by Henry Perez
“I do, and I have fruit every morning. You know, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
“Yeah, I think I read that somewhere. Tomorrow will be different, Nik. I promise. There will be fruit.”
“Don’t worry about it, Dad.” The last bite of egg filled her mouth, but that didn’t keep her from talking. “And Mom never has to know.”
There hadn’t been much opportunity for Chapa to worry about what his ex-wife was thinking while Nikki was away from home. Though he didn’t want to spend too much time discussing the shaky start to Nikki’s visit, he wasn’t about to coax her into deceiving her mother, either.
“I don’t like lying, Nikki. We talked about this after what you did to that reporter yesterday.”
Nikki shook her head.
“I won’t, but Mom won’t ask, and I won’t tell her.”
She smiled a big toothy grin, and Chapa sensed he had more to worry about when it came to Nikki than the unconventional meal she’d just finished.
Chapter 19
Through the frosted window that filled the upper half of the closed door, Chapa saw there was someone sitting in Jim Chakowski’s office as he approached. It was dark inside, but the smattering of light slipping in through an outside window backlit the visitor, creating a silhouette. Chapa paused for a moment before opening the door.
“Come on in and close the door behind you, Alex. I have something to show you.”
Chapa couldn’t see the man’s face, and he didn’t recognize the thick voice, not right away. But he did as asked, anyhow.
“This arrived in my mail this morning,” the guy said, then leaned forward and turned on an old desk lamp.
Chapa looked at the man’s face, ignoring the envelope he’d just tossed on the desk pad. Maybe it was the low, unflattering light of the single bulb, but Warren Chakowski looked like he hadn’t slept since the night before. Probably hadn’t bothered to try.
“You look tired.”
“I don’t sleep much these days, never have. But that’s not important,” Warren said, pushing the thin package across the desk and toward Chapa.
“What is it?” Chapa asked, lifting the yellow, oversized envelope from the desk.
“You tell me.”
It had been torn open in a hurry and folded unevenly, as though Warren had shoved it into a pants pocket. Inside, Chapa found a piece of paper ripped from a yellow legal pad without much care. He unfolded the paper and saw a collection of what appeared to be random notes.
“Was there a letter explaining any of this?” Chapa asked.
“No, just that sheet of paper. But it’s Jim’s writing all right.”
The sheet was cluttered with various brain droppings, but Chapa’s attention was drawn to a list of names, some of which were familiar, as well as a list of cities and dates—Cleveland (1990–1996), Pittsburgh (1997–2002), Baltimore (2003–2005), Oakton, Illinois (2005–).
Scribbled in the bottom right corner was a series of numbers: ND93106.
“Why would he mail this to you?”
“Because Jim knew what was going to happen to him.”
Chapa tried to mask his skepticism, with mixed results.
“I know you don’t believe me, Mr. Chapa. But just a week or two ago, Jim told me how he was preparing a will.”
Chapa thought about the do-it-yourself kit he’d found in one of Chakowski’s desk drawers, but decided to keep that to himself for the time being.
“A lot of people in their fifties have a will, Warren.”
“Not my brother, he just wasn’t the sort to worry about that kind of thing. I asked Jim if something was wrong, physically, I mean. He said he was fine, but I could tell something was burning him up inside.”
Chapa studied the notes on the paper. Where to start?
“Jim was scared, and he wasn’t the sort to get scared.”
There wasn’t much more to say. How can you tell someone he’s wrong about a person he’s known his entire life? Chapa knew better than to even try.
“I’ll check out the names and dates and see if any of it means anything.”
Warren stood up from behind the desk and started for the door.
“But please understand, Warren, that this could take a while and will likely lead us right back to your brother’s death being the result of poor wiring.”
The man nodded, and Chapa continued.
“I know you’ve suffered a loss, but you have to try to put some of these thoughts out of your head. Give me a few days, and I will call you.”
Warren nodded once more as he let himself out of the office, but Chapa was certain he’d hear from him again, and soon.
Chapter 20
Chapa didn’t bother opening the blinds or turning on any more lights in Jim Chakowski’s office. The lamp on the desk was enough for what he had to do, and he didn’t want to draw any attention.
Being in that office was a little like sitting in a man’s personal confessional. Whoever Jim Chakowski had been, and maybe all that he had been working on, was right there, somewhere.
Chapa studied the large shelving unit that housed Chakowski’s collection of LPs, at least what was left of it since any that he kept at home had been blown to shards. The records were neatly organized in alphabetical order by artist, except for the one that had been pulled out and played most recently. The disc itself, James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James, still sat on the turntable. Chapa wondered whether it was the last record Jim had ever listened to, or perhaps something his brother had played while he was there. Chapa thought about putting it back on the shelf, but that didn’t seem right somehow, so he dropped the needle on the first track, turned the volume down so that only he could hear it, and unplugged the headphones.
He made a call down to the archive room to request copies of every issue of the Chicago Record from the past two months that had included a Jim Chakowski story. After being told that would take a few hours to put together, Chapa decided to focus on the torn piece of paper.
Jim Chakowski’s scribbling didn’t get any more helpful with multiple readings. But the list of dates and places, that was something Chapa could research.
Cleveland (1990–1996)
Pittsburgh (1997–2002)
Baltimore (2003–2005)
Oakton (2005–)
Three large cities, followed by Oakton, a town of about 150,000. Why not Chicago? Or Milwaukee? Cleveland to Pittsburgh to Baltimore could be a natural progression of some sort. But Oakton?
What the hell did any of this mean?
He searched online for the four sets of dates, but came up empty. Then he began burrowing through Chakowski’s computer hoping to locate any stories or notes that might contain further details corresponding to the items on the page. He was ready to give up after an hour’s worth of frustration, when the phone rang.
Chapa thought for a moment about how best to answer. Who would be dialing up a dead reporter? Could be an old acquaintance who hadn’t heard the news, or had just found out and wanted more information. Probably Warren Chakowski calling Chapa to check up on him. Or maybe it was a source.
That thought made Chapa’s pulse race for a moment.
“Chicago Record.”
“Mr. Chapa?”
“Yes.”
A pause on the other end, then, “Are you in Mr. Chakowski’s office?”
“Two for two.”
“This is Maya, you know, at the front desk.”
“Yes, Maya.”
“Mr. Sullivan told me I would probably find you there and asked me to remind you about the Oakton Business Council meeting.”
“What about it?”
“You’re suppose to cover it, you know, like Mr. Chakowski used to. It starts in just under two hours.”
Chapa wondered what the hell he’d signed up for, and why Sullivan would go through someone else to remind him of his assignment. Chapa didn’t have to think about that for long. He understood. Fear was a great motivator, and in Chapa�
��s relationship with Sullivan it served to blur the line between writer and editor.
“Hey, Maya, do me a favor.”
“Remind you every day about your itinerary?”
“No, I can keep track of that, thank you. I’d like Mr. Chakowski’s mail here at the paper forwarded to me, to my office, or just hand it to me when I come in.”
There was a brief pause on the other end.
“Okay, Mr. Chapa, I’ve written myself a note.”
He thanked Maya and got back to work. After ten minutes of sifting though Chakowski’s stories about the Oakton Business Council meetings, Chapa concluded that his colleague had been writing them on cruise control. Not much in the way of probing news reporting, just a lot of who said what about which. Determined to do better, he spent the next hour taking a crash course in Oakton city business and politics.
The information Chapa found in some of Chakowski’s other stories turned out to be far more interesting than he’d expected. But his research came to an end when Maya called again, this time to remind him that the meeting began in forty-five minutes.
Again, he thanked her, and considered marching over to Sullivan’s office and pinning his ears back a bit. Two hours ago he may have done exactly that. Stormed in and reminded Sullivan that he was award-winning reporter Alex Chapa—though all of those awards were stuffed in a box somewhere—and explained that he knew how to do his job better than anyone, and didn’t need a reminder, let alone two.
Chapa might have done that earlier, but not now. Having his editor hide behind a receptionist was victory enough. Besides, after reading a few of Chakowski’s meatier stories about corruption and shady associations, he was almost looking forward to this assignment.
Chapter 21
This early in the day, the Record’s newsroom was a buzzing hive of clicking keyboards, phone interviews, and story meetings. It used to be like this throughout much of the day, but not anymore.
The cubicles and free-standing desks were aligned in rows—more or less—though reporters typically spent little time at their assigned stations. At the busiest times it was sometimes easier to grab the nearest phone or a sheet of paper from a nearby cubicle.
Privacy was not a priority in a working newsroom, except where the more established writers were concerned. They had their work space. They’d earned it, and even if it was just a cubicle or a desk, it was their private turf.
Zach was sitting at his usual workstation, surrounded by loose sheets of paper and ad fliers.
“What are you working on?” Chapa asked as he surveyed the newsroom and saw the usual cast, minus one.
“Research,” Zach said, lifting his hands from the keyboard and using two sets of fingers to make quotation marks in the air.
He was wearing a mud brown T-shirt with a cartoon advertising character on it that Chapa recognized from his youth.
“Nice shirt,” Chapa said, pointing to the image, “I was a Quisp man myself.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Where’s Wormley?”
“That’s who I’m doing research for. He’s at Annino’s Toys for the big launch of the new Our Heritage Doll line.”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
Zach shook his head. “I could not make that one up, boss. I’m researching how much everyone loves these dolls.”
“Well here, do this for me instead.”
Chapa pulled the yellow notepaper out of his pocket and handed it to Zach. He’d decided it was best to not leave it in Chakowski’s office. During the three years that Zach had been working as an intern at the Chicago Record, Chapa had come to trust the young man. Zach was a right guy.
“See if any of what’s on that sheet of paper matches up to anything.”
Zach smiled.
“Ooh, detective work.”
“Maybe, of a sort.”
Zach was staring at the notes as he brought up a fresh screen on his monitor.
“And, Zach,” Chapa started, then waited until he was certain he had the intern’s attention, “do not let anyone see this piece of paper or anything that you find out about what’s written on it. And don’t tell anybody that I asked you to do this.”
“I get it.”
“I know you do.”
“But can you give me a starting point?”
Chapa shook his head. “I wish I could.”
“How soon do you need to know whatever it is that you need to know about whatever this is?”
“How many days ago was Jim killed?”
Zach did not hesitate. “Two.”
“Then three days ago would’ve been nice, but I’ll settle for as soon as possible.”
It took a moment for Chapa’s words to sink in. When they did, Zach’s eyes got as wide as a startled deer’s.
“Oh shit,” he said, then hushed, “oh shit.”
Chapa raised a hand and Zach only mouthed his next, Oh shit.
“It’s probably not a big deal. But I’m curious to see what you can turn up.”
Zach nodded and looked around the newsroom with suspicion.
“I’m on it. But what should I tell Wormley?”
“Damned if I care,” Chapa said, looked at his watch, and started for the door. He had less than twenty minutes to get to City Hall. “Just let him know how I reacted when you told me what he had you doing, and how that made it impossible for you to continue and still have any dignity left.”
“That’s a relief,” Zach said, his voice slowly fading into the background as Chapa left the newsroom. “For a moment I thought you were going to tell me to lie.”
Chapter 22
Downtown Oakton was a ten-minute drive from the newspaper office. Chapa parked a couple of blocks away from the city’s government complex that included its central police station and court, which bookended the City Hall. A pedestrian mall, stretching two blocks between Clinton Avenue and Marion Boulevard, connected the buildings.
Chapa was surprised by the amount of foot traffic as he tried to remember how many times he’d been down here on official business. The police station, and the court, had at times been part of his regular beat, but City Hall was another matter.
Checking his watch to confirm that he still had a few minutes before the meeting was scheduled to start, Chapa decided to duck into police headquarters. He told himself he was going there to find out if the cops had turned up anything new on the explosion. But deep down Chapa knew he was just trying to delay doing something he didn’t want to do.
As always, the Oakton Central Police Station was crowded with an unruly mass of humanity. A dingy dance hall where the cops did their best to waltz with the folks whose lives had been derailed by a single mistake or a wrong turn, and the others who’d been broken down since birth.
Chapa walked past the front desk to where the real business got done, and found a clerk at the records counter who seemed to recognize him. She was tall and slender, with wavy red hair and a nice smile. Her name tag identified her as Jayne.
Through the din of complaints and pleas he managed to ask for Detective Tom Jackson, and got the woman to make a call.
“He says he’ll be here in five.”
Chapa thanked her, moved aside so she could return to work, and checked his cell phone. There was a text message from Nikki.
Hi Daddy, I’m having fun and studying here with Erin. Hope you’re having a great day!
He wondered how the day was going for Erin. Great, probably, this all seemed to come naturally to her. He decided to call and check in with her anyhow, but was interrupted by the sound of a woman’s voice. More of a screech, really.
“I’m Gladys Washer, check your records, I’ve been down here before.” She was small and wiry, seventy, seventy-five years old, perhaps older. Despite her age and frail appearance, the taught veins on her neck looked tough as rope. “Don’t pretend you don’t recognize me.”
Poor Jayne was doing her best, but the old woman would have none of it. Chapa put his phone awa
y and walked over toward the two women. But before he could ask Gladys what her problem was or save the clerk in some way, he heard Tom Jackson call out to him.
“Please tell me you’re here for something that has nothing to with Jim Chakowski’s house.”
“I’m just checking in, Tom, just in case there’s something new.”
Jackson grabbed Chapa’s elbow and led him away from the desk and in the direction of the front door.
“Nothing new, and you’re persona non grata around here.”
“Well that’s nothing new either, but I must say I’m impressed by your use of Latin just now.”
“It’s true, Alex, none of us like you very much anyway. But things are a little worse than usual right now. A lot of folks are really pissed off about the way you got onto the crime site yesterday.”
Chapa looked at a large clock on the wall across the room. The meeting was scheduled to start in three minutes.
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t break any laws, Tom.”
“Trust me, there are some people around here who would love to pick you up for jaywalking.”
Chapa let out a small laugh, slapped Jackson on the arm.
“Nothing new about that, either,” he said, and turned for the exit.
Chapter 23
Chapa spotted Sean Moriarity first. When Moriarity saw him, the rival reporter’s facial expression turned from one of recognition, to disgust, to dismissal, before disgust came back around for seconds. Chapa didn’t care. He figured Moriarity would know a whole lot more about the goings-on than he did.
“That seat is taken,” Moriarity said as Chapa sat down next to him.
“It is now.”
Moriarity shuffled some notes and leaned away from Chapa, damned near turning his back to him. Chapa scanned the meeting room, he’d never been there before. There was a conference table, big enough for the twelve highback leather executive chairs that ringed it. The rest of the room was filled by rows of far less comfortable plastic chairs. All but six were empty.