Killing Red (25 page)

It was just past two in the morning when Chapa got dropped off in front of the Andrews’ two-story home in Wrigleyville. Jenny was waiting for him at the door. She looked tired, but welcoming. Jenny had always been more cute than beautiful, and she hadn’t lost much of that to age.

“You didn’t have to stay up, Jen,” Chapa said, dragging himself up the steps. “Joe gave me a spare key.”

“From what I understand, you could probably use a small welcoming committee.”

Chapa politely turned down her offers of food and beverage.

“I just need to lie down. A couch, the floor, your front step, I don’t care.”

Then she noticed the blood on the back of his shirt, so Chapa had to go over some of the highlights of his day.

“Joe told me things got rough. But of course, he couldn’t go into detail. Let me get you one of his shirts.” She was on the move before he could tell her not to bother. “You know where the guest room is. It’s ready for you.”

Chapa had stayed in the Andrews’ guest room before when a party or an outing had run long. It was nicer than a suite at the Ritz, complete with fresh linens, a TV, and a private bathroom. All Chapa wanted to do was ruin the neatly made bed.

Jenny knocked before entering, but Chapa had not yet harnessed the energy to draw up a plan for undressing.

“Here’s a comfortable shirt to sleep in, and a pair of sweats I don’t think Joe has ever worn.”

The navy blue T-shirt had one of those motivational slogans on it.

Each of our days is a self-portrait of who we are
.

“I’ve seen this kind of—” he started to say
crap,
but caught himself, “stuff on posters before, but not on clothing. How innovative.”

“It’s just one of Joe’s comfy shirts, he doesn’t wear it very often.”

Chapa made a mental note to give Andrews shit about having “comfy shirts.” She showed him the clean towels in the bathroom, and the ironing board in the closet.

“Really, Jen, my clothing would probably burst into flames if a hot iron came within six inches of it.”

She smiled politely.

“If there’s anything else you need—”

“Just go back to bed. I really didn’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re a friend and a guest, not a bother.” She smiled again and closed the door behind her as she left.

Chapa was still lying awake when Joseph Andrews got home a little more than an hour later. He waited to hear if Jenny would wake up to greet him. When that didn’t happen, Chapa willed himself out of bed and wandered to the kitchen.

“Strasser was taller,” Chapa said as he walked into the room where his friend was digging around for a snack.

“Taller than?”

“The guy in the video.”

“C’mon, Al, are you telling me that you can discern a man’s height from a grainy security video?”

“Delacruz was about the same height as me, and not much shorter than the holdup man. But Strasser was taller.”

Andrews said nothing, and just stared at Chapa, then shook his head and said, “You look even worse than you did at the office. Have you slept?”

The kitchen was done up in a 1950’s theme complete with vintage napkin dispensers like the ones in a diner, and old signs and magazine ads on the walls. The subtle smell of fresh apples gave it a homey feel, and though the only light at the moment came from a fixture above the sink, Chapa could see that this room was as colorful and warmly decorated as any in the house.

“No, I’ve been lying in the dark for more than an hour trying to figure out what the hell this is supposed to mean,” Chapa said, pointing to the slogan on the front of the T-shirt.

Andrews laughed.

“That shirt does look kind of ridiculous on you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. What did you find out about Lorn Strasser?”

Andrews shook his head, “Still looking. He either left no tracks, anywhere, or did an expert job of covering them. We’ll know more in the morning.”

Chapa watched as Andrews carefully constructed a sandwich, allowing none of the purple jelly to escape its white bread boundary.

“You hungry? Should I make you one?”

“Thanks, but I’m too damn tired to be hungry. Did Jenny decorate the kitchen?”

Andrews nodded and mumbled something unintelligible through a mouthful of sandwich, then swallowed.

“She’s into all this vintage antique stuff. I don’t care for it, but you work things out. You know?”

Chapa stared at a wall that was half covered with photos of the Andrews family taken during various trips and special occasions. An old sign above the collection of thoughtfully framed pictures read,
TODAY’S SPECIALS
.

“No, actually, based on my own experiences, I don’t know,” Chapa said as he dumped his tired ass into a vintage metal and vinyl chair. “I fired my lawyer today.”

“I know a good one, a winner. I’ll leave his card by the door.”

“Is he expensive?”

Andrews shrugged.

“Because you’re looking at a soon to be unemployed writer.”

That spurred Andrews to finish his sandwich in one large bite, and pull up a chair as Chapa brought him up to speed on what was happening at the
Chicago Record
.

“The thing about tonight was that I needed to get my name at the end of a byline again. Besides, after being in an alley shootout and winding up with a concussion for my troubles, the least I could hope for was to get a story out of it.”

“Everybody has a job to do, Al, I’m good with that. But you’re too damn fine a reporter to be on the street for long. Have you already started sending out feelers?”

Chapa shook his head.

“First I’ve got to see this thing with Annie and Grubb through to the execution. Right now it’s the only assignment I have.”

“As far as that goes, the hard part is over. In less than thirty-six hours Kenny Lee Grubb will be a corpse.”

“There’s still a story to write, and it has to be a great one.”

Chapa got up to help himself to a glass of water, but immediately regretted his decision to move. Andrews motioned for him to sit back down and got his friend a drink.

“Once that’s all in the rearview, I’ll turn my attention to Nikki and dealing with her mother. After that, there’s the work thing.”

“Ever heard of multitasking?”

“I do it all the time, but the stakes are higher now. I need to stay focused.”

Chapa took a long drink of ice water and let the coldness bring a dull ache from deep inside his throat to the surface.

“Joe, do you ever struggle to figure out what you’re supposed to do next?”

The old metal frame creaked a little as Andrews leaned back in his chair.

“No, not really.”

Chapa nodded knowingly, picked up his glass of water and raised it, like a toast, in the direction of the wall of photos.

“Then count your blessings, my friend.”

Andrews copied the gesture.

“Believe me, Al, I do.”

Chapa’s memories of his few early years in Cuba were not so much a series of events that told the story of his childhood as they were individual highlights, like the clips in a movie trailer designed to show you just enough to whet your appetite for more.

In this case, however, there was no more. And over time the pictures in his head had become one with the photos in old albums and the handful of stories his mother had passed on to him. As a result, he wasn’t always certain where one memory ended and a collection of blended images began.

He was a solitary child playing on a long, hot beach, his parents watching from a safe distance. Another day, walking with his father along the edge of Morro Castle, the centuries old structure built to guard the entrance of Havana Bay. There he was, standing next to his mother at the corner market, staring at the empty shelves.

Or maybe those were just fragments of someone else’s recollections. Faded pictures in black and white, like a scratchy old silent film, or newsprint on torn bits of brittle paper.

Some moments were, however, more complete than others. He was lost in one of those now, remembering sitting on a sun-drenched granite step that was hot to the touch but not uncomfortably so. In front of him, a street lined with perfectly maintained nineteenth-century homes. Women in colorful dresses and men sporting the sort of hat you don’t see anymore except in retirement homes, on golf courses, and throughout the tropics, strolled by as though going for a walk was the only thing on their minds.

A Cuban song that he’d learned as a child was playing in the distance, and the smell of croquetas and pastelitos from a street vendor’s cart was tempting him to run home and ask his parents for money. But the peaceful street scene was disrupted when two men in dark suits walked up to a woman who was minding her own business and began to drag her away.

Something inside of Chapa was telling him to go help the woman, and he couldn’t understand why everyone else was ignoring her cries. He yelled out for the men to stop, but he couldn’t hear his own voice. He tried again, this time straining his throat, but the effort was rewarded with silence.

Young Alex wiped the hot sweat from his face as he stood and started toward the street. The music grew louder, and kept increasing in volume until he opened his eyes and realized that the ring tone on his cell phone was playing.

He had only recently switched it to “Guantanamera,” and the change was more out of a sense of irony than national pride. The ring stopped mid-note, and Chapa noticed the clock on the dresser read
10:04
. When he flipped the phone open he saw that he’d slept more soundly than he had in days.

Three phone messages were waiting for him. The first was from Erin to let him know she and Mikey were planning to be home that night, and they would be expecting him for dinner. She added that she was wearing the new T-shirt he’d bought for her, and it took Chapa a moment to remember having done that.

The next two messages were from Andrews. A standard wake-up call at exactly 8:30 had missed its mark, and Chapa couldn’t remember asking him to do that. The other one logged in just after nine and consisted of, “Just call me ASAP.”

Andrews had also sent him a text which read simply,
Call me ASAP
. After he had checked out the clothes that were left for him, Chapa followed orders, and Andrews answered on the first ring.

“I probably made a bigger deal out of this than it really is,” Andrews said calmly. “But I also wanted to make sure you didn’t sleep later than you planned to.”

“I appreciate that, but what’s up?” Chapa asked as he worked the remaining drowse from his eyes and started getting himself together.

“Lorn Strasser might not be that guy’s name.”

“Then what might his name be?”

“No idea, nothing’s checked out. The address on his identification card was for a city owned parking garage.”

“It’s a sure bet he didn’t randomly pick that location,” Chapa said as he unwrapped the brand new toothbrush that Jenny had left in the guest bathroom.

“Right, and we’re going through the employee lists as well as those who regularly rented a space there. But so far this bastard is just a ghost, and I wanted to make sure you knew in case you’re writing another story.”

“That’s a good thought, thanks. Fingerprints?”

“Turned up nothing. We’ll figure it out. What are you eating?”

“Nothing. I’m brushing. Thanks for the clothes.”

“You’re welcome, and there is one more thing. Lance Grubb’s lawyer got him out this morning.”

Chapa stopped brushing and processed that bit of information.

“Al, you there?”

“Are you shitting me?”

“Nope. Judge said we had to let him go, but it’s going to be okay.”

“How do you figure that?”

“I got two top guys tailing him and they’re not being subtle about it. If he so much as tries to fart in church they’ll be on him before he leaves the pew.”

Chapa laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“Don’t worry about it, Joe, you wouldn’t get it.”

By 11:00 Chapa was showered, wearing one of Andrews’ crisp white shirts as well as a pair of expensive blue slacks, and an older sports coat. After tossing yesterday’s clothes into a bag, he was ready to get back to the suburbs and have that meeting with Macklin.

Chapa checked in with Matt Sullivan as he walked down the street, searching for his car.

“This would probably be a good day for you to come in. The boss really liked your story.”

Sullivan confirmed that Macklin would be around all afternoon, at least until 4:00, most likely as late as 5:00.

“Should I tell him you’ll be in?”

Chapa hesitated.

“Sure, but let him know I won’t be there until after four.”

There was a pause, Sullivan was writing it down.

“You were left a message by a Mr. Munson.”

Chapa closed his eyes trying to place the name, waited for an image to appear in his mind, and then it did.

“Oh no, Night Owls. What’s it say?”

“‘
Let me know if I can do anything to help. Hope to see you soon
.’ He left a callback number, you want it?”

“No. Really, no. Just leave it on my desk.”
Assuming I still have one
.

The Andrews lived in a neighborhood that included some newer homes with small but well-kept front lawns. Most of the SUVs and foreign cars that were parked on the street the night before were now gone. Parking there, like a lot of residential areas in Chicago, was by permit only, and Chapa hoped he hadn’t gotten enough tickets to earn a tow.

As he passed a Neighborhood Watch sign Chapa noticed a middle-aged man whose graying hair had grown long. The man was standing by a silver Chrysler across the street, and wasn’t being at all coy about staring at him. Chapa greeted the curious onlooker with an exaggerated wave, but the guy did not respond.

The Corolla was parked near the end of the next block, and just as he had feared, Chapa saw something in the windshield. At least the car was still there. But what he initially assumed was a ticket turned out to be an official federal vehicle parking sign that had been left inside the car, on the top of his dash. This could come in handy, he thought, hoping Andrews did not expect to get it back.

Chapa unfolded one of the small pieces of paper that he had filled with notes the night before and found Annie Sykes’ phone number and address. He decided to give her a call just to see how she was doing. He started punching in the number, but was startled by an abrupt knocking on his window.

It was the guy he’d seen across the street, and he was signaling for Chapa to lower the window. He brought it down about halfway.

“You don’t look like a federal agent.”

“Why not?”

“The way you walk, this car, the clothes are right, but the pieces just don’t fit.”

“I’ll have to work on that,” Chapa said and began to raise the window.

“Wearing the clothes and having that sign in your car don’t change anything if the rest of the pieces don’t fit.”

Chapa smiled as agreeably as he could manage, waited for the man to step away from his car, then drove off. He immediately remembered how much more comfortable it felt to be on the move. While he searched for a place to grab a sandwich, Chapa called what he assumed to be Annie’s cell phone. After four rings he was greeted by a computer generated voice.

He’d planned on hanging up if she didn’t answer, then thought better of it and left a simple message. There was still enough time before his meeting with Macklin that he didn’t need to rush out of the city. So Chapa decided to find Annie’s place and leave a note for her. That would also give him the opportunity to get a better sense of what her home life was like. It wasn’t the sort of thing that he would ever use in a story, but a little more background couldn’t hurt.

She lived just off Lincoln Avenue, not too far from Prather’s. It was about a fifteen-minute drive and Chapa would be able to hop on the Kennedy Expressway from there. That gave him enough time to get some lunch, stop by Annie’s, then still knock out tomorrow’s story.

He turned north on Halsted, then jogged over to Clark and stopped at Johnny’s Real Italian for a beef sandwich. He was wiping an errant bit of juice from the left side of Andrews’ shirt when his phone went off.

“What’s up, Joe?”

“No biggie, Al. Just so you know, in case you see anything out of the ordinary, Lance Grubb slipped our guys a little.”

“How does someone get away from a tail
a little
?”

“Don’t get cute, they know where they lost him and they think—”

“Where did they lose him?”

“Up near Evanston.”

“That’s only a few miles from where Annie Sykes lives.”

“Yeah, and there’s a lot of city between her and there.”

Chapa still had some sandwich left, but he’d lost the appetite to do anything about it.

“Here’s the thing, Al, Lance Grubb has a lady friend in Niles, that’s where we think he was headed. Our guys and the locals are moving in that direction now.” Andrews hesitated. “Even through the phone I can feel you worrying.”

Chapa cleaned up his mess and headed out to his car, which he had confidently parked in a conveniently located tow zone, thanks to the permit Andrews had left for him.

“I’ll give you something to worry about, a real odd character hanging around your neighborhood.”

“Kinda scraggly, long hair?”

“You know him, really curious about the comings and goings?”

“That’s just George Initch. We call him ‘Crazy George,’ but not to his face, he wouldn’t like that. George claims to be psychic, talks in code a lot, but he’s harmless.”

Some idiot in a Lexus was waiting for the illegal parking space, but drove off in a huff when he saw the tow zone sign, flashing Chapa a look as though he were somehow responsible for it being there.

“I’ll let you know when we’ve reestablished contact with Lance. Are you out of town already?”

“Oh yeah, I’m on the Eisenhower, just a few minutes from my exit.”

“Good. You go deal with your work issues, and just write another kick ass column. We’ve got this down tight.”

Chapa signed off and pulled out into midday traffic, some forty miles from where he had told Andrews he was. He then drove up Clark as fast as the traffic would allow, changing lanes whenever it bought him a second or two. His chest tightened and the stitched-up tear in his back burned a little more every time he hit a red light.