Killing Red (8 page)

Duane Wormley was smiling like he’d just taken a stealthy piss in Chapa’s coffee.

“The prodigal reporter has returned.”

Chapa ignored him, it was something he’d become good at through repetition, but Wormley would have none of it.

“Maybe I should ask for your autograph, while I still have the chance,” Wormley said, then leaned back his small, burgundy upholstered office chair that Chapa always thought looked purposely uncomfortable.

“What are you talking about, Duane?”

“Ooh, someone’s way out of the loop, so far out he can’t even see it, not without a, you know, he needs—”

“What, Duane? A telescope, a compass, an atlas, a GPS system, two Sherpas, whatever, just get there.”

Wormley withdrew a little, like a threatened turtle. Pushing his narrow glasses up the bridge of his nose, he looked around the newsroom like he was some sort of secret agent.

“There’s a buzz,” he said, leaning in toward Chapa, then ran a hand through thinning dishwater blond hair as though he were giving someone a signal.

Zach, an intern Chapa had just about decided was okay, was sitting a few feet beyond Wormley’s sightline. He caught Chapa’s eyes, then rolled his.

“What kind of a buzz?” Chapa asked.

“The kind that results in cutbacks. The sort of cutbacks that sometimes put overpaid reporters on the street.”

Chapa had heard that sort of talk before. It was a cyclical thing, but over the past few years, as more readers turned to the Internet and ad revenues softened, the cycles had become shorter. It was happening in every newspaper office, all over the country.

“I wouldn’t be the first to go.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” Wormley was feeling his oats again. “You have an office, the rest of us work in cubicles, or at a desk in the middle of a crowded room. You’re always out of the building, I’m always on time, and I’m an example to others.”

Zach adopted a serious look, tightened his lips, and gave Chapa a mocking nod. Though he had a habit of putting a little too much purple in his prose, Zach had real potential.

Wormley was still talking.

“You have an attitude, I have a purpose. And you’re extremely well paid, while others have to count their peanuts.”

That last line conjured up an image that Chapa did not want to dwell on. He also opted to not mention that a large portion of his paycheck went toward child support.

“He’s Alex Freakin’ Chapa,” Zach jumped into the fray. Chapa rewarded him with a
Right On
point of his left index finger.

“Big deal,” Wormley didn’t bother to turn and face the intern. “I got more email responses to my column last week than you did to yours, Alex. Probably more responses than you’ve gotten all year.”

“You ran a column asking people to send in the story of their most exciting scrapbooking experience,” Chapa said, making no effort to mask his disdain.

“That’s right, I’m in touch with what readers are into today. You’re not.”

A few others in the office were doing their best to pretend they weren’t tuned in to this exchange. Most of the morning crew was still around. Reporters, editors, and layout artists working the night shift, and others like Chapa who punched their own clocks, were starting to stumble in.

“Duane, you’re not a journalist. For shit’s sake, you named your column
Wormin’ Around
.”

“That’s clever.”

“It’s stupid.”

Zach choked back a laugh. Chapa decided the kid was okay.

“Taken literally, it suggests you’re either playing in dirt, or having sex with yourself.”

A mix of anger and confusion flashed across Duane’s slender face.

“What’s that supposed to—”

“Worms have both male and female junk down there,” Zach chimed in.

Wormley corkscrewed his brow and looked off into the distance, as if he was actually trying to picture how that might work.

“I’m just saying you’re going to want to get your résumé together, that’s all.”

Remembering he had work to do, Chapa shrugged, then started for his office.

“Oh yeah, and Macklin was looking for you, something about needing to have a meeting.”

That stopped Chapa, but for just a moment, and he didn’t turn to look back.

“You’re going to get fired, Alex.”

“Not this week.”

Chapa learned early on that reporters have streaks which run hot and cold just like athletes and gamblers do. Most of the time there’s no rhyme or reason to it. One day a guy is in a slump, then maybe the right story comes along and a week later he’s back in a groove.

Over the past couple of months, Chapa had been mired in the mother of all slumps. He knew it too, which made things much worse. Wormley was onto something, the fact that Macklin was looking for him was a concern. Nothing good could come from a sit-down with the
Record
’s managing editor, and Chapa wasn’t ready to face it head-on just yet. First, he had a story to write.

He shut the door to his office, and the unruly collection of sounds from the busy newsroom were left on the other side, replaced by the steady swoosh of a ceiling fan. The small space, the same one Chapa had occupied since his first day at the
Record
, was cluttered but not disorganized. At any given moment Chapa could point to which pile or crowded desk drawer contained a particular piece of information or an old clipping. There were several shelves filled with reference books, a few CDs—mostly jazz and blues, his writing music—but none of the awards Chapa had received over the years. Most of those were boxed and stored in Chapa’s attic, a few others had been stuffed into a file cabinet drawer awaiting the same fate. Framed photos covered what little wall space there was—all of them were of Nikki. Two of the ten-year-old’s drawings were taped to the only window in the office. The light from outside shone through, projecting a series of colors across Chapa’s workspace.

He poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot he’d made earlier that morning—the rich black Bustelo that few in the office would dare try and wade through. It was Chapa’s morning companion seven days a week. He took a long sip and went to work. The hour Chapa spent online yielded very little. His search turned up a few small mentions of Annie Sykes winning an award or making the honor roll in high school, but nothing that could help him find her now. Substituting
Angela
for
Annie
didn’t help. The young woman had somehow managed to stay off the grid. He ran into the same frustrating conclusion sifting through his files on the case, as well as all the other readily available information.

After digging around for a while on several news sites, Chapa tracked down a few stories connecting the names and places Grubb had given him. But very little of it was of any help. The authorities typically kept a lid on how much the media was told while their investigations were ongoing. If Grubb had access to outside information he could just as easily have learned of these cases. Chapa felt like he was being played, but he couldn’t afford to be wrong about that.

Around 5:30 he called Joseph Andrews, an agent at the Chicago branch of the FBI.

“You know how I hate asking you for a favor, Joe.”

“Not half as much as I hate hearing you ask.”

They agreed to meet for dinner in a couple of hours. It was Chapa’s turn to buy, so naturally Andrews chose an upscale steakhouse halfway to the city.

“Will the
Record
be picking up this tab?” Andrews asked.

“I’m going to make sure we talk business so that it does.”

“Cheap bastard.”

Chapa pulled together his notes from the meeting with Grubb, and typed out the list of names the killer had given him. He didn’t have much faith in anything Grubb said, but he would pass the info on to Andrews anyhow.

When he was just about ready to leave he phoned Nikki, and hoped her mother would not answer the child’s cell phone. Chapa had no wish to engage in any more conversations with his ex-wife than were absolutely necessary. Another showdown with Carla was the last thing he needed today.

It seemed now, years after it ended, like their marriage had always been more quicksand than bedrock. Chapa had always done his best to avoid fighting with Carla in front of Nikki. But Chapa knew that by the time the child turned three she had developed an acute sense of trouble between her parents. It had worried him every time Nikki tried to overcompensate by being even more clingy and affectionate than usual. Chapa and his daughter had been close until the day she and her mother moved out. No matter how hectic the rest of his life became, he had always made time for Nikki. He had been her comfort parent, the one she would cuddle up on when she wasn’t feeling well, the one she would ask to help her with a puzzle, or play a game, or watch a movie. But it wasn’t like that anymore.

After a few rings, he heard the sound of his daughter’s voice asking the caller to leave a message. They had not spoken in more than two weeks, though Chapa had called at least once a day during that time. He enjoyed hearing her voice, even if it was only a recording that he suspected was being used to avoid a conversation.

“Hey, sweetie, it’s Dad again. I miss you so much, I would love to talk to you, even if it’s only for a minute. So hey, why don’t you give me a call? I love you with all of my heart.”

There hadn’t been a blow-up or a rift of any kind between them, which made Chapa wonder if Carla was somehow involved. He hung up the phone, but let his hand linger on the receiver, as though it were a connection to his child.

After sitting at his desk for a few lost minutes, he called Erin to let her know he wouldn’t be stopping by.

“I was planning on cooking for you, Alex.”

“I didn’t know that, in fact, I wasn’t sure whether you were expecting me tonight.”

Though things had steadily become more involved between them, Chapa knew that Erin’s commitment level was outpacing his own.

“I’m sure I asked you about tonight a couple of days ago.”

“If you’re sure, then you probably did, and I probably said I’d be there.”

They had been dating for just over six months, and Chapa had done his best to keep a healthy distance between himself and the commitment track. It hadn’t worked out the way he’d planned.

Nothing about their first meeting hinted at how attached they would become, though the connection had been immediate. Chapa had gone to his bank after a statement suggested that Carla’s name was still on their accounts more than two years after he’d filled out paperwork to remove it. After sitting in the lobby for a while, he was shown to Erin’s office. Less than a minute into their discussion, Chapa made a point of checking for a wedding ring.

Before their casual business talk was over he told her, “This is the first truly interesting meeting I’ve ever had with a bank vice president.”

That got a smile out of her, a real one, not the standard customer relations version, and Chapa saw just how lovely she was. An Irish beauty, whose dark chocolate brown hair reached down to caress soft shoulders, and perfectly accentuated her warm hazel eyes. He didn’t ask Erin out before leaving the bank, even though she walked him to the door, but he took her card knowing that he would.

Erin’s phone was ringing as she walked back into her office. It was Chapa calling from the parking lot. They went out that night, and twice more in the week that followed. She hadn’t dated anyone that many times in more than four years. Chapa had promised himself he’d never date anyone exclusively again.

“I’ll make it up to you, Erin. I’ll be over tomorrow night and I’ll stay until you kick me out.”

Chapa was beginning to understand that was something she would probably never do.

J.D.’s Grill wasn’t really a
grill
. Not when the cheapest steak on the menu checked in at twenty-four bucks and change. The décor was designed to create a rustic vibe, complete with dark wood paneling and ceiling lamps made from antlers. But the dessert tray Chapa was staring at one table over told another story. He wondered how many mountain cabins and hunting lodges were stocked with French pastries.

Chapa had waited nearly half an hour beyond his reservation time before finally being seated in a cramped back corner. Andrews was late, which was unusual, then again, so was the agent’s choice of restaurants. Chapa was starting to wonder if he was in the wrong place.

“What, the little kid’s table wasn’t available?” Joseph Andrews said before Chapa had seen him.

Chapa looked up and was struck by how perfect the federal agent looked in his tailored suit. Like it had been molded to fit his tall, slender frame. Like a superhero’s costume. Every one of Andrews’ thick brown hairs was in its place, obedient army privates bending to the will of a demanding drill sergeant.

The two men had been friends since college, and had long ago perfected the art of ball-busting. They were opposites in many ways, but it worked somehow. Chapa was quite possibly the only soul on the planet who felt comfortable giving Joseph Andrews shit. The agent, in turn, was the only person who called Chapa “Al.”

“Watch this, Al,” Andrews said and waved to a guy who had been running the floor as though he was in charge of solving all of the world’s seating problems.

To Chapa’s amazement, the tightly dressed man rushed to Andrews, greeting him as though he were a rich relative. An instant later, two servers were motioned into action. They scooped up Chapa’s menu, and for a moment he thought they were about to kick him out of the restaurant. Instead, the attentive trio led Chapa and Andrews to a table at the other end of the dining room, near a large fireplace.

“Now isn’t this better?” Andrews asked.

Chapa gestured to the fireplace. “That must be where they roast the mutton that they hunt in the wilds of Oak Brook.”

“Mutton comes from sheep, Al. People don’t hunt sheep. You probably meant
venison
.”

“No, actually I’ve gotten a good look at the staff here, and I think hunting sheep would present a major challenge for these folks.”

“I know J.D.’s can be a bit high brow, but the food makes the rest of it easier to tolerate,” Andrews responded, as attentive servers held chairs out for the two of them. Andrews played along, squatting just enough so that his could be scooted in under him. Chapa, on the other hand, shooed his server away.

“I can handle my own damn seat,” he said to Andrews after they’d finally been left alone.

But it didn’t last. Andrews had just opened his menu when another server scurried over and offered him dark linen, explaining how it would not clash with his charcoal gray pants. The agent nodded his approval and the young man carefully and evenly spread the deep blue cloth across his lap.

“No one wants to see a white slab across dark slacks, Al.”

Chapa looked down at his own pants. Apparently his jeans weren’t blue enough to merit a special napkin.

“I’m not going to coax the story out of you, Joe, it’s already been way too long a day.”

“I had dinner here with the governor Monday night.” Tired or not, that got Chapa’s attention. “I thought about inviting you along, but I know you don’t like politics, and besides, he doesn’t seem to like reporters much these days.”

Chapa shrugged that off and they both ordered. Taking advantage of the lull before the food arrived, Chapa pulled out the list of names Grubb had given him and slid it across the table.

Andrews examined it closely, but Chapa could tell from his expression that the names were not familiar to him.

“You do know, these psychos pull shit like this all the time,” Andrews said. “They seem to go extra crazy in the days before their execution. I once had a psychiatrist explain the reasons for it to me, but I didn’t really give a damn, and I didn’t listen.”

“I understand this is probably a lot of hot air, but knowing what Grubb is capable of—”

“I will look into it. Whenever there’s a situation where kids may be involved it immediately becomes a priority.”

Andrews folded the sheet of paper into three equal sections and slipped it inside his crisp suit jacket.

“There’s something else, too. I want you to help me find Annie Sykes.”

Chapa explained about the threat from Grubb, the name change, and how her mother thought she was living in Chicago.

“If you find her, then what? You’ll protect her from some fictional copycat?”

“What if he’s not fictional?”

“Then we’d know about it, and you would be in over your head.”

Chapa wasn’t so sure law enforcement would know about it, not even the Bureau. The apparent randomness of Grubb’s crimes had stumped investigators sixteen years earlier. Whatever trait linked the victims to one another existed solely in the killer’s mind. If a copycat was following that same blueprint, he wouldn’t be any easier to detect.

They were more than halfway through a platter of calamari when the rest of the food arrived. The smell of fresh seafood and spices ribboned their table as Chapa watched Andrews organize the shrimp and linguini on his plate with the care that Tibetan monks take when creating intricate sand art. The twelve crustaceans circled the plate, perfectly spaced apart.

Chapa couldn’t resist. He reached across the table and speared three o’clock.

“Delicious,” he said through a full mouth.

Andrews just shook his head, then shifted two and four just enough to narrow the gap.

“So when did you decide to become the crime-solving journalist?”

“I’m not interested in solving any crimes, or catching a killer.”

“That’s good.”

“I’m trying to find a young woman because I don’t want her to get hurt any more than she already has been.”

The two friends then set aside both personal and professional topics and dedicated the rest of the dinner-time conversation to the subjects most guys prefer talking about. After they had spent ten minutes debating what moves the Cubs should make during the off season, it was Andrews who returned to the reason they’d gotten together that night.

“Like I said, I will personally check it out. My division is spread thin right now with this election coming up. Half of my guys are off getting additional training at the request of the Homeland Security suits.” Andrews pulled the list out of his pocket, looked at the names once more, then folded it up again and put it back. “Believe me, if this turns out to be something, I will launch an investigation.”

Andrews wiped his mouth and tossed the napkin on the table like he was done. Though he hadn’t eaten much of his meal.

“Look, Al, I know how you work.”

Chapa listened as he slipped the last few bites of New York strip into his mouth.

“You do some research, talk to all sorts of people, screw up a few times, break some rules, piss folks off, then throw it all into a blender. And somehow what comes out is a great story that gets you another award.”

Chapa was nodding as though he’d been locked in on Andrews’ every word.

“Are you finished with those?” he asked, aiming his fork at the five remaining shrimp.

“Have at it.” Andrews pushed his plate across the table. “But this situation is different, and if anything is going on you might get some blood on your hands, maybe your own.”

The agent waved off their server’s offer to show them the dessert tray, slapping his solid abs, then pointing to Chapa’s and shaking his head. Chapa wasn’t soft, not much, at least. But he didn’t have Andrews’ six days a week workout physique, either.

“I know what you can do when you go after a story. Your ability to focus and lock in is inspiring. But this isn’t that kind of story, especially at a time when you should be focusing on the other parts of your life.”

Chapa couldn’t respond right away. He was still chewing the last of the shrimp, which he then washed down with his second glass of merlot.

“Joe, over the past three years I’ve lost my wife, I’ve lost my daughter, and any semblance of a normal home. And now it looks like I’ll be losing my job.”

Andrews flashed a look of concern, but Chapa raised an open palm and continued.

“When it comes to those areas of my life, I don’t always understand what’s expected of me. But I do know the rules of this game. I know there have been times when I’ve retreated into my work because it was easy. But now, my work is just about all I have.”

Chapa explained the situation at the paper, Andrews mixing a few choice expletives with words of encouragement in response.

After Chapa picked up the check, Andrews said his goodbyes to various staff members, and they walked out to the parking lot.

“When are you going flying with me, Al?”

This was Andrews’ latest hobby, and as with all of his previous obsessions, he made a habit of inviting his friend to join him.

“I don’t know, Joe. I’m a big fan of keeping two feet planted on solid ground.”

Before he’d started working toward earning his pilot’s license, three years ago, Andrews had become an accomplished hiker, nature photographer, whitewater rafter, and spelunker. He would study long hours, engage in doctoral level research, and get into intense discussions with experts in each field. Maybe that’s why he could not mask his unhappiness the time the two of them went scuba diving in the middle of Lake Michigan, and Chapa looked like a natural the moment he hit the water.

“After all, Al, you
were
born on an island,” Andrews had pointed out once they were back on shore.

“So what? That was a long time ago. I don’t see what all the excitement is about. You fall in the water, then just keep going.”

Or the time Andrews wanted to show his friend how much he had improved since taking up archery some ten months earlier. In less than half an hour Chapa was just about matching him arrow for arrow.

“Big deal, Joe. You pull back, aim the damn thing, and let go.”

So as they walked out to where Andrews had parked his Ford Escape, Chapa was thinking that flying a small plane probably wasn’t all that difficult.

“Want to see something cool, Al? Get in and open the glove compartment.”

Gauging by the size of the door, it was more of a one room apartment than a glove compartment.

“My guess is it didn’t come this way from the factory.”

Chapa pushed a button, and as the door slowly opened a pair of lights switched on inside. There he saw a collection of office supplies getting the kind of treatment that’s usually reserved for cursed diamonds. All six of the pens of varying point sizes lining the door were Parkers, and so was the retractable pencil. Two small framed pictures brightened the base of the door, down by the hinges. One was of Jenny, Andrews’ wife of nineteen years, and the other of their two sons. Filling the opening was a compact shelving unit complete with drawers.

“Sweet, isn’t it,” Andrews said, smiling. “Open the bottom drawer and give me the blue spiral.”

Chapa did as instructed. The drawer held three small spiral notebooks. The one on the right was blue. Andrews opened to a blank page and wrote down the name
Annie/Angela Sykes
, slipped the list of names inside the front cover, then handed the notebook back to Chapa who casually tossed it into the drawer.

“Eh, eh, eh,” Andrews said. “Please, as you found it.”

“Did you build this, Joe?”

“No, but I designed it,” Andrews said. “I’m thinking of filing for a patent. Do you think people would go for it?”

Chapa returned the notebooks to their proper order and closed the door.

“Oh yeah, Joe, it would be huge. Especially if you added a small credenza, maybe off to the side. And a tiny vacuum cleaner so you could keep the whole thing nice and tidy.”

Andrews gave his friend a familiar look of disapproval.

“Okay, Al, now you’re just being a dick.”