An Eye for Murder (27 page)

“That’s unacceptable,” the man replied. “We have business to discuss.”

“Not here. Not now.”

“You’re in no position to dictate terms.”

Her shoulders heaved. She started toward the door. “You’ve got one minute. In here.”

My breath caught in my throat. She would see me in less than two seconds. Though I had no idea who she was talking to, I instinctively knew that would be a mistake. Reflex kicked in, and I raced to the far end of the room. Hoping that my gym shoes muffled the sound of my feet, I threw myself behind the bar just as the door swung open.

“Why are you here?” Marian’s voice was harsh. “No one must ever see us together.”

“I came to inform you of recent events,” the man replied.

“I don’t want to know.” Marian’s voice was louder, more distinct.

Propped on my hands and knees, my muscles tightened. Please God, don’t let them walk to this end of the room. Footsteps clacked on the parquet floor. Toward me.

Another set of footsteps followed with a heavier, slower tread.

“You must. Labor Day will be here sooner than you think.” His voice grew closer. Too close. “We’ve moved the operation, and we need to ramp up quickly.”

A beat of silence. “Why?”

“Minneapolis was sloppy. They made mistakes. We won’t.” Heels sounded on the floor again. The faint trace of Chanel No. 5 drifted over me. Marian was just on the other side of the bar. All she had to do was lean over, and she’d see me.

“This is none of my concern. I’ve said that before, and I’m telling you—” Her voice was so clear she might as well be whispering in my ear. I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Our supplies are already in place. We’ve infiltrated a construction site in the Loop. Right across the street. We’re stowing equipment there.”

Silence. Then, “Why are you telling me this?” But her voice wasn’t quite as distinct. Had she turned around?

“You will be protected. You will receive instructions.”

“You came all the way down here to tell me that?”

“There’s another matter. The girl. She must be dealt with.”

“No.” Her voice was determined. And less muffled. She had turned back in my direction. I held my breath.

“We’ve respected your wishes up until now.”

“She is my employee.”

“She’s getting too close. It’s become dangerous.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“It was always unfinished business. Old business. We need to take corrective action.”

“I can’t allow it. I—I’m fond of her.”

“Your humanity becomes you. But, as I said, you’re not in a position to dictate terms.” More silence. “There will be a time—quite soon—we will want you to disappear. Up to Door County. The country house. You will stay for a long weekend.”

“It’s the middle of the campaign. I can’t do that.”

“You’ve been working hard. You need a break. Before the home stretch between Labor Day and November. People will understand.”

Another silence. Then, “Keep me out of it.” I heard the click of her heels against the wood floor. Retreating.

The man’s voice dropped. “We will. You just keep collecting those votes.”

“Wait here five minutes after I go.” Her voice was like ice. “And for God’s sake, don’t let anyone see you.” The door squeaked and then thumped shut.

I let out my breath but didn’t move. What if the man decided to explore the room while he waited? What if he got thirsty and needed a drink? I stared at the sink behind the bar. A small mirror above it, which I hadn’t noticed before, angled out to the room. A chair scraped against the floor, and I heard a soft thud as a body sank into it. I craned my neck. If I could raise my field of vision a few inches, I might be able to see who it was.

I heard the buzz of the crowd, a few loud laughs, the band’s dogged rendition of “Dueling Banjos.” Quietly hunching into a crouch, I lifted up and caught a glimpse of the man’s profile in the mirror: slicked-back blond hair and a sparse mustache.

It couldn’t be. But it was. I ducked back down, my pulse thundering in my ears.

Then I heard footsteps. Receding. The door opened and closed. I counted out fifty more seconds and slowly stood up. I was alone. I drew in a breath and shuffled awkwardly to the door. Trying to be as quiet as possible, I slipped into the corridor.

Where I stumbled into Stephen Lamont.

“Jesus Christ.” I backed off as if I’d singed my fingers on a flame. “You just scared the shit out of me. What are you doing here?”

His eyes narrowed. “Maybe I should ask you the same thing.”

He pointed to the room. “You were in there, weren’t you?”

I glanced at the door, then glared at Lamont. What did he know? “So?”

“Marian came out of this room a few minutes ago.”

I wrapped my arms around myself to try to stop the shaking. Put on a front. Don’t show fear.

“I was in the lobby buying gum. She walked past me. Coming from this direction.”

Looking around, I motioned to the ladies’ room sign. “Couldn’t follow her in, huh?”

“Nice try.” He eyed me suspiciously. “Why were you meeting with her?”

“It wasn’t me.” Damn. It slipped out. “Then who was it?”

He didn’t know. “You know something, Lamont? I have a feeling if she wanted you to know, she’d tell you herself.” I started to edge around him, but he stepped in front of me, blocking my path.

“I can keep digging, and eventually I’ll find out who she met with, but it would be a lot easier if you told me.” He put a patronizing hand on my shoulder. “It’ll save me a lot of time and effort and you the frustration of wondering what I know. You’re gonna run back to Wolinksy and tell him I’m on to something, anyway. You’re part of the inner circle.”

I shook off his arm, annoyed but at the same time surprised he thought I had that kind of clout. Then I remembered he was a reporter. “If you’re fishing, try a different lake. I’m just a hired hand.”

“Bingo.” He pointed a finger at my chest. “You see things.”

I pointed a finger back at him. “Do you always think something subversive is going on or is it just a job requirement?” He held up his hand and ticked off his fingers. “Marian had a meeting that wasn’t on the schedule. No press. No media. No Wolinsky. But you were there.” He hesitated. “And I hear things.”

“What things?”

He shook his head.

“Come on, Lamont. You’re too shrewd to let that drop without a reason.”

“So tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me who’s sending me anonymous E-mails.” I stared at him.

“No names. No IDs. No return paths. Just one-line notes.”

“Which say?”

“That I should take a closer look at the Iverson campaign.” I felt an uneasy twinge. “Someone’s sending you mail?”

“They are.”

“It’s probably the other side. A dirty trick or something.”

“You think so?”

“You can’t think it’s me.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Lamont, even if I did know something, how can you think I’d spill my guts to you?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “You know something? You’re probably right. I’ll ask Marian who you and she were meeting with. She’s been pretty open with me, and even if she isn’t, her reaction will be interesting.”

He had to be bluffing. He couldn’t do that. She’d know I was eavesdropping.

He watched me carefully. “Then again, there could be something else you can help me with.” He smiled innocently. “That woman, the Hispanic one? I don’t see her around.”

“You mean Dory Sanchez?”

“That’s the one. What happened to her?”

I bit the inside of my mouth. He must have figured out I wasn’t supposed to be in that meeting. Maybe he saw me wander into the room by mistake and used that knowledge, playing me, manipulating me right where he wanted. Either I told him what he wanted to know, or he’d tell Marian I was spying on her. He had me, and we both knew it.

“She’s been let go,” I said in a low voice.

“When?”

“A few days ago.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But if it gets out—”

“Not to worry.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m one of the good guys, Ellie Foreman. The question is are you?”

While Mac loaded the gear on the return flight, Lamont grabbed the seat next to me. Glowering, I thought about switching seats, but Ms. Perky had deposited herself next to Mac’s sound man, and the only seat left was next to Roger. I burrowed into my seat.

But Lamont didn’t pump me on the return trip. Surprisingly pleasant and talkative, he regaled me with backroom stories about the mayor and a city council member considered to be his nemesis. Though I knew it was just another tactic— if bullying doesn’t work, try charm—it still rattled me when Marian turned around and saw us with our heads together. I didn’t like what I saw on her face.

The only saving grace was that I didn’t think about my fear of flying on the way back. How could I be concerned about that when the man she’d been meeting with was Jeremiah Gibbs?

Chapter Thirty-nine

My message machine was blinking when I walked in the door. Pam called to say she’d received a letter from the Chicago Corp lawyers. Despite the summons, we might be able to work something out. I should call her right away. There was also a message from Mac. I’d sent him an E-mail with the editing schedule, but all he got was a garbled page with my name on the return path. Would I please send it again? I made a note to call my ISP; this was the second or third time my E-mail had been acting up. Then a thin, reedy voice came on the machine.

“Ellie. This is Marv. Your father’s friend? Look, sweetie, I don’t want you to worry, but…” I stiffened.

“Jake, I mean, your Dad is okay. They’re just keeping him for observation, and…”

I didn’t listen to the rest. When Dad’s phone didn’t answer, I called the home. Twenty minutes later, I walked into Evanston Hospital.

I hadn’t been here in several years, and the remodeled lobby, with its modern sculpture, recessed lighting, and block benches, resembled a museum more than a hospital. They needn’t have bothered. Death sucks, no matter how prettily you dress it up. My mother died here. From pancreatic cancer.

The woman at the information desk said my father was on the fifth floor. The blue and yellow arrows that used to line the floors had been replaced with neutral carpeting and new linoleum, but the walls still reverberated with deep silence. I’d spent a month here, helplessly watching the life seep out of my mother. I’d vowed never to come back.

The fifth floor nurse’s station was depressingly familiar, as if it had been transplanted from the oncology ward. Cheerful paneling covered the desk, and there was abstract art on the walls, but the files held the same charts, the patient board listed the same names. Even the diet Coke can on the counter was the same. A nurse with precise, exotic Asian features frowned at her monitor as she typed.

“Excuse me. I’m looking for Jake Foreman.”

The woman looked up. “Down the hall. 5110.” She threw me a smile. Everyone here was so polite and solicitous. So goddamned caring.

Dad was sitting up in bed watching TV, one side of his face swathed in bandages. His skin looked pasty and fragile, but he was sipping through a straw on the other side of his mouth. I wanted to cry and throw my arms around him. Instead I said, “I go away for a few hours, I don’t even leave the state, and look what happens.”

His eyes brightened, and he tried to smile. I saw him wince.

I ran across the room, knelt down, and buried my head in the crook of his arm. Tears stung my eyes. “Oh Daddy, are you all right? I was so scared.”

He brushed his hand over my head. “I’m all right, sweetheart. I’m all right.”

“What happened?” I said between sniffs. “Someone tried to mug me in an alley last night.”

“Oh, my God.”

“We were going to see a movie. The new Danny DeVito one. It got great reviews. The other guys went last weekend and told us we hadda see it. So Marv and I went to see the late show. He drove—he still has a license—and he let me off at the end of the block while he looked for a parking spot.” He zapped the remote. “So there I was, minding my own business, about fifty feet from an alley, when these two goons grabbed me and forced me into it.”

“What did they do?”

“What do you think they did? They tried to beat me up.” I delicately touched the side of his head. “Looks like they made some headway.”

“Ha.” He leaned over and opened the drawer of the bedside table. “They didn’t count on this.” He pulled out a can of mace.

My mouth opened. “How long have you had that?”

“Honey,” he croaked, “I’ve had this for years. Never leave home without it.”

“Did you try to fight them off?”

“I did fight them off.” His spine straightened. “Don’t ask me how, ’cause I still can’t really tell you, but somehow, as I was going down, I managed to pull that sucker out of my pocket, and I started spraying.” He chuckled through his grimace. “The guy in front of me dropped like a rock, and the other guy—well, I guess he got scared—because he dropped his hold.”

“What did you do?”

“What any sane person would do. I got up, stumbled out of the alley, and screamed like hell. Of course, by the time the cops came, they were long gone.”

He looked inordinately pleased with himself. I wound my arms around his waist.

“Dad, do you know how close you came to—I mean, my God, you could have been killed.”

“It takes more than two punks to stop Jake Foreman.” His bravado notwithstanding, I started to tear up again. “Sweetheart,” he crooned. “Stop crying. I’m going to be fine. It’s just a bump on my
keppe
.” I shook my head.

“What is it?”

“There were two guys, right? Did one of them have a fishing hat?”

He angled his head. “Maybe. Some kind of hat.”

“The other—did he have a ponytail?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

I bit my lip. “You were attacked because of me. It’s my fault.”

“You? Now I know—” He stopped. “How do you figure that?”

“There are a few things I need to tell you.”

I plumped his pillows, smoothed out his sheet, and let it all spill out. The break-in. The theft of Skull’s things. Boo Boo. The tan Cutlass. I told him about showing Marian the Movietone newsreel, her mounting uneasiness with me, her strange reaction to David, her meeting with Jeremiah Gibbs.