Alicia Gentry called me back the next morning. There were no matches between Apollo and anyone who worked in the embassy, past or present. They even ran a search on maiden and middle names, and still nothing turned up. This wasn’t exactly the start to the day I had imagined.
Burke had the two guys who jumped me last night locked up in a holding cell. He would only be able to keep them for forty-eight hours, so the clock was ticking. He was still assembling a team that would stake out the drop-off location the next night and hopefully catch whoever it was behind all of this. If we were lucky, this would lead us to Apollo.
My father had gotten back from Paris and was being his obstinate self, refusing to curtail his activities. He insisted that he was too old to be afraid of some low-life thugs. He argued that appearing scared was exactly what they wanted, and he wasn’t going to give them that. He was determined to go on with his normal routine of playing tennis, lunching with friends, and in his words, “doing whatever the hell I want to do.” I was still concerned, so I asked my friend Ruqsania Begume to quietly keep an eye on him. Rox had been one of the best female boxers England had ever produced, before she hung up her gloves and moved to Chicago to run her own flower shop in Roscoe Village. Pound for pound, she was the toughest woman I had ever met; my father couldn’t be in safer hands than hers.
I went back to the board again to see if there was something I was missing. I had learned many years ago that sometimes the same evidence could say different things if you were patient and consistent enough to keep coming back to it with an open mind. Three people killed within several weeks of each other, with no obvious motivation for any of the murders. I couldn’t wrap my head around how they were connected. Where did their lives intersect? I focused on Bianca Wembley. I still didn’t know much about her. It was as if most of her life had been erased. How much of it was by her design, and how much was by someone else’s intention? As I looked at the questions I had written under her name, my eyes drifted down to the research article she had helped write. That’s when I saw it. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The name had been staring at me the entire time. Raymond Sanferd. His name was among several that had been listed as co-authors of the article. How the hell had I missed this? I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. Raymond Sanferd had been Bianca’s professor while she was a student at Colgate. I couldn’t know if their relationship went beyond that of teacher and student, but it obviously extended beyond her graduation, because she was in London recently and had gone to the embassy. She must’ve had the red carpet rolled out for her, because she was connected to the head honcho, Ambassador Raymond Sanferd.
I went to my computer, pulled up Sanferd’s headshot, printed it out, and posted it in line with the others. Kantor, Thompson, Wembley, and Sanferd. Sounded like an expensive accounting firm. I kept looking at their faces. Three men and one woman. How were they connected in all of this? There had to be a through line. I just couldn’t see it yet.
That night, Mechanic and I devised a plan. I went out to Connelly’s house again and waited while Mechanic picked up his trail at the office. He called me when Connelly got into his car and drove over to Greene’s house in River North. Connelly stayed there about an hour, then jumped back in his car and turned onto 290, heading home.
Half an hour later, I saw their headlights. This time, I sat facing the driveway, so he could see my car. As he was about to turn into his property, I pulled in front of him to block the entrance. Mechanic pulled in behind him so he couldn’t back up. Mechanic and I both got out of our cars and walked over to him. He rolled down the window of an old Mercury Cougar.
“A new old car every day,” I said, standing next to his open window. “The law business has been really good to you.”
“Can’t complain,” he said. He moved his hand toward the passenger seat.
Mechanic stepped forward, his gun against his thigh. “Keep your hands where I can see ’em,” he said.
“Whoa!” Connelly said, raising his hands.
“We need to have a serious talk about the other night,” I said.
“What happened?” Connelly said.
“You know damn well what happened,” I said. “Next time, don’t send boys to do a man’s job.”
“I swear, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn’t send any boys or men or anybody to do anything.”
Mechanic lifted his gun.
“Jesus Christ, man!” Connelly said. “Put that thing away. No need for violence. We can be civil about this and come to an understanding.”
“Here’s the understanding,” I said. “I need to have some answers. Some real answers. Playtime is over.”
“I hear you. But let’s do this someplace more discreet. Let me make you both a drink. Follow me up to the house.”
I nodded at Mechanic, who walked back to his car while I jumped in the passenger seat next to Connelly. We pulled up the long, winding driveway and all the way to the garage with Mechanic following. Connelly tapped his remote, and the garage door slowly opened. We pulled into the massive garage with Mechanic falling in behind us. Cars were parked everywhere. I lost count at twenty. All black. All vintage. All exceptionally beautiful. A car lover’s dream. In the center of the cars was a red-carpeted area with a bar, several stools, and a couple of pool tables. Two large-screen televisions hung on one wall, and the other wall had been plastered with framed autographed jerseys from various players and sports. A kitchen, bigger than what most people have in their homes, was off to one corner, with a long table that could seat ten. Connelly walked behind the bar.
“What are you drinking?” he said.
“A perfect Maker’s Manhattan up,” I said.
Connelly smiled. “A man who not only knows a good drink but also how to order it.” He looked at Mechanic, who declined with a slight tic of his head.
Connelly went about making my drink, adding the bourbon first, then dividing the proportions of vermouth evenly between sweet and dry, inserting a couple of dashes of bitters, and finishing it with a lemon twist.
“Where do you want to start?” Connelly said, sliding the drink to me.
“The beginning is just as good of a place as any,” I said.
Connelly started fixing himself a Manhattan. “Elliott and I first met many years ago, when we were on opposite sides of a transaction,” he said. “He badly wanted to get the deal done. My client was being difficult just to be difficult. We all stood to make a lot of money. Elliott called me personally off the record, man to man. We talked it out without all the ego and bluster and got the deal done. Two months after we closed the deal, Elliott called me. He said he liked the way I did business. He wanted to know if I’d work for him. That’s how Elliott Kantor became my biggest client.”
“Was setting up escorts something you did for all your clients or just Elliott?” I said.
Connelly sat across from me at the bar. “Elliott loved his wife tremendously. They had been married over fifty years. When she died, it broke him. He was beyond distraught. He wouldn’t talk to anyone. He could barely eat. He didn’t leave his house for two months. No matter what his friends or family tried, nothing worked. I finally got him on the phone and convinced him to go down to his place in the Bahamas. I told him to relax and get away from it all. His wife knew he loved her more than anything, and she would want him to keep living and making the most of his remaining years. I had a friend of mine some years back, similar situation. Wife was his best friend and unexpectedly died. He was so depressed, he almost took his own life. You know what the antidote to sadness is?”
“Lots of things,” I said. “But why don’t you tell me?”
Connelly took a long sip of his drink, then said, “A good time.”
“That’s an antidote for almost everything,” he said.
“So that’s what I did for my friend. I had a contact help me arrange some female companionship. After two weeks down in Ibiza, my friend came back better and stronger than ever. He had a new lease on life.”
“So you did the same for Elliott?” I said.
Connelly smiled. “About six months after my friend came back from Ibiza, I got a random call from an unknown number,” he said. “The woman knew who I was and what I had done for my friend. She told me about an exclusive club that she had formed. It was called Eagle Rock. A limited number of male members had access to the most beautiful girls in the entire world. Italian, Brazilian, Swedish, Russian, Ethiopian, she had them all. Any shape or size, hair color, or accent. She could deliver whatever flavor you wanted.”
“Sounds like an expensive club,” I said.
“Two-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar initiation fee. Fifty-thousand-dollar annual fee. Twenty-five-hundred dollars per hour per visit, and the price went up from there depending on the specifics of what you wanted. So I got Elliott to join when he was down in the Bahamas. He came back to Chicago a changed man.”
“Nothing more magical than a little tata,” I said. “So where does Jenny Lee fit in all of this? Is she part of Eagle Rock?”
“Jenny has nothing to do with it,” Connelly said. “She doesn’t even know it exists. Only an exclusive group of people know about Eagle Rock.”
“Such as Lance Greene?”
Connelly nodded reluctantly.
“And Keegan Thompson?”
Connelly nodded again.
“So what happened the night Elliott died?”
“I don’t know how he died,” Connelly said. “But I know what happened before he died.”
“I’m listening.”
“Eagle Rock’s membership terms were simple. Everything was built on privacy. Everyone was supposed to be anonymous. Members were not to know the identities of other members. The escorts were not supposed to know the identities of the members. And the members weren’t supposed to know the true identities of the escorts. All communication went through one person—Daphne.”
“The same Daphne who was killed and hung on Northerly Island?” I said.
“She was the only point of contact,” Connelly said.
“So, what happened?”
“Elliott broke the rules. He started asking the women their names. And that got back to Daphne. She told him to stop, but when he kept doing it, she finally called him and told him his membership was revoked. The rules applied to everyone, including one of Chicago’s richest men. Well, Elliott didn’t take that too well. Understandably. Elliott was a man who always got what he wanted. He wasn’t going to let some young girl boss him around. So he started learning the identities of other members, like Lance and Keegan. He began calling the girls directly and arranging for private appointments, flying them down to his place in the Bahamas and his farm in Belize. Daphne found out and went ballistic. Elliott told her to fuck off. He threatened her. He told her that he would find out her real identity and ruin her. I tried to calm him down. I told him to just let the dust settle for a while. Things had gone to a place they didn’t need to go. So he took my advice and tried to make peace with Daphne. The night he died, he called me and told me he and Daphne had made amends, and as a show of good faith, she was sending over a new girl for no charge. When he told me this, I told him not to do it. Something didn’t feel right about it. Elliott liked Asians, and he liked to be whipped. I told him to forget about Daphne’s offer. I had the perfect girl for him who I could send, and she had nothing to do with Eagle Rock.”
“And that was Jenny Lee,” I said.
“It was,” he said. “So I called the service Jenny worked for and made an appointment for her to visit Elliott. But I didn’t tell Jenny that I had done it. I didn’t want her to know I was behind it.”
“So she shows up at Kantor’s apartment not knowing who he is. And when she gets into the apartment, he’s already dead.”
Connelly nodded. “I got a message from the service later that night asking me if the visit was complete. I called Elliott’s cell phone, but he didn’t pick up. I tried him several more times, but he still didn’t answer. I figured he had fallen asleep. I called the service and told them the visit had been completed. I didn’t find out until the next day that Elliott had died.”
“And you didn’t say anything?”
“What was I gonna say? That Elliott Kantor, Chicago’s most beloved billionaire, liked dressing up in women’s panties and died when he was just about to get his ass whipped? There was nothing I could do or say at that point. It was too late. He was gone.”
“At the very least, you could’ve spoken up and cleared Jenny,” I said.
“I didn’t need to. Jenny’s a tough girl. She knows how to take care of herself.”
“Why were you and Greene on Northerly Island the night Daphne’s body was found?”
“I got a call that night from a blocked number. The caller told me that he knew I was trying to figure out Daphne’s true identity.”
“Was that true?”
“Of course. I wanted to find out who she was to stop her from fucking with us. When Elliott died, I wanted to put an end to it all.”
“As in kill her?”
“As in talk to her calmly to reach an understanding.”
“And if that didn’t work?”
“If you’re asking if I would have killed her, the answer is probably. But I didn’t.”
“So what did the caller say that got you to go to Northerly Island?”
“He said that the threat was over and to go to Daphne Garden at that precise time for confirmation. I wasn’t comfortable going by myself, so I took Lance with me. We hadn’t heard of Daphne Garden before, but we finally found it. We saw the body hanging on one of the statues. We got the hell out of there as fast as we could.”
“Then you bought champagne, went back to Greene’s house, and partied like it was 1999.”
Connelly looked at me quizzically.
“Partied hard and wild,” I said. “It’s from Prince’s song ‘1999.’”
“Can you blame us?” he asked. “We were scared to death. She knew too much. She knew things that, if they got out, would’ve caused a feeding frenzy. Daphne had us by the balls.”
“Figuratively and literally,” I said.
“And whoever called me knew that,” Connelly said. “He wanted it to be clear to the rest of us in Eagle Rock that the threat had finally been eliminated.”
Everything he had said made sense, but it also complicated things. I would have to expand my theory from one killer to two or more, and looking for multiple killers was much more difficult than looking for one.
“Why did Elliott call himself Plutus?” I said.
“That was his Eagle Rock code name,” Connelly said.
“And Thompson?”
“Eros.”
“The god of love and attraction,” I said. “Greene?”
“Kratos.”
“Clever. The god of strength. Fitting for an ex-football player. Who was Apollo?”
“I have no idea. I don’t even know if someone has that name.”
“Do you think the same person killed Kantor, Thompson, and Daphne?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. But as long as whoever did it is still out there, we’re all still in jeopardy.”