by Dana Killion
“Sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Tanya, the office manager.” We exchanged half-hearted smiles.
“There’s a lot of merchandise in here,” I said, unbuttoning my coat and looking at the overflowing boxes of belts and handbags. Pieces of costume jewelry and swatches of different leathers and braids haphazardly covered the desks while walls were embellished with color cards taped to the surface. It wasn’t the image I’d had of a jewelry showroom. “Do you sell out of this location?” I asked, not familiar with how the industry operated.
“No, these are just samples. There are four different reps who work out of this office, about eighteen lines between them. Everyone is independent, so they formed a mini-collective, each one pitching in to pay a percentage of the rent. And my salary.”
“How does that work? The sales process, I mean.”
“Skylar, and everyone else who works out of this location, is a road rep. So that means they take their sample lines directly to the retailers for consideration. They show them the product, the color swatches, and leave catalogues, if necessary. If they’re lucky, they’ll take orders on the spot. If not, the stores send in orders via email or fax. A few people will call in, but that’s usually the old guys who don’t trust electronics or know how to use a scanner.”
She grabbed another tissue and wiped her eyes.
“Orders then get sent to the corporate office, then product ships from the warehouse when it’s available. Some merchandise is in stock and ships whenever the store wants it. Other product is only made once minimums are met. So, Skylar didn’t spend a lot of time here. None of them do, really. It’s a place to keep samples, sales catalogues, do some of the office work, but mostly just a place to make it sound official. Nobody thinks you’re big enough if you list your home address. And then, as we’re learning, you gotta worry about the crazies. Poor Skylar. I know I keep saying that.” She shook her head.
“How long have you known her?”
“Around five years, I think.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and shot a look at the photo I’d noticed earlier. Reaching over, she picked up the frame.
“This is the crew. We had gone out for Skylar’s birthday. It was two years ago, I think,” she said, her eyes filling again.
“She looks happy here,” I said, feeling the inadequacy of my words. “My understanding is that she sold fine jewelry. I assume that meant she was carrying valuables around frequently.” If the merchandise here in the office was any indication, I wasn’t seeing much of value.
“Her line was what we’d classify as an entry price point item. Gold hoops, lower-quality gemstones, some cocktail rings and chains. She wasn’t walking around with the three-carat engagement rings or anything like that. We’d have to have serious security for those price points. After all, you walked in, right?” She shrugged and looked around the office. “The other reps handle what you see around the office, strictly the costume stuff, base metal, stampings, beading. Lots of belts and small leather goods. Skylar kept her product in locked jewelry suitcases. It’s safer, and the delicate items don’t get tangled and dinged that way.”
“Was it common for her to have the merchandise—I mean, the samples—with her?” I asked, wondering how obvious it might have been to the killer that she traveled with valuables. Perhaps he’d been watching her? Knew her habits?
“She has a safe here at the office, but when you’re on the road, there’s not much way around having samples in your possession. It wouldn’t be practical to come back here all the time. It’s a balance, depends on how many appointments she had lined up. I’m not sure, but I think she had a safe at home, too, but it was always one of those things she worried about. But primarily, you worry about your own safety. Product can be replaced, but you never know how far some whacko is going to take things. A lot of the female reps will carry Mace or pepper spray. They lock the cases in their trunks so if they leave the car for a few minutes, it’s not obvious there’s something of value inside.”
She picked up her cell phone as a message popped up.
“As you can imagine, the other sales gals are freaking out. I don’t know what to tell them. It’s not good when people know you walk around with sapphires in your bag. Do the cops really think this was a robbery?”
“It isn’t clear yet,” I said. No need to share any of my own theories. “I understand that she was in the middle of a divorce. Were you aware?”
“Yeah, we all knew she was married to an asshole, but none of us knew how big of an ass he was. She probably would have kicked him out a long time ago if she’d been home more to catch him. But when a guy wants to be a jerk, he’s generally going to do it whether or not there’s someone around.” Her tone suggested she’d had firsthand experience.
“You said he was a jerk. In what way?” As I always did, I was trying to keep the tone of my questions open, leaving an opportunity for her to add her own commentary about Oliver Hayes’s bad habits.
“The guy was a cokehead, for one,” she said, shaking her head in disgust. “I could tell that the first time I met him. I have no idea when Skylar knew or when she began to care. We didn’t talk about stuff like that.”
“Did she ever indicate there was any physical altercation between them?”
“You mean, did he hit her? Sounds like they fought a lot, but if he ever got physical, I didn’t know about it. If I had to bet, between the two of them, I’d say she was the one more likely to punch his lights out.” She let out a small laugh. “She was feisty. No one pushed her around. But then again, who knows what the guy did after he had a few snorts.”
“How about money problems? Did she talk about anything?” If I had to guess, I’d say the large Victorian home they’d shared clocked in at a cool two million, maybe more, and it probably wasn’t cheap to maintain.
“As far as I know, things were pretty good. They have a really nice house, take vacations. Skylar was one of the company’s top salespeople. She was very focused, pulled in serious dough, beat her sales targets every year I’ve known her. Even got a healthy bonus annually. And her husband is in a big job, something in accounting, but I think she made more than he did. Not sure how that sat with him. Some guys are competitive. But she never said anything. I’m not sure how we’re going to handle her accounts now. I guess corporate will work that out.”
I stood. “Thank you for speaking with me, Tanya. I know it’s a rough day. Call me if you think of anything you think I’d want to know.”
“I will. And here’s my card.” She scribbled her cell number on the back. “Best to call me on the mobile. That, I always pick up.”
I left the office, heading back downstairs toward the parking garage, stopping at the newsstand for a cup of tea and a bag of almonds before heading out into the cold. As I waited for my drink, I checked the Link-Media website for follow-up on my article. As always, the mix of comments ranged from complimentary to wackadoodle hate speech. I was constantly stunned at the vitriol of online commentators. Particularly offensive were the derogatory comments about Skylar herself. “Looks like a slut to me. Musta had it comin.” “Guess her old man wanted a younger model.” How did people get this callous and hateful? The woman had been murdered, and these idiots couldn’t show an ounce of empathy. Borkowski and I needed to have another conversation about moderating these posts. The line between free speech and hate was uncomfortably thin.
I tabbed over to Twitter, bracing myself for the ugliness in my own account. I’d posted an obligatory link earlier but hated the platform, finding it petty and mean. Unfortunately, it was now an essential element of my industry and often the source of critical breaking news. A post on my feed stopped me cold. “That’s what happens to women with big mouths.”
24
Where are you?
I shot a quick text to Michael. Images of the two dead women flashed unbidden into my consciousness as I typed. It was the same killer; I had no doubts. But if Gavin Wright had ordered a murder-for-hire, were we to
assume that Oliver Hayes had done the same and used the same killer?
I needed to see those emails. Pacing the lobby outside the newsstand, I waited for a response. Who else could I tap? What other favors could I call in to find out how close CPD was to identifying the man they believed to be the hired killer?
Near the Art Institute. Why? Michael responded.
Can we meet? I asked, growing agitated when an answer didn’t appear instantly.
Almost wrapped up. I have a few minutes if you’re close.
Great. Meet me at The Gage whenever you can.
I left my car in the ramp and walked the eight blocks to Michigan and Monroe, my thoughts so wrapped up in the case that I barely felt the cold.
Luckily, it was a Monday, and the normally busy restaurant wasn’t fully booked. It was a little more upscale than I was in the mood for, but I knew I could sit here for an extended period without the waitstaff giving me dirty looks because they weren’t turning the table. I ordered a Pellegrino and asked the waitress to come back when my guest had arrived.
As I sipped my drink, my mind tried to process the connections between Elyse Wright’s murder and Skylar Hayes’s murder. The cause of death was identical, and as I saw from the autopsy photos, so were the cut marks to their mouths. Both women were involved in nasty, contentious divorces, and they shared an attorney. Both women were the higher-income spouse. Both were known to be strong, opinionated women and were roughly the same age. It was impossible not to connect their murders. But who would have done it, and why?
If I stuck with the CPD’s theory that Gavin Wright had hired a hit man to kill his wife, then Oliver Hayes had hired the same hit man and had a similar motive. Get her out of the way before divorce ended his career and finances.
I had no idea how one went about finding someone willing to commit murder for money, but it couldn’t be easy. These men were well-off professionals. What exposure did they have to the dregs of society? Maybe I was being hasty. Oliver had a cocaine habit. It wasn’t inconceivable that his dealer could have made an introduction. But that still left me with a missing connection between Gavin Wright and Oliver Hayes. For the theory to be accurate, somehow these men needed to know each other or needed to have a mutual acquaintance for referral.
From what I could tell, Hayes was just a run-of-the-mill crappy husband with a drug problem and a penchant for sleazy sex. It was the stuff that kept private eyes and divorce attorneys in business. The part I didn’t know was how badly he wanted to keep his dirty laundry private and whether his wife was the vindictive type. Had she been hell-bent on revenge, or would an advantageous financial settlement have convinced her to keep the ugliness out of discoverable public documents? I’d have to call Victor.
“What a nice surprise, seeing you in the middle of the day. It’s not the Friday night dinner you blew off, but I’ll take it.”
I’d been so lost in thought, I hadn’t even noticed Michael arrive.
I smiled, thoughts of murder set aside for the moment, but feeling just a little sheepish about his reference to Friday. Michael bent down for a kiss, and I could smell the faint aroma of sandalwood.
Once he settled into his seat, the waitress came over for a drink order and left us with menus. I zeroed in on the first thing that looked appealing, waiting for Michael to do the same before hitting him up with talk of death.
“I was expecting to have to eat a bland turkey sandwich with Janek. This is certainly an upgrade,” Michael said after we ordered. “Are you doing okay? It’s been a dramatic few days.” He laid a hand on my forearm, concern etched in his eyes.
“I think so,” I said. “I’m confused, sad, anxious to know what’s happened to these women.” I didn’t add anything about fighting for my company or how unnerved I was by my own flirtations with Ryan or terrified that my indecision in my relationship with Michael would send him packing. All were subjects that needed far more self-reflection than I was prepared for at the moment.
“Have you gotten any closer to identifying Elyse Wright’s killer?” I couldn’t contain myself. I also didn’t want to make this a where-do-we-stand chat. The questions I had about the murders were streaming too fast.
“Come on, Andrea. You know I can’t give you inside information on our investigation. It isn’t fair for you to ask.”
“Is it fair to pretend to the public that these two murders are not connected? Let the people help you find this guy. Someone saw something or heard something. I don’t understand how it helps anyone for you to continue to play out this ridiculous carjacking explanation.”
I sipped my drink and adjusted a nonexistent twist in my sleeve, taking a moment.
“Yes, there are similarities in the manner of death, I admit that. But that doesn’t mean we have firm evidence, or that if we did, we’re ready to make it public. We’ll issue a statement when we’re prepared to do so. I don’t need to explain myself to you.”
There was an edge in his voice I hadn’t heard before. He was annoyed with me for pushing him. And likely annoyed with me for a few other things as well.
“No, you don’t,” I said, feeling that we were discussing work as well as our relationship. Michael was still hurt and angry over my reaction to his suggestion of a change in our living situations. But he was the one who walked out on the conversation. I hadn’t been given the opportunity to explain last week, nor had I been asked. Had I wanted to be? Once again, I recognized the contradictions in my feelings for Michael. If I didn’t know how I felt, how could he possibly be expected to interpret my behavior? Maybe this was the first real test of our relationship. If we couldn’t communicate over something as important as a decision to live together, then there was likely pain ahead. But this wasn’t the time for a deep heart-to-heart. I came here to discuss the murders.
“Michael, I’ve seen the autopsy photos.” He stopped mid-bite into his poutine and looked at me, eyes fiery. “I understand that there is some kind of protocol we’re trying to sort through, balancing our relationship with work demands, but please don’t take me for one of the reporters who’s going to read the statement verbatim from the press liaison and call it a day. You know me better than that. There are connections between these women that go even deeper than the knife that sliced them open. What I don’t know is what the connections are between the husbands. I hoped that you would speak to me about it. What was in the emails that convinced you Wright hired someone to kill his wife? What leads do you have on the killer? Have you found anything that indicates Oliver Hayes wanted to take out his wife, too?”
“I can’t do this. I can’t release information just because you ask. I have people I answer to and internal strategies we’re working with. Discussing it could compromise the investigation. When we have an official statement, you’ll get that along with everyone else.”
“Okay, but at some point you’ll need to explain why CPD would apparently prefer to frighten the women of Chicago, letting them think a random serial killer is on the loose, rather than connect the murders. I have my job to do as well, and I don’t need your permission to go public.”
He looked at me, his eyes sad. I wasn’t giving him the response he wanted. “I can’t discuss it with you,” he said quietly.
“Fine. Lunch is on me. I’m sure you need to get back to work.” We looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity, neither of us having the willingness or the time to say all that we had to say.
He took a drink of water, put on his jacket, and left. My eyes filled with tears as I watched him walk away. Had I done the right thing? Or had I just made the biggest mistake of my life?
25
What had I done?
I put my head in my hands, wrestling with the urge to call Michael, to ask him to come back to the restaurant and talk this through, but my mind wasn’t clear enough to understand what I wanted. I needed the distance, and so did Michael. It felt as though we were at a point of either ending whatever this was between us or, if we could talk this
through, moving to a new stage. At the moment I couldn’t tell which, and we were both too close to it to see clearly.
I ordered another Pellegrino and nibbled on my crab-and-avocado toast while I struggled to shift my thoughts back to the murders. I stared at the Pellegrino label, a thought forming. Could the connection be Elyse Wright’s advertising agency? I grabbed my phone and put in a call to Tanya’s cell.
“It’s Andrea Kellner again. This is going to seem out of left field, but do you know if Skylar’s employer used any advertising agencies?”
“Sure,” she said, sounding a little more together than she had earlier. “The agency did some direct-to-consumer work, Facebook ads, things like that to build up demand. But most of the company advertising was print ads in trade magazines. They were targeting retail buyers, usually just before market week.”
“What’s that?”
“That’s when all the trade shows run. Merchants fly in to New York or LA to discover new product lines or to make their buys. So the ads are focused on enticing buyers who’ve never placed orders or showing off new items to people already familiar with the company. There are also a lot of postcard mailers, with booth numbers, reminders to set appointments. It’s kind of a last-minute memory jog or a way to highlight new designs.”
“Did Skylar go to these shows?”
“All the time. Sometimes her clients preferred to work the line at the shows so they could balance their purchases out with other orders they’d written, and some would only see the line if she came to them. All depended on a store’s budget and time. She didn’t care as long as they left paper. Sorry, that’s ‘orders’ in layman’s terms.”
“Do you know what agency the company used?”
“No, you’d have to ask the corporate office about that, but Skylar did have a connection there. A couple months ago, she told me that she’d spoken to one of the employees who worked on the digital media end, but that was about a personal issue.”