Chill Factor

by Chris Rogers

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Jean Gibson dropped her husband’s folded shirt into a suitcase as she heard him open the door behind her.

  “What are you doing, Jean? You’re not packing?”

  “We’re leaving.” She tossed a handful of his dress socks on top of the shirts.

  “Leaving to go where, precisely?”

  “I read that letter, Gib. We’re not staying here for that crackpot to make good on his threat.”

  “Jean, put that away. We have a funeral to attend.”

  “Fine.” She could feel him standing behind her, rigid as a post. “We’ll load the bags in the trunk and leave straight from the funeral.”

  “Jean …” He caught her hands, filled with a stack of his boxer shorts. “Listen to me.” He tried to take the shorts, but she held on. “Think about how it would look if I turned tail now. If I leave town, I’m finished. I lose everything. Mayor? Forget it. Governor? Senate? Never happen. People have long memories for leaders who weaken at a time of crisis.”

  “Then blame it on me. Say I’ve had a nervous breakdown. A death in the family. Any damn thing. The letter said thirty-six hours, Gib. Thirty-six hours from when? It’s already been seven hours since the letter arrived. That leaves twenty-nine. You expect Ed Wanamaker to find this lunatic before tomorrow night? That idiot can’t find his pecker with both hands and a flashlight.”

  For once, she would not be afraid of annoying him. She tossed his shorts in the suitcase and avoided his grasp to gather up her own things.

  “Jean, you’re hysterical. We are not depending on Wanamaker. I called Washington and made a racket they won’t quickly forget. FBI, Secret Service—an entire task force is on the case. Once the feds clear this up, Wanamaker’s out of here, and Banning along with him.”

  She looked at his homely face, and her heart thumped. She loved him so goddamn much. But maybe he was right. He knew about offensive objectives and tactical maneuvers and such—a chestful of military medals proved it. He could talk on such subjects for hours.

  “But what if they’re too late, Gib?” She forced her voice to sound calm and strong. “What if they catch this man after he kills you? Then what is it all for?”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “How can you be so composed? So certain? Didn’t he kill those officers without anyone even suspecting? Both men just getting into their cars, and blam! They’re dead. Nobody even saw it … until they lay bleeding on the ground.”

  She turned from him, covering her face to block out the images. She felt the dampness on her cheeks and realized she was crying, and goddammit she hadn’t wanted to cry. Gib hated any display of weakness.

  “Jean, that will not happen to me.” His voice was cold, factual.

  She couldn’t talk without blubbering, so she kept her back to him, shutting him out, saying nothing, which Gib hated almost as much as he hated weakness. Did he really know something he wasn’t telling? Or was he just being his normal, stubborn self?

  “It will not happen, Jean. Now pile those clothes back in the bureau. Get dressed. We have an appearance to make.” He encircled her shoulders with his arm and lifted her chin. “The puffiness around your eyes will look natural, under the circumstances. Quite understandable.”

  Turning to the mirror, he gazed at his own face. “In fact, I’ll shed a few tears myself.”

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Leaving the Heights, Dixie telephoned Amy to find out if Parker had dropped Marty off. Amy put Parker on the line.

  “How’d the shopping go?” Dixie asked.

  Marty answered on an extension. “Fabulous! You won’t believe the pieces we found. I convinced Parker to commission a sexy Sue Lorenz mural for the bedroom, and, Dixie, we found a J. W. Sharp original to die for. You’ve seen the barns—”

  “We didn’t buy the barn painting,” Parker amended. “We bought—”

  “Mardi Gras! Dixie, Mardi Gras like you’ve never—”

  “Old Mardi Gras floats.” Parker, in his own laid-back style, seemed as excited as Marty. “Paintings of faded, broken-down floats. They’re—”

  “Fabulous! That’s all we can say, love. You’ll have to see for yourself. I’ve been dying to show both artists at Essence.” Marty broke off abruptly. “Listen, I’m through horning in. I need to help Amy with dinner.” The extension clicked.

  “Marty seemed entirely too excited after your gallery binge. Parker, are you sure you didn’t overspend?”

  “Nah, we did fine. And Marty promised to help me hang everything next week. How did your snooping go?”

  “Well enough, but I know I didn’t have as much fun as you guys. Are you staying at Amy’s for dinner?”

  “I have a boat to show. Want to come along?”

  What? Since when did they see each other on Saturday nights? “You’re asking me to help you sell a boat? Parker, what’s up?”

  “Nice couple, nice boat. Thought it might be fun.”

  “Thanks for the invitation, but Ryan and I have a movie date tonight. Maybe another time.”

  “Okay. I need to get a move on. Here’s Amy.”

  Dixie’s mind ran with the idea of the boat ride. Safe, with the other couple, “just pals” stuff. But what had Parker planned for later? Anything? Or was this more of his mixed messages?

  “Did you and Marty discuss the arrangements for Edna’s cremation?” Amy asked.

  “We’re not doing that yet,” Marty piped in the background, his words muffled as if he had aimed them at the receiver next to Amy’s ear.

  “Dixie! See what he’s like? Talk to him!”

  “Put him on.”

  “No, he’s in the kitchen now. It’s useless, anyway.”

  “Can’t you handle the … cremation and everything, Amy?” Dixie asked.

  “I don’t see how. He’s her son. He has to sign—”

  “Then do whatever’s necessary and I’ll make him sign.”

  “What about the party? Oh, that sounds so crass. But Marty said Edna made it clear—a party. She did, didn’t she? A party, not a memorial service? Maybe just a gathering, a few friends telling what they remember about her—”

  “She said a party.”

  “Well, it won’t be cheerful.” She lowered her voice. “I worry about him, Dixie. The way he’s acting. I know he has to grieve in his own way, but refusing to bury her, or whatever, is that normal? Should I call a doctor? I don’t know a psychiatrist. Carl might, he knows everybody with money.”

  “Don’t call a psychiatrist. Go ahead and do what you’re good at. Arrange the viewing—”

  “Dixie, do they have a viewing for a cremation?”

  Hell, she didn’t know. “Find out, Amy. Would you? Think about what Edna would want and just do it. As soon as possible. Invite everyone Edna knew to the party. I’ll give you a list of her new friends.” That might be interesting. “Marty will come to his senses. Is my nephew around?”

  “Ryan’s off with a friend. Such a beautiful day, and they wanted to spend it at that arcade, all those dim lights and that noise. I told him to go to the park.”

  “Did he say which friend?”

  “Blake, I think. Or Ernie. Why, Dixie? He’ll be home in time for your movie. Is something wrong?”

  “No.” Amy must’ve heard the tension in her voice. “I miss the little fart, that’s all. He used to call me every day. Now I’m lucky to hear from him once a week. How about Carl?”

  “You want to talk to Carl?”

  “Don’t make it sound so ominous. I talk to Carl occasionally.”

  “Not on purpose.”

  “You’re saying he’s not there?”

  “In perfect golf weather?”

  “Right. I have to go, Amy. Are you okay now, with Edna’s last wishes?”

  “I’m inviting Parker to the party,” she said emphatically.

  “Of course. Parker liked Edna.”

  “I hope you two are making up. I miss him.”

  “Amy, P
arker’s a friend. Yours, mine, Carl’s—you can invite him over anytime.”

  “You sound so cool about it.”

  I don’t feel cool. But what am I supposed to do, knock him down and brand him?

  “Amy, Parker and I are fine. For a few weeks last winter, I guess it looked like we might be headed for something more … special … than friendship, but that’s past. That doesn’t mean we won’t all see each other occasionally.”

  When Dixie disconnected, she had a page from Rashly at Homicide. Hoping he’d cooled off since that morning, when he told her to get lost, she dialed Rashly’s number, got his voice mail, and left a message.

  She’d reached the Southwest Freeway, but instead of taking it, she pointed the Mustang toward one of the only two parks in bicycling distance from Ryan’s house. At the nearest park, scarcely half a block square and filled with playground toys, Dixie saw in one glance that Ryan wasn’t there. A young mother sat reading while her two children played on the slide. Bell Park, about two miles away, had more trees and benches and no playground. Dixie spotted Ryan and three other boys gathered under a tree, four bikes nearby.

  Sliding into a parking space, she watched for a few minutes. Ryan, clearly the smallest and youngest of the boys, was also clearly the center of attention. The others encircled him and seemed to be comparing sheets of paper, passing them back and forth, pointing, punching each other, laughing. Ryan made an occasional comment.

  Dixie felt uncomfortable spying on the kid, but she also felt relief. As disgusting as she might find this rendezvous—they were obviously passing around Ryan’s dirty pictures—she saw no danger in it. No creepy old man lurked in the shadows. After another minute or so, the older boys dug in their pockets and handed Ryan money. The imp had a dirty little peep-show business going. Didn’t say much for his ambitions in life.

  She dialed the Homicide Division’s main number, recognized the voice that answered but couldn’t put a name to it.

  “This is Dixie Flannigan, returning a call to Sergeant Rashly. I left a message on his voice mail, but do you know if he’s in the building?”

  “Rashly’s at the funeral, Dixie.”

  The Harris and Tally service. Dixie should be there, but the thought of another dreary memorial speech made her want to crawl into a hole. What she longed for was another of Lonnie Gray’s massages. A facial. A mimosa. But she had one more stop to squeeze into the day. Glancing at her watch, she compromised on drive-through iced tea and a drive-by funeral.

  Chapter Fifty

  Philip Laskey finished typing and photocopying Mayor Banning’s letters and placed them on his desk. Only a few people came into the office on Saturdays. They’d all gone. He set one stack of the photocopies in the Mayor’s correspondence file; the other stack he slipped into a large envelope for Colonel Jay.

  During the Mayor’s electoral campaign, Philip had worked hard enough as a volunteer that making the transition to paid staff became a snap. At times he even liked the job and considered Banning a decent guy, for a politician.

  But the Colonel had known Banning longer and knew the corruption he was capable of.

  Outside, Philip walked to a nearby florist shop. He bought three pink roses and a spray of baby’s breath. Anna Marie liked fresh flowers on the dinner table. He rode the bus home and found her napping, a prime rib roasting in the oven.

  He cut and arranged the flowers in a clear vase with cold water and sugar crystals. Placed them on the table. It was already set for dinner, but he’d let Anna Marie sleep awhile.

  In his bedroom, he locked the Sig Sauer away, slipped out of his khaki jacket, and hung it in the precise space allotted in his closet.

  He paused at the bureau. Above it in six identical five-by-seven silver frames, his brothers and father stared back at him. Not one had been in this house in fifteen years. Father was dead, of course. The others made excuses—families, jobs, responsibilities. Philip knew about responsibility. Some own it, some ignore it, others abuse it. Philip had grown up owning his. He brushed a thumb across his lapel pin in its wooden box. Couldn’t wear it at the Mayor’s office.

  In a larger frame beside the six, a newspaper headline shouted: ANNA MARIE LASKEY ACQUITTED. The subhead: JURY RULES JUSTIFIABLE HOMICIDE. The two-column story began: Laskey held her two-year-old son Philip today after a jury returned a verdict of not guilty. Accused of killing her husband with a concrete block for beating their son …

  Philip scooped the change from his pocket and lined it up on the bureau: quarters, nickels, dimes, pennies, in four neat rows. He placed his wallet in a wooden tray, glanced at the six photographs again, and left the room.

  Entering Anna Marie’s bedroom with the stealth of a midnight lover, he sat in an armchair near her bed. For twenty-four minutes, he watched the gentle rise and fall of her matronly breasts beneath the light bedcover and the plaid dress she wore. Then he rose and kissed her left cheek.

  “Dinnertime,” he said.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  After the funeral, Chief Ed Wanamaker accompanied Mayor Avery Banning through Tranquility Park as the Mayor inspected the stage setup for his Memorial Day Commemorative. Ed noted that some of the task force were on the job, making damn sure nobody planted a bomb. So Avery wasn’t fooling anybody; he was checking out the photo ops, seeing if the sun would be shining in his eyes, all that shit.

  A few steps behind them, the Mayor’s bodyguard kept pace. Avery seemed at ease with him, but the man’s presence bothered the hell out of Ed. Creeping around, just out of earshot, like a specter in his gray suit.

  Earlier, leaving the cemetery, Ed had sent Mira on home. He’d needed some time alone with his thoughts after burying two officers. And those letters from The People had churned up in his mind some of the trouble Avery’d had in college. Not the traffic tickets—as a young man, Ed collected a fistful himself—but other stuff. Trouble seemed to happen around Avery Banning, never quite touching him. Happened on campus, mostly, not drawing attention from the local law. But there’d been one kid … a suicide … that Ed never quite got out of his head. Only reason for coming to the park today was to talk to the Mayor in private. And now, there’s this gray specter dogging their footsteps.

  “That stage needs to be rotated ten degrees to the right,” Avery directed. As workmen carried out the order, the Mayor joined Ed under the shade of a live oak. “I planned this celebration to highlight positive results of changes I’ve made since my election,” he said. “But after the problems of the past week, I’m reconsidering my entire approach.”

  The Chief cracked a sunflower seed between his fingers.

  “I saw the petition for that group staging the demonstration against ‘police brutality.’ Same mouthy bunch pickets after every major arrest. March, shout, wave signs—never any rough stuff.”

  “No connection with The People?”

  “The task force says no. So far, they haven’t turned up any terrorist group or local gang calling themselves simply ‘The People.’ Seems to be no connection with Chicago.”

  “Why would there be?”

  Avery hadn’t been interested in law enforcement back in the eighties. No reason he should remember.

  “Two gang nations out of Chicago—People and Folks. Took a while to work down this far, but most gang sets now align with one nation or the other. Loosely align. Fight amongst themselves, then regroup. They use the symbols—six-pointed star for Folks, five-pointed for People, sometimes a pyramid and crescent—to show their alignment. That emblem on the letters we got doesn’t match up.”

  “People and The People, there’s a difference?”

  “Read your own law enforcement Web page. The red and blue are common gang colors, but usually one or the other, not both. And the letters didn’t use any standard gang language.”

  The supervisor had gotten the stage repositioned now. Avery gave him a nod and turned to the rest of the park. Fifty feet away, pipe fitters erected the big stage where various bands and dance tro
ops would perform. Technicians strung cable for speakers and microphones.

  “Ed, not one of the reporters I’ve talked with has mentioned The People’s letters. Isn’t it usual for such groups to copy the press?”

  “Terrorists would, yeah. Especially if they jumped on a moving tank. Gangs crave a different kind of attention, communicate with signs and graffiti. Not the U.S. mail.”

  “By ‘a moving tank,’ you mean claiming responsibility for assassinations committed by another group?”

  Ed nodded. “It takes only one finger to send a bullet into a man’s head.”

  “Then we don’t know for sure that The People committed those murders.”

  “You’re not listening, Avery. What I’m telling you is the task force has nothing on this bunch.” Ed cleared his throat. “Given any thought to calling off your party? The day could go as planned, another spring festival, without all the awards and speeches.”

  “I’ve thought about it. But how would it look not to honor those two dead officers? You can see everyone’s gone all out for this event.” He gestured toward a young man wrapping a tall platform with red and blue bunting. A balloon statue of Uncle Sam stood waiting to be lifted aboard. “Even the weather’s cooperating.”

  “It’s your call.” Spying a cardinal, Ed tossed a handful of seeds on the ground. “But shorten your speech. Fill it with those fancy words you like to use, but make it fast. Once we’re on that stage, we’re sitting ducks.”

  Avery searched the trees, like he might be looking for places an assassin could hide. “The FBI sent over a bulletproof vest.”

  Ed nodded. “Wear it. I’ll be wearing mine.” He tossed the rest of the sunflower seeds and dusted his hands. “I wouldn’t say this to anyone else, Avery, but Mira’s almost convinced me this job isn’t worth hanging on to. Not that I’m scared to die, but I’d like to see my killer’s face when I go. This sniper gives me the damn shakes.” He glanced casually behind at Avery’s bodyguard. “The list that each of us gave the task force—enemies, adversaries, anyone who might bear a grudge—did you include your old college buddies?”