Authors: Jack Parker
"You're confidence is misplaced," she said, pushing past him to take the seat. "I'll admit that I have a competitive streak. You have to in this business, you know that, and yeah…you beat me out a couple of times. I won't deny
that
didn't piss me off, but don't imply I would do something shady because of it."
"Fair enough."
She blinked at the sudden end to animosity. Before she could catch her breath, Scott was heading out of her cubicle.
"Hey," Tessa said, calling him back, "I read your article. It was…tactful."
"I thought you didn't want me to pursue it." Scott said, his voice skeptical and rightly reticent that her words were a compliment, "Did you change your mind?"
"You don't have much."
"True. But there are two things about these cases that I don't like." He spoke slowly at first, but then seemed to warm to the idea of sharing, "One, the women looked alike—roughly the same age, brunette. And they both disappeared on the 19th of the month, Gail in February, Darla in March. Then in April..."
"What about it?" Tessa asked.
There was a pause, as though Scott wondered how much more to say. "It took some time, it was buried deeper and it's listed as murder. Our third victim, a woman named Russo, was found dead a few days ago. Her body and car were pulled from Lake Michigan. She lived alone, was reported missing almost to the day as the others. She also appears to match the same general description, waitresses that worked for family run restaurants. I got some details from the local precinct."
"What was that name again?"
"Russo. Kate Russo. Know her too?"
Tessa shook her head gently, but didn't meet his eyes. "You didn't print anything about her."
"'Cause there's something else," He said cryptically. "She was found in the lake….barely a mile from Navy Pier. Detective Blaine filled me in on the exact location."
Her face paled. "Making friends are we?"
Scott put his hands on his hips as though trying to halt the questions. "Speaking of…How did you make out with the Perellis?"
She glared at the assumption she'd done her own inquiry. But she admitted truthfully, "They didn't want to talk."
Scott's cell phone rang. The frown on his face communicated his displeasure at the interruption. His expression only darkened as he looked at the number displayed on his phone. "I need to take this," he mumbled.
Tessa watched him wander away. It was obvious it was a woman he was talking to on the phone, his voice held that charming singsong quality. She rolled her eyes and wondered about the undeniably handsome man's love life. Scott's hands showed no rings and he talked almost less than she did about a personal life. She knew he'd evaded questions from others on the topic. Her imagination busily built a jaded past—some dark secret that forced him to leave New York and hide out in Chicago.
She rolled her eyes again and gave her head a small shake.
Yup, this is why I don't write fiction,
she thought.
Shifting her attention, she studied the news archives, unknowingly covering much of the same ground as Scott had the day before, trying to find every printed fact about Kate Russo's death.
Tapping the postcard in her pocket, she turned to the computer and ran a search for Leviticus, refreshing her memory on the quote.
And he that smiteth any man mortally shall surely be put to death
G.J. had been right about one thing. Catholic and Italian went together. Who better to know what might be going on than the family pastor?
Tessa exchanged the Bible for the telephone book.
Economics
Rinnngg..
Plum shades and muted golds trimmed the outer corners of the room— rich tones that suggested opulence and yet appeared understated in the glare of all the lights. Scott sat in one of the plastic hotel conference room chairs, and ground his teeth, transferring the caller to voice mail. It had been a long day; his jaw was set in frustration at all the distractions.
"Most people call a press conference in the morning." Scott looked at the man seated beside him, one of twenty-odd reporters in the hotel ballroom who added, "It's going to be dark before I get this written up."
Scott twirled his pencil, his pad lay open to a blank page, not that he expected to write much. "Politicians like control. Then again, maybe what he has to say isn't all that important. This is the second one of these my editor sent me to today."
"Well, don't hold your breath thinking Barton Malone is going to be forthcoming. Scandal breeds silence."
"Maybe."
"I'm Jerry Grimes," the man said offering his hand.
"Scott Crawford."
There was a spark of recognition in the man's eyes as the two shook hands. "I thought so. You're new to the Trib, right?"
He groaned inwardly at the same boring phrase.
How long does it take to get over being the new guy?
"The Tribune pays my salary."
A voice to his left said, "Nice to hear. Some of the crew here are double dippers."
Jerry turned to address the dark haired man who had interrupted them. "Now, Detective," he grumbled, "last year's investigation of the Sun Times, showed no evidence of wrongdoing. We print facts, not what we're told."
"I wasn't talking to you," the detective said, his tone businesslike but dismissive. He cocked his head and gave Scott a long look.
Returning the scrutiny, Scott saw a man dressed in plain clothes. He could have been a reporter, fitting the rest of the pseudo-uniform of Dockers and polo shirts. Still, he went with his gut. "Detective Blaine, I presume?"
"Can't get nothing by you." The man smiled. "I figured you'd be here, Crawford. I've been following your articles on the City Council this last week."
Scott couldn't help but wonder why the police officer he'd spoken with on the phone would seek him out. "I'm just getting started. Thanks for your help yesterday, on the Perelli matter. My network here isn't large."
"But mine is," the detective countered, "New York speaks favorably of you."
Scott looked away, surveying the ballroom, noting the presence of the television cameras and half listening to the hum of other conversations around him. Seemingly preoccupied, he said, "Specifically?"
There was a pause. "Marcy Finch."
Was it professional courtesy that caused the man to leave off the title of detective from her name? Before Scott could ask how well Blaine knew Detective Finch, they were interrupted by a flurry of activity at the door with everyone turning to see the city council member walk purposefully towards the podium. Scott wondered how Chicago could pay for all its bureaucrats. Four suits dogged Barton Malone's patent leather steps.
'
City manager, planning committee chairman, short-skirted girl that gets his coffee, and…bodyguard?'
Jotting notes on the pad of paper on his lap, Scott listened as the first questions were launched. He didn't feel a need to focus too hard on the dialogue; he'd already heard the evasions from another member of the Chicago Pier and Exhibition Authority earlier today. Scott had been silent at
that
press conference.
Accusations of bribery, the Perelli case, along with any more questions for Detective Blaine, would have to wait for a less public venue. Twirling his pencil, Scott looked up and studied the council member who spoke to the audience. Ten minutes had passed and the man hadn't even broken a sweat. Impeccably groomed, Barton Malone looked like he belonged on a postage stamp.
Jerry held his hand in the air like an expectant student, eager and excited. Scott mimicked the gesture, although his arm rose tentatively and only half as high. If everyone in town thought he was the new guy, he'd put it to his advantage and let the politician gamble on the rookie reporter.
Sure enough, he got the nod.
"Scott Crawford with the Chicago Tribune, Mr. Malone," he introduced as per protocol, "I understand before you became a city councilman two years ago, you were not a resident of this county."
Preening, the councilman said, "That's correct. I moved here and immediately wanted to become involved."
Raising his voice, Scott said, "So involved, that in the last eighteen months you have invested in twelve rental properties along the proposed development perimeter—investments that are being underwritten by the same credit union that was a primary campaign supporter and spent a record amount to defeat the incumbent. Should we believe that your recent move to this part of town, the low interest loans, and land purchases are all in the name of 'getting involved'?"
"What?"
"How long has the Xenex Corporation had these plans to own four city blocks by the Pier?"
Barton Malone stared at Scott. His wrinkle free face appeared calm but something flickered in his eyes and his knuckles grew white as they gripped the edges of the podium. Scott stared back, hoping the man would wonder how much he knew. Money laundering or payment for services rather than bribery? On the first count he had only theory; on the other it was only a matter of time.
The City Manager moved towards the microphone. With the television cameras still rolling, Scott launched one final question. "You're not the mastermind behind the Xenex Corporation. Who are you fronting for?"
It didn't surprise Scott that the press conference came to a rapid close with his questions unanswered. He remained standing, half expecting some sort of parting jibe or at least a dirty look as the City Manager was ushered from the room. Instead, he was ignored. Even Jerry avoided his eye, and gathered up his tape recorder and hustled out.
"You should learn to be more subtle," Detective Blaine said.
The cell phone on his hip vibrated, a quiet reminder to Scott of other pending conversations. "The Mob doesn't scare me," he said.
"With that attitude, Mr. Crawford, you may find more than just your nose broken."
Only a couple of people knew about that history: a bit of a squabble over a garbage collection contract that hadn't smelled right. A twist of fate with an enforcer for a Mob boss in New York named Aiello. Scott resisted the reflex to touch his own face and thereby confirm what could only be the Detective's speculation.
"I've done my own research," the detective admitted, "be careful. You're in Chicago now."
Cocking his head to the side, Scott asked, "Is that what you came to tell me? A phone call would have done."
"The last time we talked on the phone, you didn't use all the information I gave you. I find that...interesting."
The detective made his exit, saving the reporter from having to respond. Scott stared at the door for a long time, a frown on his face. It was the vibration of his cell phone that returned his thoughts to the present.
Stilling the intrusion, he flipped open the phone. "Yeah," Scott said, walking towards the exit.
"Darling," crooned a familiar voice, "you've kept me waiting. You know how I hate that."
"Unavoidable, Marlayna," Scott replied, searching his pockets for his car keys.
There was an audible sigh on the other end of the line. "And here I thought you were desperate for information. I even began to imagine my payment the next time you're in town."
"I told you I wasn't coming back to New York."
The caller clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, making a clicking noise that Scott despised. "You'd be a fabulous editor. I need a successor. You never did let me counter the Tribune's offer."
The hotel door swished open in response to his weight on the black mat sensor. "True." He left the rest unsaid, unwilling to explain that Marlayna's idea of "training" him was half his reason for leaving his last job in the first place. "I'm rushing to a deadline, have you got anything for me?"
"Your kidnapping victim happens to be in New York," she said smugly, "It's like old times. You, looking for people. My staff, finding them in the morgue."
"Damn," he mumbled.
"You can have the byline if you can add more background."
"Don't joke, Marlayna."
"I wouldn't dream of it, Darling," she purred. "Murder is far too entertaining for a one-liner."
In the parking lot, Scott's footsteps faltered. A note on his windshield was pinned only by the wiper. It read, "Be careful." The reversed "e" was the only thing that distinguished it from the detective's verbal warning.
He needed to think, and having his former editor droning in his ear didn't allow him to concentrate. With a promise of an article, Scott pocketed the phone and started walking around the vehicle looking for clues, wanting to ensure nothing else had been tampered with. The Alpha Romeo Spider was his prized possession and he didn't like that it had been touched.
There wasn't much traffic in the parking lot. Only one other figure on foot was close enough to be of interest—a woman with red hair. He waited for his suspicions to be confirmed and was fortunate enough to have her drive past. He'd seen the Jetta with its driver before.
His fingers toyed with the note. Left by friend or foe? The cast of characters was becoming more difficult to label.
Tessa was unaware of Scott's scrutiny and suspicions as she drove the trusty car towards her scheduled four o'clock appointment at St. Joseph's Basilica. The large refurbished church was situated almost in the middle of her old neighborhood, one of the few places in Norwood Park her heart held no ill will.
It had been a while since she'd been to the building with its stone and stained glass. She sat in the parking lot for a few minutes and looked her fill. Her voice softened to almost a whisper. "Forgive me Father for I have sinned."
The stone steps took her weight easily and the heavy oak door opened with a pull of one arm. The choir practiced Ave Maria, the sound wafting up to the rafters. Tessa stared towards the front and the altar, and instinctively made the sign of the cross and uttered quietly, "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti."
She cringed— old habits never died.
"Buon giorno, Contessa. It's so good to see you," a soft-spoken voice whispered beside her.
For all his fair-haired good looks, he might have been an angel. She, however, knew it wasn't completely plausible as she spoke, "Hello, Father. How have you been?"
"Better now," Father Luke replied, his voice hushed in deference to the surroundings, "Come to my office so that we don't disturb the rehearsal."
The smile broadened across her face as she followed the familiar path, past the pews and on behind the altar. The office was off to the side and surprisingly blocked out almost all sounds of the choir. A small clock ticked away the seconds unobtrusively on the desk, pictures lined one bookcase, while large tomes lined a much larger case on the opposite wall. Nothing opulent adorned this quaint room.
With a pot of tea between them, they spoke of the comings and goings in the neighborhood and parish over the last year. The goings were what interested her most, since apparently over the past six months or so, several predominant families—or at least their younger members—had indeed left the parish. Some had scattered to various parts, but a few had apparently relocated to the East Coast.