The Good Kind of Bad (32 page)

Nina smiled knowingly. ‘Damn, girl, maybe you don’t have it all. Petrocelli? He poisoned you. You used to be a
nice
girl, with those Disney eyes and Rapunzel hair? I’m not the only bitch here now.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘You’re trying to make yourself feel better is all. That’s what I’d do if I murdered my husband.’

‘I did not kill him,’ I replied, my veins pumping with adrenalin as my voice wavered in fear, terrified we might be overheard.

‘You could’ve made
that
up. How do I know it wasn’t you who pulled the trigger? You should take your own advice. I’m not the only one dying to confess. You snitched on Evan to me the first chance you got, and the cops are dying for a lead on Joe’s disappearance, right? Especially that detective who came to interview you.’

I laughed. ‘Convenient you’re engaged to a police officer. I confide in you and then a detective arrives to interrogate me?’

‘I keep my secrets, at least I did up to five minutes ago.’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘You should be careful who you tell these things to, girl. Secrets don’t stay secrets for long.’

With that, Nina was gone, swept away out of sight in her long black sack, and taking the secret of Joe with her.

It was like I’d watched myself from across the room, unable to stop. I’d been rescued and comforted through my ordeal by Evan. Nina had no one. Rather than console her, rather than persevere through her rage, I’d chosen to ridicule, accuse and scorn, my malicious comments stinging her already exposed wounds. Nina now had the perfect excuse to phone Zupansky and not only surrender the grave site, but me into the bargain.

At least we’d kept our conversation to barely above a whisper (after she’d stopped shouting), but talking about Joe, Mickey and Evan out in the open was a recipe for a life sentence-shaped disaster.

Thinking better of my anger, I was about to chase after her and fling an apology her way, when Cherry appeared, sliding up with a squeal and placing a jagged object in my palm. It was the key to my first office.

‘Hey, you all right?’ Cherry asked. ‘I saw you and Nina, you know . . . going at it?’

‘It’s nothing, really. I’d better take a look at my office.’ I quickened my pace towards Quentin’s old domain. At least there I could cry in peace.

‘The janitor guy said it hasn’t been cleaned all week. Quentin had the key, but he found the spare. Hope it don’t smell too bad in there.’ She wafted her hand by her nose. ‘Mr Perspiration wasn’t exactly a deodorant freak, was he?’

‘Cherry, please. It’ll be fine.’ I had to get inside, and before I began bawling like a baby.

Stopping at the door, Cherry waved me off as she retraced her steps. Taking a deep breath, I placed the key in the lock, opened the door, dropped the key, and screamed.

There was Quentin, hanging from the light with a noose around his neck.

I was told to go home, rest and phone my therapist.

Faith’s offices had become all but deserted while I stayed, answering the unending police questions. The officers deliberated with each other, commenting on the lack of surveillance cameras following the refit and the absence of keys in the office, but to me it was a jumbled mix of jargon.

Better still, upon seeing Detective Reeve mulling about the workspace, I’d melodramatically flattened my back against the side wall like I was in some cheap TV movie, scared he’d slap the cuffs on me for daring to avoid him, or murdering Joe. It was one of the two.

And now? I was heading home, alone.

The rope, the body, the lifelessness, and the sickening realisation I’d seen it all before. Death was the one constant in my life. I was starting to think I wasn’t bad luck, but I’d been cursed. I felt sick for being vile to Quentin, for ignoring the suicidal warning signs, but it didn’t matter. I was ready to take my punishment. Every day I would sit in the office of the man who’d hung himself from the ceiling light.

Down in the lobby, I was busy making a beeline for the front doors, before the receptionist insisted on calling me over.

It took a while to work out what Maggie wanted. She was mumbling something about redirected mail, but acquiring rumour about events upstairs was the real endgame.

As Maggie prattled on, I surveyed the lobby’s occupants. Extras sipped coffee and read newspapers, unaware a dead man had hung above them. As people zipped through the lobby, brimming with bags and boxes and gear, the courier wheeled a trolley by before a familiar silhouette caught my eye.

He was across to the left on a pastel blue sofa. I recalled the features behind the stubble, the tan trench coat and unfaltering fascination for the newspaper. It was Trench Coat Guy, Nina’s supposed tail from Jodi’s coffee shop. Any plausible explanation didn’t involve coincidence, Nina’s concerns disturbingly verified. Trench Coat Guy was here, in
our
building.

My attention snapped back to Maggie as I leant in, peering from the corner of my eye. Now my position allowed closer observation, he was younger than I’d first thought, putting his age at no more than twenty-five. He sported the same long coat as the day at Jodi’s, though I now noticed a suit beneath the jacket folds.

Combing back his thick hair with fanned fingers, he reached into his briefcase and retrieved a ringing Blackberry as I leant my elbows over the desk, nodding intently as Maggie’s words passed over my head.

I became quite mesmerised by the stranger’s austere eyes, his identity intriguing as I mused over his presence, though I’d been staring too long. About to make my excuses to Maggie and slip away, our eyes met.

I stared back, frozen. Did I smile, nod knowingly and chalk it up to mistaken identity, hoping he’d think the same? I had the urge to reach to my bag and call Nina, though after committing friendship suicide, I wasn’t betting on her answering. Then it hit me. If Mickey had sent Trench Coat Guy to tail Nina, she’d walked out unnoticed. I’d watched her depart once a distraught Renaud had called the police about Quentin. I knew she hadn’t wanted the police witnessing the state of her face.

The stranger couldn’t have been waiting for Nina. It wasn’t her he’d been watching in Jodi’s last Saturday. It was me.

After what felt like an eternity staring each other out, he tore away his gaze, hung up the call, gathered his briefcase and slipped the phone into his pocket.

I tried to be clever, calm, oblivious – no manic rushing or nervous stumbles, but I still felt like a zebra caught in a lion’s gaze. Making my move and leaving Maggie speculating to herself, I smiled politely at a passing colleague while focusing on the revolving doors ahead. It was only a few more paces but I was wading through quicksand, each step more difficult than the last.

I reached the threshold, pushed the glass and took a deep gulp of city air. As I hurried up LaSalle, I kept a watch on the doors with regular glances behind, checking for the emergence of Trench Coat Guy. So far a no-show, I wasn’t taking any chances. I had to get to higher ground, and fast. Or maybe I was overreacting. Just because we’d locked glances back there didn’t mean I was being followed. Just because we’d once sat in the same coffee shop didn’t mean he wasn’t there drinking coffee.

Letting my panic partially slide before crossing West Kinzie, I checked both ways for traffic, looked to my left, glimpsed the fleshy reflected faces in the glass and saw the stranger staring back.

Quickening my breath, I turned right and broke into a run along North Dearborn towards the river. The wind caught my hair as I fought against the tide of air, my mind blank as I thought only of escape.

On the block corner, my stiletto boot heel wedged itself in a street grid. I kicked to free myself, almost dislocating my ankle in the process. Looking up, he advanced at a steady and determined pace, the coat flapping behind him, gradually closing the ground between us as I swore in frustration.

Mickey had attacked Nina. Mickey wasn’t stupid. Nina had mentioned trying to persuade Mickey to dump Victor, but maybe that wasn’t the only reason for her bruises. Maybe he’d found out Nina blabbed to me. He knew I could send his world crashing down around him. And now? Mickey’s insurance policy had me as collateral.

‘Come on!’ I yelled at my heel before it dislodged and I shot out of the starting blocks.

My leather pencil skirt and stiletto boots hindered my spot of marathon running, but I had to keep moving, running, staggering ‒ anything I could. I thought about what might be hiding under Trench Coat Guy’s jacket. A knife? Like Charlie? Or maybe a semi-automatic machine gun stowed in the lining. Whatever his chosen instrument of torture, if I didn’t keep running I’d soon be meeting it in person.

When my lungs felt like they were about to burst open, I collapsed against the side of the Chicago Temple Building. My mouth choked for air like I was fighting through a smoke bomb, in the window glass my face was beetroot and panic-stricken. I needed time to catch my breath, only a few seconds more, but from between the fountains on Daley Plaza I caught another glimpse of the trench coat.

My heart sank. I felt like giving up, like letting Mickey win after underestimating his reach. What was the point in fighting now he’d sent a psycho to chop me into little pieces? This was where my morbid fascination with Mickey had got me, Nina’s betrayal of trust beaten from her and an assassin deployed to silence me for good. If only I’d believed Nina earlier.

On the cusp of giving in, I turned the corner of Washington and State and jumped into the first taxi I saw.

As the taxi screeched to a halt by the flagpoles of the police station on South State, I threw a handful of money at the driver and clambered from the car, heading for the front entrance of the Chicago Metropolitan Police’s Downtown District Headquarters, still vaguely out of breath.

After following the desk sergeant across the station towards Evan’s office, once through the doors I was instructed to wait by the water fountain.

‘Hey, Evan, guess who’s entered the building,’ I heard the sergeant say.

‘Elvis? Because that would be less weird than the cherry pie guy I just interviewed. He had the right to remain silent, I don’t know why he didn’t use it,’ Evan explained, pointing back down the corridor.

‘Evan!’ I called across the crowded room, gifting him a little wave.

As a table of detectives sniggered, Evan shot them a disdainful stare. ‘Something funny, guys?’

He looked mad, angry even.

After marching across the office, he grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the corner. ‘Honey, what the hell are you doing here?’ He spoke barely above a whisper as his gaze checked the workspace for onlookers. ‘Are you insane?’

‘Not last time I checked,’ I snapped back.

‘You get it’s not okay you’re here, right? Come on, we’ll go to Interview Five. It’s closed for refurbishment. Before anyone
else
sees you.’

I was hurriedly led down the corridor before Evan paused at the stairs, glancing back as his name was called.

‘Detective Thomasz,’ his captain shouted at the door of his office. ‘I got IA on the phone and they’d like a quiet word.’

‘Five minutes, boss, please. I’m about to crack this Faith case wide open,’ he replied, pointing to me.

‘You in the trick bag now, Evan,’ Reeve sneered as he passed, his forefingers decidedly gun-like. He was back from Faith already? I couldn’t get away from the guy. ‘Mrs Petrozzi,’ he said, tipping an invisible hat. ‘Nice boots.’

‘Is that my promotion I hear calling?’ Evan retorted. But with a two-handed swing as he sauntered away, Reeve batted Evan’s comment to the outfield.

After trailing Evan and his quick-fire pace down the stairs, I was bundled into the interview room before Evan’s smile retreated.

‘What are you doing here? I mean,
really
? Lenny knows you, Reeve knows you, Zupansky knows you? Plus, my captain thinks you’re in on an insurance scam at Faith ‒ do you want to write me in Stateville or what? The Faith investigation is closed. No one will believe I’m still looking into it.’

My grainy throat burned from all the gasping and wheezing and downright sprinting I’d done. Short of booking myself a place on the British Olympic team, each wheeze was like coughing up a razor blade. I was beginning to wish I’d circled The Loop a couple more times before losing Mickey’s bloodthirsty assassin, but where else could I have gone? Back to the hotel? That was suicide for sure. I’d thought this was the safest place in the city, but now Evan looked far from in the mood to help.

‘What’s this about?’ he asked.

‘I have a stalker, Evan. A homicidal one!’ I hoped slamming my bag on the table would shock some compassion into him, though that didn’t seem likely.

‘You have a
what
?’ Evan laughed, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

‘You think this is funny? The guy from the coffee shop was in the lobby after I was sent home from work because Quentin killed himself and . . .’

‘Wow, wait a minute, what are you talking about?’ He persuaded me to sit before I passed out.