An Image of Death
Authors: Libby Fischer Hellmann
Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction, #Women Sleuths, #Historical, #General, #Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths
An Image of Death
An Image of Death
Libby Fischer Hellmann
P
OISONED
P
EN
P
RESS
Copyright © 2003 by Libby Fischer Hellmann
First Edition 2003
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2003114176
ISBN: 1-59058-101-6
ISBN: 9781615950935 ePub
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Poisoned Pen Press
6962 E. First Ave., Ste. 103
Scottsdale, AZ 85251
And there is not greater disaster than greed.
Lao-tzu (604 BC-531 BC),
The Way of Lao-tzu
For Susan, my friend
Many people gave up their time and expertise to make sure I got it right this time. I’m grateful to Lisa and Sarkis Markarian; Dave Heppner, Chicago Police Department; Mike Nystrand, Northfield Fire Chief; Deputy Chief Mike Green, Northbrook Police; Bill Lustig, Northfield’s Chief of Police; Chris Bell, Northfield Police officer; Paul Mosele; Don Whiteman (how is it you show up in every book?); Trudi Ellis; Ann Hill; Beth Chensoff; and Janusz Olechny. Any errors are entirely the fault of the author. Also, special thanks to Cindy Kuo, webmystress from heaven, and Laurie Clayton.
I’m grateful, also, to Deborah Donnelly and Roberta Isleib, “Sex” and “Lies.” I could not have finished this book without your wisdom, inspiration, and humor. I’ll try to follow the advice on the road sign.
To Jacky Sach, agent extraordinaire, and to editors Samantha Mandor, Barbara Peters, and especially Nora Cavin, heartfelt thanks for helping shape the manuscript—and my career.
And…as always, I appreciate the insight and suggestions of the Red Herrings, the best writing group east of the Mississippi. You keep me honest.
C
ONTENTS
The pain rolled over her in waves, especially when air whistled through her mouth. She’d never lost a tooth before; her mouth felt curiously empty. Where had it fallen out? Had they found it? Could they use it to track her? She wouldn’t have thought so, but pain was fogging her mind. She shook her head as if to banish the thought, but the movement touched off more throbbing. She tried to breathe through her nose.
She brushed her fingers along her jaw. The last time she’d looked in a mirror, she hadn’t recognized herself. She was glad she didn’t have one now. With luck the makeup covered most of the damage.
She walked up to the front door. A house. Not an office or clinic, but a house. Two stories. Brick. Surrounded by others just like it, up and down the street. All of them identical except for the color of the paint and which side the garage sat on.
She took off her dark glasses and rang the bell. They’d told her to be there at fourteen hundred, but it was well past that now. A curtain of dusk was descending, and the air was heavy with the metallic smell that precedes snow. She shivered, unfamiliar clothes scratching her skin. Her coat was too flimsy for this bitter cold, but it was all she’d been able to get. She rang the bell again.
She shoved her hands into her pockets and fingered her money. Cash only, they’d said. Dollars. Where were they? Maybe she should look. But as she started around to the back, a sudden movement startled her. Fear knifed through her.
It was just a bare branch swaying in the wind. She let out a slow breath and watched the branch rise and fall, eerily silent in the fading light. Where was the sound? Back home the wind made noise. Whether a whispering breeze or the shriek of a gale, it didn’t sneak up on you. This quiet was unnerving.
She cornered the house. A chain-link fence marked the edge of the property. Beyond it was a field with spindly clumps of grass poking through gritty snow. A tire lay on its side. The field was so flat, civilization seemed to stop at the fence line. This part of the world was like that, she recalled. Something to do with a glacier. Perhaps she would fall off the edge of the world.
She found a second door on the side of the house. She pressed her face against the glass, but a window shade blocked her view. She shifted her feet. In the thin, flat shoes she was wearing, her toes were already numb. She looked around. No movement. No sound. Nothing to indicate a human presence. She grabbed the doorknob and turned. The door opened easily, and a gust of warm air blew over her. She slipped inside, squeezing her eyes shut in pleasure. She might never have felt anything this good.
It was a plain but clean room. Wood paneling on three walls, a white linoleum floor flecked with brown. Two chairs sat beside a low table. She took off her glasses and sank into a chair, kneading her fingers. She glanced down at her wrist to check the time, momentarily forgetting she’d lost her watch. Without the thick leather band, her tattoo was plainly visible.
Looking up she saw that the fourth wall, the one that wasn’t paneled, was marred by a thick crack that snaked from floor to ceiling. It reminded her of the winding creek near her grandparents’ home. The one window in the room was covered with the same flimsy material as the door, but a thin strip of light seeped around its edges. Enough to make out a light switch on the opposite wall. She went to it and flipped it on. Shading her eyes against the glare, she saw a door cut into the wall with the crack—she hadn’t seen it before. She tried the knob; it was locked.
On the ceiling, rows of square, spongy tiles looked soft enough to punch her fist through. She tracked the squares to a corner where the ceiling and the wall met. A small black box was anchored to the wall. A camera? Here? She had heard the stories about Chicago. Al Capone. Gangs. Crime-ridden streets. Maybe there was some truth to them.
Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten a decent meal in two days. But even if she’d had the time, how could she chew with this pain? A muffled sound escaped her throat. Where were they? They had to be expecting her. Why else leave the door unlocked?
“
Halloa,
” she called out.
No response. If no one came soon, she would have to leave. But where would she go? The two days she’d been on the run felt like two years. She didn’t have much time; she knew they were looking for her. The woman in the airport bathroom said a man had been asking about her outside the door. He claimed to be her brother, the woman said. But Arin didn’t have a brother. She told the woman it was her husband, that she was running away from his abuse. The woman clucked sympathetically and let Arin buy her scarf to use as a disguise. Arin snuck down to the gate, her head covered, praying she wasn’t seen.
Now, she threw her coat on a chair and sat in her cotton t-shirt and jeans. She should be home with Tomas. Cooking his supper. Helping him with his studies. She should never have left home. But it hadn’t been her idea to take a vacation. And she’d never been to that part of the world. A few days in the hot sun seemed like a gift. How could she have known
he
would be there? That he was behind it, all of it? She held her head in her hands. She should have figured it out. But she hadn’t. Years of uneventful transactions had dulled her instincts.
