Killing Red (12 page)

Chapa was relieved to not get that
dead man walking
vibe as he made his way through the newsroom to his office. The work had started piling up, which was to be expected, and he had more than a dozen phone messages, which was unusual.

Half of those were from Andrews. The FBI agent had a bad habit of hanging up as soon as he heard the message. Chapa figured his friend wanted to make sure he had survived the trip to Night Owls. Or maybe something was up.

Chapa started dialing Andrews’ cell phone number, but stopped when Matt Sullivan appeared in his doorway.

“Hey Alex, how are you doing? I need a minute.”

Sullivan had been moved over from sports just a few weeks earlier, and though no one realized it at the time, his transfer signaled the beginning of the paper’s internal realignment. His friends and coworkers in the sports department called him “Sully.” Chapa didn’t know him that well, and now realized he probably never would.

“We haven’t seen much of you these past few days.”

“I know, Matt, but I did let you know I was going after this one, and this is how it is when I’m doing one big story.”

Sullivan helped himself to a chair, and Chapa put the phone back down in the receiver.

“I want you to understand that I trust your judgment. You’ve been doing hard news longer than most people in this town. But are you certain this story is big enough to justify the attention you’re giving it?”

“It’s big enough.” Chapa was starting to get pissed off.

“I mean, Alex, I know it’s sensationalistic and maybe even a little lurid and that can sell papers, but—”

“There might be more bodies.”

Sullivan slowly sank into the chair, like someone who had just received bad news, but Chapa watched as the newsman in him then rose to the surface.

“From before or more recent?”

“New ones, a copycat, but I haven’t told you that and you never heard it.”

Sullivan got up and paced a little, about as much as he could in the cramped office. The wind from the ceiling fan lifted a few thin strands of his mostly gray hair each time he turned.

“If this story is going to get big and maybe even go national, we should probably assign a team of reporters to it.”

“No team. Never needed one, don’t need one now.”

Chapa knew he had drawn a line. Maybe Sullivan was ballsy enough to cross it—Chapa didn’t think so. Maybe the editor would decide to use this moment to put the writer in his place. Chapa was hoping he’d try it.

The two men looked at each other for a short but uncomfortable moment.

“I’m on your side, Alex, and we’ll do this your way.”

Chapa figured that saying “thanks” could sound trite, so he didn’t say anything. Sullivan gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder and headed out the door.

“You’ll make this one count, won’t you, Alex, for everyone involved,” Sullivan said, then closed the door behind him.

After leaving a message on Andrews’ voice mail and another at his office, Chapa decided to take another swipe at online research. There were a few hits for the name Angela Noir, but none of those seemed to have anything to do with Annie.

Through a narrow rectangular window, Chapa watched as Carston Macklin walked past his closed door, not bothering to look in. Maybe he’d grown accustomed to Chapa’s office being empty.

His office had served as a safe harbor Chapa would escape to when he wanted to be somewhere other than home. During his married years, Chapa put in as many hours as anyone on staff. He’d slept in his office on more than one occasion, even kept a change of clothes in a drawer for a time, back when things were especially bad between him and Carla. But there was no comfort here for him anymore.

Marching into Macklin’s office and having it out was an option, and in many ways an attractive one. But Chapa understood how that would end, and he had to think of the story. Of Annie. He shut down his computer, and gathered some things together. He wouldn’t be back until he had a reason to be there.

Opening a large bottom drawer in his desk, Chapa reached in and dug around until he found something that had been buried under files, papers, and notebooks. Right after the divorce he’d bought a blank journal that he planned to write in, then give to Nikki. Chapa figured this was one way his daughter could get to know him.

Chapa had forgotten all about it until his visit with Louise. It seemed like an even better idea now than when he came up with it. He ran a finger along the smooth vinyl cover, wiping some dust away, revealing the bright colors beneath, and remembered taking time to pick out one he thought his daughter would like. But flipping through the small volume, all Chapa found were blank pages. The only notation was on the first page, which he remembered writing the same day he bought the journal.

It read,
Your daddy loves you more than anything in the world. We’ll always be together in our hearts
.

Chapa began to put it back in the drawer, then decided to take it along.

“Louise Jones is dead, someone put two bullets in her skull.” Joseph Andrews’ voice was calm and steady. “A family member stopped by to visit and found her on the floor of the hallway just beyond the front door.”

Chapa turned off the car radio and took a moment to process what Andrews had just told him. He imagined what Louise’s lifeless body must have looked like sprawled across that same hallway he had walked through only a day before. Now he understood the urgency, and why Andrews had phoned so many times.

“When were you at her house, Al?”

“Yesterday morning. Shit, Joe, the woman was harmless.”

“Maybe she gave someone bad advice, or had family problems, you never know about people.”

Chapa understood that Andrews’ dry detached cop persona was a survival mechanism, one that most law officers develop. But it still annoyed the hell out of him.

“Or it could be that it has something to do with Annie Sykes,” Chapa said as he waited for the light to turn and wondered if he should change direction and head to Louise’s house.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The locals are already investigating, and I’m on my way to the crime scene now. But if you’re right, it supports my opinion that you need to back off.”

Back off, my ass
, Chapa thought.

“Have you found out anything more about Annie Sykes?” Andrews asked.

“No, nothing new.”

Chapa wondered if Andrews was holding something back, and decided he would prefer talking to him in person.

“I’ll meet you at Louise’s house.”

“No, Al, you won’t.”

That was the answer Chapa expected, but he figured it was worth a try.

“The coroner hasn’t set the time of death. Right now his best guess is sometime yesterday, late morning or early afternoon. The locals will be all over you if they know you were there. She probably kept an appointment book.”

That triggered Chapa’s memory, and he pulled over into a grocery store lot and parked in the first space he came to.

“There’s a journal you’re going to want to get your hands on. You can’t miss it, it’s red.”

Chapa explained how Louise had pulled it off a shelf, and that it seemed to contain information about Annie Sykes.

“It’s in the middle of a bottom shelf along the north wall, I think. You sort of get turned around in there.”

Chapa watched a loose shopping cart roll across the parking lot, hunting for a target.

“This will give me an excuse to pick up Grubb’s brother for questioning.”

“I know you want me to back off, Joe, but I would appreciate it if you let me know what you find in that journal, ASAP.”

The rusted cart finally struck hard against a new model SUV, leaving a mark, then caromed off and went in search of another victim.

“There’s lots of dangerous shit everywhere, Al. I’m just trying to keep you from falling into something you won’t be able to climb out of.”

After swinging by his house to drop off a few of the things he’d gathered from his office, Chapa stopped in at the Golden Sea for some fried rice. He was seated by himself in a far corner of the old-style Chinese restaurant, but the weight of his thoughts made him feel like he wasn’t alone. He couldn’t stop thinking about Louise Jones, and wondering if her killer had been in the house while he was there. Her murder had to be tied to Grubb, and her friendship with Annie. Why else would a federal agent be on his way to investigate?

Chapa was squaring his bill and wondering if the thin, dark-haired guy sitting in the corner booth looked familiar, or could be he was just getting paranoid, when his cell phone starting playing “Guantanamera”—a rare nod to his heritage. He recognized Erin’s number, but turned the phone off, deciding to call her back from the car. His phone kicked into a reprise the moment he stepped out of the restaurant. This time he answered it right away. Chapa could tell by her voice that something was very wrong.

“Where are you right now, Alex?”

“Tell me what’s going on,” Chapa said, rotating through his key chain several times before finally managing to concentrate long enough to isolate the one he wanted.

“I found something taped to the front door of my house when I got home.”

Chapa watched a green sedan pull out of the parking lot and thought it looked familiar.

“It’s a note with a map, but there’s something else, too.”

He tried to get a look inside the vehicle as it sped away, then quickly turned a corner, but couldn’t see the driver.

“What kind of note?”

“All it says is
Mr. Chapa, The answers you seek
. The piece of map shows some area way past DeKalb, in the middle of farmland out there. They’ve drawn a red star on a spot between two rural roads.”

Chapa looked around like a startled animal, certain he was being watched, though he was alone in the parking lot.

“You and Mikey need to get out of there, get out of town. Pack for a few days and go to a hotel with a swimming pool, or one of those with an indoor water park. Take vacation time, call in sick, whatever you have to do.”

“Alex, the other thing that’s on here, it’s like a lock of hair, several, maybe a dozen, long strands of red hair.”

A bead of sweat broke loose and streamed down Chapa’s forehead, around his brow, and into his eye. It stung badly, but a moment passed before he thought to wipe away the pain.

“Are you coming over?” Erin asked, more resolute, as though the maternal instincts were overtaking her fear.

“No. I’m going to force whoever did this to make a choice between worrying about me and stalking you.”

“Stalking me?” Erin’s voice cracked a little. “Why? Why leave this here?”

“Whoever it was wanted me to know that they could get to you and Mikey.”

That’s how it works. The last time someone delivered this sort of message was a few years back, long before Erin knew who Alex Chapa was or that his problems would someday become hers.

“I’m sorry about all this.”

“It’s not your fault, Alex. But you’ve seen something like this happen before, haven’t you?”

He had, and the memory was still fresh, though many years and columns had come and gone since then. Nikki was just a baby, and Chapa was still working on figuring out how to balance his new responsibilities with the old ones. He was piecing together a series of stories destined to shine an unflattering light on the dealings of a restaurant mogul in the suburbs. Sure, the guy was organized, but he was also a major advertiser with the
Record
, so whatever heat Chapa brought on him got reflected back.

The man who was the subject of Chapa’s story and his associates cranked up the pressure one afternoon, just a few days after Nikki’s first birthday. Carla was watching her play in the backyard when the phone rang. Ducking back into the kitchen to answer it, she had a clear view of her daughter the entire time, with only brief interruptions as she took down a message for her husband.

When she hung up, Carla noticed something was hanging from Nikki’s neck—a plastic bib from one of the guy’s restaurants. Message received. She begged Chapa to drop the story, not understanding that was the way the bad guys operated.

It spurred Chapa to quickly finish the piece, knowing what thugs often forget—it’s only a stand-off until the moment their faces color the front page. Then revenge takes a backseat to self-preservation, and the journalist slides to the bottom of their to-do list.

One hour after Carla told him what had happened, Chapa informed his editor the story would be set to run later that night. Two days later, the wealthy owner of a dozen popular Chicagoland eateries was hiding behind lawyers. A year and a half after that they outfitted him for an orange jumpsuit.

Chapa got a special kick out of seeing that photo on the front page, above the fold.

Erin wasn’t saying anything, but she didn’t have to. Chapa knew she wanted him to ignore the map, the threat, and just turn all of it over to the police. He considered doing that, but all the cops would likely do at this point was file a report. And Chapa had no idea what sort of a response that might trigger, or how it could put Erin or maybe even Annie in greater danger. No, there was no percentage in playing it that way, not yet, anyway.

He was just ten minutes from Erin’s house, and the urge to rush over and throw his arms around her and Mikey, then carry them off to a safe place was so wrenching it hurt. But Chapa understood that whoever was doing this would now shift their attention to him, at least for the time being. That would certainly change if he did not show up wherever the map led him.

“I’ve gotten their message. Now, Erin, as carefully and with as much detail as possible, I need you to give me directions to that spot on the map.”