Deadly Interest (29 page)

“
Your secrets are safe,” I
answered.

“
Mysterious, aren’t we?”
he said with a playful lilt. “So, do I take that you mean she
didn’t tell you my sordid life story, or that you are a woman who
can be trusted with the information?”

My turn to smile. “Isn’t this where we
turn?”

David pursed his lips, amused, as he
completed the right turn onto Illinois Street. A few minutes later
the big bulbs of Navy Pier’s carnival-like entrance came into view.
“I love it here,” I said, with a sigh, as we joined the queue of
cars waiting to be waved into the parking area.

“
Then I’m glad that we
could make this work tonight,” he said. Glancing at the clock on
the dashboard as he dug into his jacket pocket, then reached into
the back seat where his cell phone sat atop his briefcase. “Here,”
he said, pulling it up front. “The last number I dialed is the
restaurant. Why don’t you give them a call and make sure they hold
the table.”

Before dialing, I glanced back there. “That
information Owen was getting for me . . .” I began.

“
Got it,” he said. “It’s
in the briefcase. You don’t want it now, do you?”

I did, but politeness won this round.
“No.”

“
Remind me to give it to
you later.”

I noticed the name of David’s cellular
service. Same as mine. That meant we could call each other any time
of the day or night for free.

The woman who answered told me not to hurry,
that the evening’s rush for dinner hadn’t yet kicked into gear. In
one of my many phone calls to Linda over the course of the day, I’d
given her my decision on where we’d eat. I’d chosen the very
casual, very busy, Bubba Gump’s rather than the ritzy Riva. We
parked in the pier’s garage and as we headed in and the hostess led
us to our booth, he asked why I hadn’t gone for the glam.

“
I’ve been there,” I said,
with a shrug. “Wasn’t terribly impressed.”

As we slid into scuffed wooden benches on
either side of a clutter-decorated table, he leaned forward, more
to be heard over the din than anything. “What does impress you,
Alex?”

Our waitress, a
raven-haired girl with a heavy Irish brogue, interrupted then,
greeting us with an explanation of the nifty gimmick that sat atop
the table. Two license plates hung from a stand. The entire
restaurant’s theme based itself on the movie
Forrest Gump
and the top license
plate, green, said “Run, Forrest, Run.”

Pointing to it, she said in a slightly
raised voice to be heard over the music and the laughter from
tables nearby, “If y’have everything y’need, and you won’t be
needing to be bothered, you keep this one hanging.”

Flipping the contraption, to the plate
behind it, she pointed. This one was red, with the words. “Stop,
Forrest, Stop.”

“
Now,” she said with
emphasis, “if you be wanting anything, or if you be needing me to
stop and check on you, you put this one out and I’ll be here in two
shakes.” She smiled at us both, canting her head. “What’ll you be
wanting to drink?”

She departed, leaving us to study our menus.
Lots of seafood, and plenty of other choices as well. As I debated
ordering a steak, I shot a look up at David. To my surprise, I
caught him watching me.

“
You’ve decided?” I asked,
nodding toward the menu face-down on the table.

“
I always know what I want
right away,” he said. A smile played at his lips. “And I generally
have the means to get it.”

The dangerous sparkle in his eyes made mine
shoot back to the list of offerings. I felt the weight of his gaze
on me as I tried to decide if I had a taste for the “Bucket of Boat
Trash” combination.

“
So, I’ll ask you again,
Alex. What impresses you?”

I considered the question. Looked up at him.
“Sometimes I don’t know till I find it.”

“
Fair enough,” he
said.

Colleen, the waitress, came back bearing my
iced tea and David’s Vodka twist, setting them down, and taking our
orders with cheerful efficiency. I settled for crab-stuffed shrimp,
one of Bubba Gump’s specialties.

“
How is the investigation
going?” David asked.

I wiggled my hand in front of me to say
so-so. “The detective in charge doesn’t tell me squat,” I said with
a roll of my eyes, “and even though I’m doing my best to find
answers, all I come up with are more questions.”

“
What kind of
questions?”

“
There’s another suspect,”
I began.

His dark eyebrows lifted, till I saw them
over the tops of his glasses. “Oh? “

I gave a quick and sketchy explanation of
the connection between Diana and Laurence Grady, ending with: “And
this psychiatrist fellow is convinced I’m barking up the wrong tree
where Grady’s concerned.”

David speared into his salad with a crunch,
and held the fork aloft as he spoke. “What do you think?”

I moved my lettuce around. “I’m not
sure.”

He waited.

I shrugged, looked up and out the nearby
windows. The view from my vantage point was limited, but just
beyond the edge of the pier, I could see a small slice of water,
ever darkening as evening settled on the city. Quick glints from
the moving water as it caught the remaining light, coupled with the
smell of the place, sizzling shrimp, beer, and the burgeoning
spring, gave me a wistful feeling of vacation. Of getting away.

And of Fisherman’s Wharf in San
Francisco.

I should have been on that trip. I should be
out there right now.

I sighed.

“
Alex.” David touched my
hand, bringing me out of my reverie.

I couldn’t decide if that was genuine
concern in his eyes, or if he was simply annoyed that I’d checked
out of the conversation, however momentarily. But David, with his
theater tickets and dinner on the pier—David, attentive date
extraordinaire—was here, and William was not. It wasn’t fair for me
to let my mind drift.

“
Sorry,” I
said.

“
You were a thousand miles
away.”

“
A little more than that,”
I said. “What were we talking about?”

“
I asked you what your
assessment was of all this.”

“
If I could only get into
that detective’s mind,” I answered, stirring my iced tea with the
straw. “But as much as he wants my cooperation, he’s not very
forthcoming with information. Not to mention, he has a deep-seated
hatred of media people.”

“
I met him,” David said.
“Lulinski.”

Colleen set our steaming platters of food on
the table before us, with a reminder to change the hanging license
plate if there was anything we needed. She encompassed us both with
her comments, saying, “That way I won’t be disturbing you if you’d
rather be keeping to yourselves.”

“
What did you think of
him?” I asked David when Colleen left.

“
Not much,” he said, with
a slow shake of his head, surveying the New Orleans shrimp entrée
before him. “I mean, come on. How does the man keep his job? It’s
been over a week and they haven’t arrested anyone.” He met my eyes.
“What do
you
think of him?”

“
I get the impression that
he’s methodical. Tenacious, even.”

“
Yes, well, if he had any
brains he’d haul Barton Vicks in for questioning.”

I’d been about to repeat that I wasn’t yet
convinced Barton did the killing when David interrupted.

“
But I do know why your
meticulous detective hates the media.”

“
Oh?” I popped a small
bite of stuffed shrimp into my mouth and nearly groaned with
delight as the garlic and crab tastes dissolved on my tongue.
“This,” I said, pointing down at my plate, “is
fabulous.”

David smiled. “Want to hear the story?”

Great food, pleasant company, and the
potential for enlightenment on the good detective? I was in.

“
How well do you know Dan
Starck?” David asked.

I searched his eyes for some sense of guile,
wondering if he knew that Dan and I had a history together and was
just playing me here.

I answered slowly. “He and I went out for a
while.”

David’s subtle body shift told me that had
come as a surprise. “Then you must know about the bad blood between
them.”

I enjoyed another bite of shrimp. “No,” I
said, thinking hard. “I don’t think Dan ever mentioned Lulinski’s
name.”

David drained his drink, then switched the
table sign to get Colleen’s attention. Half-a-minute later our
capable waitress appeared up at the table, asking what she could do
for us, then switching the sign back. “Another one, please.” David
said, holding up his glass.

Colleen grabbed my half-finished tea. “I’ll
refill yours too, while I’m at it.”

David adjusted his glasses, and the pink
glint from a neon sign over the windows reflected there,
momentarily obscuring his eyes. “That doesn’t surprise me,” he
said. “I would figure Starck would want to keep this one
buried.”

Colleen set our drinks before us, and, hands
on hips, cast an appraising look at the progress we’d made on our
meals. “I’ll check on you again in a bit,” she said as she
left.

“
That bad?” I
asked.

“
You know Dan,” he said
“He’s only happy when he’s on top.”

I resisted further comment that direction.
“In any case,” I said, trying to segue back into the story, “what
happened?”

David chewed, sending his gaze up near the
ceiling before bringing it back to me. “Had to be seven years ago.
Maybe ten.”

A gear clicked into place as I tried to
remember where I would have been back then. I waited to hear
more.

“
Starck was doing a series
of stories on a guy that Lulinski had arrested for murder. A real
low-life. Lulinski had a history with this guy, having arrested him
before, and Starck broadcast a slew of fan-the-flames interviews
with the gangbanger’s family and friends. They accused the
detective of bias. It was a hot story, I can’t believe you don’t
remember it.”

“
Ten years ago I was in
grad school in Florida, and seven years ago I was interning at a
small station out there.”

David’s face broke into a smile. “Yes, of
course,” he said, with evident pleasure. “You are so young.”

“
Back to the
investigation.”

He smiled. “Starck had a screaming headline
for his supposed exposé. ‘Good Police Work or Set-up?’ was the
title. On top of that, Starck came up with witnesses who swore that
their buddy couldn’t have committed the murder. Had them milking
the camera every chance they could. They provided enough of an
alibi that the gangbanger’s attorney got the judge to reduce the
bond and the guy got sprung from County.” David looked across the
table at me.

I raised an eyebrow. “So what happened?”

“
Day after he gets out, he
murders the young girl who testified against him at the Grand
Jury,” David said, with a sad shake of his head.

Nothing gets ratings like the portrait of an
innocent man, wrongly accused. I remembered Dan saying that one
time. I thought he was speaking in generalities.

I winced. “No wonder Lulinski hates
him.”

“
Most everyone does,”
David said, and I knew he was right. Dan had that effect on people
and it made me wonder again why I’d willingly given up almost a
year of my life to be with him.

“
You know a
lot.”

“
It’s my business to know
what goes on in Chicago.”

Truth be told, I seemed to remember the
story, in a vague way. But, as a student, twelve-hundred miles from
home, with papers due and a social life, I’d paid less attention
than I should have. And back then, I hadn’t yet met Dan.

Without being summoned, Colleen cleared away
our plates, inquired about dessert and left a leather binder with
the bill on the table near David’s hand. He pulled out a credit
card and set it back at the edge of the table for her to grab on
the next go-round.

“
Moving ahead . . .” I
said, resting my elbows on the table’s edge.

“
Yes,” he said, with a
soft look in his eyes. “Moving ahead . . .” He reached across the
table and ran his index finger over the back of my hand. It was a
small, tender gesture, and I should have enjoyed the tingle of
pleasure that shivered up my arm. Instead, I felt detachment, as my
logical left brain tried to convince an eager jury of hormones that
I hadn’t sent my heart to San Francisco.

Colleen picked up the payment, giving me a
reason to move. I sat back, pulled my hands to my lap and asked,
“So, what brought you to banking?”

Mimicking my position, David sat back in his
chair, a smile on his face that I’d have characterized as amused.
“I inherited the financial gene from my father’s side. He owned
several small banks. When he passed on, I sold them to a holding
company and when I decided to strike out on my own, I realized
banking was what I knew best.”

Colleen left us with the credit card
receipt, along with her thanks and wishes for our pleasant evening.
He signed the small form with bold flourish. “Why do you ask?”

“
Just curious,” I said.
“You and I have had a lot going on over this past week—”

“
And very little of that
has been pleasant,” he interrupted. “Until tonight.”

I acknowledged his observation with a nod.
“But I really don’t know you at all.”