Catherine Randel lived in a ritzy retirement facility in the Edgewater neighborhood. I parked outside at 6:25 and stopped at the front desk to give my name and Rachel’s to an attendant, who made a phone call, gave us guest badges, and told us to have a seat in the lounge.
The lounge was next to the dining room, which was empty except for a few latecomers. Rachel and I sat on a firm sofa, maintaining a professional distance so nobody would suspect that hours ago we’d been, well, not exactly maintaining any distance. At least I hoped nobody would think that, although Rachel kept poking my leg with a grin.
Then Hopcroft appeared, escorting his mother. Catherine Randel walked with a thick cane and a steely gaze. She looked to be in her 70s, Vollmer’s age, but her steps were still strong and firm as she made her way toward us.
They took chairs in front of the sofa and looked us over like jurors assessing defendants in a trial.
I introduced myself and Rachel. Catherine nodded politely, not glancing at her son. “What’s it all about? You wanted to talk about Carrie?”
“Yes.” I got out my phone and showed her the portrait of Vollmer. “Do you recognize this?”
She had to squint. “That’s Myles.”
“I was talking actually about the painting. Have you seen it before?”
She cocked her head. “I remember when—when it was painted.”
“You were there?”
She nodded. “She was—angry with him.”
“Did you know him very well?”
Catherine sat back, as if searching her memory. “No. Not very well.”
“Why was she angry? What did he do to her?”
Catherine sighed. “Jonathan said you’re working for Myles? Is that right?”
“That’s right. He’s worried that someone—Carrie—is targeting his family for revenge.”
Her eyes grew sharp. “Carrie’s dead. She died in Mexico.”
“How did she die?”
“She did all the usual, traditional treatments. Chemo, radiation, everything. Nothing worked. So finally she left for Mexico for a shaman she’d heard about. It—it happened there.”
“A shaman?” I glanced at Rachel. She shrugged.
“That’s what she called it. I—I didn’t understand, but I didn’t argue with her. Not after everything she went through. So we—she went to Mexico.”
We? I started to ask, but Rachel cut in. “When did you see her last?”
The question took Catherine by surprise. “I can’t think—I suppose—she went to Mexico in 2012, I think. I remember it was winter. Maybe a few months before. We aren’t—were never very close.”
“How close in age?” I asked. “Are you older? Younger?”
Again she seemed puzzled. “I’m a little—a year younger. I’m 73. No, 74. God, I don’t know how old I am, I’m just old. And not getting any younger talking to you.” She yawned.
“You’re an artist too, aren’t you?” I asked.
She chuckled. “Not like Carrie. I could do a portrait, a hill, some trees, fish, pets, that sort of thing. Carrie looked at the world through different eyes.”
“Except for the portrait of Myles Vollmer.”
She shook her head. “That was—different.”
“Different how?”
Her eyes clouded for a moment. “Carrie could paint anything she wanted. She did that picture for Myles because—as a good-bye.”
“When they broke up?”
She glared at me. “You don’t know anything about them.”
“I know a little. Just from Myles.”
“Then you only know part of it, but it’s not my business to share it with you. Not after all this time.” She rubbed her eyes.
I took out my phone. “Did you make this box?”
Catherine looked at it for a moment, then smiled. “I remember it. I made it for Nicole. Before she died.”
“It’s different from what you usually make. Not a landscape or an animal.”
She shrugged. “Sometimes I just like to try different things.”
“Some people thought that Catherine Randel was a name Carrie used. That’s how I found you.”
Catherine shook her head again, tired. “I don’t know anything about what other people think. They can think what they want.”
“You launched your website in 2014. Shortly after Carrie’s death. Were you painting before that?”
She rubbed her eyes. “Just a little. Then I got—after I retired, I had more time, and then . . .” Her voice faded, and her eyelids drooped.
Hopcroft stood up. “I think we’re done, all right?”
I glanced to see if Rachel had any more questions, but she nodded. “Fine,” I said. “Thank you for your time. If I have any more questions—”
“Forget it.” Hopcroft’s face was stern. “This is it. Don’t bother my mother again.”
“I’ll try not to,” I replied. “But—"
“It was just such a long time ago.” Catherine stood, leaning on her cane. “I just—don’t want to go back there again.”
“I appreciate it.” I held out a hand.
Hopcroft took it. Rachel held out her hand, and Catherine took it. Then Hopcroft held Catherine’s arm as she turned slowly away, heading back to her room.
I looked at Rachel. “Well?”
She can pick up a lot, especially when she touches someone. “She’s a little irritated at her son. She definitely knows more about Carrie.” Rachel watched them walking away. “There’s something, but I can’t quite—like a whisper I can’t hear.” She shook her head to clear it. “That’s it. Sorry.”
“No, that’s great.” I wasn’t sure what it meant, but you never know what’s going to be useful. “You want to get dinner?”
“It’s my night to cook, isn’t it? Yes.” She took my hand. “I saw an Italian place a few blocks away.”
“Deal.” We headed to the front lobby, and then I stopped at the door.
“What?” Rachel asked. “I’m hungry.”
“I just thought of a question.”
She rolled her eyes. “Not five minutes ago?”
“Sorry.” I took out my phone.
Hopcroft sounded annoyed. “What is it?”
“Are you still with your mother?”
“Yes, but—”
“I have to ask her a question.”
For a moment I thought I’d have to argue, but he apparently decided I wasn’t worth it. “Catherine? It’s that detective again.”
“Yes? Mr., uh, Jurgen, was it?”
“Tom Jurgen, ma’am. I need to ask you—where are your sister’s remains?”
Silence. Then, from far away: “I have them here. In a Mexican urn.”
I wanted her to see it, but I had a feeling I’d pushed Catherine about as far as I could right now. “All right. Thank you.” I hung up.
“What was that?” Rachel asked as we turned to the front door.
“Just an idea. I have to think about it.”
“Over dinner.”
I nodded. “Yes. Dinner.”
Sabrina Vollmer yawned as she closed her laptop. Long day—and more work when she got home. Markets don’t sleep, she reminded herself, so why should I?
She turned off the computer on her desk, grabbed her coat, and turned off her office lights. The hallway was empty, which made everything feel a little spooky, even though she walked it alone most nights.
The elevator took a long time to arrive. She checked the email on her phone as she waited. Nothing urgent, but some messages to respond to tonight. After her Uber home and her dinner from DoorDash. The exciting life of an account executive at a mid-level finance company.
The elevator opened. She pressed the ground floor button, still scrolling her messages. Another one from Dad. Just checking in, everything OK? Sabrina sighed. Lately Dad was on top of her life more than usual. He’d always been up her butt too much—her grades, her boyfriends, which college to go to, what job to take, why she shouldn’t date anyone—but in the last few weeks he was texting her 10 times a day. Was he losing it? Getting dementia? She felt a pang of conscience. I ought to go out to visit him—
The elevator shuddered. It jerked up, then down, then paused. The lights flickered. It dropped a few feet. Sabrina bit her lip, trying not to scream, her fingers poised over the emergency button on her phone. This would be a stupid way to die.
Then the lights came back on and the elevator resumed it smooth descent. Sabrina held her breath, watching the numbers go down, until the doors opened to the lobby.
Sabrina waved to the nighttime guard and pushed through the revolving doors to LaSalle Street. The sidewalk was quiet, just a few late workers like her making their way to the subway or looking for taxis. The bar across the street was bright and noisy, neon and music blaring through the air.
People from work were there, she knew. Maybe I ought to—no, too much work. Damn it. And she could see her Uber coming down the block.
Sabrina lifted a hand and stepped to the curb. A van made a turn, cutting off her Uber. Sabrina rolled her eyes. Idiots. She waved again as the van hit the gas, accelerating to beat the light at the corner—
Something shoved her from behind. Sabrina swore, turning. No one, just someone in the revolving door six feet away.
Another shove. What the hell? She staggered, losing her balance, and then a third shove hit her in the legs. She reached out for something to grab onto—
Then she saw the van. The driver shouted something and she saw him lean back, slamming on the brake, pounding his horn, his eyes wide with alarm as the van hurtled toward her—
Something grabbed the collar of her coat. Another hand caught her arm.
Sabrina was yanked back, colliding with whoever was behind her, and they both toppled to the sidewalk.
She rolled over, off the body beneath her, and sat there on her knees, gasping for breath. The van hesitated for a moment, and then the driver apparently decided he didn’t want to stay and answer any questions. He pulled away. Asshole.
“You all right?” She recognized the voice.
Sabrina blinked. “Steve? What are—” She bit her lip. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”
Steve, who worked down the hall at the office, helped Sabrina to her feet. “I just saw you—you sort of stumbled, and then—Jesus, that was close.”
“Yeah.” She turned and saw the Uber pull close to the curb. “Thanks,” she said again. “What are you doing here?”
“I was just going to go over for a drink.” His eyes darted toward the bar. “You want to come? You could probably use it.”
“No, I should—” Sabrina caught her breath. Her heart was still pounding. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe I should.” She waved the Uber off, took Steve’s hand, and let him lead her across the street. Work could wait. She needed a drink now.
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