Killing Red (21 page)

Compartmentalizing was something Chapa had become good at when he was younger. It was a skill that came in handy any time the problems in his personal life threatened to spill over into his work. It was not quite as useful when he was trying to save his marriage.

He was thinking about that as he read a text message he’d received while his phone was turned off at the restaurant.

What ten-year-old would use a phrase like,
long drawn-out process
? If Carla had sent the text from Nikki’s phone, that was bad. If she had put her daughter up to it, that was much worse. Not knowing was the hardest part. What was his daughter thinking? What was she feeling? Those questions could rip him apart.

Chapa wasn’t going to let that happen. He decided it was best to table this problem for the time being. Like tossing an unpaid bill into a junk drawer, then forgetting about it. He closed his phone without responding to the message and tossed it on the passenger seat.

Elvis Costello’s
My Aim Is True
CD ripped through his car’s speakers as Chapa drove to a familiar coffee shop. He was determined to put everything else out of his mind for the next few hours and just worry about being a reporter. It’s what he got paid to do, and the one thing he knew he was good at. Even during his hardest times, Chapa had always managed to keep everything else from getting in the way when it was time to write.

As he pulled into a parking space a few doors down from Beans to You, Chapa checked his watch. It was just after 2:00 on the East Coast, and that meant Nikki wasn’t home from school yet, did not have access to her cell phone, and could not be sending text messages.

Chapa took a slow sip of hot black coffee and adjusted his earpiece as he looked at the first notes he’d transcribed on a half-used legal pad. They came from a recording he had made for himself earlier that week as he drove to his first meeting with Grubb. The notes no longer made much sense. Questions about how the killer was facing his own death, remorse, and his experiences in prison now seemed to belong to an entirely different story.

But he jotted them down anyway, and then moved on to the recording of his interview. Listening to it now, Chapa got the sense that Grubb knew he was recording it, even though the guard had told him not to. The killer would draw in closer during key points in the conversation, his voice clear and steady. Chapa listened as Grubb told him to go ahead and pick up the pen that had fallen to the floor, as if he was saying,
We both know you don’t need it.

Next, he examined his notes from conversations with Dominic Delacruz, Michelle Sykes, and Louise Jones whose voice Chapa had difficulty listening to now that he knew what had happened to her a short while later. He continued the process of transcribing the few recordings he’d made, along with the notes from his meeting with Langdon, and the visit to Night Owls, but stopped when he reached his trip to the trailer.

This would require a fresh cup of coffee. He returned to the counter, where a young, shaggy-haired male barista offered to refill his cup. While he waited, Chapa looked around at some of the faces in the half empty shop—none were familiar—then he returned to his table and got back to work.

Chapa turned up the volume on the recorder, pressed an index finger to his earpiece, and shoved a thumb into his other ear, then pushed Play. A few seconds later he was listening to the muffled rustling of the recorder shifting around inside his pocket. Hearing his movements took Chapa back to that place. He remembered pressing against the locked door, wondering if Annie was trapped behind it, and calling out her name.

Then he heard the
click
of the television being turned on, followed by Grubb’s voice. The recording made from inside a jacket pocket wouldn’t please an audiophile, but Chapa was able to make out most of it. Grubb spoke deliberately, and Chapa got the sense that he was somewhat rehearsed. He’d missed that the first time.

Chapa could feel the muscles in his chest contract as Grubb’s recording came to an end, and he decided it might be a good idea to stop drinking coffee. While he was being assaulted, the recorder banged against something but did not shut off.

He cranked the volume up as high as it would go and forced a thumb into his naked ear until the pressure became uncomfortable. After more than a minute of silence, Chapa heard what might have been a voice. Then he heard it again, though it wasn’t at all clear.

This was the same portion of the recording he had listened to the morning after. He’d hoped that using the earbud might make a difference. It didn’t. Still, he wanted to be sure he hadn’t missed anything before turning the recorder over to Andrews.

Chapa fast-forwarded thirty seconds in the recording. Nothing. Then thirty seconds more, and the rustling was back. But now there was something else in the background. Laughter.

A few seconds later he heard a word. At first it sounded like “old” or “mold.” But when he played it again Chapa realized it was “told,” and it came in the middle of a sentence. He rewound back ten seconds and played it again. He closed his eyes and tried to shut out everything else. This time Chapa heard the words
I
and
he
sandwiched around the other word. He slowed the playback just a little and tried again.

I told he could.

He slowed it down a little more and locked in on the voice.

Just like I told you he would.

Chapa turned the recorder off and stared into his half empty cup of coffee until all of the remaining steam had burned away. What the hell was going on? Before Chapa could answer that question his cell phone started vibrating.

“It’s Chapa.”

“Is this Alex Chapa, the newspaper reporter?” The labored voice, though young, was tinged with exhaustion.

“That’s right.”

“Why was my father murdered last night?”

Eddie Delacruz’s voice was trembling as he recounted how someone had held up his father’s convenience store, then shot Dominic Delacruz.

“I’m so sorry to hear about this, Eddie. Your father was a good man.”

“He cooperated with the robber, and got shot anyway.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yes, so was the gunman.”

The journalist’s instincts were kicking in. Though he’d told himself he wouldn’t pursue another story until after Grubb’s execution, Chapa sensed an opportunity to get deeper into this story than any other writer in the area would be able to.

“How do you know your father cooperated?”

“You can see it on the security tape. The cops are treating it like just another holdup.”

“What, exactly, can you see on the security tape?”

“Not the holdup guy, not much at least. His face is covered. But my dad gives him the money straight away. The cops are tracking down the usual assortment of junkies and bangers.”

“But Eddie, you do understand those are the people who commit a lot of these crimes.”

Chapa realized the words came out hard and cold, and wondered if he would be approaching this differently if he wasn’t in the middle of a bigger story.

“My father didn’t like you personally, Mr. Chapa. But he thought you were a great newspaper writer.”

Chapa slumped down into his chair, rubbed his tired eyes, and flipped his notepad open to a fresh page.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Look into it. Write one of your investigative stories. Don’t let them bury it.”

“I’ll probably end up exactly where the police are. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Maybe, but you should get a look at that security tape. There’s something strange about it.”

“Strange how?”

Chapa could hear the young man take a deep breath and gather himself, like he was trying to tap into a dwindling reserve of strength.

“There’s a hesitation after my dad gives him the money. The two of them are standing there like they’re talking, just before the gunman pulls the trigger.”

Several seconds of silence.

“That’s unusual, isn’t it?” Eddie asked, finally.

Another silence.

“Yes, it is.”

In large letters Chapa wrote the word
pause
on his notepad, followed by an even bigger question mark.

“Which police department has the tape now, Eddie?”

Shana Reynolds answered her cell phone on the first ring.

“Hey newshound,” her usual greeting for Chapa.

The two had been friends for more than a decade, and Shana was one of the few contacts Chapa had inside the Oakton Police Department.

“I’m guessing you’ve got a security video from a holdup that went down last night.”

It wasn’t a guess. Shana was a one woman hub for all of the electronic information that flowed through the department.

“It wasn’t ours to begin with, but yeah, it came across the server a couple of hours ago.”

“I need to see it.”

“I can burn a copy and give it to you when you buy me a really nice dinner tonight.”

“Sorry, Shana, that’s not going to work.”

“Which part?”

“Both. I’m in Chicago and I’ve got to get a look at that video right away.”

Shana thought for a moment.

“I can put it up on the
Record
’s server and you should be able to access it from there.”

Chapa heard Shana clicking away on a keyboard as they caught up on what was happening in their lives. Both agreed that Chapa’s was far more interesting at the moment, and for that Shana expressed her sympathy.

“You know the ancient Chinese curse?” she asked.

Chapa did.

“May you live in interesting times.”

“That’s the one,” she said. “Okay, the video is on its way. It’ll take a few minutes, but you should be able to access it.”

“You’re the best. Tell you what, I’ll talk to Jerry Rossiter over in sports about wrangling a couple of Bulls tickets.”

“Are you trying to bribe an officer of the law?”

“Yes.”

Shana laughed.

“How are the various departments treating this shooting?” Chapa asked as he logged on to the
Chicago Record
’s site.

“Just like any other typical late night hit.” There was a pause, and Chapa could almost hear the wheels turning in Shana’s head. “Wait, there’s more to it, isn’t there? Otherwise, you wouldn’t give a damn about some holdup, would you? Damn it, Alex. I take back everything I said about feeling bad for you.”

The image was loading on Chapa’s computer.

“Why?”

“Because it’s your own damn fault.”

The black and white image was grainy and a bit blurred. A typical low-resolution video shot with an old camera. Shana had explained that a better version would’ve taken much longer to send, and Chapa sensed time was more vital than picture quality in this case.

Everything he would need to see was there, anyhow. The camera was suspended above the counter, with Dominic Delacruz on the left side, the gunman on the other, and the cash register in the upper right corner. All of it documented and measured by a time log across the bottom.

The silent film began with Dominic organizing the area under the counter. He stood, probably alerted by the sound of the door opening, then froze. The other man, already wearing a ski mask, made it to the counter in just over two seconds.

The gunman appeared to be about the same height and build as Dominic, which meant average across the board. He wore a dark coat, gloves, and mask to match. It was a typical, almost clichéd outfit for a common street thug holding up a store, but there was nothing ordinary about what was happening.

Inching toward the screen, Chapa wanted to make certain he didn’t miss whatever Eddie Delacruz thought he’d seen. The image became distorted the closer Chapa got to it, and he didn’t mind that. Knowing what was coming wasn’t going to make watching it any easier. He was hoping the more distorted the picture, the less real it would all seem.

Dominic Delacruz emptied the drawer, making as little eye-contact as possible. He put the money on the counter and stepped away. The gunman shoved the bills into his left coat pocket, never taking his eyes off the frightened store owner.

This was the point where most other armed robbers would make a dash for door. But that’s not what happened. What Chapa saw matched Eddie’s description in a way he had not expected.

Instead of taking off, the man in the mask seemed to be talking. Slowly, Dominic Delacruz raised his eyes and looked at his killer. The expression on his face changed. It shifted from the passive blank gaze of a frightened man who simply wants a bad situation to end, to something altogether different.

It could’ve been misinterpreted as a smile, but that was just a cruel trick played by a slightly garbled image. What Chapa saw was a look of sheer terror. And something else. A sense of what was about to happen to him, and maybe even why.

And then it happened. Though there was no sound, Chapa still recoiled in his chair, as though the gunshot had gone off inside his head. In an instant, Dominic Delacruz lay dying on the floor behind the same counter he’d used to shield Annie Sykes sixteen years before.

Chapa closed the laptop and buried his face in his hands. For several minutes he fought to erase what he’d just seen, knowing that would not happen for a long time. Not until that day when it would mercifully blend into the mosaic of pain-filled images that many veteran newsmen carry around like tattoos only they can see.

A waitress wandered over, probably to see if everything was okay. Chapa sensed her being there and waved the well-meaning young woman away. When the sharp edges of shock had dulled enough for him to return to the moment, Chapa picked up his cell phone and called Joseph Andrews.