Chapter 22
Mike Kemper told me over the phone that he was working at Lincoln Park Zoo the entire day, and so if I wanted to meet with him, it’d have to be there, and it’d have to be within the hour. I sped north up the Drive to Fullerton Parkway, then fought the cars full of sugared-up shorties streaming into the zoo’s parking lot before naptime. I made good time, despite the bottleneck at the turnoff. Kemper had told me he’d be waiting in front of the gorilla house, and that was where I found a middle-aged white guy in Dockers and a short-sleeved button-down shirt. He held two hot dogs, one in each hand, and had a laptop bag hanging from his shoulder.
“Mike?”
He thrust one of the hot dogs at me. “Detective Raines.” I looked at the dog circumspectly. “Angie said you might be hungry. I figured local version, no ketchup.”
I took the dog. It was still hot. “You figured right. And Cass is fine.” I held the hot dog up. “You know, I can afford to feed myself.”
He chuckled. “Angie’s a bit of a mother hen. She said feed you, so I feed you.” He eyed a bench nearby, gestured toward it. “Let’s sit. I’m coordinating a fund-raising campaign in conjunction with the zoo today, so that’s why I’m here, not in my office. This is my lunch break.”
For a few moments we just sat and ate.
“So, Grissom? Frat boy. Maybe on the basketball team. We’re looking for him at NU around the late eighties, early nineties.”
He swallowed, wiped mustard from his mouth with a paper napkin. “Yeah. I’m not a big sports guy, so I don’t know who played for us, but . . .” He wrapped his hot dog in napkins and sat it on the bench next to him and then took out his laptop. “I’ve got the directory here. Just let me boot up . . . and log in.”
While I waited, I worked on my own hot dog, watching little kids across the way try to toss peanuts into the animal enclosures with chubby little baby hands. Then I got caught up in counting the number of strollers. The zoo must be a happening place for the toddler set. I was well past a dozen when Kemper drew me back.
“Okay, I’m in, but if this guy didn’t sign on to it or didn’t graduate . . .” He let his sentence go unfinished.
“I won’t hold it against you,” I said.
His fingers tapped over the keyboard. “I’ll be damned. We got a hit right off the bat. Four, actually, within your year range. Kyle Grissom, Feinberg School of Medicine, graduated nineteen ninety-three. He’s with Doctors Without Borders now.” He read on. “David Grissom, Weinberg School of Arts & Sciences, graduated in eighty-nine. He teaches at Columbia College.” He grimaced. “Wendell Grissom, deceased. Guess he’s out. And Stephanie Grissom. Medill, nineteen ninety-eight. New York.” He blew a whistle. “Works at the New York Times. Big leagues.”
Stephanie was out. “Does it say which ones are black?”
Mike fiddled with the search, pulling up class photos. “David Grissom. And, hey, he played ball. Point guard. Freshman, sophomore years.” He leaned back, apparently proud of himself. “And he’s a Sigma. Looks like we found him.”
I finished my dog, balled up the wrapper. “You found him. I just watched.” I stood. “Thanks for your help . . . and for lunch.”
Kemper went back to his hot dog. “You bet. Hope it works out for you.”
* * *
I found Grissom in his office, room 455, texting on his iPhone. He looked up when I knocked at the door, but made no effort to welcome me in, so I took it upon myself. I’d done a quick Google search on him after I left Kemper, so I knew a little about him.
Old newspaper write-ups highlighted his once promising basketball career at NU, and his future had looked bright until he blew out his ACL sophomore year. That was when the scouts stopped scouting and any NBA aspirations he might have had withered on the vine. I could find nothing on him between graduation and when he turned up here, but then, I hadn’t had time to cover everything. He was in Benita Ramsey’s freshman class, though, which gave them every opportunity to meet, get together, and then part acrimoniously.
“Professor Grissom?”
He frowned, went back to the phone. “I don’t see students outside of regular office hours. It’s in section II of your syllabus. No exceptions. Also clearly stated in section II.”
He was dressed nicely, a silver Rolex on his wrist. When I had looked up his address, it had pinged back to a swanky condo on the Gold Coast. High living for a man who graded papers for a living.
I stood in front of his desk, quietly waiting for him to look up again and acknowledge my presence. He didn’t for a while. It was a little awkward. Finally, he looked up to glare at me.
“Persistence will not help in this situation.”
“I would think persistence helps in any situation, but I’m not a student. I’m an investigator. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Benita Ramsey, now Vonda Allen.” I placed one of my cards on his desk and slid it nearer to him. He picked it up, read it, then put his phone down.
“Benita Ramsey?”
“Now Vonda Allen. Yes.”
I looked around the small office, trying to get a sense of the man. His NU diploma was framed and hanging from the wall, as was his college basketball jersey. He’d also framed a few of the newspaper clippings I’d already read trumpeting his athletic exploits—top scores, game winners, and such. But none of the stories on his career-ending injury had made it up. Too painful for him, maybe.
“How’d you get my name?”
I glanced at the chair next to me, then sat down on it, though Grissom hadn’t invited me to. “Wouldn’t you rather know why I’m here first?”
He tossed my card down, sneered at me. “All right. Enlighten me.”
“You two have history,” I said. “I’d like to ask you about that.”
“I knew her. It was a brief thing in college. We moved on. If you’re looking for more than that from me, you’re wasting your time.”
“A brief thing, an easy split, no hard feelings,” I said watching him. “What was she like?”
He took a few seconds to answer. “We only hung out a few times. Half a semester, if that. I can’t say I remember what she was like. I played ball. There were a lot of girls hanging around.”
“Then you got injured,” I said. “But Allen left NU before that. Do you know why?”
His smile disappeared. “No clue. We’d split up by then. What’s all this about anyway?”
I flicked a look at Grissom’s wall of memorabilia. “She’s receiving some unwanted attention. Someone she knew back in the day. I thought maybe you might have some idea who that might be.”
He chuckled. “Unwanted attention? Somebody put a horse’s head in her bed? Slash her limo tires? And you think it’s me after all this time?” His chuckle gave way to an all-out belly laugh. I waited for him to finish, not seeing the humor.
“When’s the last time you saw her?” I asked.
“Couldn’t tell you.”
“And your split was amicable, friendly.”
“Sure,” he said.
I shifted in the chair. “So, if someone remembered seeing you arguing with her at UIC and then slapping her, they’d be lying?”
Grissom tugged on his shirt cuffs, revealing gold monogrammed cuff links. “Yeah, they’d be lying. I don’t hit women.”
“And whatever you argued about back then and split over, violently or not, you’ve let go of and harbor no hard feelings. In fact, you can’t even remember the last time you saw her.”
He stood. “We’re done here. Whatever you’re doing, or trying to do, try it somewhere else.”
“Nice watch,” I said.
He glanced down at his wrist, pulled down his cuff to cover it. “What’s your point?”
“No point. Just admiring it.”
“Do I have to call security?”
I stood. “No. I’m going. But can I ask where you were two nights ago?”
“No.” He grabbed up the receiver from the phone on his desk but didn’t dial.
“Again, not even curious why I’m asking?”
He didn’t answer.
“A lot of people are afraid of Allen,” I said. “She’s got money to burn and a vindictive personality. You one of those people?”
He grinned, still not dialing. “Me? Not a chance. I hear she’s a real prima donna these days, but that’s only because she’s been allowed to get away with it. Someone should have cut her down to size years ago.”
“You, maybe?”
He put the phone down. “You know how you tame a lion? You do it by controlling the meat.”
My eyes held his. “Seems to me a hungry lion would be far more dangerous.”
“Not if you declaw and defang it first. Not if you make it fear for its life.”
I wanted to make real sure I understood him. “And Allen’s the lion.”
He smiled. “You can see yourself out.”