Mourn the Living

by Henry Perez

  Inside, Chapa found a memo cube–sized piece of paper folded in half. As he unfolded it, a smaller piece fell out and drifted to the floor.

  Chapa squatted, picked it up and turned it over. Smiling up at him was a black-and-white photo of Charles Stoop’s head. He looked several years younger, but Chapa had no trouble recognizing him. It had been cut out of a magazine.

  He dropped the envelope on the table and slowly opened the note. The message had been written using rub-on letters.

  It is over.

  Chapa doubted that very much. And though the postmark may have been from Ortonville, Minnesota, Chapa knew that by now the man who sent the letter could be in Oak Grove, South Carolina, Oakland, California, or anywhere in between.

  “What is that, Daddy?”

  Nikki was wearing pink stretch pants, a green sweater with butterflies on the front, and a bright blue pair of those soft shoes with all the holes on top.

  “Just another piece of junk mail,” he said, tossing it into a drawer before opening the door for Nikki.

  He would turn this one over to investigators, there were certainly enough of those around to choose from now. Led by Special Agent Joseph Andrews, the FBI had descended on Oakton over the past couple of days, and begun dissecting the city’s politics and deal making, and what role any of it might’ve played in the area’s recent murder epidemic.

  Dr. Bendix’s plane had been found the morning after Greg Vinsky’s disappearance. Andrews sent Agent Sandro and a team out to look for it after he explained to his superiors how he’d helped Chapa survive a crash. When asked why he had failed to inform the Federal Aviation Administration or his boss about the incident, Andrews told them he’d wanted to keep an ongoing investigation into the Oakton murders quiet until he’d gathered enough information.

  Andrews took some heat for that decision, but not much. It was the only lie he told, as far as Chapa knew. But knowing the man as well as he did, Chapa understood that single transgression had led to several sleepless nights for his friend.

  Chapa was now cooperating with the FBI, having turned all of his and Chakowski’s notes over to them, as well as the recording of his conversation with Bendix, along with the doctor’s flight log. He owed Andrews a meal or two or more. But their friendship remained solid, like always.

  The investigation had turned into a Get Out of Jail Free card for Warren Chakowski, who was now helping the feds determine how his brother’s death fit into the puzzle. The charges against Warren had been dropped, in part on Chapa’s insistence and his promise to Andrews that in exchange he would never climb into another small plane unless Andrews himself was at the controls.

  “You know what, Al, not even then,” Andrews said, amending his original demand.

  As he drove through Oakton, Chapa realized how different this town looked to him now from the way it had the day he brought Nikki back. The place would never be the same.

  Vinsky’s killing spree had ended the morning after the explosion, when a body washed up on a small island in the Fox River, just south of downtown Aurora. A group of grade schoolers had seen its feet swaying from side to side with the current as they crossed a bridge on their way to a science museum. A store manager at Lansford’s Megamart identified the dead man as the same one who was seen wandering through his store in a daze the night before.

  But Chapa was certain that what had come to an end in Chicago’s western suburbs would, in time, begin somewhere else. Andrews believed that, too, after nothing could be found to prove who Vinsky actually was or that he’d even existed before arriving in Oakton. The feds were working with authorities in Baltimore to reopen several old murder cases. With Chapa’s help, Jan Boll was on the front lines of the reporting on that investigation.

  Charles Stoop also proved to be something of a mystery man. Authorities were able to trace Stoop’s history back to his previous business in Marion, Iowa, but that was where the trail ended. Connecting him to anyone named Gilley had been a dead end, so far.

  After stopping at Blake’s Burgers and grabbing a couple of cheeseburgers and orders of fries and drinks to go, Chapa drove to Rocket Park and let Nikki choose their picnic table. The place was empty except for the two of them.

  Chapa had counted on that, this being a school day. If there had been other kids her age, Nikki would have wanted to play with them. But Chapa was feeling selfish today, and wanted her to himself.

  He would have to drive her to O’Hare the following morning and put her on a plane to Boston.

  “Will I get a chance to say goodbye to Erin and Mike again before I leave?” Nikki asked through a mouthful of fries.

  “You already did. That’s why we stopped there for a moment last night.”

  She knocked back the mass of food with a big swig of lemonade.

  “Is it my fault that you two broke up, Daddy?”

  “No. None of what happened is in any way your fault. And we didn’t necessarily break up. We’ve just decided to spend a little time apart so we can sort things out. Adults do that sometimes.”

  She nodded and took a bite of her burger, but Chapa could almost hear the wheels spinning in his daughter’s mind. He had no idea how it would turn out between Erin and him. Except for that brief visit the night before, they had not seen each other or spoken in two days. He already missed the sound of her voice, and had begun noticing the smell of her fragrance in his clothes. It made him feel close to Erin and ache for her at the same time.

  “Did you and Mom ever spend time apart to sort things out?”

  Chapa took a bite of his sandwich, chewed it slowly to buy himself some time to decide how to best answer.

  “Yes, we did.”

  “It didn’t work out too good, did it?”

  “You know how it worked out, but I don’t think your mom and I were in love with each other anymore by then.”

  “But you both still loved me?”

  “Very much, Nikki,” Chapa said reaching across the table and clutching her mustard-smeared hand. “Your mother and I will always love you more than anything in the world.”

  Nikki smiled and a thin line of catsup curled along her upper lip.

  “And you and Erin still love each other, don’t you?”

  Chapa took a deep breath. The cold air filling his lungs pressed against the wound in his ribs, and he wondered if it would ever fully heal.

  “I hope so, Nik. I know how I feel about her.”

  “That’s cool then, cuz she loves you too, so it’ll all work out.”

  She crumpled the napkins and french fries container inside the hamburger wrapper, and ran over to toss it in a waste can.

  “C’mon, Dad, let’s go up in the rocket,” she said, racing toward the giant slide.

  Chapa swallowed his last bite, chugged the rest of his soda, and cleaned up the table. Watching Nikki climb to the top, he felt good about the arrangements his attorney had already made for him to visit her around Thanksgiving, then again at Christmastime.

  He had not told Nikki anything about quitting the paper. There was no reason to burden a ten-year-old with that kind of problem, and he didn’t want it to become the central issue or even a passing topic of discussion during their last days together.

  The Record had informed him he’d be receiving a severance package. This came as a surprise to Chapa, more so when he saw the amount. Chapa still hadn’t decided whether it was a case of guilt or old-fashioned ass-covering, but he was leaning toward the latter.

  Zach had been promoted to a staff position, which came as great news to Chapa. They were planning on meeting for lunch some day soon.

  Chapa had heard Duane Wormley was heartbroken. First, because his departure could mean Wormley would have to do some hard reporting, and then came the news that he wasn’t being promoted.

  Chapa’s office was left empty and untouched, just like Chakowski’s. Two time capsules of a lost industry.

  Nikki was waiting for him at the top, her legs resting on the slide.


  “Can I come live with you sometime?”

  She’d hinted at this twice before in the past day.

  “You can visit, Sweetie, but your home is in Boston. That’s where your school is, and your mom and Stephen have made a nice life there for you. That’s where you should be now.”

  Two weeks ago Chapa might’ve answered her question differently, or called his attorney to ask what could be done to make it happen. But a lot had changed in the last two weeks, and Chapa had accepted the fact that his life was no place for a child.

  A thick breeze blew across the park, sending a wave of dried leaves from one side to another, depositing several armfuls at the bottom of the slide.

  “Check it out, Nik, a soft landing.”

  “Let’s not slide down just yet,” she said.

  Chapa smiled, nodded.

  “How long can we stay up here, Daddy?”

  He looked out over the endless blue sky, marred only by a line of clouds drifting away into the distance, put his arm around Nikki and said, “Until someone comes along and makes us go.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  All thanks to my super-agent Scott Miller, my talented editor John Scognamiglio, and everyone in the mystery writing community who has offered advice and encouragement, and been so supportive of my work.

  Much gratitude to John Sandrolini, who acted as a key technical advisor, along with being a great friend. Joe Konrath for his pitch-perfect advice, generosity, and friendship. Leslie Rocha and J.D. Smith for the time they dedicated to helping me get it right, as well as Todd Fanscali for his great insight. And to Maggie Perez for providing valuable advice.

  I owe a debt to the many booksellers who over the past year have kindly opened their doors to the new guy and treated him like a longtime member of the club.

  As always, an enormous thank you to my family and friends who have been there every step of the way. And especially to Cheri, Maggie, and Kate, not just for being my biggest fans, but also for putting up with the occasional major disruption to their day-to-day. I couldn’t do it without you.

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  Copyright © 2010 Henry Perez

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  ISBN: 978-0-7860-2510-7