A direct missive from the Lovelorn Killer was way above Annalisa’s pay grade. Even Zimmer didn’t get to eyeball it in person before the FBI whisked the original off to the lab to have it analyzed down to the pulp of the paper it was printed on. If it was the real deal, and no one had reason to suspect it wasn’t, the letter would yield no identifiable marks. Ordinary paper and plain black ink, a reminder that murderers shop at the same places as everyone else. Still, they had to check. An irregularity in the paper, a hair caught in the envelope—cases this big still turned on the tiniest bit of evidence.
Annalisa had to make do with a copy of the letter, which was neatly block printed in the style of the others. It was addressed to Grace, but of course it wasn’t ever meant for her. For all anyone knew, he’d written it after her death.
Dearest Grace,
I’ve looked a long time to find a woman such as you, one who is a seeker like me. A watcher. I see the way you observe the people in your store, the employees and the patrons. You move the bodies around seamlessly so that the whole operation flows smoothly. Produce needs a little attention? You pull in someone from baked goods. You pat employees on the back when they deserve it, but you’ve always got your eye out in case they take advantage. No free snacking, eh? But you can understand why a minimum wage checker swipes an extra chocolate bar or two. It’s the rich guys in suits who try to slip out with a $1.00 piece of candy in their pocket that make you wonder about this world. I know you see them because I see you watching them. It kills you, doesn’t it, to let it go. But you can’t prosecute for such petty ante so they just get away with it. It’s enough to drive one 4011! J
You have nice hands. Neat and capable, smooth and well-maintained. I’m so glad you don’t have a nasty habit like biting your nails. I can’t stand women who do that. Think of all the dirt they must eat—such otherwise pretty mouths sucking down bacteria and viruses, not to mention all those nail shards carving up your intestines on the inside. You clearly take care of yourself, which is good because it doesn’t seem like there is anyone there to do it for you. I’ve seen you alone at night eating salad in front of the computer, the blue screen glowing in your eyeglasses. What are you looking for so intently in that piece of machinery? Is it me? I’ve been looking too, you see, for someone just like you. Someone who understands what it’s like to be the smartest one in any room, how tiresome it can be. Dare I even say it’s lonely? Let’s not be lonely any longer, Grace. You and me, we can be each other’s forever.
—Mr. Lovelorn
Annalisa put the printout down and looked to Nick, who had his own copy. “What’s 4011? Some kind of code?”
“You mean you never had a job in a grocery store? It’s bananas.”
“I’m sorry?”
“4011 is the produce code for bananas.”
Annalisa looked down at the letter. “Well, maybe that means something. Maybe he’s worked in a grocery.”
“Sure,” Nick agreed. “Add that to the list of maybes.”
The Tribune didn’t wait for the morning paper to run their scoop. The headline took over the web page in seventy-two-point font, and ten minutes later, every news organization had some version of the story. In an era when it still took several days for an actual letter to reach its intended recipient, this one traveled the earth in less than an hour. The Tribune spared no detail, including the fact that the letter had been postmarked in Elgin. TVs in the police station were tuned to different channels, set on mute with closed-captioning engaged. They showed the networks angling for a fresh take. One of them interviewed a mail carrier in Elgin. The mail didn’t run on Sunday, but they dressed him up in his blue uniform anyway, conducting the interview on the street near a postbox. “It’s crazy to think about,” he said. “That you might be touching something this guy touched. That he’s using you as part of his sick game.”
“What do you make of the fact that he sent the letter in Elgin?” The female reporter asked from off camera.
What is this world now, Annalisa wondered, where mailmen are asked to comment on the behavior of the serial murderer?
He didn’t shy away from his moment in the spotlight. “You like to think that he drove in from somewhere else just to mail it—you know, to disguise his identity and where he lives. But this is a big city, with more than a hundred thousand people in it. So, you’ve got to wonder now if maybe he’s been living here this whole time.”
Annalisa returned to her condo late in the evening, under a dark sky pregnant with clouds. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that her block was ablaze with light. The crews had restored the power for now, but Mother Nature was gearing up for another punch. Fierce winds bent the trees’ branches and battered the windows. Annalisa stopped short in the street when she saw her neighbor next door, Amy Yakamoto, struggling to bring in several bags of groceries as the wind kept slapping her front door back and forth. “Wait, let me help you,” she called out her window, pulling to the side so she could get out of her car. She jogged up the steps and took two bags from Mrs. Yakamoto, who braced the door so that Annalisa could safely transport the groceries across the threshold.
“My goodness, thank you,” Mrs. Yakamoto said, a bit breathless as Annalisa set the bags on the kitchen table. “I thought I could get out and back before the latest storm hit but I misjudged the timing.” Thunder rumbled in the distance, as if to show up her folly.
“I bet Aldi was a mess.” The slightest hint of a major storm, and Midwesterners bought out all the milk and bread.
“Oh, it wasn’t too bad.” She pulled out her half gallon of milk with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I got the last one.”
They shared a laugh, and Annalisa moved to admire the lush indoor garden her neighbor kept in her bay window. She had violets in three colors, a pink-edged leafy green potted plant, and a blooming lavender. A fern hung down with its spidery tendrils. “This is wild-looking,” Annalisa remarked of a strange succulent that reminded her of an armadillo.
“That’s a donkey’s tail. Very easy to maintain.”
“Maybe for you. I have a black thumb.” Annalisa held it up to demonstrate. “And, oh my, these are beautiful.” A tall potted plant with enormous pink blossoms stood near the back door. Annalisa fingered one delicate edge that called to mind crepe flowers she used to make in grade school.
“Those are peonies, and they are so cheerful, aren’t they? Unfortunately, I had to drag all the bigger plants from the back deck before the storm hit yesterday. I’m afraid it’s rather crowded in here at the moment.”
“I think it’s amazing. Like living in a greenhouse.”
Mrs. Yakamoto’s eyes crinkled with her smile. “I’m glad you appreciate it. Harry didn’t mind the first few plants I brought home, but when the place started to resemble a jungle, he’d start speaking to me like Tarzan.” Annalisa knew Harry Yakamoto had passed away from cancer last year.
“I’m sure he secretly loved the jungle,” Annalisa assured her.
“Oh, I expect not. But he definitely loved me.” She looped her arm through Annalisa’s as they walked back to the main part of the kitchen. “Can I make you some tea as thanks for helping me with my groceries?”
“Another time,” Annalisa said. “I have a box full of files to read through tonight.” She’d taken home more of the witness statements from around the time of Katie Duffy’s murder to see if there were any reports that matched Lora Fitz’s description of “Ace” or any other mentions of a red pickup truck.
Mrs. Yakamoto’s expression turned melancholy. “Yes, I saw the news. How terrible it must be for all of you right now, having to confront such evil.”
“It’s the job,” Annalisa replied, shrugging off the weight of the other woman’s words.
“It’s a hard job.” She reached out and squeezed Annalisa’s hand. “But I thank you for doing it. I’m sure I speak for all of us on the street when I say how much safer we feel with a police officer living nearby.”
Annalisa demurred and bid the woman a pleasant evening. She thought again of Katie Duffy, who’d been married to a cop for so long, who’d been at a party full of them the very night she’d died. She remembered the nights she’d lain in bed, listening to Pops and his buddies from the job—Owen, Rod, and Gene—sitting around Ma’s kitchen table, eating her cookies and laughing as they swapped crazy stories. “This lady called in a noise complaint at two in the morning, so I go out to her place to check out the problem. Turns out, it’s the cicadas. You know, those god-awful bugs that come around every seventeen years? Her backyard trees were chock-full of them, making a terrible racket, and she’s crying at me about how she can’t sleep. I felt bad for her, but what was I gonna do? Break out a thousand tiny handcuffs?” Annalisa had loved those nights when the house filled up with good men. She had drifted off to sleep to the sound of their strong voices, imagining herself a part of it.
She hefted the box of binders from the car and battled the wind to her front door just as the rain began in earnest. The house was already full of light since she’d never turned them off the night before. She set the box in the front room and went to the large window at the back. It was so dark outside that she couldn’t even see the trees thirty feet beyond her door. She put her palm to the cold glass and peered out at the rain. A large man appeared out of nowhere, right up in her face. She gasped in horror and wheeled back, groping fruitlessly for the gun she’d already unholstered.
“Anna!” He hollered her name through the glass. “It’s me!”
She halted and turned around again for a better look. He pressed his face against the window, and she recognized him at last. “Colin?” He was wet, his hair plastered to his head, but the long nose and dimpled chin were just as she remembered. She unlocked the rear door and slid it back to admit him. He brought a compact black carry-on with him into the flat, both of them sopping with rain. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “That’s a nice deck chair you’ve got out there. Of course, it’s probably more enjoyable when it’s not pouring buckets.”
“How long have you been out there?”
“The Uber guy dropped me off at six. I figured you’d be off work by then. Forgot you don’t work a usual desk job.” He looked sheepish and gave her a weak wave. “Hi.”
“Hi.” She looked him over in wonder. In her head, he’d remained seventeen years old, lean and full of mettle, with hair as black as smoke and just as curly. He’d smelled like sweaty cotton and male hormones, tasted like cherry cola. The man before her had broad shoulders, a nine-o’clock shadow, and the remnants of alcohol on his breath. He smelled like the rain, earthy and raw, like the moment a spade first strikes the dirt.
He spread his arms. “I’d hug you but I’m all wet.”
She did not care. “You’re here,” she said, launching herself at him. He had to take a step back, steadying himself, but then his arms closed around her, tight like he used to do. He stroked the back of her head while she buried her face in his neck.
“Anna,” he murmured, and the word vibrated through to her skin.
She took a deep breath and released him. “You look just the same.”
He grinned, showing off a line of white teeth. “You were always such a shitty liar,” he said, poking at her while she squirmed away. “You don’t look the same, though. You went and got badass on me. Check out that power suit you’re rocking.”
“I can’t wait to take it off,” she replied, and then realized how suggestive it sounded. “I mean, it’s been a long day. You probably want to get changed, too. The washroom is right around the corner over there.”
She slipped into jeans and a sweatshirt while he changed into what appeared to be a carbon copy of what he’d already had on—a black T-shirt and dark-wash jeans. “I hung my stuff up to dry in your shower. I hope that’s okay.”
“It’s fine.”
“I did book a hotel. I’m not just crashing.”
“Oh.” She stood up from where she’d been peering into her refrigerator, hoping to find dinner among the takeout containers. “You can stay if you want, but all I have to offer is the couch. I use the second bedroom as an office.”
He shook his head, bemused. “You have an office. I remember the desk in your bedroom at home. It was covered in stickers, CDs, and stacks of romance novels.”
“I only read the good parts.” She’d had to find out if she was doing it right.
“Is that so?” The way his eyes darkened told her she’d done enough right to be memorable.
She folded her arms over her chest. “All I’ve got here is pasta and sauce from a jar. Maybe a meager salad. The wine isn’t half bad, though.”
“Then let’s eat.”
Over dinner, they deliberately avoided talking about the reason for his visit. Instead, she plied him with wine in return for more stories from his travel adventures. “One night, I took this super sketchy bus from Hanoi to Laos. There wasn’t one driver but a team of men in charge of the bus. It made these random stops by the side of the road, and they’d get out to shift things around in the storage area under the bus. That was when I realized I was riding with a bunch of smugglers.”
“Get out.”
“After four stops, I finally got a look at the illicit cargo.” He paused for effect. “It was pallets of Coca-Cola.”
“How much does it go for? I’ve got an unopened twelve-pack in the laundry room.”
“I decided not to ask.”
“Mmm, probably smart.” She swirled the last of her wine around in her glass. “What’s your favorite place you’ve traveled?”
He considered a moment. “Probably Cuba. The writer in me always wanted to pilgrimage to Papa Hemingway’s house, and I finally got to go in 2013. It’s changing now with the more open visa policies, poised to become just like anyplace else with Starbucks and the Gap, and soon it’ll be caramel macchiatos instead of café Cubanos. But right now, it’s completely its own style, its own flavor. You can see a ruby red Chevy Bel Air or a ’59 Thunderbird cruising the street, postcard perfect. The fishing communities look just like they did when Hemingway wrote about them. But down by the seawall, there are buildings with incredible facades that are literally crumbling into the street. Uncovered manholes. It’s like you can see right through to the guts of the city.”
She leaned in with a sigh. “It sounds amazing.”
“Don’t even get me started on the food. I had a plate of costillitas that were so sweet and tangy, it was like eating a symphony of flavor.”
She eyed the remainder of the simple spaghetti in front of them, food she ate every day without ever questioning it. “Remember when we planned to go to India?”
“Yes. You were determined to hug an elephant.”
She had drawn temporary henna tattoos on her hands. Ma had made her wash it off immediately even though it was summer and there wasn’t anyone in charge to care. “Have you been?” she asked, toying with her fork, trying to sound casual.
“Several times. I can show you some pictures on my laptop if you like.”
She nodded and cleared away the dinner dishes to the sink while he booted up his computer. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch, and he showed her a series of breathtaking images: girls at night, lighting tiny lanterns around a peacock created by a mosaic of flowers; piles of colorful fruit lined up at the open-air marketplace; a goofy close-up of a camel draped in braided yarn. The pictures made India feel both closer and farther away than her dreams. “How many places have you been?” she asked, touching the edge of the computer screen lightly.
“I’ve been to fifty-three different countries.”
She couldn’t fathom it. She’d been to Florida on vacation once with Nick, but besides that, she’d barely set foot out of Chicago. The city had so much to offer that she’d convinced herself she wasn’t missing anything. Colin’s photos put paid to her delusion, made her miss their old dreams. They were supposed to have conquered the world together. He’d made good while she’d stayed put. Never had her cozy condo felt so small. “That’s astonishing,” she murmured. “But … where is home?”
He sat forward, withdrawing from her, and put the computer down on the old trunk she used as a coffee table. “I keep an apartment in Texas, outside of Dallas. The rent is comparably cheap and it’s a major airline hub. It’s quick to get in and out.”
“Easy come, easy go?”
“Hey, now.” He glanced back over his shoulder at her. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
She folded her legs up under her, not touching him at all anymore. “I wrote you letters,” she said in a low voice. “Back when you left to live with your dad’s cousin in Ohio.”
“I know. I read them, I swear I did.”
“You didn’t answer me.”
He looked away, his mouth set in a firm line. “I—I didn’t know what to say.”
But you’re the writer. She somehow held this back. They never even officially broke up, she realized. He’d kissed her goodbye, promised he’d keep in touch, and then boarded a plane. It had taken her months to get the message. She blinked rapidly as the hot flash of humiliation washed over her like it was yesterday. “You could have said anything,” she said. “Even if it was ‘Sorry, I don’t want to be with you anymore.’”
“I did,” he said, his voice tight. He balled his hand into a fist and hit his knee lightly. “I wanted to be with you more than anything.”
“Right. That’s why you left and never looked back. Fifty-three countries traveled. Wow. How many thousands of miles is that? Somehow you never managed to make it back here.”
He let out a shaky breath and picked up his computer again. “I can’t excuse it, but maybe I can explain. I can show you.”
“I’ve seen enough of your travelogue for one night.” She curled into the corner of the sofa.
“No,” he said gently. “Look.”
She glanced at the screen in spite of herself and saw he’d called up a picture taken years ago, when they were children. He must have scanned it because these were the days before the rise of digital photography. It showed her at perhaps age four, in a ridiculous red-and-white bathing suit, complete with a ruffle on the butt, her hair in pigtails. Alex stood next to her with a pail and shovel, and Colin was on the other side with a watering can. The lopsided sandcastle they were constructing sat in the foreground. “I don’t get it,” she said petulantly. “What am I supposed to be looking at here?”
“There’s more.” He took her through a series of old photos. Pops at the grill wearing an apron designed to look like a bulletproof vest. Ma and Katie making Christmas cookies. The four kids playing soccer in the backyard. Tony being held aloft by his Little League team when they won their playoff game. The adults with cocktails in hand, gathered around the firepit. They all grew older as the photos progressed. Vincent’s graduation from high school. Alex with his first car, the rest of them crowded around for a joyride. Ma with a broken arm from when they went ice-skating. She and Colin at a picnic table, their arms around each other. Annalisa crept closer again as he clicked through the images. When he got to one of her grinning at the camera in a devil costume, she held her breath. This was the night of the Halloween party when it all went to hell. “Do you see it now?” he asked hoarsely. “We were all mixed up together. After it happened, after my dad died too … I just couldn’t stay here anymore. I could barely stand to walk around in my same skin, let alone be in the house where it happened. Everywhere I looked, there they were, but only in my memories, and that just made it worse. I had to get out or I felt like I would die too.”
She reached over and grabbed his hand, tight. Tears blurred her vision. “I’m sorry,” she said, and he reached over to enfold her in his arms.
“No, I’m sorry. Mona Lisa, don’t cry. I never, ever wanted to make you cry.” He kissed her head and she gave a teary sniff at his use of her old nickname. She sat up and wiped at her eyes with the hem of her T-shirt.
“No, I get it. You did what you had to do to survive.” She thought of Alex and his drinking. Pops begging for scraps of the case. Ma, going silent for what felt like months. “I guess we all did.”
Her cell phone buzzed across the room from inside her jacket pocket. She rose from the couch and fished it out, instantly on high alert when she recognized the burner phone’s number. She cursed inwardly and swiped around until she found the recording app that the IT department had loaded onto her phone. She opened it while the phone continued to ring, unsure if she was doing it right. Finally, she had to answer or risk losing the call. “Hello.”
“Detective Vega,” said the whispery voice. “How are you tonight?”
“Fine. Yourself?” Across the room, Colin stood up with a confused look on his face at the tension in her voice. She shook her head vehemently at him and he stopped moving.
“I’m very well, thank you for asking. Terrible weather we’re having right now, isn’t it?”
The storm had died down, actually. Rain pattered on the roof and windows but the howling winds and thunder had moved on. “Do you like storms?” she asked him.
“They’re beautiful but so destructive,” he said, disdain in his voice. “Afterward, we see the damage on the news—the trees torn up, houses destroyed, people dead. They like to lead with that, don’t they? They know they’re supposed to be sad but somehow it makes the story all that more exciting. People died.”
“Dead people,” she said. “Is that something that excites you?”
He gave a dry chuckle and then tsk-tsked her. “Such a forward question, Detective. We barely know each other.”
“We could fix that,” she blurted out, her stomach rising at the thought. “We—we could meet.”
A long pause on the other end. She heard only the blood rushing in her ears. “No, I don’t think so. Not tonight. It’s late and tomorrow’s a workday, yes? Rest on Sunday, work on Monday. Did you go to Mass today, Annalisa?”
She stammered, unsure of what answer would keep him talking. “I, uh, I’m afraid I’m a lapsed Catholic. What about you?”
“I enjoyed the morning service at St. Thecla’s.”
Her heart, thundering in her chest, lurched to a halt as he named her family’s church. “Oh? What—what did you like about it?”
“The lesson on giving. How the best gifts are unexpected. Don’t you agree?”
“What gifts?”
“I like personal gifts the best, don’t you? The ones from the heart.”
“Yes, I like gifts.”
“Then you’ll really like this one.”
He clicked off and she stopped the recording with a shaking finger. Colin rushed forward. “That was tense and incredibly weird,” he said. “Who the hell was that?”
“It was him,” she said, and Colin went rigid, veins bulging in his neck.
“Him? The him? He has your number? Jesus, Anna.”
She barely heard him. “I’ve got to go,” she said, reaching for her holster and her jacket. “I’ve got to get over there.”
“What? Where are you going?”
“St. Thecla’s.”
“Our old church? Now? Why?”
She fastened the holster in place and slung her shield around her neck. “Because he said he was there this morning, and I’m pretty sure he’s left me a gift.”