“Yes, sir.” No need to mention that the “person of interest” is now a corpse.
“So tomorrow, go interview this Dobias fellow who interests you so much,” he says. “See what comes of it. But listen, Jane. There is no physical way that Simon Dobias could have been on both sides of all those text-message conversations, when the two phones were twenty miles apart. So you wanna convince me to keep this investigation open? Show me the slightest hint that Simon Dobias had a partner in this scheme.”
88
Simon
“I fucked up. I fucked up.” I rock back and forth inside the cab, careful to keep my head down, the Grim Reaper hood covering my face, sweaty from the heat blasting inside the cab and yes, probably from nerves as well.
The cabbie, a young guy with a thick African accent whose license reads Dembe Abimbola, turns down the pop music. “You okay, sir?” he asks. “Are you going to be sick?”
“Not gonna be sick.” I shake my head, which I think comes across even while wearing this large hood over my head. “I fucked up. I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up.”
I try to keep my voice a harsh, whispery staccato, not revealing too much of my real voice or speech pattern, because one thing I don’t know is how Christian talks.
“Do you need me to do something?” he says.
I wave my hands. I don’t want to take this too far. The last thing I need is for him to drive me to a hospital or, God forbid, a police station.
? ? ?
“You sure you’ll be okay, sir? Do you want some change back?”
I wave at the driver and get out of his cab in Wicker Park, at the three-way intersection of North, Damen, and Milwaukee, one of my favorite spots in the city. It’s near ten, so the night is young around here, the streets filled with people, many costumed up like me.
It’s nice to be out of that cab. Leaning over the whole time, so the cabbie wouldn’t get a look at my face, wasn’t the most comfortable position, especially during a herky-jerky ride. I keep my head down now, too, for obvious reasons, but fortunately I don’t have far to walk.
When I get to Winchester, I turn up, north, toward Christian’s apartment.
A few people are heading toward me, a group of three gabbing, one looking at a phone. I don’t feel like engaging in conversation, so I hold my green burner phone against my ear, or more accurately to the hood covering my head, and nod and talk in a low voice as they pass me. “Creepy,” one of the people says, but I just keep walking.
Nobody else around, no police squad cars, no traffic. The streets are lined up and down with parked cars, street parking being as scarce as it is. The three-flats and apartment buildings are well-lit; most people around here are still awake, still doing things inside their apartments if not out and about tonight. Basically an ordinary Chicago street on a fairly ordinary night. Halloween is an occasion for some adults, sure, but with it falling on a Monday, most people who wanted to throw a costume party probably did so over the weekend.
I look up into the picture window at Christian Newsome’s apartment. The blinds are down but open, so visibility isn’t great, but you can see in. Nobody moving around in there, at least.
Are you home, Christian?
Are you dead, Christian?
Did Vicky kill you after you ably performed your task and killed Lauren?
I sure hope so! Otherwise, you’re gonna be really surprised to see me.
? ? ?
Viva Mediterránea’s outdoor patio is empty, given the cold. The alley is empty.
Just me, standing next to the keypad by Christian’s garage. I type in the password and the garage grinds open.
I step inside, work around his car, and close the door behind me. I flip on the overhead light.
I put down my bag and pull off my Grim Reaper costume. I leave on the Obama mask; better to keep my head covered for now, avoid DNA residue. I want to remove my boots, painful as hell to wear, being two sizes too large, but I need to tromp up the stairs in them first. Then I’ll kick them off and put on the shoes I brought, that I’m carrying in my trick-or-treat bag
I blow out air. Here goes nothing.
I open the downstairs door and listen. All I hear is the drumming of my heart.
“Hello?” I call out.
Nothing.
“Hello?”
? ? ?
I drop the Grim Reaper costume onto Christian’s bed. I place the boots near his feet by the couch, trying to simulate him kicking them off his feet. Doesn’t really matter. Just can’t look too perfect or tidy.
Christian must have disposed of his costume and boots. I’d be disappointed in him if he hadn’t.