Authors: Mark Richard Zubro
An Echo of Death (14 page)
“You mean we're dead already?” Scott asked.
“I'm not going to start lying to you now,” Todd said. “I've always told you the truth before. You are not in a good position.”
“I could make a statement on television,” Scott said. “I'm well known enough that the media would let me talk.”
Todd considered this for a few moments. Finally he said, “Let me try to work out some kind of announcement. Although a plea to a drug lord for understanding sounds kind of iffy to me.”
I was forced to agree.
“We've got to get out of here and someplace safe,” Scott said.
“I want to talk to Mrs. Proctor,” I said.
“Yes, that has to be done,” Todd agreed. “Let's get the cop to get us out of here. The longer that crowd mingles in front, the less comfortable I am.”
Todd left the room and a minute later returned with our cop buddy. Out in the hall two guys who'd been sitting in the plastic folding chairs near the front desk when we came in got up. I'd assumed they were criminals in a drug bust. They had long, stringy hair of an indeterminate
brown shade. One guy had his pulled back in a ponytail. He looked like he had a slight paunch. The other was scrawny and had the deep scars and red residue of violent acne all over his early twenties face. I didn't see a gun visible on either one of them, but they wore sweaters and jackets under which they could have been concealed. Todd introduced them as our protection.
brown shade. One guy had his pulled back in a ponytail. He looked like he had a slight paunch. The other was scrawny and had the deep scars and red residue of violent acne all over his early twenties face. I didn't see a gun visible on either one of them, but they wore sweaters and jackets under which they could have been concealed. Todd introduced them as our protection.
I pulled Todd aside. “These guys are guards?”
“The best,” Todd assured me.
We gathered Brad and our little group trudged down a gray corridor around a bend and into an interior garage. At the door I asked, “Where's Brad?”
Todd hurried back the way we came. He returned in a minute with a look of concern on his face. “Two guys claiming to be his lawyers came to see him. Cops let them talk to him.” Todd shook his head. “They're all gone now. Nobody saw them go. Let's get out of here.”
The cop piled us into a squadrol. We drove out of the parking lot onto Addison, west past Wrigley Field, and north up Clark Street. We stopped at Irving Park and Clark and got out. The cop got an autograph from Scott, gave us a cheery wave, and left.
“I'll do more searching,” Todd said. “Be careful. Those two guys are good, but don't take any chances.”
Our guards waited a discreet distance away. Todd hailed a cab and left. The two derelict-looking guards sidled up to us.
“You guys have a car?” I asked.
The one with the ponytail nodded.
“You have names?” Scott asked.
Ponytail's brown eyes stared into Scott's for several uncomfortable moments, then he pointed to himself and said, “Bernie,” and then pointed to his buddy and said, “Angelo.”
They made no fuss or mention about Scott's being famous. I found this refreshing and disconcerting. Their car was a 1975 Chevrolet with the tail pipe dangling down in
back, a pair of dice hanging from the rearview mirror, and a statue of St. Christopher on the dashboard. None of this was tremendously reassuring in terms of expecting great protection from these guys, but I knew Todd would hire only the best.
back, a pair of dice hanging from the rearview mirror, and a statue of St. Christopher on the dashboard. None of this was tremendously reassuring in terms of expecting great protection from these guys, but I knew Todd would hire only the best.
Scott and I piled into the back. In front Angelo shoved his seat all the way back, scrunching into my knees. He propped his feet up on the dashboard, pulled out a toothpick, and proceeded to clean his teeth.
I gave Bernie the address Mrs. Proctor had given us. Bernie drove with the elan and aggressiveness of a mad cabbie.
On a late Monday afternoon the traffic on Lake Shore Drive through the Loop to the Near West Side of Chicago was fairly heavy. Even though school kids got out for Columbus Day, most people had to work. A lot of the Near West Side had burned down after the Martin Luther King assassination in 1968. For years most of it hadn't come back, and much of it was vacant lots and old factories. Over time the westward expansion of the Loop had begun to reinvigorate the area. Presidential Towers was one of the big developments, along with Oprah Winfrey's Harpo Studios. Others had followed and now some of the area had trendy restaurants and old factories, and warehouses converted to upscale condos.
We followed Lake Street west under the El tracks. The slatted track and the rusting metal above made for a gloomy corridor down the still-unrenovated portion of this end of the Near West Side.
On the south side of Lake Street, between Elizabeth and Racine streets was a block-long warehouse, five stories tall built of dirty maroon brick, and occupying the entire block. The address we had directed us to Willard Court, little more than an alley which bisected the entire block and the warehouse. Both sides of Lake Street were filled with cars. After working hours, this area cleared out quickly. A few blocks earlier, the streets had been nearly
vacant. Here cars crowded nose to nose, but few places seemed around to justify their existence. No marquees for a trendy restaurant appeared.
vacant. Here cars crowded nose to nose, but few places seemed around to justify their existence. No marquees for a trendy restaurant appeared.
We halted at the entrance to Willard Court. I could see that it was actually a cul-de-sac with several black limousines parked amid a plethora of semitrailer trucks. No one seemed to be bustling around at this time on a Monday afternoon, but it was inside Willard Court that we had been directed to go.
Bernie bobbed his ponytail in the direction of the glorified alley. “You sure about this?” he asked.
I looked at the address again. “Yeah,” I said. “Doesn't look too promising.”
“I don't know,” Scott said.
“We'll go in with you,” Angelo said. He took his feet off the dashboard, reached behind his back, and pulled out a gun. He checked to see that it was loaded, then shoved it back in the hidden holster.
Bernie nosed the car into the entrance to Willard Court. He almost ran over one of the denizens indigenous to Lake Street and the Near West Side. The cops on the street called them he/shes. The rest of us called them transvestite prostitutes. They, along with their sisters and a rare brother, plied their trade along the dark depths beneath the El tracks. She tapped the hood of the car with a gloved hand, winked at us, and swayed away on her spike heels.
Angelo made no attempt to park, but pulled twenty feet inside and let the car idle. Here our perception of the alley changed dramatically. Recessed into the wall on the left and running for twenty feet was a plate-glass window. Through it we could see brightly lit, plant-strewn elegance.
A woman in black pants, white shirt, and black tie with a black-and-white patch on her shoulder that said security marched up to the car. At least she didn't brandish a weapon. On the other hand, we didn't get a smile and a welcome.
She motioned for Angelo to roll down the window.
“Here to see Mrs. Proctor,” I said from the backseat.
She pulled a radio from her belt, stepped a few feet away from the car, pushed a button, and spoke. Moments later, she came back and asked our names.
After I told her, she murmured into the radio. A moment later she nodded.
“You can't park here,” she said. “Mason and Carpenter are expected.”
“You want to go in by yourself?” Bernie asked.
“No,” Scott said.
“I need some guarantee of our safety,” I said.
She gave me an odd look. “You can't park here because you need a special permit. You have a special permit?”
Heads shook.
“Then you have to move.”
“We need some kind of guarantee,” I repeated.
“You can leave if you want,” she said. “If you want to see Mrs. Proctor, you'll have to move the car off the premises and come back.” She didn't sound mean and nasty, just like a bureaucrat insisting that her orders be obeyed.
She seemed in no rush to hurry us off, nor did I think she would change her mind anytime in this or the next century.
“Park the car, Bernie,” I said. “I want to talk to her. You can come in with us.”
Bernie backed the car out and found a space on Elizabeth Street a half block from the warehouse. We walked back to the entrance with them. We passed another of the he/shes, this one in a short leather red dress and pink shawl draped around her shoulders. Barely enough against the mild October chill.
Back inside I saw that Willard Court, whether alley, street, or redeemed cul-de-sac, was spotless. For all the trucks and the incumbent garbage that must emanate from them, not a scrap of paper was out of place. Someone must sweep the alley several times a day.
The windows above the shadowed alley all seemed
opaque and featureless, like any other abandoned warehouse. But none of these were broken out.
opaque and featureless, like any other abandoned warehouse. But none of these were broken out.
Inside the entrance, I saw two other security guards besides the woman we had already met. They were all excessively polite as they escorted us deeper into the building.
We ascended stairs of naked wood, newly constructed and unvarnished. I caught the whiff of fresh pine. We entered a room containing banks of television screens. A lone guard nodded at our escort. Two of the guards with us sat down at stations and immediately commenced a security check with the first. We were ignored.
The guard who had accosted us in the alley led us across the room.
“Good security system,” I said.
“You need it these days and in this neighborhood,” she said. “It may be upscale, but it isn't the safest yet.”
The fourth side of the room was completely glass. It extended up two stories and looked out on an English-garden landscape. We walked through a sliding glass door. I saw that this atrium extended up five stories to a skylight that stretched the entire width of the building, as did the garden. The hedges were trimmed perfectly, flowers bloomed in riotous abundance, and a brook flowed from a small waterfall from our right to out of sight on our left. The fragrance was an early June meadow along a pristine stream. Someone had invested a huge amount of money in making the interior of this relic of a building an oasis of refinement.
The guard led us through a series of paths to an elevator. She rode up with us to the fifth floor.
The doors opened to a marble floor that covered an office that must have encompassed a quarter of the entire floor. Two rows of sleek steel and aluminum desks sat in front of us. Most seemed to have computers and plants prominently displayed on their tops. To our left and right, huge rubber trees in enormous pots flanked the entrance.
Just beyond them on each side were paintings by Rene Magritte, an odd surrealistic touch in this modern office.
Just beyond them on each side were paintings by Rene Magritte, an odd surrealistic touch in this modern office.
Except for the humming of neon lights and the whir of what I presumed was the heating system, there wasn't a sound.
The guard prodded our elbows gently, and we followed her through a door at the far side of the room. We entered a twenty-by-twenty-foot room. Against the old brick wall on the far end, rows of plants nearly engulfed a teak desk at which a woman sat.
Mrs. Proctor wore her hair cut straight to the sides, almost shoulder length, with nary a curl. Flecks of gray peeked from among the light brown. I doubted if she colored her hair. She wore a Tahari beige silk sarong jacket and trousers and matching Nine West shoes. She rose from the desk. The guard left. Mrs. Proctor met us halfway across the room.
She led us to a small seating area of low-slung black leather chairs and couch with a chrome coffee table in between. The gray light of October seeped through a skylight directly above us. After we were seated, she asked if we wanted refreshments. We both said no.
Bernie and Angelo stood against the door.
Mrs. Proctor nodded in their direction. “You need bodyguards?”
I said, “After we explain, you'll understand.”
She nodded, then said, “I've been trying to get back to you since you phoned. Something is wrong.”
“Mrs. Proctor,” I said, feeling awful to be the one telling a mother that her son was dead. “Glen was staying with us. When we came in early yesterday morning”âI stopped and gulped. Telling Bill or Mr. Proctor had not made this moment any easierâ“we found him dead.”
She rose slowly to her feet. Her eyes never left mine.
“I'm sorry,” I said.
She seemed to totter. Scott jumped up and rushed to her
side. She leaned heavily on his arm. She covered her face with one hand.
side. She leaned heavily on his arm. She covered her face with one hand.
“Please,” she said. “Please. This can't be true. He was ⦠I want to ⦠He's in ⦠He's supposed to be”âshe moved her hand away from her faceâ“this can't be true.”
“I saw him,” I said. “I touched him. I wish it weren't true.”
“Why haven't the police called? What is going on?”
She sat back down. Scott stayed next to her. Mrs. Proctor's hand trembled as she pointed at me. “Tell me what happened.”
I told her the story from the beginning. I left out a great deal about the tunnels, figuring she wasn't interested. When I described our reentry to the penthouse and finding the body gone, she rose to her feet.
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