Killing Red (10 page)

Ten minutes later, Chapa was still riding the buzz most successful news writers have been fortunate to know. This was the only life he could ever remember wanting, and though it came with a fair share of lows, the highs made everything else worthwhile.

His mother, like a lot of parents, always hoped she was raising a lawyer. Convinced that her son’s ability to think on his feet and his knack for talking himself into and out of situations would serve him well in that profession.

Despite her best intentions, however, it was actually Chapa’s mother who was responsible for his love of journalism from an early age. Chapa could remember the stories she would tell him about his father as though he had been there, on the scene, just a few days ago. How a young Francisco Chapa had written for a government-approved Havana periodical by day, while organizing and editing an underground anti-Castro paper by night. She taught him the names of dissidents who had been released and allowed to leave the country after his father had exposed their arrests and inhumane treatment by the communist regime. To her, it was proof of the profound good a journalist can do, a philosophy she had passed on to her son.

But his mother had told him the rest of it, too. How his father had been taken away in the middle of the night when Alex was barely a year old. No word for weeks. Then news that Francisco Chapa had been shot while trying to escape. The authorities had shown his mother a picture of her husband, still wearing the same clothes as the day he’d been taken, with a bullet hole in what was left of his forehead. Instead of scaring Alex into a more sensible profession, it was learning of his father’s sacrifice that first made him want to be a journalist.

Chapa had never found the sort of story he imagined would have made his father proud. And though he’d come to accept that he might never find it, Chapa also knew he would never stop searching.

Traffic on the Eisenhower was unusually light, and it wasn’t long before the Sears Tower appeared in the distance. Chapa left another message for Nikki, then sent her a text that he punched into his phone while driving through expressway traffic.

Hey Nik I miss you and I wish I could just say hi and talk to you for a few minutes. Please let me know you got this and—

Chapa changed his mind and decided to keep the message simple. He erased the last sentence fragment, punched in,
I love you, Dad
, and sent the message. He no longer expected a response.

Though the divorce had been diffficult, Chapa and his ex had managed to work through most of the issues that arose in the months after it became final. That changed after Carla remarried.

A judge had awarded Chapa joint custody, but it hadn’t worked out that way. Whatever role Chapa could play in his daughter’s life started shrinking in a hurry. That became even more of an issue after Carla and her new husband, a real estate developer from Boston, relocated to one of that city’s more exclusive suburbs, and Nikki moved with them. The man Nikki sometimes called her “New Dad” had inherited his family’s success, then gone out and built some of his own.

Chapa had fought Carla in court until his attorney convinced him he was all out of options. Carla had gotten everything she wanted, and probably more than what she had coming. Over time, the distance between Chapa and his daughter had widened, though he’d struggled to keep that from happening. Every once in a while he would go a week or two without having contact with Nikki. But this current stretch was by far the worst, and Chapa sensed that in spite of his efforts, he was slipping out of his daughter’s life.

He’d decided long ago to try and ride out the occasional storms, hoping that Nikki would make the right choices once they were hers to make. But things were starting to spiral.

Chapa met Carla while on assignment, researching a story about insurance fraud. She was working as a legal assistant in a large firm in Oakton. The first thing Chapa noticed were her eyes—clear blue and radiant—no hint of the cold glares that would become familiar in the final months of their marriage. She was blond, slender, and tall. Her natural good looks were the product of a Nordic heritage by way of South Dakota. They hit it off right away, though the attraction was mostly physical.

Chapa knew that, but then he had a moment of weakness.

“We should get married,” he said as he watched her getting dressed after a midafternoon tussle.

Two weeks later they did exactly that. Nikki was born in the tenth month of their marriage, even though they had originally agreed to wait before having children. Nikki was the result of a compromise.

There had been some good times. Quiet nights together, and family trips. Chapa still had moments when a deceptively gentle memory would sneak up on him. Those were becoming scarce, however, and easy enough to shake off. All it took was remembering how many quiet nights or family times ended in arguments. And how conflict, much of it without purpose or clear origin, always seemed to have filled the ever widening space between them.

Now Chapa just wanted to put as much distance as he could between himself and Carla. The easiest way for him to do that was by focusing on his work. It’s what he had always done. A means of escape.

He found a parking space on Southport, on the same block as the theater Louise Jones had mentioned as a landmark. Now he just needed to find the store that Annie’s friend owned. After scanning the storefronts along the busy street, Chapa had a pretty good idea which one it might be. He checked his messages one more time, turned off the phone and slipped it inside a pants pocket, then grabbed his tape recorder, a notebook, a couple of pens, and went to work.

The young man who introduced himself as Langdon, the artist and owner of a store called Intertwined, was tall and athletic, his thick blond hair carefully groomed to appear random. Langdon examined Chapa with eyes that were the color of wet concrete, and greeted him with a smile that seemed easy and authentic.

“Is Langdon your first name or last?”

“Both. It started out as my artist name, but now it’s what everyone calls me,” he said, handing Chapa a cup of coffee.

He explained his real name was Donald Langdon Young, and he gave Chapa a quick tour of his shop, which was neatly stocked with his creations. Chapa noted a certain consistency to the designs on jewelry, purses, and clothing.

“They all look a little like those old English crosses.”

“Gaelic crosses, yes, some people see the interlocking lines and maze-like designs and make that connection,” Langdon said. “I suppose I probably drew some inspiration from that, but I’ve been sketching these designs since I was a kid.”

Chapa suggested that some of the designs looked like the intertwined branches of a thorn bush.

“Maybe they’re supposed to represent the way our lives are intertwined. Who knows? I just draw what comes to me.”

Chapa made some notes, though he had little interest in the guy’s artistic history.

The boutique was divided into sections, miniature departments, for each group of products. Electronic music, more machine than human, surged from small speakers perched on the wall behind the register. Photos on the other walls showed off Langdon’s work by illustrating women wearing the clothing and jewelry, with one of his designer purses draped over a shoulder.

“You’ve done all of this yourself? Created the art, started the business, everything?”

Chapa was studying several framed newspaper and magazine articles about the store and its owner.

“I own the shop, and I run it by myself, mostly, though I do have a couple of part-timers. As far as the art goes, I lay out the designs, but I have a partner who actually makes the things you see here. I create the art from my imagination and he makes it a reality.”

Chapa moved around the store, but stopped when he saw a familiar face wearing one of the necklaces. The only thing that he didn’t recognize was her perfectly black hair.

“I have those in several different styles, if you’d like to get one for a lady friend.”

“Who is this woman?” Chapa asked, pointing at the photo of Annie Sykes.

Langdon’s demeanor shifted away from cooperative.

“You’re not really here to do a story on my art, are you,” Langdon looked down at the business card he’d been handed, “Mr. Chapa?”

“No, and I’ve been doing a really poor job of fooling people, then again, I’m not trying all that hard.”

Langdon walked over and stood by the door, and Chapa understood that was supposed to be a cue for him to leave.

“I’m looking for your friend, the one in that picture. I know about her background, and quite a bit more. I would like to do a follow-up story on her and how well she’s doing now.”

“What if she doesn’t want to be part of anything like that?”

“If she tells me to get lost, then I get lost.”

The young man remained guarded.

“I haven’t seen Angie in some time, not since she left the city.”

“Where did she go?”

“She started seeing some guy in Joliet, and got a job down there.”

“Do you know where?”

“It was a bar of some sort.” Langdon thought for a moment. “I think it might’ve been called Night Owls.”

“Were you two ever involved?”

Langdon shook his head, and relaxed enough to sit down.

“No, I was interested in that, but Angela wasn’t. That’s how it goes, but it didn’t hurt our friendship any.”

“Do you know where she lives now?”

“No. Angie isn’t easy to find unless she wants to be found.”

Chapa poured himself another cup of coffee.

“What’s her last name now? I know it’s not Sykes.”

The hard look returned, and it made Chapa wonder if the last couple of minutes had been a put-on. The reporter sensed he was being sized up, on the receiving end of a practice that had long been second nature to him.

“She changed it to Noir, first professionally, then legally, I think.”

“Angela Noir, Black Angel, that’s some name.”

“It was a good move for her when her paintings began to sell and attract attention from Goths and people into dark art. Though I don’t think she’s ever really bought into all that, or been part of the scene.”

“Did the two of you ever collaborate on anything?

Langdon shook his head.

“She’s got her muse, I’ve got mine.”

Chapa smirked.

“You’re a writer, don’t you believe you have a muse?”

“I got a job to do, a deadline to meet, and a commitment to my readers. That’s what drives me to write.”

Chapa pointed to his business card which Langdon was still holding, and asked him to call the number on it if he heard from Angela, or remembered any other details that might help.

“You sure you’re not going to buy something? Maybe a loved one needs a pendant.”

Though he sensed Langdon was holding out on him, Chapa decided Erin might like one of the overpriced T-shirts, and picked out a dark blue one with a silver design. A purchase now could lead to some valuable information later.

“One other thing,” Langdon said as he slipped the shirt into the bag, “That photo over there, Angie’s hair isn’t black anymore. She just dyed it like that when she was starting out.”

“So it’s her natural red again.”

Langdon nodded. “At least that should make her easier to find.”

And that’s not necessarily a good thing, Chapa thought.

Chapa tossed the open map of Chicago’s far southwest suburbs on the passenger’s seat so he could focus his attention on the mounting traffic, as well the annoyed federal agent on the other end of the phone.

“You are way out of your league, Al.”

Chapa attributed his friend’s negative attitude to a bad day.

“There’s something very real going on here, and you know you’re like a brother to me, but this is our territory. This is no business for a reporter.”

The feds had managed to connect the dots on a couple more of the names Grubb had given Chapa, but the details weren’t fitting together, and that always made Andrews cranky.

“Wasn’t that the case with Grubb’s victims?” Chapa asked as he turned onto a southbound ramp and passed under the sign that read,
JOLIET AHEAD
. “He was the only one who saw a pattern, and whatever it was, you won’t find it in any profiler’s manual. Isn’t that what stumped the cops?”

“The lack of a pattern is not itself a pattern,” Andrews responded, and seemed to be growing impatient with both the situation and Chapa. “Where are you now?”

Chapa hesitated before deciding to avoid the question.

“Did you write down the name I gave you?”

“Of course I did, Angela Noir is a hell of a long way from Annie Sykes.”

“That could be true in a number of ways.”

Traffic was getting thicker on I-355, and Chapa jumped off so he could get something to eat before continuing his trip to the bar that Langdon had told him about.

“Look, Al, and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way.”

“Ah, so you’re about to insult me.”

“What’s going on here is getting heavy, and it’s not another one of those situations where you manage to stumble around for a while until it all finally lines up for you. This is real.”

Chapa wasn’t insulted—this was not a new line of discussion for the two of them.

“I understand what you’re saying, but I’m split here. The reporter in me knows that I can get most of the story I need from the comfort and safety of my office.” Chapa fiddled for some change to pay the toll, came up short, and faked the empty handed toss into the basket before rolling through. “But the other part of me is looking for a girl who could be in a lot of trouble, and I can’t let her down.”

Andrews’ silence told Chapa that his friend got it.

“Just be careful, asshole.”

Chapa then asked, “Did you find out anything about Jack Whitlock?”

“We did. He moved to a small town in Michigan about six years ago, where he and his wife run an online business out of their home. He’s probably just a guy who struggled through a very rough stretch, but he appears to be out of the loop.”

“That makes sense.” Chapa hadn’t expected it would lead anywhere, but Whitlock was still worth checking out.

“You on your way to Erin’s?”

“Maybe later, not yet.”

“You never told me where you are now.”

“Didn’t I?”

“Nope.”

“I’m driving down to Joliet. There’s a roughneck bar there that Annie Sykes might be working at.”

For all Chapa knew, Night Owls might be no rougher than a pancake house, but he was embellishing purely for dramatic effect. Andrews came back with a garbled bit of R-rated mumbling.

It was exactly the response Chapa was angling for.