The Shoulders of Giants (27 page)

“Of course.”

“So maybe you’re not so cynical as all that. Dave stays?”

Abby nodded, like she was making the decision there and then. “Dave stays,” she said, and visibly relaxed. Then she kissed me and took a sip of wine.

Dinner was venison, slow cooked in a white wine and mushroom sauce. It was as good as anything we’d had at Spiaggia.

“So, are you working on anything new?” Abby asked, popping a forkful of green beans into her mouth.

“Nope, still the ‘Zorro’ case.”

“Oh. Didn’t the police find the killer? It was on the news.”

“Well, they found someone. I’m not convinced.” I listened to myself, and felt the need to add “I’m not some kind of conspiracy theorist or anything, there’s just some things that I think bear further investigation.”

“Tell me.”

I laid it all out for her. The 10 year old arson, the lies about Grant and Shelley’s break-up, the life insurance policy, the cyanide connection, the Excedrin theory, the possible but not definite I.D. from the Circle bartender and Lee Collins, the bathtub drowning theory and finally the Calumet City storage unit rental. I glossed over the fact I’d been knee deep in garbage that afternoon, and completely missed out my total failure to break and/or enter. By the time I finished we were on to dessert, a homemade blueberry cheesecake that was just the right combination of sweet and sharp.

“It’s interesting. Based on what you have, I don’t think a DA would mount a case, and if they did, a good defense attorney would shoot down the individual elements one by one and would have a very good chance of getting an acquittal.”

“So you think I’m wrong?”

“I didn’t say that,” said Abby, smiling. “Usually, the law isn’t about what happened, it’s about what you can prove happened. Outside of a courtroom, you make a compelling case. So, you think she was working with this Leon Walker?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. If I’m right, she’s very good at manipulating people. Maybe he was just a pawn.”

“And this storage unit. It’s in Cal City?”

“154th Street,” I said.

“Where does Shelley live again?” Abby asked.

“Wicker Park.”

“That’s a good half hour drive. There must be ten self storage places nearer to home.”

“What makes this one special, you mean?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m heading down there tomorrow morning to see if I can figure that out,” I said. Abby lifted the wine bottle to pour me another glass.

“I shouldn’t,” I said. “I’m driving.”

She tilted her head down a little and looked at me from under her brow, which had the effect of making her eyes look even bigger.

“You don’t…
have
to drive anywhere,” she said, coyly. “You could stay here tonight.”

“On the couch?” I asked, and instantly berated myself for looking stupid and prudish in my attempt not to presume.

“Sure,” said Abby, more confident now. “We could start on the couch.”

Chapter 43

We lay together, naked, on Abby’s bed, getting our breath back. We had eschewed the couch for greater comfort. The covers lay in a pile on the floor, alongside our clothes. The lights were on and her body, glistening now, looked every bit as perfect as I had imagined. Soon the air conditioning made us cooler and Abby pulled the covers off the floor and over both of us. She turned out the light, snuggled into my arms and made a happy sound. We didn’t speak again until morning.

I woke to the sound of the shower running in the en-suite bathroom. It turned off and Abby came into the bedroom in a white toweling robe, her wet hair swept back and dripping slightly. She leaned over the bed and kissed me. It was a good way to wake up.

“Sleep well?” she asked.

I showered and we ate breakfast together. Conversation was easy and playful over croissants and juice. We agreed to get together again on Monday and then she had to go to work. I had somewhere to be too.

Back at my apartment for a change of clothes, I remembered I still had a pile of shredded white paper to go through. I also wanted to check something in my notebook. Talking to Abby last night had triggered a memory and after leafing through the pages for a moment I found it. 154th Street. The street where Cal City Self Storage stood was the same one where Susan Patterson’s cell phone had been on Saturday morning, the last time it was switched on. The same day Shelley Ryan rented a storage unit big enough to hide a Volkswagen with a half-dead body in the trunk. Abby had made a good point. Why go all that way when there are plenty of Self Storage places nearer. I wanted to get over there, but I also wanted to sort out the strips of paper.

The paper won. Two hours later I had a pile of pages, the strips held together with Scotch tape, and a smaller pile of strips I just couldn’t match up to anything. I hadn’t learned much. There were quite a few envelopes, a grocery list, three pre-approved offers of credit cards, a letter telling Shelley she had won a million and a half Euros in a Spanish lottery and all she had to do to collect was send them all her bank details along with her date of birth and mother’s maiden name, a hand written list of twelve phone numbers and an electricity bill.

The list of numbers intrigued me, and I considered waiting until I was back in my office to plug them into the phone disc, but curiosity got the better of me and I hit on a quicker way to find out who they were. I called them. The first answered quickly and professionally.

“Affordable Self Storage, Tim speaking, how may I help you today?”

“Sorry Tim, wrong number.” I said. Working down the list, I found each one was a storage company. Cal City was number nine. I really needed to get over there.

Chapter 44

According to Earl, the man behind the desk at Cal City, his was quite a small facility. He started it with his brother three years ago, their minimum rental term was a calendar month and no, I couldn’t take a look in someone’s unit. Not without a court order.

“I can show you an empty one. See what they’re like.”

I couldn’t see how this would help, but it was something to do while we talked, so I agreed.

“Before we go, though,” I said, “could you look up which unit is rented to a Miss Shelley Ryan, please?” I figured I could at least look at which one was hers. He typed the name in, then shook his head.

“R-Y-A-N?” he asked. I nodded, trying to picture it spelled another way. “Nope. Nobody named Ryan has a rental right now.” He chewed gum while he talked.

I took out the taped together receipt from my pocket and handed it to him. “Can you figure it out from this?”

He typed again. “Invoice number comes back to unit 16D. Rented to a Dr Matthews. Paid in cash.”

“Man or woman?”

“Doesn’t say. You wanna see a unit or not?”

While we walked I showed Earl the photo array of Shelley with her hair colored differently in each shot. He didn’t recognize her and didn’t recall anything about Dr Matthews.

Cal City Self Storage was basically four rows of single story garage units with up and over doors. Some were wider than others, and most were sealed with identical padlocks. The one Earl chose to show me was within sight of 16D. He lifted the door and we walked into a windowless, featureless box about the size of a station wagon with the doors open. I made appreciative noises and as he was closing up I wandered over and took a closer look at the padlock on 16D. It was the same as the others. It didn’t look unbreakable.

“You sell these?” I said, pointing at the lock.

“Yeah. People like to feel they own the lock that keeps their stuff safe. That way they know they have the only keys.”

“Are they good? They look pretty strong.”

“They do the job,” said Earl, with a shrug. “Not top of the line, but they keep the door shut. Besides, anyone gets through the lock will set off the alarm.”

“Alarm?” So much for sneaking back later and breaking in.

“Each unit is alarmed. Then there’s Heinrich and Wilhelm.”

“Security guards?”

“My brother’s big-ass dogs. German shepherds. They have the run of the place at night, and they’re trained to attack. Well, they’re not trained, exactly. They’re just vicious bastards. So, this chick you’re after? What she do?”

“We think she stole a car. Beat up old blue VW.”

“And you think it might be here?”

“Possibly. Are you sure I can’t just have a quick peek in 16D? It sure would save me a lot of trouble.”

“Sorry. We don’t offer much here, but we do offer peace of mind. When you store something with us it stays stored until you say otherwise.”

“Understood,” I said. Earl was firm on not letting me in. “Say, Earl, there’s one thing I can’t figure out. Maybe you can help. This woman drove a ways to get to your facility. Anything you can think might have made her choose you over some of the other places nearer by? What makes you stand out?”

“Price, probably. We’re one of the cheapest self storage locations in the South Chicago area. I like to call it a no frills service. Some other places have the fancy extras – climate controlled units, 24 hour electronic access, security cameras…”

“Wait,” I cut in. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed it before. “You don’t have security cameras.”

“That’s right. We just got the locks, the alarms and the dogs. Cameras are expensive, then you got to pay someone to watch ‘em all day and night. It’s one of the ways we can keep our costs down and provide a low budget alternative to…”

“The other self storage places have security cameras.” It was more to myself than to Earl, but he felt the need to answer anyway.

“Yup. Most of ‘em anyway.”

“Do people ask about your security features before they rent units?”

“Some do. I guess some just figure we’re secure. There’s a leaflet at the desk explains everything. Some read it while they’re waiting.”

“How about by phone? Anyone ask about security cameras on the phone recently?”

“Not often. Had one woman call about ‘em a couple weeks ago, but usually they’re just asking about opening times, availability of units and such.”

“This woman. Was it a Saturday morning she called?”

“Who knows? Could be. I don’t remember.”

Shelley had been smart. She’d found a place she wouldn’t be caught on tape, used an androgynous fake name, paid in cash. I guess another advantage of coming so far out of her way was that she was less likely to be seen by anyone she knew. If I hadn’t found the receipt in the trash nobody would have ever known she was here. On its own, though, it still didn’t prove anything. The connection to Susan’s phone records, along with all the circumstantial evidence, might possibly be enough to convince a judge to issue a search warrant for the storage unit, if the case wasn’t already closed. I was going to need more.

Chapter 45

It was Saturday, and I wasn’t surprised to find that Shelley’s BMW was not parked outside her studio when I drove past on my way home. I could only think of two things left to do. One was to break into the studio to look for evidence. The other was to go to Shelley’s house and ask her a loaded question about the storage unit, then wait to see what she did. Nothing like stirring a pot to get things going, and at the moment she was probably feeling fairly comfortable, given that the cops had closed the case.

I would probably end up doing both, but, since confronting a serial killer head on is something you don’t want to rush into, I chose the other option first. Remembering my first break-in attempt, and always one to learn from mistakes, I went home to prepare.

I took out the lock I’d bought from Home Depot the day before and taped it to my desk, and locked it with the key. Then I found my lock picks and set about the business of trying to unlock it without the key. The first time the lock clicked open, I felt incredible. The fact that it had taken half an hour, quite a long time if you’re trying to break in somewhere, didn’t bother me as much as it should have, and I started again immediately. My time almost halved on the second attempt, and went on improving with each successive break-in.

After two and a half hours, my average time was just under a minute. Still a long time to be standing outside someone’s door, fumbling with the lock and trying not to look suspicious, but I had two times under twenty seconds, and I was feeling lucky.

This time I changed into my dark suit. I still felt black was appropriate for breaking and entering, and though it wasn’t even dark outside It would probably help to feel as though I looked the part. There was a spot of blood on the lapel from where Byrne and Dugan attacked me, but it hardly showed, and I wasn’t planning on being seen, let alone inspected for cleanliness. I buttered a hunk of bread, and wolfed it down with a Coke, then I left.

My heart was pounding, and I waited a full five minutes in the car across the street from the studio before I got out. This was the front door on a downtown Saturday, not the secluded back door on a Friday lunchtime in Wicker Park. As I crossed the street, I felt like everyone was watching me. I could see no obvious police presence, and so I made my way to the door. I pushed the buzzer and waited, but there was no reply. As nonchalantly as I could, I removed the lock picks from my jacket pocket, and set to work. I tried to look like I was just having a bit of difficulty with my key and occasionally, as people walked by, I would mutter something like ‘Goddamn key,’ under my breath. I have no idea how long I was standing trying to pick the lock. It felt like hours, but nobody stopped me or asked me what I was doing, and when the lock finally sprang open I was inside in a second, breathing hard and putting on my latex gloves.

The door at the top of the stairs also had a lock, but fortunately I tried opening it before I got my picks out again. It was unlocked.

When I got inside the studio, and the door closed behind me, I was in total darkness. At first I cursed myself for not bringing a torch, but then I realized that nobody would be able to see the lights outside, since there were no windows, so I fumbled for a light switch. The one I found turned all the lights on full, and the situation went from one extreme to the other, the white walls and floor reflecting back nearly all the light from the ceiling rigs.