by J. D. Webb
True to his word, Bob was there, pacing in the foyer of the Cruickshank Business Complex, home to SWW&S, a small drug store, and the office of architect Nino Balamos.
He glanced up at her when the click of her high heels on the marble tiles caught his attention. He grinned sheepishly. “Been a slight change of plans.”
“Change?”
Bob’s gaze quickly shifted to where his shoe dug at two cracked floor tiles. “Uh, yeah, we need to go back to the station. The FBI is there ready to take over the investigation. I have no idea why.”
Trish couldn’t help but think Bob was reacting like a boy who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “You don’t want them to?”
“I feel like Barney Fife, and they’ve taken my bullet away.”
Trish smiled and touched his arm. “I appreciate your efforts, Bob, but I think we need as much help as we can get. At least, I feel that way. I’m not discounting your expertise, only thinking about the advantages of having more than one brain working on this problem.”
“Well, if you put it that way, I’ll accept it. Come on. Let’s go see what they say.”
Much to her surprise, Trish felt safer walking with Officer Bob Jenkins. He certainly presented an imposing figure in the tailored uniform. Still, she couldn’t shake the sense of impending doom. Bob’s eyes did a continual scan of the area around them for who knows what. When he pushed open the door, her heart seemed less likely to jump out of her throat inside the security of the police station. She scrutinized the street just traveled as if they had escaped the most dangerous swamp in the Everglades.
Bob’s office was too small for the gathering they encountered, so they had moved to the office of Stan Landers, chief of police. Two men stood between Bob and the chief, one attired in a form-fitting, brown trooper uniform, the other wore a spotless, wrinkle-free dark suit. An official-looking badge hung from the jacket’s breast pocket. The strangers exuded an air of authority in spite of the fact that at six feet, both still had to look up to Stan and Bob.
Chief Landers smiled and offered Trish a chair. “Good morning, Trish. Let me introduce everyone. That fellow there with the ugly flowered tie is Gordon Cheever, a lead investigator or something for the Chicago office of the FBI. To his right is Sam Shadonitz with the Illinois State Police.” Each man nodded a greeting and pulled up a chair facing Trish.
Gordon Cheever smoothed his tie and leaned toward her. “Mrs. Morgan, we sympathize with your recent ordeal and appreciate your willingness to cooperate in the investigation. We’ll try to make it as painless as possible. If you could, in your own words, take us through the events of last night.”
Trish nervously clasped her hands and repeated her story for what seemed like the one hundredth time, answering each question succinctly. Once she asked for and was given the okay to call home. Jim was disturbed and when she said she didn’t know when she’d be home, he hung up. Later, Jim’s interrogation would be much worse than the one she currently faced.
She returned to the question and answer session, actually relieved she would be away from home a while longer. Two tape recorders whirred as she spoke, reminding her of scenes of TV news conferences.
Cheever scratched his head through thick red hair and consulted his notes. “Stan said the killer has contacted you wanting the DVD returned.”
“Yes, more than once.” Bob and Stan shot concerned looks her way. “He called me before I left work. He wants me to steal the DVD back from Bob, and then meet him to return it at ten a.m. tomorrow at the Citizens Building on the second floor. He has my cell phone number to contact me.”
Sam Shadonitz interrupted. “How’d he get that?”
“I gave it to him. I had no choice but to cooperate.” Shadonitz’s eyebrows rose questioningly and she continued, “He knows where I work. I assume he knows where I live too. I want this to be over. Then I can change my phone number and go back to being a nobody.”
Cheever stood. “Mrs. Morgan, we need to huddle and talk this over. If you could wait a few more minutes?”
“I’ll step outside.”
Cheever gave a nod to Bob. “Officer Jenkins will go with you, just as a precaution.” It was obvious; he was being dismissed from their planning session. They moved to the main squad room and sat down at one of the many empty desks.
Bob heaved a sigh. “Stan’s not too happy with me lately.”
“Why’s that?” Trish was happy to be away from Cheever. And she was curious about Bob’s statement.
“I’ve been offered a job with Homeland Security in Washington.”
“That’s wonderful, Bob. You should be very proud.”
“It’s a dream come true. I’ve always wanted to leave and do some real police work and now I’ll be working with the best. Been trying for a couple of years.”
“You must have some good credentials. They’re careful who they hire.”
“Spent ten years in the Air Force Air Police. I specialized in terrorist activities. Seems there’s a greater need for that now.”
“I’d think Stan would be happy for you.”
“He’ll have to work now.” He raised his hand. “Don’t get me wrong. He works, but I’ve been able to do the grunt stuff, freeing him for the administrative headaches. With me gone, he’ll have to do it all and he’s afraid they’ll cut his budget, leaving no money for my replacement.” He rubbed the end-of-the-day stubble on his chin. “I didn’t tell him I was trying for the new job, thinking I probably wouldn’t get it.”
“I can see that might be a problem. When do you leave?”
“Not for a couple of months. They’re allowing time to put things in order.”
They talked for 30 minutes while the other cops conferred. Trish focused the conversation on the case, the weather, town politics, and SWW&S. Small talk about everything except their prior relationship. Finally Stan called them back to his office.
Trish walked in thinking these four people held her suddenly fragile existence in their hands.
EIGHT
As Trish reentered the chief’s office, Agent Cheever stood, and Trooper Shadonitz and Chief Landers half rose from their chairs.
“Mrs. Morgan, we’ve given this a lot of thought. I wanted to bring in an undercover woman from our office to substitute for you.” Cheever placed his hands on the back of his chair and leaned over toward Trish. “We must assume the assailant knows what you look like. So you are our only hope of grabbing this guy. Please know we’ll do everything in our power to protect you. However, you will be at risk. Do you understand?”
Trish’s stomach rolled at the thought. She hesitated and then slowly nodded. “I’ll do whatever you think best.”
Cheever smiled. “Good. Good. We appreciate your willingness to help. Okay, here’s the plan. A SWAT team dressed as civilians will be in place at the Citizen’s Building tomorrow. You will have a copy of the original DVD and—”
Trish interrupted. “I have a copy already.” She pulled a disk from her purse and handed it to Cheever. It still had Heather’s sticky note attached.
“Excellent. Excellent. You’ve been thinking about this as well. I like that.”
“I want this over with as quickly as possible. I had planned to give the creep the copy and hand over the original to you.”
Cheever raised his eyebrows. “That would be the prudent thing to do. Let us handle it.”
The state policeman lifted his finger. “We’ve assigned a car to patrol your neighborhood twenty-four seven.”
Agent Cheever jumped in. “I think it is best if you come to work tomorrow as usual, then go to the Citizen’s Building at ten sharp as he wants. Do you have any questions?”
“Yes, how about some protection for me when I go to meet him?”
Cheever was nodding. “Sorry, I forgot to include that. Plain-clothes officers will be stationed all along the way. Anything else?”
“Just one thing. How am I going to get any sleep tonight thinking about tomorrow?”
Cheever patted Trish on the shoulder. “I know it’ll be tough. But after tomorrow we’ll have this guy, and you’ll be free and clear. Think about that.” He handed her the DVD, giving her an empathetic look. “I promise we’ll give you every protection possible.”
Trish placed the disk back in her purse and turned to go. Chief Landers opened his door and turned to Bob. “Jenkins will follow you home, Mrs. Morgan.”
* * * *
Seeing Bob’s squad car following behind her made Trish uneasy. She’d never even had a traffic ticket and here a police car was trailing her home. She could see Bob, continually looking from side to side, watching for anything suspicious. I hope I don’t do anything stupid like run a red light with him behind me.
Trish pulled her red Escort into the driveway of her three-story Tudor home and turned off the ignition. She sat staring at the darkened house, her arms folded across the steering wheel. The only light came from Jim’s office window. He was obviously so involved in his work he had forgotten to turn on the night-lights. With them on, the place was lit up like Christmas. With the lights, off the darkness was profound.
Jim’s shadow moved in front of the window. How had things gone so wrong for them? His protectiveness had been nice at first. Like he really cared. Heck, maybe he did. But now? His mental abuse and jealousy were becoming too much to handle. I have no idea how he’ll react to this situation. With Bob bringing me home, that may set him off again. Suddenly a light came on and the shade drew back. She could see Jim’s face. The unmistakable frown appeared and he dropped the curtain back against the window.
A finger tapping on her window caused her to jump. Bob stood outside in the rain probably wondering what she was doing. The rain battered the windshield, running in torrents down the glass surface. She waved at him and opened her door. As they ran to the front door Trish fished in her purse for her key. No need. The door opened and Jim stared directly at Bob.
“I was wondering when you’d be home. How are you?”
“Fine, Mr. Morgan. Just a wee bit damp.”
“Won’t you come in?” Jim stepped back and held the door for them to enter. Both dripped water into spreading puddles. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“Doing my job. I was asked to escort Trish, ah…Mrs. Morgan home.”
“You were?” Jim looked at Trish.
She propped the umbrella against the wall and shimmied out of her coat. “I’ll tell you about it when I get dry, Jim.” She looked at the policeman. “Thanks for everything, officer. I appreciate it very much.”
Bob touched his trooper hat. “No problem. That’s what I get paid for.” He turned and jogged to his car as Jim slammed the front door.
“Explain, please.” Both hands on hips accomplished the desired effect. She was frightened. Jim grasped the middle of her sweater and tightened the material until she could hardly breathe. “I told you to stay away from Jenkins, and here you are bringing him home with you.”
She tried to push his hand away from her throat. “Please, I’m choking.” The hand eased its hold a bit. At least she could take in air. “The police are keeping me under surveillance. There’s a murderer loose, and he’s after me.”
He dropped his arm to his side. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Anger welled up in her and before she thought she blurted, “I tried yesterday, but you wouldn’t listen.”
Jim’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sure I would have remembered about a murderer.”
Trish put her palm on her chest and rubbed the place where Jim’s fist had bored into her neck. “Please, let me get out of these clothes and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“All right. You go get dry and we’ll have a talk.” He turned and walked down the hall. “Yes, we have a few things to discuss.”
I can only guess what that’ll be like. Thankful for the reprieve, she hurried upstairs to get cleaned up.
* * * *
Jim sat at the dining room table Trish had inherited from her mother, the only thing she’d wanted from the estate. He was drinking a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette. He knew she abhorred his smoking in the house and the possibility of putting any more burns on the tabletop. Trish took a chair opposite her husband.
He blew smoke her way; she clenched her teeth. “So, what’s the story? I’m all ears.” He leaned back in the chair and rested his elbow on the arm, holding the cigarette between his first two fingers. Ashes fluttered to the carpet.
“Why must you torment me like this?”
“Like what?” A smoke ring drifted to the ceiling.
Trying to keep her voice calm, she asked, “Is it something I’ve done?”
“We’re not keeping score, but there is the matter of two nights without supper. This morning I noticed a nasty scrape on the Jag’s front tire. I specifically asked that you not fraternize with that cop and you defied me by bringing him here. To our house. You seem to be provoking me.”
“Let’s begin again. You asked about what is going on. Here’s the whole story.” Trish skipped no detail in recapping the murder investigation
Jim sat puffing away, stone-faced and silent until she finished.
“Quite a story. Did you know the woman? There was no mention of a name in the paper.”
“No, she was some accountant with Elvis Tingle. Elizabeth something or other.”
Jim sat upright. “Elizabeth Thompson?”
“Yes, I think that was the name. Do you know her?”
“I helped get her hired. I worked with her in Chicago for a while. Are the police investigating Elvis and his business?”
“I don’t know. The FBI is involved and I haven’t been privy to their plans. How well did you know her?”
“Just a co-worker. That’s all.” He got up, went into the living room and pulled back the curtains. He looked outside and sighed. Then he returned and stood by Trish’s chair. “Are the police out there for protection or surveillance?”
“They told me for protection. What’s the matter?”
Jim waved his hand at her. “Nothing, nothing at all. Why don’t you go up to bed? You must be exhausted. Get some sleep. I have some work to do, and then I’ll come to bed. Good night.” He left and she heard him take the steps up to his office two at a time.
What was that all about? He never even finished his tirade about no supper. That had never happened before. When he grabbed me, his eyes were filled with rage. Would he really hurt me? I wonder.
Well, I’m not going to miss a chance to get a good night’s sleep. At least I hope I can sleep. I’m not looking forward to tomorrow, that’s for sure.
NINE
* * * *
Trish opened the familiar door which had Spitzer, Walters, Walters, & Sloan Attorneys-at-law stenciled on the smoky glass window, feeling the same way she had her first day of work six years before. Only this time she really had her life on the line. She’d been thoroughly briefed, as Cheever had put it, on how to talk to the suspect. Though the term suspect seemed underkill to her. She shuddered. Why use that word?
She reached her desk, after acknowledging her co-workers with zombie-like greetings, and woodenly placed her purse in the bottom drawer as she had every day since day one. Dropping into her chair, Trish took a deep breath. Can I actually deal with a murderer? What was I thinking? When they asked if I could do it, why had I said, “Oh sure?” Duh, I’m a civilian. Let the cops handle it. But no, my instinct to help kicked in. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
She sat back and surveyed her workplace. Four plush offices lined the wall behind Trish. The office of each higher-ranked partner was a bit more plush than the one before. The corner office belonged to the late Roland Spitzer. Ironically, the partnership still languished in court two years after his death. But the steady, lucrative work the firm received from its Chicago connections continued in spite of his death.
John Walters of Chicago, magna cum laude from Yale, and Travis Walters of Rolling Meadows, a Harvard grad
and Rhodes Scholar—they weren’t related; it was always a cause for concern when a prospective client said they could see the resemblance—bitterly maneuvered to become the new head of the firm. How they ever got together in the first place could serve as fodder for an Alfred Hitchcock movie.
The two surviving senior partners spent much of their time filing motions and counter motions vying for the top spot. The process continually delayed an ultimate settlement. Their business relationship had deteriorated into communication by memo using the office e-mail or messages via the staff. John Walters had latched onto Charity as his go-between. Always did think he was the more lecherous of the two. Travis Walters had selected Trish. And he had an annoying habit of snapping his fingers when he wanted her. Someday I’m going to break one of those neatly manicured digits and slap him silly.
She got up to get a cup of coffee at the employee lounge. Huh. Some lounge. A shelf at the back of the office containing a coffeemaker and cups. Underneath was a small cabinet to store lunches. No refrigerator.
Trish nearly fainted when Heather tapped her on the shoulder. “You okay, girl? You’re mighty jumpy today.”
“I’m fine. A little skittish is all.”
“You better drag that entire pot along with you back to your desk. Uh, after you give me a cup, that is.”
Both women ignored the hard and fast rule of no loitering in the lounge area. Heather took a big gulp from the cup Trish handed her. “Ow! Hot!” She waved her hand in front of her mouth. “So what’s going on?”
“I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”
“You got to tell me. I’m part of the case.”
“No, you’re not. Doggone it this is not a case. I’m handing over the disk this morning and then I’m done with it.”
“To the perp? The cops are lettin’ you do it? Wow, that’s cool. Need some company?”