FIRE AND ICE (16 page)

The memory caused her to shudder. The purse had to be in the living room.

It wasn’t, though.

“Alec, did you see my purse? Red leather …” She glanced around the room again. “I was holding it when I got shot. It has to be here.”

“I saw it,” Gil said around a mouthful of pizza. “It was on the floor, right over there by the window,” he added, waving a half-eaten slice in that direction. “It was covered in blood.”

“Covered in blood? No, not my Prada!”

Jack looked at Alec and tilted his head toward Sophie. “Is this gonna be like the cabana shirt?”

She heard him. “It was a Dolce & Gabbana, and the Prada red leather tote is a one-of-a-kind.”

“Was
a one-of-a-kind,” Jack corrected.

She felt like cursing. She slumped into the chair next to Jack. “Was? Care to explain what you mean by that?”

“I guess you could say the Prada helped save your life,” Jack said. “The bullet went through the latch before it got to you.”

She sat back. “Okay, I can have that fixed. If the leather isn’t stained … if I can get the blood out … where is it?”

“It isn’t here,” Alec told her.

“It was part of the crime scene,” Gil explained, “so it was taken to the lab.”

“I want it back. My recorder is inside, and my wallet with all my identification, and oh, my God, my credit cards.”

“I’ll call Steinbeck in the morning,” Alec promised as he finished the last of the pizza and began to clear off the table.

Sophie yawned. The pain medication was making her sleepy
and she was worn out. “Don’t you two have someplace better to be?” she asked Alec and Jack. “Maybe some bad guys to catch?”

“Not me,” Jack answered. “I might be taking a leave of absence. If I do, I’m going to find a secluded beach where it’s hot all year long and set up a hammock. I hate the cold, and Chicago’s already getting there.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time,” Sophie said. “Now, if you will please excuse me, I’d like to go to bed.”

“Jack and I’ll head out,” Alec said, “but Gil’s staying here tonight.”

“But—” Sophie began.

“Don’t argue with me on this one, Sophie,” Alec warned.

Gil winked at her. “That sofa looks mighty comfortable to me. I promise to be quiet as a mouse. You won’t even know I’m here.”

Reluctantly, Sophie gave in. She no longer had the energy to argue.

After locking the door behind Alec and Jack, she went to her linen closet to get a blanket and pillow for Gil. She straightened up the kitchen and turned out the lights, then headed for her bedroom. The living room was illuminated by the glow of the TV. Gil was watching a basketball game with the volume turned down.

“Good night, Gil,” she said. “And thank you.”

“Good night, Sophie, darling,” he answered through a yawn.

Sophie dressed in her nightgown and sat on the edge of her bed. She was so weary she could hardly keep her eyes open. The clock on her nightstand said 11:30. She couldn’t go to sleep yet. She had to stay awake another half hour, so she picked up a magazine and read. Finally, at 11:55, she slipped quietly out of bed. She tiptoed to her bedroom door and cracked it open a sliver. Gil was snoring loudly. Gently closing the door again, she crossed the room to her closet and pushed aside a stack of shoe boxes on the floor to reveal a small wooden panel. With a couple of taps the panel came loose. Behind it was a cavity the size of a paperback novel. She reached inside and
pulled out a thin cell phone. Glancing across the room at the night-stand, she squinted to see the clock. It now said 11:59. She waited.

At precisely midnight, the phone vibrated in her hand.

Sophie quickly flipped it open and put it to her ear.

“Hi, Daddy.”

E
VERYTHING WAS GOING TO BE ALL RIGHT, ACCORDING TO
her father anyway, and ninety-nine percent of the time he was right. Things did have a way of working out for the better, and, as he constantly reminded her, there would be a light at the end of the tunnel. It was just that crawling through that tunnel to get to the light was always such a pain.

Getting shot was a perfect example. What possible good could come from that? Too soon to know, she supposed, but she chose to believe her father and to embrace his optimistic outlook on life. She also thought she’d start embracing another of his philosophies: get even. Sophie would welcome the opportunity to shoot the man who had shot her. See how much
he
liked it.

Over the phone her father promised her that Kelly’s employees would get justice, and she trusted him. She hoped they would get their money back, too, which she mentioned several times. Her father’s response was a simple, “We’ll see.”

After they finished discussing the current sorry state of affairs with Kelly’s Root Beer, she told him all about William Harrington, sparing no details of his gruesome death. He suggested that she pack
her bag and take a trip to Prudhoe Bay. He reminded her that she was a reporter, and that there was obviously a story to be had there. Sophie recognized her father’s real motive. He wanted her out of Chicago until all the hoopla over Kelly’s closing calmed down. What he suggested made good sense, though. There
was
a story to be told in Alaska.

The next couple of days went by surprisingly fast, yet Sophie didn’t get much of anything accomplished. She slept a lot, ate a little, and felt dull as oatmeal. Gil spent only that first night in her apartment, but he was never far away. When he wasn’t guarding her apartment, someone else was on duty. No one got past the lobby without identification and permission. The added security was Alec’s doing, and Sophie didn’t know how she was ever going to repay him for keeping her safe.

She had company, lots of company, and there were Get Well cards and fresh flowers. Mrs. Bitterman came by with a pot of homemade spaghetti sauce and meatballs. There was enough to feed a family of twelve. Even complete strangers sent good wishes for her speedy recovery. Most insisted they didn’t believe Bobby Rose—Chicago’s very own Robin Hood—had stolen money from Kelly’s retirement fund. The vast majority blamed Kevin Devoe, Kelly’s investment money manager, for being inept and making bad stock purchases.

Sophie couldn’t escape from the scandal. Every night there was something in the local news about the company closing and also about the bitter divorce. Kelly’s daughter, Meredith, and her soon-to-be-ex, Kevin Devoe, were involved in a nasty, hateful fight. Accusations were being flung by each side, and all of them were caught on film and shown like a sick soap opera on the six o’clock and ten o’clock local TV news. Their vile, angry sneers were right there in the middle of the screen for everyone to see.

How could a couple who obviously had loved each other when they married turn into such gargoyles? Love one day, hate the next? No wonder the thought of marriage made Sophie want to gag.

Mr. Bitterman called her every day, but he refused to come and see her until she had recovered from her injury, and he refused to let her say a word about work.

“I know if I do, you’ll hound me to let you get back to the newspaper, and I’ll feel sorry for you because you were shot, and I might give in,” he told her.

When she opened her mouth to talk, he cut her off. At first she was infuriated by his obstinacy because she was dying to tell him about Harrington’s fate, but she soon realized Bitterman’s stubborn insistence could work to her advantage. She needed more time to gather information before approaching him with her plan.

Sophie couldn’t get Harrington out of her mind. She wanted to call Paul Larson in Prudhoe Bay and ask him if he had found out anything more about the deceased. Paul had given her his cell phone number and had told her she could call him anytime night or day but she didn’t want to bother him. He had a full-time job working as a security officer for the oil companies, and he had promised that he would call her if and when he had further information about Harrington. Still, waiting to hear something was driving her to distraction.

She kept a notebook close, and every time she remembered something Harrington had said during that endless interview, she jotted it down. Guilt plagued her. She should have paid more attention to him.

Her attention now, however, was focussed on her missing purse. What she should do is find out where the crime lab was located, go there, and demand that they give her back her personal possessions. They still had her digital recorder with every word Harrington had said on it.

THE DAY HER STITCHES WERE REMOVED
started out as a very good day indeed. Paul Larson, the security guy from Alaska, called with all sorts of interesting information.

“They found Harrington’s wallet. It was thirty yards from the remnants of a tent that had been set up about twenty miles from nowhere. I mean it. It was smack dab in the middle of the most desolate land you could ever imagine. Nothing around for miles and miles. A small plane flew over looking for Barry, and they set down to put some new markers up.”

“Who’s Barry?”

“The male polar bear that ate … I mean that killed William Harrington. I’ve discovered that Barry is quite the celebrity up here.”

She was horrified. “Because he killed a man?”

“Oh, no, no. He’s a celebrity because he’s been part of a scientific study on polar bears. There’s always one scientific group or another up here collecting data about something. If it’s not the polar bears, it’s global warming.”

“You said they were checking up on Barry?”

“That’s right. The pilot spotted a long strip of red fabric flying in the wind. A big wad of it was part of a tent, but then there was another smaller strip frozen to the wallet. If the tent hadn’t been such a bright color, he never would have seen it. Even so, when you think about how huge this place is, it’s pretty amazing they found anything. They call it a frozen wasteland.”

And William Harrington pitched a tent in the middle of it? What in God’s name was he doing camping twenty miles from … frozen nothing? Sophie couldn’t even begin to imagine what he had been up to. She wondered aloud: “You don’t suppose Harrington was in Alaska because of one of these scientific studies, do you?”

“What kind of study?” Larson asked.

“This might be a stretch, but I keep thinking about the project Harrington mentioned. He called it the Alpha Project. It’s probably nothing,” Sophie said. “Harrington was pretty boastful, so he most likely was exaggerating about some superman club he was a part of, but it might be worth a little investigating.”

“Alpha Project?” Larson laughed. “Sounds a little sci fi to me.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Paul,” Sophie admitted, “yet I can’t help but be intrigued. I still wonder why Harrington was in Alaska. What was inside the wallet?”

“His driver’s license, a couple of hundred-dollar bills, and a twenty, and a Visa bank card. There wasn’t a scratch on that skinny leather wallet. Not a scratch they said. Amazing, huh? Considering … you know …”

Considering that good old Barry had chewed up William Harrington?

“They sent the wallet down to the lab in Anchorage. The remains had already been taken there. I talked to a guy down there, told him I was real interested in the investigation, and that I would appreciate it if he would let me know what was going on.

“I guess they started with the bank that issued the credit card and from there they tracked down the name of a law firm handling Harrington’s affairs. They even got the name of the one and only relative, who, I understand, is going to inherit a hell of a lot of money. Dwayne Wicker. A second cousin. Pretty sad he only had the one relative.”

“I don’t know who his friends were or if he even had friends,” Sophie said. “We only discussed the twenty-four races he’d won. And blisters. We talked a long time about his blisters.”

Paul laughed. “Blisters? You’re making that up.”

“No, I’m not. I’m ashamed to admit I sort of daydreamed while he talked. I feel bad about that. Those races meant so much to him.”

“Then why did he blow off the twenty-fifth race?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say he knew he wouldn’t win, but the fact that he was still wearing his racing socks in Alaska is making me wonder if there isn’t much more to his disappearance.”

“Listen, I’ve got an idea. Since you’re not going to be writing about races, come up here and write about Alaska. We’ve got a five-star hotel just outside of Barrow. How about I make a reservation for you? I really want that candlelight dinner.”