Saturday
“You sure Zach’s okay?” I asked Georgia Davis on the phone the next morning. I gazed out the kitchen window. An inch of new snow covered the sludge of the past few weeks, promising a day of purity and innocence.
“He’s fine, Ellie. He left work early. In fact, he was at a movie with his girlfriend when it happened.”
“What about his dog?”
“I’m sure he’s okay. Zach would have said something.”
“Okay.”
There was a long pause. Then: “Ellie, what kind of trouble are you in? Do you need help?”
“I—I don’t know. But I’d really like to know who was behind the explosion.”
“Wouldn’t we all. Be prepared, by the way. You’re gonna be getting a visit from the cops. Maybe the feds, too.”
“That’s going to be a barrel of laughs.”
“You know you can’t—”
I cut her off. “I know. But I don’t want to answer their questions.”
“Come on, Ellie, this is a felony crime. You know they’re going to ask Zach who his clients are. Your name is going to come up.”
“Crap.”
Another pause. “You sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?”
I thought about Delcroft, Hollander, and Parks. Then I imagined Dan O’Malley, the village chief of police, or one of his deputies interviewing them. Especially the deputy COO at the meeting—what was his name?—Phillips. Gary Phillips. By the time they finished, my reputation, and my bank account, would be heading even further south. Not to mention that as soon as someone said, “Chinese spy,” the FBI would swoop in. Maybe the CIA, too. And if anything made it into the media, which, of course, it eventually would, Delcroft would take a hit. And all because I was fired from a job and wanted to know why. I buried my head in my hands. What had I done?
I found out an hour later when an unmarked car with a Mars light on top pulled up to the house. Police. A beefy man in a bulky coat climbed out. It wasn’t O’Malley, and I didn’t know who it was. Then again, a coat and muffler partially hid his face. That wasn’t the case with the sports car that pulled up behind him, a silver Spyder, its fender glinting in the sun. Who the hell had the nerve to drive a sports car in winter in Chicago? Suddenly my head jerked up. I knew that car. And its owner.
As if on cue, a lean, lanky man unfolded himself from the driver’s seat. He wore jeans, a black leather jacket, and work boots. A pair of gloves and muffler seemed to be his only concession to the season. As he strolled up to the door, I recognized the green ball cap on his head, which bore the white letters “Different Drummer Charter Fishing.”
I sucked in a breath. “This morning just gets better and better.”
Luke shot me a questioning glance.
The doorbell chimed.
When I opened the door, the man from the unmarked already had his badge out. “Detective Frank Delaney, village police.”
“Good morning,” I said. He looked me over, then did the same to Luke.
Luke stuck out his hand. “Luke Sutton. A friend of Ms. Foreman’s.”
Delaney nodded as if he already knew, but the man in the ball cap tilted his head and gave Luke a curious once-over.
“And this is FBI Special Agent Nick LeJeune,” Delaney said.
I nodded. “I’ve had the pleasure.”
LeJeune grinned. “Hello, cher. It’s been a while.”
I motioned to the Spyder parked at the curb. “Same car? How many years has it been?”
“Eleven. Just getting broken in.” He grinned. “You look exactly the same, cher. How’s your daughter? She still like fast cars and faster men?” I was reminded how Rachel, at fourteen, had been so enamored of LeJeune and his car that he let her take it for a spin around the block. I shook my head. Had I really been that cavalier?
Now I frowned. “She’s good. She’s twenty-five.”
“She couldn’t be. Where is she?”
Delaney shifted his feet. “Do you mind if we continue this inside? It’s pretty damn cold.”
“Of course.” I opened the door wide, and they stepped in. A wave of cold air wafted in with them. I turned back to LeJeune. “Rachel’s downtown. Working for a nonprofit. Helping women in transition find jobs.”
“How noble.” LeJeune nodded. “Like her mother. She single?”
“She is. And don’t you dare get within a mile of her.”
His smile widened, and he took off his hat.
When I knew him, he had sandy hair threaded with gray. It was mostly gray now. But his eyes were the same penetrating green flecked with black, and he spoke with the same southern lilt, although it sometimes sounded like he was talking around a marble in his mouth. We’d met over ten years ago, when I’d been working on a video about the water-intake cribs on Lake Michigan, which, now that I thought about it, hadn’t been finished either. It wasn’t that I was fired—9/11 occurred in the middle of the shoot, and the water department prudently decided not to dispense information on how Chicago got its water.
But that wasn’t the end of the situation. I’d found evidence, quite by accident, that some bad guys were intent on doing nasty things to the city of Chicago, and LeJeune had been assigned to the case. Come to think of it, the circumstances now were eerily similar to what had happened then.
Luke, who had been very quiet during our exchange, extended his hand to LeJeune. “I’m Luke Sutton.”
“Yes. A friend of Ms. Foreman’s,” LeJeune said. “Well, well.”
I felt myself color.