She knew what he was thinking. If Trip had been here, he may have watched her disarm it.
“I should get going.”
“You know, I would never guess in a million years that he was a cop.”
“Why’s that?”
“It was just the way he was dressed and his manner. He was wearing pretty expensive, tailored clothes. No offense, it’s just not the stereotype I have in my head.”
Marcus smiled. “Well, look at me,” as he displayed his bad-ass thug-wear. “You didn’t think I was a cop either.”
Abby turned suddenly as she remembered. “Wait!”
Marcus stopped.
“I have his phone number.” She ran to her coat closet and pulled out the cocktail napkin, still folded inside her long dress coat. “He wrote this.”
“Perfect. Thanks, Abby. I’ll be in touch later. Now go to work.”
· · ·
MARCUS
sat in his apartment, staring at the laptop. His eyes were stinging. He was on the phone with Duvane.
“There’s no arrest record for this kid in the first or the nineteenth or twenty-third districts in the last two hours. If he took a kid in, it would be in one of those districts. It should be in the system by now.”
“Did you check the thirteenth district, where you saw this cop for the first time?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, what about the internal docs? Did you go through all the cop photos yet?”
“I’ve searched first name
Trip
in every district. I’ve checked the pictures of all the cops in the two districts where we’ve seen him and the surrounding districts. This guy is a ghost. He’s either not a cop or his name’s not Trip.”
“Or both. I don’t like it. Marcus, I know there are twelve thousand cops on the force, but I want to find this guy.”
Marcus had already checked hundreds of internal photos. He couldn’t imagine how long it would take to get through them all.
Duvane must have sensed it. “Marcus, don’t worry. I’m not expecting you to do it alone. I’m going to get some staff on this.”
“Okay. I also think I should tail Reilly. He’s connected to this. He arrested that kid at the Quick Mart twice in the last year. We saw the store’s surveillance tape.”
“So, are there charges pending against this kid?”
“No. Charges dropped. Insufficient evidence.”
“This doesn’t make sense. Reilly’s on duty right now.” Duvane was obviously on the system as well. “Gets off at five. Keep your phone on. I’ll check with dispatch and see if they can track his location.”
“Great, thanks.”
“And Marcus,”
“Yeah?”
“Keep your eye on Ms. Donovan. If we’re talking about a murder rap, I don’t want anything happening to our witness.”
“Got it.” Duvane didn’t even have to say it. Abby had gotten to him. He wasn’t about to lose anyone else he cared about.
“And Marcus. Find that kid.”
· · ·
ABBY
had just settled down at her desk and was trying to get through the thirty new e-mails when her secretary, Mary, popped in.
“Hey, Abby, where’ve you been?” It was now two o’clock in the afternoon. Marcus had left Abby’s by eleven thirty, but she had taken her time getting here.
“It’s just been a long week, Mary. I took the morning off.”
She could see the surprise on Mary’s face.
“Well, Jerry came by looking for you.”
Not again. “What did you tell him?”
“I said you were at a dentist appointment. He left this for you.” Mary was holding a large envelope.
Abby took it. “Thanks, Mary. You’re so good to me.”
Abby waited for Mary to leave to open it. She half expected some sort of written warning that she was slipping. She knew it was true. She had done a lot this week, but the last two weeks were ridiculous. She had been leaving by five whenever possible, showing up after nine, and turning down new assignments. She’d delegated as much as possible so the clients were covered. She just couldn’t seem to do much work herself. And it was just a matter of time before some new screw-up would expose her lack of attentiveness.
But it wasn’t a warning from Jerry. It was a confidential memo sent to the seven associates up for partnership consideration. The memo asked the associates to spend some time outlining their work history at the firm, the major cases they were involved in, the partners they worked for, the procedures they had mastered, the skills they had acquired, a summary of how they had developed as attorneys during the last seven years, and the clients and prospective clients they had strong relationships with. For Abby, of course, it had only been six years, but Jerry had always said she was on the fast track. It was assumed the associates would spend considerable time evaluating themselves, thereby making the process easier for the partnership committee. The report was due Monday morning.
This was it. It was time to shine. This was all she had focused on for the last six years, longer, really. Nothing else, no one else, had ever been as important as achieving this goal, and yet now, today, reading the memo made her feel emptier. She wondered if becoming partner was really going to make everything okay. It seemed like a stupid idea all of a sudden. And yet, for years, she was sure this was what she had to do.
She brushed aside her introspection after a minute. It was too late to second-guess her whole life now. It was going to take a long time to go through her files and memory about everything she had done for the last six years, so she would spend time this weekend on it. She put the memo in her briefcase and got back to work.
· · ·
MARCUS
walked down Cicero toward Lake. The late-afternoon sky was darkening and the temperature was dropping. If he was lucky, he could hook up with Darnel and the boys, who should be out in force on a Friday. Maybe the neighborhood boys had an opinion about Reilly.
His cell rang. It was Duvane. “Reilly’s at the corner of Lake and Kildare.”
“Got it.” Marcus headed that way.
· · ·
ABBY
pushed aside her work and called Marcus. He should have called her with news by now. He answered in a hushed voice.
“Marcus? It’s Abby.”
“Oh hi, Abby. What’s up?”
“Did you find that cop and that kid? Please tell me this is over.”
“Well, actually, no, I didn’t.”
“But I gave you a name, a picture, a phone number.”
“Abby, the name must be bogus. No ‘Trip’ in the system. I went through hundreds of officer photos. I can’t find him. I’m looking into the phone number, but because it’s not a land-line, it’s harder to trace. It may take a few days to get a name.”
“But he made an arrest, right? What about that?”
“Well, there are no arrest records matching up to a kid being arrested at your address. I’m thinking it was staged.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t have all the answers yet, Abby. But I’m working on it. I’ve been chatting up the neighborhood and found out a little more scoop on that Trip character. I think I might be able to place him at Reggie’s.”
“The night I was there?”
“Maybe. I met Leon, the bartender. He was arrested for trafficking that night and he’s out on bond. He describes a cop that came in the night you were there. It matches our guy.”
“So isn’t that enough? I saw a white guy with blond hair leaving the scene. The bartender tells you of the same man. A woman was found dead!”
“Well, first, we have to find him. Everyone seems to think he’s a cop, but I’m not so sure. And second, Leon’s not a reliable witness. He’s up on drug-trafficking charges. His testimony’s almost useless. Abby, there’s something going on here. More than that murder and I need to figure it out.”
“But, he’s—”
“Oh, hold on. I gotta call you back.”
The phone went dead and Abby listened to the silence, unable to hang up.
NINETEEN
MARCUS
was standing in the side yard of a beaten-down two-flat with boarded-up windows, watching the activity across the street at Kildare’s, a cop bar frequented by the eleventh district, Officer Reilly’s district. He felt bad hanging up on Abby, but when the headlights caught his eye, he had to move.
A black Mercedes with tinted windows pulled into the gravel lot in front of the building and a man got out and hit the button on his key chain. The locks engaged. Marcus stood back, hidden from view by a shrub and watched. The driver, white, wavy blond hair, just as he’d remembered from that day at Carter’s, got out of the car and headed into the bar. Marcus snapped a picture. It flashed, but the man didn’t notice. As soon as the man was inside, Marcus jogged across the street, zoomed in on the license plate and snapped another.
Just a moment later, he could hear the sounds from inside the bar as the door began to open. He ran over to the side of the building, out of sight and watched Reilly and Trip get in the Mercedes and drive off. He ran for his car and followed.
· · ·
ABBY
had been unable to get back to work after Marcus hung up. It was now almost five thirty. Dinner. She couldn’t concentrate on work at this point, but she did not want to go home. She walked toward the cafeteria.
A group of about eight associates, mostly first- and second-years, were standing by the elevator banks with coats in hand.
“Hey Abby!” Josh called out. Josh was the first-year she was supposed to be mentoring. He was a good kid. Eager, excited, smart enough, and Abby felt bad she hadn’t given him more time this year. Her mentor had often taken her out for drinks and showed her (or pretended anyway) that working at the firm could be fun.
Abby smiled and stopped to chat. “What are you all up to?”
“Happy hour! Timothy O’Toole’s on Clark. Join us, Abby. Come on, you haven’t been out with me since September.”
Abby opened her mouth to say she was too busy. “I’m…okay, sure.” The words surprised her.
“Really? That’s great!” Josh and the other associates were pleased to have captured another attorney for the adventure. Abby couldn’t help but laugh. Nothing sounded better right now than trying to forget all this madness.
THE
first three pitchers went down quickly. One of the guys said he was going to order a yard of black and tan—Bass Ale first, topped off with Guinness. Others hopped on the wagon, and within minutes a group decision was made for yards all around, though Abby pleaded for a weiss beer instead. Before long, she was squeezing a lemon into her yard high glass and standing to carefully tilt the tall glass to her lips. The young associates told animated stories of firm life so far. It was a great distraction. When they asked about certain partners, wondering if the reputations were accurate, if the gossip was true, Abby chimed in. They looked to her for some great stories to tell and she tried not to disappoint.
After another hour, loud music could be heard every time the front door opened. It was obviously coming from across the street—the Blue Note. Abby looked out the window and watched the front door of the bar, wondering if she’d see him. Both of them, maybe. He used to play a late set there on Fridays. She silently drank her beer, tuning out the chatter around her and enjoying the memory of watching David and his band play there so many times over the years. She had been his personal groupie, happy to sit and watch and soak in the music. It was as close as she’d ever come to being on stage again. Now, she realized, someone else was watching, admiring, loving him. Her heart ached, still.
Someone in the group suggested heading over for the music. Josh nudged her.
“What do you think? Up for it?”
Abby checked her watch. It was just after eight o’clock. She had no intention of leaving the group and going home. “Sure.”
Once inside, the group maneuvered a few tables to create a giant table by the empty stage. Maybe a band would go on later, but for now, the loud music came from the speakers on the ceiling. They ordered more beer and some nachos, cheese sticks, and wings for the table. When the food arrived, the group lunged forward with speed and excitement, and Abby, feeling somewhat like the old lady of the group, sat back to let the children go first. A sad, cheese-soaked chip and a lone wing remained and she ate the scraps. After another hour, after the table games had begun and the cocktail waitress had delivered several rounds of shots, the dares began. A karaoke machine was on the stage and the patrons were beginning to take turns making fools of themselves. Susan, another first-year, dared Josh to take the stage, and he said he’d do it if Abby joined him. “A duet, ma’ lady!” he suggested.
Abby laughed and shook her head in protest. But the group was not going to have it. The chanting began. Before she could say more, she was being pulled by the arm toward the stage. Once in front of the crowd, Josh headed for the machine to program their song.
Abby assumed this would be the typical Sonny and Cher, “I’ve Got You Babe
”
routine. When the music started, she looked at Josh, confused by the choice. He smiled and whispered in her ear, “I can’t sing. But I heard that maybe you can.” He handed her the microphone, jumped off the stage, and went back to the table to join their friends.