CHICAGO
ALBANY PARK NEIGHBORHOOD
DECEMBER 1965
Nathan was sound asleep when the ring of his bedside phone shook him from his slumber. “Hullo,” he whispered.
“Nathan, Nathan, get up,” Mimi cried.
His throat was dry, and he spoke in a whisper. “What? What’s the matter?”
“Get up and turn on the news! Nathan, they’re dead, Preston and Chrissie. They died last night. Oh, my God.”
“What are you talking about?”
Mimi was hysterical. “Pres and Chrissie. They’re gone. They died in a fire. Oh, Nathan, I just can’t believe it. Please, can you come over now? Please?”
Eli was standing on the front stoop when Nathan came running up. “Such tragic news,” Eli said. “I am so very sorry for you both.”
Nathan dashed up the stairs. The apartment door was open, and he could hear Mimi crying. “Meems, what happened?”
“Didn’t you see the news?”
He shook his head. “I came right over.”
“Here it is,” Grandma called from the living room. “NBC is broadcasting from the fire station.”
They watched as the battalion chief was interviewed. “The fire was extinguished before it had consumed the rear of the structure. Consequently, the back bedrooms were intact. Firefighters were able to extract the bodies of two adult occupants, who were later identified as Mr. and Mrs. Preston Roberts.”
“Do we know how the fire started?”
“Not conclusively. It’s still under investigation at this time. I can tell you that we believe it originated in the front hallway, and there are signs that suggest the use of an accelerant. That’s really all I have right now.”
The newscast then switched to the outside of an elegant brick home in the Ravenswood Manor section, set one hundred feet back from the parkway. Police were stationed in front of the circular drive.
“This is the home of Congressman Witold Zielinski,” the reporter said. “The congressman and Mrs. Zielinski are inside, but, quite understandably, they are not talking to reporters. They were informed by telephone of the tragedy that befell their daughter and her husband, both only twenty-five years old and married barely four months.” Photo clips of the wedding were displayed on the screen.
The reporter then tried to interview a plainclothes police lieutenant who was standing in front of the Zielinski home. He shook his head and said, “Out of respect for the congressman, there is very little we will discuss at this time.”
“Was it a homicide, Lieutenant?”
The lieutenant gave a nod.
“So,” the reporter said, “I take it that the fire was set to cover up a crime?”
“As I said, out of respect for Congressman and Mrs. Zielinski, we will wait for the conclusion of our investigation before releasing any more information to the press. That’s all I have to say at this time.”
Mimi and Nathan spent the day trying to process the terrible news. Best friends, practically family, gone in the blink of an eye—it was inconceivable. What kind of monster would do such a thing? How deranged and wicked would a person have to be to commit so evil a crime against such a lovely young couple?
A number of photographs lay on Mimi’s coffee table, and she gently arranged them with her index finger. “Chrissie was such a powerful force in my life, and I really don’t know how things will ever be the same. There’s an empty hole in my heart,” Mimi said. “She and I have shared our innermost secrets since we were eight years old. I can’t believe she’s gone.”
Nathan stared at a picture of the four of them taken at the Indiana Dunes State Park. “He was like a brother to me,” he said softly. “He always had my back. I remember the time we played Sullivan and some smartass linebacker took a cheap shot at me. Preston came out of nowhere and flattened the guy. He was ready to take on the whole Sullivan team. I know I’ll never have another friend like him.”
The afternoon news compounded their sadness with the revelation that Preston and Christine had been murdered before the fire was set. The coroner reported that Preston had been shot three times: two superficial wounds and a fatal shot to the temple, execution style. Christine died from a single shot, an oblique wound that severed her carotid artery. Officials speculated that the fire was set to cover up the crime. Theories abounded. Police theorized it was a botched robbery. The house had been torn apart. Drawers lay open. Closets had been rifled through. According to Christine’s parents, items of jewelry were missing.
Mimi gripped Nathan’s hand tightly. “That was no robbery. You and I both know that the shootings were intended to silence Preston and Chrissie. If Chrissie hadn’t quit, if she had returned to work as her father demanded, she’d be alive today.”
“Vittie wouldn’t kill his daughter, Meems. He loved her.”
“I’m not saying that Vittie was the murderer. He would never harm Chrissie. I don’t think he cared for Preston, especially after last Sunday’s phone call, but he would never have done anything to hurt his daughter.”
“Then who? Was it Nicky?”
Mimi shrugged. “I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s an asshole, he’s violent, he’s a drunk, but according to Chrissie, he was madly in love with her.”
“Remember, he’s going through a divorce, and Chrissie knew all about his hidden money. Maybe Nicky’s more madly in love with his money than he was with Chrissie. He could have gone over there to threaten Chrissie and make sure she kept quiet. We know he has a hair-trigger temper.”
“I suppose that’s possible, but why would Preston ever let Nicky into the house in the middle of the night? I don’t think we should overlook the corporate executives—Vittie’s military contractors, his campaign contributors, his bribers—whatever you want to call them. They’re making billions, and they’re not about to let two kids get in their way.”
Nathan nodded. “Or send them to federal prison for illegal kickbacks. We both heard what Preston said to Vittie last Sunday night. We heard him threaten to go to the Tribune and blow the whistle on the ‘whole goddamn operation.’ And you heard what Chrissie said. ‘Everybody knows too much.’ Meems, there’s no doubt in my mind that they were killed to silence them, and it could have been arranged by any one of those billionaires.”
Mimi bit her lip. “Should we go to the police? Tell them what we know?”
“Accuse Congressman Witold Zielinski and the country’s most powerful businessmen of illegal kickbacks? We have no evidence. No proof of anything. Who’s going to believe two twenty-five-year-olds against those people?”
Mimi pointed at the first floor. “I know one person who might.”