NO GOOD DEED (25 page)

After showering and shaving, he stood in the kitchen, a glass of milk in one hand, a granola bar in the other. As he crunched the bar, he gazed out the window onto the street below. Mornings in his loft, he’d often awakened early, catching the first rays of the sun as they gilded the waves on Lake Michigan. He’d loved that loft. By some stroke of luck, the view of the lake from his windows had been unimpeded. He missed sipping a cup of strong black coffee as the city stirred awake. It was his time to think, to let his creativity take flight as he planned the day’s photo shoots. Taking the last bite of the bar, he washed it down with the milk.

Between getting the job and finding the apartment yesterday, he’d gone to his old apartment building. The super was a different guy, someone Mark had never met. The man had checked the records, and confirmed the eviction.

“It says here that since nobody came to claim the belongings, they were put on the curb.”

“What about my car?”

The guy had simply shrugged.

“So, that’s it? There’s nothing left?”

“Sorry, buddy. It was all legal.”

It was all gone. His apartment, his equipment, his photos, his business, his old life.

A taxi blasted its horn, and Mark started. He blinked, dragging in one long breath and then another. Life marched on. There was nothing to do but stumble along and deal with it. His earlier eagerness faltered with the memories. Trying to regain it, he glanced around the kitchen. Sure, it wasn’t his old loft, but it was his new home and things could be a lot worse. He set about making sandwiches for lunch. Peanut butter and jelly was quick and cheap, and he rounded his meal with an apple, tossing it all in a bag.

His spirits perked up as he stepped into the crisp morning air and took a deep breath. Above the smell of exhaust and stagnant puddles scattered on the pavement from melting snow, came the scent of spring. Bicyclists sped past, seemingly unfazed by the early morning chill in the air.

A bike would be great. He wondered what had happened to the one that he’d kept in his loft storage area. He hoped it had gone to a kid. He mentally added a bike to his wish list. Food, shelter and clothing were the priority. He had those three now even if the clothing and food weren’t in abundance.

After work, he’d stop at the store and get some more basics for meals. He planned to hit the thrift shop again, see if he could afford some sheets and towels. So much to do, so little time. It hit him how much he’d missed having plans. To having a purpose to each day. It was what life was all about.

The walk to the camera shop only took about twenty minutes. At an intersection, he stopped for traffic and took a moment to turn his face to the sun. It didn’t have much heat, but the light against his eyelids warmed him. Opening his eyes, he smiled at an old lady waiting beside him. She scowled and tottered off the curb, muttering something about young people on drugs. His smile stretched to a grin. Life was good.

* * *

The next week passed quickly. During the day, he fed film into the processing machine, tended to customers and sold a few cameras. After work, he put a fresh coat of paint on the walls of the apartment. He painted one wall a deep blue, and the other three cream-colored. He’d found an area rug at the thrift store. It wasn’t a necessity, but as he laid it on the floor in front of the sofa, he knew he’d been right to purchase it. Even with a couple of tattered corners, it added a homey air to the room. It was a cheap replica of an Afghan rug, which he thought somehow fitting. Or ironic. He wasn’t sure which.

A week after moving in, he’d fallen asleep on the sofa while reading when he startled awake, disoriented and unsure of what had awakened him. The book he’d been reading slid from his chest to the floor. Nothing looked out of place, so he reached for the book, the movement freezing when someone pounded on the door. Heart thumping, he crossed the room but didn’t touch the doorknob. “Yeah?”

Why wasn’t there a damn peephole? He put an ear to the wood. It was silly to think that there’d be men in dark suits lurking in the hall.

“It’s Bud. I came for the receipts.”

Mark ran a hand through his hair as his heart settled to a normal rhythm. He opened the door. “Sure. Come on in while I get them.” He strode to the dresser, opened the top drawer and withdrew an envelope.

“Jeezus, this looks damn good, Taylor.” Bud touched the blue wall. “Not sure if I like the blue-it’s gonna be hell to paint over someday-but, it looks good.”

“Thanks. Here’s the receipts. I deducted some of the stuff that I bought for myself.” Mark pointed to where he’d subtracted the cost of a can opener and a few other things.

Bud shrugged. “I trust ya. Just tell me what I owe you.”

Mark swallowed, feeling stupid for the gratitude that washed through him. “I circled it there at the bottom. It came to forty-three dollars.”

“What’d you do? Steal the paint?” Bud chuckled as he flipped open his wallet.

“Uh…no, I got it cheap because it was a return. Not the right color for someone.” Mark shuffled his feet and jammed his hands in his pockets. “It’s all there on the receipt.”

Bud paused as he counted out some bills. “I was just jokin’.” He gave Mark a questioning look, then handed him the money. “All I have is two twenties and a five-”

“Sorry, I don’t have change right now. I’ll just run down to the mini-mart and get some.” Mark knew without looking that he didn’t have change. He’d spent his last two dollars on milk.

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” Bud waved him off. “Hey, I was thinking. You got any more of that paint?” He jabbed a thumb at the blue wall.

“Sure. It didn’t take much to cover the one wall. Just a couple of coats. Why?” Mark put the bills in his wallet. Grocery money. He’d worked for himself for so long, it hadn’t occurred to him that first paychecks were delayed a week or two. Now he could eat.

“I got another empty apartment below this one. You think you might be interested in painting it like this one?”

Surprised at the request, Mark shrugged. “I guess. I could probably paint it this weekend.”

“Great! Same rate? A hundred bucks?”

The job was worth more, but it was money and he was desperate. Working around cameras every day was torture. His fingers itched to try them, and every moment he wasn’t processing film, he played with the digital models. Gary had let him test one at a park and then uploaded the pictures to be printed. A few of the prints now decorated the shop. He wanted to save enough to buy his own, but at ten bucks an hour, it would take forever. “How about one-twenty five?”

Bud narrowed his eyes, but then grinned. “Deal.”

After that, Bud called on him with other jobs. Mostly painting, but when he found out Mark knew a thing or two about photography, he asked him to take some pictures of the newly painted apartments to put in a brochure for the building. He even admitted that he’d been able to raise the rent on the units.

Some jobs, Bud paid him cash, others, he knocked a few bucks off the rent. Either way, Mark felt like he came out ahead. The weather eased from brutal cold to spring dampness, and when he wasn’t working at the camera shop or fixing up apartments, he jogged. The freedom of running wherever he wanted never got old.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Jim leaned back in his chair, gazing out at the Chicago skyline. Relief at getting through the first week as head of the new FBI Counter-terrorism task squad swept through him. The two months of preparation that had gone into accepting the position had been worth it. Standing, he plucked his suit coat off the back of his chair and draped it over his arm. It was too nice of a day to wear it home. The office was mostly empty, but he nodded to the few agents still putting in time at their desks.

A couple of guys nodded back, and one told him to have a nice weekend. Jim smiled in response. Maybe there was hope that they would eventually accept him. His reception by the agents had been guarded, and he’d sensed a bit of resentment that their task force was headed by a CIA officer. It made no difference to them that some CIA offices were headed by FBI agents. The cooperation between agencies wasn’t new, but that didn’t make it easier for the agents under his authority. He’d already discovered that FBI and CIA had different ways of looking at things, and he’d made a point of emphasizing that as a strength in his first staff meeting.

The weekend loomed and he had absolutely nothing to do. Maybe he’d go out and have a big juicy burger at that pub he’d seen a few blocks from his apartment. The game was on and he’d be able to catch a few innings.

The pub wasn’t busy and he took a seat at the bar. Sitting alone at a bar watching a game and eating a burger felt acceptable. Sitting at a table alone in a restaurant just made him look lonely. While he waited for his burger, he sipped a beer and ate peanuts from the bowl in front of him. Pool balls clacked from the back of the room. A game would be fun. Too bad he didn’t have anyone to play against. He set his beer down and mopped up the condensation that had dripped onto the wood near his elbow. If the table became free, he could shoot a bit.

His dinner arrived and he bit into the burger. It was just as juicy as he’d hoped. A couple of guys near the end of the bar laughed about something. A group pushed through the front door and worked their way across the room. Law enforcement. Jim could peg them from a mile away from the way they carried themselves.

He observed them for a few seconds, then the sound of the crowd on the television caught his eye. The Cubs had a rally going and he forgot about the others in the room, so when he felt a tap on his shoulder, it took him a second to respond, and when he did, he jumped, rattling the silverware on his plate.

“Jim?” Jessica Bishop stood on his left, her arms crossed and eyebrow raised. “What are you doing here…again?”

“Detective Bishop.” He wiped his mouth and hands with the napkin, then put his hand out, noting her hesitation.

After a second, she shook his hand, but had to move in closer to allow the rest of her group to squeeze past them.

She stepped back and called over her shoulder to the retreating group. “I’ll be there in a sec, order me a beer, okay?” She turned back to Jim. “You didn’t answer me.”

He sighed. “I don’t think it’s any of your business, but as it happens, I work in Chicago now.”

She glanced around, then leaned forward and said in a quiet voice, “There’s not a CIA office in Chicago.”

Jim shook his head and took a swig of his beer. “I’m heading a task force in cooperation with the FBI here.” He gestured to the empty stool beside him. “Would you care to sit and allow me to buy you a beer?”

Her lips thinned. “Why the hell would I want to do that?”

Wincing, Jim jerked his head down in a nod of acknowledgment. “I understand. My apologies.” He pulled his wallet out and removed some bills, setting them on the bar near his empty plate. He’d intended to stay and watch the whole game, but the atmosphere no longer felt welcoming. “I’m sorry for keeping you from your friends.”

Behind her, the group settled at a table. “They’re co-workers, I wouldn’t exactly call them friends.” She looked like she was going to say something, but bit her lip instead and looked at the floor.

He waited for her to step back so he could go past her, but it was if she’d put down roots. “Excuse me, ma’am. I’d better be going.”

“I thought you were going to help him.”

Jim leaned against the bar, puzzled. “What do mean?”

“Helping Mark. When you were here last summer, you promised to see what you could do.”

“I did.” Jim shifted his weight. Taylor’s written prediction had shaken him at the time, but the more he thought about it, the more he wondered how much had been a guess. Or a set-up. He didn’t think Bill would do anything like that, but what of the others in the room? The photos could have been prearranged also. It made a hell of a lot more sense than the crap about a magical camera.

Her shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have expected that he would be released based on the images you saw. Not sure what else it would take.” She gave him a hard look and turned to leave.

“He is free. What more do you want?”

“I don’t understand.” Her fingers tightened on her purse strap, the knuckles whitening.

He shrugged. “It’s not a trick question. He got out a few months ago.”

* * *

“Thank you, Mrs. Taylor. I’ll be sure to let you know if I find out anything.” Jessie set the phone back on the cradle and tapped the end of her pen against the ink blotter on her desk. Why did she even bother looking for the guy? Obviously, he didn’t want to see her. If he had, he knew where she’d be.

Dan entered the office, a stack of files in his hands. She sighed and held out her hand for her share. So much for lunch hour. “Thanks.”

He grinned. “Next time, say it with feeling.”

Reluctantly, Jessie smiled. “Oh, shut-up.”

With a wink in her direction, he sat and began sorting through the files. “So, what did you find out?”

She opened a folder, perused the contents and set it on the left side of the desk. “Mark came home, spent one night in Chicago, then took a bus to his parents’ house near Madison.” Another folder joined the one on the left. “Apparently, he’d had no idea about his apartment, so when he got back, he had nowhere to go.”

“Ouch. That’s rough.” Dan grimaced, his finger holding his place on a paper as he jotted a note down.

“Yeah. I’m sure it was. He spent about a week with his parents, but left after some kind of disagreement with his father. She’s only had one phone call since. He said he had a job at a camera store and was doing fine.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep.” Pausing in taking a note about one of her files, she added, “His mom didn’t think he had much money; everything was frozen by the government, and there was no telling how long that red tape would take to clear. He refused to take any cash from her.”

They fell silent as they each concentrated on cross-checking files for a case, but Jessie found it difficult. Where was Mark? Why hadn’t he called her? She thought they’d begun something special. Was he okay?