Chapter 23
I spent the rest of the afternoon in my office, searching. I didn’t find any sudden windfalls that would explain Grissom’s high living, which left me with a big question mark. I did find Reesa Loudon, though, after checking municipal records, tax liens, all the standard buckets. She lived in Atlanta now, worked for a local news affiliate. I hoped she’d be able to tell me about Dontell Adkins, so I called her, ID’d myself, and explained what I needed. She sounded a bit rattled over the phone, like I was trying to run a scam, but after I had convinced her I was who I said I was, she agreed to talk. She’d quit Strive, just as Chandler had said, but the parting hadn’t been as amiable as Chandler had led me to believe.
“I just couldn’t stand it one more second. They treated us like indentured servants. I quit and left for Atlanta the next day. I lived with my aunt until I could get back on my feet. It took a while since I couldn’t count on Allen for a letter of recommendation or as a reference.”
“Why not?”
“Allen told me and Dontell from the very beginning that if we didn’t work out to her satisfaction, not to expect anything like that from her. It was her way of punishing us, holding us back. She really is a terrible person.”
“Chandler said you and Dontell were young, uncommitted, and unwilling to make sacrifices.”
Loudon laughed. “You want to know how Vonda Allen sacrificed? That first year, after telling us there was no money, she bought a big Hermès bag and a Mercedes and flaunted them around, then set off to Paris for ten days, while me and Dontell put the magazine to bed by working all hours. We were committed, committed to not getting taken for suckers.”
“Chandler go with her to Paris?”
“Of course. She can’t go anywhere without Chandler. Who’d order her lunch or bring her a pen or whatever else she needs? Vonda said it was some conference they needed to go to that’d help them network internationally and grow the business. That was a lie. Dontell and I looked it up, and we couldn’t find that conference mentioned anywhere.”
“Any idea what’s going on with the two of them?”
“No, and I don’t care. I’m just glad to be clear of them.”
I told her about Dontell and the hit-and-run. She hadn’t known. She’d been in Atlanta by that time. She seemed truly upset at the news, and I gave her a moment to process it before I went on.
“Tell me about him.”
“He was still there when I quit, but the way he felt, I knew he didn’t plan on staying long. He dreamed big. I can’t believe he’s dead. Vonda did everything she could to keep him from getting any kind of momentum, and it looked like she enjoyed it. But Dontell was fierce. He planned on exposing her.”
“Expose her how?”
“Put it all out there. Tell people how she really operated when people weren’t looking. She was always so into how people viewed her. I don’t think she could deal with everybody knowing what she’s really like. And if Chandler had found out that’s what he intended to do, she’d have fired him long before he even thought about quitting. Poor Dontell. I’m so sad right now.”
She didn’t remember ever hearing Allen mention anyone named Eric. She also claimed not to know anything about the threats or who might be making them. Just to be thorough, I asked if she had proof that she was in Atlanta at the time of Hewitt’s and Sewell’s deaths, and she e-mailed me receipts from an in-town media symposium she had attended, as well as a picture of herself, heavily pregnant with her first child. Not saying that she couldn’t have faked the receipts or the pregnancy, but she didn’t appear to have much of a motive. She’d left Allen and Strive behind long ago and had done well for herself. I bumped her name to the bottom of my list. Not likely or probable.
The names of Dontell’s grandparents were mentioned in his obituary, and I was able to find an address for them, but it was getting too late to call on them. It’d have to wait until morning. Still I’d heard nothing from Tanaka.
I locked up the office, beyond tired. I’d been running all day, and it was just now catching up with me. I should’ve gone home or back to the hospital; instead, I found myself walking over to the lake to stand on the jagged rocks overlooking the water.
The sun would set soon, and the beach was deserted, except for a lone golden retriever frolicking at the shoreline, its owner, a tall woman, her short gray hair windswept, watching from the damp sand. I glanced mournfully toward the beach house down the path, remembering a rainy night not too long ago and the life I couldn’t save. He’d called himself GI, and he’d lived rough under a tree just beyond the beach house. It was Pop who had looked out for him, fed him, clothed him. It was GI who had helped me find Pop’s killer. I’d almost saved GI, almost.
I felt like I was drowning, flailing. I wanted to talk to Ben about it but couldn’t. It came to me then. He was the part of me I was missing. Had he really shifted from being a partner, a friend, to having feelings? If so, I hadn’t seen it. How did I feel? What were my feelings? It was all too much.
My phone beeped. Another text from Carole. Mom’s been crying all day. Doctors haven’t had any good news. Please, tell me you’re getting somewhere. My fingers hovered over the keypad. What do I answer back? I had nothing. I knew nothing. Hurriedly, I typed my response—Following leads. Keep you posted. Then I turned off the phone and put it away, heading off any follow-up. I wanted to be at the hospital, but I was needed out here. I had people counting on me, and I had nothing.
Damn it, Ben. Wake up.
* * *
There was a kid sitting on my front stoop when I turned into my yard. He was maybe twelve or thirteen, light, skinny, a head of curly hair. He stood when he saw me. I stopped, eyed the building. It wasn’t full dark yet, but the exterior lights were on, set to a timer. Mrs. Vincent’s lights and Gray’s on the second floor were out. No one was home.
I walked up to him. “Can I help you?”
Big hazel eyes peered out of a baby face. “Are you Cassandra Raines?”
My eyebrows rose. “What’s a kid want with me?”
He shoved his arm out to shake my hand formally, like he was out on a job interview and trying to put his best foot forward. “I’m your brother, Whitford. I came to introduce myself.”
I shook his hand, taking a long look at the boy. “That so?”
“But you can call me Whit, since we’re siblings . . . at least half.”
“It’s just Cass, by the way.”
“I know.” He squinted up at me. “You okay? You look weird . . . Oh, I get it. I surprised you. It’s okay, though. You don’t have to go all ghosty.”
I took my hand back. “Ghosty?”
He gave both his cheeks a playful pat. “Pale. Ghosty. Like you might pass out or upchuck. Are you? It’d be okay if you did. I took Red Cross training last summer. I can do CPR, apply a tourniquet, clear an airway, dress a bandage—”
“I’m not going to pass out,” I said, interrupting him. “How long have you been waiting here?”
He glanced down at his watch. “Two hours, thirty-seven . . . Eh, hold that. Thirty-eight minutes. But I was prepared to wait longer.”
“Two hours?” I looked around the block, up and down at the cars passing by, people walking through. Strangers. In the city. And this little kid sitting on my stoop in the wide open, as clueless as a baby bird tottering toward the end of a tree branch. “Did anybody mess with you?”
“Nope.”
“Did you ring the bell?” I checked the windows again. Still dark.
“No one answered.”
I scanned the parked cars, half expecting to see my father idling at the curb. Then, when I realized he wasn’t, I turned back to the kid. “Wait a minute. How’d you get here?”
“Took a couple of buses. I bought a map at a store close to the hotel.”
“Buses? By yourself?”
He looked like he didn’t get it. “I am twelve.”
“This is Chicago. Do you know how many people go missing from bus stops in this town? Where are your parents? Do they know where you are?”
He didn’t look fazed in the least. “I told them I was going to the pool. You’re turning red. That’s one of the signs of heart attack. I learned—”
I slid my keys out of my pocket. “Oh my God! Get inside. You’re going to call your parents and tell them I’m bringing you back.” I fiddled with the door, ushered him in, glancing back to give him a disapproving glare. “Buses.”
Whitford Raines, vagabond, sat down on my couch and surveyed the apartment, wide-eyed. I sat across from him on an end chair, wondering what to say to him. Whole new territory here.
“Nice place,” he pronounced as way of an icebreaker. “Big. Just you live here?”
I nodded.
“You have a dog?”
“No dog.”
His feet barely touched the floor as he sat. They dangled just a bit, the toes of his scuffed-up running shoes kissing the carpet. He hadn’t had his growth spurt yet, apparently.
“You have a phone?” I asked.
He looked at me as though I’d asked the dumbest question ever. “Yeah.”
“Call your parents.”
“I will. You got any kids?”
I shook my head.
“You like kids?”
“They’re okay.”
“Married?”
I shook my head again. I wanted to sleep, though I knew I probably wouldn’t. I was done in, my brain fried, and I hadn’t made a single bit of progress at all today.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” His brows furrowed. I could tell I was beginning to worry him. “Ever been married?”
“Do you work for the Census Bureau?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Tough day. A lot crammed into it. Sorry. No, I’ve never been married.”
Whit glanced around the living room; his eyes landed on an old CPD sweatshirt of mine strewn over a chair in the dining room. “You’re a policeman?”
“Used to be.”
He squinted. “What are you now?”
“A private investigator . . . like a policeman, but not a policeman.”
“You have a gun?”
I didn’t answer that one.
His eyes gleamed. “You’d have to have one, right? Can I see it?”
“No.”
He made a face. “That sucks.”
I stood, handed him my phone. “Call someone related to you. I’ll get you some milk.” I padded into the kitchen, more for a much-needed break than anything else. Maybe I had milk in the fridge; maybe I didn’t. I’d have to wait and see.
I opened the fridge and pulled out a cold bottle of mineral water and ran it across my forehead before opening it and taking a long drag. A twelve-year-old boy on my front step. Yep. That was what my day had been missing. Whitford. Weird name. I grabbed the carton of milk out of the fridge, turned, and jumped back when I found the kid standing there, all Children of the Corn.
“Jeez, kid, you scared the crap out of me.” I set the water and the milk on the counter, waiting for my respiration to normalize. “Did you make that call?”
He slid onto a barstool. “I’m thinking of what I’m going to say. They might be a little upset.”
I chuckled. “I don’t know a thing about your particular parental situation, but I can almost guarantee you they’re going to be upset. Dial their number. Do it now.” I slid the carton of milk toward him. “I’ll get you a glass.”
“Are you serious? Babies drink milk. I’m twelve.”
“So you said.” I plucked a clean glass out of the dishwasher.
“My mom let me have half a Starbucks this morning . . . without milk.”
“Congratulations.” I poured him a glass, slid it toward him.
“You’re not giving me much.”
“Excuse me?”
“I wanted to see who you were.”
“So, you’ve seen me. Who’d you expect? Rihanna?”
He watched me closely. “Not sure what I expected. You’re the adult. I thought maybe you would know.”
I put the milk carton back in the fridge, finished my water. “Nope. You lost me at ‘I’m your brother.’ ”
“Dad came to see you, but he said it didn’t go good.”
“Well,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Didn’t go well, not didn’t go good.”
He stared at me. I stared back. Standoff.
“I’d be mad, too, if he left and didn’t come back practically for my whole life.” He took a sip of milk, which he appeared to find satisfying, despite his advanced age. “You’re still mad at him. That’s why you won’t really talk to him?”
“It’s complicated.”
Whit waited, not blinking, which was a little freaky.
“Yes, that’s why, and stop stalling. Put the glass down. Call your parents, or I’ll cuff you to something and call them myself.”
His big eyes danced. Not exactly the reaction I was aiming for. “You have real handcuffs?”
I put the bottle down. “That’s it. Get up. Let’s go.” I sped through the hall, grabbed my bag and keys from the foyer table. “Unreal. Buses.”
“But it was fun.” Whit trotted behind me, trying to keep up. “A guy I sat next to wanted to sell me his pants. I said, ‘Man . . .’ ”
My stomach lurched. “Please, please, for the love of God, stop talking.”
I locked up the apartment, nudged Whit toward the stairs. “Move, Magellan.”
“Who’s that?”
“Google him whenever you get your computer privileges back. Walk.”
My father and a woman I assumed was his wife, Sylvia, were standing nervously in front of the Fairmont when I pulled into the horseshoe-shaped drive. I slowed the car, but the woman had the passenger-side door open before my wheels came to a complete stop. Whit unbuckled his seat belt, and his mother yanked him out of the seat and deposited him on the sidewalk, danger spitting out of her eyes like molten lava. I kept the car running, my foot on the brake.
“Are you kidding me, Whitford?” She held his jacket collar in an impressive vise grip. “What were you thinking?”
Whit opened his mouth to speak but obviously thought better of it and closed it again.
“Stand right there,” she barked. “Do not move!”
She couldn’t have been more than five feet two, but I would have declined any offer to tangle with her. She looked like she could more than hold her own. My father stood silently off to the side, his hands buried deep in his front pockets. He’d ditched the suit for a pair of slacks and a blue button-down shirt.
Sylvia leaned down, peered inside the car, relief on her face. “Thank you so much for doing this. I don’t know how to address you. Do you prefer Cassandra?”
“Cass,” I said.
She smiled. “Thank you, Cass, for bringing him back. I went down to the pool, and he was gone. We had practically everyone in the hotel looking for him. We were just about to call the police.” She took a breath, a long one, as though she hadn’t exhaled in a very long time. Whit had probably shaved a few years off her life. “I don’t know what possessed him to do such a thing.”
She looked nothing like my mother, I thought as I checked her out. It was funny how I automatically made the comparison. Sylvia was far shorter, rounder, in a motherly sort of way. Her brown eyes crinkled at the corners, and she seemed like a nice person. I wondered what she did for a living, besides mother an independent-minded boy. There was no reason for me not to like her, not that I consciously looked for one.
“I wanted to meet her,” Whit said. “I had money for the bus there and back. What’s the big—”
Sylvia reeled, her eyes laying down a challenge to Whit to say one more word. He shut his mouth and kept it shut. “Do not finish that sentence. Do not blink. Do not talk. Do not breathe.” Whit looked terrified. Sylvia began to turn back to me, then thought of something else. “And you’ve seen the last of your Xbox for a while . . . and that includes that beeping thing you always carry around with you.” She held out her hand, snapped impatient fingers, and waited as Whit dug into his pocket and lifted out some sort of portable game system and placed it reluctantly in his mother’s hand. “The cell phone, too.”
“What! Awww,” Whit whined but handed that over, too.
Sylvia brushed aside a wayward curl that had fallen across her forehead, and then turned back to me and shrugged. “Kids, right?”
I smile sympathetically, having no firsthand knowledge of the species. “Well, I should get going. Nice meeting you.”
“Oh, but wouldn’t you like to come up? We could have dinner. I could thank you properly.”
Thanks, but some other time.”
She smiled. “I understand. Anytime then. Standing invitation.” She stepped back and closed the car door.
Whit angled around his mother, waving madly. “See ya, sis!”
There was no misinterpreting his mother’s glare. “Really? You won’t be seeing anyone anytime soon, Whitford Bennett Raines. Get up to that room! Now!”
The two of them disappeared inside, leaving my father alone at the curb with me. For a moment he didn’t say anything; neither did I. Finally, he leaned in through the open window, his arms pressing against the doorframe. An impatient taxi driver honked behind me. I’d idled in the turnaround too long.
I made the first move. “They seem nice.”
“He’s not shy, that’s for sure. Thanks for doing this. Sure you don’t want to come up?”
“I can’t. I’m in the middle of something. I’ll call about that dinner.”
He tapped the car with his knuckles, then backed away. “Stay safe.”
I drove off and took one final look at him through the rearview before I turned the corner.