The Good Kind of Bad (33 page)

‘I got promoted at work,’ I muttered, my lap becoming quite fascinating.

‘That’s great!’ Evan suggested, now positively cheery, but I shook my head. ‘That’s not great?’

‘Quentin Renaud, the guy whose job I took, hung himself. He’s dead.’

‘That’s got to be a buzz kill.’ Evan draped his suit jacket over his chair before sitting and rolling his shoulders, adjusting the gun holster that sat over his white shirt. ‘How’d you find out? Wait, isn’t that where Reeve went? To Faith? That place has got to be cursed.’

Faith? More likely me. ‘I saw him, all right? I discovered him . . . hanging.’ If only I’d been nicer to him, if only I’d listened. Maybe
I’d
pushed Quentin over the edge. Maybe Joe
had
turned me into a bitch.

Trapped in the bowels of the police station, one barred window let in the late-July sunlight. I was beginning to detest who I’d become. I’d taunted a beaten-up friend. I’d felt pangs of relief that Quentin was dead and his office and job were now mine. Now even Evan’s words felt hollow.

‘Look, I have to get back to it, my captain’s after my blood over some IA bullshit. You’ll be all right going home on your own? I could send you in a blue and white if you want.’

As I moved to the door, Evan’s smile offered little comfort. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Wait. Stop. You can’t keep living out of a suitcase in that goddamn suite.’

Folding my arms, I stuck out my lip. ‘And why not?’

‘It’ll take longer than a couple of weeks, you know.’

‘For what?’

‘For the police to get bored of looking for Joe? That’s what you’re waiting for, right? Besides, I can’t protect you in a hotel, somewhere anyone can walk in and out unnoticed, especially if you think you’re being trailed. Go straight to your room and pack your stuff. You’re having the guest bedroom, and this time? You don’t get a say.’

I almost laughed. ‘You can’t be serious, Evan.’

‘Of course I’m serious.’

‘What, you don’t want me at the police station but you want me to move in with you?’

He frowned. ‘There’s a difference between Zupansky and complete strangers seeing us together, and one doesn’t end with getting shanked in a jail cell.’

It sounded like the worst plan ever. ‘And what about Brandi? The last thing I want is to listen to you two . . .’

‘Uh, we’re on a break. She won’t be visiting any time soon. Go get your things. Promise?’

‘Thinking about it, I’m sure it was a misunderstanding ‒ mistaken identity or something.’ Of a guy who then chased me down the street? Yeah, right. Or maybe I didn’t want to move in with the guy that murdered my husband, murdered anybody, however sorry and guilt-ridden he was.

‘It doesn’t matter. You’re scared, and there’s no way you’re sitting home alone in the state you’re in. Come on, honey, look at yourself. You’re shaking.’

Though Evan was right. The Four Seasons was hardly Fort Knox. Anyone could be wandering those halls, waiting for their chance to put a bullet in me. If Nina knew my address then probably so did Mickey, so did Trench Coat Guy. I was all out of choices. I couldn’t take the risk in staying put.

‘All right, but it’s only for a few days. And I suppose Sybil’s welcome too?’

‘Sybil’s welcome too.’

Evan opened the door, half stepping into the corridor. I was all ready to follow when he placed an arm across the doorway and trailed his fingers down his mouth.

‘Here,’ Evan murmured, reaching to his trouser pocket and retrieving a key before closing my palm around it. ‘Don’t take too long.’

His grip on my hand was tight, and I felt myself pulling away.

‘Oh, and whatever you do? Don’t tell anyone my address, don’t tell anyone you’re living with me, and don’t come to my work again, however much you think a stalker is trying to kill you,’ he ordered, checking the length of the hall for onlookers.

Before I turned for the exit, I watched him saunter away down the corridor.

In the taxi across to West Superior, I considered diverting the driver to O’Hare and catching the next flight to New York. Nina had threatened to tell Zupansky about Joe, I’d been chased around Chicago by a psycho, and, best of all, I’d lived up to my
stupid girl
moniker by panicking and running to the police station, where every cop in South Chicago could see Evan and me together. I had a million and one reasons to escape, but however much I wanted to, I couldn’t. The stakes on Joe were too high, though after today’s almost run-in with a semi-automatic machine gun, I was starting to think escaping was worth the risk.

Letting myself into Evan’s apartment with the gifted key, I was struck by how quiet it was. The world was still for the first time since Joe’s bullet. After all the running and panicking, I was happy to sit, close my eyes and forget ‒ forget I’d given in to Evan.

I’d had to
drag
Sybil into the taxi. She probably thought I was taking her back to South Evergreen, to Joe and his kicks, but I couldn’t blame her for digging in her claws. This was her third home in six weeks, but easily the biggest. After she gave it the sniff test and tore furiously at Evan’s intricately threaded pale curtains, she settled on the sofa and fell asleep.

Sitting next to Sybil, I pondered Evan’s kind offer. It’d been generous, insisting I take the spare room (it was larger than South Evergreen’s lounge and kitchen put together), though when I thought about it, what did I know about Evan? He was a cop, okay, but so was Mickey. Evan had taken a life, hidden the evidence, and invested plenty of time in ensuring I didn’t tell. His parting shot at the police station hadn’t been words of comfort. At least he didn’t know about my confession to Nina at Bemo’s, but if she had anything to do with it, Zupansky would be on the doorstep sooner than we’d hoped, and I’d been hoping for never.

Now here in Evan’s house, I knew I’d made a mistake. This place didn’t feel safe at all. It only brought back the pain, the drowning of my hurt.

‘Hey, you here?’ Evan shouted from the hallway.

I must’ve fallen asleep. Looking at the clock above the fireplace, three hours had passed. It was then he emerged in the lounge, his shirt dirty from a day pushing papers and interrogating suspects. After flopping onto the sofa beside Sybil and me, he kicked off his shoes.

‘You been here long? Bring all your stuff?’

‘All present and correct.’

‘No trench coats en route?’

‘No trench coats.’

‘Good. The place all right? Temperature okay? I can show you how to work the air conditioning if you want later. You hungry, thirsty? How about takeout from that new place on St. Paul’s Street?’

‘Evan, stop. Stop a second.’

‘Yes?’

I looked down at my hands, unsure how to begin. ‘I think we need to talk.’

He smiled, rubbing a finger across the bridge of his nose. ‘Aren’t you supposed to say that
after
we’re going out?’

I shot him a frown. It was a joke, of course it was, but Evan was nothing short of rude at the police station and now he wanted to joke about playing cutesy couples? And what had really gone on with the elusive Brandi? As soon as I agree to stay, they’re on a break?

‘Listen, maybe . . . maybe this isn’t the best idea. You know, me staying here? We shouldn’t be seen together, it’s not right. I’ve had a few hours to think about it, and I think it’s best if I get myself another place.’ A place anywhere other than Chicago, perhaps.

Evan rested his elbow on the back of the sofa behind me, his arm not quite around my shoulders, but close. ‘I was pissed at the station ’cause the case is still open on Joe. Missing Persons are dealing and they’re attached to Violent Crimes
and
Property Crimes now for the whole South Area. He was your husband and I killed him. I don’t want our eager cop buddy Zupansky putting two and two together, that’s all.’

‘I still don’t think it’s a good idea. Besides, doesn’t this seem like a sign to you?’ I suggested.

‘Sign?’

‘To leave Chicago.’

He rolled his head against the back of the sofa, groaning as he did. ‘Come on, honey, we’ve been through this. You can’t leave until we’re sure you’re not a suspect, or me for that matter, or until they’re convinced Joe is still alive. If it weren’t for his father, you’d have been on that plane already. You can’t go, not yet.’

I tried to look shocked at Evan’s insistence, but it was hardly a revelation. Even so, I took another stab at it. ‘Look what happened today. It’s not that I want to leave, I
need
to. It’s not safe here.’

‘As if it was ever safe,’ he pondered.

‘People are following me, I barely got away. Don’t you get it? Someone is out to kill me.’

‘Listen to yourself, to what you’re saying. Why would someone be following you? I’m offering you the room and a place to stay because you’re scared. Whether this stalker thing is real or not, all that matters is you feeling safe.’

I sat on the edge of a conspiracy I’d been granted unlimited access to, and, as it transpired, a real one. Mickey’s confidential operations were under jeopardy because his girlfriend liked to gossip. He was beginning to tie up loose ends, and after my brush with Trench Coat Guy today, I guessed he was starting with me.

‘Shock means you’re seeing things that aren’t there.’ Evan reached a hand to my face but I pushed him away.

‘I
didn’t
imagine it. A man with a beard and a trench coat followed me down the street and was going to kill me.’ I didn’t need a PhD in body language to know he didn’t believe me.

‘A beard and a trench coat? I don’t know. We better call the FBI. I’ll have them put out an APB so we can catch this dangerous trench-coat man.’

I frowned, throwing down my hands. ‘Why is everything one big joke to you?’

‘You know what? Forget it.’

‘Forget what?’

Evan leapt off the sofa in one quick movement. Hastily retying his shoes, he grabbed for his jacket.

‘You’re walking out?’ I asked, dumbfounded.

‘What does it matter? You’re leaving Chicago anyway, right?’

‘Evan! You’re a stubborn asshole sometimes, you know that?’

‘Read it and weep.’

Unsettling was how best to describe the first days at Evan’s apartment.

With everything still balanced on a knife-edge, me moving into Evan’s guest room had done little to quell that. I’d heard him talking to Brandi on the phone, asking her to stop calling, but I knew my unpacked suitcase peeved him more. He had to know. I wasn’t planning on sticking around for long, or being anything other than friends.

It was a security thing, a waiting game. That was all.

Work became the dull shell where my life used to be. My colleagues dragged their heels, unable to muster the strength as Quentin’s death became the curse placed on us all. I lost the Apple Rosenbaum campaign, profits were down, and doubts emerged over my ability to lead. I didn’t want the job anymore. For the second time my hands were covered in a dead man’s blood.

I thought about Quentin hanging from the light, the rope eating into his skin and the twisted, unnatural angle of his neck. His face was never present, my mind instead wandering to his aberrant feelings before the end.

And then there was Nina. Occasionally I spied her from my office, shimmering at the edge of the workspace like a mirage. All I wanted was the chance to say sorry, but the right time never came. Nina harboured a dangerous secret. I needed her back on side as soon as possible, and before she decided to tell. Then again, I was beginning to feel like nothing was real. I was under someone else’s control, my life in stasis as I patiently waited for eternity.

It was now Thursday, and after plenty of glancing over my shoulder, Monday’s stalker wasn’t back for a return visit. Maybe Mickey
had
been scaring me into keeping quiet. Whatever the reason, I had Radio Cabs on speed dial. No more El, crowds and living alone for me, until TC Guy, Trench Coat Guy, became a bad memory.

From behind my desk, I stared out towards Lake Michigan. I’d loved this city, once. Now, for a shot at self-preservation, I had to break the spell and escape; my freedom nothing until I was unchained from Evan, the past and all that it implied.

When Nina entered the workspace clutching two paper bags from Starbucks, I thought she was heading for the open door of my office.
Finally
. Readying myself with a string of apologies and an un-forced grin, she stopped short, taking the free seat by Ashleigh York and Carin Manning ‒ two pretty girls wearing tulip skirts and sparkly slicks of eyeliner.

I gave the group an envious glare, peering out from behind my Mac screen like a loser. She didn’t want to know.
It’s fine. Whatever. Big deal.

Nina had no more Mickey stories for me. We barely made eye contact anymore, never mind spoke, but judging by her face, events had escalated. Her foundation now struggled to hide the fresh bruises, Mickey emerging as nine kinds of psychotic crazy.