by Henry Perez
Click, click, click.
“Have you seen a house explode like that before?”
“A couple of times, yes.”
“Really?”
“I do have to go, I’ve been here much too—”
“Ever been wrong about something like this?”
“Never.”
Click, click, click.
Up until now, Chapa had resisted the urge to record this conversation, concerned that doing so would have the same effect on Forsythe as a bright light does on a scared rabbit. But now he wanted to press a few of Forsythe’s buttons.
He drew the small black Olympia from his pocket like it was a natural extension of his hand, and pressed RECORD.
“Walk me through it, George. What did you see that made it all so clear in your mind?”
Forsythe’s eyes were fixed on the recorder. The clicking had stopped.
“Some of the surviving wires in the house were frayed, many were still original.” Forsythe now seemed distracted, his mind likely drifting in the direction of an escape plan. “You know what, Alex—it’s Alex, right?”
Chapa nodded slightly.
“I’m starting a big job today, so I really do have to get going.”
“When can we continue this conversation?”
Forsythe was on the move.
“Maybe next week or the week after, I’m gonna be real busy for a stretch.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t matter if I gave you my card,” Chapa said as Forsythe opened the door and hurried out without looking back or answering. Click, click, click, fading into all of the other sounds from the hallway outside.
Then the door closed with a loud snap, and Chapa was alone in the room. He looked around and wondered how much Chakowski could have told him about what went on here and how horrified he would’ve been by what his brother had done for him today. A lifetime of learning snuffed out by a single spark.
“What a waste.”
He flipped open his cell phone and tried to call Erin, but the old building refused to let a signal sneak inside its thick plaster walls. Maybe out in the hall. Chapa stepped though the door, but he didn’t get far before someone got his full attention by grabbing his arm and yelling at him.
Chapter 26
“You!”
There was a look of the crazy in the old woman’s eyes. The sort that you sometimes see at political rallies, racetracks, or Vegas night at the local social club.
“You write for one of those useless papers that are letting them get away with it!”
“I know, I do. Don’t you hate that? I know I do. Damn it.”
“I…what? Huh?”
Apparently, Chapa had succeeded in confusing the woman, usually a good play in these situations. He knew that one option when confronted by someone who has jumped the rails is to make them think that your train wasn’t on a track to begin with.
“What can we do about it, Gladys? It’s Gladys, right?” Chapa remembered her screeching at the poor woman by the info desk over at police headquarters. Apparently, Gladys had migrated down the street in search of a warmer reception. Didn’t she have anything better to do?
“Um. Well, you can start by writing some honest stories about this town.”
A political nutcase. Chapa hated politics, never trusted anyone who made their living off broken promises.
If he’d had a moment to think about it before the woman rushed him, he would’ve guessed that her harangue had something to do with politics. But he would’ve been wrong.
“It’s those houses with the peeling paint and the weeds and the garbage cans that are visible from the street.” Her breath smelled like stale coffee and dentures. “There are ordinances, you know. But some people, the ones who have no pride in anything, they don’t care about any of that.”
Gladys Washer was worse than a political loon. She was a civic-minded loon. Chapa had to get away, now. He started looking for a means of escape, then looked back at Gladys and realized she was still talking.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’ve got to get go—”
“No, you don’t.”
Chapa was almost resigned to having to stand there and reason with her when a face from the past gave him a better idea. He wondered how long she’d been staring at him from across the wide hall.
She was older than her body was willing to let on. A sky blue top, the sort that manages to look both simple and expensive, smoothed its way down to her trim waist and around the kind of breasts that young women believe will be theirs forever and middle-aged moms have long given up on. She was wearing neatly pressed gray slacks, and expensive black shoes with two-inch heels. Her hair had been pulled up and back.
“Leah?” He knew it was her, but it came out sounding like a question.
She smiled like he remembered she could. But then the smile was withdrawn and replaced by a much less inviting expression. He remembered that look too, along with all the others she’d shown him during their time together.
He made a nifty move and slipped out of Gladys Washer’s clutch.
“I’m sorry, Gladys. But I promise I’ll get right on all those important things you’re concerned about.”
“Do your job!” Chapa heard Gladys screech, followed by the sound of her loafers squeaking down the hall.
Chapter 27
Chapa met Leah Carelli more than fifteen years ago when he was just beginning to settle into his first job. He’d started making a habit of going out after deadline with writers from the other papers, usually to a smoky bar and grill called Peck’s, where the burgers were fresh, even at two in the morning.
She was waiting tables and seemed genuinely friendly, even at such a hostile hour. Leah had recently lost her job at a software company in Naperville, and was working two of them just to pay the bills and keep from having to move back in with her parents.
Their conversations were small and brief at first, but things progressed from there until Chapa realized he had started looking forward to seeing her. He began stopping by on nights when she was working, even if he wasn’t.
They soon discovered a mutual love of old movies, and when Chapa asked her to go with him to see a screening of It Happened One Night it didn’t really feel like a date. Though every cell in his body was attracted to her, and he had noticed how she’d begun to wander into his thoughts at any hour of the day.
Several nights out passed before they kissed, a few more until it went any further. But once they reached a tipping point there was no going back. They’d gone to see Random Harvest at the old Parkway Theater, then picked up some Chinese carryout and a bottle of wine. It was about 9:30 when they got to Leah’s place, but they didn’t get around to eating the Kung Pao chicken until well after midnight.
“I don’t think I’ve eaten Chinese food in my robe before,” Leah said, dipping a fortune cookie in her glass of wine.
All Chapa could think about at that moment was how she wasn’t wearing anything under that baby pink terry cloth robe, though they had already made love twice that night.
They saw each other regularly after that, through the spring and into summer. But just after Labor Day, Leah landed a job in Spokane, where she had some family. She asked Chapa to move with her.
“I’m pretty sure they have newspapers in Washington, Alex.”
But he had already begun to establish himself in the Chicago area. And besides, they agreed to stay in touch and travel to see each other as often as possible. That lasted a couple of months, though they did spend two days together later that year over the holidays.
Fifteen years had passed, and seeing Leah now, Chapa was surprised by how much he remembered about her. It was never clear to Chapa who let go of whom. Not that it mattered, at least not for long. He never saw or heard from Leah again after they lost contact, until a card arrived a few weeks after he married Carla.
Inside the card she had written simply, Congrats…
Chapa spent weeks trying to figure out what the hell that el
lipsis was meant to imply, knowing full well that it was anything but random.
“Alex Chapa,” she said now, nodding her head in a way that meant something, though he had no clue what that could be. “I understand you’re divorced.”
“You do?”
She allowed herself a quiet laugh, and Chapa remembered that, too.
“How did you know Carla and I had—”
“People talk, you hear things.”
“I hadn’t heard you were back in town.”
“You must not have been listening too hard. I’ve been working here for almost five years.”
“I don’t spend much time at City Hall.”
“Really? By the way you seemed to be drifting around like you were waiting for someone to recognize you, I would’ve thought you were a regular. Did they send you down here because of the crazed gunman?”
“That’s not exactly the correct order of events, no.”
“Well, it’s too bad Vanny stopped him. Between you and me the world would be a better place without a couple of the assholes on that board.”
Chapa figured it out right then. Leah’s job probably gave her access to all sorts of files and records. He wondered how much more she might know and saw an opportunity.
“So which department do you work in?”
“Community and Property Standards. Sorry, nothing juicy that could someday make me your unnamed source.”
He followed her through a large door that led to another part of the building and a series of offices.
“Actually, you’re wrong. I’m not looking for a source.”
Leah smirked, and Chapa understood that she knew he was always looking for sources.
“But I was wondering if you could get some info about the accident at Jim Chakowski’s house.”
The smirk evaporated. “I read about that. Sad thing. I spoke with Jim a few times, and he seemed like a nice man.”
“He was a nice man, and a good reporter too.”
“And after not seeing me for so long the first thing on your mind is how I can help you?”
Chapa flashed a smirk of his own.
“Well, it’s not the first thing,” Chapa said, and instantly realized that what he’d meant as a clever comeback actually came over like a flirt that he had not intended.
“Okay, Alex, because I know you’re wondering—I’m not married, never have been,” she held up her left hand and wiggled a set of bare fingers. “No kids, both parents still alive, sister too. I own a house, have one cat, and became a Republican after 9-11.”
“Wow, you could be a hell of a speed dater.”
“Some of us don’t have to go to those kinds of extremes.”
She smiled again, and this time a few lines gathered around her eyes and conspired to betray Leah’s age.
“If I find what you’re looking for, you’ll buy me lunch, we’ll catch up.”
Chapa hesitated for a second, wondered if there was a way around this, then accepted there wasn’t.
“Sure.”
He explained about the workman who’d been seen around Chakowski’s house not long before the accident and asked Leah to find out if it had been someone from the city.
“I doubt it, but I’ll check.”
Chapa followed her through a set of double doors that opened to a large office area to their left and another door on the right.
“I also need to know if there are any records of repairs or city inspections at that house.”
“It would have to be something pretty significant for us to have records for that sort of thing. What are you trying to stir up, Alex?”
“I’m not trying to stir up anything. I just promised a guy that I would look into it. And it’s the least you can do when one of your own goes down.”
She leaned the way she used to back when they spoke on a daily basis, tossing a firm round hip to the side.
“And you always keep your promises, don’t you?”
Chapa tried to remember what promise he might’ve made to Leah Carelli. But he came up empty.
“I try.”
“Yes, you do, sweetie,” she said, patted him gently on the cheek, then opened the door on their right, leading to a set of offices labeled COMMUNITY AFFAIRS, and stepped inside. “Give me just a few.”
From the doorway Chapa watched her disappear down a narrow hall. All the while he was struggling to remember whether Leah had always been this elusive, or if the behavior was a more recent affectation.
Chapter 28
A well-lit room stretched far to Chapa’s left. He wandered away from the door Leah had disappeared through a few minutes ago. The office was at least as big as the Chicago Record’s newsroom, though not nearly as manic, and much more orderly than any place Chapa had ever worked. The people here were also much better dressed.
White blinds lining a far wall glowed neon bright as the midday sun fought to push through. Perfectly aligned cubicles created long rows of organization and structure.
The smell of detergent suggested that the light brown carpeting, so bland as to almost not exist, had been recently cleaned. The sounds of printers and clacking keyboards were drowned out by office chatter. Chapa caught snippets of the sort of corpo-political office speak that is at once familiar and superficial. All of it spoken at a polite volume level.
A door opened and closed down the hall to the right. Chapa turned, expecting to see Leah, but instead saw one of the members of the Business Council walking his way.
“That was some meeting you guys had,” Chapa said. “Is it always that action packed? Should I wear a bulletproof vest the next time?”
“A bulletproof vest?” The guy actually seemed to be weighing the idea. “No, I don’t think that’s necessary.”
Chapa liked to use humor as an ice breaker, but knew that it was lost on some people. Then the guy smiled and extended his hand.
“I’m Greg Vinsky, I help out around here.”
“Alex Chapa, Chicago Record.”
Vinsky nodded as though one of his questions had just been answered.
“Are you planning on becoming a regular?”
Chapa hesitated before answering, but knew there was power in the idea that he might be around for a while.
“I expect I will, yes. What is it you do, exactly?”
“What do I do, exactly? Well, Alex, mostly I bring parties together, make deals happen.”
He pulled out a business card. Chapa had always been amused by businessmen and salespeople who were trained to act like PEZ dispensers and give their cards to anyone they met. Chapa took this one and tucked it in his pocket without looking at it.
“Did I see you at Jim Chakowski’s house yesterday?” Chapa asked.
“At the house, yes, I was there taking pictures, Alex.”
Vinsky was a little taller than Chapa, with broad shoulders, and gentle features. He had an easy, comfortable manner about him. But the way he spoke, repeating what was just said and using the name of the person he was talking to, told Chapa that this guy had been to a few business and sales seminars. Maybe even walked on coals once or twice.
“Why were you taking pictures?”
“The pictures, I’m something of a photographer, I guess. So I photograph parades and other events, or in the case of that house, I took some shots to give to the police. Just in case.”
“I’d like to get a look at those pictures.”
“I’m sorry, Alex, I know you’re a quality newsman and I’d like to help, but you’ll have to talk to the police, they have those pictures now.”
“You didn’t keep copies for yourself?”
“Copies for myself?” Vinsky seemed confused. “No. Why would I?”
Chapa shrugged and shook his head.
“I guess you wouldn’t.”
“No, no one would. Those were some very disturbing images.”
There was a softness in Vinsky’s eyes, but Chapa sensed the guy was trying to figure out how to sell him something.
> “Tell you what, Alex, if the Record ever needs a freelance photographer, I might be able to help. I’ve had some pictures run in the Observer before. They seem to do more community oriented stories, no offense.”
“No offense taken.” Chapa looked down the hall to check if Leah was on her way back yet. “And I’ll mention to my editor that you’re available.”
“Yes, I’m available. And you have my business card, Alex.”
“And I have your business card, Greg.”
They shook hands again, then Vinsky left. Chapa had always thought of downtown Oakton as being little more than a pile of dirt populated by self-important ants. None of what he’d seen thus far contradicted that belief.
He surveyed the workers scurrying about. The administrative assistants were always the easiest to spot since they were usually the hardest working. Chapa spotted a couple of women he decided were middle managers of some sort because they were too fidgety to be anything else.
Then he eyed someone who didn’t seem to belong there, or fit into any of the standard categories. In a corner, along the far end of a long blank wall, sat a young man at a lone desk. Apparently, he did not merit a cubicle, though it seemed he’d made an effort to claim his turf by using the wall behind him as a bulletin board.
Chapa knew from experience that it was often the outcast, the solitary man, the quiet ones, who knew the most about what went on. He took a glance down the hallway, and seeing no sign of Leah, decided to approach.
He guessed the guy to be in his late twenties, perhaps a little older, but not much. His white shirt and thin black tie reminded Chapa of the new wave look of the early 80s. Medium brown hair rested in a shiny tangle above pale, angular features. There had been an effort to grow a beard, maybe a goatee, but it hadn’t taken and there was no evidence that it would anytime soon.
Chapa pulled up a chair in front of the desk, passing on the one along the side, which seemed a bit too familiar.
“How you doing, I’m Alex Chapa,” he said, and extended his hand around a wide computer monitor and across the cluttered desk.
“Okay,” the guy said, releasing his fingers from the keyboard’s grip just long enough to shake hands. “Can I help you?”