An Image of Death (6 page)

“He called last night. He was pretty excited.” I told him about the letter.

“His uncle?
Emes
?” He rubbed his hand over the top of his cane. “It should turn out well for him. After all the suffering, he deserves some
naches
.”

We pulled into the garage. “I don’t know, Dad. What if it’s a scam? Like those Nigerian e-mails?”

“What?”

I always forget Dad doesn’t own a computer. In fact, he’d been almost contemptuous when they first came out. “They won’t amount to anything,” he grumbled. “All they are is a fast pencil.” He still considers Bill Gates a college dropout—never mind that it was Harvard.

“There are these get-rich-quick schemes on the Internet that purport to be from a wealthy Nigerian who needs to shelter his money in America. All you have to do is send him your bank account number, and he’ll pay you a huge commission.”

Dad sniffed. “David’s not stupid. If it is a con, he’ll deal with it.” He looked over. “And don’t forget. Miracles can happen.”

I kept my mouth shut.

He started to unfold himself from the front seat. “So, what’s for dinner?”

“Ratatouille.”

“Stew?” he asked without enthusiasm.

“And homemade apple pie.”

He brightened.

***

We were finishing dessert when Officer Georgia Davis showed up. She shook snow off her jacket as she came inside.

“I didn’t realize it had started again,” I said.

“It’s just a dusting.”

I motioned to the family room. “Make yourself at home. I’ll get Rachel.”

It only took a minute for Davis to explain what was on the tape. She made sure to emphasize that the reason I hadn’t told Rachel myself was my concern about her reaction. “In fact, it was smart for your mom to bring us the tape as soon as she did.”

I looked at the floor.

“So I don’t want to hear any complaining about why she said what she said, okay?”

“No prob.” Rachel shrugged, as if the tape was the least important thing in her life. “Is that it?”

Davis and I exchanged glances. She turned back to Rachel. “No. I need to ask you some questions about the van that delivered the tape.” Davis asked her to describe the van as best she could: shape, color, make.

Rachel bit her lip. “It was dark. I couldn’t tell. It was just—well, it was a van.”

“Light-colored or dark?”

“I don’t know.”

“Any distinguishing features?”

“Like what?”

“A name on the side of the van, any dents on the body, rust stains?”

“No.”

Davis nodded. “What about the driver? Did you catch a glimpse of him?”

She shook her head. “By the time I opened the door, he was driving away. I didn’t see anything except taillights.”

“Did you happen to see the license plate?”

A troubled expression slipped over her face. “No. I’m really sorry, Georgia. I guess I wasn’t paying attention.” She folded her arms and slouched on the couch.

Davis touched her arm. “Don’t worry about it. You did fine.”

“Really?”

Davis smiled. “Yup.”

“Cool.” Rachel’s face smoothed out. She got up. “I hope you find the jerks who did it.” She came over to me and gave me a hug. “Actually, Mom, I’m glad I didn’t see it, you know?”

I nodded and hugged her back, astonished. She bounded back into the kitchen to help Dad load the dishwasher. Davis stood up and pulled on her jacket.

“That was easy,” I said. “You clearly have the touch.”

“She’s a great kid. So.…” She zipped up the coat. “Any problems today?”

“Nothing. All quiet.”

“Good.” Her gaze rested on me. It might have been my imagination, but I thought she looked almost expectant, as if she were waiting for me to go on.

I opened my mouth. It was time to tell her about the copy of the tape. “You…you’ll keep me up to speed, won’t you?”

She cut her eyes to the door. “I will.”

I watched her walk to her car through a veil of snowflakes. As she pulled away, I quietly closed the door. I’d had the chance to set everything straight. But Georgia Davis was a tough read. She’d had on her game face. She hadn’t given out anything. I didn’t know how she’d react to my lying. As far as I could tell, the only thing I had going for me was that I was Rachel’s mother. Maybe it was intentional. Some people can sense innocence in others and let down their guard. Apparently, I didn’t qualify.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

I called Ricki Feldman the next morning. Her secretary’s voice, which I’d learned ranged between obsequious and haughty, depending on who was on Ricki’s A-list for the day, radiated an irritating self-importance when I told her my name. I figured I wouldn’t get through, so I was surprised when I heard Ricki’s voice.

“Good morning, Ellie,” Ricki said cheerfully. “Glad you could get back to me so fast.”

Who was she kidding? I’d waited almost twenty-four hours. “No problem, Ricki. What’s up?”

She laughed. “I think you know.”

“Is this about a videotape for WISH?”

“You got it.” On reflection I decided her laugh sounded practiced. “I figured you needed a night to sleep on it.”

“You know me too well.”

“I try. So, what’s the verdict?”

She was wrong about one thing. Bouncing between bouts of Dostoevskian guilt and paranoia over the tape, I’d hardly slept at all. But I had given some thought to WISH. No question I’d taken a visceral dislike to the Women Who Lunch, although to be fair, that might have had something to do with my former lifestyle. Had I stayed married to Barry, I might have been one of them, too, tapping into untold spigots of money. At least before he lost it in the market.

I’d also debated whether I wanted to put myself in such close proximity to Ricki again. I wasn’t enthusiastic. In the end, though, it was David’s experience that persuaded me. He grew up in foster care, alone, with no mentors and few friends. He’d managed to overcome his past, but he is a remarkable person. If the video called attention to the plight of kids like him, if it eased their journey toward self-sufficiency, it would be worthwhile. Despite the personalities and lifestyles of the people involved.

“What about the budget?”

“My donation should get you going, and we’ll raise whatever else you need. I’m not concerned. We know you’ll do the job without fleecing us.”

I gripped the cordless, unsure whether that was a compliment or an insult. “I’ll do it.”

Her voice lifted. “Wonderful! You’ll be glad you made that decision.” Before I could ask what she meant, she went on. “It’s going to be a substantive film, Ellie. Not PR fluff. Important people are backing these efforts. There may even be federal funding involved.” She cleared her throat. “I know you think WISH is a group of frivolous ladies with too much money and time on their hands. But once you meet the guy who’s driving the effort here in Chicago, I think you’ll change your mind.”

“You mean, the women aren’t—”

“Ellie, the women you met are very good at one thing. They know how to separate people from their money.”

“I noticed.”

“I’m talking about raising money. For charity. The women you had lunch with are consummate fund-raisers. As a group, they’ve raised millions of dollars.”

I started to pace. It’s no secret that benefits, auctions, and galas seem to grow more lavish—and lucrative—each year. And the North Shore is full of ladies who raise fortunes for their pet causes in between their manicures, tennis, and shopping. I’d even joked with Susan Siler, my closest friend, about what could happen if you unleashed them on the federal deficit. But I hadn’t realized the Women Who Lunch were part of that species.

“In any event, you won’t be dealing with them. And I won’t be involved much, either. I just wanted to make sure we had the right team in place.”

“You’d make a good drill sergeant.”

I heard a rustling in the background, as if she was shuffling papers. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Nothing.” No need to get churlish. She was handing me a nice piece of business. I took the phone into the family room and raised the shade. An inch of snow had fallen last night, but the streets were clear, and bands of sunlight slanted across the ceiling.

“I hope you don’t think I’m being pushy,” she went on. “But I set up a meeting for you in Evanston with the man who’s the mover and shaker behind the program. Just you and him. His name’s Jordan Bennett.”

“When is it?”

“This afternoon. At one.”

I paused just long enough, then said cheerfully, “Sorry. No can do.”

“You—you can’t?” She seemed taken aback.

“I have another appointment. But I could manage it tomorrow.”

“Well.…” Her voice turned suddenly chilly. “Here’s his number. Why don’t you call him yourself?”

“Good idea, Ricki. Thanks.”

After hanging up, I allowed myself the tiniest smile, then wondered what to do for the rest of the day. I was about to go upstairs and shower, when a movement through the window caught my eye. A white van with large windows on the side pulled up to my neighbor’s house. Five or six women huddled inside. A moment later a woman in a drab olive wool coat climbed out. I saw a flash of pale face and tired eyes. She had no hat or boots, and her shoes disappeared in the snow. She shook it off, one foot at a time, and headed up the driveway. A cleaning lady.

Fifteen years ago, the cleaning ladies up here came mostly from Poland, grateful to escape a repressive government and make a few dollars to send home. They’d come to my house when I could afford them, and Rachel still remembered a few words:
Dziekuje…Dobry…Prosze.

After the Soviet Union collapsed, though, the Poles were replaced by an influx of women from far-flung spots like Moldovia, Belarus, and remote parts of Russia. These women weren’t escaping repressive regimes: they were fleeing a world where highway robbery, enforced prostitution, and rampant killing were daily events. Life had turned cheap in that part of the world. Or maybe it always was, but it took the collapse of an empire to expose it. Still, the women in the van were the lucky ones. They’d escaped.

The driver, who’d accompanied her to the front door to translate what my neighbor wanted her to do, headed back to the van. Short and squat, he wore a brown coat and one of those large, fur-lined Russian hats they wore in
Dr. Zhivago
. He looked like a small bear. Before climbing back into the van, he reached in his pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. As he dug out a book of matches, he turned toward my house, and I got a look at his face. Long and angular, it was the face of a tall man. I had the impression that it had somehow been attached to the wrong body.

Expelling a mouthful of smoke, he gazed expectantly in my direction as if he were waiting for something to happen. An uneasy feeling slid around in me. Why was he looking my way?

I started to lower the shade. Which proved to be the wrong thing to do. The man hadn’t realized anyone was at the window, but when he saw the shade move, he started. Flicking his cigarette to the ground, he threw himself into the van and quickly backed out of my neighbor’s driveway.

I tried to catch the license plate as he sped away. I saw the familiar Lincoln profile and a lot of red, white, and blue, but the numbers were obscured by a layer of muddy ice. I stared at the retreating vehicle. Did he have something to do with the tape? Rachel thought the tape had been dropped off by someone in a van. Was he the man? If so, what was his connection to it? If only there had been a note or a letter.

As I slowly lowered the shade the rest of the way, I realized there was another problem. Even without a note, whoever dropped off the tape knew where I lived. What if the killers found out, too? What if they learned they’d been caught on videotape and decided to eliminate anyone or anything that connected them to the crime? Couldn’t that eventually lead them to me?

Maybe I should have confronted the driver. No. Whoever dropped off the tape clearly didn’t want any direct contact with me. If this man
was
the messenger, I’d already scared him off. And scared people do foolish things.

I went up to the bathroom and ran hot water until the windows steamed up. Should I call Georgia Davis? No. This was just a maid’s service, for God’s sake. And a man smoking a cigarette. She’d probably tell me I was imagining things. And, to be fair, who’s to say I wasn’t? Maybe the man was daydreaming and just happened to be gazing at my house, his mind a thousand miles away. Maybe the movement of the shade jerked him back to reality, and he jumped into the van, realizing his schedule would be thrown off if he dawdled further.

The real issue was the identity of the woman on the tape. Why had her life ended in a shadowy room with wall paneling and linoleum tiles? Figuring that out was a wiser use of my time than worrying about a man on my neighbor’s driveway. Assuming I wanted to worry about any of it at all.

I stepped into the shower, trying to imagine what she’d done to warrant such a vicious, cold-blooded death. I couldn’t come up with anything, but my experience with murder is limited. Unlike the men on the tape. They’d seemed comfortable with their task. Practiced. Ski masks to hide their faces. No hesitation before they attacked. As far as I could tell, they hadn’t even talked to each other while they were killing her. And there were two of them. Someone wanted her dead badly enough to use two men for the job.

I stood under the hot water, rinsing off soap. If only the quality of the tape were better. A sharper image might have revealed the woman’s face, or at least some distinguishing feature. Something in the room might have told me where it was.

The police said they were sending the tape to the crime lab. But they didn’t say how long it would take. The lab serves all of Northern Illinois’ law enforcement agencies, including Chicago’s. There could be dozens of videotapes waiting for forensic analysis. It might take weeks, even months, to get anything back. What if the man driving the van wasn’t the innocent I was trying to convince myself he was? Did I want to wait a month or more to find out?