over at a rest stop. While Nikki stretched her legs and used the bathroom, Chapa made a call. Erin Sinclair had never met Nikki. The six months that she and Chapa had been dating coincided with his time away from his child.

  “How soon will you two be here? I can’t wait.”

  “It might be a little longer than I had planned.”

  He explained about Chakowski and his new assignment, worried that she might think he was a jerk for splitting some of the time he had planed to spend with Nikki.

  “What if I take some vacation time?” Erin asked without hesitation or prompting. “That way Nikki can spend a few hours at my house each day and do her homework.”

  Chapa had thought about asking her for help, but dismissed it as being too much to ask. That’s just how Erin was, though. Generous, kind, and nothing like Carla. One of these days maybe Chapa would even get around to telling Erin how he felt about her.

  “You truly are wonderful,” he said.

  “How wonderful?”

  “Really, really wonderful.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Articulate. So you write for a living, huh?”

  Chapa laughed. Erin had a way of making him do that. Their relationship was an easy one. Short on conflict, full of good times.

  “Mike is so looking forward to meeting
her,” Erin said. “This will give him someone to play with during the day, despite their age difference.”

  Chapa had wondered about how Nikki would get along with Erin’s five-year-old son. Neither child had grown up with siblings, or a father around the house.

  While he fought to block out the roar of passing semis and listened to Erin lay out her plans for the next few days, Chapa watched a small girl, just a couple of years younger than his own, struggling to do a cartwheel in the grass along the side of the rest stop. The child’s father was too busy doing something on his handheld to notice how determined the girl was to get just one right. He didn’t see her smile like she owned the world every time she came close to completing a circle and landing on her feet. Or the way she kept looking at him to see if he was watching her.

  Having grown up without a father, Chapa knew how much a flash of approval from a parent, or the lack of it, could mean to a child, and couldn’t understand how this man could be so detached from his daughter. Chapa never wanted to be that guy, but a part of him wondered if Nikki already thought he was.

  Chapter 6

  Chapa reached into the inside pocket of his black leather coat and pulled out his press pass. He draped the lanyard around his neck as he approached the police barrier that had been established half a block from what was left of Jim Chakowski’s house.

  The smell of burnt wood and wet leaves punctuated the air in a way that reminded Chapa of every other autumn he’d spent in the Midwest. But in this case, the sharp scent of ashes that pierced his senses was not from discarded brush.

  Under normal circumstances, Chapa would have waited for the right moment, ducked under the yellow tape, and walked toward the house like it was the most natural thing he could do. But having his ten-year-old daughter at his side made these circumstances anything but normal.

  “That’s as close to the scene as you’re gonna get.”

  Chapa turned and saw Sean Moriarity, a reporter for the rival Fox Valley Times, walking toward him. Moriarity was a few years younger than Chapa, but his reddish nose and last call eyes made him look much older.

  “I see you have a sidekick,” Moriarity said, looking down at Nikki. “Has the Record relaxed its age requirements for interns?”

  “This is my daughter.”

  Nikki took that as a cue. She stepped forward and extended her hand to Moriarity, who responded by rubbing the top of her head.

  “Tough break about Chakowski.”

  Chapa nodded.

  “Have you heard anything new while you’ve been here?” Chapa asked as he scanned the crowd.

  A few of the faces seemed vaguely familiar, but after working as a reporter in the Oakton area for nearly two decades, seeing faces that he maybe recognized had become an everyday thing for him.

  “No, Chapa, not this time.”

  “Not this time, what?”

  “You’re not going to milk me for info, give nothing in return, then scoop me,” Moriarity said, then leaned in close and pointed a finger at Chapa. “Not this time.”

  Chapa grabbed Moriarity by the elbow and pulled him away from some of the folks who were trying to sneak a look at the action beyond the barrier.

  “Do you really think this is about me beating you to a story?” Chapa said in a low, steady voice. “I thought you understood me better than that, Sean. Jim’s dead. He was a good man. He was one of us.”

  Moriarity was looking down at his shoes.

  “That’s what this is about, Sean.”

  In any other situation, Chapa might’ve been delivering a line, just his way of playing the competition. He’d worked Moriarity for crucial details more than once before, but it wasn’t like that this time. He meant every word.

  “The official story is that faulty wiring set off the blast,” Moriarity said, flipping through his palm-sized notepad.

  “That must have been some blast.”

  “Much of the electrical in the house was old, most of it original. As best as they can figure, there was a spark near the furnace, and that’s what blew.”

  Chapa had already assumed much of this. Chakowski’s house, like the others in the neighborhood, dated back to the 1940s. Chapa had lived in a house like that once and knew how the various wiring, heating, and plumbing systems seemed to conspire and take turns breaking down.

  “There’s something else.” Moriarity sighed. “One of the neighbors, a middle-aged woman named Laura Simpson, said she saw a guy who looked like a repairman walking around Chakowski’s house yesterday afternoon.”

  “Did she give you a description?”

  “He was dressed like a repairman.”

  Over the years Chapa had often noticed that Moriarity wasn’t big on details, and even the standard Who, What, Where, When, Why, and How of a story seemed to elude him sometimes.

  “Is she still around?”

  Moriarity hastily scanned the crowd.

  “No. She’s slim, has light-brownish hair.”

  “Did you get her address or phone number?”

  “Why would I need those?”

  Nikki walked over to them. Chapa was pleased with the way his daughter had quietly waited while he talked to Moriarity, though he sensed she’d been listening to them the entire time.

  “Hey, Daddy, didn’t you say we were going to go back to the police command center that we passed when we were driving in here?”

  “Command center? They’ve set up a command center, and you didn’t tell me, Alex?” Moriarity said before Chapa could ask his daughter what we she was talking about.

  Moriarity glared at Chapa, who was too bewildered to do anything but shrug, then he squatted down to Nikki’s level.

  “Okay, little girl—”

  “Nikki.”

  “Right. Do you remember what direction you and your daddy came from?”

  “Oh, you want to find the command center.”

  Moriarity nodded, as his face produced something resembling a smile.

  “You just go back down this street,” she said, pointing away from the crime scene. “Turn left, then I think you turn right, like a block or two later, and you can’t miss it. Right, Daddy?”

  Chapa stood silent, mouth open wide, as he slowly and involuntarily shook his head in a neutral direction that suggested neither yes nor no.

  “You’re a real piece of work, you know that, Alex?” Moriarity said, and started to walk away, then stopped. “Chapa, you are dirty people.”

  With that, Moriarity disappeared into the crowd. Chapa turned to Nikki, who responded with a wide smile.

  “We don’t tell lies, Nik.”

  Her smile vanished.

  “I’m sorry. I knew that you wanted to sneak past the policemen and you wouldn’t be able to do that as long as that other newspaper man was around.”

  Chapa had imagined that their short time together would be filled with fun, bonding activities, the sort that would create new memories for Nikki to take back with her to Boston. Having to act as a disciplinarian had not been on his to-do list.

  “We’re going to talk about this later.”

  “Okay, Daddy. But in the meantime, it looks like the policemen have wandered off.”

  Chapa looked back toward the barrier and saw that she was right. The nearest uniform was at least twenty yards away.

  “Nikki, listen to me. Stay right here by the tape, and don’t talk to anyone.”

  She nodded. “Stay here. Got it.”

  Chapa took one last look around, zipped his well-aged black leather jacket up over his press pass, then ducked under the tape and started walking in the direction of Chakowski’s house as though he belonged there.

  Chapter 7

  Scraps from what had been the front of Jim Chakowski’s home just twenty-four hours earlier littered the street, sidewalks, and yards. The structure resembled a madman’s idea of a playhouse. Most of the first level was now exposed, and the upper floor threatened to come crashing down at any moment.

  Except for the d
ebris dotting the lawns, the neighboring homes appeared unaffected, but Chapa assumed some had been evacuated as a precaution. He didn’t have to write down any notes, Chapa knew the moment he saw it this was one image that would linger.

  Still, he knew what Matt Sullivan would want from the only journalist to make it to the business side of the police line, so he flipped on his camera phone. Chapa had just about framed the shot when he felt a hand on his shoulder, then got spun around before he could do anything about it.

  “Goddamn it, Chapa.”

  Tom Jackson, an officer with the Oakton force for twenty-two years, was not happy. In his wrinkled overcoat, a detective’s notepad in one hand, Jackson looked like he’d just walked off the cover of an old pulp crime novel.

  “We set up that barrier for a reason.”

  “I assumed it was for the safety of others and to aid me in my pursuit of an exclusive.”

  Jackson was a lifelong resident of the city he now worked to protect. Tall, built solid, with dark black hair, deep brown eyes, and simple features, he looked younger than he actually was. A former starting tight end in college who’d been known more for his blocking skills than his pass-catching, the detective looked like he could still line up across from the best defensive linemen, and maybe even teach them a few things.

  Chapa got on well with Jackson, who had been a valuable source of information on more than one story. But things had changed in the past couple of years. A new administration in City Hall had brought a heightened sense of paranoia among all government employees. That, in turn, had led to a much greater level of secrecy at every level and in each department. This was especially true among the city’s police.

  Cops, some in uniform some not, and various official people in suits moved around the scene like scattered ants. Chapa made a mental note of how many there were and what they appeared to be doing.

  “Alex, I’m already having to deal with every big shot in town worming their way past the barrier. Now if you would please, get the hell—” Jackson stopped, his eyes fixed on something beyond Chapa.