Jump Cut

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  It was unusually mild for late February—blue skies and temperatures in the forties, thanks to a buckle in the jet stream or a high-pressure system or whatever the weather bloviators say to explain a beautiful day—so we decided to walk. Of course, winter in Chicago is relative. Snow, now mottled and dirty, was piled on lawns and curbs, and any hint of spring was weeks away. But we bundled up in hats, scarves, boots, and gloves, and set out from my house.

  As we rounded the corner—my house sits on the edge of a cul-de-sac—we approached the Schomers’, which, due to Mr. Schomer’s stroke and his wife’s cancer, was now for sale. They’d lived on the block more than fifty years, and the place needed work. A dirty green pickup was parked out front. Inside were two men in bulky jackets and wool hats pulled low on their foreheads. The man in the driver’s seat gave us a penetrating stare, then conspicuously looked away.

  “Do we have some abnormality that makes us look strange?” I asked.

  “Well, we are walking outside in the middle of winter,” Susan said. “And with all this gear, we probably look like Eskimos.”

  “Eskimos, okay. But the abominable snowman? Did you see that guy’s expression?”

  “They’re workmen.” Susan pointed to the “For Sale” sign. “Was there an open house?”

  I nodded. “I heard a family with four kids is interested.”

  “Really.”

  “The block is turning over. Soon there are going to be tons of kids, and I’ll be the crazy old lady at the end of the street.” Susan grinned as if she was going to speak.

  “Don’t you dare,” I said.

  She laughed. “Okay. But you do have the best Halloween candy in the village. Ben used to say that all the time.” Ben is Susan’s now twenty-eight-year-old son.

  As we passed the pickup, something about the men nagged at me. They were just sitting there, not making any attempt to gather their tools or equipment and proceed to the Schomers’ front door. I turned around and took in the license plate. Illinois. I repeated it a few times, then pulled out my cell, opened my Notes app, and entered it.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  Susan narrowed her eyes but let it pass.

  During the walk we analyzed the new grocery store inventory—some major brands weren’t in stock. Then we considered the recent mayoral primary, which would end in a runoff, despite the fact the election was in Chicago. Then we moved to the global economy, deploring the state of Greece, Portugal, Italy, even poor, sunny Spain.

  Twenty minutes later, we realized it was too cold to make our usual three-mile trek around the village, so we turned around and headed back. We were both quiet, the frigid air having sapped our energy.

  As we rounded the bend on my street, the pickup was still there. So were the two men.

  “That’s odd,” Susan said. “They must be freezing their butts off.”

  “And look at that.” I jutted my chin.

  About thirty yards away, another vehicle, an SUV, with two men inside, was just pulling up.

  Susan checked the time on her cell. “Someone is late.”

  I looked at her. “Huh?”

  “Whoever’s in charge of these guys.”

  “Oh.”

  Suddenly the driver of the pickup gunned the engine, pulled out, and raced off down the street.

  It was Susan’s turn to frown. “Now, what is that all about?”

  I peered at the SUV, took in the plate, and entered it in my Notes app. Susan watched me. “Ellie, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” I tried to sound cheery.

  “Nope. Not buying it. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Really, it’s nothing.”

  Susan pursed her lips and shot me a glance that was puzzled, disappointed, and maybe a little angry all at once. But what could I say? That I’d spent another sleepless night hungover, obsessing about the flash drive and Charlotte Hollander? That I realized the woman bought me drinks, not because of any contrition on her part or the desire to make amends but because she wanted to pump me about the flash drive, which she probably already knew about? That I really didn’t like being manipulated and had no desire to produce a video for her even if she plied me with wine and paid me a fortune for the work? And, most important, that given what happened to Parks, I was beginning to be concerned about my own safety?

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Friday

  It was only mid-morning after our short walk. I felt at loose ends, so I went to work out. The place I go is owned by the Glenview Park District, but it’s more like a country club than any park district facility. There’s a huge gym with every conceivable machine known to torture the human body, a plethora of classes spread out during the day in another huge gym, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, a hot tub, and an indoor running track.

  I was just in time for Zumba with Debbie, my favorite instructor. The class helped me forget about everything. Get some good salsa music going, let me swivel my hips, and I’m in Cuba or Latin America, waiting for a gorgeous sunset and the mojito I hope will be coming.

  After class I stopped to chat with a woman I know, and we headed out to our cars together. She went in one direction, I in another. I got into my car and pulled out. I headed toward the grocery store.

  As I drove up Waukegan Road I realized someone was following me. It wasn’t the pickup truck I’d seen earlier, and it wasn’t the SUV. It was a battered green Toyota. A chill streaked over me. Now what?

  I checked the rear view, but the sun hit the mirror at just the wrong angle, and I couldn’t see the driver. Still, I wasn’t ready to give up. I tried to get the license plate number, but the glare of the sun in the rear view prevented me. I needed a Plan B. I blew out a breath and made a sudden right turn off the main road. The Toyota followed. I drove a block or two, then turned right again. The Toyota did too. If I kept turning, I knew I’d end up in the middle of a residential neighborhood, not unlike the one in which I lived. I made another turn. So did the Toyota.

  I was curious whether the person tailing me had the chutzpah to follow me to a dead-end street I knew was coming up. If they did, I would at least get a good look at them and their license plate. I turned left into a cul-de-sac. I drove to the end and waited.

  No Toyota. I waited another five minutes.

  It didn’t come.

  It was over. For now.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Friday

  After I did my shopping at the supermarket and was on the way home, I called Dan O’Malley, the police chief of my village. He and I know each other too well. He took my call right away.

  “Ellie! Haven’t heard from you in a long time. You must be behaving yourself.”

  I wasn’t sure how to reply, so I let it go. “Congratulations, Dan. I don’t think we’ve talked since you were promoted.” He’d been deputy chief for as long as I’d known him.

  “Thanks. After twenty years, it feels good. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering if you could look up the final disposition of a case in Chicago for me.”

  “Go on.”

  “A man jumped in front of a subway train the other day, and I was there when it happened.” I made sure to phrase it carefully. “I was just wondering if the cause of death has been formally decided. Or will be.”

  “I heard about that one. Didn’t know you were involved.”

  “I wasn’t. I just happened to be there.”

  “I see,” Dan said in a tone that clearly indicated he didn’t believe me. He was quiet. Then: “Let me see what I can find out. You wouldn’t happen to have the case file number, would you?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ll call you back. You still at the same number?”

  “I am. Thanks a lot.” I disconnected.

  • • •

  A message from Zach Dolan was on my voice mail when I got home.

  “Hi, Ellie. The work is—well—it’s turning out to be more complex than I
thought. Whoever encrypted it didn’t use Voltage or DataMotion or other software that companies use on their networks. But I’m working on it. Just wanted to give you an update.”

  I erased the message, wondering what Voltage and DataMotion were, but decided I’d rather check out the “workmen’s” license plates I’d punched into my cell. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time for either. My father, Rachel and her boyfriend, Q, and Luke were coming for Shabbos dinner, and I had to cook.

  My family has handed down a secret brisket recipe for at least forty years that is out-of-this-world delicious. There are probably ten million other people who know about it, but calling it “secret” confers a special sought-after quality. You take a brisket, rub it with dry onion soup mix, baste it with ketchup, then pour a bottle of beer—Heineken works well—over everything. Some chefs insist it must be cooked in a plastic bag. I’m not rigid about that, but I do add carrots, onions, and potatoes during the last hour. Combined with matzo-ball soup, a salad, and my signature apple cobbler, it’s a surefire hands-down feast.

  That evening Rachel, who more and more resembles my late mother, said the blessing over the candles, cupping the flame with her hands three times, then covering her eyes. Dad always says the Barucha over the challah, and I’m happy to bless the wine.

  I dished out matzo-ball soup, which Rachel helped pass. Before we dug in, my father cleared his throat. “Before we eat this wonderful meal my daughter has prepared—”

  I cut in. “You haven’t tried it yet.”

  “Be quiet, Ellie,” he scolded. “I just want to say these dinners…these occasions with family and friends”—he nodded to Luke and Q—“are what life is all about. I am so grateful to have you all with me. I couldn’t ask for a kinder, more generous family.” He looked around solemnly, then broke into a grin. “That’s all. You may now—what is it you say?—return to your regularly scheduled programming.”

  As requested, I kept my mouth shut, but I found myself blinking back tears. It wasn’t like my father to get sentimental. A bittersweet feeling swept over me. I was grateful my father was still alive and alert, but I was also aware how fragile life is, especially when you’re on the “back nine,” as Dad often says.

  Luke seemed to understand what I was feeling and reached for my hand. I squeezed his in return. With the swell of conversation, the tangy aroma of the brisket, and the clink of spoons in the soup, I wanted to record this moment, keep it in my memory box forever. Apparently, Rachel had the same idea, because she whipped out her cell and snapped a few pictures.

  “Oh no. Rachel, please don’t upload those to Facebook,” I said. “It’s a family moment.” Her thumbs clicked on her cell. “And my hair looks terrible.”

  “Too late. They’re already up.” She grinned as if she’d beat me at checkers. Some things never change.

  • • •

  We were clearing the table when the phone rang. When I was growing up, my parents used to let it ring. “We should have peace and quiet at least on the Sabbath,” my father would say. But as his law practice expanded and clients called with emergencies, the custom lapsed. I never reinstated it. I picked up in the kitchen, expecting it to be O’Malley.

  “Ellie, it’s Georgia Davis.”

  “Hey. What’s up?”

  “I just got a call and thought you should know. Zach Dolan’s office? In Northbrook?”

  An uneasy feeling roiled my gut. “Yeah?” I said slowly.

  “Zach’s okay. He wasn’t there. But some kind of IED just blew the place up.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Friday

  Feeling unsteady, I went back into the dining room and told them what had happened. Everyone went quiet. Even the candles, which had almost burned down to their base, flickered, as if alarmed.

  Then they all started to talk at once.

  “What’s going on?” “Who is Dolan?” “What business did you have with him?” “Spill, Mom.” Only Q, mercifully, was quiet. He probably didn’t want to make waves. He didn’t have to. The ones around the table were already cresting.

  “Okay, okay.” I sat and poured myself a glass of wine. “You remember how Charlotte Hollander fired me from the job at Delcroft? And then the guy I wanted to talk to about her killed himself on the subway? Well, Hollander called me on Wednesday to apologize, sort of. We met for a drink, and she told me the guy who committed suicide was a spy for the Chinese.”

  Silence. Then my father threw me a stern look. “A spy? What mishegoss is this?”

  I felt my cheeks get hot. “I don’t know, but I found a flash drive on the subway platform that I’m pretty sure was his.”

  The silence sucked all the air out of the room.

  “It was encrypted. So I took it to someone to decrypt.”

  Luke’s eyes went from flat to angry. “Are you crazy?”

  “Why are you getting involved?” Rachel said.

  “I—I never thought it would be dangerous,” I said.

  “Delcroft. Number one manufacturer of drones. For all intents and purposes, owned and operated by the United States military. And Chinese spies thrown into the mix.” Luke flipped up his hands, a hard expression on his face. “And you didn’t think it was dangerous?”

  “Wouldn’t you want to know what was on it?” Before anyone had a chance to reply, I added, “Well, I did. But now Hollander wants it. She claims it will prove what she’s been saying all along.”

  “About this—this spy?” my father hissed.

  I nodded.

  “So? You don’t owe her a damn thing,” Rachel said.

  “Rachel!”

  “Mom, you don’t. She’s using you.” It’s at times like these I’m reminded how much she takes after her father.

  “Your daughter’s right,” Luke said.

  I ran a finger around the rim of my glass. “Well, someone may be using her. The place that blew up was where I took the drive.”

  No one said anything.

  “So…” I gulped down my wine and looked around. “Shabbat shalom.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Friday night

  I turned on the ten-o’clock news upstairs. The table was cleared, dishes stacked, guests gone. Luke was watching Netflix in the family room, which was fine with me. I wanted to be alone. I felt like I’d been sandbagged at dinner. I never had the chance to tell them that when I took the drive to Zach, I didn’t know a thing about Chinese spies. As a result, I hadn’t said much since. Luke wisely left me alone. Happily, there was nothing on the news about the explosion at Zach’s place. Yet.

  The sportscaster came on, a fresh-faced woman reporter, and the story cut to a star Bulls forward for a sound bite. It could have been a Bears, Sox, even a Cubs player. Whatever the sport, athletes these days seem to talk in a practiced monotone, as if they’re reading a grocery list. I keep thinking some TV coach has instructed them to tamp down their emotions, to show what good sports they really are. The problem is they’ve taken all the passion out of the story.

  I got up, went into my office, and booted up my Mac. I was pretty sure someone had hacked into my computer, and the less they saw the better. I made another copy, deleted the contents of Parks’ flash drive from my hard drive, and dropped the new copy into my purse. Then I went back to bed. I heard Luke’s tread on the stairs and grabbed a book off the nightstand. I pretended to read. He poked his head in, as if trying to ascertain my mood before he came all the way in.

  I looked up. “It’s okay. I’m not contagious.”

  He came in and sat on the edge of the bed. He was wearing his reading glasses. “You ready to talk?”

  “What more is there to say? Everyone already got their two cents in.”

  He peered at me over his glasses. “Is it possible you might be playing the victim, just a little?”

  “Well, how would you feel if everyone talked to you as if you were a disobedient brat? Including your daughter?”

  He didn’t reply for a moment. Then: “Well, you�
��re right about one thing. This isn’t child’s play. Ellie, do you really understand how much danger you could be in?”

  I closed the book. The memory of a figure flashing across the subway platform strafed my brain. “So I’ll give back the drive and everyone forgets what I said tonight.” I snapped my finger. “Problem solved.”

  “No. Problem not solved. You’re on somebody’s radar.”

  “So is everyone in the world, according to Edward Snowden.”

  I sensed him sigh inwardly. I knew I was being bitchy. And he was so patient with me.

  “True, but it’s clear someone has taken a special interest in you. Delcroft, the military, NSA…God knows…maybe even the Chinese government. You’ve got to be careful.”

  I ran my fingers up and down the spine of the book. “Of course I’m worried. I’ll never forget that Parks smashed into that train.” I looked up. “And now…well…I’m not convinced it was suicide.”

  Luke inclined his head, a question on his face.

  “In fact, I think someone’s tapped my phone.”

  His spine stiffened. “How do you know?”

  “Whoever blew up Dolan’s studio knew he had the drive. Dolan and I exchanged a few calls. In fact, he called this morning.” I swallowed. “And there’s more.” I told him about the “workmen” in the cars in front of the house down the street. How one of the cars took off when they saw Susan and me returning from our walk. And how I thought I’d been followed when I went to work out and then to the grocery store.

  “Okay.” Luke crossed his arms. “I want you to do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want you to use your cell, not the house phone, as much as possible from now on.”