Twilight (8 page)

“Why can’t we come home? We miss you.”

“Oh, baby, I know. I miss you, too. How’s school?”

“Awful. It’s not like home.”

“I know it’s an adjustment,” she said with a sigh. “But we talked about that. You all said you wanted to stay in Florida for the rest of the school year, remember? You wanted to see if you liked it better there than Chicago.”

“Well, I already know. I don’t,” he said emphatically.

“You haven’t given it a chance. I’ll be back soon and we’ll talk about it some more, okay? In the meantime, aren’t you having fun with Grandma and Grandpa?”

“They make us go to bed too early.”

“How early?”

“Eight o’clock, like I’m some baby,” he said with disgust.

The privilege of staying up until nine had been hard-won. They’d negotiated it on his eighth birthday. She wasn’t surprised that he was chafing at an early bedtime.

“I’ll speak to Grandma.”

“They won’t order in pizza, either,” he said, apparently encouraged by her response to his first complaint.

“Now, that’s something with which I totally agree,” she said. “We did that too much.”

“But they won’t do it
ever!
”

She noticed that her little diplomat was quick to switch tactics, seek a compromise. There was no mistaking his father’s influence in him. Dana chuckled despite herself. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do about that, too. Anything else?”

His already low voice dropped another notch. “Jon wet the bed and Grandma yelled at him.”

Dana closed her eyes against a sudden rush of guilt. What had she done by leaving the boys behind? At five, Jonathan was way past bed wetting—or he had been until his world had been rocked by the loss of the father he idolized. That first week, when she’d found it almost impossible to explain why Daddy wasn’t coming home ever again, there had been accident after accident. By the time she’d left Florida, though, she had thought the problem solved. Obviously her departure had caused him to regress and her mother’s patience to wear thin.

“I’ll talk to Grandma about that, too.”

“Kevin’s acting weird, too. He just stares at the TV until Grandpa makes him do something. It’s like he’s not even here or something,” Bobby said. “I think maybe you’d better come back and get us.”

The image of rambunctious, six-year-old Kevin sitting for endless hours in front of the TV brought on the salty sting of tears. She couldn’t let it sway her, though. She simply couldn’t. “I will, very soon.”

“How soon?” Bobby persisted.

“I can’t put a time limit on this, sweetie, but I’ll talk to you every day.”

“It’s not the same as you being here.”

Dana sighed. “I know. I’ll try to finish up here as fast as I can. Now, where’s Jon?”

“He and Kevin are with Grandpa down at the pool. Kevin cried, but Grandpa made him go. He said we should have a swim before dinner to work up an appetite.”

“Where’s Grandma? Is she fixing dinner now?”

“No. She’s playing cards with her friends.”

The thought of Bobby in her parents’ condo all by himself frightened her. There was too much mischief he could get into. What had her parents been thinking? Of course, it was entirely possible—no, it was likely, she concluded ruefully—that they had no idea he’d come inside. He was probably supposed to be at the pool with the others.

“Bobby, go back to the pool with Grandpa before he misses you and starts worrying. I’ll call this evening.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

“No,” he wailed unexpectedly. “Don’t say that.”

Dana was stunned by the outburst. “Bobby? Sweetie, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“Don’t you know the rest of that? Don’t you remember?”

Dana couldn’t imagine what had upset him so about something they’d been saying to each other for years. “What?”

“It’s ‘cross my heart,
hope to die,
’” he said, sounding teary again. “Don’t say that ever again, Mommy. Please. You’ll make it come true, just like Daddy. That’s what he promised the night he got killed.”

His anguished logic stunned her. “Oh, no, baby, it’s just a saying. I’m not going to die.”

“Daddy said it,” he repeated brokenly. “And he died.”

“Not because of that,” she reassured him. “Bobby, you know what happened to Daddy wasn’t because he said some silly words, don’t you?”

He gulped back a sob. “A bad guy shot him,” he said in a tiny voice.

“That’s right. It wasn’t because of anything Daddy said or did. It wasn’t his fault.”

“But why would anyone shoot Daddy?” Bobby asked. “Why would God let it happen?”

Dana couldn’t think of how to answer that one. It was a question she had repeatedly asked herself. That bullet that had felled Ken had done more than kill her husband and destroy her life. It had destroyed the faith that had been central to their lives.

If she couldn’t see the sense of Ken’s death, how could she make an eight-year-old see it?

“I don’t know why, baby. Maybe God is just testing us to see how strong we are.”

“Mommy?”

“What?”

“Sometimes I don’t feel very strong at all.”

“Me, neither, sweetie. Me, neither.” Shaken by the whole conversation, she tried to figure out how to reassure her son long distance. The answer to that, too, eluded her. “Bobby, go on back outside with Grandpa, okay? I’ll talk to you tonight.”

“You won’t forget to tell Grandma about bedtime, will you?”

She smiled, despite the previously somber mood. “I won’t forget. Now, scoot. Love you, Bobby.”

“I love you, Mommy.”

The phone clattered back into the cradle and left her listening to the faint buzz of a disconnected line. Tears slid down her cheeks, as finally, slowly, she hung up on her end, as well.

Had she been wrong to leave the boys? Had she been wrong to come back here to find the answers the police were unable to find?

The part of her that was a mother said yes. She belonged with her children. They needed her, now more than ever. Her parents had told her that. So had Kate. A conversation like this one only reinforced what she already knew in her heart.

But the part of her that had been a wife, a lover, a friend, said otherwise. She had no choice but to use all of her skills as an investigator to solve her husband’s murder. There would be no real adjustment for any of them until the murderer was behind bars.

8

T
he sweat was pouring down Rick’s back as he squared off in front of Tico under the hoop on Yo, Amigo’s indoor basketball court. Gazing straight into the other man’s eyes, he kept his body loose as he tried to outguess him.

Tico dribbled the ball slowly, deliberately, between them as if he had all the time in the world. Without the rules of a game, in their one-on-one contest it was a test of patience as much as anything. For two habitually impatient men, it was a real struggle to wait each other out.

Despite the fierce concentration in Tico’s eyes, he managed to keep up a steady stream of chatter, alternating between English and Spanish. So far, most of the remarks had been focused on Dana Miller. Tico had more questions and observations than a reporter on a deadline.

“
Que pasa?
Are you two going to become a hot ticket? I saw the way she looked at you. Pure lust.”

“Pure hatred is more like it,” Rick said, listening to the rhythm of the bouncing ball, even as he kept his gaze steady. These late-night contests had become a welcome ritual, relieving stress with pure exhaustion. Rick had really been counting on its effectiveness tonight, but Tico’s remarks were having the opposite effect. Dana’s image was staying front and center and growing more provocative by the second.

“Love, hate, sometimes it is all the same,
mi amigo,
” Tico commented.

“Her husband just died,” Rick protested. “The only thing Dana really cares about is finding the person responsible and getting even. Since she hasn’t found that person yet, I’m the target of all of her rage.”

Shock spread across Tico’s face, but he never once lost his concentration. “She blames you for Ken’s death?” he asked incredulously.

“She doesn’t think I pulled the trigger, but she blames me, yes.”

Tico’s expression turned thoughtful. “And yet she shared a meal with you today. It could be that she is beginning to see reason.” He grinned. “Or she has been charmed by that great wit of yours.”

“She ate with me because it suited her purposes. I’ve promised to help her find the killer.”

Tico feinted left, then swiveled to the right and shot. The ball swished through the net. Rick grabbed the rebound.

“Six-four, you son of a bitch,” he said.

Tico grinned. “You should pay closer attention,
mi amigo.
Your mind is elsewhere tonight, eh?”

“No,” Rick said adamantly, but he doubted he convinced his friend. He certainly wasn’t convinced himself. Dana had been preying on his mind ever since he’d left her. She’d looked so lost and alone as she’d walked up the driveway and into the house earlier.

“Not so long ago you feared she or the police would bring down Yo, Amigo with all of their questions,” Tico reminded him. “What’s happened to change your mind?”

“I haven’t changed my mind,” Rick declared, alternately dribbling the ball with his left hand, then his right. “That’s exactly why I agreed to help.”

“Was that the reason or was it those sad, blue eyes of hers?”

Rick’s hand faltered at that and Tico seized the opportunity to steal the ball, pivot and shoot. Another perfect shot. Two, if the remark about Dana’s eyes counted.

“I could really grow to dislike you,” he muttered.

Tico laughed, unoffended by the threat. “It is because I see so clearly that which you do not wish to see.”

“It’s because you beat me every time we walk onto this court. I give up,” he said, reaching for a towel and mopping his face.

“So soon?” Tico taunted. “You usually last until midnight.”

“My concentration’s shot.”

“Something else for you to hold against the lovely widow, no doubt.” Tico shot him a wry look. “It will not be enough,
mi amigo.
Once a woman is under your skin, blaming her for it accomplishes nothing.”

“She is not under my skin. She’s my best friend’s widow. I even thought she was the wrong woman for him.”

“But right for you,” Tico said knowingly. “It happens that way sometimes.”

Rick scowled at him. “Give it a rest, will you? This so-called alliance of ours isn’t personal. She made that perfectly clear over lunch today.”

Tico’s amusement returned. “I know. I heard.”

“You know, my friend, you could do me a lot more good if you would eavesdrop on the conversations on the street and help me find Ken’s killer.”

For once Tico’s expression sobered. “I have heard nothing, not since the night it happened. There has not been so much as a whisper.”

“Does that make sense to you?”

“No. Frankly, it worries me. There should be more talk. Someone should be claiming credit, gloating.”

“What do you think it means, that no one has?”

“That for once the gangs had nothing to do with it,” Tico responded readily, confirming Rick’s own opinion.

“How can it be that no one saw a stranger, though? Wouldn’t word have spread about that? A lot of people here cared about the
padre.
”

“I did not say it was a stranger. I said it wasn’t gang-related.”

Rick’s head shot up at that. “Meaning?”

“Some of those involved in the gangs have ties to important people.”

“Such as politicians,” Rick said at once, thinking of the voter drives that had been organized and paid for with political money and operated by neighborhood insiders, gang leaders who craved clout at City Hall. The streets had never been safer than they had been on Election Day. It was an angle he had never once considered.

But what had Ken Miller to do with Chicago politics? Nothing, so far as he knew. It was a link that made no sense. He shook his head.

“I think we’re reaching.”

“You’d rather believe it was some kid high on drugs or a stray bullet meant for one of our own?”

“Those would be the obvious answers,” Rick said, echoing the police with whom he’d spoken.

“Too obvious,” Tico insisted. “I prefer subtleties.”

Rick tried to reason it out, but he still couldn’t accept what Tico was suggesting. “Ken was from a suburb north of town. Why would he be the target of some Chicago politician?”

“Not Ken, but through him, Yo, Amigo. His ties to the program were well known. Killing him might be expected to create such an outpouring of rage that those in power would be forced to shut the place down. It could be seen as proof that nothing had changed in the barrio.”

That, unfortunately, made a terrible kind of sense. And when it came to politicians who disliked the program, there were more than enough to choose from.

Oh, on the record, they said all the right things. They didn’t dare publicly decry a program that was already making a visible difference in the neighborhood. But privately they didn’t like handing over funds to an ex–gang member with an arrogant streak and unorthodox methods. They didn’t like Rick Sanchez, period. He had tangled with them too often, shown too many of them up for the corrupt fools they were. He never groveled for their money, never sang their praises to the media when they did the right and just thing.

Tico was studying him curiously, clearly aware that his suggestion had struck a chord. “Will you tell Dana what we discussed?”

“Not just yet,” Rick said. “Not until I have some kind of proof.”

“The smoking gun, so to speak?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m afraid any smoking gun is probably at the bottom of Lake Michigan by now.”

Rick’s expression turned grim. “Then I’ll just have to find out who’s been out boating lately.”

* * *

Dana spent another restless night in Ken’s leather chair. She was up at dawn, putting together a ragtag assortment of photographic equipment, including every single camera she had in the house. She found Bobby’s cheap child’s version.

Holding it, she paused to recall their second conversation the day before. It had been no less troubling than the first. To her frustration, her mother hadn’t been back from her card game, either, so Dana hadn’t been able to share Bobby’s complaints and work out a reasonable compromise. She considered calling again now, but a glance at the clock changed her mind. It was too early. Instead, she returned to the hunt for cameras.

She found Ken’s far more expensive and complex Nikon, plus several of the moderately priced ones she had used on stakeouts. She included her own telephoto lenses, too. She would run out for memory cards and perhaps a few of those disposable cameras as soon as the nearby drugstore opened.

In the meantime, she sat at the kitchen table with a fresh pot of coffee nearby and thought about Rick’s comment the day before that perhaps the murderer was closer to home. In other words, someone Ken knew, someone in the neighborhood, perhaps even in his own congregation.

As badly as she wanted to dismiss the notion out of hand, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t be thorough and objective if she didn’t consider each and every possibility. Hadn’t that potential lack of objectivity been the very thing Kate had warned her about?

She grabbed a notepad and made a list of places to check, including Ken’s office at the nearby church. She would go over before his secretary came in, so no one would realize that she’d been in there snooping. Not that she didn’t have a perfect right to collect his personal things, but that wouldn’t explain why she was going through church files.

She considered other places to look. Perhaps the morgue at the local paper. Though she read it regularly, it was possible she had missed any articles on people vehemently opposed to Ken’s program to bring gang members into suburban homes. She’d check the
Tribune
and the
Sun-Times,
too.

She sat back. There, she’d done it. She had a starting place now, aside from Yo, Amigo. That ought to satisfy both Kate and Rick that she was being totally objective. It didn’t matter that the list was probably a waste of time. She was all but certain that the answers were right smack in the middle of the gang turf that surrounded the program. The best way to prove that, though, would be to eliminate these others.

Invigorated by having a sense of purpose, she took a quick shower and dressed in jeans, a thick sweater and sneakers for the short jaunt across to the church. She tossed a jacket across her shoulders. She could be in and out easily before anyone showed up at nine.

Or she could have been, she thought with a sigh as she spotted Kate on the front stoop. She opened the door before Kate’s knock.

“Eager to see me?” Kate said, then caught sight of the jacket. “Or were you just going out?”

“Actually, I was.”

“Where? It’s not even seven.”

Dana was too exhausted to come up with a quick, evasive retort that would be believable. The truth would have to suffice. “Ken’s office. I want to clear out some of his things.”

Kate eyed her skeptically. “You want to snoop. I heard what Rick said yesterday. You’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you? You’re wondering if someone here could have been behind Ken’s murder.”

“I have to at least explore the idea,” Dana conceded. “But can you see Mrs. Davis or Mr. Worth sneaking into Chicago with a gun and shooting their pastor?”

Mrs. Davis was a seventy-year-old retired schoolteacher with a cherubic face and twinkling eyes. Mr. Worth, also retired, had been a librarian at Northwestern. He still had the scent of old books about him. They barely went beyond the corner grocery anymore. Kate knew them both, as well as most of the other regulars at the church.

“It’s not as if all of Ken’s parishioners were old,” she pointed out. “You picked the two people least likely to harm a flea. Now, that Mr. Nelson, I wouldn’t put anything past him. He has shifty eyes and the build of an ex-boxer.”

“He
is
an ex-boxer,” Dana said dryly. “His eyes were injured in a fight.”

“I still don’t trust him.”

“Since you seem to have such superior insight into the members of Ken’s congregation, would you like to come along and help? Maybe we can sift through the files and get out of there, before we get caught.”

Kate’s expression brightened. “Really? Let’s go.”

With startling eagerness, she whirled around and headed back down the steps. A light layer of snow had fallen during the night, then iced over. It crunched underfoot as they took a shortcut across the lawn to the door leading to the office and parish hall portion of the church complex.

Added years after the original church had been built, it was a modern brick structure with a handful of classrooms for Sunday school and other meetings. The parish hall had a small stage facing a cavernous room that was empty now. Folding tables and chairs were set up once a month for a potluck supper and twice a year for pancake breakfasts. They were also used for wedding receptions and other events. Sometimes rows of chairs were lined up instead for a performance by the choir or the various children’s Sunday school classes.

Their sneakers made no sound as they hurried across the open space to the set of offices closest to the church. Even so, Dana could feel her heart thumping unsteadily. She couldn’t be certain whether it was caused by the fear of discovery or merely dread. This would be the first time she had been into Ken’s office since his death. She used to run across once or twice a day to bring his lunch or simply to look in on him.

At the door to his secretary’s office, she hesitated. She felt the pressure of Kate’s hand on her shoulder.

“You okay?” Kate asked. “We don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, we do,” Dana insisted. She drew a deep breath. “I’ll be fine.”

She plucked a set of keys out of her pocket and unlocked the door. Kate flipped on the light.

Mrs. Fallon kept her office neatly organized. Dana thought of the chaos in Rick’s outer office, despite Maria’s valiant efforts, and almost smiled. Perhaps she should lend him Mrs. Fallon for a few weeks. Between her and his lovely Maria, they would make short work of the mess.

Kate glanced around. “No files in here.”

“She mainly answers the phone, types and keeps Ken’s schedule,” Dana said. “Ken liked to keep the files under lock and key with him. Even though Mrs. Fallon was probably in and out of them a dozen times a day, he thought it preserved the illusion of strict confidentiality.”