Janice Kinchloe had lived next door to Alison Zhang, who ran her late husband’s import-export business from an
office in her condo alone. She had straight black hair and glasses, and she was sipping white wine with a trembling
wrist when we showed up.
“I don’t usually drink this early.” It was 11:15. “I just—it was horrible. I’m not even that afraid of spiders.”
Rachel was with me. I’d asked her to come so she could check out the building for supernatural vibes. She complained, but I’d caught her playing Minecraft a couple of times yesterday, so I figured she was bored with her project. “This is my associate Rachel,” I said. “Associate” always sounds better than “psychic girlfriend.” “So what did you see?”
“Janice didn’t answer when I rang her bell.” She rubbed her nose, sniffling. “I hadn’t seen her for a few days, and she didn’t answer my texts, so—we traded keys a few months ago. Anyway, I opened the door, and . . .”
She shuddered. “Janice was on the floor. I thought she was moving, but—it was the spiders. All over her body. Her face, her arms, her feet. And one big hairy one, like a tarantula.”
“Yuck.” Rachel glanced around the floor, as if checking for spiders near her feet.
“I just stood there. The tarantula ran away, like it saw me or something, I don’t know. It ran under the sofa. I just stood there . . .” She gulped her wine. “I called 911. The spiders just—some of them were dead, some of them crawled away, but mostly they just stayed there.” Alison Zhang shuddered again. “I couldn’t leave her. Alone. Like that.”
“Of course.” I looked at Rachel, then stood up. “Is there any chance we could, uh, take a look?”
She handed the key to Ellen Doyle and poured more wine into her glass. “I can’t go back there. I’m sorry.”
Out in the hall, Doyle shook her head. “I just don’t understand what’s happening. Is there a curse?”
I looked at Rachel. “Anything? Angry ghosts? Ancient native American burial ground?”
She punched my arm. Doyle looked puzzled, but she turned the key and opened the door.
The apartment had a view of the skyline to the west, the blinds slatted to let in some sunlight. A few spiders—more than a few, maybe a few dozen—still crawled across the carpet, looking for crumbs or a way home.
A spot of blood stained the carpet next to the sofa. Maybe where Finchloe’s body had been lying? I crouched and peered underneath, looking for the big black spider. Wondering what I’d do if I saw it. “No tarantula.”
“Tarantula bites don’t kill people,” Rachel said.
“Maybe it scared her to death.” Doyle shivered. “It would scare me.”
I stood up, wiping my pants for any spiders, hoping none of them had crawled up my legs. I looked at Rachel again. “Well?”
Instead of punching me, Rachel knelt on one knee and held out a hand on the carpet. A spider clambered aboard, and she stood up, staring at it.
“Uh . . .” Doyle looked at me.
“She’s psychic.” I should have mentioned that earlier, maybe. But Doyle seemed to accept it without question.
“Hush,” Rachel hissed. She peered at the little brown spider as if listening to it. “Huh. Something’s talking to it.”
“What? Who?” I looked down at the rest of the spiders on the floor. “What’s it saying?”
She shook her head. “I can’t hear it. It’s fading. But it’s—something. Someone.”
I sat on the sofa. Rabies from rats, or bats. Cats eating corpses. Now spiders. I looked up at Doyle. “The man who fell down the elevator shaft—was he pushed by something?”
She clearly thought we were both crazy. I get that a lot. But she said, “Someone heard a dog barking in the hallway that morning. But that’s it.” She cocked her head. “What—who are you guys?”
“Apparently I’m Ace Ventura, pet detective.” I watched Rachel carefully return the spider to the carpet. “And my beautiful associate.” I stood up again. “And we’re looking for a murderous Dr. Dolittle.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “You think you’re funny.” To Doyle she said, “Don’t worry, this is the kind of case we tend to get. Never just a serial killer or ‘the butler did it.’ Why can’t you be a normal private who just gets shot at, Tom?”
“Hey, I got a hoodlum threatening us just last night.” Which reminded me—“Do you know Steve Morell? He owns a unit here somewhere.”
She frowned. “I don’t think so.”
Back out in the hall, I thanked her. She shrugged. “This is getting weird. I almost wish I could move, but I’d be afraid to sell my place to anyone else.” Her upward elevator came. “Good luck.”
A downward elevator opened its doors two seconds later. We made sure there was really an elevator when the doors opened. Rachel pressed the ground floor button inside.
I leaned against the wall. “The mob using killer spiders, huh? And whatever gave that woman rabies. What’s next, piranhas?”
The elevator stopped with a lurch. “Great.” The first-floor button had gone dark. Rachel jabbed it again. Nothing. She started stabbing other buttons. Then the alarm. Nothing. She reached into her jacket for her phone—
And then something long and heavy dropped from the ceiling onto my shoulders and neck.
“Hey!” Whatever it was, was big. I dropped to my knees as the thing squirmed around me. It had a tough, thick hide that slid down my body, and then it wrapped itself around my chest, firm and strong, as something tickled my ear. A tongue.
It was snake. A giant snake. A boa constrictor.
One of us screamed. It wasn’t Rachel. I would have screamed louder but I was already having trouble breathing. “Rach—Rach? Helllppp . . . “
“Don’t fight it.” She was on the floor next to me, her hands on the boa’s body. “It’ll just squeeze tighter. Try to relax.”
Easy for her to say. The snake’s tongue flicked across my face, and I closed my eyes. I fought panic, trying not to hyperventilate. Slow breaths. My heart thudded hard inside my chest, as if trying to loosen the snake’s hold on my body.
I heard Rachel muttering something, and then she was talking on her phone—“stuck in an elevator, and there’s some kind of snake trying to kill my boyfriend! Get up here now!”
I might have passed out for a moment. When I opened my eyes again I heard Rachel whispering—not to the phone, not to me. To the boa? It wasn’t getting tighter around my ribs. I could still breath, shallowly, blood pounding in my ears as I tried to focus on staying calm. At least Rachel was here. And she wasn’t the one getting squished. I swallowed and tried to zen out, wondering what would happen if I saw the white light and my dead relatives and—
The boa relaxed. I gasped, flooding my chest with air. “Whoa.” I still couldn’t move my arms with the snake clutching them, and I forced myself to lie still so it wouldn’t get mad at me again. “Hey . . .”
“Sssh.” Rachel leaned her face next to me. “I think it’s asleep.”
“So . . .” I kept my voice at a whisper. “What’d you do?”
“I talked to it.” She stroked the snake’s skin.
“You can . . . do that?”
“I could hear him. It. Like with the spider. I could hear a voice there, and I heard one from this fella. Shh, don’t get him riled up again. He was just scared.”
He wasn’t the only one.
From the floor I could see a panel hanging down from the ceiling.
The elevator started descending again five minutes later. Rachel stood up. When the doors opened, two EMTs stared down at me. “What the hell?”
“Don’t wake him,” Rachel whispered. “I think he’s asleep.”
The EMTs and a maintenance worker slowly unwound the boa from my body without freaking it out. People getting on and off elevators stopped to peer at the excitement. Most left quickly when they saw the big snake.
I leaned against the wall between elevators, shaking now that I could let my body move again. “You okay?” Rachel put a hand against my chest. “Breathe. In, out, in, out . . .”
“Thanks for . . . stopping him.” I was still catching my breath. “Does he have a name?”
“Randy!” The shout came from the lobby. “Randy! Are you okay? Where did you—” A man with a mask over short beard, in jeans and a Northwestern University sweatshirt, ran toward the elevators and skidded to a stop. “What’s going on?”
“Mr. Levin.” That was the maintenance worker, a tall Black woman. “This your, uh, snake here?”
“That’s Randy.” He stared at the snake, with half its lower body curled up, its eyes closed. “I don’t—what’s going on?”
I stepped forward, grateful my legs weren’t shaking anymore. “Mr. Levin? I’m Tom Jurgen. Do you have any idea how your snake ended up dropping down on me in the elevator?”
Levin stared at me. “I don’t—I was just out for coffee. How did he—Randy would never . . .” He took a step forward and started to crouch down, but one of the EMT’s blocked him.
“We’re calling Animal Control.” His face was stony.
“But—but—Randy wouldn’t hurt anyone! I don’t understand!” Levin glared at me. “Who are you?”
But then a woman in a gray business suit and a matching mask walked from behind the reception desk. “Mr. Levin? We’ve talked about your pets before.”
“This isn’t my fault!” His face grew red. Then he took a step back and took a deep breath. “Sorry, Ms. Bryers. I just don’t know. He was—I don’t get it.” He looked at me. “What are you talking about?”
I told him about Randy dropping through the panel and wrapping himself around me until I was fighting to breathe. Rachel nudged me to stop me from exaggerating how close I was to death. I finished with: “And then he relaxed. Rachel—this is Rachel—somehow calmed him down.”
“Can I—” He knelt down again, and this time the EMT let him reach out to pat Randy on the head. “It’s okay, boy. I’m sorry. It’ll be okay.”
Then Animal Control showed up, a man and a woman in khaki uniforms. Levin tried to argue, but they gently wrangled Randy into a large cage and locked it up. He tried to go along, but they told him he’d have to call the office for an appointment. He tried to argue, but they left. The EMTs followed. The maintenance woman went back to work.
That left the four of us in front of the elevators—me, Rachel, Levin, and Bryers. A woman said hello to Levin. A man looked as if he wanted to ask Bryers a question, but changed his mind when he saw the exasperation in her eyes.
“Maybe we could talk in your office?” I gave Bryers a business card.
“Tom Jurgen.” Her annoyance shifted. “You’re that detective. About the lawsuit.”
“And about the weird deaths you’ve been having.” I glanced at an opening elevator door. An elderly woman used a cane to step out. “Or we could talk here.”
Two minutes later we were in the building’s management office. One assistant was on the phone and another was photocopying something. Bryers closed her office door and sat behind a small desk.
“Well, Troy,” she said with a sigh. “How could Randy escape from your apartment?”
“I don’t know!” Levin gripped the arms of his chair. “The tank is locked. There’s plenty of airholes, but there’s no way he could get out without—” Levin looked at us. “Were you trying to kidnap him?”
“He just dropped out of the panel in the ceiling,” I said. “I don’t even know where you live.”
“How did he get there? Why would he— Levin shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense!”
“Someone told him to.” Rachel’s voice was quiet.
We all stared at her.
“What?” Levin’s eyes went wide.
“How?” Bryers’ tone was full of skepticism.
“Who?” That was me.
“I don’t know who—or how.” She glanced around the room and settled her hazelnut eyes on Bryers. “I’m psychic. Just don’t ask me to read your mind, okay?”
Bryers’ own eyes narrowed. “And you are?”
“Rachel Dunn,” I said quickly. “My associate. I work for Lloyd Williams Cooke—”
She groaned. “The lawsuit. God, some days I wish I’d taken that other job offer.”
“Yeah, this place is falling apart.” Levin cast his eyes upward, as if wondering whether the ceiling was going to fall in on him. “Just the other day—”
“Let’s stick to the subject, please. The snake?” She zeroed in on Rachel. “Someone told it to hide on top of an elevator and fall on your boss? Are you the snake whisperer?”
“Look, Ms. Brysers.” I crossed my arms. “People are dying in your condo building. Just today someone in your building was killed by spiders. And someone else—Mrs. Chin—something bit her and gave her rabies. And cats ate someone else—”
“I know.” She planted her arms on her desk. “Believe me—it’s more than you think.”
Uh-oh. Rachel and I exchanged a look. “What do you mean?”
She looked at Levin. “Troy? We’ll talk about Randy later.”
“Fine.” He stood up. “Let me check his tank. I’ll call you.”
After he left, Bryers poured herself a cup of coffee from a machine behind her desk. “I never should have taken this job offer. The manager before me? She quit after six months. The thing is . . .” She gulped her coffee. “I’m sorry. Do you want anything? Coffee? Tea? Water?”
“We’re fine.” I glanced at Rachel. She shook her head.
“I mean, I had other offers, but this place—the most elite building in Chicago?” Bryers rubbed her forehead. “That’s what they told me. Then the floods, and the elevators, and everything else. And now this.” More coffee.
I leaned forward. “A man named Steve Morell owns a unit here. Do you know much about him?”
“I’m not really supposed to do this, but I guess I’m going to quit soon, so—” She turned to her computer. “Morell, 1512. Tenant, Marilyn Carver. Pet—one cat. But she complains about other people’s pets a lot. Barking, not using the freight elevator, messes in the halls—”
“Wait a minute.” I looked at Rachel. “Mrs. Carver? Why is she living in the apartment if Morell owns it?”
“I believe . . .” Bryers tapped some more keys. “Looks like she’s Mr. Morell’s aunt. He stops in sometimes to visit her. Sometimes he calls for maintenance for her.”
“His aunt?” It seemed odd to think of a mobster having an elderly aunt. Of course, The Sopranos is all about family.
“She’s a nice lady.” Bryers took my card from her pocket to look at. “I’ll keep this.”
Rachel and I glanced at each other. “We’ll be in touch.”
Out in the lobby we stared at the elevators. I was nervous about getting in one again.
“What are you thinking?” Rachel peered over her mask at me.
I shrugged. “She’s related to Morell. She complained about people’s pets. She knew about Randy. Plus, she has a black cat.”
“That’s an old stereotype.”
“Yeah.” I pressed a button and adjusted my mask. “Let’s go.”
“Idiot.” But instead of hitting me she patted my arm.
“Hell, no.” I pressed the doorbell.
A moment after the chime, the door opened. Mrs. Carver smiled out. “Mr. Jurgen? Hello—who’s this?” She peered at Rachel over her mask, puzzled.
“This is Rachel, my associate. May we come in?”
Inside she gestured toward her big kitchen. “Coffee? Oh, this is my nephew, Steve. Steve this is Mr. Jurgen and his friend Rachel. I told you about him.”
Morell was tall and bulky, with a thick neck, sparse black hair and a heavy jaw. He stared at me from next to the windows. “Jurgen.”
“Yeah, we’ve met. Talked on the phone, actually.” I glanced a quick warning at Rachel. “How are you? You own this unit, don’t you?”
“He takes very good care of me.” Mrs. Carver sat down in her chair. The black cat, from nowhere, jumped onto her lap.
Morell crossed his arms. “What’s this about, Jurgen?”
“Just a few questions.” Rachel and I stayed on our feet. “Did you hear about Ms. Kinchloe?”
Mrs. Carver shivered. “We have trouble with all kinds of things here.”
“It happens everywhere.” Morell stepped toward her chair. “Shit happens.”
“Steven!” She shook her head. “You know I don’t like that kind of language.”
“Boa constrictors don’t fall from in elevators everywhere.” Confronting a gangster face to face scared me almost as much as Randy, but I managed to keep talking. “Do have any idea how Troy Levin’s snake Randy might have dropped on me an hour ago?”
Morell scowled. Mrs. Carver’s hands trembled as she stroked Ozzie. “Randy? Really? Is that his name? I didn’t—”
“What are you doing here?” Morell took a step forward. “You got no business bothering anyone, let alone my aunt.”
“Please calm down, Steven.” Mrs. Carver bit her lip, watching him warily. “Really, people shouldn’t keep snakes in the building. Or let their dogs bark at all hours. That’s all I know.”
Morell took a step forward. Then Rachel said, “That’s a beautiful cat. Persian?”
Mrs. Craver’s eyes sparkled. “My Ozzie. I don’t really know. A friend gave him to me when she got married. Her husband was allergic.”
Rachel reached out a hand. “May I—”
But Ozzie’s back suddenly arched and stiffened, and he hissed at Rachel. She dropped her arm.
“Ozzie! I’m sorry. He doesn’t like most people.” Mrs. Carver rubbed Ozzie’s cheek. “Be good, Ozzie.”
Rachel shot me a look. I nodded. “Well, thanks, Mrs. Carver. Mr. Morell.” Morell glared as I turned for the door. “Have a good day.”
Out in the hallway Rachel grabbed my arm. “It’s not her. It’s the cat.”
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