The Inheritance (Volume Three) (3 page)

“I bought you some coffee,” I say, shoving the cup in her hand.

I kick off my shoes in the foyer and stroll into the living room, a bright smile plastered on my face.
Act normal
.

“And I’ve got donuts for – Oh, we have company.”

It’s such a cliché, the way the officer’s mouths water at the sight of the white, pink and orange box.

“I’ll take one,” the youngest officer says.

I leave the box and my purse on the coffee table and grab a pile of napkins from the kitchen. Ashleigh reclaims her seat. I’m left standing near window, glancing out the morning sun that shines blindly into the living room.

My mind can’t help but drift to Neal, locked up in Gina’s crowded house without an inch of light. She doesn’t even have an attic where he can lay on the floor, out of sight, and get a little sun.

“Would you like something to drink?” Ashleigh says, her hands folded nervously in her lap.

“Water,” the youngest officer says.

“No thank you,” grunts the older one. He’s taken two bites of a crueler, the rest untouched on his plate. Ashleigh moves to the kitchen and he wipes his hands. “You’re probably wondering why we’re here.”

I nod. “Is it about my father?”

“No,” the older one says. “Although from everyone at the Chicago PD, we are truly sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” I say.

The youngest one wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re Neal Dietrich’s girlfriend, right?”

“I am. And you are?”

A light blush dots the younger officer’s cheeks. “Officer Hagrity,” he says. “But you can call me Chad.”

“Don’t call him Chad,” the older officer says. “Officer Manson.” Immediately I think of Charles Manson rotting somewhere in a cell. He motions towards Ashleigh’s seat. “You might want to have a seat for this.”

Ashleigh’s seat is warm, lived in. How long have the police been here, waiting?

She says nothing when she hands Officer Hagrity a glass of water, taking a seat next to me on the floor.

“I’ll get up,” the older officer says, moving to stand.

“It’s alright,” Ashleigh says, flashing him a smile. “I really don’t mind.”

Officer Manson reclaims his seat. A bushy red mustache covers his thin upper lip, his age showing in the weight at his neck and the lines around his eyes, deep set and sharp as needles. He has a careful way of speaking, slow and articulate, his tongue curling around his words.

He asks when was the last time I saw Neal and I spit out a lie.

“Last night. He drove me home.”

“
He
drove you home? In
his
car?”

“No. His driver took us.”

Officer Manson nods.

Hagrity pulls a notepad from his pocket. He flips it open, clicks his pen. “Does this driver have a name?”

“I’m sure he does,” I say. “But I don’t know it.”

Officer Hagrity laughs but Manson’s face falls.

This is not how women are supposed to react to the police. I know this from watching my mother crack jokes from her car, pulled to the side of the road, a policeman carefully watching her over the top of his sunglasses. We were meant to be nervy, quiet creatures. Sitting on our hands as a sliver of vomit crawled up our throats, feet tapping against the floor as we sweat beneath our arms.
You know officer, my husband was supposed to take care of that.

I try to be more like Ashleigh, her hands wringing in her lap as she sits cross-legged by my feet.

“Miss Wheeler,” Officer Manson says, shifting in his seat. “We think your boyfriend may have been kidnapped.” There’s an emphasis on
boyfriend
, like a slap to the face. A vocal wake-up call that what’s happening is more serious than I’m taking it.

I force my mouth to drop open. “What do you mean?”

Officer Hagrity sits up. “Last night his home was burglarized.”

“Burgled,” corrects the Manson.

“Burgled,” says Hagrity.

I glance down at Ashleigh. She’s staring at me with those signature wide eyes, wet with tears.

“Is he…” I look back at the officers. I play stupid. “What does that have to do with a kidnapping?” Before they can answer I stuff my words in my throat, croaking them out. “Is Neal alright?”

“We don’t know,” says Officer Hagrity.

“His house is in pretty bad shape,” says Officer Manson. “And no one can seem to find him.”

I’ve seen enough Law and Order episodes to know what comes next. I trap my breath in my chest until I’m red in the cheeks, hands gripping the arms of my chair, fingers curling into the cushion. “Are you even looking?” I spit out.

“Ma’am,” Officer Manson says, raising his hand to me. “We understand your frustration --”

“I’m not sure you do.” I snatch my purse from the coffee table and pull out my phone. I walk to the windows and call Neal. It goes straight to voicemail. “His phone’s off,” I say.

“We know,” says Officer Manson.

“Then why did you let me call him?” My bottom lip’s trembling but I don’t think I can force out tears. I was never good at fake crying, no matter how much Suzanne tried to teach me.

“Ma’am,” says Officer Hagrity, his voice softer than this partner’s. “Can you please have a seat?”

I sit back down.

“We’re going to do everything we can to find him,” says Officer Hagrity, leaning forward.

Officer Manson clears his throat. “We’re
doing
everything we can.”

I nod and wipe my eyes, picking up non-existent tears. The motion is enough to straighten the shoulders of the officers.

Officer Manson stands first, Hagrity following his lead, sticking the notepad in his pocket as Manson digs out his card.

“If you hear anything,” he says, handing it to me.

“And what if
you
hear anything?” I ask.

“You’ll be the first to know.”

The officers shuffle out of the condo with one last glance around. Officer Hagrity wears a faint look of awe. He’s never been in a place this nice. People like me don’t get house calls from the police, our riches are meant to keep us safe.

I close the door behind them, my forehead against the wood as I listen for their feet down the hall. The elevator
pings
open, then closes.

Behind me Ashleigh’s arms wrap around my waist. I stiffen.

“I’m not letting go,” she says, her mouth against my back. “I’m so, so sorry.”

I remove her hands from my stomach and turn around. She deflates.

“I’m trying to help,” she says, shoulders slumping forward. “I know what it’s like to…” She shakes her head and turns away from me.

I grab her shoulder. “It’s not that,” I say. “It’s just…”

Can I trust Ashleigh? As far as I know she doesn’t have many (if any) friends in the city and she was fiercely loyal to my father, but loyalty isn’t inherited. She’s also the closest thing I have to a friend in Chicago.

“Neal wasn’t kidnapped,” I say.

Ashleigh’s eyes grow wide. “What?” She glances towards the door. “We should tell the cops.”

“No,” I say, hand tightening around her shoulder. “We can’t...”

Her face falls. “What’s going on?”

Ashleigh reclaims her spot on the living room floor and I sit in Officer Manson’s seat, the cushion burning from his heat. I tell her about Lee Geon and his men.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she says. “Chris told me Lee was going to retaliate soon.”

“He did? When?”

She ducks her head. “Last night.”

I relax into the couch, one leg thrown over my knee. “Did you sleep with him?”

“No,” she says. “We just…He brought me back here and we talked all night.”

Her faint smile drops as she looks over her shoulder, my father’s urn resting above the shelf full of records.

“Hey,” I say, catching her attention. “You don’t have to feel guilty, even if something did happen.”

“Yeah,” she says, forcing a smile. “I know.” Ashleigh pushes herself to her feet, tugging on her t-shirt, smoothing out her sweatpants. “Were you with Neal? Wherever he is?”

“I was.”

“Is he alright?”

I think of Neal’s fingers tangled in mine, the layer of nervous sweat on his palm, his wavering grin.

“He’s going to be fine,” I say. “I’m going to figure out a way to help him.”

Ashleigh smiles. “Because you love him.”

A frown tugs at the corners of my mouth and I feel all of eight years old as I say, “No. Because I’m a decent human being.”

Ashleigh laughs. “Does this mean you’re not leaving on Friday?”

I sit up straighter. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Maybe you should start.”

Ashleigh leaves for lunch with Chris and I call Alanis.

She picks up on the second ring, the noise of the city humming around her. “How did you get my number?”

“I sent myself a text message from your phone.”

I can almost see her grinning. “What do you want?”

“How long do you think this whole thing is going to take?”

“Give me a minute,” she says.

The noise around her grows smaller with every passing second. I imagine her weaving through the city, moving from the sidewalk to the lobby of a building, to a bathroom where she’s the only voice bouncing off the walls.

“Are you still there?”

“Yeah.”

A door opens and closes. “Lee doesn’t have much patience. The second his men got back from Neal’s house he probably sent out a search party. I say we have about forty-eight hours before he kidnaps you and hangs you off the side of a building.”

My chest tightens. I see a flash of myself, my blouse riding up my stomach, heavy hands wrapped around both ankles as two men hang me off the Willis Tower, the frigid air scratching against my exposed skin, blood rushing to my head and throat, deafening my screams.

“That’s not funny,” I say.

“I’m not trying to be funny.”

“Two days is cutting it close,” I say. “I’m leaving on Friday.”

Alanis sighs. “Do you know how difficult it is to get a meeting with Lee?”

“What if we have something he wants?”

“
Everyone
has something Lee wants. He’s going to make us wait because he doesn’t want to seem incapable. He wants to find Neal on his own and we’re going to be his last resort. I can’t even get us in until Thursday at the earliest, and that’s barring a miracle.”

“What if we find him?”

“We won’t get past his guards.”

“But what if we could?”

“What are you on about?”

“My father took me to a restaurant on the South Side once. He said they had the best Chinese food in the city. We get there and Lee and his men were having dinner. Afterwards I found out that’s where Lee holds most of his meetings.”

I don’t tell her my father dragged me along because he wanted to openly antagonize Lee and the other man would never do anything while I was by my father’s side.

Alanis hums in interest. “How long ago was that?”

“Six, seven years?”

Alanis spits out a laugh. “You’re kidding me, right? That place probably doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But it won’t hurt to try.”

She pauses. “Alright. What’s the name?”

______

My father’s condo is eerily quiet, the way it’s always been when he left me alone. I remember waking up to find no one was home. I would stand in the middle of the living room, calling out my name,
Caitlin!
bouncing off the walls and windows in a hollow echo.

With my feet kicked up on the couch, head resting on the arm, I try it again.

“Caitlin!” I say.

My name echoes through the room but it doesn’t have the same effect. I’m too jaded to appreciate the wonder of it.

Across the room my father’s urn haunts me from the bookshelf, the sun shimmering off the gold and black onyx. I can almost feel the ghost of his eyes on the back of my head, arms crossed as he stands with his feet hip-width apart.
Get your feet off the goddamn couch
.

I stand up and straighten Alanis’s dress. I should take it off but I don’t. Instead, my feet lead me from the living room to the opposite end of the condo, where my father’s bedroom door looms at the end of the hall.

The door’s cracked open, a sliver of sun peeking through, drawing thin orange and yellow lines on the wall. Ashleigh must’ve left it open on her way out. The floor creaks as I take a step forward, my eyes catching sight of the foot of my father’s bed. Covered in red sheets (Ashleigh’s idea) the old brown bedframe has been replaced with a black frame a good ten inches off the floor. Rows of heels are pushed underneath, next to messy piles of clothes discarded by a kick of the foot.

My hand hovers over the silver knob. All I have to do is push forward.

A stream of light catches on my arm. I’m reminded of the bloodstain on my father’s shirt. More red and less yellow but it takes me back all the same. A similar sliver of vomit crawls up my throat, my stomach twisting in fear and disgust.

I shut the door and jump back, rushing into the living room.

I’m not ready to enter my father’s room and I’m not sure I ever will be.

I arrive at the police station an hour early for my appointment.

The officer behind the front desk can’t be more than nineteen, his brown hair shoved carefully to the side, his cheeks pink with youth. He stares up at me with the wide-eyed innocence of someone fresh out the academy, his uniform crisp and new, ironed along the seams, his badge glimmering beneath the poor light of the station.

He introduces himself as, “Officer Bradley,” and smiles a little wider when I tell him my name. “I knew your dad,” he says.

“Really? How so?”

“He donated a lot of money to our station. Threw a lot of fundraisers. Bought me my first beer.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t look twenty-one.”

His blush deepens as he ducks his head. “That’s what everyone says.”

The waiting area is full. A line of prostitutes take up the chairs against the wall, their wrists linked together by silver handcuffs. A man I assume to be a pimp sits across from them, his legs spread wide, knees bumping into the thigh of a suburban mother clutching her purse in her lap. An older woman sits beside her, casually flipping through a book. She doesn’t flinch when the police drag a rough-neck man into the precinct and the tattooed man beside her, curls his lips into his teeth and growls.