Trigger City (3 page)

I
t took a couple of days to get a meeting
with HM Nichols's CFO, Douglas Hill, but at least he'd been straight about it, saying matter-of-factly that he needed to check up on me first. I'd given him the numbers for Isaac Richmond and Mike Angelo and I guess they said the right things and now I sat across from Hill at this uncluttered desk in the HM Nichols head office in a Skokie industrial park.

Tall and slim, Hill wore a brown three-piece suit, rimless glasses, and a wedding band. His fingernails were chewed beyond short. His slicked-down comb-over wasn't fooling anybody and, like all comb-overs, actually drew more attention to his impending baldness. He wasted the first five minutes of our meeting telling me about what a busy man he was and how he couldn't spare a lot of time. As he wrapped up his opening monologue, I reached into my briefcase and, bypassing Joan Richmond's diary, pulled out my notebook.

“I won't take a lot of your time.”

“I mean, there really isn't much to say, Mr. Dungeon.”

“Dudgeon,” I said. “But call me Ray if that's easier.”

“Yes, well, not much to say. Joan was our payroll manager. She hired Mr. Zhang on a three-month contract. Two months into the contract, he went crazy and killed her.”

“Were there other bidders on the contract? How did she come to choose Zhang?”

Hill made a steepling gesture at me. If there's a gesture that better conveys superiority, I haven't seen it. “Mr.
Dudgeon,
I do not micromanage my managers. Joan had my trust and confidence, she didn't have to clear a short-term freelance contract through my office.”

“Do you think she might have used his services before she came to HM Nichols?”

“I have no idea.”

“There must have been something on paper—an application, a résumé—something I could look at.”

“All of our records on Joan Richmond and Steven Zhang now reside with the Chicago Police Department. Perhaps they will let you look at them.”

“You gave the originals to the police? Usually they just take photocopies.”

Hill's smile was designed to look apologetic but it failed to look sincere. “You must understand,” he said, “we were all very upset around here after…well, after what happened. Joan was well liked and I suppose we were in shock. Of course we should've made copies for the police, but we gave them our originals.”

“So HM Nichols kept absolutely no paper whatsoever on Joan Richmond or Steven Zhang,” I said.

“That's correct. It's
all
with the police.” Hill's words sounded like a door closing. He took a long look at his watch.

“How long did Joan work here?” I asked.

“Just over eight months.”

“Previous employer?”

“I can't recall.” Hill's thumb started rubbing back and forth against the nail of his index finger and he pressed his lips together. I stared at
him and let the silence become uncomfortable until he said, “I'm sorry, I just…I really can't recall.” Another smile of false apology. “I'm an accountant, I have a head for figures.”

“But not for company names.”

“I guess not. But you can check with the police, that information will be in her file.” He glanced at his watch again. “I really must get back to work.”

“Sure, thanks for your time, Mr. Hill. One more question—did you observe any of Steven Zhang's erratic behavior?”

Hill's head jerked side to side like he was trying to shake the question from his ears. “I really didn't know the man. Our paths rarely crossed. The payroll department is on the third floor and, as I said, I'm not a micromanager. But I've arranged for you to see Joan's former assistant, Kate Weinstein. She knew Mr. Zhang.” Hill looked again at his watch, as if the time might've changed radically in the past thirty seconds. His eyes moved to the computer screen on his desktop without meeting mine along the way. “I'll ask you to please take as little of her time as possible.”

“Time is money,” I said.

“That is a fact,” he said without looking up.

Meeting over.

I didn't mind. Further questioning would've only yielded further lies.

 

Kate Weinstein told me everything I'd already read from her police interview transcript, but also this: Joan never talked about the job she had before coming to HM Nichols. Never. Any time the subject of work history came up, Joan checked out of the conversation. The topic seemed to make her nervous. Steven Zhang came to HM Nichols at Joan's invitation. There were no other applicants for the contract and Joan had not advertised the position; she simply brought Zhang in. Kate overheard conversation between Joan and Zhang that gave her the impression they'd worked together before. When Kate asked,
Joan denied it, said that Zhang came on the recommendation of a friend's husband. Kate thought Joan was lying.

“Why didn't you mention any of this to the police?” I asked.

“Oh, I did. I told them all about it.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. The detective even wrote it down in his little notebook.”

I believed her, which meant the cops deliberately left it out of the interview notes for the case file. I said, “How long before the murder did you notice a change in behavior by Mr. Zhang?”

Kate Weinstein twirled her wavy hair with an index finger while she thought about it. “It was three weeks, almost. See, it was a Monday when he first started acting all crazy. I remember because at first I just thought he was being grumpy and I tried to make a joke of it and said, ‘You must've had a big weekend, maybe you should've called in hungover,' and he just looked at me really strange and said, ‘They can make people disappear. They control everything,' and then he just kept staring at me. I thought he was kidding and I started to ask who
they
were, but he put his hands over his ears and made a strange moaning sound and turned away and left the room. It was weird.”

“That would definitely qualify as weird,” I said.

Kate laughed and said, “Tell me about it. And he just kept getting weirder and then three weeks later, he killed Joan.” She reached a hand out and touched my arm. “And the sad thing is, she was really worried about him. I mean we all were, but mostly we were just creeped out. Joan was talking about putting him on sick leave or something and making him see a doctor. She was the only one of us who really wanted to help him…and she was the one he killed. Don't you think that's sad?”

I agreed that it was sad, handed her a card and asked that she call me, should anything else come to mind.

“Like what?” she said.

“If it comes to mind, you'll recognize it.”

I sat in my office, reading Joan Richmond's diary and not liking it much. I put the diary aside and refilled my coffee mug from the half-empty pot. Or half full, if you're an optimist. I took my coffee back to the desk and, for the third time, turned my attention to Vince's surveillance reports on Dr. Feelgood.

Dr. Feelgood had a real name—Dr. Andrew Glassman. The night before last, Glassman left Rush Medical Center and drove his Mercedes east on Harrison to the Printer's Row neighborhood. He had dinner at Custom House with a colleague from work—Dr. Sam Martell—during which they talked shop. He then headed up Lake Shore Drive, exited at Fullerton. He spent two hours visiting his mother at a fancy nursing home, like a good son should. Then he retired for the evening to his Gold Coast condo, arriving just before eleven o'clock. Probably drank himself to sleep with a warm glass of milk.

As fervently as I might have wished him to be, Dr. Andrew Glassman was not Public Enemy Number One. I'd had Vince on him almost a month and the guy hadn't so much as changed lanes without signaling.

I flipped to the next report. Last evening, the good doctor left work, bought a single red rose at the hospital flower shop, and drove to Lakeview. Jill's neighborhood. He parked at a meter on Halsted and took a table at Erwin Café, an upscale American bistro. He sipped a glass of white wine and read a novel called
The Book of Ralph,
until his date arrived fifteen minutes later. Of course his date was Jill. Vince terminated surveillance, according to my instructions.

The last item on Vince's report: “Subject closed his book, stood and presented the rose to Ms. Browning. They kissed.”

S
urprise!”

Terry and Angela Green stood on the other side of their front door, both wearing huge smiles. Their greeting confused me at first. Then I looked down and saw the bump. Angela was pregnant. I almost dropped the wine.

“Congratulations,” I said, because what the hell else was I going to say? Big hugs ensued as the happy couple drew me into their home. I handed the wine to Terry and said to Angela, “How far along?”

“Five months. We didn't want to tell anyone right away because, well, you never know.”

I held her at arm's length and looked her over. She was always a thin woman and hadn't really filled out yet, cheekbones still prominent on her chestnut brown face. But she seemed to be gaining weight where it mattered. She had the bump and was a little fuller in the hips and backside. I judged that she was now a C-cup, the inappropriateness of such an observation notwithstanding. I'd always had a secret thing for Angela.

I let go of her shoulders and said, “You look great,” in a tone
purely platonic. Turned to Terry and asked, “Boy or girl?” Terry was a reporter—I knew he wouldn't wait to be surprised with the pertinent information readily available.

“Boy,” said Terry.

Angela said, “His name is Chester, after Chester Himes. And if it's okay with you, we'd like his middle name to be Ray, after Terry's best friend.”

It hit me like a bucket of cold water. Why would anyone want to name a kid after me? I said, “Sure, it's okay with me.”

“Try to contain your enthusiasm,” said Terry.

“No, I didn't…I didn't mean it that way. I think it's great. Thanks.”

Angela laughed and waved us off. “You boys go out on the balcony, smoke your cigars. I've got dinner to make.”

 

“Cheers, man.” I clinked my glass against Terry's and we sipped his scotch and smoked my cigars. “I'm happy for you guys.”

“Thanks. It's not a done deal but all the tests are normal so far. I think this one's gonna take, knock on wood.”

“You'll make a great dad.” And I meant it. But on another level, I wasn't happy for Terry at all.

More accurately, I wasn't happy for me.

Truth is, I felt the end of an era approaching. Terry and Angela were moving on. Soon their life would be all about little Chester Ray Green. They'd be obsessed with first teeth and bowel movements, things I do not find fascinating. And they'd have new friends. Friends with babies. Friends similarly obsessed with first teeth and bowel movements.

Terry stood and went into the house. A minute later, music came piping through the balcony speakers. Hound Dog Taylor,
Natural Boogie
. I'd given this album to Terry for his nineteenth birthday, when we were journalism students at Columbia College. Terry turned me on to bands like The Cure and XTC, while I turned him on to Hound Dog Taylor and Son Seals. Terry is black and I'm white. Neither of us was
unaware of the potential for irony but I think we were both pleased that it was about the music and didn't have to be about race.

We met as J-school freshmen and quickly bonded by comparing idols. The names you'd expect—Mark Twain, H. L. Mencken, Studs Terkel, David Halberstam. Hunter S. Thompson was massive for both of us, as he was for most American teenagers who aimed at a career in journalism and many who didn't. Mike Royko and Clarence Page were our current local heroes.

And then there was Woodstein. Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. Between us, we'd read
All the President's Men
probably a dozen times and we spent many nights in Terry's studio apartment, drinking bargain beer and eating white cheddar popcorn and playing the movie over and over again. We knew it by heart and would often say our favorite lines along with Redford and Hoffman, Balsam and Robards. Sometimes we'd talk right over the film, debating the investigative techniques and journalistic ethics portrayed on the screen.

The editor of the school paper affectionately dubbed us Woodward and Bernstein, and we sometimes still used the nicknames, twenty years later.

Christ, twenty years. Terry hadn't brought down any crooked presidents but he'd built a solid career, married a lovely woman, and was now about to become a dad. I'd given up on journalism and wasn't entirely sure what I had become, or what I was building.

Terry returned to the balcony and said, “Still love this album.”

“Tempus fugit,” I said. Looking for safer ground, I steered the conversation to Joan Richmond and Steven Zhang.

He pulled out his notebook. “Thought you said there wasn't a story in this.”

“Far as I know, there isn't.”

“You may change your mind. If there is a story, I want it.”

“Goes without saying,” I said.

He flipped some pages. “Joan Richmond. Murdered by Steven Zhang on August 13. Worked at HM Nichols…”

“I'm up on current events,” I said. “I'm looking for red flags in the background. Previous employer may be a lead.”

“Damn right it is,” said Terry. “You've heard of Hawk River.”

“Military contractors. Got a lot of security guys in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

“And at least fifteen other countries,” said Terry, “including ours. Since the geniuses in Washington sent our National Guard to the Middle East, we've even got these guys in New Orleans and Mississippi.”

“Politics aside—”

“Politics is never aside,” said Terry. He'd finished his scotch and refilled his glass, topped mine up. “Dude, we're talking about some powerful motherfuckers. And there are whispers…assassinations, sabotage jobs, you name it. Word is, if you want a civil war started in some Fourth World country, these are your guys.”

“And Joan Richmond used to work for them.”

“And Joan Richmond used to work for them. Six years, head of payroll. She quit ten months ago.” Terry drew on his cigar, blew out a stream of fragrant smoke. “But it gets better…or worse. The congressional Oversight and Government Reform committee is looking into Hawk River's billing practices. Care to guess what comes next?”

“Joan Richmond was scheduled to testify?”

Terry shot me with his finger. “Bull's-eye. She was scheduled to testify this month, in a closed-door hearing. But now she's been murdered.”

“People get murdered all the time,” I said.

“Which brings us to Steven Zhang,” said Terry. “Not much on him, but once I knew about Joan Richmond and Hawk River, my curiosity was piqued. Checked Zhang's tax records.”

“And he worked for Joan at Hawk River,” I guessed.

“Don't know if she was his boss, but he worked at Hawk River. Seventeen weeks.”

“Odd number,” I said. “He was an IT guy. Contracts are usually three months, six months, one year. Seventeen weeks?”

Terry shrugged, “Maybe he was hired for six months, but he was efficient. Or three months but he was slow. Or maybe he quit or got fired. His tax records showed seventeen weeks. Anyway, it would seem that his contract ended, however it ended, about a month before Joan
Richmond quit. Point is, he worked there when your victim worked there and he killed her just in time to keep her from testifying before Congress. And you know how I hate coincidences.”

I hated them, too.

As my cigar burned down to the band, I heard the doorbell ring inside the apartment. Terry said, “Oh yeah, Angela invited a friend from work. Diane. She's great, you'll like her.”

I left my cigar to die in the ashtray. “You have got to be shitting me. A blind date?”

“Relax, you'll like her—”

“You already said that. What I don't like is being ambushed.”

“It's no big deal.”

“To me it is. And I don't appreciate it.”

“Just come inside and be nice.” Terry stood up. “It's not a blind date. It's just Angela and me, each inviting a friend for dinner.”

“A couple of single, heterosexual friends of the opposite sex. That's what we call a blind date.” I fished a pack of cigarettes from my pocket and lit one.

“Fine, call it a blind date if you want. I'm not asking you to propose marriage to the girl. Angela had her heart set on introducing you, and—”

The balcony door swung open and a perky brunette stepped out, pulling a pack of Dunhill Lights from her purse. As I stood, she flashed a mouthful of perfect teeth at me and extended her hand and said, “Oh, you smoke! Me, too!”

“We've got that in common,” I said. “Wanna get married?” I went for dry humor, barely suppressed the sarcasm. It could've been taken either way.

And that pretty much set the tone for the evening.

I wasn't rudeness personified but I put little effort into hiding my disinterest and my humor was more caustic than usual. And throughout dinner, I seemed to find ways of turning conversation into debate. I tried not to notice the uncomfortable glances between Diane and Angela, Angela and Terry.

Suffice it to say, I acted like an ass and by 9:30 we all suddenly remembered that we had early starts in the morning and we'd better pass on coffee and call it a night. I told Diane that it had been a pleasure meeting her, reiterated my joy over Angela's pregnancy, thanked everyone for a lovely evening, and got the hell out of there.