A few days later, I was back in the real world, racing down Lake Shore Drive to hit some golf balls at Jackson Park. I sat in standstill traffic near the Museum of Science and Industry, because the construction of the nearby Obama Presidential Library was in full swing, and while the South Siders were excited to honor the country’s first Black president, the traffic it was causing had become a living hell. My phone buzzed. It was Mrs. Graves.
“The lab results for Bishop Thompson are back,” she said.
“Did you look at them?”
“I did.”
“Anything in there?”
“There’s something about findings of a sedative. I can’t pronounce these fancy names, but it’s in the report.”
That raised a big flag. A sedative had been found in Kantor’s blood also. I quickly swerved and took the next exit, then started driving back north.
“Do you see any mention of recreational drugs?” I said.
“You think a celebrity preacher like Bishop Thompson would do drugs?” she said, sounding offended by the suggestion.
“I’m open to all possibilities, no matter how unlikely they are,” I said. “No offense, but if preachers can put hands on little boys and drink alcohol, doing drugs isn’t exactly a stretch. And I’m not saying Thompson touched little boys or did drugs. I’m just saying, men of the cloth have been found guilty of much worse.”
“I don’t see any mention of recreational drugs,” Mrs. Graves said.
“How soon can I get the report?”
“How soon do you need it?”
“Now.”
“I take my lunch in half an hour. Meet me at Chipotle, at the corner of Ogden and Damen.”
I sat in my office with Kantor’s and Thompson’s reports sitting beside each other on my desk. They both had significant levels of the potent sedative midazolam. What were the chances this was coincidental? Very low. According to what I could find on the internet, midazolam was a drug used as part of the anesthesia for surgical patients and for people experiencing severe seizures.
I picked up my phone and called Dr. Barry Ellison, a retired pathologist and medical school classmate of my father’s. He had helped me last year with the Morgan Shaw case and the evening news anchor who had mysteriously died in her sleep. Now he spent most of his time playing golf and teaching science a couple of days a week to underserved high school students on the South Side.
“Ashe, is that you?” he said as soon as he answered.
“The one and only,” I said.
“How ya hitting them these days?”
“Long and straight, when I can get out there.”
“You must be on another case.”
“I am, which is why I called. I wanted to talk to you about a sedative that might be used as a sleeping medication.”
“Are you having problems getting to sleep?”
“No, my girl is very good at taking care of that.”
We laughed.
“The drug is called midazolam,” I said. “I read that it’s typically used in anesthesia before medical procedures, and it’s also used to treat severe epilepsy.”
“Yes, status epilepticus,” Dr. Ellison said. “It’s a severe type of seizure where there’s more than one seizure within five minutes. But I wouldn’t exactly describe midazolam as a sleeping medication.”
“Why?”
“People can take it to fall asleep, but it’s certainly not something a doctor would prescribe for that purpose. It’s in a class of medications called benzodiazepines that belongs to a group of medicines also referred to as central nervous system depressants. In effect, they slow down the central nervous system.”
“Is it easy to get a prescription for it?”
“Not at all. Just the opposite. It’s a controlled substance, because it can be fatal if you take too much or mix it with other drugs or alcohol. Most people don’t understand that alcohol is a CNS depressant also. If you take a medication that slows your system down, and you drink alcohol, which also slows down your system, then you potentially have a big problem, especially with breathing. These drugs and alcohol can slow your breathing, and you can imagine that if you slow it too much, well, you stop breathing altogether, because you’re not getting enough oxygen into the body.”
“How common would it be to find levels of midazolam in the body at autopsy?” I said.
“Hard to give a simple answer to that,” Dr. Ellison said. “It really depends on the person and their situation. The person could’ve died during surgery or some other medical procedure. If the doctor used midazolam, then you’d expect to find some on board at autopsy.”
“Any other reasons you would expect to find it?”
“Not any reason that would adhere to standard medical care. But as you know, people get their hands on all kinds of drugs that they shouldn’t.”
“How would this drug be taken?”
“Two ways: either via pill or injection.”
I turned the pages on Thompson’s autopsy and read the conclusion. Small erythematous area in the superior aspect of the right gluteal muscle, suspicious for a puncture wound.
“Could the drug be injected into the ass?” I said.
“It could,” he said. “Not how it’s typically administered. A doctor will usually inject it intravenously. However, it can be injected intramuscularly. Or into the ass, as you describe it.”
“This is a big help,” I said. “I owe you a round of golf.”
“Have clubs, will travel,” he said.
I disconnected the call and dialed Simon Kantor.
“I heard you were in LA,” he said. “Business or pleasure?”
I figured he must’ve spoken with Burke. Otherwise, how would he have known?
“Pleasure for me would’ve been standing on the tee box of the first hole,” I said.
“Fair enough. So, are you any closer to figuring this out?”
“I’m making progress,” I said. “Lots of moving parts with investigations like this, but things are starting to fall into place.”
“That’s good to hear. The sooner I get some answers, the better.”
Which I interpreted as The sooner you can tell me my father didn’t die from taking drugs, the faster I can collect that big insurance payout.
“I called to ask you about your father’s health,” I said. “Was he an epileptic?”
“No.”
“Did he ever have a seizure that you know of?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Did he ever complain of having difficulty falling asleep?”
Simon laughed. “Just the opposite,” he said. “Dad could fall asleep sitting in the middle of a tornado.”
“I’m the same way,” I said. “I’ve come to learn from some of my insomniac friends how special of a gift that is.”
“Can you tell me why you’re asking these particular questions?” Simon said.
“Just trying to follow a thread,” I said. “Everyone describes your father as being so energetic and robust. I just wanted to confirm that again from you.”
“It’s confirmed,” Simon said. “I’m actually glad you called. I’d like to give you an added incentive to find who’s responsible for my father’s death.”
“I already have all the incentive I need,” I said. “If someone killed your father, I want to find out who it was and make sure they pay for it. Might sound old-fashioned, but that’s incentive enough for me.”
“I respect that about you,” Simon said. “But in my business, we believe in rewarding good results.”
“A thank-you and the balance of the retainer is reward enough for me,” I said.
“One million dollars,” Simon said.
I laughed.
“Why are you laughing?” Simon said. “That’s not enough?”
“I’m laughing because you could say ten million, and it wouldn’t change how I work, Simon. When I take a case, I see it through to the end. How much money is on the table doesn’t move me one way or another.”
“Understood. Well, look at the million dollars as my family’s way of expressing our deepest gratitude.”
“If that’s the way you choose to thank me, who am I to refuse?” I said.
“You can get a lot of rounds of golf with that,” Simon said.
“And enough left over to buy a small island on the Maine coastline.”
After I finished with Simon, I immediately dialed Flavius out in LA. He answered right away.
“How’s the ministering business going?” I said.
“We’re growing every day, saving lives, and spreading positivity,” he said. “I’m blessed to be doing the work God has called me to do.”
“It’s good to see you didn’t lose faith after your experience with Thompson.”
“I lost faith in him, but never in our Lord.”
“Good man,” I said. “I have a couple of questions I want to ask you.”
“Shoot.”
“Was Bishop Thompson an epileptic?”
“Not that I’m aware of. He was very healthy and very fit. I was around him ten or twelve hours a day. He never complained of any health issues.”
“He ever complain about falling asleep and needing some help?”
“Help in what way?”
“Sleeping pills or sedatives to calm the nerves and help him settle in.”
“Bishop never complained of a lack of sleep. He was a real good sleeper, actually. Sometimes he’d come back to his office and take a quick thirty-minute nap between services and wake up like he’d been sleeping for hours. As busy of a schedule as he kept, sleep was never an issue.”
After I finished the call with Flavius, I was about to leave the office when there was a knock on my door. I stuffed my gun behind my back out of habit and looked through the peephole. It was my father, dressed in a suit and tie as if he were still going to his medical office. I opened the door.
“Dad, what are you doing here?” I said.
“That’s your version of a warm welcome?” he said imperiously.
“I’m sorry, I’m just surprised to see you here.”
My father had only been to my office one other time, and that was to tell me that my mother had died.
“Are you gonna leave me standing here or invite me in?” he said.
“Of course.” I stepped to the side to let him in. Then he did something he hadn’t done since I graduated from college. He grabbed and hugged me. And not just a quick nice-to-see-you hug, but a firm squeeze that brought me into his body and forced me to adjust my breathing. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I said nothing and invited him to take a seat by the window.
“Nice view you have here,” he said. “I suspect not too many private investigators can sit in their office and see the boats gliding on Lake Michigan and the Ferris wheel spinning on Navy Pier.”
My father always preferred to call me an investigator. He said the word carried more heft than detective.
“I do okay for myself, even if I didn’t play professional tennis,” I said.
“I wanted you to play professional tennis because you were so gifted,” he said, “and I thought it could give you special opportunities in life.”
“The problem is, I played tennis not because I loved it,” I said, “but because I knew it made you happy.”
We sat silent for a moment, staring out the window. I must’ve looked out that window five thousand times, but it never got old, and each time I found something new and interesting. At that moment, I noticed how the lights along Lake Shore weren’t fully coordinated and caused traffic to back up unnecessarily.
“I’m sorry,” my father said.
I turned and looked at him. He kept his gaze out of the window. I was speechless. Sorry was not a word I often heard come from my father’s mouth. Apologies didn’t come easy to him. They never had.
“What are you sorry for?” I said.
“For pushing you so hard at times when I should’ve been hugging you instead. I wanted it so badly for you that I didn’t know when to back up and give you space. I’m afraid my tenacity is what chased you from tennis.”
“Partially,” I said. “And it wasn’t that I didn’t like the sport, but I just didn’t love it as much as you did. I needed to find what worked for me.”
“And I should’ve given you that opportunity.”
“I was thinking about playing again,” I said. “As much as I love golf, I miss being out on the court.”
“For what it’s worth, I miss seeing you out there. You were such a joy to watch.” He stood to leave. “I’m meeting the dean for lunch,” he said. “They want me to be more active with the medical students.”
“I thought you were enjoying retirement.”
“I am. But teaching the students a couple of times a week might fill some of the gaps in my days.”
My father was lonely. He would never admit it, and I would never say that to him, but I knew. He turned around once he got to the door and reached into his jacket pocket.
“This arrived in the mail for you today.” He handed me a small envelope that looked like an invitation.
“Someone sent it to your house?” I said. “That’s strange. Who would even have your address or know that was a way to reach me?”
My father shrugged. “You haven’t been over for dinner in several weeks,” he said. “It would be nice if you could make some time for me.”
“Let’s do it next week,” I said.
“Toward the end of the week,” he said. “I’m leaving for London tomorrow afternoon. The grass season has started over in Europe.”
“I forgot Wimbledon was coming up.”
“And I’m hoping Tiafoe and Aliassime or Eubanks will make it to the quarters. First time ever that two Black men would be in a quarterfinal in a major.”
“Who are you rooting for?”
“I like all of them,” he said. “I’d be happy if any of them took it. Ashe was the only and last one to do it. I just want to see us hold and kiss that trophy again in front of the royal box before I leave this earth.”
He shook my hand, then left the office. I walked back to my chair by the window and sat down. I wasn’t exactly sure how I was feeling at that moment—partly relieved, partly sad. Everything had taken me by surprise, starting with his arrival at my door, the embrace, and then the apology. I lost track of how long I had been sitting there, but it had been a while. My phone’s ringer jolted me from my haze. It was Burke.
“They ran fingerprints on that Daphne woman,” he said. Burke always dispensed with pleasantries. It felt like he was forever in a rush. “There was a hit in the national database. Her name isn’t Daphne. It’s Bianca Wembley.”
“Anything come back on her?”
“Nothing yet. They’re working on it now. Nothing so far in our databases. We’ll see what they turn up. Still no idea why she chose to go to Northerly Island to kill herself.”
“Assuming it was her decision to go to Northerly Island. And assuming she took her own life, and someone didn’t kill her.”
“You know something we don’t?”
I don’t know what it was that pushed the thought into my head, but I suddenly remembered what Mechanic had said about the night he followed Greene and Connelly to an area behind Soldier Field. They disappeared for a while, then returned with Greene driving instead of Connelly, and he was driving fast. They stopped and picked up champagne, then went back to Greene’s house to what seemed to be a party. Where had they gone? And why had they been driving so fast?
“What was the night her body was found?” I said.
“Hold on,” Burke said.
I cursed myself for not making this possible connection earlier. How could I miss this?
Burke returned to the phone. “They found her on May twenty-third. That was two weeks ago. They think she had been hanging there for no more than four or five hours before she was discovered.”
“I gotta go,” I said.
“Wanna tell me why so many questions about this woman?”
“I do, and I will. But I need to confirm some things first. Once I do, I’ll get back to you.”
Before he could protest, I disconnected the line and dialed Mechanic. At the same time, I did a search for Northerly Island on my computer and pulled up an aerial view on Google Maps.
“You told me that you followed Connelly and Greene from Greene’s house in River North to the area behind Soldier Field.”
“I did.”
“What day was that?”
“Not sure, probably a week or two ago?”
“Any way to nail down the exact day?”
“Hold on, I gotta think for a sec. The night they did that was the same day I had lunch with Lana.”
“Wait, you and Lana are back together again?”
“We had lunch,” he said. “I wouldn’t call that being back together.”
“Just lunch?”
“Well, you know how those things go. Anyway, I just looked at my text messages with her. We were together on May twenty-third.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m looking at the text messages right now with the date on them. Unless the phone suddenly screwed up the date, that was definitely the day.”
“You ever hear of Northerly Island?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I think that’s where Connelly and Greene went that night. When you followed them east toward the planetarium, which way did they turn?”
“They took a right in front of the planetarium and drove into the darkness. I sat there and waited for them to come back out.”
I looked at the map. He was describing Northerly Island. “You were there and didn’t even know it.”
“Where?”
“On Northerly Island, where they found that woman who hung herself on a statue. They know her real name now. Bianca Wembley. Connelly and Greene were on the island at the same time her body was hanging.”
“Are you trying to say what I think you’re saying?”
“I’m not really sure what I’m saying, but the date and times are matching up. That gives them an opportunity. But I can’t even guess the motivation for why or how a former NFL player and big-time lawyer could be connected to this unknown woman hanging from a statue.”
“I don’t see it,” Mechanic said.
“Neither did I, but it’s sitting here, right in front of us. We can’t ignore it.”
Once Mechanic got off the phone, I looked up at Connelly’s name on the board. What was the real deal with this guy? I texted Karla to see if her contacts had come up with anything yet. I rested the phone on my desk and saw the envelope my father had dropped off. I opened it, expecting to find either an invitation to a fundraiser or some type of spam mailer telling me I could claim my million-dollar prize if I called a hotline. Instead, it was a small piece of white paper with two simple sentences typed across it.
LEAVE THIS ALONE.
WE KNOW WHERE YOUR FATHER LIVES.
I sat there staring at the note for a moment, in some ways hoping that with the more I looked at it, the words would read differently or disappear altogether. But after several minutes alternating my gaze between the piece of paper and the view outside of my window, the words were still there, and it began to sink in that my father had just been threatened. First I got worried, then I got angry.
I picked up my phone and dialed my father’s number.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“About to walk into the restaurant to meet the dean.”
“Which restaurant?”
“Nella, on Fifty-Fifth Street.”
“Are you outside or inside the restaurant?”
“I’m just getting out of my car. Why are you asking me all of these questions?”
“I’ll explain later. Walk into the restaurant.”
“That’s a ridiculous thing to say to me. Of course I’m walking into the restaurant. How would I meet the dean if I don’t go inside?”
“Are you inside yet? I want to be on the phone until you get inside the restaurant.”
“What the hell has gotten into you, boy?”
“I’ll explain everything later. Are you inside yet?”
“Yes, I just opened the door and walked in.”
“Is the dean there?”
He paused momentarily, then said, “Yes, I see her.”
“Is the restaurant crowded?”
“Pretty busy. It’s their lunch crowd.”
“Once you get to the table and sit down, then you can hang up.”
“What the hell has gotten into you? Why are you doing this?”
“Just let me know when you’ve reached the table.”
“Okay, fine. I’m at the table. I’m hanging up now.”
He was gone before I could tell him what to do after he was finished eating. I dialed Mechanic.
“Where are you right now?” I said.
“Down at Hammer’s, about to ease underneath three hundred and fifteen pounds on the bench press,” he said.
“I just got a letter threatening my father,” I said.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Someone sent a letter to his house, addressed to me. It said, ‘Leave this alone. We know where your father lives.’”
“Where’s your father right now?”
“Having lunch with the medical school dean in Hyde Park. I’m walking to my car to drive over there. I need to make sure he gets back home okay. Could you run over to his house and make sure it’s clear?”
“I’m on it. Some fuckin’ coward had the nerve to threaten your father? I can’t believe this shit. I’ll be waiting and ready.”
I jumped into my car and drove south at speeds reaching triple digits. I kept racking my brain, trying to figure out who would send a threat like that, and the only answer I kept coming back to was someone related to the Thompson case. But why with Thompson and not Kantor? I was certain their deaths were connected, and both were murdered but made to look like they had died before having rough sex. Whoever killed Kantor had also killed Thompson, or at least they were coordinated in some way. But why hadn’t they felt threatened when I was investigating Kantor? I flew to LA, had a couple of conversations about Thompson, and all of a sudden, someone wanted to take a run at my father. I must’ve hit a nerve in LA, and this was the response.
I made it to the restaurant in Hyde Park and pulled up in the bike lane close to the front door. I got out and looked through the window. My father sat at a table in the back of the restaurant, talking to an Indian woman who looked too attractive and too young to be a medical school dean. My father’s back faced the door, so he couldn’t see me staring through the window. I stepped into the lobby, near the host stand, and surveyed the other diners. A couple of tables were full of college students splurging on a decent meal, and the rest looked like faculty members, with a sprinkling of locals. Comfortable that the restaurant was clean, I went to my car, pulled away from the door, and waited. I had dealt with some of the toughest criminals in Chicago, from gangbangers to the Russian Mafia to dirty cops. Plenty had taken a run at me, but no one had ever threatened my father. I wasn’t afraid, but I was uncomfortable because of my father’s vulnerability and his stubbornness. He was from another time, and as a retired psychiatrist, he lived in a different, more civilized world than the one I was often dragged into with these cases. He would never understand or appreciate the danger.
After ten minutes, Mechanic called in.
“All’s clear here at the house,” he said. “Door was locked. None of the windows had been messed with. Doesn’t look like anyone was here.”
“Outside?” I said.
“All of the cars parked on the street are empty. I’m sitting about half a block away with clear sight of the front door.”
“He hasn’t finished eating yet, but when he does, I’ll drive him home and spend the night with him. He’s flying over to London tomorrow afternoon to go to some of the grass tournaments leading up to Wimbledon, so the house will be empty.”
“I can take a shift in the morning so you can go home and shower and stretch your legs,” Mechanic said.
“Then I’ll have Carolina come over and pick him up and take him to the airport,” I said. “Once we get him out of here, I’ll feel much better.”
“You have any idea who’s behind this?”
“None, but I think it’s connected to Thompson.”
“You ruffle some feathers while you were out there?”
“And obviously pinched some nerves too.”