The Undertaker (22 page)

As she walked away, her hips moved with a soft, supple, roll and I'd bet the farm she wore black-lace underwear. Probably a thong. Had to be, I thought, if she wore any at all. My God, I thought, terribly embarrassed. Had it really been that long? Maybe Sharon was right. If I ever got out of this thing alive, I really did need to see her friend Doris. Yeah, it had been that long. I turned my eyes up to the high, cerulean-blue, Chicago sky, relieved to see there were no clouds up there. There were no worried faces looking down at me, and no lightening bolts flashing out of the blue to fix my problem, permanently.

I hung back a half block on the opposite side of the street and watched as she continued south. She had no idea I was there, and in that outfit, she proved easy to follow. The streets began to fill with traffic and the sidewalks with fast-moving pedestrians, making it easy to blend in, even in my plaid shirt and Briggs and Stratton hat. She crossed Division and went south on State, and then swung up Rush Street. The restaurants, bars, and jazz clubs were probably a lot trendier at 8:45 at night than they were at 8:45 in the morning with the delivery trucks, trash, broken beer bottles, and puddles of puke in the gutters, but our girl knifed through it all and didn't look as if she cared. Like Tom Petty sang, “she was an American girl — full of promises”, and she didn't have time for the minor details like the street clutter or the strange man who was following her.

When she reached Chicago Avenue, she turned left and her pace slowed. Up ahead lay the Water Tower and a small park. She stepped back into a shadowy doorway on the opposite corner and braced herself against the wall. The camera with the telephoto lens dropped off her shoulder and she pushed the sunglasses to the top of her head. Those dark eyes darted back and forth across the park, but she didn't go any closer. She stayed on the south side of Chicago Avenue. Smart, real smart, I thought, as she quickly panned across the park, checking the place out. Apparently satisfied, she lowered the camera, looked at her watch, then stepped back further into the shadows. Was she waiting for me? Or, waiting for someone else? There was no way to tell, so I hung back and did the same.

It didn't take long. Two gray sedans with black-wall tires pulled over to the curb next to her. All the gray ones must have been on loan to Columbus, I figured, but anything that ugly had to be government. A goon in a dark suit and sunglasses got out of the passenger seat of the lead sedan. He glanced cautiously around, then walked over to where Ms. Kasmarek waited in the shadows. He wore a dark suit, a tie, and a white shirt with French cuffs, and gold cuff links. French cuffs and gold cuff links on a Fed? That didn't compute. He didn't look too happy as he joined her in the doorway, motioning toward his car as if he wanted her to get in. She shook her head and wasn't having any of it. She put her hands on her hips and I could see enough of her face to tell the goon wasn't making a dent. I smiled.

The two sedans had small radio antennas on the trunks. More of Tinkerton's elves? How encouraging, they weren't even trying to hide any longer. The girl? Hard to tell whose side she was on. Obviously, my witty banter on the telephone hadn't made much of a first impression. Not only did she want to see me busted, she wanted the film rights too.

The two cars finally pulled away, leaving the head goon standing next to her in the doorway, still working on her. Was he protecting her or making sure she didn't get away? The lead car turned left onto Michigan Avenue and pulled over to the curb a half block down. The driver got out and took up position at the far corner of the park, his arms crossed, intently scanning the sidewalks, trying to look casual. The second car parked even further up the street in a No Parking zone on the other corner. One goon stayed with the car and the other one worked his way west, giving them a man at each of the square's four corners, each with a hand-held radio.

It was 9:00 now. Foot and car traffic was even thicker. Still, I didn't want to take any chances. I eased back from the corner and slipped into a coffee shop. From a booth along the windows, I could see enough of the doorway where the girl and the goon stood to know they were still waiting there. This could take a while, so I ordered some pancakes and coffee. No telling when I was going to eat again. As I watched, every now and then, telephoto lens peeked out and scanned the park. Too bad it wasn't raining. That would have served them both right.

They stood in the doorway until 9:40. That was when the girl must have decided I wasn't coming, because the she stepped out onto the sidewalk followed by the head goon. They were arguing. The other three goons got in their cars, circled back around, and pulled up in front of them. The head goon must have had enough of her mouth, because he grabbed her by the elbow and tried to lead her firmly toward his sedan. That was a
really
bad idea. With a slow, graceful Judo move, she took his hand off her elbow and pivoted around, bending it back at the wrist before she tossed him head-first into the brick wall next to the doorway. His knees buckled and he sat down awkwardly on the sidewalk. I almost spilled my coffee, but she wasn't finished with him. She stood over him, hands on hips, telling him something he didn't want to hear, no doubt about his bad manners, then turned and walked quickly and confidently into the park. The head goon slowly got to his feet. He dusted off his slacks and adjusted his cuffs, but he didn't try to follow her. He got back in the lead car, slammed the door, and they all drove off.

I was still laughing as I tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table and hurried out of the restaurant, hoping I could catch up before she got too far away, because I still needed to talk to her. It wasn't until she caught a red light near the Hancock Building that I finally caught up. I slipped in behind and followed her, admiring the view of her and the buildings. Apparently, her mind was somewhere else, because she didn't even bother to look around, not once. For my part, I stopped twice and made a quick scan for government cars and sunglasses, but it appeared they were gone, for now at least.

When she reached the 990 Michigan Avenue Shops, one of those tall, big-city atrium shopping malls, she stepped into the revolving doors and went inside. I stayed about fifty feet behind her, buried in the crowd as she rode the stainless steel escalator up. It hung suspended in space between the atrium's floors, zigzagging up, and leaving me very exposed. If anyone had been looking for me in there, I'd be trapped.

The girl got off on the fifth floor and walked to the door of what looked to be a small, but very exclusive art gallery. She pulled out a clunky set of keys from that big shoulder bag and opened the door. The name “Le Magnifique” was written across the window in a bold, gold swirl. She stepped inside, dropped the shoulder bag, the camera, the keys, and the sunglasses on a white and gold French provincial table that served as the receptionist's desk. When she turned around to lock the door, she found me standing in the open doorway with my best, warm, friendly smile.

Of spreadsheets, shoe boxes, and Lil’ Eddie…

S
he
stopped in her tracks, eyeing me warily. “
Excusez moi
,” she said with a bad French accent and a forced a smile. “Ze store does not open until 10:00.”

“For a ‘tall, leggy blond in a pale-green business suit,’ that's some disguise.”

With the fastest set of hands I'd seen since Sugar Ray Leonard, she snatched an ornate gold letter opener off the table and dropped into a tight fighting stance, the long blade flashing back and forth in front of her.

I raised my hands in mock surrender. “Hey, you win. All I want to do is talk.”

“Talk, huh?” she answered as the accent disappeared and the letter opener flashed past my nose.

“Whoa!” I stepped back and raised my hands higher. “Don't do that, please?”

“Please, my ass. Try anything and you're gonna to bleed.”

“Whatever that guy told you, it's a lie.”

She feinted with the letter opener and jumped three feet in the air in a spinning karate kick. I leaned back as the heel of her shoe narrowly missed my nose. In the process, I knocked over a tall, brocade armchair and she knocked over a Chinese table lamp.

“Keep that up and we'll total the place. Look, I'm not leaving until we talk.”

She backed off and glared at me. The shock of black hair had fallen over her eyes again and she pushed it up and out of the way.

“What did they tell you?” I asked. “It must have been a beauty.”

“That you're the North Side serial rapist they've been after: a sicko-pervert who preys on helpless young women.”

“Helpless young women? That's funny,” I said, looking at the sharp blade and the killer expression in her eyes.

“They said you've already killed three women, three that they know of.”

“Jesus! And you believed that?”

“They were the FBI? Why shouldn't I?”

“For starters, if this really was a rape or murder case, it would be the Chicago PD knocking on your door, not the FBI. But why did you call them in the first place?”

“I didn't call them; they called me, right after you did.”

“Then they have your phone tapped.”

“The FBI? Tap my phone? Get real.”

“Yours, my friend Doug's in Boston, his home and office, and probably everyone else I know.”

She stared at me, wary, but a little less certain. “They told me they raided your apartment in Evanston and found my name and address on a slip of paper. They figured you were coming after me next, so they called to warn me.”

“Convenient, but I don't have an apartment in Evanston. I got in town about three hours ago from Ohio.”

“That's convenient, too.”

I pointed at her camera. “What's with that? The big photo op? “Feds Grab North Side Rapist.” “Local Woman Sets Up Vicious Killer.” Is that why the goon in the sunglasses got all uppity? Your camera?”

“The goon in the sunglasses?” I saw a hint of a smile. “No, he kept insisting I go with them. I declined. He got pushy, but he won't do that again.”

“Be careful with those guys. They can be nasty.”

“So can I. And I'm
always
careful with guys.”

So much for Midwestern hospitality, I thought. “I'll bet he didn't appreciate you taking pictures of them, did he?”

“That was one of his issues. I'm a stringer for some local papers and like I told that jerk, it's a living, it's mine, and it's not negotiable.”

“Good for you. Even if there is a North Side rapist, I'm not him and they know it. If I had shown up, there wouldn't have been any story and you'd have never seen your film or your camera again. That is, if anybody ever saw you again, or saw me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Hi, my name's Peter Talbott. Hi, I'm Sandy Kasmarek,” I said. “Pleased to meet you Peter. You too, Sandy. And now that we've been properly introduced, I'm tired.” I picked up the armchair and sat down on it. ”

“Great. Another fucking comedian.”

“No, I'm a systems engineer. I do computer programming.”

“
Ah,
pardon
, a fucking rocket scientist. Me, I play third base for the Cubs, but today's an off day over at Wrigley, so I came in to sell some art... Gimme a break.”

I stared at her. “I do mathematical paradigms and systems design.”

“Yeah? Well take your pair-a-dimes downstairs and drop them in a fucking pay phone. Maybe somebody else will listen to your story, 'cause I'm not.”

“Sandy, I came here because I need your help. I don't rape women, and I sure as hell haven't killed any.”

“And I'm supposed to believe that because… ?” she fired back, holding out her hand. “Let's see some ID.”

“I don't have any ID. They took my wallet back in Columbus. I have some newspaper and magazine clippings, but they're going to take some explaining.”

“Gee. Why doesn't that surprise me?”

“It's the truth. Look at me. I'm not even half-way good at lying and it took a real pro to dream this thing up.”

“A real pro?”

“The goon with the bad manners and sunglasses you tangled with. His boss.”

“The FBI? You're telling me they set this whole thing up, just to catch you?”

“They weren't FBI.”

“I saw his badge and his ID, and that was a US Government sedan.“

“Yeah? Then why didn't you get in the car with him, instead of tossing him into a brick wall? You knew he was bogus. The French cuffs and gold cuff links? Come on. If he
was
real, after you dented his head, why didn't he arrest you for assaulting a cop? You knew he was a phony.”

She studied me a moment and I could see some of it was sinking in.

“Look, I stumbled into something back in Ohio.” I leaned back in the chair and tried to look my least threatening. “I haven't figured it all out yet, but back in Ohio they're burying mob guys under other people's names, people who are already dead so no one will notice. When I got too close, they tried to kill me.”

“Kill you? The government? You really are crazy.”

“Am I? You told me Eddie died almost a year ago.”

“Yeah,” she answered warily.

“And he was buried here in Chicago?”