Chapter 15
They’d found Linda Sewell’s body lying next to her car around ten thirty in the morning. She’d parked some distance from the security cameras mounted near the elevator. Her purse was missing; so were her watch and jewelry. It looked like a mugging. I received all of this information on the q.t. from a detective I knew, as she exited the crime scene. Marcus and Tanaka weren’t about to share even a crumb of information. I stood behind the cordon, persona non grata, where I’d been for at least an hour. Marcus and Tanaka had barely given me a glance when they’d rushed past me.
What would happen to Sewell’s young son? I wondered. I hated this, all of it. The wanton taking of a life, the cavalier way some people decided who got to stay and who went. I hated it for me; I hated it for others. I just plain hated it. It made me angry and sick and anxious, like I was trying to clear a heap of steaming trash one bag at a time, one hand tied behind my back. I’d never get it all; there’d always be more trash; and whatever I did, it would never be enough.
I was still standing by the riot horse when Tanaka and Marcus came back out. These couldn’t be random deaths, not two in as many days, not two with a direct connection to Allen. Would there be more? Could Allen be next? At what point would she realize she was in over her head? I glanced over at her office windows, high above the hectic street clogged with rabid onlookers. She was likely up there now, ensconced in her throne room, not shedding a single tear for Sewell, feigning ignorance as bodies, lives, fell at her feet. Chandler would be there, too. She’d rushed from my office as though racing to a fire. Would she decide to finally confront Allen? Get her to come clean? I hoped so. Hewitt, now Sewell. What was happening?
I looked over to see Marcus watching me. He was playing it wrong. I knew it. He knew I knew it. But this wasn’t my show, not this time. I had to drop it here. Ben and I were out. When he turned his back to me, I strode back to my car and caught sight of a dark, late-model Buick with tinted windows idling across the street. Likely a crime-scene junkie, drawn to the scene by a police scanner, mesmerized by the drama of someone else’s tragic death. It was a thing. Disturbing, ghoulish, but a thing. I stopped and watched as the car pulled away from the curb and slowly drove away.
* * *
I went out early the next morning for bagels, eggs, and juice, my breakfast with my father swinging over my head like an executioner’s ax. I regretted suggesting the thing now, in retrospect, but I was stuck with it and had to see it through. He rang the bell right at 9:00 AM, and I buzzed him up, then opened the door to him holding a bunch of yellow roses, my mother’s favorite. He’d dressed nicely in a suit and tie. He looked like he was on his way to a job interview or church or his own funeral. I took the flowers, and we stood there at the door awkwardly.
“Those are going to need a vase,” he finally said.
“Right. Kitchen’s this way.” He followed me down the long hall.
“I whip up a pretty mean omelet,” he said, making conversation. “Matter of fact, I’m known as the omelet king in my house. You up for one?”
“Sure.” Passing the pantry, I snagged a clean apron off a hook and handed it back to him. “Things could get messy. The kitchen’s not exactly my room.”
He chuckled. “Wasn’t your mother’s, either, if you remember. She had other strengths—intelligence, compassion, a lot of patience, especially with me.”
I cocked a head toward the fridge. “Everything’s in there. Coffee beans, too.”
“I’m going with tea.” He winked. “I hear it’s good for you.”
He was making an effort; he knew I preferred tea to coffee. I placed the kettle on the burner, turned on the heat, and then plucked a paring knife from a drawer and laid it on the table for him.
“Eggs, butter, cheese, green onion, and bacon,” he said, turning from the refrigerator, his arms laden down with stuff. “If bacon don’t get your motor runnin’, nothin’ will, right?”
I thought of Ben and his fake hospital bacon and smiled. I looked over to see my father watching me.
“I remember that smile.”
That killed it. I gave him some distance, watching appraisingly as he set the food down on the table, perched himself on a barstool, and began to chop and dice, glancing up at me periodically. There were things I remembered, the way he held his head, the way his hands looked, snatches of mannerisms and such buried somewhere in my brain. Nothing flooded back in a great big wave of recollection; it was just the snatches. I set about lining up the bacon in the skillet, monitoring his movements out of the corner of my eye.
“I wanted to talk to you first, before dinner, to . . .” The speed of his chopping increased, and I turned around to see. The knife was working overtime. His face was creased in concentration, and sweat beaded across his forehead. I eased back. “Earl Grey or Irish Breakfast?”
“Oh, doesn’t matter to me. No, ma’am. I’ll drink anything.” Chop, chop, chop. He was chopping enough for at least a dozen omelets. “I went to see your mother yesterday.” His voice was light, conversational, as if the visit had taken place anywhere else besides the cemetery. “She’s in a beautiful spot. I’d forgotten how beautiful. Do you visit?”
I fingered my mother’s wedding ring, which I wore on a chain around my neck. I believed it brought me luck. Rubbing the soft gold and the smooth cluster of diamonds always made me feel as if at least some part of her was still with me, was still mine. No, I didn’t visit. She wasn’t there in that hole in the ground. She was with me; Pop too. So were all the people I’d loved and lost before I was ready to let them go.
I had slept with the ring under my pillow for months after she died, hoping that by some divine miracle or puff of sorcery—I’d have sold my soul for either—when I woke up, the ring would be gone and she would be back. But every morning there was just the ring there and a feeling of desolation, of brokenness I couldn’t shake. It was my grandmother who had given me the chain to carry it on, and it was Pop who had blessed them both for me. It had taken years for the small band of gold to signify anything other than sorrow. Only now did it give me peace.
“Cassandra, the bacon’s burning.”
I jolted, pulled my hand away from the chain, and slid the skillet off the burner.
“I asked if you ever went to visit your mother.”
“I don’t. No.” I hadn’t visited Pop, either, or my grandparents. I didn’t need to stare at a slab of remembrance to make the loss real. My eyes met his. “I don’t trust you. I don’t know if I ever will.”
The knife stilled. Many moments passed. “You got good reason not to. I hurt you.”
“You changed me. I’m a different person than the one you left. I’m not sure I want to make room for you in my life, but I’ve opened the door . . . for now. That’s what I wanted to tell you in private, before dinner with your family. That’s what I needed you to hear from me.”
He set the knife down and looked squarely at me. “Honesty.” He sighed. “I said this was a visit, but that’s not the whole truth. I explained in the letters, but . . . we found a place in Rogers Park. A nice house on a quiet street, with a yard and a driveway that I’ll have to shovel. Good schools close by. There’s still the back-and-forth to go through, but we hope to be in there and settled before Christmas. We talked the whole thing over—Sylvia, Whitford, and me. They understand why I need to be here. They know what I did. This doesn’t have to go fast. It doesn’t even have to go easy. But, however it goes, I’ll be here.”
I turned back to the stove, my heart racing, my palms sweating. The cutting started again.
He said, “I’m ready with these vegetables. Where’s your omelet pan?”
I handed it to him, but I didn’t let go of my end. We stood there for a time, looking into each other’s eyes. “I won’t let you in easily. I’ll protect myself.” It was both a warning and a declaration.
“I promise you won’t have to.”
I let go of the pan. “No more promises.”