Wednesday
Someone was running me through an obstacle course. These messages and out-of-the-way meets were the stuff of B-movie melodrama and spy games. I ought to pick up my marbles and go home. At least call Luke and tell him where I was. In the face of the unknown, even curiosity had its limits.
Instead, I drove east toward Sheridan Road.
I couldn’t object to the new meeting place. The Baha’i Temple, one of only seven in the world, is a magnificent structure with an airy, almost ethereal atmosphere. The interior walls are cladded with both white cement and quartz, which capture and bathe everything in dazzling light. The temple’s ceiling soars 140 feet, and the dome is designed with intricate symmetrical shapes that lie between intersecting lines. Amid such beauty and tranquility, it would be hard not to have a spiritual experience. I parked and went inside, practically tiptoeing around the sanctuary. A few tourists snapped photos; a couple of small kids, clearly not enamored with their surroundings, whined about going back to their hotel to watch Disney movies.
I don’t completely understand the Baha’i faith. It seems like an anything-goes Buddhism with few rituals and rules. Which makes it more appealing than other religions, including my own with its 613 mitzvahs. I think you can even have “dual citizenship,” so to speak, embracing both the religion in which you were raised as well as the Baha’i faith.
No chairs were set up, so I sat on a marble window seat. Five minutes went by; it was after two. Meditation or not, I was annoyed. I’d give it another five minutes. I stared at the dome, counting down the seconds.
The light tap of footsteps echoed across the marble floor. I looked toward the sound. A young woman who looked half-Asian and half-Caucasian cut across from the opposite side of the temple. Petite and very slim, she seemed to glide rather than walk. Her hair was chin length, her eyes a piercing black. Although she was wearing a parka, jeans, and work boots, she exuded an air of delicacy. This had to be the woman who’d come to the house.
I folded my arms. This waif had been ordering me around the North Shore? We’d see about that.
When she spoke, her voice was light and feathery, with no trace of an accent. “Thank you for coming. I am sorry to make you go through so many hoops before we met. But I had to be sure we weren’t being followed. And that you were alone. I am Grace Qasimi.”
“I assume you’re the person who came to my house yesterday?”
She nodded.
“How did you find me?”
“I found your business card among Gregory’s things. After he was…after he died.”
I recalled how we’d traded cards when we were shooting the trade show. Was that only a few weeks ago?
She pointed to the window seat. When we both sat down, she lowered her voice. “He said you were consulting with Delcroft. Like him.”
“Well, not exactly.” I unfolded my arms. I should at least hear her out. “So what’s so important that you had to leave notes all over the North Shore?”
A frown crossed her face, as if she was irritated I felt the need to ask. But then she must have thought better of it, because her expression relaxed. “Gregory and I—well, he was my fiancé.” She held up her left hand so I could see a diamond engagement ring. “I—I can’t take it off. I just, well…” She stared at the ring and twisted it. Then she looked up at me.
“I’m so sorry…”
Her eyes filled and she blinked rapidly, as if struggling to suppress her emotions. My voice trailed off. I got the feeling that she wanted me to know they weren’t just living together like so many young people today. That they had formally pledged themselves to each other. It probably was a family tradition. And now she felt like a widow.
“For your loss,” I finished.
She swallowed, then nodded as though she was tired of hearing such bland, insignificant words.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m afraid…In fact, I am desperate.”
“Why? Are you in danger?”
“I think so.”
“Why?”
“Because I know the truth about Gregory.”
I stiffened. “What truth?”
She lowered her voice. “Gregory said he was going to meet with you the day he died. Where the Blue and Red Line intersect.”
“That’s right.”
She looked at me with a wide, unflinching gaze. “Gregory would never kill himself. Never. He was pushed. I know it.”
There it was.
“Were you there?” she asked after a pause.
I nodded.
“What do you think?”
I chose my words carefully. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Especially after Delcroft said he was spying for the Chinese.”
“But…” She bit her lip. “You see, that’s only part of it.” She looked around the temple, a cautious expression unfolding across her face. Her voice quieted to a whisper. “I’m here because Gregory said of all the people he’d come in contact with, you seemed like the only normal person.”
I consider myself your average garden-variety neurotic, but thinking about Delcroft’s high-strung executives, security chiefs, and surveillance teams, Parks was probably right.
“And because you work in video,” she went on, “you have contacts. With the news media.”
I started to tell her that wasn’t the case anymore, but she kept going. “I want to restore Gregory’s reputation. His honor. Expose his murder. What they are saying about him is untrue.”
“So he wasn’t a spy?”
She let a long moment pass. “I suppose he was,” she finally said. “But he was a double agent.”