A Picture of Guilt (30 page)

He was quiet. Then, “That’s not what I hear.”

The bitterness in his voice jarred me. “Who have you been talking to?”

“You’re not my only friend in Chicago.”

“Rachel. You’ve been talking to Rachel. I can’t believe it. You and she—”

“Ellie—”

“It is her, isn’t it?” He didn’t answer. “Tell me.”

“No.” His voice was soft but emphatic.

“Damn you, David. Someone is spying on me, and you won’t tell me who it is? How dare you? I have enough trouble with that right now.”

“Ellie, what—”

I couldn’t take any more. “You know something? You’re right. This conversation is over.”

The phone hit the base unit with a thud.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY

After dropping Rachel off at school on Monday, I came home and went online. A quick thirty minutes on the net surfaced more than a dozen places in Chicago that offered scuba diving lessons. An equal number were scattered around the suburbs.

I sighed and started down the list. Many had already closed for the season, and their machines told me to leave a message. I frowned. That wouldn’t do me any good. On the ninth listing I reached a human, but he didn’t want to reveal anything about his customers and seemed annoyed I had the
chutzpah
to ask. Another man accused me of engaging in industrial espionage.

I took a break and reassessed my methodology. Clearly, a different approach was required. I thought about it. Ten minutes later, I hung up the phone in triumph. It had worked; the person I called actually checked their customer database but didn’t find any Sammys or Samirs. Still, I was buoyed by my progress. I refined my technique on the next call. Again, they checked their records, but no luck.

Finally, on the twentieth call, I reached a friendly female voice.

“Diving Unlimited.”

“Hi,” I said cheerfully, sliding right into character. “My name is Grace Barnett Wing. I work in the personnel department at Walgreen’s.”

“Yes?”

“I’m checking up on the application of a young man who says he took diving lessons from you.” I heard the soft click of keys in the background. “We like to verify our applicants’ extracurricular activities, as well as their professional ones. Would there be someone I could talk to about that?”

“Extracurricular activities? You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was. You can’t be too careful these days, you know what I mean?”

“I guess.”

“I know it’s an imposition. But I really would appreciate the help.”

“What’s the name?”

“Well, you’re not going to believe this, but I did a really stupid thing.” I paused. “I spilled coffee all over his application, and it’s kind of hard to read. And I know my boss’ll kill me if I screw up. The guy’s being considered for a management position.”

She hesitated. “Well, what do you think the name is?”

“His first name could be Sammy. But then again, that could be his last name.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Miss—what did you say your name was?”

“Grace Wing. Barnett Wing.” Forgive me, Grace.

“Well, Miss Wing, if all you’ve got is one name, I don’t know how I can help.”

I lowered my voice to a stage whisper. “Well, I’m not supposed to say this—I’m sure you can understand—but he—um—he’s definitely—well, we’re pretty sure he’s Arabic. You know, from the Middle East.”

I heard an intake of breath.

“And, well, I was just wondering if you could check your customers for the Ss to see if, well, you know, you’d find any names like—”

“You say you’re from Walgreen’s?”

“Yes. The corporate office. I know I was careless, but—”

“Do you know when he signed up?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

“Sammy, you say?”

“Yes. But it could be Sam.” I considered whether to tell her it was a common Arabic surname. No. Not good.

“Well, let me check last names first.” More clicks. Silence. I held my breath. “No Sammy.”

“What about Sam?”

“Nothing. We have a Samson, and a Samos, but nothing that looks Arabic.”

I crossed my fingers. “Can you run down first names?”

“I don’t know. That might be kind of tricky. I could try to pull up every Sammy or Sam we have on our database, but how would I know if it’s the right person?”

“Maybe his last name will pop up, and, like I said—well, it might be obvious.”

She sighed. “I suppose it’s worth a try.”

I heard the clicks of her fingers on a keyboard. Outside the sound of a truck roared down the block.

“Well, now, this is interesting.”

My pulse picked up.

“When did you say he was here?”

“I didn’t.”

“I have a Samir Hanjour. He enrolled a year ago last spring.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It looks like he took some lessons but never completed the course.”

“I’m surprised. He seems like the type who would follow through.”

“People stop for all sorts of reasons, you know. Sometimes their ears can’t take it, you know. The pressure. Other times, they move, or their jobs change. It’s not so unusual.”

“No, I suppose not.” I hesitated. “Tell me, is he the only diving student you had with the name of Samir, or Samman, or Sami?”

“Hold on.” A few moments passed. “Yes. That’s it.”

“Then that’s got to be the young man I’m looking for. The address I have looks like he lives in—well, I can’t tell.” I cleared my throat. “The coffee.”

“We have him living in Orland Park.”

“That’s it. Yes. Where in Orland Park?”

She reeled off an address. I copied it down. “Do you want the phone number?”

“Sure.”

She gave me a number with a 773 area code. I wrote it down.

“Oh, hold on. You know what? There’s a “w” by the number I just gave you. I think I might have given you his work number by mistake. Do you want the home number instead?”

“Sure.”

She repeated another number with a 630 area code.

“You’ve been wonderful. You probably just saved my job. I can’t thank you enough. What’s your name?”

“Mary. Mary Rhodes.”

“Thank you, Mary. I’ll be sure to note how helpful you were in our files.”

“My pleasure.”

As soon as I disconnected, I tried the home number, but it was out of service, and there was no forwarding number. Then I punched in the work number. After five rings, a man’s voice picked up.

“Yeah?” Gruff. Breathing hard. I’d pulled him away from something.

“I’m trying to reach Samir Hanjour. Is he there?”

“Who?”

I repeated the name.

“There ain’t no one by that name here.”

“Oh, dear. Maybe I have the wrong information. I thought he worked there.”

“Well, maybe he did, but he don’t no more. I never heard of ’im.”

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you. This—this is—Walgreen’s, isn’t it?”

“Walgreen’s? Lady, you got the maintenance room at People’s Edison.”

People’s Edison? The huge utility that provides most of Chicago’s power? “Oh. I’m terribly sorry. I must have the wrong number.”

I carefully put the phone back on the base. I picked it up a second later and called People’s Edison’s corporate headquarters and asked to be connected to personnel. A moment later an officious voice told me there was no way she could release any information about PE employees unless I had clearance from her department head. I thanked her and hung up.

I stood up and started to pace. An Arabic man named Sammy took scuba diving lessons last year. Apparently, he also worked at People’s Edison. Or did when he started the scuba lessons. I wondered if he drove an SUV.

***

I attacked the lump of dough with a rolling pin like a tiny steamroller. The dough bulged, cracked, and finally surrendered to a higher force. Once it was uniformly thin and even, I transferred it to a nine-inch pie plate, trimmed off the extra, and fluted the edges. I rotated the plate and smiled. Martha Stewart had nothing on me. I was starting in on the filling when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello?”

A click. I hung up and wiped a floury hand across my brow. A wrong number. That’s all it was.

I finished the filling and put it in the fridge. Then I rummaged in the cupboard for onions. As long as I was feeling domestic, I should get a head start on the stuffing.

Damn. I was all out. But it was barely one o’clock. I threw on a coat and grabbed my keys.

I noticed the SUV on the way home from the store. A hundred yards behind. It was still there when I turned onto Happ Road. Two figures were inside. Men.

Fear skittered around in me. I pressed down on the gas and sped past my block, praying that the cops who hide at the side of the road were there. But they must have been taking the day off. The SUV accelerated and kept pace.

My fear spread.

I got to the end of Happ, careened around Sunset Ridge and onto Voltz. I checked the rearview mirror. Nothing. But Voltz twists and turns and cuts off your sight line. At Lee, I turned right and raced toward Shermer.

I needed to find someplace safe. Someplace no one could get to me. The mall? No. Too big. Too isolated. Too many empty corridors. The library? It was close by, and it was my sanctuary as a child. But it had been remodeled recently; there were lots of small study rooms and cubicles. I needed a place where everything was out in the open. Where there were people.

I was still deciding when the SUV reappeared in the mirror. Closer now. Shortening their rope. My heart hammered in my chest. I flew across Shermer, then Dundee, and sped back to the grocery store. I tore into the parking lot, threw the car in park, and sprinted through the door.

My breath was ragged, and I was trembling. Positioning myself so I had a clear view of the front window, I walked up to one of the checkers, a woman I’ve known for years. I hugged my arms across my chest.

“What’d you forget this time?” she smiled, then took a closer look. “Hey. Are you all right?”

“Couldn’t be better.” I tried to take a long, cleansing breath. “How’s the handicap?”

“My handicap?”

“Yes,” I panted. She was a golfer.

“Good,” she said uncertainly, as if she had no idea where I was coming from but was too polite to say so. “I shaved off another stroke this summer.”

I looked out the window. The SUV had pulled into the lot and was inching down the lane where the Volvo was parked. I jumped back from the window and said a prayer. The SUV slowed, stopped, and then slowly pulled away.

“That’s great, Debbie.” I blew out a breath. “Just great. Golf sure is a great sport.”

***

I wandered through the supermarket aisles, thinking I’d hide out there until it was time to pick up Rachel. I was stunned to find heart of palm was over three dollars a can; a tiny jar of caviar was only six. I wandered over to the candy aisle. More my style anyway, but even here, the prices were up to nearly a dollar a bar.

As I scanned the array of brightly colored packages, a familiar itchy feeling rose in my throat, and it dawned on me that a grocery store was not a good place for me to be right now. I felt alone. Defenseless. Out of control. It would be easy to find myself with a case of sticky fingers. I forced myself to walk to the coffee bar at the front of the store, where I bought a latte and made myself sit to drink it.

Once I had Rachel, I drove down to Skokie, taking Hibbard and Illinois instead of the expressway. Every few yards I checked the rearview mirror; no one was tailing us.

“Where are we going?” Rachel asked as we wound through the quiet streets.

“To Dad’s.”

“Is
Opa
okay?”

“He’s fine. I—I just want to check up on him. “

“Oh.” Rachel seemed abnormally quiet, and I wondered whether I’d subconsciously projected my fear onto her. I needed to be more careful. As we turned onto Hunter, we passed a yard already crowded with Santas, candy canes, and a large sleigh filled with packages.

“Look.” I waved. “It’s not even Thanksgiving, and they’ll probably leave them up until February.”

Rachel didn’t say anything.

“If we can live through this,” I cracked, “we can live through anything.”

Rachel recoiled as though I’d struck her.

“Christmas, honey. The decorations.”

She burst into tears. “I don’t want to go to
Opa’
s.”

“Rachel, what are you talking about?”

She sobbed. “He’s going to yell at me. And so will you.”

“Oh.” Now I knew. I pulled to the side of the road. “Honey, that’s not it.”

Her sobs grew louder. I drew her into my arms. She threw her arms around my neck and buried her face in my shoulder.

“I thought—I thought I was going to jail, Mommy.” She wailed.

“Shh.” I brushed my fingers across the curls framing her forehead. When she was little I always thought she looked like one of those angels with golden halos. “It’s over now, honey.”

A few minutes passed. Her sobs began to hiccup. “They—were—so—mean.”

“Officer Davis was mean?”

“Not—her.” She sniffled. “She was—okay.”

I thought she was okay, too. Better than okay.

“The others. The ones who arrested me.” She took a shuddering breath. “They told me if I got into trouble again, I’d go to juvenile detention. They treated me like I was—like—I—was a—a—” She started to tear up again.

“A criminal?”

She nodded, her eyes glassy and wet. “When we got to the station—they took our fingerprints—and then they put me in that cell—and—they handcuffed me to the wall.”

I winced. I remembered the time I was arrested for shoplifting. How frightened I was. How ashamed. How alone. I hugged her tighter.

“Then they asked me all these questions. But in a really mean way. They kept saying they knew someone at school was dealing, and I had to tell them who it was. And then—” She stopped short, a horrified look on her face. “Mother, are they going to tell the school what happened?”

I pushed an unruly curl behind her ear. “No. The school doesn’t know anything about it.”

“What about
Opa
?”