Killing Red (20 page)

“It’s too bad about your bird, Al.”

Andrews was wearing the standard navy blue suit and red tie outfit, though in what Chapa assumed was a moment of unbridled wackiness, the agent had gone with a tan shirt instead of the usual white.

“I know how we can all get attached to our pets, no matter how small.”

“It was an act of pure cruelty, Joe. We’re not talking about someone killing a guard dog.”

“It wasn’t just cruel,” Andrews was shaking his head. “I know it seems that way, but they were trying to let you know they will hurt those you care about. They can’t get to Erin or Mikey or Nikki right now, so—”

A much younger agent handed Chapa a cup of coffee, then started walking back to his desk.

“Hey, Brandon,” Andrews said, “Is that the good stuff?”

The young agent shook his head. His brown hair cropped close, Brandon reminded Chapa of a GI Joe action figure.

“What are you thinking, kid?” Andrews took the cup out of Chapa’s hand and gave it back to Brandon who at that moment looked like a scolded puppy.

“Just like a rookie to give you perp coffee.”

Chapa had recounted in detail what happened at the trailer, as well as his visitor the following morning. He left nothing out about those experiences, and made Andrews’ day when he played the recording for him.

“Our lab will pick this thing apart.”

“Is there any way you can make a copy of the recording and give me back my recorder?”

“That will take a few days.”

Under normal circumstances, Chapa would have anticipated this, but nothing about the past week had been normal.

“Then you need to let me transcribe my notes first,” Chapa said and put his hand on top of the recorder, but waited for Andrews to respond before removing the device from the meticulously organized desk.

Andrews thought for a moment, then agreed.

“I’ll do that today and then your guys can have at it,” Chapa said as Andrews sifted through a small pile of files before sliding one out.

“We found the field where the trailer had been, but all that was still there were several sets of tire marks, and the indentations from where the trailer sat.”

The agent turned the file so Chapa could see it, and flipped to a photo of the empty field.

“Was this the place?”

There weren’t many landmarks for Chapa to identify, but he recognized the white post with the address painted on it. He also remembered the farmhouse in the distance.

“Did you find out who lives here?” Chapa asked, pointing to the two-story structure fading into the background.

“A retired farming couple who fly off to their winter home in Phoenix each year right after Labor Day.”

“So whoever parked the trailer there had to know that. They must’ve been familiar with the area,” Chapa said as Brandon handed him a fresh cup of the good coffee.

“If the newspaper thing does go belly up, you might have a career in law enforcement.”

Chapa passed on the opportunity to share his work troubles with his friend. This was not the time or place.

“We still haven’t had any luck tracking down Annie Sykes, or Angela, or whatever the heck she wants to call herself these days. How about you?”

“A couple of leads here and there, but I’m still waiting for it all to come together.”

Chapa knew that down the line he would have to deal with the way he’d held back information, and Andrews would not be happy with him. But he was concerned that Annie might go even deeper into hiding if the feds started hanging around. Then she’d be beyond anyone’s protection. He had to gather some more details first, and figured that would happen in the next few hours.

Andrews was staring at him, waiting for more. When none came he said, “You do realize that you’re in over your head?”

“Maybe.”

“Al, you were drugged, and they could have killed you. They killed your pet, and threatened your girlfriend right out of town. This is not all in a week’s work for any journalist.”

The constant shifting of papers, murmur of conversation, and clacking of keyboards quieted for a moment.

“I expect to know more after today.”

“Why? What’s today?”

“You’ve got to trust me here, Joe. I will check in with you as soon as I know anything. Hell, I’ll call you tomorrow either way.”

“In the morning.”

“Yes, first thing.” The coffee burned a little on the way down, but that pain offset all the other ones Chapa was dealing with. “I’m just trying to get this one thing right, Joe.”

Andrews put the files back together in a perfectly rectangular pile. Then opened a drawer and carefully slid them inside.

“That is the quietest file cabinet drawer in history,” Chapa said, then reached over and opened and closed it several times. Not a sound. “Remarkable.”

“You have to grease the hardware in your drawers from time to time if you want it to work right,” Andrews said with his usual lack of irony or humor.

“Isn’t that sort of thing illegal in a couple of southern states?”

Andrews ignored that crack, as he had ignored thousands of others through the years.

“How long are Erin and her son going to stay away?”

“Until this is over. They’re having a blast.”

Andrews nodded his approval, then produced a small photo and slid it toward Chapa.

“Here’s something that will make you feel better. We picked him up early this morning.”

It had been a while since Chapa had seen Lance Grubb. He remembered him from the trial. The killer’s brother was there every day, but never reacted to the testimony or spoke with the media.

Chapa stared at the new photo, looking for something, anything in the man’s eyes that might give him a sense of the person. He failed, just as he had years earlier. The man’s artificially dark hairline had receded, exposing parallel rows of deep grooves in his forehead. His eyes were heavy, as though they had to be hand-cranked into place every morning.

“What did you get him for?”

“We’ve started with questioning. He hasn’t lawyered up yet, so that will continue for a while. We’re also looking into his movements over the past few days.”

“How long can you hold him?”

“We can find all sorts of reasons to hang on to him until after his brother is executed. Let’s just say that the rules have been softened since 9-11.”

Chapa tried to remember back to the trailer, his bedroom, and Erin’s front yard just the night before. But he had never managed to see a face.

“He’s not going to miss work. The guy lives off some bullshit disability for psychological problems,” Andrews said. “No job, no family. Sounds like the sort of person who might end up doing some very bad things.”

Another victim of Kenny Lee Grubb’s crimes, Chapa thought.

“We have him in an interrogation room,” Andrews said as he stood. “Let’s go find out if he looks familiar.”

The man on the other side of the one-way glass was sitting with his hands clasped together on the long table in front of him. Lance Grubb wore workman’s clothing, a blue denim shirt and dark baggy pants. Surrounded by concrete walls, he looked straight ahead, focused on something only he could see.

“Have you seen him lately?” Andrews asked.

Though Chapa felt much better knowing that this man was in custody, he could not make the connection. He looked at Andrews and shook his head.

“I can’t say.”

“Try again, Al. We’re going to keep him here anyway, but you could give us a stone cold reason to.”

Chapa wondered what could be going through Lance Grubb’s mind as he just sat there, doing nothing but staring off into nowhere.

“Any idea how his brother managed to shoot a video while inside a maximum security prison, then somehow get it out to one of his followers?”

“Not yet, but officials at Pennington are carrying out a discreet internal investigation. A couple of my guys stopped in to talk to Grubb. They were there for a couple of hours, but got nothing useful out of him.”

“This guy acts like a drone, just waiting to be told what to do,” Chapa said, pointing to the glass.

But before Andrews could respond, Lance stood up, as if on cue, and walked to a far corner of the cramped room. He was much more solid, not as wiry as his brother. His upper body tilted forward just a bit as though the bulk of his shoulders was losing the battle against gravity.

“Hey Sandro,” Andrews barked at one of the two agents who were standing a few yards down the hall.

Sandro’s dark gray tailored suit may have been the most expensive piece of equipment in the building. His shoes, which no doubt had come individually protected in velvet bags, had been polished to a black chrome finish. He reminded Chapa of a younger, Mediterranean version of Andrews. The agent walked over without hesitation, but sauntered a bit, as though someone was judging his level of cool.

“I want you to go over by the door to the room, something might be happening and I need you to be ready if we have to make a move.”

Sandro took a position, and waited for a signal. Lance Grubb was facing the corner, his back turned to the window.

“What the hell is he doing?” Chapa asked.

Andrews just shook his head.

“Some guys take a few minutes to crack, some take hours, some never do. When the moment comes, it’s rarely the same for any two people.”

Andrews was about to continue his discourse on criminal behavior when Lance suddenly turned and faced the mirror. He looked right at it, and Chapa sensed the man could see through it.

“Get ready, Sandro.”

The agent nodded in response. But the subject of all this attention did not charge the window or snap in any way. Instead he just stood in that spot, unnaturally still. And something about that was clawing its way inside of Chapa.

“It’s him.” Chapa spoke abruptly, before he realized that he was going to say something. “He’s the man I saw last night.”

“How did you find me?” she demanded, even before the waitress had come around to get their drink orders.

Annie Sykes was wearing a loose-fitting, sky blue hoodie and had just enough makeup on to suggest that she cared about her appearance. It was a far cry from the night before, and made-up in this way she looked much younger. Chapa had no trouble seeing the small child he had met years before.

“Your friend Langdon.”

“Donnie? Yeah, I think you told me that last night. But I haven’t seen him in months.”

“Well, not him, exactly. He sent me to Night Owls, and from there I was able to get to Prather’s.”

She was nodding, and seemed a bit more at ease now knowing which tracks she had not yet covered. The waitress was wearing a name tag shaped like a human skull, in keeping with the name of the restaurant.

“Welcome to Boneheads, you two out for lunch today?”

Her name was Alesia, and Chapa judged she was trying to gauge whether this was a father-daughter situation or maybe something a bit more interesting, as she set glasses of water in front of them. Boneheads was one of those family-oriented theme restaurants where all of the employees are forced to sing some sort of annoyingly upbeat song at the slightest hint of a birthday.

“So I understand you were led down to Night Owls by a boyfriend?”

“Cody? Wow,
down
is right. I wasn’t there for long before I ditched him and got out.”

As they placed their orders, Chapa could see that Annie was processing something.

“But how did you find Donnie Langdon?”

Chapa took a long sip of water before answering.

“I interviewed Louise Jones about the visions, or whatever they’re called, that she had around the time of your kidnapping. She told me you two were friends.”

Annie was smiling.

“Louise is a sweetheart. I remembered my parents telling me about her. I looked her up a few years back and we’ve been friends ever since. Haven’t talked to Louise in a while, either. I’ll have to give her a call.”

Chapa held off on telling her the rest about Louise.

“You said I might be in danger?”

“I’m afraid that’s true. Have there been any changes in your life? Has anything out of the ordinary happened in the past few days or even weeks?”

She thought for a moment.

“My life is a bit unusual, but pretty consistent. I live simply and quietly. How about you?”

“What about me?”

“What in your life brought you to this point?”

Chapa wasn’t used to being the subject of discussion, and his instincts were telling him to keep the conversation on Annie.

“It’s been a strange week for me. I’ve spent time with a wide variety of people, but that’s the job.”

Their drinks arrived.

“Do you have any children?”

The question came out of nowhere, but out of habit Chapa reached for his wallet anyhow. Flipping to his most recent photo of Nikki, the one he’d just gotten in her letter, he handed Annie the wallet.

“Cute girl.”

She studied the picture like a student prepping for a test. Something about the way she stared at it made Chapa a little uncomfortable. Maybe she was trying to get a better fix on him.

“How’s your brother doing?”

“Tyler is a bit of a wandering soul. I think he’s a craftsman of some sort or a handyman, something that doesn’t pay too well. He tracked me down a couple of months ago to ask me for money, and then he took off. That’s just Tyler, he comes and goes.”

She finally gave Chapa back his wallet.

“Has anyone unfamiliar come around lately?”

“No, no, no,” she said wagging an index finger back and forth, which she then tilted forward and pointed at him. “What sort of
variety
of people have you spoken to? Louise, Donnie, and who else?”

“I’ve spoken with Grubb twice in the past week. He’s told me some things that make me think you might be in trouble.”

She looked out the window, and he followed her gaze. Clark Avenue was filled with lunchtime drivers fighting to get back to work.

“He’s insane,” Annie said.

“And extremely dangerous.”

Alesia returned with their food, setting a sandwich down in front of Annie that was big enough to feed half the people in the crowded restaurant. Chapa wondered how often Annie ordered off a menu without worrying about the cost.

“Have you talked to the cops about what Grubb told you?”

“Not yet, they would probably tell me to quit listening to an insane man on death row.”

Chapa saw no need to tell her about Andrews, and he didn’t want to get into the other reason he couldn’t go to the local police.

“My job is to observe, record, analyze, and report. I make a point of keeping a safe distance between myself and the subject of the story I’m working on. That approach has served me well over the years.”

“Like the defense mechanism a psychiatrist uses to keep from going nuts.”

“In a way, yes. But over time it’s become somewhat of a burden for me. With this story, I’ve had to get my hands dirty and then some.”

“What happened, did you and Grubb go at it?”

“Just about.”

Chapa could sense that possibility intrigued her, and he followed up with an edited account of what had transpired at the prison.

“I’ve got flesh and blood in the game this time, Annie. So do you.”

She had already finished half of her sandwich and Chapa was just getting started with his.

“Why did you go into hiding?”

Annie responded as though she had been expecting that question.

“At first, it wasn’t a conscious decision. I knew there were people I should be afraid of. Your story all those years ago made me something of an underground cult figure.”

Her attention returned to the window, but Chapa knew she was looking far beyond the street outside.

“First, I changed my name and that felt good. I read how the members of some Native American tribes adopt new names for each stage of their lives, and that made sense to me. So I buried Annie Sykes.”

Chapa wondered if the unfortunate choice of words had been intentional.

“I moved around a lot over the course of two or three years and just stopped forwarding my mail. An old boyfriend left his cell phone behind, so I use it as my own and pay the bill every month.”

None of this explained why she cut her family off. It was a subject Chapa wanted to get into, but wasn’t sure how to do it.

“I spend a lot of time online. I’m an illustrator, and I sell my art that way.”

“Did you ever hear from Jack Whitlock, that father of one of Grubb’s other victims, again?”

“You don’t have to remind me, I remember him.” She sipped the last of her water, then crunched down on a piece of ice. “I thought I saw him once near my high school, but it probably wasn’t him. He was just another person in pain.”

Chapa was committing as much of this conversation to memory as he could in case he decided to use any of it in a story. He knew Annie would not agree to be recorded.

“So you talked to Grubb, Louise, and Donnie.”

“And Munson at Night Owls.”

Annie laughed. “That guy.”

“Also Dominic Delacruz, the convenience store owner.”

“I remember him. He was a nice man.”

That meant that she must still remember a great deal of what happened the night she escaped.

“Anyone else?”

Chapa had a good idea of what she was hunting for. He took a bite of his Reuben, trying his best to not make it look like a stall.

“I spoke with your mother.”

Her demeanor underwent a sudden change, and the person who had wanted nothing to do with Chapa was back.

“Why did you do that?”

Alesia returned. She started to say something upbeat about their dessert options, but read the mood at the table and told them their check would be on the way.

“Because when I started out my focus was entirely on doing a story.”

“And what’s changed since then?”

“I’ve been threatened, so have people I care about. I’ve learned that you’re in danger, and I’ve seen the look of loss in your mother’s eyes.”

No emotion registered on Annie’s face, though he was certain that the anger was building.

“You should think about getting in touch with her.”

“Says the man who took my father from me.”

“What?”

“Haven’t you figured it out?”

She was waiting for a response, but Chapa did not have one ready.

“He didn’t withdraw when I was taken, and certainly not after I got away. It happened slowly, over time, and it started when you wrote that story about us.”

“I should’ve written that story differently, and I’ve beaten myself up over it for years, but I can’t believe that’s the reason—”

Annie got up and grabbed her purse. It jingled as she tossed the strap over her shoulder.

“You sacrificed me and my family for your work then, and you’re doing it again now.”

She dug into the faded blue denim purse and pulled out a couple of bills. Chapa shook his head. She hesitated for a moment, then pushed the money back inside.

“Thanks for buying lunch,” she said, and turned for the exit.

Chapa threw some money on the table, enough to cover the check, and headed after her.

Annie was out the door in a hurry.

“Where are you going?”

“Home, to kick back for a few hours before I go to work.”

A Chicago city bus rumbled past him as Chapa picked up his stride. Its loud roar drowned out everything else he said. It came to a stop ahead of him and she hopped on. Chapa reached the bus before it took off and saw Annie sit down by a window that was halfway open.

“Annie.” She turned and looked at him. Chapa hesitated for a moment, then continued, “Louise is dead. She was murdered a few days ago.”

Chapa stood on a broken piece of sidewalk, and watched the bus roar away until it turned out of view a few blocks later. He couldn’t stop thinking about how pale Annie had looked when his words sank in.