Chapter 9

Alene led Frank back into her father’s room. She hoped they’d both forget Sylvie’s relationship advice. “She could have killed Stanley in a psychotic rage,” said Alene as she sat in the chair to the left of Cal’s bed.

Frank, looking calm, shrugged and said, “Sometimes people snap.” He told her about a case that had given him nightmares for years. He and his partner at the time, had been called to a house at which neighbors had reported hearing screams. When they arrived, the husband explained that his wife had been attacked by a bat inside the house. The wife had agreed and showed them where she’d smashed up against the walls, trying to avoid the bat. They’d received several calls about bats recently, so it made sense, and they left after a quick survey of the house. Two weeks later, they were called to the same house, but by the time they arrived, he’d already beaten her to death with a baseball bat.

Alene gasped, but she recalled several Tribune articles about the police failing to protect an abused spouse. Frank said, “Now, we try to follow up on every abuse claim.”

Alene said, “I think men who do that should be castrated.” She put her feet against the edge of her dad’s bed.

Frank gave her a look. “That’s not legal,” he said. “What do you suggest for wives who abuse their husbands?”

“Therapy,” she said, shrugging. She could see that he was about to give a sane and logical response, but that was a discussion for another time. She asked, “What about Sylvie?”

Frank’s forehead crinkled. “She’s an undependable witness,” he said. “Can’t trust anything she says.”

“My dad always says, ‘Whoever profits by the crime is guilty of it.’ Isn’t that Sylvie?”

“Possible,” said Frank. “But we interviewed the neighbors, viewed footage from whichever businesses had cameras, and talked to employees at nearby stores. Nobody remembered seeing a person resembling Sylvie Huff.”

He had a way of making her think she could be right while simultaneously refuting her answer with facts. Alene pressed on. “How many people really pay attention to their surroundings, Frank? Maybe nobody saw Sylvie, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t there.”

“You’re right, but what would she have done? Frank asked, his eyes twinkling. “Talk him into having a heart attack?”

Alene looked at her father, who’d flung his hand off the bed. Alene held it in both of hers. “She could have knocked him out and then somehow prevented him from breathing. She always wears stretchy pants and polyester shirts, so there wouldn’t be any evidence of her suffocating him.” Alene had read at least two mysteries in which fiber on the victim’s clothes or inside his/her lungs had led to a suspect.

“It’s possible,” said Frank, “but she checked herself into St. Darius at 9:15 on Friday night.”

“Yeah,” said Alene, “because she was exhausted. Her heart was racing after she smothered her husband.” Now Cal was starting to fidget in his sleep. “Clever of her,” Alene went on. “Then she could have left Stanley on the floor in his office and taken the 77 bus straight to the hospital.”

Frank leaned forward. “Alene, I value your opinion, but I’ve been working long hours sifting through evidence. And we’re still waiting for lab results.”

Jack Stone appeared in the doorway then. Alene was surprised for a moment, but maybe he was starting to pick up on all the training she and Ruthie had been doing, about how to be a nice person. “Hi, Jack.” Alene smiled and gestured for him to enter. “You know Frank Shaw, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Jack glanced at Cal and mumbled towards his shoes. “Hello Officer. I guess it’s a bad time since Mr. Baron is sleeping.”

Alene said, “Don’t worry about it, Jack, he’s in and out of sleep all day. I was just about to ask Frank if he’s been able to find Jocelyn.”

“She’ll turn up, Alene,” said Frank. “There are lots of reasons why someone like Jocelyn would disappear for a couple of days. But she’s tough and she knows how to take care of herself.”

Jack said, “Damn right, she does.”

Cal’s eyes popped open. “Jack Stone? What are you? Doing here? Did you bring? A treat? Ruthie’s brownies?”

“Hi, Mr. Baron,” said Jack. “I meant to bring something, but I forgot. Everyone is worried about you. How are you doing?”

“Better, I think,” said Cal slowly. “You’re kind. To visit.”

Jack said, “That’s what neighbors do, Mr. Baron. You’re the one who taught me that.”

So, Alene and Ruthie couldn’t take credit. Cal had always loved dispensing advice. The surprising part was that Jack had started listening to him. “I also taught you. Cribbage. Did you bring. A deck? A board?”

When had Cal taught Jack how to play cribbage? He’d never taught her or Lydia. Jack said, “I’ll bring ‘em next time. You’ll probably be home soon.” That was one good thing about Jack living across the hall even though he was a thirty-four-year-old man who still lived with his mother. She’d been living in a rehabilitation facility for nearly two months, so Jack Stone and Kacey Vanza had been temporarily on their own. Alene hoped they’d both move out one day soon.

“Good man,” said Cal. He turned to Alene. “What’d I miss. In the world?”

That was the question he always asked when he came home from what he used to call a “business trip.” He told her that it was actually a golfing weekend. He’d tried to get both her and her sister to love golf the way he did, but they both thought it took too long to play even just nine holes. But she knew how much he loved the sport and sad that he hadn’t been strong enough to play this summer. She said, “We’re talking about Jocelyn DeVale. You know, Dad, she’s the one who was in the navy, and she shares an apartment with Olly Burns.”

Cal nodded and gestured with one hand. “Mop-headed kid. Helped build shelves.”

“He’s kind of gay,” said Jack. Alene gave him a look, and he added, “Well, he is.”

Alene turned to Cal. “Jocelyn and Olly were good friends in high school, and she moved in with him when she came back to Chicago. She didn’t show up to work today.”

“So, are you going to fire her?” Jack asked. “You’d probably fire me if I didn’t show up.”

Alene said, “No, I’m not going to fire her.”

Frank said, “You told me that Jocelyn always thought she was being followed. Can you give me some more details about that?”

Alene thought for a moment. “Details? She never said who she thought was following her. It was more that she never wanted to go anywhere by herself. She’d ask LaTonya to go running, and she’d schedule her Krav Maga classes around Olly’s schedule, so she never had to go home alone. As I said before, I think it was because of something that happened when she was in the army.

“I’ve already taken two of her classes, so we’re starting to be friends,” Jack said. He was just a fountain of surprises. She felt like Geppetto finding out that Pinocchio had turned into a real boy. “I like learning how to defend myself, but I’m not sure it would help if someone pulled a gun on me.”

Alene said, “That doesn’t happen as much when you work in a regular job, Jack. In fact, it’s never once happened here.”

“And I hope it never does,” said Frank. “Let’s get back to Jocelyn.”

“You should see how fast she can get someone on the ground before they know what hit them,” said Jack. “Anyone who follows her is in for a big surprise.

“People always. Follow. Beautiful women,” said Cal.

With her height, her dark hair and greenish blue eyes, and those cheekbones, she was certainly beautiful. Alene thought back to the last time she’d spoken with Jocelyn. “She’s been even more anxious since we found Stanley’s body, but that’s understandable,” Alene said.

“Wait,” said Cal. “Is that Stanley? From our building?”

“Yeah, the dude with the perfume,” Jack said, pointedly looking away from Frank. “He just got whacked.”

“We talked about this already,” said Alene, massaging Cal’s cold hands, wondering how he could feel chilled in such a warm room. “What do you think Jack, could someone have murdered Stanley for the money?”

“I think a lot of bad things happen because of money,” Jack answered, looking pleased to have been asked. At least he showered and washed his hair every day now that Alene told him that’s what she expected of employees. He used to have greasy hair and his clothed were always stained and ratty, like a rebellious teenager. Now he wore clean clothes and was starting to look more like a man. He had nice enough features, and that thick blondish hair, but Alene thought he’d look even better if he stopped slouching like an old man.

“You might be right, Jack,” said Frank, walking around Cal’s bed, stopping to shake Cal’s hand and wish him well. He smiled with little creases edging his gray eyes and then walked Alene out to the hall.

“I’d be okay with the Whipped and Sipped crew figuring this out before us,” he told her, his hand cupping her chin.

“We just might, but I wish you’d find Jocelyn,” said Alene. “I’m really worried about her.”

“I know, Alene. The thing is,” Frank whispered, “I think you and I have something here, you know? But I’ve got to run.” Alene was speechless. Frank put his head back inside Cal’s room and said, “Good to see you, Jack. You too, Cal, and I hope you get out of here soon.”

“Thank you,” said Cal. “And don’t forget. Life's tragedy. We get old too soon. And wise too late.”

Frank said, “Good one.” He turned to Alene, behind him in the hallway. “I’ll have to work late today but how about tomorrow night?” She nodded and watched him walk up the hallway toward the elevators. The next day was Friday, and Neal was supposed to take the kids again. Unless he cancelled. Again.

“Was that Mark Twain?” she asked as she walked back into the room. “About getting old too soon and wise too late?”

“Nope,” said Cal, “Benjamin Franklin. You should read him. Jack. Important.”

Jack nodded. “I will, Mr. Baron. And feel better. I’ll see you when you get home.”

Cal smiled and closed his eyes. Alene waved at Jack, thinking that she’d underestimated him. Then she thought about the shiver she felt when Frank ran his fingers down her arm. An hour later, she looked up as her father’s neurologist, a petite woman with a mouth frozen in a constant frown, rushed through the door. This was the neurologist who’d diagnosed Cal with myasthenia gravis. She nodded to Alene and said, “Hello. I’m Dr. Truong.”

Alene said, “We met last year. I’m Cal’s older daughter.” The doctor nodded and proceeded to review Cal’s chart and medication history while painstakingly explaining the problems of MG as though Alene had never heard of it before.

Cal woke up and said, “Hello, Doc. Have you? Met my daughter? She owns the Whipped. And Sipped café.” It was still embarrassing when he bragged about her as if she’d accomplished something noteworthy. He sometimes told random strangers in medical offices, taxicabs, and the lobby of their building, or whenever else she was with him and he found the opportunity. Sometimes he’d also mention that his younger daughter was a lawyer.

“How nice,” said Dr. Truong, glued to the computer screen. “You must be very proud.”

After a few moments she announced that Cal wasn’t ready to go home. “He’s unable to get in and out of bed by himself, his reflexes are slow, and his numbers aren’t optimal.”

What numbers? Alene wished he could have gotten out of the bed by himself and stood up straight while sharing one of his corny jokes. Then the doctor would realize that he was much improved and ready to go home. The previous year at his check-up he’d told Dr. Truong, who had a limited sense of humor, about the old guy who wanted his sex drive lowered. The doctor told him that it was all in his head. The old guy responded, “That’s exactly why I want it lowered!”

Dr. Truong had smiled politely, but Alene had felt herself blushing at her dad’s inappropriate joke. She asked, “Do you think he’ll be ready to go home tomorrow?”

Dr. Truong said, “We’ll have to see.” She repeated more about Cal’s disease that Alene already knew, ending with a warning that these crises could become more frequent. He’d need a lot of attention and at some point, he might require more help. Alene worried about that point. They couldn’t afford 24/7 caregiving, but there was no way she’d put him in a nursing home.

Cal was asleep even before the doctor left. Alene walked out to the hallway. It felt so industrial with the fake tile floors and the pale walls with soothing floral artwork in matching frames. At least there were windows in the rooms, providing patients with natural light. She felt chilled by the air conditioning and upset that she’d used her limited time with Frank talking about murder. If they could finally have their date the next night, she’d shut up about it.

In the room next door, Julian sat next to his mother, looking dejected. Sylvie was speaking loudly, as usual. “She can’t even wear normal clothes with those shoulders.”

“She’s a swimmer, mother,” said Julian. “Swimmers get big shoulders.” He looked up and nodded at Alene. “She’s back to going off on Rhea Huff. That’s Stanley’s daughter-in-law who is married to Harrison,” Julian said.

Alene waved but didn’t stop to chat. She didn’t need to know anything else about anyone in that family. Her phone chirped as she walked toward the elevators. She answered Ruthie’s call and told her briefly about how annoying it was to have Sylvie in the room next door to Cal. Ruthie said, “Don’t let her September you, Six.”

Alene loved when Ruthie used the code they’d invented to study for college history classes they’d both enrolled in. ‘September’ referred to the 1939 invasion of Poland, which, in their code, meant to not let Sylvie barrel over her.

“Roger that,” said Alene, chatting about the café before hanging up. Then she walked back to Cal’s room. He seemed to be asleep for the night, so she left the hospital and headed home. She couldn’t stop thinking about Julian, and how he’d felt when his mother married Stanley. What if he’d harbored a grudge for the past twenty-two years and kept trying to get rid of Stanley until something finally worked? What if her daughter had learned sixth-grade science from a murderer?

At home, Alene relieved Zuleyka, coordinated and served dinner, got the kids to help her clean up, and spent as much time as she could with each child before kissing them goodnight. Finally, alone in bed, Alene thought about who had the most to gain from Stanley’s death.

What if Stanley had treated Miles Taylor like he’d treated Alene’s trainer, stealing his clients and then threatening to take him to court if he left Better Be Fit? Maybe, Miles had been trying to get his client list out of Stanley’s database, and Stanley caught him hacking into the office computer? Or, what if Jocelyn was right, even though Alene had thought it unlikely, and Stanley really had tried something with Heather, even though she was his stepdaughter, and she snapped. It had happened in Nabakov’s Lolita, and in a depressing novel Alene had read about a twenty-two-year-old stepdaughter who snaps after her stepfather rapes her.

But, thought Alene, there’s still a possibility that Stanley put the moves on Phyllie Evans again, and this time she fought back. Julian and Phyllie lived just moments away from the café, so Phyllie could have snuck out anytime to give Stanley what she thought he deserved. Julian might have thought she was taking a long bath when she was busy fighting with Stanley, who got knocked out when he fell against the desk or the wall. Or Julian might have been sickened that Stanley assaulted Phyllie, and even though he said he’d been at a tournament of some kind last Friday night, he might have managed to stop by Better Be Fit. Maybe the two of them did it together.

And Alene wasn’t ready to cross Sylvie off her list. Sylvie might have found out about any one of Stanley’s indiscretions, and murdered him in a psychotic rage. She could have managed to walk home afterwards, realized what she’d done, and then dialed for an ambulance. If she flagged a taxi and paid cash for the five-minute drive back to the building, there was probably no record of it.

Then there was Jocelyn’s brother, Harrison Huff, who might have thought his father cut him out of an inheritance. He could have gone over to Stanley’s office just to talk, and Stanley could have upset him somehow. Maybe the two of them roughhoused a little, something they’d done hundreds of times, but Stanley’s heart suddenly gave out. Harrison might have been too distraught and frightened to call an ambulance. Even if he hadn’t killed his father on purpose, thought Alene, he doesn’t come off all that well.

And what about Lillian’s boyfriend, Lawrence Habern? He seemed like a nice guy, but what if he’d helped Stanley engage in tax evasion or something illegal. Why had they stopped working together, did Stanley fire him for some reason? Maybe he’d gone over to Better Be Fit to tell Stanley that he was turning himself in, and Stanley couldn’t allow that so they started fighting. Again, Alene assumed that Stanley knocked himself out by accident, but what about whoever smothered him. Was that also an accident?

Jack Stone wanted her to consider Kofi Lloyd a suspect, but that just seemed too farfetched. Kofi dreamed of creating art, and just because he cruised around town looking for garbage to convert into art didn’t mean he was looking for trouble. He was not the kind of person to be sidetracked into bickering with an old white guy who owned a gym.

And there was a small voice in Alene’s mind telling her that her suspicions were silly, because maybe an unknown stranger happened upon Stanley’s open office door and tried to steal something. Stanley got knocked out trying to protect his place and the murderer fled, leaving Stanley collapsed on the ground, his heart slowing down until it stopped.

Alene woke up on Friday morning feeling drugged. After a desultory workout at Michael’s gym, she dragged herself into the café. Olly just hugged her without saying anything. She missed his goofy energy and it was probably the first time he’d left his apartment without calming down his curls. “She didn’t come home yet?” Alene asked.

Olly shook his messy hair. “I’m hoping she checked into a spa or something,” he said, “and her phone battery must have died, because she hasn’t texted me.” He didn’t sound convinced.

Ruthie got the bakers started. The rest of the Friday staff staggered in and got to work. The breakfast rush went smoothly, nothing was burned, not a single drink spilled, and Edith didn’t start any arguments. Maybe she was behaving better because of Olly’s uncharacteristic reserve.

Instead of serving food with the dramatic flair of someone auditioning for the part of a waiter, Olly slouched to the tables and silently handed over plates. He served the guy who always showed his belly button, and two white-haired, bespectacled women who were too immersed in conversation to thank him. He handed the usual plates to Toula, again wearing a long-sleeved, shimmery blouse in spite of the heat, and Royce, who looked angry. He sniped at Toula without touching his food while she began nibbling on her omelet. Alene needed to grill Olly when things slowed down, ask him detailed questions about Jocelyn’s other friends and if any of them might be harboring her.

Frank and Lee arrived and sat near the door. Alene liked how Frank took in his surroundings without staring. He could probably draw a picture of everyone in the café. Alene imagined that he remembered each person he saw, what they wore, how they looked, what they carried.

Now, Royce stood and stormed out of the café, leaving Toula sitting by herself with her omelet. She looked miserable, and Alene debated walking over to offer a friendly ear. Sometimes people needed commiseration, but now Toula was dabbing her eyes with a tissue, so Alene decided to respect her privacy. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a marriage fall apart in front of her, although, for all she knew, she was misinterpreting the whole situation. A moment later, Royce stomped right back inside, sat at his place, and took a sip of his coffee. Toula didn’t look thrilled to see him, although a small smile flickered. Alene was glad she’d made the right decision not to meddle.

Kacey’s boyfriend locked his bicycle in front and limped into the café with an ugly gash on his leg. Great. Who didn’t enjoy seeing blood while sipping a latte? Alene asked Jack Stone, now clearing tables, to guide them back to her office and bring paper towels, antibacterial spray, and a roll of gauze tape.

Edith, who was working at the smoothie counter, immediately started complaining in a loud voice, “You need to send Kacey’s boyfriend straight back out the door, Alene. We cannot have wounded bicyclists wandering in off the street as if we’re a clinic.” Several people got up and left, either because they’d finished or because they didn’t want to hear Edith grousing.

“I’d be so grateful if you could take over for Kacey in the kitchen, Edith,” said Alene, turning away before Edith could respond.

Jack ran from Kofi back to Alene, and said, “He doesn’t want to go to your office,” just as Kofi sat himself down at the closest table. At least he chose a table next to the wall so he wasn’t sitting in the middle of the place. Because Alene could reply, Kacey ran out of the kitchen, pulled a chair close and held onto Kofi as Olly blotted, sprayed, and wrapped his leg.

“You should get it looked at, Kofi,” Alene said a few moments later, now sitting with a latte at Frank’s table.

“It’s no big deal,” said Kofi.

“You need a clinic,” said Kacey, handing him the iced tea. “I can’t believe you got hurt again.” The city had put in more bicycle lanes, but they should have put them on the other side of the parked cars. And drivers needed more training about looking out for bicyclists.

Kofi glanced at Frank and Lee, and said, “Some fool turned right on a red without looking. He could have killed me.”

Kacey held his hand now. “Why didn’t you call me?” she asked.

Kofi sat stoically in his chair. “I don’t know, K,” he said. “Sorry.”

Frank was sitting close enough to tell Kofi that he should get it looked at, while Lee scowled in a way that made Alene think he’d already decided that Kofi was guilty of something or other just because he was Black. Kofi pivoted toward the detectives and said, “It was just down the block. If you weren’t so busy enjoying your free coffee, you might have been able to catch the guy who did this to me.” Alene wanted to jump up and defend Frank. They weren’t beat officers who drove around looking for bad drivers. They didn’t even wear uniforms.

Lee looked like he was reaching for his handcuffs, about to arrest Kofi for provoking him. “I’ll make sure to pass that along to the next traffic cop I see,” said Frank, smiling cheerfully. “Thanks for your input. Kofi, is it? And your last name is what?” Alene smiled at him.

Kofi’s face slackened, as if he’d just realized he was now known to two Chicago cops. Kacey tried to divert him, but Kofi looked suddenly sweaty.

Lee rose from his chair. “I can drop you off at the clinic on Belmont,” he said. “They’re good.”

Maybe Alene had misjudged Lee. Kofi was hesitant but with Kacey on one side and Olly holding him up on the other, he followed Lee out the door. Now Alene could hear Royce almost hissing at Toula. His voice was low, but something about the way he punctuated made each word sound like a canon shot. Frank leaned closer and whispered, “Do you know those two?”

“She comes in all the time, but I’ve only seen the husband a few times,” said Alene.

Frank said, “You know how we were just talking about abusive spouses the other day at the hospital? Sometimes, it’s hard to know when it’s gotten past normal bickering.” Toula and Royce stood up then and put their dishes in the bin.

“Are you like a hammer to whom everything looks like a nail?” Alene asked as they watched Toula followed her sullen husband out the door.

Frank laughed. He kissed her goodbye, and she stood for moment, wondering if anyone could tell that she was tingling. More customers had come in. Some sat alone, slowly nursing their drinks, focused on their phones. Three older women shared mini pies. Two younger women with heavily tattooed arms bent their heads together over what looked like a manuscript. A group of five high school students came in tussling. Alene helped serve them, and at the next lull, checked her phone for an update on her dad. Blanca had texted: “Still no doctor comes.”

Later, Olly, who had been oddly silent while he bandaged Kofi’s leg, said, “So, what are the possibilities, and just hear me out on this, that Kofi’s accident is somehow connected to Stanley’s death?” He picked up an empty tray to bring back to the kitchen.

“I don’t know, Olly,” said Alene, not seeing it. Maybe this was how Frank felt when she threw scenarios at him. “We live in a big city where people have accidents all the time. It’s seems like a stretch to think that there’s a connection between two random events.”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Olly, “but we all just saw Kofi get into a police car with Frank’s partner. That’s strange, don’t you think?”

Alene took a rag to the espresso station. “There’s nothing strange about it,” she said. “Frank’s been coming in nearly every day, and Lee offered to take Kofi to a clinic.”

Olly hugged himself. “I don’t believe in coincidence,” he said. “Stanley dead. Jocelyn missing. Kofi injured. And I’m not even including rising sea levels, earthquakes, or the melting ice shelf. If I start worrying about everything, I won’t stop.”

“Those things might have nothing to do with each other,” said Alene. She wished people didn’t see hidden forces in everything bad that happens.

“It’s still weird,” said Olly. “And scary.”

“I think that the world has always been a precarious place,” said Alene, thinking about losing her mother, the failure of her marriage, her dad’s autoimmune disease, and her sister not being able to get pregnant. “Jocelyn’s going to come back, Kofi is going to be fine, and if the state of the world bothers you, then do something about it. Volunteer to help people who have less than you, help with voter registration, join organizations that are doing good things. But right now, you should be the one cleaning this espresso machine.” If only she felt as confident as she sounded. She gave Olly the rag and turned back to serve a statuesque woman with a beaky nose.

“Jocelyn has gone on little walkabouts before,” said Olly as he polished the espresso machine. “For all we know, she could be snuggled in someone’s bed eating Chinese takeout and watching old movies.” That sounded exquisite to Alene, but she wanted to know more about Jocelyn’s previous walkabouts.

Jack had come back into the café with the mop and said, “Maybe she doesn’t feel the need to tell you every little thing that she’s doing, Olly.”

He kept surprising Alene. It was a good point. “Isn’t it possible that she keeps secrets from you?” Alene asked.

Edith, who was serving a smoothie, started to speak, but instead turned abruptly and busied herself with cleaning up. She was probably distressed about Jocelyn’s disappearance, but wasn’t being very vocal about it.

Alene suddenly stopped in the middle of filling a box with apple and blueberry mini pies. “What about Jocelyn’s cat? Are you taking care of him, Olly?”

“No,” said Olly, dejectedly. “And I’m her best friend. I can’t believe she left me hanging like this. Her cat hasn’t shown up either.”

“Cats only show up when they feel like it,” Edith said, “and I can tell you that it never works to beg them. They won’t come in until they’re good and ready.”

Jack said, “I’m sure the cat is okay, Alene.” When and how did Jack learn to say exactly the right thing?