A perky-sounding receptionist greeted him almost immediately. “Good morning, Flores and Washington. How may I help you?”
“I need to schedule an appointment with Patricia Harrison as soon as possible.”
“Are you an existing client?”
When Liam said he wasn’t, the receptionist sighed, mumbled, and began clacking away at her keyboard. A moment later she said, “Patricia has a small window open in thirty minutes. There is nothing else this week. She isn’t accepting a lot of new clients.”
Liam made the appointment and returned to the conference room. Through the fogged glass, he could see the shadows of the men and women inside, quietly tending to their own affairs, occupied with their phones and laptops. “I’m sorry,” he said as he opened the door, “but something urgent has come up.” He looked at David. “Carry on without me.” Without waiting for a response, Liam headed straight to the elevator and, from there, to the garage.
Flores and Washington was located in the Loop, less than three miles from ConnectPlus. Patricia showed Liam into her office, directing him to a small collection of button tufted chairs positioned around a glass coffee table in the corner. Her office was located along an interior wall and had no windows. A large framed photo of the ocean hung behind her desk.
“It’s more comfortable,” Patricia said, as she glided to a seat. She had mousy features, but a large frame, and that large frame made the grace with which she moved all the more unexpected.
“So, why are you here?” she said, all business. Liam liked that.
“My girlfriend was murdered. I think the police think I did it,” he said, also getting straight to the point.
“Did you?”
“Of course not.”
The coffee table was bare save a pen and a yellow legal pad. Patricia picked them up. “Tell me what happened.”
Liam started by repeating the same story he’d told David. He found his girlfriend dead in the bathtub. He tried to get her out. He grabbed her phone to call the police, but it was locked, so he ran out to his car to get his. In the lobby, he encountered a resident who must’ve been shocked by all the blood—yes, he got the blood on him when he tried to get his girlfriend out of the tub—because she started screaming. The police came right away and designated the apartment a crime scene. Liam thought Elise had killed herself, but she hadn’t; someone had just tried to make it look that way. Then, about an hour ago, Detective Wyatt came by his office with a whole bunch of questions. Why didn’t Liam use the emergency button on the lock screen of Elise’s phone? Why did he say her last name was Whitman when it was Watson? Why did he delete his text messages? No, he hadn’t deleted the messages—like he said, he couldn’t get into her phone. Clearly, the detective didn’t believe him.
Patricia scribbled furiously as he talked. When Liam was done, she was looking down at her notes and tapping the end of her pen against her chin.
After ten, maybe fifteen, seconds, Liam asked, “Don’t you think it’s strange that she told me her last name was Whitman when it’s Watson?”
Patricia shrugged. “Not necessarily. Maybe she was married for a while and planned to start using her maiden name again or—”
“Elise wasn’t married.” Liam was sure about that. Bash would’ve known if Whitman was her maiden name and, if it was, there would have been no reason to ask the question he’d asked.
Patricia put her notepad and pen on the coffee table. “Okay, well, sometimes people change their name when they’re looking for a fresh start. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. These days, it’s about the only way to outrun your digital footprint.”
Liam shook his head, doubtful. “I don’t know.”
“Let me guess. You don’t think she needed one.”
“Honestly, no. Not based on what she told me.”
“If that’s why she did it, then that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Change her name. Change her past. A fresh start.”
Liam unconsciously started tapping his heel against the carpet. “Let’s say you’re right. Why wouldn’t she change her name legally?”
“Maybe she hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Or maybe she couldn’t. If she’s got a record, it can be difficult.”
“She doesn’t have a record.”
“You’re sure about that?”
Actually, he wasn’t. He had one, albeit the bar fight was the only thing on it. Maybe Elise had one as well.
When Liam didn’t answer, Patricia added, “Look, regardless of her reason, one thing you’re going to have to face is that there was something Elise didn’t want you to find out about.”
Liam’s foot slowed to a stop. A fresh start. Was it possible? Could the “bad people” Elise worried about have been specific people instead of criminals in general? Maybe. He’d have to think that over later when he had time. Either way, it did nothing for answering the other question Bash had raised. “Why do you think my text messages were deleted?”
“Well, that is strange. I’ll tell you what, when we’re done here, I’ll make a call. We’ve got a PI we use sometimes. Ryan Reyes. I’ll ask him to shine a little light on Elise’s past for us. I doubt he’ll be able to tell us why your text messages were deleted, but he might be able to figure out why she was using a different last name.”
It wasn’t the answer he was hoping for, but what else could he expect her to say? There was no explaining what had happened to those text messages. Liam would have to take the wins where he could get them. If Ryan could uncover the reason Elise had changed her name, that would be something, at least. Then an idea occurred to him—while the PI was doing his thing, Liam would see what he could find out about Elise Watson online. It probably wouldn’t lead anywhere, but it couldn’t hurt to look.
Jacob Reed
Jacob hacked his way into Christopher Bell’s life only as far as he needed to find out where the man banked. Fingering the safety deposit box key in his pocket, he showed up at the First National on State Street wearing a suit, a wig, a Cubs baseball cap, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that didn’t actually do anything for his vision.
First National was a massive building with polished floors and tall ceilings. Jacob’s footsteps echoed through the cavernous lobby. A bank representative greeted him, asked why he was there, and directed him to a group of leather chairs situated near a series of offices, doors closed.
Jacob waited patiently to be seen. He watched the line for the tellers shrink and then grow again. He listened to their conversations. One customer was there to deposit her paycheck, another needed a cashier’s check, a third had come to make a withdraw. The conversations were dull, and Jacob quickly lost interest. He tapped his fingers together as he sang the chorus to a pop song in his head. When he realized with disgust it was the newest hit by boy band Fresh Sync, he pushed it away and read the covers of the magazines spread out on the coffee table in front of him instead.
The one on top was a Better Homes & Gardens. It featured a smiling woman with two small kids beside her, sitting in a posh living room. Like so many photos, it made him think about the life that someday might be his.
A personal banker opened one of the office doors and invited him in. She was an attractive woman in her late twenties. She smiled at him and he smiled back. He crossed the lobby, keeping his head down, using the cap’s bill to mitigate the risk that one security camera or another would catch a clear shot of his face. He told her he was there to get into his safety deposit box. She asked for his account information which, of course, he, Chris Bell, could provide. She checked his ID (a fake, with his picture and Chris’s name). She had him sign a form. Boilerplate stuff.
Jacob made sure the only thing he touched other than his ID was the pen, which he slid through his fingers to smear any prints before returning.
Satisfied she had fulfilled her obligation to protect her customer’s property, the banker accompanied Jacob to Chris’s safety deposit box and together they unlocked it. “I’ll be right outside if
you need me,” she told him, as she left him alone to peruse the contents.
Jacob flipped open the box’s lid and found none of the items he’d expected to find: deeds, titles, birth certificates, a will. What he found was a ring. He didn’t know much about jewelry, so he couldn’t estimate the ring’s value by looking at it. But since Chris Bell had gone to the trouble of putting it in a safety deposit box, he figured it had to be worth a lot.
Karma’s a bitch, he thought, amused, and pocketed the ring. Then he wiped the box down with a handkerchief and slid it back into place.
“Thank you,” he said to the personal banker on his way out. “I’m done here.”
Liam Parker
Liam arrived at the Oakbrooke Cemetery at 3:15 on Tuesday for Elise’s funeral. He went with the hope of learning more about the woman he’d fallen in love with and, if Elise had indeed been after a fresh start, the past she’d run away from. Maybe he would even stumble upon a clue that would point Bash in the right direction.
The service had been announced in the Chicago Tribune’s obituaries. It was the only thing Liam had found online about Elise under the name Watson other than a dormant Facebook account.
The cemetery was an expansive green landscape, anchored by groves of oak trees along its southern and western borders, the tombstones neatly organized in rows. A narrow road meandered in from the east through an arched wrought-iron gate and then forked to the north and southwest, extending across the grounds in a misshapen Y.
As Liam marched through the headstones, he counted just under half-a-dozen mourners gathered near the burial site. Three men, two women. They stood in front of four rows of foldout metal chairs with programs on them. The men wore suits, the women black dresses. The casket was closed and suspended above the grave. A priest, dressed in white and holding a Bible, was standing at its head. He looked in Liam’s direction, nodded, and waited for Liam to arrive before he began.
“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”
Some of the mourners glanced curiously at Liam. He pretended not to notice. He put his hands in his pockets and lowered his head.
When the priest finished, he asked if anyone would like to speak. There were only two people there who were old enough to be Elise’s parents. They stood side by side, barely an inch between them. The man was slumped over and bald, his eyes bloodshot. He was thin everywhere except his stomach, which strained against the buttons of his shirt. The woman was taller than him by a good two inches. Her gray hair was pulled into a bun. With the arch of her eyebrows and high cheekbones, she bore a strong resemblance to Elise.
The woman elbowed the man, who fervently shook his head.
Liam could imagine what they must be feeling. For him, losing Elise was hard, but they’d only been dating for two months. If he lost one of his kids, he’d be shattered.
After the body was lowered into the ground and the priest said his parting prayer, Liam approached the couple. “I’m sorry,” he said as the other mourners closed in around him. He got the feeling they were all related.
“You knew our daughter?” the man asked.
“I did.”
The woman grabbed her husband’s hand. The little bit of blood coloring her pale skin receded. “How did you know her?”
“We were dating.”
All three mourners who’d gathered around Liam were quite a bit younger than Elise’s parents. One of the men was short, with a mess of curly blond hair he’d been unable to tame. The other, whose features were also sharp like Elise’s, was thin and lanky. His face was pitted from acne.
“How long?” the second one asked.
“A couple of months.”
“What do you do?” the man with the curly hair said. It was an odd question, considering the circumstances, and the words were delivered in an equally strange tone. In another situation, Liam would have said the man sounded angry. He might have even gone so far as to say the man seemed to blame him for something. He must be mistaken though. What could he blame Liam for?
“I work in advertising, like Elise.”
“Yeah, right,” Curly Hair said, while at the same time the young woman with them said, “Elise didn’t work in advertising. She didn’t even go to college.”
She had her hands clasped in front of her. An old scar marred her left check, extending nearly all the way from her earlobe to the corner of her mouth. Her dress was fitted at the waist and had satin buttons that ran down from the collar.
That news hit Liam hard. He’d decided the two men were likely Elise’s brothers and the woman her sister. From what he could see of her family, she hadn’t lied about them. But if the woman was right about Elise’s education, and Liam had no reason to doubt her, then she was also probably right about her job. It was unlikely an advertising firm would have hired Elise if she hadn’t gone to college. If that was true, it would mean she hadn’t only been lying to hide her past.
“He’s probably one of the dirtbags she was hanging around with before she disappeared,” the second brother said.
It took a second or more for his words to register. Liam was still thinking about the newest lie, and all the subsequent ones it had spawned: stories about co-workers and campaigns, budgets and timelines. It had all sounded so legit. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean she took off.”
“How long ago was that?”
“She was twenty-two, so”—the curly haired brother mumbled to himself like he was trying to calculate the time—“a while ago.”
The husband pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and first finger. He squeezed his eyes shut, holding back tears.
“He blames himself for her running away,” the wife said, cupping one hand around the side of her mouth and speaking in a stage whisper.
Liam looked from one spouse to the other. Maybe, he thought. The only thing he could say for sure was that she blamed him and wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to remind him of that.
“Let’s go home,” the husband snapped.
“I’m sure it’s not your fault,” Liam said. Even to his ears, the sentiment sounded like the cliché it was, but it was all he could come up with on the fly. Somehow, he had to stop Elise’s family from leaving. They had barely started talking and there was so much more he wanted to know.
“Damn right it’s not,” Curly Hair said.
“Please. I would like to talk to you,” Liam pressed as the husband turned and, still holding his wife’s hand, dragged her along with him.
It was clear nothing he could say would stop them. Liam urgently took a business card out of his wallet. “All of you.” He held out the card, offering it to each of the siblings as they passed. “I just want to know more about her. I miss her.” Almost feebly, he added, “I loved her.” That was true no matter what she was lying about.
Elise’s mother turned toward him. She looked Liam up and down before her eyes landed on the business card. She plucked it from between his fingers as her husband jerked her forward a step and said, “Come on.”
As Liam watched them head toward the road, he noticed something out of the corner of his right eye. Reflexively, he turned to look. It was a smudge of a person at the edge of the cemetery. Liam thought it might be Bash. He wondered if the detective was following him. Since there was no reason to chase down the family, he moved toward the observer. As he did, the observer strolled toward the nearest exit.
Liam was too far away to catch up to him on foot (not that he knew what he would do if he did), so he went back to his car and circled the block. He saw nobody besides the family walking along the cemetery’s perimeter. The observer was gone.
Liam Parker
Liam had just enough time after the funeral to get to his ex-wife’s. Every Tuesday night, he had dinner with the kids. They also spent every other weekend with him. Although he often listened to one Spo
tify playlist or another while en route, right now he opted for silence. He needed to think.
Elise hadn’t seen her family in six years. Liam figured she could have gone to school in that time despite what they believed. But he wanted to know for sure.
She’d said she worked at Out Front Media. He called their main number and asked for HR. A woman picked up and asked how she could help.
Liam started by introducing himself and his company and ended with a request for verification of employment.
As he merged onto I-94 North, he could hear the woman punching keys on her keyboard. “Hmm.” She asked him to spell the name “Whitman” and then said, “Sorry. She’s not in our system.”
“How about under Watson?”
“Elise Watson?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
This had to be the first time an employer had ever called to do a background check and given two last names. Sensing he needed to say something fast, Liam provided the only explanation he could think of. “It was her maiden name.”
He held his breath until he heard more typing.
The woman again asked for the spelling. “Nobody by that name either.”
Liam sighed. He thanked her and ended the call. At the funeral, he’d been surprised. Now he was angry. Elise had lied about her name, her job, her school. What else had she lied about? What the hell was going on?
Liam pulled up to Catherine’s two-story brick house in Winnetka, about thirty minutes north of downtown. With quiet, safe neighborhoods and manicured yards, Winnetka was one of those suburbs that drew an affluent crowd.
He rang the doorbell and waited. It didn’t take long before Tommy opened the door. “Dad!” Barely eight, he wrapped his arms around Liam’s waist and hugged as tightly as he could. Most of the time, he was a giggling Energizer bunny, with hair never brushed quite right and wearing one wrinkled tee or another. Today it was a worn-out green job featuring the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. When Liam was growing up, he was pretty much the same, only it was all Transformers, all the time.
A Reagan Keeter Box Set: Three page-turning thrillers that will leave you wondering who you can trust Page 26