Back home I took off my mask, doused my hands in sanitizer, used the bathroom, and headed to the office I share (along with the apartment) with Rachel.
“How’d it go?” She swiveled her chair and stretched. Rachel’s got red hair and hazelnut eyes. She was in a black T-shirt and jeans, barefoot.
“I want a bigger apartment.” I sat down at my computer. “Not there, though. It’s falling down. Plus, maybe cursed. I should have taken you.”
She curled her lower lip in a pout. “You only like me because I’m psychic. Jerk.”
“I like you because you’re hot. Your ESP is just why I put up with you.”
She threw a wad of paper at me.
First I called the law firm to report in. Hal Filani, one of the attorneys on the case, gave me the okay to go ahead. “Just try not to make it into another one of your ghost things.”
“Me? When does that ever happen?” All the time, really. Filani laughed and hung up.
I had lots of data from the firm, including contact information on everyone who’d signed onto the lawsuit. Before I started those calls, though, I went to the internet.
I have half a dozen sites for local obituaries bookmarked. I started with Connie Chin. Two hits, but neither one mentioned any bite marks, or even listed a cause of death. Obits don’t have to. The notice for Stewart Garnick did say he’d died after a fall—but not down an elevator shaft.
I settled for sending emails to each family, using the information I’d gotten from Lloyd Williams Cooke. My emails were short and as diplomatic as I could manage, asking for any additional information they could share about their deceased loved one’s death—making clear that this wasn’t part of the current lawsuit. Maybe it would be later, but for right now we had to keep it separate.
I’d follow up with phone calls later. Right now, I went back to calling residents for potential depositions.
I got a lot of answering machines. Either people were getting out more, or they were still screening their calls ruthlessly. The few who picked up complained about the elevators, flooding in the basement, and other problems, none of them new, although one woman said her neighbor’s cats smelled and meowed all night. I marked everything down on a spreadsheet—elevators were the No. 1 issue, followed by water leakage—and kept track of who might be a reasonable witness.
I was getting ready for lunch when the phone buzzed. “Jurgen? This is Steve Morell. I own a place in Stellars Tower. My tenant said you called her.” He didn’t sound happy.
“Uh, thanks for calling me back, Mr., uh, Morell.” I looked for his name on the spreadsheet. “Which unit is that?”
“Look, why do you guys have to be making trouble there? She’s lived here for two years, and it’s a great place to live.”
“Glad to hear that. So your, un, tenant haven’t had any issues with plumbing, or electricity, or—”
“You always get stuff that doesn’t work sometimes. Hell, I had a brand-new car that needed work done after two months. Most of these people, they just want to complain. They’ve got 10 cats, or a boa constrictor, and they think they’re special. Spoiled rich people, bored, and they think the world’s falling down if everything isn’t perfect. You know?”
It didn’t sound like Morell was going to join the plaintiffs. “Well, thanks again for calling—”
“People ought to be more careful, is what I mean. Like that one guy who didn’t make sure the elevator was there. How is that the building’s fault? Anyway, uh, good-bye.” Morell hung up.
Nice guy. I wrote up our chat, then checked the spreadsheet. It did have a line for pets. No one claimed to have 10 cats, but I did see the boa constrictor, which made me shudder. I can face vampires and zombies, but snakes sort of terrify me,
I ate a sandwich for lunch. Rachel had some soup. Back in our office I checked my emails.
Alyssa Stocker had responded. She was Constance Chin’s daughter. I gulped some fresh coffee and called back.
“I’m just still—in shock.” Her voice was low and steady. “I—what exactly do you want?”
I explained about the lawsuit. She knew about that. Then the strange deaths. Those didn’t surprise her. “Mom mentioned someone who was—well, when they found her, her cats had, uh . . . you know?”
Ms. Klein. “Yes. I’m sorry to ask you this, Ms. Stocker, but . . . what was the cause of death?”
She sighed. “Rabies.”
Huh? “Did they—did anyone know where it came from?”
“They just found these bite marks on her neck. Rats? Bats? I don’t know. It’s—weird.”
“Definitely.” And I’ve seen some weird things. Weirder. But this was definitely creepy. Rats in the building, though, could definitely belong in the lawsuit.
She gave me permission to share it with the lawyers. Before she hung up, she said, “There’s something wrong with that building.”
The rest of the afternoon passed slowly. Few people wanted to talk to me about the building or the lawsuit. Some of them sounded nervous about sharing anything that might get back to them. Two people hung up. One man complained about loud music next door.
The life of a private detective isn’t always exciting.
At seven or so I went out to pick up dinner—takeout from a nearby Chinese restaurant. When I came out of the elevator back home, a large man was knocking at my door. “Uh, can I help you?”
The guy had dime-size eyes and a red, white, and blue star tattoo on his wrist. A black mask hung loosely around his neck. “You Tom Jurgen?”
“That’s right.” I set the bag down. “And you are?”
“Just a friend.” His smile wasn’t very friendly. “With some friendly advice. Stop making phone calls.”
I stepped back. “To who?”
“Anybody. You don’t want to make trouble. Just some friendly advice.”
The door opened, and Rachel peered out. “Tom? What’s—who’s this?” Her hand darted toward her back pocket.
“He was just leaving.” I held up my hands. “Right? Message received. Okay?” I picked up the sack, waiting to see if he was going to pull a tire iron from his jeans.
But he just glanced at Rachel and grinned. “Have a good night, you two.” He headed for the elevator.
I scampered through the door. Rachel threw the locks. “Who the hell was that? A casting reject from The Sopranos?”
My heart was pounding more than it did when I had to stake a vampire. I pulled off my mask. “Let me get a beer.”
I calmed down after a few gulps, and we put the food on the table. “He wasn’t very specific. ‘Stop making phone calls’? All I do is make phone calls, especially these days.”
She tilted her head. “Occasionally you exorcise demons.”
“I don’t think that would have worked with him.” I pulled out my phone. “Too bad you didn’t get a picture.”
“I was about to, but he looked like he would have swatted it out of my hand. And I just got this phone last week.” She set hers on the table next to the cashew chicken box.
I called Filani at the law firm. The Stellars Tower case was the one I’d been working on most in the last few days. But he didn’t answer. A lawyer not working past 7:30? He’d never make partner at that rate.
We cleaned up dinner. I made a note of the “friendly” visit on my computer, and emailed it to Anita Sharpe—a Chicago PD detective I’d worked with on vampire cases, long story—just in case the guy made a return visit that wasn’t so friendly. Sharpe probably wouldn’t swear vengeance if I ended up dead, but she’d be pissed if anything happened to Rachel.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been warned off a case by someone scary—human or otherwise. And yeah, I was tempted to quit the case—assuming he was talking about Stellars Tower.
For better or worse, though, I’m tenacious. Or as Rachel calls it, a stubborn asshole. Either way, I don’t react well to someone telling me not to do something. Except for Rachel. Sometimes.
Still, I was nervous for the rest of the night while we watched The Crown. Neither one of us owns a gun, but we have plenty of pepper spray and the like. And the doors were firmly locked.
I didn’t sleep that well, though.
The next morning I made coffee, checked email and my messages, and reviewed everything I had on Stellars Tower.
The problems had already gotten some media attention, including a lengthy feature in the Sunday Chicago Tribune. It quoted some of the residents I’d already talked to, including Steve Morell, identified as a “unit owner,” who again defended the building: “It’s a nice place. Nothing’s perfect, but you can’t beat the views. Some people just aren’t ever satisfied, you know?”
It had opened for tenants three years ago. The main builder was one of the most prominent construction companies in Chicago, with around 40 subcontractors for welding, transportation, electricity, plumbing, heat/AC, food for the workers, and that kind of stuff. Powers Mackenzie, another bigtime firm, managed the property, again subcontracting things like security, maintenance, and the like. The building was jointly owned by two real estate firms with properties across the country.
I knew the law firm was looking at all the subcontractors, trying to determine who’d cut corners during the construction process. Four different companies were involved in the physical construction. Three handled plumbing. Only one company took care of carpet installation. A local cable company took care of TV and internet access. Two handled residential wiring and another one took care of the building’s electricity as a whole.
I don’t know anything about the construction business—I hammered a nail through my thumb one time hanging a picture—but I looked through the list of subcontractors, clicking links to their websites randomly. I figured the elevator people might not want me asking questions about how often their doors opened on an empty shaft. Or maybe–
My phone buzzed. Detective Anita Sharpe. “Jurgen, you still alive?”
“Detective! I didn’t think you cared.”
“I don’t, but your girlfriend would grief me to hell if I let anything happen to your ass. What kind of trouble are you in now?”
I described the encounter again. “He didn’t directly threaten me. But I didn’t get a warm and comfy feeling from him either.”
“What are you working on lately? Anything juicy?”
“Mostly the Stellars Tower lawsuit. A few background checks.”
“Huh.” Sharpe grunted. “Could be someone made a few bucks using bad equipment and put the difference in their pockets. It’s an old construction scam. The Outfit’s been in on a lot of them.”
The mafia? Great. “There’s some weird deaths going on in the building. They don’t sound like mob hits.”
“If there’s money in the game, don’t count the Outfit out of it. Stay out of their way. Hi to Rachel.” She hung up.
“Hi.” Rachel walked into the officer in T-shirt and shorts. “Anything happening?”
“Sharpe called. Says hi.” I checked out Rachel’s legs, and then I went back to my computer.
I found what I was looking for—and hoped not to find—a few minutes later. A company called Hastings Up/Down had done some early work on installing the building’s elevators, but they’d dropped out suddenly for noo obvious reason, and another firm, E&M Lifts, took over. I looked a little more closely into E&M Lifts, and found a Chicago Tribune story on the indictment of one Francis Emerson, the father of E&M’s CEO, Frank Emerson, Jr.
The senior Emerson had founded the firm, and several others—plumbing, waste management, and the like. He’d retired from E&M five years ago, leaving the son in the No. 1 spot. He’d been charged with fraud and extortion last year for lying on bids and pressuring competitors for a partnership he’d been involved with. That company was effectively shut down by the government on RICO charges. His trial was scheduled for later this year.
I clicked back to the E&M website and found something else—the M was for Morell. Steve Morell.
“Oh, hell.”
Rachel looked up. “What now?”
“The mafia.” Maybe E&M had threatened the Hasting company to get the Stellars Tower contract, done shoddy work, and collected the difference. That meant Steve Morell would know a lot about how the elevators worked.
“Oh, no.” She stood up and walked across the office. “Vampires and killer plants are one thing—no way you’re getting involved with the mafia, you jerk.” She punched my shoulder.
Ouch. “The Outfit doesn’t stand a chance with you around.” I rubbed my arm and them called Filani at the law firm. “Did you guys know that one of the elevator contractors at Stellars Tower might be connected to the Outfit?”
“We’ve got people looking at every contractor and subcontractor. I haven’t been keeping track.” I heard him click a keyboard. “What have you got?”
I filled him in. He grunted. “I’ll pass it along. Let me know what you find out.” He didn’t sound worried. Of course, no tattooed thugs had been knocking on his apartment door.
I was compiling all the information I could find online about Emersons junior and senior when my phone buzzed again. Ellen Doyle.
“Hi. I just wanted to let you know that, uh . . .” She paused. “Janice Finchloe died last night. Her neighbor says there were all kinds of, uh, spiders in her apartment.”
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