Stewart Garnick, 67 years old, balding, was late for a rare in-person meeting downtown. He tapped his foot on the hallway carpet and jabbed the elevator button for the third time. Even when the elevators in the building worked, they were too damn slow to come. He’d paid to $15 million for his 22nd floor condo—four bedrooms, granite kitchen countertops, jacuzzi in the master bathroom—and they couldn’t keep the goddamn elevators running?
The lawsuit would take care of that, and flooding, the noises in the walls, the bad cable—but that would take years. He was stuck here, at least until the damn pandemic was over and people started buying fancy condos again.
The button light turned off. He pulled his mask up to make sure it covered his nose. Some of the people here could really be assholes about masks and social distancing and all that—
A dog barked behind him.
Damn it! Everyone was supposed to take dogs in the back elevator, at the other end of the hall. Stewart turned, ready to confront Peterson or whoever it was—
But this wasn’t Peterson and his Dachshund. This dog was big, black, with no collar and no human beside him, and a wide jaw filled with dripping teeth.
Garnick lurched back as the dog snarled at him. He heard the elevator open behind him. Thank God, all he had to do was hit the >|< button before the dog got in. He stepped back as the black dog lunged at him.
His foot felt nothing underneath. Just empty air.
What the hell? The dog skidded to a halt in front on the carpet, snarling, as Garnick whirled his arms and fought frantically for balance.
The dog’s bright eyes were the last thing he saw before he plummeted down the shaft.
Mark Halverson came round the corner. “Paco? Here, Paco!”
The black dog ran toward his owner, barking happily, jumping up on his legs.
“Don’t run away like that, Paco!” Halverson knelt to snap the dog’s leash on. “Good dog.” He patted Paco’s head. “Good dog.” Then he stood and pressed the elevator button.
Paco wagged his tail.
A doorman in a gray jacket, a black cotton mask, and a button that said “Stellars Tower” in golden letters on his lapel made a phone call and then pointed to a bank of elevators. “Fifteenth floor.”
Two of the 12 elevators had signs printed with “Out of Service—Maintenance.” Water leaked from the bottom of one. I pressed the button with my knuckle, checked my mask, and waited.
The doors opened, and the man who came out in a camel-hair jacket and a mask with the Chicago Cubs logo on it glanced at me, glared at the water on the floor, and stalked to the front door. I got in and tapped 15.
At 1507 I pressed a doorbell, again using my knuckle, and heard chimes inside. Ellen Doyle opened the door—a woman in her fifties, in a dark pantsuit and a mask with pink polka dots. “Tom Jurgen? Thanks for coming.”
Her living room was bigger than my entire apartment. High windows gave a view of Lake Michigan, with boats in the water and clouds in the sky. I peeked in her kitchen as she brought me a cup of coffee—it could have served a gourmet restaurant. I clearly was in the wrong business as a private detective.
“The firm says they hired you for the lawsuit.” She sat on a black leather recliner, and I tried not to sink all the way down in a sectional sofa. “This is related. Or it may not be. I just think it’s something to look into.”
I was working for the law firm of Lloyd Williams Cooke. The tenants of Stellars Tower were suing its management, Powers Mackenzie Ltd., for multiple problems in the high-rise condo building—flooding in the elevators and basement parking garage, noises in the walls, mold in the air ducts, and garbage chutes that jammed repeatedly.
The building offered multiple amenities—and a ridiculous starting price for its condos. It boasted two exercise centers, a five-star restaurant on the top floor, a pharmacy, a Whole Foods, a McDonalds, and a Starbucks in the lobby, and more. Since the condos went for close to $20 million each, residents felt they had the right to raise hell—and the resources to hire one of the priciest law firms in the city to do it for them.
My job was to interview residents to gather facts and help decide who to depose and have testify if the case ever went to trial. This was an additional job—for extra pay. Always nice, even if it would never get me into one of these condos except as a guest or a hired hand.
“You know about all our issues with management.” She glared at the ceiling where paint had cracked from moisture seeping from above. “On top of that, there have been several, uh, unusual deaths in the building lately. Since we filed the lawsuit.”
“Unusual how?”
She sighed. “Connie Chin. A friend of mine down the hall, in 1506. They found her in her bed, with, uh, bite marks on her body.”
Oh hell. “On her neck?”
“No, no.” Ellen Doyle shook her head. “On her arms, mostly.”
Sigh of relief. Chicago’s vampires had mostly been lying low during the pandemic. I didn’t want to have to deal with them now.
Yes, I’ve seen vampires. And other supernatural stuff. It seems to come with the job. “So what was the cause of death?”
“I don’t know. But Stewart—Stewart Garnick, on 22—he fell down an elevator shaft. He was 67. And Jenny Klein fell in her shower.” She shuddered. “She was dead two or three days, and they said her cats—well, they’d started eating her.” She grimaced.
Yuck. I scribbled notes. On a notepad. Old reporters’ habits die hard. “Did they know each other? Have anything in common? A book group or something?”
“Their names are all on the lawsuit. I mean, there are 40 of us or so, but still . . .”
I’d have to cross check the names. “Have you talked to anyone else in the building about this?”
“Just Jenny’s husband. No one—oh.” She pointed a finger at her door. “And Mrs. Carver. She’s on the other end of the hall. She knows everyone.”
“Maybe I should talk to her.”
Ms. Doyle rose. “I’ll take you.”
The hallway carpet was blue with a subtle swirling pattern. Ms. Doyle led me to 1512. Again I heard chimes.
“Marilyn?” Ms. Doyle glanced at me as the door opened. “This is Tom Jurgen. He’s working for the law firm. Could we come in for a moment?”
Marilyn Carver wore a long black dress and a pink cotton mask. Her white hair was tied in a braided ponytail. Her furniture was well-worn and comfortable looking. She poured tea from a china teapot from the kitchen and then perched on leather recliner. “What can I do for you guys?”
“I told Tom about Connie. And Stewart, and, you know . . .” Ellen Doyle sipped her tea.
“We’re just wondering . . .” I hesitated, unsure what to really ask. “Ms. Doyle says you know a lot of people in the building. Do any of them talk about what’s going on?”
“Yeah, everyone’s mad at the management.” She kicked one of her slippers off. “This place is falling apart. But what happened to Connie, and Denny, and poor Liesl—”
“That’s Liesl Sanders.” Ms. Doyle nodded. “She fell down a flight of stairs and broke her neck. I guess she didn’t want to take the elevator after what happened to Stewart.”
“Her dog was barking the whole time.” Mrs. Carver frowned. “I heard it. I wonder what will happen to him.”
“Was she in the lawsuit too?”
Doyle nodded. “Like I said.”
“What do you think is going on, Mrs. Carver?” If she really knew everyone in the building, she might have some juicy gossip that could point me at a suspect.
Mrs. Carver smiled. “It’s like some weird serial killer, isn’t it? I’m afraid to go outdoors. I’m afraid to stay inside. Maybe the building will just fall down around me.”
Something bumped in the walls, like a pipe rattling. I wasn’t feeling very safe here myself, even without potential phantom murderers.
A cat wandered out of a bedroom, checked me and Doyle out skeptically, then jumped onto the chair. Mrs. Carver stroked black fur as it purred softly.
“This is Ozzie. Short for Ozymandias, king of kings.” She smiled. “The only cat I really like. People in this building don’t care take of their pets. Do you know there’s a man with a boa constrictor?”
I thanked Mrs. Carver for the tea. I was going to need a bathroom soon.
At the elevators I said, “I’ll see what I can do.” It’s what I usually say when I don’t have any idea where to start.
She nodded. “Call me if you need anything. I’m on the board here, so I have some pull with the residents.”
The door opened. I paused to make sure the elevator was really there before stepping in.
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