Doubleback: A Novel
Read Doubleback: A Novel Online
Authors: Libby Fischer Hellmann
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Thrillers, #General, #General Fiction
Books by Libby Fischer Hellmann
T
HE
G
EORGIA
D
AVIS
S
ERIES
Doubleback
(2009)
Easy Innocence
(2008)
Chicago Blues
(2007, Editor)
T
HE
E
LLIE
F
OREMAN
S
ERIES
A Shot to Die For
(2005)
An Image of Death
(2004)
A Picture of Guilt
(2003)
An Eye for Murder
(2002)
A NOVEL BY
For Michael, with love
“Go West, Young Man”
Published by
BLEAK HOUSE BOOKS
a division of Big Earth Publishing
1637 Pearl Street, Suite 201
Boulder, CO 80302
www.bleakhousebooks.com
Copyright © 2009 by Libby Fischer Hellmann
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America
12 11 10 09 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
Library of Congress data on file
978-1-60648-052-6 (hardcover)
978-1-60648-053-3 (paperback)
978-1-60648-054-0 (evidence collection)
Acknowledgments
I am grateful to everyone who shared their time and expertise for
Doubleback
. If any of the information is inaccurate, it’s my responsibility—not theirs. For the bank information, thanks to Blair Robinson, Ed Bettenhausen, Liz Taylor, Jeff Cohen, and especially Erich Laumer, who took frantic calls from me with grace and patience. Thanks also to Joel Ostrander, Mike Green, Sean Chercover, Cindy Clohesey, and especially Cara Black, with whom I shared long car rides brainstorming plot. Don White-man continues to be a muse of long standing, as is Judy Bobalik. And thanks to Chris Acevedo for her translation services. Brian Gilomen deserves a shout-out for help with the winery.
A very special thanks to Maryelizabeth Hart and author Jeff Mariotte for sharing their love of Douglas, Arizona, and supplying me with information, newspapers, and other local lore.
And special thanks to Michael Dymmoch who read
Double-back
in manuscript form and provided a very necessary edit. Thanks also go to Ann Voss Peterson, who let me borrow her name. And to Ann Rittenberg, Ben LeRoy, and Alison Janssen, who really is the best editor in the universe.
Finally, these books were indispensable in my research:
Licensed to Kill
by Robert Young Pelton, Crown, 2006
Blackwater
by Jeremy Scahill, Nation Books, 2007
chapter
1
P
anic has a way of defining an individual. It scrapes the soul bare, strips away pretense, reveals the core of the human spirit. It’s hard to dissemble when fear crawls up your throat, your heart stampedes like a herd of wild animals, and your skin burns with the prickly-heat of terror. For the six people thrown together in a Loop office building elevator on a hot June day, the moments they shared would reveal parts of themselves they had not known existed.
It was early afternoon in Chicago, the kind of day that made people want to ditch the chill of air conditioning and head to Wrigley Field. The first man who stepped into the elevator on the sixty-fifth floor might have been doing just that. He was a florid-faced, doughy man with gray at his temples. His jacket was hitched over his shoulder, and his shirt gapped between buttons, calling attention to his belly. He moved to the left side of the car and kept his gaze on the floor, as if by doing so, he—and his early departure—might escape notice.
The elevator descended to the sixty-second floor, where two women who didn’t know each other got on. One was slender and small, with mousey brown hair pulled back at her neck. She wore a heavy sweater over a flowered dress. She went to the back of the car and leaned against the metal railing, trying to look inconspicuous. The other woman, in a gray pinstriped pantsuit over a sleeveless black tank, wore her hair in a chin-length bob. She positioned herself on the right side of the car and kept her eyes on the car’s indicator panel. The faint aroma of coconut shampoo drifted over her.
On fifty-seven a young man got on. Wearing shorts and a ratty t-shirt, he clutched a large manila envelope in one hand and a bicycle helmet in the other. The envelope bore the logo of a prominent Chicago messenger service. He kept shifting his feet, and his mud-caked sneakers left tiny pellets of dirt on the tiled floor.
Three floors below a middle-aged man in khaki chinos entered. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and he wore his hair in a sparse comb-over. Another man entered the car on the fifty-first floor. Dressed in a suit, tie, and crisp white shirt, he wore wrap-around Oakley sunglasses. He kept one hand in his pocket, but through the shades appraised everyone in the car.
As the elevator descended past the fiftieth floor, it gathered speed. It was one of three express cars from the upper floors; the next stop was the lobby. Both women stared at the overhead panel lights. The messenger squeezed his eyes shut. Comb-over Man hugged the back wall. Florid Face shot the man with the Oakleys a sidelong glance, but whether from envy or trepidation, it was hard to tell.
No one expected the elevator to lurch to a sudden stop.
When it did, the force threw everyone to the floor. The lights blinked out, plunging the car into darkness. One of the women screamed. So did a man. The messenger shouted, “What the fuck?” Florid Face moaned. So did Comb-over Man. The man in the Oakleys kept his mouth shut.
“Please, please, don’t let me die,” one of the women cried out. It wasn’t clear who she was addressing: someone in the elevator? Jesus? God?
“I think my leg is broken!” Comb-over Man screamed. “Help me!”
The messenger tried to get up. The weight in the car shifted. The elevator rocked.
“Stop! No one move a fucking muscle!” Fear thickened the voice of the woman in the pantsuit. “We’ll all be killed.”
“Doesn’t fucking matter,” the messenger said. “We’re already dead.”
“My leg! I can’t move!”
“Oh my god... oh my god...” The mousey-haired woman started to hyperventilate. Waves of tension radiated through the air.
“Anyone have a light? A match? Flashlight?” It was Florid Face. He shifted. Again the car rocked.
“I said don’t fucking move!” Pantsuit yelled. Her breath came in short little gasps. “Someone push the alarm button!”
“I tried! It’s not working!”
Florid Face found his voice. “Oh fuck, oh fuck...” He started babbling. “Holy Mary, Mother of God!”
The car swayed enough that anyone who tried to get up might have lost their balance.
“Father, forgive me for I have sinned...” The mousey woman prayed in a thin, quavering voice. The smell of fear permeated the car.
“We should try to stay calm,” a male voice broke in. “If we were going to die, it would have already happened.”
Pantsuit wasn’t mollified. “I don’t believe it. Where is everyone? Where are the lights?”
“Shit, shit, shit...” Comb-over Man chanted.
Someone made a rustling sound. The elevator rocked again. Bounced a little.
“Who’s doing that?” Pantsuit shouted. “Stop, goddammit it! Don’t you understand English?”
The messenger said, “I’m trying to climb up on the railing so we can get out, you know, through the roof...”
“Yes, and when the fucking elevator rolls over, we’ll be smashed to bits. Stop it asshole!”
“Jesus! Someone help me!” Florid Face raked his hands across the floor tiles as if he was trying to collect something precious from them.
“Look, someone has to know we’re in here...” the messenger said. “Try the alarm again. Somebody!”
Pantsuit started to reply. “I had my finger on it for over a—oh fuck! What now?”
There was a lurch and a rumble. The elevator groaned. The lights flashed on. Off. Then on again. They stayed on.
“Oh god! This is it!” The mousey-haired woman gripped the steel railing so hard her knuckles turned white. The man in the Oakleys clutched it too. Mousey-hair looked over, noticed the index finger on Oakley’s left hand—or most of it—was missing. She quickly looked away.
The elevator started to descend—slowly, under control—as though nothing unusual had just happened. But Comb-over Man was still moaning, and Pantsuit’s cheeks were stained with tears. The messenger, looking wild-eyed, searched for his manila envelope, picked it up, and clutched it to his chest. Florid Face turned ashen. Rising to his knees, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped sweat from his face. His hands shook. Oakley picked himself off the floor and stood in the back, looking blank.
After what seemed like eternity, the elevator reached the lobby. The doors whooshed open. Three security guards were waiting with anxious expressions. A crowd of people gathered behind them.
“Are you all right? Is anyone hurt?”
The messenger yanked a thumb towards Comb-over Man, who was still on the floor. Two of the guards hurried in to examine him.
“What the hell happened?” Pantsuit demanded as she stepped out. She was followed by Mousey-hair, Florid Face, and the man in the Oakleys.
One of the guards shook his head. “We’re not sure. The power dipped in parts of the building. This entire bank of elevators went out. Probably a brown out. It’s really hot out there.” He looked at the others. “But we’ll find out. If I could just get your names—”
The messenger cut him off. “Not me. Man, I’m never coming in this fucking building again.” He ran toward the revolving doors, pushed through, and disappeared from sight.
The guard turned to Florid Face. “Sir, could I have your name?”
The man shook his head. “Just let me out. Right now.”
“You sure you’re ok?”
Florid Face didn’t answer, just turned on his heel and walked away.
“It’s a miracle no one else was seriously hurt,” the guard said to no one in particular.
Mousey-hair gave the guard her name. Pantsuit did, too, adding she had some serious bruises. Comb-over Man was in the process of being carried out by the guards, who assured him paramedics were on their way. “Just hold on, sir.”
“I don’t have much choice, do I?” Now that the danger was past, anger was replacing fear. “Watch it, goddammit. That fucking hurts!”
In the commotion no one noticed the man in the Oakleys. Turning away from the security guards, he eased his way through the crowd toward the revolving door. As he pushed through, he slipped his hand out of his pocket and looked at his watch.
