Dead or Alive?

 A gangster is supposed to be dead—so who’s killing off his former crew members one by one? Tom Jurgen’s hunt for answers leads him face to face with a killer called back from the grave.

Dead or Alive? Part One

Quinn Hardy knew trouble was waiting inside when he opened his door.

            His apartment was small—one room, with a bathroom hardly wide enough to turn around in. Small enough for him to feel when anything was out of place. Not that he had many possessions to keep track off—just a mattress on the floor, a dresser with dirty clothes scattered across the top, a square table with a few books and a laptop for watching movies, a lamp. Just the basics.

            He stood in the doorway and flipped on the light, casting shadows over the walls. The room was still, silent. Hardy closed the door and reached around behind his back. He still carried the gun he’d stolen from his uncle in his 20s. “Who’s there? Who is it?”

            No answer. But he felt a puff of air across the back of his neck, and he whirled around. How could anyone get behind him?

            Before he could turn all the way, a pair of big hands shoved at his shoulder, and he hit the floor with a hard thud. A shoe kicked at his ribs. Hardy grunted, grabbed for the foot but missed, and punched at the air.

            Years ago he’d been able to beat anyone stupid enough to challenge him. Now he was old, weak, and on the floor, gasping for breath. What the hell? 

            He blinked. A face loomed over him. He rubbed his eyes, and a face came into focus. Hardy blinked again.

            “Howard?” His voice was a dry croak.

            Lips curled in a humorless smile. 

            Hardy stared up. “I thought—they said—”

            The figure leaned down, and Hardy saw the long knife in his hand. 

            “No. No! I didn’t tell anyone, I swear! No! No!” Hardy lifted his arms, tried to push the blade away, grabbed for the man’s wrist but it slid through his fingers. 

            Then the knife plunged down. Once into his chest. Hardy tried to scream, but the knife slashed across his throat. Once, twice. He stared up at the man above him in disbelief. It can’t be. Can’t be. Can’t—

 

Michael Chapman’s uncle was dead. “He was murdered last week.”

            “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. 

Chapman was in his 30s, the owner of a two small health clubs on the north side of Chicago. He was solidly built, with a short beard and dark eyes. We were in the coffee shop near my apartment where I meet with a lot of clients.

            “His name was Dan. Dan Hoffman. I was taking some food over to his place, and I walked in, and he was—” Chapman shuddered. “On the sofa. Covered in blood. But he was still alive. I was trying to stop the bleeding, but it was too much. I mean, the guy slashed his throat.” He paused for a sip of water and a deep breath. “The thing is, before he died, he managed to say something. Oakes.”

            “Oakes.” I waited.

             “My uncle, he was a, well, a crook.” Chapman rolled his eyes. “He was in jail a couple of times. Drugs, theft, firearms. He didn’t walk about it much, but I’m pretty sure he was involved with the Outfit. You know, the Mafia? At least around the edges. The thing is—” He leaned forward. “He used to talk about a guy named Howard Oakes. Just a little. He worked with him on a lot of ‘deals.’ He called them deals, but he meant—you know.” 

            “Right.” I was getting nervous. I’m used to running into vampires and demons occasionally, but I try to steer clear of the Chicago Mob. 

            “I told the cops, but the thing is—Dan always said Howard Oakes was dead. He was vague about what he did for him, but I definitely remember him telling me about Oakes being dead. He heard it from friends. It must have been two or three years ago.”

            I made a note. “So what did the police say?”

            “They think it’s a revenge thing, for something Dan did a long time ago. I don’t know for sure how, uh, how he made money these days. He was living in a garage apartment down the street from us, but I bought groceries for him a lot, and helped with the rent. Anyway, they didn’t think ‘Oakes’ means anything. But I know what I heard, and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

            “So how can I help you?” I hoped he wasn’t going to ask me to catch the killer. 

            “Can you find out if Oakes is really dead?” 

            That was something I could do. “I can try. I can’t guarantee a definite answer, but it’s usually easier to prove someone’s dead than prove they’re not.”

            “That’s fine.” Chapman seemed relieved that someone was taking him seriously. 

            He provided some background on his uncle, and we talked about the financial details. I got a retainer, he got a receipt, and we finished our coffee and left.

            Back home Rachel was working on some paperwork—she’s a therapist. She’s also my girlfriend: red hair, hazelnut eyes, and mild psychic powers. Plus, she’s my fiancée.

“My mom insists we come to dinner before the wedding,” she told me as I sat down at my desk. 

             “Well, if we have to.” I turned on my computer. “Honestly, you seem to be dreading it more than I do.”

            “You didn’t have to grow up with her.” I’d never met Rachel’s mother, and she didn’t like to talk about her childhood. I only knew that for several years after her parents’ divorce, Rachel’s life had been unpleasant, thanks to her mother’s succession of boyfriend and her psychic powers rising up before she could understand what was happening to her. 

            “We’ll just have to endure it. Or we could break the engagement off. That seems extreme, but—”

            “You getting cold feet? I knew it.” 

            I turned in my chair. “Hey, we can go down to city hall right now. Get a license, find a judge, say ‘I do,’ and be back in time for Jeopardy.”

            “Meh.” Rachel shook her head. “You’ve got a new client. I’ve got tons of paperwork. Maybe tomorrow.”

            “Any time.” I blew her a kiss.

            Actually I was relieved. We’d been engaged for a month, but we were having trouble setting a date. I guess we both still have issues we’re working out. 

            So we turned back to our computers and went to work.

First I looked up news reports on the uncle’s murder. There only one short article that just hinted at the details of the stabbing. No mention of his criminal past. Police were exploring leads. 

Then I started searching for everything I could find about Howard Oakes.

            The name was distinctive enough to let me filter out unrelated people. Yeah, Howard Oakes had been a crook, arrested multiple times for theft, robbery, assault, and other offenses. He’d served two terms in state prison, but dropped from sight after that.

            I dived deeper. Oakes really did have ties to the Chicago Outfit, mostly through one brother-in-law, who’d been a major player in the mob before going to prison for 15 years; he’d died shortly after his release. Oakes had apparently beaten some people up for the guy, but the charges never stuck. Then he stabbed another gangster in front of too many witnesses to be ignored. The victim lived, and the case got plea bargained down from attempted murder to assault. Oakes did three years. 

After getting out, he worked with a crew robbing restaurants and stores downtown and in the suburbs. I found the names of two others in his crew, but there were more who weren’t identified. Dan Hoffman wasn’t one of them. 

Then I noticed a cop’s name: Zack Getty, a detective with the organized crime unit. He’d spent more than a year investigating the robberies, looking at surveillance tapes, finding witnesses to testify, and finally tracking Oakes down in Rantoul to arrest him. Oakes spent seven years in prison. After getting out, he dropped out of sight as far as the internet was concerned.

Getty was retired, but I found an email address for him on social media. Then I did a quick search for the two members of Oakes’ crew, Jake Reilly and Quinn Hardy. Reilly worked at a bar on the west side, and Quinn Hardy—

Quinn Hardy was dead.

I read one article. It was just like the story about Dan Hoffman. The victim lived alone, and neighbors had found him stabbed to death after not seeing him for a few days. The story did mention that Hardy had done jail time, and police were looking at that angle.

I called my client. “Did your uncle ever mention a man named Quinn Hardy?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Who’s that?”

“He was stabbed to death a few days before your uncle. I don’t have a lot of details, but it’s—interesting.”

Rachel turned in her chair. “What was that?”

I gestured her to stay quiet. Chapman said, “What do you think’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Did you say something about your uncle’s throat?”

“Yeah, his throat was, uh, slashed, I guess. Is that what happened to this other guy?”

“I don’t know. I’ll check into it and let you know.” We hung up.

Rachel was next to my chair down, leaning down. “What kind of case are you working on, shamus?”

I lifted my arms in case she started to hit me. “So far, I’m just trying to confirm that an ex-mobster is really dead.” 

“And if he isn’t?” She cocked her fist. Rachel likes to punch me. Mostly it’s harmless fun. Sometimes it’s scary.

“I don’t know. He might not have anything to do with the two murders—” I stopped. 

She dropped her arm. “When we’re married, we’re going to have a rule about you taking murder cases without talking to me first. Or anything with the mob. Especially both.”

“Agreed.” I backed my chair away. “For right now, though—”

“Back to work.” She turned for her desk. “Just keep me up to date. My mom’s going to be really crazy if I finally get engaged and my fiancé gets killed.”

 

Dead or Alive? Part Two

Zack Getty had white hair that was thin on top, and wrists so skinny he could probably slip out of most handcuffs. We were in a downtown diner the next morning, eating breakfast at 10 a.m. “I don’t have to get up for breakfast early now I’m retired,” he told me. 

            I’d already eaten at seven, so I was just drinking coffee. “So what can you tell me about Howard Oakes?”

            “Howard Oakes.” Getty settled back in his chair and folded his hands across his belly. “Low-level gopher for Al Ravone, who ran most of the west side for 15 years until we got him on tape. Oakes was—well, he handled pickups and payoffs, gambling mostly, a little rough stuff on the loan sharking end. Nothing big time. He ran into some bad luck when a late customer pulled a gun on him, and he stabbed the guy.” He picked up his coffee cup and waved to the waitress.

            “So he went to prison, and when he got out, he started robbing stores?”

            He waited while we got out coffee refilled. “Guy he stabbed didn’t want to testify, but we didn’t need the details. He did a plea bargain. When he got out, Ravone was in prison and the new boss didn’t want anything to do with him, so he went into business for himself. Built himself a crew and started knocking over any place with cash. Stores, but some homes too, whenever he figured they were empty. And filled with stuff he wanted.”

            “Until you caught him.”

            Getty grunted. “Took me most of a year. I knew it was Oakes, but getting everything in place to arrest him? I needed witnesses, fingerprints, stolen property, surveillance footage—evidence. Then I had to find him. He knew I was on his ass, and he dropped out of sight for months. I finally found out he had a cousin down in Rantoul, and I went looking. I didn’t even expect to find him, but there he was, sitting in the living room when his cousin opened the door.” He chuckled.

            “Is he dead?” I figured I’d get to the point.

            Getty frowned, as if I’d interrupted his story at the good part. “As far as I know. I got the email when he was released, and I called his parole officer about him. About a year after, the parole officer called me and said he was in a car accident and died. That answer your question?”

            “I hope so.” I looked at my notes. Getty seemed to like the fact that I keep a notebook instead of writing stuff down on my phone. “What about his crew?”

            That seemed to cheer him up. “He had six or seven people. There was Jerry Carra, Tim Schrantz, Quinn Hardy—here, I’ll write them down.” He pulled my notebook away from me.

            “You remember every name?” I watched as he scribbled on the page.

            “You got to. And it was a big case, biggest case of my career.” 

            “Was Dan Hoffman one of them?”

            “Yeah, off and on. They weren’t all on every job.” He pushed the notebook back to me.

            I looked down the list of names. “Did any of them testify against him?”

            “We only got a few of them. They were all pretty scared of Oakes, so nobody wanted to cooperate. The rest walked, but those kind of guys—well, they’re going to go down for something eventually, you know?”

            “Was Oakes dangerous? Did he kill people?” 

            Getty hesitated. “They said—we could never prove it, but anyway, there were stories that he liked to use his knife on people. We could never corroborate that, but there were a couple murders he could have pulled off. People who owed Ravone money, or just pissed him off. The victims were all stabbed in the chest, and then had their throat slashed twice. Just twice. Messy. But we could never tie anything to him.”

            I thought of Chapman: The guy slashed his throat. “Do you have any information on the car crash that killed him?”

            “No. It would have been 2020, 2021. He got out in, uh, 2017 I think.” He looked up, thinking. “Yeah, that’s about right.”

            “What about his crew? Have you heard anything about them? Is there anyone else who knew him who might know?”

            “I don’t know about his crew. He had a girlfriend, Priscilla, what was her name? Priscilla Gallagher, that’s it. She had a hair salon business, did pretty good with it. She was his main woman.” Getty winked. “I mean, the one he was with longest, you know? I heard she got married to some rich guy.”

            “Anyone else?”

            Getty shook his head. “Not really. Why do you want to know? I mean, I appreciate the breakfast and everything, but what’s going on? Why are you asking questions about a dead guy?”

            I hesitated, but there was no reason to lie. “Two people from Oakes’s crew have been murdered in the last week or so. Quinn Hardy and Dan Hoffman. My client is Dan Hoffman’s nephew, and he heard Hoffman say ‘Oakes’ before he died. Both of them were stabbed and slashed in the throat. My client didn’t know about Hardy. He just wants me to make sure Howard Oakes is really dead.”

            “Huh.” He finished his coffee. “Could be anyone else. You talk to us about it? Us, the CPD, I mean.” He chuckled. “Can’t quite get it out of my skin.”

            “Not yet.” I had gotten some info on Quinn Hardy from Anita Sharp, a detective who works with me on vampire cases, but I wasn’t pushing any theories yet. “I mean, when you were a cop, would you have listened to someone like me?”

            Getty snorted. “Probably not. Most P.I.s aren’t much better than cockroaches, except they’re harder to step on. No offense.”

            “Yeah, I get that a lot.” I got out my credit card for the waitress. “Most cops I meet try not to be assholes, except some of them can’t help it. No offense?”

            Getty laughed. 

 

In my car I spent a few minutes looking for Priscilla Gallagher. I figured if anyone would know for sure that Howard Oakes was dead, it would be his girlfriend. Or ex-girlfriend, whatever. Surprisingly, I found her pretty quickly, mostly because her string of hair salons had her name attached to them. Even more surprisingly, when I got her on the phone, she agreed to meet with me at her condo whenever I could get there. “Bring a bottle of wine,” she said. “Something expensive.” 

            Rachel was at work, seeing patients in the clinic, so I sent her an email with the details. I like to let her know where I am in case I get killed. Or arrested. Or kidnapped. Or sucked into another dimension.

            Priscilla Gallagher’s condo on Clark Street was in a 12-story building with a convenience store across the street. I bought a $20 bottle of white wine, walked over, and gave the doorman inside the tiny vestibule my name. He nodded at the bottle as he lifted his phone. A moment later he replaced the phone. “Apartment 912,” he said in a flat voice. I thanked him as he buzzed the door open.

            At apartment 912 I knocked, and after most of a minute the door opened. The woman inside was tall, with silvery blond hair, in her 50s, wearing a loosely tied robe around blue silk pajamas, slippers on her feet. “Tom?”

            “Uh, Ms. Gallagher?” I tried to keep my eyes at the appropriate level. Her pajamas were somewhat translucent.

            “Priscilla.” She held out a hand, looking me over. “You brought wine? Come on in.”

            She led me into a living room with a view of the roof of the building next door. A bookcase held some plants and photographs, and a few books. A coffee table sat in front of the sofa, with cup of coffee and a bottle of Cointreau next to an ashtray and a pack of cigarettes. The morning paper sat on a corner, folded open to the astrology section.

“There’s a corkscrew in the kitchen,” she said as she flopped onto the sofa. “Bring two glasses.”

            It was 11:30 in the morning. Early for me, but I figured I could sip it to avoid offending her. I brought the corkscrew and the glass. 

             I opened the wine while Priscilla scrolled through her phone. “I have to stay on top of everything, even if I’m not there,” she said as she tapped out a message. She set the phone on her leg, picked up the wine, and took a swallow. “Nice.”

            “Thank you.” I perched on the edge of an armchair facing her. 

            “You wanted to talk about Howard.” She put her glass down and leaned forward. “What do you want to know?”

            I decided to cut to the chase. “Is he dead?”

            She blinked. “Well, yes. He’s in Rosehill Cemetery.  He died two years ago. No, three years. It was 2021. I remember it . . .” She took another sip of wine.

            “I’m sorry for asking it so bluntly.” I took as small a sip as I could. “Can you tell me what happened?”

            “It was a car accident. He was getting off Lake Shore Drive, and I guess he didn’t see the other car. He was drunk, of course.” She shrugged. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago, and we were—I loved him, and he loved me, I guess, but we had different lives. But Howard was into some bad things. Do you know about that?” She stared at me.

            “Yeah.” I nodded.

            “Yes.” Priscilla nodded back. “Then you understand. He could be wonderful. But he loved the booze, and the drugs, and he had a temper, and he had—bad friends.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking about him?”

            Before I could answer, the landline phone on the table next to her buzzed. She picked it up. “Yes? Who? All right.” She hung up and shook her head. “That’s odd. One of Howard’s friends. Is something going on?”

            I started to explain, but the knock came before I could get too far. Priscilla headed to the door, and a moment later a man in jeans and a battered leather jacket marched in. “Did you hear about Jerry?”

            “What about—who?” She came back to the sofa and lit a cigarette. “Jerry—”

            “Jerry Carra. He got killed.” He turned to look at me. “Who the hell are you?”

            Jerry Carra. Getty had mentioned his name—one of Oakes’ crew. “Tom Jurgen. You are—?”

            “This is Tim.” She gestured with her cigarette. “He’s an old friend.”

            “Tim Schrantz?” I recognized the name from Getty. “You were part of Howard Oakes’ team?”

            He planted his fists on his waist. “Who is this, Priscilla?”

            “He’s a private detective. He’s trying to make sure Howard is really dead.” She smiled. “He brought me wine.”

            “Howard’s dead, all right.” He looked from me to Priscilla, then back to me again. “You got that? You can leave now.”

            “What happened to Jerry Carra?” I stood up, hoping Schrantz wouldn’t try to throw me out. He was large and beefy, with bushy eyebrows and stubble over his chin, and I had no doubt he could hurl me through the window if he felt like it.

            “He got killed,” Schrantz said again. “This morning sometime. His cleaning lady found him.”

            “Stabbed? Throat slashed?” I asked.

            Schrantz glared. “Yeah. What do you know about it?”

            “The same thing happened to Quinn Hardy. And Dan Hoffman.” I looked him over. “You must be feeling scared.”

            He curled his upper lip. “You ought to be feeling scared, Mr. Detective. Get out.”

            “Calm down, Tim. Nothing’s going to happen in my house.” Priscilla blew smoke. “Although he’s right, Tom. There really isn’t anything I can do for you anymore. Thanks for the wine.”

            I wasn’t ready to give up yet. “The stabbing—one to the chest, two slashes across the throat? That was Oakes’ move, wasn’t it? The police never got him for anything, but I’ve been told—"

            “You don’t know anything.” Schrantz turned and walked toward a cabinet on the other side of the room, where he found a bottle of whiskey. “I did jail time because of him. If you think I’m going to tell you anything about Howard Oakes, you’ve got your head up your ass.” He poured some whiskey into a glass.

            “Please, help yourself,” Priscilla said with a loud sigh. “Tom, Howard is dead. I don’t know anything about these other people—”

            “You know who they are, though. Tim came right here to tell you about Jerry Carra. Why would he do that?” I turned to Schrantz. “Were you all close friends in the crew?”

            Schrantz gulped the whiskey. “Howard was the kind of guy you listened to. You didn’t ask questions. He told you to do something, you did it. Like that professor’s house at the lake in Gary—"

            “Tim, shut up.” Priscilla jammed her cigarette into the ashtray. “Tom, he’s right, though. His friends were very loyal to them. And Howard was good to everyone too, right, Tim?”

            Schrantz poured some more whiskey. “He was fair. I did my time for everything, so I don’t owe you anything.”

            “What about Priscilla? What do you owe her?”

            Suddenly he slammed his glass down and started a charge toward me. “You don’t get to—”

            “Tim, stop!” She was on her feet now, almost tripping in her slippers as she tried to shield me from Schrantz. “Tom, you really need to leave. Now.”

            I held up a hand in surrender. “I’ll go. Sorry for any trouble.” I waited until I was sure Schrantz wasn’t going to strike, then dropped my business card on the table next to the ashtray. “Thanks for your time.”

            Priscilla winked. “Anytime you’ve got wine.”

            I left.

 

Back home I got a cup of coffee and called my client.

            “Two people have told me that Howard Oakes died in a car accident,” I told Chapman. “His girlfriend says it happened in 2021. I can check further, maybe find a news article or accident report if you want.”

            Chapman didn’t answer right away. “What about that Quinn Hardy guy?”

            “I don’t know, but it sounds as if one more person on the crew with your uncle has also been murdered. I haven’t check into that yet, but I can.”

            Again he took a long time before responding. “I don’t know. It was just—hearing that name, and all that blood . . . I just doesn’t seem real. Let me think about it.”

            “That’s fine. Let me know what you want me to do.”

            After we hung up, I checked into Jerry Carra. I found only a short item on a neighborhood news site about the murder, with no details. Then, even though Chapman had told me to wait, I started looking for information on Oakes’s car accident. Because I was curious.

            Eventually I found what I was looking for: A crash just off Lake Shore Drive at Wilson that had killed two people. The fatalities weren’t named, but one of them was obviously Oakes. The crash had taken place on May 9, 2021.

Rosehill Cemetery, Priscilla had said. I look at my emails and my current cases. Nothing was urgent. I decided to eat lunch. Rachel called as I was making myself a sandwich.

“How’s the shrink business?” I asked, opened a Coke. “Did you tackle any unresolved Oedipus complexes this morning?”

“Freud would have a field day with you,” Rachel replied. “How’d it go with, uh, who was it? Priscilla?” 

“I’m a little disappointed that she didn’t try to seduce me, but it was productive.”

“You wish.” Rachel snorted. She can get territorial where I’m concerned—just like I get nervous when she’s around any handsome athletic young men. “So is the guy dead?”

“I’m going to go to a cemetery and check out his grave.”

“Well, don’t dig him up to make sure. Unless you really have to. How was the cop you bought breakfast for?”

“Informative. I got the names of Oakes’s crew. And I met one at Priscilla’s place.”

“Geez. You better not be getting involved with the Outfit. Or getting seduced by Priscilla. Either one, and we’ll be having problems.”

“Loud and clear.” I heard voices behind her.  “Do you need to go?”

“Yeah, we’re having a meeting now. See you tonight.”

We hung up. I finished my sandwich and headed for my car.

Dead or Alive? Part Three

Rosehill Cemetery on Ravenswood covers some 350 acres on the north side of the city. Inside the office, a Black woman in a crisp gray suit looked up Oakes’s name. The nametag on her chest read: Sayra Reynolds, manager. I downloaded an app that would use my phone’s GPS to guide me to the gravesite.

            After thanking her, I took a little chance. “You don’t know anything about Howard Oakes, do you?”

            She pursed her lips. “Are you family?”

            “No,” I admitted. I gave her my card. “I’m basically just trying to confirm for a client that he’s dead.”

            She studied the card. “You aren’t going to dig him up, are you?”

            “Would I find him if I did?”

            She cocked her head with a tight smile. “Most of him.”

            I raised my eyebrows.

            Ms. Reynolds chuckled. “Private means private, right? Whatever I tell you?” 

            “Well, I don’t have any legal protection like a lawyer. But I won’t tell anybody unless I absolutely have to.” I waited.

            She nodded. “Okay. You didn’t hear from me, right? I remember when he came in. They’re held in another location until it’s time for burial, and there was something wrong with the lid on the casket. When the guy was trying to make it secure, he somehow opened it, and—there wasn’t any head.”

            I frowned. “No head.”

            “Nope.” She shook her head. “I called the contact number, and they said they’d take care of it. Someone from the mortuary came out a few hours later, was in the building for five minutes, and left. The coffin was back secure, and he got buried the next day. No graveside service, I don’t think.”

            “Huh.” I tried to think. “So who was the contact number for?”

            “Some woman. I don’t remember her name. I didn’t even see the guy who came out, the other manager talked to him.” She shrugged. “Do you know how he died?”

            “Car accident.” It was possible he’d been decapitated in the crash. But why wouldn’t the head be with the body? “Well, that’s interesting. Thanks.”

            “Have a peaceful day.” She went back to playing something on her phone.

            I followed the app’s directions down a road that twisted and curved past the trees, family mausoleums and weathered gravestones, until my phone told me I’d reached my destination. I got out and walked, the grass soft and quiet under my heels, a chilly breeze across my neck.

            Oakes’s gravestone was about a foot high, granite, with just his full name—Howard Samuel Oakes—and his birthday and death date. I took a few pictures and sent them to Chapman. I didn’t mention Oakes’s missing head.

            I don’t know what I expected to learn, but the manager’s story at least seemed to confirm that something strange was going on. Maybe Oakes had faked his death? Or he’d come back from the grave to take vengeance on his former crew members? What for, though? 

As far as I could see, the soil over his grave was undisturbed, so if he’d risen like a vampire in the last few days, someone must have replaced the sod pretty carefully. I wished Rachel were here. She’d have been able to tell if there was any supernatural activity floating around the site. 

After a few more minutes I got back into the car to head for home.

Rachel was still at work. I reviewed my notes to start writing up my report, but then I remembered something I’d heard at Priscilla Gallagher’s apartment. I called Getty.

“Do you know anything about a house in Gary that Oakes and his crew went to?” I asked. “Owned by a professor?”

“Gary?” Getty chuckled. “No. Going across state lines, that would make it a federal case. I never heard about anything there.”

“Tim Schrantz mentioned it,” I said. “But Priscilla told him to shut up about it.”

“There’s probably places they hit that I don’t know about. We only got him for two robberies, and he pleaded down for a shorter sentence, but there are at least five more that we know about that we couldn’t prove. So yeah, he could have gone down to Gary, or lots of other places.”

Gary, Indiana is close enough to count as an unofficial Chicago suburb. I tried searching the news databases but didn’t get very far. In the end I couldn’t think of anything to do except risk getting stonewalled and/or yelled at, so I called the Gary Police Department.

The phone tree didn’t direct me to where I wanted to go, so I got a receptionist, who transferred me to records. After repeating myself a few times, the officer there finally put me on hold for two minutes, then another three minutes, and finally confirmed some of what I was looking for: a break-in at a house outside of town in October 2014. The officer wouldn’t tell me the owner’s name but did slip up and tell me the owner discovered the burglary after coming up from Lafayette, which meant Purdue University. Not close to Gary, so maybe the place was a vacation home. 

I thanked him and hung up. Then I looked up property records for the area and, after a lot of cross-checking, finally found the person I was looking for: Seth Laffey, professor of medieval history at Purdue. 

I didn’t know why I thought he was important, except that he didn’t fit the profile of Oakes’s usual targets, and Priscilla had cut Schrantz off pretty quickly when he started to mention it. Maybe it was nothing. But curiosity had made me a good reporter and a decent P.I., and it hadn’t killed me yet—although it had come close a few times.

I’d been prepared to leave messages and send emails, but Laffey picked up on the second ring. “Dr. Laffey.”

“Dr. Laffey? I’m Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective in Chicago, and I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about the break-in at your Gary house in 2014.”

“Huh? I’m just about on my way out of the office. Let me think.” He sounded harried. “Yeah, that was a nightmare. My wife was terrified to go back there. They didn’t do much damage, though. The cops said it was some gang out of Chicago.”

“What did they take?”

“A couple hundred dollars of cash I kept down in the basement. I thought I’d hidden it pretty well, but I guess not. A couple of books. My wife’s jewelry, some of it pretty valuable. Some pieces of art, paintings and statues that weren’t worth very much. It was a couple of thousand dollars in all, I think.”

“What books?”

“Mythology. Magic. I teach medieval history, and I collect some books from that period.”

Magic. “What kind of magic?”

“Uh, a book of witchcraft. Spells for making people fall in love, get sick, bring back the dead, that sort of thing.”

Uh-oh. “Did people know you had that book?”

“What? No, why would they? It wasn’t particularly valuable. Not the original, that one’s 400 years old. This was just a facsimile from the 1920s I picked up at a fair in—Why are you asking about this, of all the things?”

“It just, uh, stands out. I can’t really tell you anything more, but it’s nothing for you to worry about at all. Who was the book’s author?”

“It was compiled by a 17^th-century German named Johann Adelgrief. The spells were all from different sources. I’m sorry, it’s getting late and I still have some work to finish—”

“That’s fine, I apologize. Thanks for your time.”

We hung up. I spent a few minutes looking up Johann Adelgrief, a 17^th-century German prophet who claimed angels had told him to scourge kings and other royals with iron rods. He was executed in 1636, and all his writings were suppressed.

Rachel came home an hour later. “I know it’s my turn to make dinner,” she said, unpacking her laptop. “But I will trade you a night of great sex if you’ll do it.”

I chuckled. “We’ve got some leftover lasagna in the freezer. It’s a deal.”

She frowned. “For frozen lasagna, I’m only offering average sex.”

“You made it in the first place, so it counts as you cooking. Do I still get sex?”

“We’ll see.” She kissed me and went to the bedroom to change.

Over dinner I told her about the case. “As far as the client is concerned, I’m done,” I said. “Howard Oakes is dead. Except maybe he’s come back to life to kill all his crew.”

“With help from this book.” Rachel ate some lasagna. “Hey, this is pretty good.”

“This guy Adelgrief had his works burned and banned after they killed him, but some of them survived, naturally.” I sipped a beer. “There isn’t a lot known about them. I found one title that sounded like spells, but it turned out to be a cookbook.”

“So you’re going on with this? Without a client?”

“I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow I won’t care anymore, but right now—” I shook my head.

“Okay, so if someone is bringing this Oakes guy back to life to kill all his old friends, maybe the question is why?”

“The question is usually why.” I ate some lasagna. “What’s in this? Old family recipe?”

“My secret ingredient.” She grinned. “Do you think there’s a buried treasure?”

“Maybe, but I don’t see why someone would have to kill the entire crew.”

Rachel nodded. “Well, maybe work the little gray cells for a while.”

I leaned back and closed my eyes. “Good idea. Wake me if I start to snore.”

“I’ll throw lasagna at you.”

I smiled. “Even better.”

 

The next morning I called my client. Chapman agreed that the case seemed to be over, but I couldn’t help sharing my suspicion. “It does kind of look as if Oakes is, well, back from the dead. But I don’t have any proof of that, and it doesn’t really have anything to do with your uncle.”

            “You mean, like a zombie?” He didn’t sound as if he thought I was crazy. 

            “I don’t know. And I have no idea why. I’m still working on it, but that’s not what you came to me for. Shall I send you an invoice and a report?”

            “Yeah, sure. Just, uh—let me know, okay? If there’s something more.”

            “I’ll do that.” We hung up.

            Rachel was at her desk, and she swung around as I hit send. “What did he say?”

            “He didn’t laugh or question my sanity, so I’m counting it as a win.” I sipped some coffee.

“So what now, Sherlock?”

I didn’t know. I had other cases to work on, but nothing pressing. So I checked the list of names Getty had given me to see if anyone else had been killed. Nobody had been murdered in the last 24 hours, since Jerry Carra. Just for fun, I started looking up the rest of the names.

I found two of them quickly: Finn Burke and Jake Riley. The other one, Brian Serrano, was harder. His real named turned out to be Roberto, and he was currently doing three years in prison. I figured he was safe there.

Was contacting Burke and Riley a good idea? I couldn’t decide, and I was still thinking when my phone buzzed. Chapman again.

“Hey, I was just going through a box of stuff that my uncle’s landlord sent over to me from his apartment. There was this box of personal stuff—some pictures, letters, government papers, you know, and then there’s this one envelope with nothing on it, and inside it is an obituary.”

“Who is it?”

“Herman Brennan. He was, uh, 71, owned a lot of real estate, two ex-wives, a couple of children. There’s just no reason for this to be in there, I can’t think of why Dan would have kept it. I just thought maybe you’d want to see it. I can send you an image.”

In my business you grasp at any information that comes your way. “Yeah, send it on. It’s probably nothing, but I’ll take a look. Thanks.”

“The big break?” Rachel asked from her desk. “Busting the case wide open?”

“Yeah, it’s the Maltese Falcon for sure.” I went to get some more coffee.

The obituary came a few minutes later. It was a picture from Chapman’s phone, but I could read it. Herman Brennan, 73, died six years ago. No cause of death. Two ex-wives, plus one current wife who wasn’t named. Five children, two grandchildren. A real estate investor who owned multiple properties across Chicago, Indiana, and Wisconsin, an enthusiastic golfer, owner of two boats, etc. etc.  

What was this doing with Dan Hoffman’s belongings? I showed it to Rachel.

“Whoever wrote this didn’t like wife number three,” she said after reading it. “So she’s a lot younger and hotter than he was. I’m thinking silicon, butt lifts, the works.”

“Makes sense. No cause of death, though. Not even ‘After a long illness.’ Or a short one.”

“Foul play, inspector?”

“Or something embarrassing. Erotic auto asphyxiation, anyone?”

“Yuck.” Rachel punched my arm. “Don’t ever let me catch you doing something like that.”

“I like breathing too much.” I started searching for Brennan’s cause of death.

That was more complicated than I expected. I found the name of one of Brennan’s companies, but even though only a few years had passed, no one there had any personal knowledge about the founder. “We’ve had, I think, two different owners since then,” a woman told me. “I’m not even sure who the CEO is right now, but six years ago? Sorry.”

Finally I gave up and went to plan B: Finding one of Brennan’s relatives.

It’s something I hate to do. As a crime reporter, I had to interview grieving widows, mothers, children, and other family members in the wake of a devastating tragedy more times than I could count, and it never got easier. I always felt like scum afterward. 

For a moment I wondered if I really had to do it. The case as far as my client was concerned was over. Did I really need to bother Brennan’s family? The answer: No, I didn’t. But I really wanted to know. So I did.

That’s why people call me tenacious. Or, more often, a stubborn asshole.

I found one of Brennan’s sons, Justin. He was also in real estate, which made it easier. The receptionist put me on hold, then connected me. One buzz, two—“Justin Brennan, Stargold Realty, how may I help you?”

“Mr. Brennan, my name is Tom Jurgen, I’m a private detective here in Chicago. I’m very sorry to bother you, but I need to ask you a question about your father, Herman Brennan.”

I heard him take a sharp breath. “What’s this about?”

“It’s an investigation involving several murders that have occurred in the city over the past few days.”

“Murders? I don’t—” He paused. “What’s the question?”

“How did your father die?”

Brennan exhaled. “Well, that’s a hell of a question to ask a complete stranger. I don’t even know who you are. But—my father was murdered.”

“I’m very sorry.” And I really was. “Can you tell me what happened?”

He spoke fast, to get the conversation over with as soon as possible. “Someone broke into his apartment. Stole a bunch of his wife’s jewelry. Wife number three,” he said bitterly. “He must have come home in the middle of it, and the guy stabbed him three times. Once in the chest and twice across his throat. Jesus Christ.” He was breathing heavily. “Is that it?”

I sighed. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said before I could hang up. “I suppose you really are just doing your job. It’s been a long time, but sometimes it all comes back. Not just the—his death, but all the crap with his wife. That bitch. They had a prenup, and Priscilla just wouldn’t give up on it—”

Huh? “Priscilla?”

“Yeah. Wife number three. The prenup kept her from getting any real money from the estate. Oh, a couple of thousand, sure, but not the kind of money she was after. We ended up buying her a new condo just to get rid of her, and I hope she’s enjoying it.” The bitterness is his voice poured through the phone.

“Is it Priscilla Gallagher?”

“Yeah, that was her. Why?”

“Her name has, uh, come up.”

“Do you think she—I mean, all of us hated her, but still . . .” His voice trailed off.

“I’m not making any accusations,” I said carefully. “What was she like?”

“Oh God.” He groaned. “A nutjob. Everybody but my dad could see it. She met him once at an opening for one of his new buildings, and then she somehow got invited to a party he was at and told him she’d done his horoscope and destinies were connected, or some such bullshit. She talked about astrology and crystals and psychic energy and all that nonsense, and in the meantime she had her fingers dug into him until it was too late. I wouldn’t put anything past her, honestly. After he died, it was open warfare until we paid her off. I hope you’re not working for her. Are you? Is she your client?”

“No, no, not at all,” I said quickly. “She’s just—someone I’ve run into.”

“Well, you should stay away from her, as far as I’m concerned. And don’t bring her anywhere near this family, or there’ll be a shitstrom.”

“Absolutely not,” I assured him. “Thanks for your time.”

We hung up.

Rachel was watching me from across the office. “What up?”

“Brennan’s wife was Priscilla Gallagher.” I sat up, trying to think.

“The one you had wine with yesterday? The one that didn’t try to seduce you?” 

            “She tried to void the prenup after he got killed, but the family fought it and won. She ended up with a condo.” 

            Rachel nodded. “So you think . . . what do you think?”

            “You’re the psychic. You tell me.”

            She frowned. “If I was close enough I’d hit you.”

            I grinned. “That’s why I’m over here.” 

            “So seriously—what do you think?”

            I sighed. “I think I have to talk to Gallagher again.”

            “Not without me there, you don’t.”

            “Yeah. Not right away. Let me talk to some people first.” I turned back to my computer to start searching.

Dead or Alive? Part Four

Fifteen minutes later I had Finn Burke on the phone. “What do you want?” 

            I’d already introduced myself. “You were once an associate of Howard Oakes, is that right?”

            I waited. Burke, suspicious of a trap, answered with a grunt. “So what?”

            “Are you aware that three other associates of his have been murdered in the past few weeks?”

            “Who? What the hell?”

            “Dan Hoffman, Quinn Hardy, and Jerry Carra. They were all stabbed, and they all had their throats cut twice.” I hoped the gruesome details would shock him out of his tough-guy shell.

            “Jesus Christ.” He coughed, and I heard him light a cigarette. Or maybe a joint? “Why do—are you threatening me, asshole?”

            “No, no,” I said quickly. “If anything I’m trying to warn you. But what I really want to ask you about is Priscilla Gallagher.”

            “Priscilla. What—oh.” Burke coughed again. “What about her?”

            “She was Oakes’s girlfriend, right?”

            “One of them. The main one. But I don’t think kept it all to herself either, you know what I mean?”

            “Would you happen to know anything about Priscilla’s husband, Herman Brennan?”

            “No.” It was short and final. “Nothing. Never met him, don’t know anything about him.”

            “Do you—”

            But Burke had hung up.

            Rachel looked over her shoulder. “That go well?”

            “Just peachy.” I went on to Jake Reilly. I hoped for better luck. I didn’t figure I had much change of getting hold of Roberto Serrano unless I felt like driving out to whatever prison he was serving his time in.  

            Reilly answered on the first buzz. “Yeah, who’s this?” It sounded like he was driving.

            “Jake Reilly? My name is Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective in Chicago. I’d like to ask you some questions about Howard Oakes and Priscilla Gallagher.”

            “Ah, shit.” He made a spitting noise, as if he was chewing something. “Okay. I’m in the car now. Call me back in five minutes, all right?” He hung up before I could agree.

            I went to the bathroom, got myself a Coke, and gazed at Rachel until she gave me the finger. So I read some news online until at least 10 minutes had passed, then called Reilly again.

            “Okay, I’m at a McDonald’s,” he said. “What’s this all about?”

            “For one thing, it’s about Quinn Hardy, and Dan Hoffman, and Jerry Carra. They’re all dead.”

            “Yeah.” He sucked in a breath. “That’s why I’m here.”

            “Where are you?”

            “I’m not telling you that. But I’m not in Chicago. I’m only talking to you because Jerry was a friend of mine, long time ago. Haven’t seen him in nine, 10 years, but when I heard he was dead, I—it hit me, man. Just hit hard.”

            “Is that why you’re running?”

            “I heard about Quinn and Danny right after that. After I read about Danny, I looked them up, see if they’re okay.”

            “Why? Did you think they were in danger too? That you’re all in danger?”

            Reilly groaned. “Look. You asked about Howard and Priscilla. You recording this?”

            “No. Should I?”

            “No, because I’ll say I never talked to you. Here’s the deal: Priscilla was married to some old guy, and she was tired of waiting for him to drop dead of a heart attack. So she made a deal with Howard—take care of the old guy and he’d get 50 percent of whatever she got in the inheritance. Make it look like a robbery, take all her jewelry. That’s how it happened.”

            I paused, a little unnerved. I’ve heard all kinds of disturbing stories all right, but it’s still unsettling to be talking about cold blooded murder. “Do all of you know about it?”

            “It got around. The thing is, she signed a prenup that kept her from inheriting anything. So all he got out of it was some necklaces and rings and stuff, and he couldn’t even move that right away because it could all be ID’d, so his regular buyers wouldn’t touch it and nobody else would give him what he wanted. He was pissed. He’d get drunk and call her a stupid, greedy bitch.” Then he laughed. “But he always went back to her when his latest kicked him out.”

            “So what happened to the jewelry?”

            “I don’t know. He gave some of away, to some of us and I guess whatever girl he was seeing. Maybe he kept some of it until he could finally sell it.” Reilly made the spitting sound again. Tobacco? “Look, the only reason I’m telling you all this is I’m getting out of Chicago and nobody knows where I’m going. So don’t call me again.” He hung up.

            I had more questions, of course, but the sudden silence on the phone defeated me. I checked Reilly’s name off my list. At least I didn’t have to worry about Roberto Serrano.

            “What was it?” Rachel was right behind me.

            I sat back and sipped my Coke, trying to organize everything in my head. “Priscilla had Oakes kill her husband. She didn’t get as much money as she expected from it, because of a prenup—although she did get a pretty nice condo. Everyone on Oakes’ crew apparently knew about it. That guy—” I tapped my phone— “is leaving town. For some reason, Oakes is killing everyone who knew about it.”

            She crossed her arms. “Despite being dead.”

            “We both know that doesn’t disqualify him.” I turned to check my notes. “When Oakes’s head went missing at the cemetery, the manager there talked to a woman about it.”

            “And didn’t you say that professor in Gary had a book of magic?” She raised an eyebrow.

            “Yeah.” I sighed. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

            “You’re going to give Priscilla another shot at seducing you.”

            “Not exactly how I’d phrase it, but—”

            “I’m coming too. Just in case you can’t resist her sexy charms.” She smirked. “Plus, I’ll be able to tell if she’s doing magic.”

            “Right.” I picked up my phone. “Let me call her. I have to check on something first.” I put the phone on speaker so Rachel could listen.

            Priscilla answered her phone on the third buzz. “Hi, Ms. Gallagher, this is Tom Jurgen. We talked yesterday?”

            “Hello, Tom.” She sounded way too happy to hear my voice. “What can I do for you?”

            “I need Tim Schrantz’s number. Any chance you could let me have it?”

            “I suppose.” She drew the word out. “What for?”

            “I just have a question about Howard Oakes.”

            “He doesn’t really like to talk about Howard. Especially to strangers. Not that you’re a stranger to me, Tom.” She giggled. “All right, give me a second . . .” 

            I took down the number. “Thanks.”

            “Of course. How is your case coming?”

            “I, uh, think I’m making progress. In fact, could I come over later to talk to you? A few more questions have come up.”

            “Yes, no problem. Bring some more wine.”  

            We hung up.

            “She sounds nice.” Rachel rolled her eyes.

“Just one more call.” I called Schrantz’s number.

            He didn’t answer. I left a message—just my name and number, reminding him we’d met, and asking him to call. “Now what?” Rachel asked.

            I shrugged. “We wait. Maybe an hour. Then—”

            “Then?” She punched my shoulder.

            “Ow. One hour. Then we go see Priscilla Gallagher. We’ll pick up some wine.”

            “We’re taking Donald too.” She strode back to her desk. “Just in case she tries to seduce you this time.”

            Donald Duck was the name we’d given to our Glock. I hate carrying it, but I hate being killed even more. Would it work on a ghost? I hoped I wasn’t about to find out.

 

Schrantz didn’t call back, so 90 minutes later I was buzzing Priscilla from the lobby. Five minutes after that she opened the door to her apartment. “Hi, Tom! Who’s this? Oh, wine! Come in!”

            Today she was wearing a blue cashmere sweater and a wraparound skirt, with sandals. She took the wine and carried it to her living room, where the corkscrew lay on the center table next to a half empty bottle of tequila and a shot glass. “Do you want to get some glasses, Tom? Oh, I’m sorry—I’m Priscilla.” She held a hand out to Rachel.

            “This is Rachel,” I said as they shook hands. “My associate. And my fiancée.”

            “Oh, really? Congratulations! When’s the big date?”

            “We haven’t decided yet.” Rachel shot me a quick look that I recognized: supernatural energy, either from Priscilla or something in the room. I nodded and went to fetch glasses. 

            Donald rested uncomfortably under my jacket. I hoped the bulge under my arm wasn’t too obvious as I carried three glasses back to the living room.

            “So, what can I do for you, Tom? Rachel.” She lifted her glass in a toasting gesture, then took a sip.

            Rachel was checking out the room. “Those books look interesting.” She pointed toward the bookcase with its small jungle of plants and a few photos, and just three books. “What are they?” They looked old and musty, and I couldn’t make out any titles on the spines.

            “Oh, just some things I picked up. What brings you here?” 

            Rachel and I looked at each other. “Howard Oakes,” I said. 

            “What about him?” Priscilla smiled.

            “What happened to your husband? Herman Brennan?”

            The smile dropped away. “What do you mean?”

            Before I could get started, we heard the door open, then close with a slam. I turned.

            Tim Schrantz stalked in. His windbreaker was wet—it had started raining as we drove over—and so was the brown carboard package he held under one arm. His eyes were red, and he looked either drunk or strung out on something.

            “How did you get in the building?” Priscilla stood up. “The doorman’s supposed to—”

            Schrantz threw his package on the table, knocking over our glasses and the wine bottle. “There it is, bitch. You can put Howard back in the ground, or wherever you found him. I don’t know how you did it, but I’m done. This could have been easy, but you had to go all Queen Witch on us.”

            “Tim, shut up!” She grabbed for the wine bottle before it completely drained onto the carpet. Fortunately it was white. “There are people here, obviously—”

            Schrantz looked at me. “The P.I.” Then at Rachel. “And who’s this?” He ran his eyes up and down, then came back to me. “You can go. This is between Prissy and me.”

            I wanted to leave, but I also wanted to get answers. And I also didn’t want to look like a coward in front of Rachel. I stood up. “Don’t worry,” I told Priscilla. “I know what’s going on.”

            Rachel stood up and went to the bookcase. Priscilla ignored her for the moment. “What are you talking about? Get out of here! All of you!”

            Rachel pulled a book out, opened it to the first page, and nodded to me. “This is it.”

            Priscilla’s eyes blazed with anger. “Take your hands off my things!”

            “That’s the book you used to raise Howard from the dead,” I said, trying to keep my eyes on her and Schrantz at the same time. “Howard stole it from the professor’s house in Gary. Were you there?” I asked Schrantz.

            He blinked. “I remember a place in Gary. I don’t know everything we took.”

            “It’s a book of dark magic,” Rachel said. She started flipping through the old, delicate pages. “Give me a minute to find it. This thing doesn’t have an index.”

            Priscilla opened her mouth to tell her to put it down again, then sighed. She glared at Schrantz. “This is all your fault, Tim. All your fault.”

            “Me? Everyone’s dead! Except for Finn and Brian, and I don’t know where they are. They might be dead too for all I know! You didn’t have to kill everyone, Priss. You could have just paid me what I wanted!”

            “How was I supposed to do that? You just sent me a picture and asked for money! What was I supposed to do, wait until I got a note telling me to drop the cash in the park or something?” She planted her hands on her hips. “That’s not how I do stuff, Tim. I don’t wait around. I act. I—I take action!” She leaned down, poured herself a shot of tequila, and drank it. “Action!”

            I nodded, putting it together in my head. “So you were blackmailing Priscilla,” I said to Schrantz. “You had something that would prove she had Brennan murdered, that she got Howard Oakes to kill him.” Then I turned to Priscilla. “Only you didn’t know who it was, so you brought Howard back from the dead to get rid of all of them.”

            “Seems a little extreme,” Rachel said, her eyes still on the book. “Couldn’t you—wait, here it is. Wow, that’s complicated. And you need the dead guy’s head? Gross.”

            Schrantz was staring at us. “Who the hell are you? How do you know—”

            “Shut up!” Priscilla screamed. She quickly downed another shot of tequila, then stepped back and raised a hand, fist clenched. “This is over now! Now! I don’t have to—”

            Then she threw her head back and shouted a word I didn’t recognize. I looked at Rachel. Her eyes went wide, and she dropped the book.

            The room got cold suddenly, as if someone had opened a window in the middle of a blizzard. The lamp hanging from the ceiling flickered. It went dark for just a second, and I started making my way toward Rachel, hands out. 

Then the light came back, and Howard Oakes was standing in the middle of Priscilla’s living room, a long knife in his hand.

            She jabbed her finger at us, one by one, “Tim! Jurgen! And—what—whatever her name is!”

            Oakes was shorter than I expected, but he looked muscular and strong, with thick arms and a balding head. He looked solid—solid enough to be threatening as he stepped forward, toward Schrantz, the knife firm in his big hand. 

            Schrantz stared at him. “Howard? How are you—what is this?”

            Oakes took another step, raising his arm.

            I moved between him and Rachel, reaching under my jacket. Would a bullet stop a ghost—or whatever Oakes was? I wasn’t sure I wanted to try to find out.

            But Schrantz had the same idea. His hand plunged under his windbreaker, and in a second he had a big handgun out. He pointed it at Oakes and yanked the trigger.

            The handgun roared. Plaster burst from the wall behind Oakes, as if Schrantz’s bullet had passed right through him. Oakes took another step toward him.

            Schrantz stared at him. His hand shook. Oakes was right in front of him, his face blank, his knife high.

            Then Schrantz turned and shot Priscilla in the chest.

            Priscilla screamed. Oakes’s body jerked, like a puppet out of control. The knife slid from his fingers and disappeared. Priscilla dropped onto the sofa, blood staining her cashmere sweater and suddenly Oakes was gone—vanished.

            Rachel nudged me from behind. I fumbled for my Glock and managed to get it out while Schrantz was still staring at the empty space where Oakes had stood. “Put it down,” I ordered, managing to keep my voice steady as I aimed Donald at his chest. “Put the gun down, Tim.” I wanted to add please? but I didn’t think that would suit the tough guy act I was trying to pull off.

            Schrantz looked at me, still stunned. “What the—what the actual fuck just happened?”

            Rachel was already on her phone, calling 911. I said, “Looks like your pal is really dead this time.”

            He looked down at Priscilla. “Oh hell.” He dropped his gun.

            “Yeah.” I kept my gun steady. “Let’s wait for the paramedics to see if she’s really going there today.”

 

The paramedics were too late. Priscilla Gallagher died on her sofa, and the cops took Schrantz away. He didn’t deny anything, but he had trouble explaining exactly why he’d shot her.

            I told the cops everything, of course. I do that even though they usually don’t believe me, but several members of the Chicago Police Force know me and my unbelievable stories. The detective who showed up after the patrol officers took my statement made some phone calls, then glared at me and Rachel and told us we could go.

            The package Schrantz had brought in, I heard later, turned out to contain a diamond necklace worth $70,000 that was positively identified as having been stolen by Herman Brennan’s killer. It seemed that Oakes had passed it off to Schrantz as insurance in case something ever happened to him. Schrantz had held onto it until a string of bad luck at poker left him dreading a visit from some loan sharks, and he decided to blackmail Priscilla.

            I also heard that the cops searching the apartment had found Howard Oakes’s head in a closet, stuffed into a plastic bag in a cardboard box. It had been embalmed, but still wasn’t in any shape for photos to be released to the public.

            I told all this to Mike Chapman the next day. “Wow,” he said. “I’m not sure I can believe any of that—I’m sorry, I’m not calling you a liar or anything, it’s just—incredible.”

            “Yeah.” I agreed.

            “But I did hear Dan say ‘Oakes’ before he died. So I guess you must be right.”

            “At least it looks like Oakes won’t bother anyone again,” I said. “So that’s something.”

            “I guess. Well, thanks. Do I owe you anything?”

            “No.” I couldn’t very well charge him for work I’d done after the original case was closed. That was all mine. “Again, sorry for your loss.”

            “Thanks. So long.” He hung up.

            Rachel was at work. I sent her a text, then got myself another cup of coffee. I tried calling Jake Reilly to let him know it looked safe to come back to Chicago, but he didn’t answer. He’d probably thrown his phone out the window. I left him a message anyway, then settled down to see what my other clients wanted. 

            Rachel called me a few minutes later. “You okay?”

            “Yeah. As okay as I can be after seeing a woman murdered. You?”

            “I guess. I talked to Dr. Brody about it for a few minutes, and that helped. You going to talk to anyone?”

I’ve seen a psychiatrist in the past to help me with PTSD and anxiety. “Good idea. I think Dr. Neral retired, but maybe they can refer me somewhere.”

“Do that. I don’t want to have to deal with your night terrors again. Hey, it’s my night for dinner again. And we finished the last of the lasagna last night. Want to make the same deal again?”

I smiled. “I’ll see what I can excavate from the freezer.”

“It’s a date.”

 

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