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Authors: Mark Richard Zubro

BOOK: An Echo of Death

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“He did what?” I asked.

“Swear to God,” Bill said. “Just casually flicked it on and applied it to his chest.”

“How come his chest hair didn't just go foof with him going up in flames? That can't be just luck.”

“One guy threw a glass of beer on Glen, but it missed the flames. Actually what happens is the hair kind of curls in on itself and melts and the fire goes out. It's hair spray and stuff that makes it go foof in flames.”

I was flabbergasted, but I believed Glen Proctor would do something that crazy. I didn't stop Bill from talking. I might be impatient about getting us out of danger, but I hoped Bill might actually mention something that could help us. And the man had his grief to work out. If he could remember with smiles and tears, then that was okay.

“Didn't he ever get caught?” Scott asked.

“Never for the really big stuff,” Bill said. “He came close once when he almost got busted for a huge drug shipment.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What happened?”

“He must have been sixteen. He'd gone down to Mexico for a month. My dad has lots of business down there, so we went pretty often. How Glen got to know the local drug people, I don't know. He always seemed to be able to know
people with illegal secrets and deals. Glen agreed to have a huge shipment of drugs sent back across the border with some stuff for my father. Glen almost got caught.”

“By the cops?” I asked.

“No. My dad's security forces. He has a lot down there. Glen managed to get the shipping invoice changed, like maybe seconds before he would have been discovered. I think the head of security was awful suspicious. Maybe Glen paid him off some way. I don't know. Anyhow, the stuff got to Chicago, the drug guys got their shipment, and Glen got enough stuff to supply his whole school for a semester.” Bill was silent for a minute. He sighed and tears started again. “Mostly his schemes seemed to work.”

“Whatever this one was,” Scott said, “it went bust big-time.”

“Yeah,” Proctor said. The tears came again. “He really loved me,” Bill said. “One summer when I was twelve, he and I hot-wired some farm equipment and drove it around in the middle of the night. It was my idea and I got them started. Glen took the blame for me. I was too scared to speak up. And when I was sixteen, the first girl I loved broke up with me. Glen stayed with me the whole night. I loved her so bad, and Glen was so good. He helped me a lot. I really loved him.” He shut his eyes and sobbed. Scott held him briefly.

It was nearly nine o'clock. I wasn't eager to go back to our hotel room, but I didn't see any alternative. We stayed a few more minutes to comfort Bill Proctor and told him if we found anything out we'd let him know. He promised to do the same. By ten we'd driven through the drive-up window at a fast-food restaurant and arrived back at our hotel.

Edna was still on duty at the desk when we returned. The lobby had a collection of transvestites and prostitutes, the tame version of which you've seen on Phil Donahue and Geraldo.

In our room we sat on the bed and ate greasy hamburgers.
When we finished, I tried calling our answering machine. I got the distinct bong from AT&T, then punched in my code number.

I listened to the beginning of the message on our machine and then punched the two-number code that gave access to the messages. Scott lay down next to me on the bed. I listened to his breathing in the pauses between messages. The hotel itself was amazingly quiet for the moment.

One message was from Lester, asking us how we'd done and to give him a call. Another was a woman's voice, who said her name was Felicia Proctor, Glen's and Bill's mother. A third was from Bradâno last nameâtelling Glen he was at the Hotel Chicago and he had to talk to him.

Next I tried calling the cops in Chicago. I got Joe Quinn at his desk. I told him about our conversations at the Proctors. He seemed slightly interested in that.

He said, “We've tried to find out what we could about who attacked you on the street this morning, but I gotta tell you, we've got nothing. I don't think we're going to get much.”

“We obviously need protection. A crime is trying to happen. Us getting killed.”

Quinn said, “I don't mean to be rude, but your buddy Carpenter could afford to hire an army. We're poor cops with a lot of real crimes and cases to solve.”

“We're scared,” I said. “We're stuck in this dump, and we don't dare return home. What do you suggest we do?”

“I don't know,” he said.

I called our lawyer. I like my legal talent to be nice and conservative and that's what my lawyer was. Todd Bristol had been my lawyer since before I met Scott. Now we kept him on a yearly retainer. He was a partner in one of the big law firms on La Salle Street.

I caught him on the way out to a party. As soon as he knew it was me, he covered the phone, but I heard his
muffled voice say, “This is going to take a while. You'd better grab a cab and go ahead. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

I knew Todd hated parties in direct proportion to his lover Ed's passion for them. Todd wouldn't mind missing any portion of it.

“What is going on?” he asked. “The radio is filled with crazy stories. Reporters are dying to talk to you guys.”

“What have they said?” I asked.

“One of your neighbors swore he saw Scott driving one of those carriages down the Inner Drive like somebody out of one of those Roman chariot races.”

I explained everything to him from the beginning. He listened without interruption.

When I finished, he said, “Where are the necklaces?”

“Mine's in the penthouse. Scott must still be wearing his.”

“Get them to a safety-deposit box, or someplace reasonably safe as soon as you can.”

“I'm worried about going to the penthouse,” I said.

“You could try going in with a police escort,” Todd suggested, “or wait, then whoever is after you will just pick up your trail again. I think those necklaces are a menace.”

“You think they're the key?”

“I don't know, but that's the most obvious place to start, although it would have made a lot more sense if whoever was after you simply said, âCould we have our necklaces back, please?' Of course, yours may be gone already.”

I told him I wanted to call Lester to get more information about the Proctor family and their wealth.

“Does he know where you are?”

“Yes.”

“I wish nobody knew. Don't tell anybody elseâincluding meâwhere you are. Not even your best friend. Something loony is going on. You cannot be too careful.”

“I've known Lester for years,” I said.

“Have you been chased and shot at? Have these people shown a tendency to be nasty and persistent? Come on, Tom. Use your head. You're frightened, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then use that fear to be supremely cautious. The cops are probably all right, but don't take any chances.”

“What should we do?” I asked.

“Figure out who's behind all this. Find out what they want, and if at all possible, give it to them; and if it is impossible, try to make a deal.”

“We need to find out about Glen Proctor's movements in Mexico and what he was really there for,” I said.

“I don't think I can help you there, but I'll make a few discreet calls in case there are skeletons in that closet. With all that money and all the enemies he's made, Jason Proctor's got to be hated by a whole lot of people.”

I thanked him and hung up, then called Lester.

“What happened at Proctor's?” he asked.

Something about his eagerness made me wary, or was it that Todd had sufficiently frightened me into general paranoia? I gave him a brief outline of our two discussions. I asked, “Can you find out about any real-estate dealings old man Proctor had in Mexico? The reason his kid died and why we're being stalked has got to be connected with what Glen was doing in Mexico.”

“You could go down there and try to track his movements,” Lester said.

I'd thought of it, and I supposed we could, but I'd rather not be snooping around in a foreign country, where I didn't know the language or any of the people. At least here I knew people and could call for help. I explained all that to Lester.

“You're right,” he said. He promised to do what he could to find out about Proctor senior's dealings in Mexico.

I sat near the head of the bed and leaned my back against the wall. I was totally bushed. I gazed out the window to the brick wall next to us.

“I'm tired,” Scott said.

“You and Glen know somebody named Brad?”

“Brad who?”

I explained about the message on the machine.

“Only Brad I know is a guy from Glen's rookie year. He used to pal around with Brad Stawalski who was kind of big and goofy and not real bright. The kind of guy you play practical jokes on. Stuck with the team that year for a few months because our regular first baseman was injured. They were roommates.”

“Did they keep in touch?”

“Glen didn't mention him before he was killed.”

I tried calling the Hotel Chicago for Brad Stawalski. He was registered, but his room didn't answer.

“Do we go chasing after him tonight?” Scott asked. “We've only had a few hours' sleep, and I'm too wiped out. We don't know when he'll be back or even if he knew anything about what happened to Glen.”

We agreed to check on him tomorrow.

With the lights out, we got only a faint glow from outside through the torn gauze of the curtains. Our view was of a brick wall two feet away. We stripped to our underwear and crawled into bed. The pillows were nearly flat. The metal joists of the bed stabbed my back through the thin mattress. My feet hung over the end. I thought it was heavenly to relax.

Scott snuggled close, lying on his side next to me while I lay on my back. I could feel his legs and chest warm against my own, along with his arm draped over my chest, and his chin on my shoulder.

I reached over with my right hand and ran my fingertips down his arm to the elbow, then over to his side, down his torso to his waist, and then to his hips, where the cotton waistband of his tight white Jockey shorts met his skin. I let my fingers rove down the waistband to where it stretched and made a bridge over his flat abdomen then
over to where skin met material again. I heard his breathing quicken in my ear, felt his desire with my hand.

I turned toward Scott and pulled him close. I listened to the sounds of air being taken into and being expelled from his lungs. I put my hand on his chest, felt the golden downy fur and the slightly freckled skin, and beneath it the beating heart. I sighed deeply. I was incredibly tired. I felt myself dropping off to my favorite fantasy of making love to Scott on the pitching mound, after he hurled a complete game victory, and he would pull me to him, and he'd be all sweaty and happy about winning, and he'd kiss me passionately in front of his assembled teammates and thronged fans.

I woke the next morning to Scott sitting on the side of the bed, his hand resting on my shoulder. I felt comfortably warm. He had dressed in the same clothes he had worn yesterday. He needed a shave and a shower although his five o'clock shadow was incredibly sexy. I got up, dressed, and made a foray to the bathroom. It was the kind of space that it was better not to turn the light on in, much less inspect closely. It had only a toilet and a washstand. Where the tub might have been was a gaping space with a small circular hole in the ground where a pipe might once have been.

I called the Hotel Chicago number the mystery man had left. Brad Stawalski was still registered at the hotel, but his room did not answer. No one at the desk knew where he was or when he might be in; but check-out time was noon, so he'd have to have contacted someone by that point. I left Glen's name as the person who was calling.

I tried the number for Mrs. Proctor. The answering-service person, who had a nasal voice and should have been chewing gum, said that Mrs. Proctor was not in but she had left a message that we could come by after two that afternoon and meet with her. I didn't like the idea of meeting anyone in a set place where a trap could be sprung on us. I wrote down the address.

The lobby of the hotel was deserted. No one sat behind
the registration desk. I paused at the door and searched the street. As I was about to open the door, I thought I caught a glimpse of a dark sedan with two men sitting in front parked illegally half a block down.

“Trouble?” Scott asked.

“I don't know, but let's not risk it. There's got to be a back way out of this place.” The alley behind the hotel was as unsavory as the inside, but it was empty of possible killers. Maybe the two I'd seen out front hadn't been bad guys or had anything to do with us. If they were, wouldn't they have had someone in the alley? I hoped I was right, but didn't mind taking the precaution.

On our way to the hotel, Scott asked, “What if someone gets into the penthouse and listens to the messages? Won't they be able to track down this Brad Stawalski, too.”

“I used the touch tones on the phone to erase the messages last night.”

“Somebody could have already gotten them,” Scott said.

“They wouldn't be expecting us to get calls. I don't want our only option to be total paralysis based on fear. We just have to be extremely cautious.”

We grabbed a cup of coffee from the Rock-and-Roll McDonald's on Ontario Street.

We parked on Kinzie Street west of Wells right behind the Merchandise Mart. We walked east to Dearborn and up to the Hotel Chicago.

The Hotel Chicago was the newest, most exclusive, and most modern hotel in Chicago. It was just north of the Hotel Nikko and across from Marina City.

“How are we going to meet him without alerting our pursuers?” Scott asked.

“Simple,” I said. I checked my watch. “We'll set up a rendezvous point. Then, instead of being there to meet him, we'll shadow him and see if anybody is stalking him. If they are, we'll call it off.”

“Won't they be just as likely to kill him as they did Glen?” Scott asked.

“I hope he's not dead yet, although I'm sure he's in danger, but we've got to try.”

In the lobby we found the pay phones. First I called the penthouse. Glen had another message from Brad. He said he'd be in his room from ten to twelve and then would be checking out. He sounded extremely frightened.

I relayed the information to Scott.

“He still doesn't know Glen's dead?” Scott asked.

“Hard to tell,” I said. “I think you better call him. He'll recognize your voice. I'm hoping he'll trust you enough to meet us.”

“Do I tell him about Glen?”

“Not yet,” I said.

This time someone in the room picked up the phone. I listened to Scott introduce himself. I caught the syncopated effect of listening to one-half of a phone conversation.

“This is Scott Carpenter â¦ I'm calling for Glen Proctor â¦ . He's in trouble â¦ He wants you to meet him on the steps of the Art Institute at eleven â¦ Michigan and Adams â¦ Big building, takes up most of the block on the east side of the street â¦ I can't tell you over the phone â¦ . We'll talk when we meet â¦ .” He hung up.

“Our Brad isn't an art lover,” I said.

“Never heard of the place,” Scott said. “He may not be too bright, but he knows enough that he should be scared. Now what?”

“He still hasn't been captured or spotted, or he'd have suffered Glen's fate.”

“What if they're using him as bait to get to us?” Scott asked.

“We're reversing the process. If someone is after him, we follow him
and
them. We can follow them back to their source, but he's got to still be free of them. They wouldn't let him live.”

“What if they try to kill Brad?” Scott asked. “Do we let them and then follow them to get ourselves killed? We
should tell the cops about this Brad guy and let them question him. We can make a call to Quinn. He can follow up.”

As we talked, I maneuvered so we could see the elevators.

“What crime is it that we'd be reporting?” I asked. “That this guy left a message for Glen on our machine? That is not a violation of criminal statutes as far as I can tell.”

“Won't they want to talk to anyone who can give them information about Glen's death?” Scott asked.

“Brad probably thinks he's alive. According to the cops, he's not dead, remember? Maybe they think we're the ones who have fallen afoul of some criminal organization for reasons that we are unable or unwilling to tell them.”

“What if he just skips town and doesn't go to the Art Institute?” Scott asked.

“If this doesn't work, we'll try something else. Maybe you could come up with an idea that keeps us safe, has the cops take us seriously, and solves Glen's murder. I'd be happy to hear any suggestions.” I surprised myself with my vehemence and sarcasm.

“I'm sorry,” Scott began. Then an extremely muscular man with slicked-back black hair, wearing running shoes, blue jeans, and a sweatshirt, walked off the elevator. He headed straight for the door and turned south.

“That's him,” Scott said and began to follow.

“Wait,” I said.

I let my eyes rove over the characters seated in the lobby. Two men in business suits chatted near the potted palm. One in a Ralph Lauren warm-up suit strode toward the elevators. A couple in their late teens or early twenties talked earnestly with a blue-rinsed matron, perhaps their grandmother or a maiden aunt. A bellhop moved a flatcar of luggage toward the street. No one seemed to take any notice of us or Brad Stawalski. Certainly no one wearing sunglasses and toting a machine gun burst out from behind
a pillar and started spraying the lobby with unpleasantness.

I waited another minute; then we spun through the revolving doors. The doorman at the curb asked if we needed a cab. I spotted Brad on foot at the midpoint on the bridge crossing over the Chicago River. I told the doorman no on the cab.

We moved a few steps away from the door. I turned to Scott and said, “Let's pretend we're having a pleasant casual conversation. Each of us carefully looks over the parked cars and pedestrians in our view.”

“What are we looking for?”

“Anything that looks remotely suspicious.”

Several minutes' observation revealed nothing.

“We'll lose him if we wait much longer,” Scott said.

I looked toward the river. Stawalski had reached the red light at Wacker Drive. I could tell he wasn't a native Chicagoan because he waited for the light to change before he began to cross. Good Chicago street crossers, if they see the slightest chance to take a step or two ahead, are already well off the curb and daring traffic.

Glancing at my watch, I saw we had nearly half an hour before the appointed time. Brad seemed in no particular hurry although he checked every corner and looked back several times to see whether he was being followed. We crossed to the east side of the street, strolled easily, and kept to shadows and gazed in windows, doing everything but holding hands to show that we couldn't possibly be following him.

As we crossed Randolph Street, he disappeared to our west on the farther side of the Daley Center. He had turned the wrong direction for the Art Institute. We poked along until we could see through the glass in the Daley Center to the plaza with the enormous Picasso statue of whatever-it-was-supposed-to-be . I spotted Stawalski among the tourists gaping up at the construction.

We continued on past the plaza while Brad lingered to gawk. The autumn sky was gray, but the day had warmed up and the wind was calm. We walked with our jackets open.

I guided us west on Washington Street until we were halfway through the next block, with City Hall bulking large on our right. We crossed the street and ambled back. All the while I kept my eye out for anyone too interested in Brad. So far nothing. We hung around the MirÃ³ sculpture and watched Brad stare at pigeons for a few minutes until he moved south on Dearborn once more. We watched everybody who fell in behind him for the next few minutes, even the people on cross streets, and as well as we could those in cabs and cars. We saw nothing suspicious.

We moved back to Dearborn. We strode past the First National Bank building, the Chagall Wall, crossed Monroe Street, past the Xerox Centre, to Adams Street, where Brad turned east toward the Art Institute. We crossed to the south side of Adams and followed. The mid-morning Monday crowds were thick enough so that we easily blended in. Brad now rarely checked to see if he was being followed.

We crossed State Street and then Wabash Avenue. As we neared Michigan, Brad slowed perceptibly, then ducked into the Burger King on the corner of Adams and Michigan.

I pulled Scott into the alley between Wabash and Michigan Avenue. “Let's meet him in the Burger King,” I said. “We haven't seen anybody the least bit suspicious, except maybe ourselves and him. He'll recognize you, so he won't be inclined to run. This is good enough.”

Inside Brad sat at a corner table with a soft drink in front of him. Most of the time he watched the steps of the Art Institute across Michigan Avenue. He didn't notice us until our shadows fell across his line of vision.

He leaped to his feet. He stared at me, then caught sight of Scott and gave him a weak smile.

Scott introduced us. We all shook hands and sat down.

“What is going on?” Brad asked. “I've been trying to get hold of Glen. When I call his dad's place, they won't give me any information. I called the number he gave me to get hold of him. That must have been you guys?”

Scott nodded.

“What is going on?” Brad repeated.

“Glen is dead,” Scott said.

“He can't be,” Brad said. “It's not possible. He finally had everything together. He'd made his last deal. He was going to stop living on the edge.”

Scott told him what we'd found.

Brad shook his head. “It can't be. Why didn't they tell me when I called the house?”

Scott explained what we knew about the situation in the Proctor home.

“This is crazy,” Brad said. “You say you saw him?”

“I saw the bullet holes,” I said. “I touched the body.”

Scott nodded confirmation.

Brad pointed at me. “Who are you? Scott introduced you, but you're not a baseball player, although you've got the build for it.”

“Scott and I are lovers.”

Brad stared at Scott. “I heard the rumors you were gay. I want you to know I never believed them. I never spread them.”

“What's important now,” Scott said, “is figuring out who killed Glen, who is after us, and from the way you've been acting, who is after you.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Something screwy is going on. Just after I crossed the border back into the United States, a bunch of guys with guns seized the bus from Mexico. I could have been on it but I'd decided to drive over and see a former girlfriend of mine in Houston then fly up from there. From what you told me about Glen, I'm glad I wasn't on that bus.”

“Were you and Glen traveling together in Mexico?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Brad said.

“But you didn't come back together?” Scott asked.

“Glen thought we shouldn't,” Brad said.

“You said he made his last deal and that he was going to stop living on the edge. What deal?” I asked.

Brad gave a shrug of his massive shoulders, scratched his slicked-back hair, and glanced fearfully out the window.

“I don't know if I can tell,” Brad said.