Killing Red (17 page)

There were certain key pieces of information which Chapa had kept from Andrews. He had not told him what he’d learned about Annie from Munson down at Night Owls. He had not yet told him about the tape recording, or that he’d gone to visit Grubb a second time this week.

Chapa knew it was time to come clean, and he would do so when he met with Andrews the next morning. That meant he still had a lot to get done with what was left of today.

When he walked into the offices of the
Chicago Record
shortly after 5:00, he hoped that the folks from the night crew, most of whom he knew only in passing, had replaced his more familiar coworkers. That turned out to be the case, for the most part.

“Stop the presses, the fugitive has come to turn himself in,” Duane Wormley said, looking up from his keyboard with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Chapa started to walk past Wormley’s cubicle, then decided he’d rather do something else. He turned and leaned in close, invading Wormley’s space.

“I had planned on bringing my killing spree to an end, but maybe I’ll make an exception,” Chapa said coldly.

Wormley searched Chapa’s eyes for the punch line, but when he found none the lower part of his face started trembling slightly. Chapa noticed the subtle jerking of the man’s narrow, neatly shaven chin and started laughing in a way he hadn’t for some time.

Zach came out of the copy room. Though he’d missed the joke, he immediately understood that it was on Wormley, and started laughing. The few others who were left all looked over to see what was so funny, and witnessed Wormley’s entire upper body trembling with anger.

Matt Sullivan emerged from a corner office, he seemed confused.

“Mr. Macklin is gone.”

“For good?” Chapa asked, feigning optimism. “Don’t worry, I’m not here for any meeting, I’m here to do my job.”

Chapa slapped Wormley on the back, damn near knocking him into his keyboard, and walked to his office with Sullivan following in his wake.

“You’ve been out of touch, and with that story today, well, there’s been some concern.”

“I can certainly understand that,” Chapa said as he sat down and flipped his computer on. “The story is bogus, it’s already been cleared up with the authorities, and I’m going to make sure the papers that ran with it end up eating some serious shit over this.”

Sullivan raised his palms in a calming gesture as he sat down across the desk.

“Let’s keep our heads, this is not personal.”

“The hell it’s not.”

“The
Record
will, of course, support you, but I think we need to all have an open dialogue about this situation and the story you’re working on.”

Chapa rocked back in his brown leather chair which squeaked whenever he moved.

“I’ll be glad to meet with you and Macklin, but first I have to finish what I’m working on. I have to see this Grubb story to the end.”

Sullivan sat with his meaty arms folded, competing for space across his chest.

“A lot of people are worried about you, and what you’re up to. That’s all.”

“Look, we’ve already had this conversation.”

Chapa stood up and walked around to the other side of the desk, then sat on the edge.

“No one else is on this. I haven’t sniffed any coverage from the other papers. Sure, they’ll all be at the execution, but that’s just the most basic part of it. This story is going to be huge, and I’m going to be the only one who gets it.”

Sullivan pushed his chubby fingers around his eyes and rubbed hard. When he stopped, his face looked red and tired.

“Off the record, Alex, I would strongly recommend that you not set foot in this building again until you’re ready to file the story.”

Chapa understood.

“You missed Macklin by no more than fifteen minutes tonight, and Duane will make certain he knows you were here,” Sullivan said, then stood up to leave. He was almost all the way out of the office when he leaned back in.

“Alex, he’s going to fire you.”

Chapa let those words sink in. This was no longer an editor talking to one of his writers. It was just one regular guy warning another, and Chapa appreciated that.

“I know, Sully. Thanks.”

“Folks don’t want their news this way anymore, doesn’t matter how soft we go or what we try.”

“I know. We’re dinosaurs and the comet’s bearing down on our little blue world.”

“Do you have a clip file, a portfolio, or a résumé, something that’s going to help you land on your feet?”

“No, I’ve got something better. My reputation for being one hell of a reporter.”

Sullivan nodded and walked out.

Chapa was wrestling with the reality that he would soon be unemployed, when things found a way to get worse. He received an email from Carla.

Chapa printed the letter and tossed it into a file with all of the others. A major part of him wanted to pick up the phone and have it out with Carla. But he knew that wouldn’t do anyone any good, especially Nikki.

They had been mismatched from the start, though Chapa had done what he could to bridge the gap between them. Should he have seen the potential for how it would all turn out back when they were dating? Was there something that he’d missed? A look, an inflection, anything that might’ve offered a glimpse. Chapa prided himself on his ability to read people—a vital trait for any reporter—but he’d been blind when it came to Carla.

It wasn’t easy, but Chapa had admitted to himself some time ago that it was never all that good between him and Carla. It bothered him now that he carried some of that gun-shy fear into his relationship with Erin. It wasn’t fair, and he knew it.

Chapa pulled up Carla’s cell number on his computer, took the phone out of its cradle, and held it while he rocked back in his chair. He got the squeaks going in a syncopated rhythm with the sound of the ceiling fan, and thought about what to do next. After he finally put the phone down, Chapa turned back to his computer, and looked up the address for Prather’s in Chicago.

Finding an address for the club Munson had told him about was easy. Chapa then spent a few more hours researching the trailer, sensing that he’d missed something. He tracked a few threads that led nowhere, before finally discovering a series of sites dedicated to what was commonly referred to as the TKM, short for Traveling Killer Museum.

Numerous reports detailed what others had said about the trailer, while a few accounts purported to be firsthand. Only two seemed remotely credible. Still, Chapa was surprised and more than a little disturbed by how fascinated some folks were about an elusive mobile home that served as a shrine to the murderers of the innocent.

Just reading about it stirred up feelings from the night before that he was working hard to bury. He wondered if those memories would ever scab over, and eventually be replaced by scarred skin.

Wormley and Sullivan were gone by the time Chapa left the building. An hour later he was navigating through lazy traffic on the way to Chicago’s far North Side. Prather’s was somewhere between the lake and the expressway. There was no guarantee Annie would be working there at all, let alone tonight, but Chapa figured it was worth a shot.

He’d considered calling ahead and asking for her, or rather, for Angela. But anyone who was so determined to make herself difficult to find could get spooked by that sort of phone call. Better to take a chance and drop in.

A green neon sign probably dating back to the early 60’s announced Prather’s. From the outside, the jazz club looked like it could have been there for a generation or two. But it was not run down, something that the ten dollar valet parking made clear.

Chapa passed on the lot and took his chances with street parking around the corner on Sunnyside Avenue, just a couple of blocks north of Irving Park Road. From there it was a short walk past the nearly full lot that flanked the building, and another thirty feet to the front door.

He was greeted by a bouncer who was big enough to have smaller bouncers orbiting around him.

“Gimme six bucks.”

He didn’t make it clear whether that was the cover charge or if he was just collecting lunch money. From the looks of him, it was a safe bet the man needed a lot of lunch money. He wore a black T-shirt that might’ve been spray painted on. It was so tight that the large cursive P in the middle was stretched to the point of distortion. Chapa ignored the heavy temptation to crack wise and just gave him the cash.

Prather’s looked like one of those places where you didn’t let your guard down, but not for the same reasons some watering holes have a way of bringing one’s survival instincts to the surface. While Night Owls had projected the threat of physical violence, Prather’s suggested intrigue and the kind of private negotiations that could change lives, or destroy them.

There was money at Prather’s. It walked around and had enough of a physical presence that at any moment it might pull up a chair and join you for a drink. Night Owls had waitresses, Prather’s had servers who brought drinks with exotic names and foreign objects in them like plastic birds or umbrellas.

The room was bathed in subdued swipes of amber, green, and violet, and every color in between. Prather’s served food, liquor, and jazz, though not in equal measure.

Round tables crowded in near the cramped stage, while curved and heavily padded booths ringed the perimeter. No stains on the walls or cracks in the upholstery. A long bar filled one end of the room, behind it a tall heap of muscle with rock star hair was serving drinks. Chapa was seated at a booth in a far corner that offered a decent view of the rest of the room. He was underdressed and out of place and he didn’t much care. The discreet lighting was intended to hide a variety of sins.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

She was tall, thin, and very blond, all of which appeared to come naturally. Her neatly manicured nails curved around the edge of the tray she was holding.

“Aren’t we all waiting for someone?” Chapa responded.

“So true.”

He ordered rum on the rocks and asked what her name was. She told him it was “Denise” and slipped away into the discreet darkness. A four-piece band was cruising through a no-nonsense rendition of “Harlem Nocturne.” While it served as background music for most of the booth dwellers, the folks sitting at the tables treated the performance as though it was religion.

Chapa watched a server cross the floor, navigating around the tables and chairs. She was medium height with a pleasant figure and dark hair. He stared at her, hoping she would turn his way.

“Would you like me to start a tab?” Denise said as she placed his drink on the table.

“Sure.”

She seemed pleased with that answer, rewarding him with a smile, and letting her eyes get in on the action. The other server was gone from view by the time Denise left Chapa’s table, and he began surveying the rest of the room. He counted a total of seven employees, including four servers, all of whom were women.

Chapa scanned the area from one side of the floor to the bar, then the other side, and the entryway. When he’d done this for several minutes and was satisfied that Annie Sykes was not out there, he decided to ask Denise about her.

Before Chapa could do that, he noticed a woman who had joined the tall brawny guy behind the bar. Her hair was neither black nor red, but something in between. It was the color of a rich merlot. When she turned, the light from above the bar slipped down to touch the woman’s face. It was Annie.

He dropped a ten on the table, figuring that should cover his drink and the tip, then picked up his glass and headed for the bar, Denise caught his eye on the way and he shrugged and mouthed, “Sorry.”

Chapa sat near the end of the bar, a few stools away from where the woman stood by the register. She was counting money and writing figures down on a sheet of paper. Any kind of work at this place was a major improvement over whatever she’d been doing at Night Owls, Chapa figured.

But the more he saw of her, mostly profile, the less certain Chapa was that he had found Annie/Angela Sykes. He tried not to stare or be too obvious. Chapa had been in enough saloons of various stripes to understand that you never know who’s watching you. A quiet stranger paying too much attention to one of the servers can be suspicious. That same stranger staring at a woman handling money can eliminate all doubt.

She finished whatever accounting she’d been doing and turned in Chapa’s direction. He raised his head and smiled as she passed, hoping to get her attention, wanting to get a better look at her face. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead, as though the rest of the room wasn’t there, as she walked toward the end of the bar.

She was almost to the service doors when Chapa said, “Annie.”

He said the name just loud enough for her to hear it above the music and chatter. She stopped. Chapa slid off his stool and walked over closer to her, expecting the woman to turn around. But she stood motionless, her back turned to him.

She stayed there for a few seconds, anchored in place, and didn’t respond in any way. Then she disappeared through a set of black swinging doors.