by Wally Duff
“It’s all because of you,” David said.
“And Molly and Cas and Linda,” Rick added.
“The Hamlin Park Irregulars?” I asked.
“For sure,” David said.
“We positively loved working on your piece about Dr. Fertig,” Rick began.
“And all the Irregulars have kids, so we decided if we want to be full-time members of the group, we should have one too,” David explained.
“I hope this isn’t the only reason you want to raise a child,” I said.
“Oh, no, no, no,” Rick said. “We’ve always wanted to do this, but we needed a tiny shove to make us proceed.”
“We’re so excited, I can’t begin to tell you,” David said.
“We wish Sullivan would hurry up and do something soon,” Rick added.
“How far along with the construction are you?” I asked.
“Think messy,” Rick said.
“Not habitable,” David said.
“Why is it taking so long?” I asked.
“Sullivan says his crew will be there, and then they don’t show up,” Rick began.
“He blames the suppliers, the weather, the city inspectors, and the construction permit people,” David said. “He’d blame the manager of the Cubs if he could. The house was supposed to be completed months ago. We anticipated some delay, but this is too extreme. If he would at least show up, we wouldn’t be so crazy.”
“But let me tell you, he’s right on time with the bills he submits,” Rick said. “And he keeps trying to convince us to tack on unnecessary items to drive up the cost.”
“Items I’m sure he gets cheap and then sells to us at a huge markup,” David added.
There is a story here.
“After I finish with Zhukov, maybe I can look into the problems with your builder.”
“That would be wonderful,” Rick said. “Anything you can do to speed things along will be gratefully appreciated.”
“And please call us and report in on your interview,” David said. “We can’t wait to hear the juicy details.”
The interior of my Honda van
7:17 p.m.
Monday, March 4
11
Help!
My hands continued to shake as I dialed Janet Corritore, a detective sergeant with the Chicago Police Department. She had gotten involved in two stories with me and my friends, and I knew she was the one to call about a murder, instead of 911.
“A man has been shot!” I screamed into my phone.
“Whoa, dial it back a little,” she said.
“Sorry.”
“Please tell me you’re not the one who did it.”
“No, I didn’t have my Glock.”
“You got it now?”
“Yes, and I just loaded one in the chamber.”
“Are you in any danger?”
“I’m not sure. As soon as I found the guy, I ran away from the crime scene to get my gun.”
“You planning to go back?”
I paused. “I was kind of leaning that way. It could be a terrific story.”
She knew about me being blown up and the PTSD that had followed. She also knew my almost pathologic desire to write again and that once I sniffed a feature I wouldn’t stop chasing it.
“You might want to lean the other way until I get there. Give me the address and the victim’s name.”
I did, and she disconnected.
My gym bag was in the back seat. My running shoes were in it. A woman with a gun and comfortable shoes might want to go back to the crime scene before the police arrived.
I pulled off the rest of my shredded panty hose and put on my ASICS running shoes. I felt stupid wearing them with my black power suit, but I didn’t want to go back to the scene of the crime barefooted, especially if I had to run away again.
As I slipped on my ASICS, I remembered the way-too-expensive shoes I’d left in Zhukov’s office.
Gotta get those too.
This time I opted for the elevator. On the ride up I rechecked the Glock, making sure I had a bullet in the chamber and the clip was full. When the elevator doors slid open, I stepped off holding my gun two-handed in front of me.
The double doors to the front office were still open from when I’d run out a few minutes ago. Moving the gun back and forth, I stepped into the reception area. I flipped on the main light switch. The room was still empty.
The door to Zhukov’s office was closed.
Uh-oh!
I was positive I’d left it open when I sprinted away.
Now what?
Go in or wait for Janet? I had a gun. Why stop now?
My heart pounded as I tested the doorknob. It wasn’t locked. I nudged the door partially open and peeked in. The city lights filtered through the windows, and the screen savers on the three computers glowed. The desk lamp was still off.
Nothing has changed.
I sniffed. The irritating smell of gunpowder was faint but still present. The only noise I heard was my pulse banging in my ears and my running shoes scuffing on the thick pile of the carpet as I crept further into the room.
Once again, the chair was turned to the windows. I moved behind the desk. I pulled the top of the chair toward me.
It was empty.
Zhukov was gone.
12
There was a noise behind me. I recognized the sound. It was a gun being pulled from a holster.
The killer!
I saw the silhouette of a person crouching in the doorway. The person had a gun and swept the room with it, moving the weapon back and forth. I ducked down behind the desk.
Waiting to slow my hammering pulse, I popped my head up and rested the Glock on the top of the desk to steady my aim.
“Don’t move,” I said. “I have a gun. Drop your weapon.”
“You don’t tell the cops to do that,” a female voice said. “We do that. Don’t you watch TV?”
“Janet?” I asked.
“Were you expecting someone else?” Detective Sergeant Janet Corritore asked.
“No, but I was worried you might be the killer.”
“If I were, you’d already be dead.” She toggled the laser sight on her gun. The red dot pointed at my forehead. “I can see your head behind the desk from the lights coming in through the windows and from the computer screen. Next time you hide, think about that first.”
“Good point,” I said. “Hopefully I won’t need to use that advice.”
“You might if you keep ignoring my orders.”
Janet located the wall switch and turned on the room lights. She is close to my height and has short, curly, ash-brown hair. The loose black pantsuit and black turtleneck sweater she wore couldn’t hide her athletic figure.
Holding her gun down at her side, she walked toward me. “Where’s the victim?”
“That’s kind of a problem,” I said.
“Is he still alive?”
“No, I’m sure he’s dead.”
“Then where is he?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know.”
13
“Since there’s no evidence that a crime has been committed, you can stay in here with me,” Janet said.
This wasn’t our first rodeo together with dead bodies and crime scenes. I knew my usual place was outside the yellow crime scene tape. Until we found a victim, though, this still wasn’t necessary.
And from working on previous stories with me, she knew I was competent with a gun and she trusted me with one. She’d even had her husband, Frankie, register mine for me, even though — at the time — doing it wasn’t completely legal.
The detective gave the room the cop once-over. She pointed at her eyes and then at the two doors, one on each side of the fireplace on the far wall. After slipping on latex gloves, she handed a second set to me. I put them on.
Standing on the left side of one door, she pantomimed opening it and held up her hand, indicating for me to stay put. She would never let me enter
a room she first hadn’t cleared of anything dangerous.
She pushed the door open and entered, her gun held in front of her. I waited, holding my gun in both hands. She turned on the room’s lights and waved me in. I entered a large white marble bathroom, the kind you would find in a high roller’s suite in Las Vegas or Dubai.
It was empty.
We backed out and repeated the routine at the other door. It was a kitchen larger than the entire first floor of our home. The Viking appliances were big enough to service a moderate-sized restaurant. There were two windows with a spectacular view of Lake Michigan.
The room was also empty.
She holstered her gun and walked back into the office.
“Fancy,” she said.
“An understatement,” I said. “Especially the kitchen.”
“Notice anything about the bathroom?”
“I would love to take a long hot bath in that big tub.”
She shook her head. “The smell.”
I walked back into the bathroom. She followed me. I sniffed several times. The irritating odor was faint but I could still smell it. “Gunpowder.”
“The subject probably popped the victim and then hid in here when he heard you come in. He had the smoking gun with him.”
“Good thing I ran,” I said.
“Running is always good when there’s a shooter with a loaded weapon in the room next to you, especially when you don’t have your gun.”
14
Janet walked to Zhukov’s desk. I followed. She stopped. So did I.
“Speak to me,” she said.
“When I came into this room, the desk chair was turned away from me, and all I could see was the top of his head,” I said.
“Zhukov?” she asked.
“Yes, and I forgot to tell you he’s a Russian native.”
“I already knew that. Driving here, I ran his name on the computer. Lots of people seem to be unhappy with him. Is that why you’re doing the story?”
“It is.”
“You sure it was him?”
“According to my research, Zhukov has bright red hair. It was dark, but when I turned the man around, I’m sure his hair was that color.” I paused. “And I’ve never met him, but he looked like the pictures I’d seen of him.”
“One difference.”
“The bullet hole.”
“You got it.”
She walked behind the desk and swiveled the chair around to face away from us. Using a small flashlight, she focused the beam on the back of the chair. She bent down and studied the leather.
“I don’t see anything,” she said.
“Hopefully the lab guys will find something,” I said.
“If I call them.”
I could feel heat begin to rise up in my neck.
“I know what I saw. Zhukov sat right here with a bullet hole right between his eyes. The shot was up close and personal.”
“Then where is he?” she asked. “It’s hard to picture him walking out, him being dead and all.”
“I do have one clue. I know how to identify the killer.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”
“He wears a size eight shoe.”
“And how would you know this?”
“The killer stole my brand new black Rolando Hidden-Platform Christian Louboutin pumps.”
She nodded. “Dude has good taste.”
15
“It’s always nice to have a dead body,” Janet continued. “It gives me a reason to call in our CSI guys.”
“What about the gunpowder smell?” I asked.
“It helps, and it’s one reason I believe you.”
“And the other?”
“You know what a dead body looks like. You want to write a story, and you wouldn’t make this up.” She glanced around the room. “A big operation here.”
“He ran a large investment firm.”
“Guys like that have high-priced lawyers. I doubt they’ll be happy having fingerprint powder and such all over this nice office.”
“What do we do?”
“The suspect who did this is probably a pro. I doubt there’ll be much in the way of useful evidence in here.”
“But he had to get the body out somehow.”
“It sounds like we need a detective.”
She got down on her hands and knees and rubbed her hand across the pile of the carpet.
“Are you detecting?” I asked.
“I am.”
She shined her small flashlight on the pile of the carpet.
“Something?” I asked.
“Thick. Is this why you took off your shoes?”
“I did a face plant first and then kicked them off.”
“Which the suspect then took.”
“Someone swiped them. I’m sure it wasn’t Zhukov.”
“I wonder if the suspect can trace who you are through the shoes.”
“Why would he do that?”
“You’re the only witness. If the suspect is a Russian, that might be a problem. Those guys don’t play fair. They’ll kill anyone who gets in their way, including your husband and kids.”
16
Forty minutes later, I walked in our front door.
“How did the interview go?” Carter called out from the family room.
“Not too well,” I said.
I joined him. He worked on his laptop editing his reporters’ stories. The girls were already in bed. There was a glass of red wine on the table next to him.
Kicking off my running shoes, I padded over and gave him a kiss. He closed his laptop and leaned back.
“Zhukov has always been a notoriously difficult person to interview,” he said.
“I wouldn’t know,” I said, as I took a small sip of his wine. “This is good.”
“It’s a Grenache from Mila. They are relatively new to the game, but I agree, it’s a compelling wine.”
I sat down next to him on the couch. He took the glass from me and put it down. He began massaging my tight neck muscles. I shut my eyes as the tension in my body slowly dissipated.
“What went wrong?” he asked, when he heard me sigh.
“There was not a living soul in his office when I arrived.”
This was not exactly a lie, since the killer probably was in the bathroom when I walked in, but no need to trouble Carter with minor details like that.
“I can understand your disappointment, especially since you dressed so beautifully for the occasion,” he said.
“I didn’t think you noticed,” I said, as I raked my fingers through my new haircut and then shook my head.
“I always notice you.”
I turned my head right and then left to give him a better view of my hair. “But what do you like the most?”
“Honestly?”
Raising my eyebrows, I leaned toward him awaiting his answer.
“Those new heels you had on. They were stunning.”
Telling him the killer stole my shoes might not be smart if I wanted to keep working on the story.
I leaned back. “Not my hair?”
He motioned that silly notion away with a wave of his hand. “Your hair is always terrific. No, it was the heels. They made your legs look fabulous.”
“Don’t my legs always look great?”
His blue eyes widened, and he knew he was in trouble. I had gained a few pounds when I was pregnant with Macy, and I was struggling to lose them. The weight was bugging me, and he knew it.
He cleared his throat. “You are the most amazing woman I have ever seen.”
“Even if I’ve gained a couple of pounds?”
He picked up his glass of wine and took a long drink. I was sure he didn’t know what to say next.
“You won’t mind if I keep working on this?” I asked, before he could reply.