Life Without Parole: A Kate Conway Mystery (31 page)

“How does Doug fit into all of this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, Walt,” I said. “You were having secret meetings with him at Terry’s restaurant. What were they about?”

“He was concerned about the money. He said there wasn’t enough money in the accounts to complete the restaurant, and there should have been because there were ten silent partners.”

“People other than Doug and Vera and the others I’ve met.”

“Yeah. He wanted to know if I knew anything about them. I told him I didn’t.”

“Why did he come to you?”

“Doug’s a careful guy. He only had access to the investor side of things, but he got ahold of the books and it didn’t look good. He thought Erik was probably blowing the money. Only Erik, Roman, and Ilena had access to the accounts. I didn’t have access, so Doug said I was above suspicion.”

“But instead of helping Doug, you told Ilena and Roman about his investigation. And got three additional points of the restaurant because of it.”

“I
just want to cook. I don’t want to get in the middle of the business stuff. So I told them. But I saw the way Roman was cornering Doug about money. He’s got a reputation. You know, for…getting his way. It really freaked me out. So I told Doug to lay low. Gave him the keys to my friend’s place.”

“That was nice.”

I was being sarcastic, but Walt didn’t pick up on it. He moved toward me a little, reached his hand out and stroked my arm. “I’m just trying to be loyal to people who’ve been loyal to me. I’m a loyal guy.”

I felt his fingers tickling my shoulder and moving slowly toward my neck. I was talking about murder, and he was hitting on me.

I
managed to get the address of the apartment where Doug was staying from Walt, and then I left. Walt, like all masters of delusion, had convinced himself he was a good guy caught in an impossible situation. His desires somehow allowed for any lapse in ethics, since he was only doing his job. Just because I’d said the same thing to myself dozens of times didn’t let Walt off the hook.

The address he’d given me was only blocks away from Terry’s Diner and, lucky for me, on my way home. It was above a sports bar, and as I walked up the steps to the third floor, the ground was vibrating with the screams of Blackhawks fans below.

There were two apartments on the third floor. Walt hadn’t given me an apartment number, just the third floor, so I knocked on the door closest to the stairs. The man who answered wasn’t Doug; he was the reincarnation of Kurt Cobain. A stoned-looking twentysomething in a ripped flannel shirt peeked out from a barely open door, not even bothering to hide the bong in his hand.

“Hey. What’s up?” He looked me up and down, and clearly decided I was a little old for him. He coughed and widened his eyes. “What can I help you with, ma’am?”

“I’m looking for a man named Doug Zieman. Balding, a little overweight, maybe fifty.”

“You lookin’ for the dude across the hall?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, you missed the action. There was all kinds of shit goin’ on in that apartment.”

“What do you mean by ‘shit’?”

“Shit.”

Helpful. I walked across the hall to the other apartment and knocked.

“I don’t think there’s anyone there,” the Kurt look-alike said.

I tried the doorknob. “It’s locked,” I said. “I guess I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“The locks here are really bad. You just have to push against it.”

“I’m not going to break into this guy’s apartment.”

The guy walked out of his apartment toward me. The bong wasn’t the only thing he wasn’t hiding.

“You’re not wearing any pants,” I said.

“Yeah, sorry. Didn’t think you’d notice.”

“Very little escapes my notice.”

“It’s not little.”

“You want to have a discussion with a total stranger about the size—”

My half-naked friend had put his shoulder against the doorjamb, and with one good push he opened the door. Then he turned toward me, smiling, giving me a full display of his talents. But I wasn’t looking at him. I was looking at the mess inside the apartment. The guy turned to see what had caught my attention.

“Damn,” he said.

“What time was the shit that happened?”

“A few minutes ago. Like right before you got here,” he said. “Sorry, lady, but you’re on your own.” In seconds he was back in his apartment. I could hear the dead bolt lock.

I took a step inside Doug’s place, but I didn’t bother calling out his name. It was pretty clear that if he was inside, he wasn’t in a position to talk. The apartment, sparsely furnished and badly decorated to begin with, was in disarray. Clothes, dishes, papers, and everything else that wasn’t nailed down was on the floor. I’ve never seen anything ransacked, but my guess was this was the dictionary definition of it.

I stepped back into the hallway. The sensible thing was to run, take a long hot shower to get the smell of pot out of my hair, and pray that the worst thing I would see tonight was a stranger’s junk.

But.

I stood in the hall, trying to change my own mind. Trying to will myself to leave. But I couldn’t. Either Doug was in the apartment hurt or possibly dead, or someone had grabbed him. Either way I couldn’t just pretend I didn’t know, much as I wanted to. Especially if there was a chance to help him. The jerk.

“Damn it.”

I called Detective Makina.

“So tell me again how you came by this place?” Makina asked me after a search of the apartment had turned up nothing.

“I’ve told you three times.” My eyes hurt from the fluorescent lights in the hallway and the drifts of smoke wafting under the door of the naked guy’s place. “You know the guy across the hall is smoking weed? You should arrest him and I’ll go home and get some sleep.”

“I’m homicide. I don’t care what drugs that guy is doing as long as he’s breathing in the morning.”

“Good to know.”

“Mrs. Conway, you seem to be in the middle of this case, and I want to understand why.”

“Am I a suspect?”

He sighed. “You’re a busybody.”

At least being a suspect has some glamour to it. He’d made me out to be Gladys Kravitz. “I’m not just snooping, Detective. I’m doing my job. I’m a journalist working on a show about the opening of a restaurant. The homicide and Doug’s disappearance are part of that show.”

I’m not a journalist. I have no First Amendment protection, nor do I really care about the truth, so it wasn’t a statement that would hold up in court. But to call me a busybody? That was just rude.

“Who else knew that Doug was here?” Makina asked.

“Walt. I told you.”

“Aside from Walt.”

“No one.”

“Not even Ms. Bingham.”

“No.”

“Did she have any idea that Walt knew where Doug Zieman was?”

It would be my third lie regarding Vera’s involvement in this mess. But at that point I didn’t care. “What’s your hang-up about her, anyway?” I asked.

“She’s the only one of the suspects who’s lied to me.”

“Really? Everybody’s lied to me. Roman, Ilena, Walt, even you.”

“
What have I lied about?”

“Knowing Erik’s whereabouts the day he fought with Vera.”

It had nagged at me. Erik’s former boss had called Erik a loner, someone whose only friends were work friends. No wife, no girlfriend. He probably didn’t even have a cat. Yet Makina had said Erik went home after the diner. Who would have known that?

It was just a guess, but Makina blinked. For a full ten seconds he stared at his notebook.

“Withholding information material to a homicide is illegal, Mrs. Conway,” he said, his voice just a little less cocky. “I’m sure as a journalist, you understand that.”

“I called you, didn’t I?”

“Only after you went looking for Mr. Zieman alone. Why did you do that? Were you hoping to get some information from him? Does he know something about Ms. Bingham’s involvement in the murder of Erik Price?”

“Aren’t you the least bit suspicious of Doug?” I asked.

“This isn’t a two-way street, Mrs. Conway. What I think about Mr. Zieman is my business. So let me ask you again, what information were you hoping to get from him?”

The adrenaline from finding Doug’s hideout was ebbing. I was suddenly very tired, and Makina’s voice was giving me a headache. “No more questions tonight.” I said it forcefully, and was surprised at how little Makina’s latest theories scared me.

“When?”

“I’ll see you Friday,” I said. “I’ll conduct my interview and you can conduct yours. Seem fair?”

Before he had a chance to answer I started down the stairs and out the door, into a fresh onslaught of snow.

T
he next morning, earlier than I needed to, I got into my car. Not only didn’t the heat work; the car wouldn’t start. I called Andres and asked him to swing by and pick me up.

While I waited, I called a tow truck and played my messages from the night before. I was hoping one of them was Makina letting me know that someone—someone other than Vera—was under arrest for Erik’s murder. But no luck. All the messages were from Ellen, and each one was more alarmed than the last. I’d missed my nephew’s game and he was, apparently, devastated. My nephew said hello to me only when instructed to do so, but by not being in the crowd to cheer him on, I’d ruined his childhood. At least according to my sister. I’d add it to the list of things I was screwing up, including Erik’s murder investigation, the documentary on life in prison, and my life.

As my car was being towed to the repair shop, Andres and Victor pulled up outside. When I got to the van, they both looked worried.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Victor said. “It’s cool. It’s all going to be fine.”

“Going to be fine?”

“Get in,” Andres instructed. “We’ll tell you on the way.”

Victor got in the back and I jumped into the passenger seat. Both of them seemed uncertain where to start.

“We have a problem,” Andres finally said.

“Vera?”

Andres shook his head and sighed.

“What?” I yelled. “Did something happen to Brick or Tim?”

“You’re worried about them?” Andres asked.

“I’m worried about the shoot.”

He didn’t seem convinced. “No. It’s about genius here, sticking his nose into another mess.”

Victor rolled his eyes. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“
What did you do?” I asked Victor.

“Vera called me last night,” he said. “She told me that you said Doug was alive. So she started calling his number, over and over. Like an obsession.”

“Did she reach him?”

“Yeah. Eventually he picked up. Said he was staying at a friend’s place. Told her to get out of town,” Victor said. “I mean, if a guy just wants to break up with a girl, he says, ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ right? This asshole has a whole covert operation going on.”

“What time did she reach him?” I asked.

“About ten, I think. Why?”

“Never mind,” I said. “How do you fit into this?”

“I’m getting to that. Vera calls me. She said you had gone home and looked like you needed a good night’s sleep so she didn’t want to keep bothering you. She asked me what to do. And I know a lot of computer stuff—”

“So you found Doug.”

“No,” Andres interrupted. “Only it looks like he did. Victor started doing some kind of search on his computer trying to locate the guy by what he told Vera.”

Victor nodded. “Doug made some comment about walking three blocks in the snow to get a hot dog at Byron’s, so that had to be the Wrigleyville area,” Victor said. “And he told Vera to talk louder because the Blackhawks game was on in the bar below his apartment. There are six sports bars within three blocks of Byron’s that have apartments above them.”

“And?”

“That’s as far as I got. I was going to figure out the rest today, after the shoot. Then Makina called Vera, and he took it wrong.”

Andres shook his head. “Kate, this is out of control. Something must have happened to Doug last night.”

“And Makina thinks Vera and Victor did it,” I finished for him.

“The police took my laptop this morning,” Victor said. “I have some of my own tunes on that, so I better get it back.”

“I don’t think that’s your biggest problem,” Andres told him. Then he looked at me. “So what now?”

I thought it over. “
We finish the shoot with Tim and Brick, I guess. There isn’t anything else we can do. We talk to Vera after we’re done, and when I interview Makina I’ll see if we can straighten it out.”