Aria called just as he got to the Examiner’s rear parking lot, a prime piece of downtown real estate with a huge For Sale sign in one corner.
‘Perfect,’ Rigg said, before she could speak.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘Your timing,’ he said. ‘I just finished with Donovan.’
‘How’s that perfect?’
‘I assume you, too, just finished with Donovan.’
‘As a matter of fact, he just called me,’ she said.
‘You left in my last sentence about Richie Fernandez.’
‘Futile. Donovan deleted it,’ she said.
‘As you were sure he would.’
‘I’m in your corner, Milo, even when it’s futile. You’re coming in?’
‘I need to clear my head,’ he said.
‘You’re thinking another drive will help?’ She was smart, damned smart.
‘Glet’s managing Stemec Henderson. Lehman doesn’t appear to be managing anything.’
‘Leaving McGarry managing to be sick in his city house?’
‘And leave Richie Fernandez unattended? I hope not,’ he said.
She hung up, laughing.
He called Pancho Rozakis before starting his car. ‘Are you free right now?’
‘I’m free almost always.’
Rigg told him what he wanted. ‘Probably nobody’s home and nothing will happen,’ he added.
‘Whatever,’ Rozakis said.
The long driveway up through McGarry’s estate was thick with six inches of the new snow. The Escalade was still parked at the end of the drive and was also thick with snow. It hadn’t been moved since he was last there. Rigg hoped that meant McGarry was remaining vigilant.
He left his car at the side of the highway, climbed over the gate and high-stepped in street shoes up to the long porch, stomping the snow from his feet loud enough to be heard. He rang the front doorbell. When there was no answer, he beat on the door with his fist. Still no answer.
He walked around past the Escalade and knocked on the side door. When no one answered, he began to wonder if McGarry really was ill and had been taken to a hospital. If so, Rigg was wasting his time. But he reminded himself that he was already scraping by on part-time wages and frugal withdrawals from Judith’s small life insurance. And his shoes were already soaked. He had little left to waste.
The sky was clear, and that was good. He resisted the urge to look up as he crossed the snow in back to the mound.
As he’d seen in Pancho Rozakis’ drone photos, the fresh snowfall had obliterated any footsteps and sweep marks, but not the rise of the mound itself. It rose up a good eighteen inches above the ground, several inches higher than when Rigg had snuck on to the estate.
Footsteps crunched on the snow, back by the house.
‘Mr McGarry,’ Rigg called out, ‘you look splendid.’
‘I’m ill.’ McGarry cradled a shotgun in the crook of his right arm, pointed down. He wore high boots, a long black coat and, incongruously for a man who worked in a morgue, a red knit hat with a purple pom-pom on top.
‘I knocked on all the doors I could get to.’
‘I gave the staff the day off,’ McGarry said, trudging closer.
‘And the days before, judging by all the unshoveled snow.’
‘Didn’t you see the No Trespassing sign by the road?’ McGarry got to within ten feet and stopped.
‘Ah, but we’re associates, you and I. Fellow seekers of the truth. Friends even, I like to think. I’m concerned about your sudden illness.’
‘And when there was no answer at the door, you thought to come all the way out here to see if I was playing in the snow?’ The shotgun wavered in his arm, but did not rise.
‘You have lovely grounds. Surely you don’t maintain them all by yourself?’
‘Why are you here, Rigg?’
‘As I said, I was concerned about your sudden illness.’ He reached into his coat pocket and brought out the can he’d bought on the drive out. ‘Chicken noodle soup, generic, the cheapest I could find.’ He held out the can. ‘Plus, Glet’s been talking to us in the press. I want your comment. Do you think ATF has bagged the boys’ killer?’
‘I hope so.’
‘How is your analysis of Wilcox’s DNA progressing?’
McGarry stared at him, but said nothing.
‘What about the boys?’ Rigg prompted.
‘What about them?’
Rigg gestured down at the mound. ‘Or was Richie Fernandez able to tell you anything about the girls?’
McGarry tilted the shotgun up just an inch or two, but it was enough.
‘Interview’s over?’ Rigg said.
The shotgun rose another inch.
Rigg risked another gesture at the mound. ‘A toboggan hill, or something more?’
McGarry didn’t answer. He just met Rigg’s eyes, but that was fine. Rigg put the soup can back in his pocket and high-stepped around the man, through the snow, back to the house and down to the highway. He didn’t look back, but he didn’t need to. He could feel McGarry’s eyes and both barrels of the man’s shotgun hot on the back of his neck all the way to his car.
And that was fine, too.
Cook County Medical Examiner Charles McGarry appeared in the snow outside his far west suburban mansion to express hope that Cook County Sheriff’s Deputy Jerome Glet’s claim that Kevin Wilcox, being held in custody by the Chicago office of ATF on charges of illegal gun distribution, is also the prime suspect in the murders of Bobby Stemec, Johnny Henderson and Anthony Henderson a year ago last October. But he refused to confirm that Wilcox’s DNA has been submitted for comparison to evidence found on their bodies. The interview was cut short without McGarry commenting on whether Wilcox is suspected of being involved in the murders of the Graves sisters and Jennifer Ann Day, or whether that investigation led to the arrest of Richie Fernandez by Lehman, accompanied by McGarry.
‘You’re not yet forty, Milo,’ Aria said. ‘You’re sure you can afford to retire at such an early age?’
‘I’m already semi-retired.’
‘You’re back in full swing.’
‘At half-wages,’ Rigg said.
‘Which delights Donovan, and, these days, is better than no wages at all.’
‘What publisher warns a reporter off a key angle to the biggest story in the Midwest?’ Rigg asked. ‘He’s protecting McGarry.’
‘It’s the way of the world,’ she said.
‘Or is it just the way of the North Shore?’ he said. ‘Your turf, Aria.’
She fingered her pearls. ‘My family isn’t like Donovan and McGarry. Steel companies and an oil refinery were very lucrative for my grandfather, but my father made bad investments.’ Then, ‘Why doesn’t McGarry want to talk about comparing Wilcox’s DNA to the Stemec Henderson samples?’
‘I wanted to think it was because he was in a hurry to get me off his property, but nobody wants to talk about matching Wilcox’s DNA to the boys. Glet avoids talking about it and Feldott’s evasive about it, too, though he did say that only one foreign DNA sample was being compared to Wilcox’s. Two foreign DNA samples were recovered, one from Bobby Stemec and another from Johnny Henderson. Running both foreign DNA samples against Wilcox would be standard procedure, but, for some reason, only one is being analyzed.’
‘There’s problems with the Stemec Henderson DNA?’ she said.
‘Of course.’
His cell phone rang. He glanced at the number, stood up and stepped out of Aria’s office.
‘It’s been four hours,’ Rigg said. ‘Why so long to send me pictures?’
‘Plenty happened after I got pictures of McGarry greeting you with a shotgun,’ Pancho Rozakis said. ‘He took a cab to O’Hare Airport right after you left. I followed him. Luckily, it must have taken him some time to decide on a destination. I was able to park and catch up to him inside. He finally bought a one-way to Paris. I couldn’t go past security, so I’ve been watching the board. His plane just took off.’
‘Pictures of him at O’Hare, too?’
‘Plenty. Check your phone.’
He brought up the photos as he walked back to Aria’s doorway.
‘Breaking news?’ she asked.
He selected one of the pictures and handed her the phone. ‘Charles McGarry at O’Hare a couple of hours ago, buying a one-way ticket to Paris.’
She studied the photo. ‘This could have been taken anytime.’
‘Dial back a few photos until you get to him with a gun, ten feet from me.’
She clicked back, nodded and asked, ‘This could have been taken anytime, too.’
‘Pancho Rozakis. It was his drone. He’ll corroborate.’
‘Still not enough.’
‘Probably, but notice the mound.’
‘What about it?’
‘I set McGarry to running by suggesting I knew what was beneath it.’
‘Richie Fernandez,’ she said.
‘Forever on my mind.’
‘What are you doing tonight?’
‘I haven’t decided,’ he said.
‘Like hell,’ she said. ‘You’ll be looking through your famous wall of boxes for mention of Happy Times Stables.’
‘I don’t think it’s in there.’
His shoes squeaked as he shifted on his feet. She leaned forward so she could see them. They were still wet and the leather had bubbled. ‘Aren’t your feet cold?’
‘I’m going to the shoe store down the block.’
‘Dinner afterward sounds fine,’ she said.