Doubleback: A Novel (11 page)

I hurried over to Pen-pocket and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned. I tried to look pathetic. It wasn’t hard. The rain, lashed by the wind, was now sheeting sideways. Even some streetlights had come on.

“I beg your pardon,” I said breathlessly. “I would never do this, but I’m—could I share your umbrella? Just across the street to the bus stop.” I hoped there was a bus stop nearby.

Pen-pocket looked me over quickly then tilted the umbrella my way. “Sure.”

I tried to smile. “You are a very kind man.” I grabbed the base of the umbrella. A sudden streak of lightning and clap of thunder made me jump. Our arms touched.

“It’s okay,” he said. “It’ll blow over.”

“I hate thunderstorms. Especially when I’m out in them.” That much was true. Rachel was worse. Whenever a gust of wind blew in on a dark day, she was convinced a tornado was imminent, even though they’re pretty rare in Chicago. It was my fault—I let her watch the
Wizard of Oz
repeatedly when she was little.

“Which bus do you take?”

I was afraid he’d ask that. “Er... the one that goes up Dearborn.”

“Where’s the stop?”

The light on Monroe turned amber. In a few seconds we’d cross.

“I’m not sure.” I spotted a bus a few blocks away. It was heading north on Dearborn towards us. “Caddy corner, I think. I— uh—don’t take it much.”

“You drive?”

“I—um—usually work out of my house.” That was true. “I was just downtown for a meeting. What about you?”

The light changed. Huddled under the umbrella, we started across. Rain lashed the exposed side of my body.

“I work at Midwest National Bank.”

“Oh.” I hoped I sounded impressed. “What do you do for them?”

“I’m a programmer in IT.”

The noise from the storm combined with angry motorists leaning on their horns made it hard to hear.

“Oh.” I repeated, louder this time. We crossed Monroe. One more street to cross. “I’m Ellie.”

“Cody.”

The light turned green.

“There’s the bus stop,” Cody said. A bus shelter hugged the curb about fifty feet south of the intersection. The bus I’d seen approaching was only a block away. We headed over.

“Cody, thank you so much. For your chivalry. You really are a savior.” I was laying it on thick, but he didn’t seem to mind. He even smiled. “Hey...” I hesitantly placed my hand on his arm. “Are you in a hurry?”

He looked puzzled.

“Oh, forget it. You probably need to get home. I was just thinking I could maybe buy you a drink. To thank you for being such a gentleman.”

“Well... actually...”

•   •   •

Ten minutes later Cody—his last name was Wegman—and I sat on barstools in Bailey’s, a quiet café across from the old Shubert Theater. Concrete planters with red petunias edged an arrangement of empty—and now wet—tables outside. Inside were the requisite dim lights, small tables, and metal-backed chairs. After reapplying my make-up and running a brush through my hair in the ladies room, I half expected to see Georgia when I came out, but there was no sign of her.

I hurried over to Cody and picked up my glass of wine. “So...” I smiled. “A toast to the last of the courtly gentlemen. Thanks again.”

He took a swig from his draft and laughed. It was a loud, crude, goofy laugh, the kind that calls attention to itself. A couple at a nearby table looked our way. For an instant I was taken aback. Cody must have realized it, as well—someone probably told him his laugh wasn’t socially acceptable—because he abruptly closed his mouth.

I recovered quickly. “Oh, don’t be embarrassed. I like it.”

“Really?”

“It’s—distinctive. No one will ever mistake you for someone else.”

Color came into his cheeks, and the look in his eyes deepened. I got the feeling he was trying to come up with a suave reply.

“So...” he said, “... what do you do?”

If that was the best he could come up with, this would be a tough conversation. “I’m a video producer. Mostly industrials— you know, corporate and training videos.”

He looked impressed.

“It’s a living. But you... you have to be pretty smart to be a programmer. Where did you learn?”

“It’s not that you have to be smart. You just need to understand how code is written. I get a lot of help.”

“How long have you worked at the bank?”

“About five years.”

“That’s a lifetime in corporate-speak.”

“Sometimes it seems like twenty.”

“Why is that?”

He shook his head, and a distant look came over him. “Nothing.”

I peered at him. “You’re at Midwest National, right?”

“That’s right.”

I sat up straighter. “Hold on. Isn’t that the place where the woman worked? The one who died in the accident a few days ago? The one whose daughter was kidnapped?”

“How do you know that?”

“Um...” I fumbled for a response. “Actually, she lives—lived near me. On the North Shore. A good friend of mine is her neighbor. Christine Messenger.” I frowned. “Did you know her?”

“She was my boss.”

“You’re kidding.” I pretended to shiver. “How creepy.”

“You live in the suburbs?”

“That’s right. I told you, I came downtown for a meeting.”

“Then, how come you were taking the bus?”

“I—I’m supposed to meet a friend for dinner. She lives near North. I parked my car there earlier. Of course, I had no idea it would be coming down like this.” I made a sweeping gesture.

“Oh.”

“How about another?”

“Not yet.”

I drained my wine. “So Christine Messenger was your boss. You must be devastated.”

“I didn’t see that much of her. She was on one side of the floor. I was on the other.”

“Was she a good boss?”

He cocked his head. “I never had any complaints.”

“What a tragedy. Especially for the daughter. To go through something like a kidnapping, and then to have your mother die.” I shivered again, for real this time. I looked over, then paused as if a new thought struck me. “You don’t think... I mean... you don’t think the two events are related, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the newspaper said it was an accident. But the little girl was taken just a week or so ago. The timing is—weird, you know what I mean?”

He leaned forward. “It gets even weirder,” he said softly.

“How’s that?”

“Her boss, the COO, Mr. Emerlich. He’s dead, too.”

I feigned shock. “You’re kidding.”

“His car smashed into a truck on the Eisenhower last week.”

“Oh man.” I signaled the bartender. “I need another. You?”

This time he nodded.

“Another round, please.” I ordered. “And a glass of water.”

He hesitated. “Look. I’m not supposed to talk about this. The police told us not to.”

“My lips are sealed.” I picked up my napkin. “It’s just so strange. First her kid is kidnapped. And released. Then her boss dies. Then she does.” I paused. “Do you think they were having an affair? You know, Christine and her boss?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You never noticed if they came in or went out together or within a few minutes of each other?”

“No. Chris was always all business—at least with me.”

Our drinks came. Plump beads of sweat rolled down my glass of water. I pushed his draft toward him. “So you
don’t
think they were having an affair?”

“Like I said, I don’t know.” His guarded look came back. “Why are you so curious?”

I had to be careful. Cody’s brain might be mired in bits and bytes, but his antennae were sharp enough that he realized I was grilling him. “It’s just—like I said, it’s creepy. And to think we both knew her. I mean, these things just don’t happen to me. I live a boring life.”

“Me too.” He cocked his head and appraised me. Then, as if he’d made a decision, he leaned forward. “There’s something else.”

A wave of anticipation rippled through me “What?”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“Who am I going to tell?”

He took a long pull on his beer. “One of my friends is a supervisor in accounting. Turns out the bank started getting complaints from some of our customers last week.”

“What kind of complaints?”

“There was some kind of mysterious service charge on their statements.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “After a few calls Sandy—that’s my friend—decided it must have been some kind of computer glitch. So she went up to talk to Christine about it, but Christine wasn’t there. It was just about the time her daughter was released, and she was at home.” He paused. “So Sandy went to Emerlich instead.”

“Chris’s boss.”

“Right. And the next day Emerlich was dead.”

I mulled it over. “Do the police know about this?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

My brain was flying off in twenty different directions. Before I realized it, I blurted out, “What’s Sandy’s last name?”

Cody straightened up. “Why? What I told you is highly confidential.”

I tried to cover. “You’re—you’re right. I don’t need to know.”

He eyed me suspiciously.

“It’s just so eerie.”

He kept his mouth shut.

I backed off, and we chatted idly for another few minutes while we finished our drinks. Glancing through the window, I saw the skies had cleared and the sun was peeking through the buildings in the western sky. It was suddenly one of those perfect Chicago summer evenings that made you forget about the
sturm und drang
just moments earlier.

I pulled out some cash from my wallet. “Well, Cody, this has been a lot of fun, but the storm’s over, and I ought to get going. My girlfriend probably thinks I drowned.”

He leaned close to me and covered my hand with his. “You’re really nice, Ellie. Can we get together again? I’m a mystery shopper, and I get all these free coupons to great places, like Applebees, and TGIF. Places like that.”

“What’s a Mystery Shopper?”

“Oh, man. It’s great. You sign up online to rate these places, and they pay your way. Or reimburse you. It’s a great way to go out. For instance, I have some coupons for—”

I stammered, flustered. “Um... uh... Cody, that’s really flattering, and I think the shopping gig is cool, but I’m old enough to be your mother.”

His expression said the idea had already occurred to him and he was okay with it.

I felt heat on my cheeks. “But I’ll tell you what. You just made my day.”

He shot me a look that was both longing and reproachful. I didn’t know if his distress was because he couldn’t use his coupons, or if he was truly saddened by my answer. In any case, I melted. “Tell you what. Give me your card. You just never know.”

That was the truth, too.

chapter
13

W
hile Foreman was in the bar with the bank guy, Georgia drove to Arthur Emerlich’s house. Located in Hinsdale not far from Interstate 294, the house was part of a block of stately homes with trees tall enough to have been planted a generation ago. A large red brick colonial with cream trim and black shutters, it was recessed from the street and accessed by a circular driveway. Sedate landscaping suggested substance, not bling. So did the Camry and Buick on the driveway. Georgia got out of her car and shaded her eyes. The snarl of rush-hour traffic, slowed even more by the storm, had doubled her travel time, but now a cheerful sun was shining.

“Yes?” The woman who opened the door had to be somewhere in her sixties. Although petite, her body was all sharp edges and angles, and her short hair was too black. A bad dye job. Despite the heat, she wore heavy gray slacks and a black sweater. A pair of black ballet slippers were on her feet.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Emerlich, but I wonder if I could have a few words.” Georgia held out her card. Dierdre Emerlich gave it only a passing glance, as if reading was too much effort. “Who are you?”

“Georgia Davis. I’m an investigator, and I’ve been hired by Christine Messenger’s family to look into her death.”

The voices from a radio talk show whispered out from another room. A baby cried, followed by the murmur of a female voice. Mrs. Emerlich frowned in a way that said she was trying to be polite but that Georgia’s presence was a distraction. “I heard. What a tragedy.”

“You knew her?”

“Of course.”

Georgia was surprised by the forthright response. If she’d been suspicious her husband and Messenger were fooling around, wouldn’t she be more cautious? Even reluctant? “May I come in?”

“Miss...” Dierdre checked her watch. “We’re just about to have dinner. It’s a difficult time...” Another cry from the unseen baby. “My daughter and grandson came in from Kansas. If it weren’t for him...” Grief was etched into the lines on her face, but at the mention of the baby, her expression smoothed out.

“It took almost two hours to get here. I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”

“I don’t want to be impolite, but I—”

“This is important, Mrs. Emerlich. It might lead to some answers about your husband’s death.”

Dierdre hesitated, but a spark of interest caught on her face. She opened the door and led Georgia into a living room. The décor, circa 1960, had the feel of time in a bottle. Dignified but dull furniture. Faded beige carpeting. The only unusual—and colorful—objects were two framed collages of theater playbills on the wall. Georgia remembered Emerlich was on the board of a local theater company.

“Your husband was a supporter of the arts.”

Dierdre followed Georgia’s gaze. “We both were. I’m an actor, and Arthur produced. It was our passion.”

Georgia scanned the frames and found playbills for
Our Town
,
Macbeth, The Music Man,
and other dramas she hadn’t thought about since high school. If they were theater people, were they the free-spirited types? Not bound by convention? Could Emerlich be sleeping around with Dierdre’s tacit permission? The house didn’t look bohemian, but physical décor didn’t necessarily indicate behavior.

“Mrs. Emerlich, do you have any reason to believe your husband’s death was not an accident?”

The woman didn’t look surprised. She seated herself on the sofa. “The police asked the same thing. Whether he had any enemies. I kept telling them no. Arthur was beloved. By everyone.” The baby cried again. She swallowed. “The baby keeps asking where PopPop is.”