Killing Red (9 page)

The moment Chapa walked into his dark, two-story house he wished that he’d taken Erin up on her offer. The place was showing signs of neglect, and Chapa’s to-do list had grown exponentially in the past several weeks.

Chapa looked through his mail—a bill, junk, and a letter he had written to Nikki which was now stamped
RETURN TO SENDER
. He tossed it, along with a CD package he’d received from a club he had joined after the divorce, on a pile of other unopened mail and other boxes of CDs he had not ordered.

He dropped his notepad and recorder on a small, cluttered table that sat just below a room-length wall of family photos. Before Carla moved out, the picture frames had been neatly hung to form a symmetrical pattern resembling the leafy half of a large tree. But after she had taken some of the pictures, and Chapa removed a few others, the whole thing took on the appearance of a poorly designed building that was threatening to collapse at any moment.

One photo of his daughter in particular caught Chapa’s eye. It had been taken at a neighbor’s swimming pool the summer before the divorce. The child was pushing her wet, amber hair away from her face, revealing the small birthmark that sometimes made her a little self-conscious.

“Nikki, it’s just part of you, and it’s beautiful,” her father had told her, gently touching the raindrop-shaped mark under her left ear.

Having grown up without a father, Chapa had made a silent promise to never let Nikki forget how much he loved her, or how special she was. Now he couldn’t help feeling that he’d broken that promise. He looked at that photo a little longer, wondering how much Nikki had changed in the past few months. The child resembled her mother at birth, but quickly began to take on many of his facial characteristics, even though his in-laws insisted the opposite was true. This gave Chapa a warm feeling and an unbreakable connection to his daughter long before she knew his name.

Kicking off his shoes, Chapa headed in the direction of the rustling sound he’d been hearing since he first walked in. As he entered the kitchen Chapa was serenaded with a series of high-pitched notes, bringing a smile to his face.

“Hey, Jimmy, how was your day?”

The yellow and black parakeet had been a gift from Erin on the one month anniversary of their first date. She seemed disappointed when he named the bird after former president Jimmy Carter. She was hoping for something more romantic. Though generally apolitical, Chapa had recently written a story on the former president and greatly admired the man, not for his performance in office, but for proving that lives can have a second act.

The bird didn’t talk much, but he loved to sing. He perched on Chapa’s finger, then his shoulder. Leaning in, Jimmy rubbed the top of his head against Chapa’s face.

“I’d love to play, but I’ve still got some work to do.”

Chapa returned Jimmy to his cage, which he then covered with an old sheet, and wished him good night.

Digging through his CD collection, Chapa realized that most of his music was in his car. It made sense, that was where he spent most of his time whenever he wasn’t at the office or over at Erin’s.

After rejecting several dozen albums, Chapa found the perfect CD to match his mood. A few seconds later, Robert Cray’s lonesome chords were pouring through the speakers.

It didn’t take him long to transcribe his recorded interview with Grubb, even though the device had missed a word or two while hidden away in Chapa’s satchel. He read through the notes, then played the interview again, looking for any hidden details or the sort of crazy encoded shit psychos sometimes slip into conversation.

There was nothing there that he hadn’t already heard. But there was something about Grubb’s tone. He turned off the recorder, closed his eyes, and leaned back into the couch. Chapa sat there for several minutes, going over everything he could remember about the interview, and letting the music take him deeper into his thoughts. Then his eyes snapped open and he sat up. Goddamn it, Chapa believed him, and that meant Annie Sykes’ life might now be measured in days.

He thought about calling Andrews, but knew his friend made a habit of going to bed much too early. So instead Chapa heated up a bowl of black beans from a pot he’d cooked the day before, and made sure all of his doors were locked—something told him that was a good idea. He spent a little more than an hour catching up on month-old magazines and thinking about Annie Sykes, then left the empty bowl in the sink and got ready for bed. Though he was tired and it was late, settling in wasn’t easy that night. And when sleep finally did come, it proved to be anything but peaceful.

The cruel morning sun slipped in through Chapa’s curtains, shoving him out of a series of fragmented dreams. He sat up too fast and his head screamed for mercy. When he finally got up at a more reasonable pace, Chapa reached for his cell phone and called Andrews.

“I believe him, Joe.”

“I know you do, and I think you might be right.”

Two of the names had already checked out, though it was not yet clear if any link existed between them. Andrews was still waiting to hear back about the others.

“It’s most likely that Grubb has gotten information from the outside, heard or read about those cases, and tied them together,” Andrews said. “But just based on those two we’re going to have a couple of our guys talk to Grubb today.”

The Bureau handled murderers as well as anyone, but Grubb had an agenda, and Chapa doubted they’d get anywhere.

“We’ll get a list of everyone who has been in to see him during the past year,” Andrews said. “But there are all sorts of ways to get information into and out of almost any prison.”

“Any guesses on who could be paying him
tribute
?” Chapa asked, spitting the last word out as though it were a mouthful of phlegm.

“No clue. I got copies of all his files, but there isn’t much there.”

“Grubb had family, but no friends,” Chapa remembered.

“That’s right. The parents have been dead for years. Grubb has a brother, but they checked him out thoroughly back then. For a while there was some thought that Grubb was working with someone. Annie Sykes claimed there was another person in the basement with her and Grubb.”

Chapa remembered that detail. Annie had believed there could have been a second person who always stayed hidden in shadows, just beyond her sight. But the police found no evidence of anything like that.

“Al, as far as I can tell the only big mistake Grubb’s brother ever made was being born into that family.”

“How about that father of one of the other kids Grubb murdered?”

“You mean Jack Whitlock, he went a little nuts, I remember. I don’t suspect there’s anything there, but I’ll run a check on him, anyhow.”

Chapa nearly dropped the phone as he maneuvered out of yesterday’s clothes.

“You still there?” Andrews asked.

“Yeah, I’m in the process of peeling off the clothes I slept in.”

“C’mon, Al, it’s already been a tough day for me. I sure as hell don’t need that image doggin’ me around.”

“Were there any surprises in the old police file?”

Chapa could hear the sound of pages ruffling, and files getting slapped down on Andrews’ desk.

“Not really, the cops were thorough. You remember. They checked out the family, talked to the neighbors.”

“Let me guess, they said he was a
quiet man
who generally kept to himself.”

“Bingo. They even questioned a self-proclaimed psychic who’d gotten enough of the details right to be considered a possible suspect.”

“I remember her. One of our staffers did a feature about psychics who help the police solve crimes and she was quoted in the story. Her name was Louise.”

Andrews had cupped the speaker and was talking to someone in his office. Chapa was too tired to repeat himself and planned to sign off as soon as his friend turned his attention back to him.

“You’re right, Al. Louise Jones, she worked out of a small storefront in downtown St. Charles.”

Chapa had momentarily forgotten how well Andrews could multitask while in the middle of anything. One of Andrews’ former partners used to joke that the agent had shut down a counterfeiting ring, arrested two street gang leaders, and shown a jaywalker the error of his ways all while helping his wife deliver their second child.

He thanked Andrews and reached for the phone book, wondering if there was a listing for Psychics.

“Don’t go and do anything stupid,” Andrews said, then signed off.

Chapa considered what a copycat might look like. He’d be a very private, but outwardly normal man. That was the secret to survival for predators. It had been one of the reasons Grubb was so difficult to catch. If a killer was out there, Chapa knew he would be no more distinct or noteworthy than the guy in the third cubicle down the hall who tends to keep to himself. The next person in line at the hardware store. That neighbor who’s spending another weekend working in his basement.

If he was out there, Chapa was determined to get between the killer and Annie Sykes. But before he could go forward, Chapa knew he’d have to take another step back.

The receding tread on the Toyota’s tires swallowed up pieces of white gravel then spit them out as Chapa pulled through the circular drive, and parked a few feet beyond the front door. The property rested in a quiet and established neighborhood at the far west end of Chicago’s extended suburbs.

It was one of those old large Midwestern houses that are usually filled with memories and secrets in equal measure. The two-story light blue structure had seen better days. Paint was beginning to flake off in spots, and an effort had been made to cover up the bare areas by slapping on a syrup-thick coat.

Louise Jones had long ago given up her storefront business, and instead performed readings in her home by appointment only. She’d told Chapa on the phone that she could squeeze him in that morning, though he got the sense there were many more openings than clients. He had told her he was a reporter doing a story on local businesses.

There was some truth to that, not much, but some. Chapa had decided that even if Grubb’s threat to Annie Sykes didn’t amount to anything, he would still get a story out of all this to run on the day of the execution.

“You look like a man with a lot on his mind.”

Not bad for a woman her age, probably late fifties, Chapa figured, and he could easily imagine her having been quite attractive once.

“Madam Eva welcomes you to her domain,” she said, ushering Chapa into a large but cluttered foyer.

Looking down a long hallway that led to the back of the house, Chapa thought the place appeared to have more than its share of dark corners. You could hide just about anything in those. A family secret, a broken heart, a shattered past. Plants obscured the front of each window, and the amount of furniture in the room could have filled a small apartment. The fresh smell of greenery was fighting a losing battle with the woman’s perfume.

“When did you start going by Madam Eva?”

She frowned in a way that suggested his question was out of bounds, and slowly extended an arm in the direction of a parlor at the side of the house. The small room was even more cramped than the foyer. The few strands of light that managed to make their way in had to sneak under a pair of open but partially blocked windows. Every once in a while a fist of wind punched through the thick green curtains and sunlight would momentarily lick the dark wood floor.

The smell of incense drifted in from another room. Louise sat down in an oversize chair covered with a gaudy red fabric, and fanned her dress, reminding Chapa of an aging peacock. She then turned on a small lamp that had a frilly shade. The lamp’s stingy smattering of light failed to extend beyond its immediate area.

“I used to be Miss Ballistar, but when the Internet became big that name started popping up on all sorts of websites for mystical worlds, role-playing, and that sort of junk.”

“That’s too bad, probably cost you a few bucks to get new business cards made up,” Chapa said, and took a seat in a puffy old chair with paisley cushions that turned out to be more comfortable than it looked.

Madam Eva sat across from him, scribbling something in a thin brown journal that was resting on her lap. She straightened the few remaining folds in her silky flowered gown and slowly leaned toward Chapa. Her hand abruptly caressed his as she ran a satin fingertip across his palm and looked into Chapa’s eyes.

“Your brown eyes are rich and seductive, but also sad in a way. There is a darkness about you. You carry a burden.”

“We all do sooner or later.”

She smiled gently, and he thought about pulling his hand back but figured she might be more helpful if he went along for a while.

“What answers do you seek?”

“I’m looking for someone, a young woman.”

She ran her thumb along the back of his ring finger.

“You were married once.”

Nice guess, Chapa thought. Whatever physical impression his wedding ring had once made was long gone.

“It’s not like that. I’m here about a girl named Annie Sykes.”

Madam Eva withdrew her hand and retreated into her chair. Her expression growing more serious as she examined his face.

“That girl no longer exists.”

“I know she goes by Angela.”

She suddenly seemed frightened, and Chapa now realized the woman knew about Annie Sykes’ name change, which meant she knew much more. He remembered how the police had once considered her a possible accomplice, even though they knew it was a long shot.

“How did you know so much about what had happened to her?”

“I already told this to the police, years ago. I had a vision, a powerful one, they chose to ignore it.”

She started to get up, a nervous response, then caught herself.

“Did you see her in this vision? Did you see Grubb?”

“Who are you? Why are you really here?”

Chapa’s eyes had adjusted to the dark room and for the first time he took in the fullness of it. Four bookshelves hugged the walls, and framed posters of abstract art covered what little space was left over.

“I’m a reporter, like I told you, but I’m not here about your business. I covered Annie’s case sixteen years ago, and I have reason to believe she could be in great danger now.”

She moved closer to him, as though she was seeing Chapa for the first time and wanted to get a better look.

“No, you’re not
a
reporter, Mr. Chapa, you’re
the
reporter.” She smiled, not as gently this time. “Guilt has a long reach, doesn’t it?”

She jotted a few more notes.

“Look, Louise, maybe one day you and I can gaze into a crystal ball and examine my hang-ups, but right now I have to know how to find her,” Chapa said, then reached out and cupped her hands in his. “If you care about her, then I assure you we’re on the same side.”

She pressed an open palm to his chest, then closed her eyes.

“Your heart is not entirely pure, Mr. Chapa.”

“Whose is?”

“I spoke with you once back then. You were dismissive, and really full of yourself.”

“I apologize. I wasn’t arrogant, just young and stupid.”

“I choose to believe you, but Madam Eva’s time is valuable.”

Chapa got the message, pulled twin twenties out of his wallet and dropped them on the table. Louise scooped up the money, and it vanished somewhere in the folds of her gown. She then walked to a large bookcase, and slid out a journal, similar to one she’d been using, from a long shelf of journals. This one was red, and Chapa wondered if that was intentional.

“She first came to me a couple of years ago, looking for answers to the same question you’re asking. I told her what I told the police. I just knew. My visions come through my dreams, and I’ve had many of them. None as vivid as that one.”

“You said Annie
first
came to you. When was the last time you saw her?”

She flipped through the journal.

“Just under a month ago.”

“Is there any chance I could look in that book you’re holding?”

“None. Psychic-client privilege. But she’s not really a client, I’ve never charged her a penny. What kind of trouble is she in?”

He recounted his discussion with Grubb, giving up most of it, holding back just a few details.

“Is it true? Is someone out there?”

“I think there could be. Has anyone else come around asking about her?”

She paused for a moment, wrinkled her brow, then said, “No, no one.”

But the hesitation and hint of uncertainty in Louise’s voice made Chapa wonder.

“There is something, isn’t there?”

“No, not really. I don’t think so, at least. A few days ago I got a call from the owner of the building where my shop was located. Someone, a man, had stopped by looking for me.”

“Did they describe the man?”

“Tall, maybe had a foreign accent. I thought it was one of my old customers.”

“This man contact you?”

“No, I don’t think it’s anything to be concerned about.”

Chapa thought she was trying to convince herself of that.

“You need to be careful, and if anyone unusual, or anything out of the ordinary—”

She squeezed his hand.

“I’m no threat to anyone. If someone is out there, you must tell the authorities, for Annie’s sake.”

“I’ve already spoken with the FBI.”

Louise gently nodded and smiled, the wrinkles in her cheeks carving a wedge through the heavy makeup.

“Do you have a number for Annie or Angela, an address, anything?”

She flipped through the red journal.

“I don’t have an address or any sort of contact information, I’m sorry. Angela just shows up at my door every now and then. We talk about all sorts of—wait,” Louise was softly tapping a page she had stopped on. “She mentioned a friend, his name is Donnie.”

“Last name?”

“I don’t have that, but he’s an artisan, and he has a store or a studio in the city.” She flipped the page. “It’s on Southport, just a couple doors down from an old theater.”

Now it was Chapa taking notes.

“And before you ask, she never mentioned if it was a romantic relationship, but I don’t think it was.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Just a sense I got from her.”

“What else?”

“She worked at a club on the North Side, but I don’t know if she still does.”

“No name?”

Louise shook her head without looking up from the page.

“I’ll tell you one thing I know about her,” she said and closed the journal. “Angela is better adjusted than many folks I’ve met who’ve had a much easier time of it.”

That brought Chapa a small bit of comfort. He watched intently as she returned the journal to its place, and then adjusted the other books on that shelf until all of the spines were more or less aligned.

She walked back to her chair, and again went through the process of carefully fanning out her dress before sitting down.

“Has any of this helped?”

“Maybe.”

“You know, Alex, it’s not unusual for my clients to give me a tip, especially after a particularly helpful session.”

Chapa pulled out his wallet. He was all out of twenties, so he drew out a ten and wrapped it around his business card. His next expense report was shaping up to be a doozy.

“If you hear from her again, ask Annie to call me, and then you give me a call.”

He let himself out, anxious to jump on the expressway into the city and begin searching for Annie and her friend.

“Alex.”

He turned back to look at Louise, framed in the door of her house, and for a moment he wondered if she could survive outside of its confines. The wind had picked up and was muscling its way inside, her gown waving like a psychedelic flag.

“I believe the afterlife has reserved an especially dark corner for those who disappoint the ones who depend on them. Don’t be that person again.” Then she added, “I also believe in redemption.”

With that she disappeared into her house and closed the door. For the first time in days, Chapa was feeling that high he always got whenever he caught the scent of a good story. It was the reason he became a journalist. His drug of choice.

The information Louise had given him was full of holes, but at least he had a name, and a starting point. That was reason enough to pop a fresh CD into the player. Chapa dug into his past and pulled out Aerosmith’s
Rocks
. He closed his eyes as the intro to “Back in the Saddle” gradually built up to Steven Tyler’s throaty eruption, then he cranked the volume up beyond the legal limit, and slowly headed down the circular drive.

Somewhere in the growing distance behind him, Chapa heard a sharp sound that sliced through the audio haze of electric guitars, and it reminded him of the way his first car used to backfire whenever he tried to start it on a cold day. But this sound wasn’t quite like that. When he heard it again, Chapa decided that there must have been some construction work going on near Louise’s house, though he’d seen no evidence of such, then forgot all about it as he pounded the accelerator and made for the highway.