Killing Red (32 page)
Authors: Henry Perez
Nikki’s letter was tucked into its own pocket inside Chapa’s wallet. He had thrown out one of his old press credentials to make room for it. He unfolded the delicate piece of paper and read it again.
Daddy,
Why won’t you ever come to see me?
I miss you sometimes.
Love Nikki
Some questions are best answered in person.
Parked halfway down a block where the homes were fronted with Greek columns, and the yards stretched big enough to host a music festival, Chapa’s Corolla stood out like a pair of cut-offs at a black tie affair.
He didn’t give a damn. Chapa had felt out of place his whole life. Over the past three days, as he made the drive from the Heartland to the coast, Chapa had decided that in spite of everything that had happened, he’d done all right for himself.
Job security was temporary, but at least he knew where the sucker punch would be coming from. Macklin was keeping him on to write a series of pieces about his experiences with Grubb, Langdon, and Annie. Once those were finished he would be helping out with local election coverage. Beyond that lay the great unknown, a place Chapa was actually looking forward to visiting.
Dominic Delacruz’s obituary, personally written by Chapa, had filled more than a half page, the sort of space usually reserved for celebrities. The next day he received an email from Eddie Delacruz which simply read,
Thank you
.
Langdon would not be reading any of Chapa’s stories, or feasting on all the Internet traffic surrounding his capture, or Grubb’s execution. He was still in intensive care, unconscious and being kept alive by a network of tubes. Chapa wondered how they compared with the tubes that had channeled streams of death into Grubb’s veins.
The injuries, in particular those caused by the drugs Annie had injected into his body, had left Langdon with no measurable brain activity, and were determined to have been the result of defensive actions. The feds could find no connection between Langdon and Strasser, and the trailer, which had vanished as though it never existed.
Likewise, no trail had been drawn between Lance Grubb and any of it. Still, Andrews remained certain Lance had served, at the very least, as a link between his brother and the outside world. When he moved out of the state two days after the execution, it created even more concern among authorities, but there wasn’t much they could do.
The investigation into Pete Rudman’s death had been reopened. The feds were in the process of tracking Strasser’s movements in the days leading up to the retired officer’s death. It wasn’t easy. Even in life, Strasser had been like a ghost.
Chapa’s new attorney, the one Andrews had put him in touch with, went to work before his retainer check had been cashed. A day later, Chapa received an email from his ex filled with words like
cooperation
,
misunderstandings
, and
communication
. It ended with a plea to work together like adults with a common interest.
There’s no reason for us to ever be in court again. We should begin the healing process. We should talk.
Carla had no idea just how soon that process would begin.
Her new approach made it a good time for his first visit to Boston. But that’s not what had triggered Chapa’s decision to take a trip. Those wheels were in motion even before he had written the lead to his story the day of Grubb’s execution.
Chapa checked his look in the rearview, like he had done five minutes earlier, and ten minutes before that. Then again in the driver’s side mirror which worked like it was showroom new now that he’d had it fixed. Was this what a dad was supposed to look like? Why not.
The sleek green shirt he’d bought for this moment gave him a sense of distinction without overwhelming the casual vibe he was going for. Drawing the collar out a bit from inside his black leather jacket, he made sure both sides were even. Chapa wondered how much he still looked like the man Nikki once saw on a daily basis.
He reached over to the passenger’s seat and shoved aside the maps that had cluttered there. From inside a gray satchel that he used to carry important papers any time he traveled, Chapa pulled out a small, neatly wrapped package.
It had taken Chapa three stops and several hours back in Cleveland before he finally settled on the perfect journal for Nikki. Its cover was decorated with smiley faces, hearts, and flowers, and for a moment he feared she might have outgrown those things. His hope was that she would fill it up with her day-to-day doings and thoughts. He had already done that with the one he’d picked out for himself years before. Chapa had stopped a number of times along the road, and stayed up late in hotel rooms trying to write down those things that would best tell his ten-year-old who her father was. Maybe, over time, this could become a long distance way to get to know each other again.
Families are complicated and fragile, but some can be fixed, or at least jerry-rigged to function in a way. Chapa had received a note from Michelle Sykes the morning before he left. While Michelle failed to specify whether Annie had reached out to them, the tone and sincerity of her gratitude suggested she had.
He’d sat there long enough, but still gave the house one more long look. The three-story colonial wasn’t the neighborhood’s most impressive, but it certainly wasn’t doing anything to lower the seven-digit average for homes in this secluded part of town.
Everything about the place, from the wrought iron fence that ran the length of the property, to the front door that was taller than some houses, didn’t just suggest wealth, it hollered it from the top of a recently painted gable.
After casually tossing the federal parking permit on the dash just to be on the safe side, Chapa emerged from the car and locked it, more out of habit than necessity, then started up the driveway which led to a cobblestone walk. With each step, Chapa’s determination fought to silence his anxiety.
Strategically placed Halloween decorations marked the coming holiday with precision and not the unbridled enthusiasm that was celebrated in most American neighborhoods. A designer witch and her matching feline fashionably haunted the spaces on either side of the front door.
The margin between everything in Chapa’s past and that imposing door had narrowed to just a few feet, and he thought back to his first conversation with Annie, and how badly it had gone. He would approach this situation differently, more directly. Though Chapa knew he would make some new mistakes, he was determined to not repeat his old ones.
Many people provided valuable advice and vital encouragement. Their contributions are woven into the pages of this book.
My agent Scott Miller immediately saw what could be, and then worked to make it a reality. A huge thank you goes out to him and the staff at Trident Media.
John Scognamiglio, my editor, saw beyond what was on the page and helped me find the story within. The talented folks at Kensington took it from there and did first class work at every step.
I am fortunate to have received generous advice from a number of veteran writers. Much gratitude to all of the fine and giving authors who make up Chicago’s mystery writing community. A loud shout out to Marcus Sakey, Anne Perry, James Rollins, and David Morrell, my old college professor, who two decades later helped me make my first book better.
A special thank you goes to Joe Konrath, whose wisdom and insight are matched only by his generosity.
Before any of the pros got a look at the manuscript it was well vetted by my first readers. Leslie Rocha can spot a missing word or misplaced comma like the best of them. Valuable feedback from Greg Varney, Maria Konrath, J. D. Smith, Tina Varney, Joe Rocha, and Alesia Hacker influenced subsequent drafts of this book. I am indebted to each of them for caring enough to tell me when I still had work to do.
Sometimes you have to change your surroundings in order to get back on track. John Sandrolini, a great friend for more than thirty years, handed over the keys and generously allowed me to turn his wonderful Southern California home into a writer’s retreat for the better part of two weeks.
Some of my biggest supporters can be found in my family. Tops among them are my mother, Magaly, and my brother, Ed.
Of course the warmest thank you goes to my wife Cheri, and my daughters Maggie and Kate. They are the ones who give meaning to it all.
Henry Perez has worked as a newspaper reporter for more than a decade. Born in Cuba, he immigrated to the U.S. at a young age, and lives in the Chicago area with his wife and children.
Killing Red
is his first novel.
Readers can visit him at www.henryperezbooks.com.
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Copyright © 2009 Henry Perez
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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