Soul Survivor

A local singing sensation hires Tom Jurgen for an urgent case—get back the soul she sold to become a star.

Soul Survivor, Part One

“You were recommended to us by Allison Gentry,” Monica Welles said. “She’s been mentoring A.J. for the last few years.”

            Allison Gentry was a pop superstar. I’d handled a case for her a few years back. She wasn’t quite on the level of Taylor Swift, but she still packed stadiums regularly. 

            “So what can I do for A.J. Garcia?” I asked. A.J. Garcia was an up-and-coming star from Chicago, and while I’d never actually listened to any of her songs, I knew she was big on TikTok and Insta. As a P.I. in my mid-40s, I’m up on all the hot social media the kids are using these days. 

Monica Welles worked for one of the biggest PR firms in Chicago. We sat in a conference room at the PR firm’s office. A window looked out across the Chicago River at the skyline to the south. “There’s a stalker situation.”

            “Only one?”

            She smiled briefly. “This one is—different. For reasons I can’t tell you yet, A.J. specifically asked for you, because of Allison.”

            Uh-oh. Allison Gentry’s case had involved a shapeshifting killer. “Okay.”

            Monica handed me a folder. “We need to locate the man who sent these emails. He goes by the name DominickX.”

            I looked at the printed-out emails. I’ve seen lots of vicious, violent, stomach-churning threats in this job, so I braced myself. But these were different, less graphic, but stranger, with a menacing undertone: You made your bargain, now live within it … I won’t listen to your pleading and whining, bitch … Keep your skinny brainless ass far away from me … No one will remember you … I will lose you in the dark. 

            The address line at the top said they came from DominickX at an email server I didn’t recognize. “These aren’t explicitly death threats,” I said. “But I can see they’d be upsetting.”

            “She wants to know who they’re coming from.” Monica took a sip of water.

            I looked closer. “Uh, some of these appear to be return messages.”

            She frowned, nodding. “A.J. ignored our advice. She tried to talk to this person. You can see it didn’t go well.”

            “Yeah.” I folded up the emails and put them in my jacket pocket. “You can’t always get much from an email address. Do you have anything else that might give me a lead?”

            She bit a lip. “It’s possibly someone from her life, someone she’s met. Sometimes these people pop up from years ago.”

            “Right.” I nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

            We discussed the financial details and shook hands. Monica walked me to the elevator, and I went down to find my car in the parking garage.

 

“Hi honey, I’m home.” Rachel leaned into the office we share when she works from home. “What’s for dinner, darling?”

            “Lasagna’s in the oven, snookums. Give it another 20 minutes.”

            She grimaced. “Call me ‘Snookums’ again and you’ll be eating it by yourself in the bathtub.”

            “Okay, hotbuns.”

            Now she glared. “I’ve got a divorce lawyer on speed dial. Don’t make me use it.”

            Rachel’s my wife. She’s got red hair, hazelnut eyes, and some psychic powers. She’s also got a comeback for almost everything I say. I’ve learned not to push too hard.

            “How was work, uh, Rachel?” I asked at dinner 30 minutes later.

            She kicked me under the table with a smirk. She’s a therapist at a mental health clinic, so her days can be intense sometimes. “Decent. Had a breakthrough with one patient. I can’t tell you about it, of course. Confidentiality and all that.”

            “I tell you everything about my cases.”

            “Only the ones you want help with, and then you can claim me as an associate, so there’s no ethical violation. We had a whole class in that kind of stuff.”

            “Yeah, that’s—that’s just what I was doing.” Honestly I probably share more than I should about my cases with Rachel, but she can keep a secret. “Ever listen to A.J. Garcia?”

            “I hear her on the radio in the car sometimes. Wait, are you working for A.J. Garcia?” Her face lit up the way it does for a new season of Real Housewives of the White Lotus.

            “Well, her PR agency. Stalker case. But I probably shouldn’t tell you more than that.” I sipped some beer.

            She rolled her eyes.  “Fine. Be like that. Is she in danger?”

            “I don’t know. A lot of these cases don’t end up in actual violence, but it’s unnerving for the victim. Even if she is famous.”

            “I know. I told you about my stalker.”

            “Yeah.” She’d gotten the guy good. “Anyway, I got referred by Allison Gentry. Remember her?”

            “I still have my autographed picture. Wait, I worked with you on that case, so I’m kind of an associate on this case. Right?” She smiled and leaned across the table at me.

            I grinned. “Do you want to be?”

            “I like this one song of hers, ‘Piece of Heaven.’ Yeah, tell me.”

            I told her about my meeting with Monica Welles. Rachel asked, “Is she hot?” like she always does whenever I meet another woman without her around. “The email address was shut down. I tried to send a fake spam to the account and it bounced right back. Lawyers could probably get more from the company but I guess they don’t want to go that route.” I sipped my beer. “Anyway, I started looking into her past contacts with fans. Celebrity stalkers usually want to be noticed, they want attention.”

            “She’s got to have a million fans. A few hundred thousand, anyway.”

            “Including the two of us. There are at least 200 fan sites, not counting the porn fakes—”

            “Yuck.”

            “Yeah. I’m still working through them. Just to be thorough. I can’t look at every single fan, but I can look for variations on Dominick and other markers. That’s it so far.”

            “What if Dominick isn’t anything like his real name? Or her real name, whatever.”

            I shrugged. “Variations, like I said. At some point I’ll have to go back to the client and ask if there’s anything more. There’s stuff they aren’t telling me yet.”

            “Same thing happens in my job.” She finished up her lasagna. “There’s more, right?”

            “Enough for tomorrow. Lunch maybe after that.”

            “Good.” She took her plate to the dishwasher. “Hurry up. I want to finish cleaning up and watch Lust Archipelago. It’s the season finale.”

            That show usually made Rachel a little playful after a few episodes. I finished my plate and helped her clean.

 

Two days later I was in a meeting with A.J. Garcia.

            I wasn’t alone. Rachel was there. She had a free afternoon, thanks to a patient who had rescheduled and a staff meeting that got cancelled. Or that she skipped. I know better than to ask certain kinds of questions.

            Monica Welles was there. So was Josh Heider, a lawyer in his 30s with prematurely gray hair, and Phillip Chapin, CEO of Chapin Jacobs Management, A.J.’s management agency. Chapin was in his 60s, with a broad chest and thick shoulders, in a tailored suit. No necktie, but he kept his collar buttoned. 

            This conference room didn’t have a view, just posters of some of the artists the firm represented, including A.J. I actually recognized a few of them. Coffee, water, and hot water for tea sat on a table in the corner. 

            A.J. was short and slender in a T-shirt and cargo pants. Her scalp was shaved almost bare, and she had a ring in one nostril. She wore dark glasses with purple lenses, and her eyes were half-closed, as if she were stoned or just sleepy after a long night. A can of Monster energy drink sat on the table in front of her. She didn’t look up when Monica introduced Rachel and me, but she managed to murmur a faint “Yeah, hi.”

            “Okay.” Chapin put his arms on the table. “What do you have, Mr. Jurgen?”

            I opened a folder. “DominickX appears to be a man named Dominick Slipko. Several years ago he was part of an early fan group for A.J. when she started getting attention at the local clubs. I have a picture—” I pulled out a photo I’d printed. It came from a fan website, and showed a younger A.J., with longer hair, standing next to a man with a thin beard in a T-shirt with her picture on it. “That’s from 2019, at a club called Amber, on Halsted.”

            Chapin glanced at the photo, then passed it to A.J. She forced her eyes open and gazed down at it for a moment. “I remember that show. I think he was a partner in the place, but I don’t remember the picture.” She pushed the picture away.

            “I don’t have a current address or location for him.” I held out another sheet of paper. “These are some places he’s lived, but there’s nothing in the past two or three years. One address belongs to his mother, so he might have moved there. What do you know about him?” I asked A.J. Chapin frowned, as if I was breaking some rule about talking to the talent directly.

            She blinked, rubbing her scalp. “He was a little older than me. I don’t know. He—he knew a lot about me when I met him.”

            “What did he know?” I asked. “What did you talk about?”

            A.J. ‘s shook her head tiredly. “Just—stuff. He talked about my grandma. She gave me my first guitar, but that was in all the stories about me. Stuff about my songs that I never told anybody. He wasn’t creepy. I mean, more than anyone.” 

            “Do you want me to locate him?” I asked. 

            Chapin started to answer: “I think we can handle that from—”

            “Yes.” A.J.’s voice was suddenly sharp. “I want—I don’t know if I want to talk to him. Yet. But I want to know where he is.”

            Chapin, startled, looked at the lawyer. Heider seemed puzzled. Monica raised her eyebrows.

            “Okay,” I said, speaking to A.J. “I’ll do what I can. The same rates will apply.”

            Chapin didn’t argue. My hourly rate wouldn’t put much of a dent into the firm’s quarterly report. 

            “We’ll want this all to be kept confidential, of course,” Heider said. His tone warned of dire consequences if any of this leaked on social media.

            “Naturally,” I promised.

            Chapin gave me a stern look. “It’s for A.J.’s protection. Her welfare is very important to everyone.”

            Her welfare. “Of course.” 

Heider nodded, still skeptical of my discretion. Then he and Chapin stood up and left, leaving us with Monica and A.J.

            “Are you all right, A.J.?” Monica asked softly.

            She didn’t respond right away. Her head drooped, as if she were falling asleep. After a moment she nodded. “I’m fine.”

            “It was nice to meet you,” Rachel said. “I’m not exactly a superfan, but I like your songs. The ones I’ve heard.”

            For the first time A.J. looked up, meeting Rachel’s eyes. “Th-thanks.” For a moment I thought she might let Rachel shake her hand—I was hoping for that, actually—but instead she just looked at Monica and then down at the carpet again. “Let’s go.”

            We left. Monica walked with A.J. behind us, talking quietly. I saw A.J. stumble once. Monica caught her, and they headed for Monica’s office as we found the elevators.

            “Something’s off about her.” Rachel frowned. 

            “A.J.? What?”

            She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’d say she’s depressed—she looks like she has some of the symptoms, and that would be understandable. But there was something else.”

            “Demon? Possession?” I glanced around. No one was close enough to overhear me and question our sanity. 

            Again she shook her head. “I’d recognize a demon even without contact.” She’d encountered more than a few demons since she started helping me with my cases. “It was like something—missing. But I don’t know what.”

            The elevator doors opened. “Maybe it was something to do with Dominick.”

            “Maybe.” She pressed the button for the ground floor.

            “I miss working with you,” I said as we descended.

            She poked me with her elbow. “Me too. But I like my job.”

            “At least you’re available for consultations. And other things.” I winked.

            She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get any ideas. I still have paperwork, always. And you have to get cracking on finding Dominick.”

            “Yes, boss.” I folded my arms and waited for the ground floor to arrive.

Soul Survivor, Part Two

The logical place to start was Dominick’s mother’s house. The address was in in Beverly, south of downtown. Rachel took an Uber home while I drove down.

            The street was quiet and lined with trees starting to turn toward their fall colors. The house had two stories, with windows peeking out of the attic on top. I mounted the front steps and rang the doorbell.

            A woman in her 70s, silver hair, blue dress, opened the door and peered through the screen. “Hello?”

            “Hi.” I tried to look friendly and nonthreatening. “I’m looking for Dominick Slipko. This is his mother’s house, isn’t it?”

            “It’s mine now.” She crossed her arms. “What do you want with him?”

            “Do you know him?”

            “I’m his aunt. Anne Budd. Aunt Annie. Who are you?” She looked like she wanted to add a little profanity to the question but was holding back.

            “Tom Jurgen.” I showed her my card through the screen. “I’d like to talk to Dominick for a case I’m working on.”

            “What case?”

            This is where it got tricky. “I’m not really at liberty to tell you who my client is, or what it’s about. Sorry. If you could help me or get a message to him—”

            “It’s about that A.J. Garcia, isn’t it?” She scowled. 

            That made it even trickier. “Why do you say that?”

            The woman smirked. “I know my nephew.” She pushed the screen door. “Come on in.”

            The living room was small and neat. A few books, a medium-sized TV, an empty coffee cup next to a small green houseplant on an end table. But Annie Budd didn’t invite me to sit down. She pointed to a staircase. “Up there.”

            She followed me up the steps, then pointed again to a door at the end of the hall. “I suppose I shouldn’t let you go through his drawers or closets. Just look at the room.”

            I walked down the hall and opened the door.

            The bedroom was a shrine to A.J. Garcia. Her face covered every wall, and even looked down on me from the ceiling. Posters, magazine covers, images from the internet, drawings, AI-rendered pics, and a dozen autographed photos in silver frames sat on the single dresser. Opposite the bed. She was singing, dancing, walking down the street, getting a tattoo, being interviewed, eating lunch, lying on the beach, sometimes posing, often oblivious to being observed and photographed. A few snapshots were taped around a mirror. The bed was neatly made, as if Dominick hadn’t slept there in a while.

            “So he’s president of her fan club?” I said, looking at the bookshelves filled with CDs and DVD cases.

            Annie was right behind me. “He’s the whole club. I mean, I used to have a thing for Don Johnson in the 80s, you know, Miami Vice? But this is—out of control.”

            “How far out of control?”

            She reached around me to pull the door shut. “What’s this about?”

            I’d thought my response through while climbing the stairs. “It does involve A.J. Garcia. But I can’t tell you more. I just need to talk to Dominick.”

            “He’s probably stalking her again.” She shook her head.

            “Again?”

            “He’s obsessed on that girl for years. Going to every bar she was playing at, every concert when she started to get famous, writing her letters and emails and gluing himself to her social media—he got banned from most of her sites, made up fake names and new email addresses and got banned again. Security guards knew to watch out for him. But he never quit.” She sighed. “His mother couldn’t do anything about it. I didn’t try.”

            “So he’s not living here now?”

            “I haven’t seen him in weeks. I don’t know where he sleeps. He’s a grownup, he doesn’t have to check in with me. I can’t kick him out, because—it’s the one thing left I can do for my sister. She left me this house.” She shrugged. “I can’t turn her son away.”

            “Do you know where Dominick hangs out? His friends?” We started back down the stairway.

            “North side, mostly. That’s where all the music clubs are. There was a guy named Dylan. Or maybe it was a girl?” We got to the bottom and she turned to me. “No, it was a guy, that was his last name. Gary Dillon. Like Matt Dillon, you know?”

            “The man from Gunsmoke or the kid in Drugstore Cowboy?”

            Annie laughed. “You’re good. Either one, but it’s spelled that way, not like Bob Dylan. Or Dylan Thomas. I only know because he wrote it down to get something delivered and he didn’t want them sending it here. Somewhere on Halsted.”

            “What was it?”

            She shrugged. “How would I know? It was six months or so ago. I just heard him on the phone.” She looked from me to the front door. “Is that it? Any more questions, Mr. Private Eye?”

            I smiled. “You’ve been a big help.”

            Annie sighed. “I just wish . . . well anyway, if you find him, tell him he can always come home here. What’s that saying? ‘When you have to go there, they have to take you in.’”

            “Robert Frost.” I nodded. “I’ll tell him. Have a good day.”

 

I found a phone number and address for Gary Dillon pretty easily, usually some mostly legal databases. I called first but he didn’t pick up. I didn’t leave any message. I wanted to talk to him face to face, if possible. I’d leave a voicemail if not.

            Dillon’s apartment was just off Halsted near Belmont. He wasn’t home when I rang the buzzer downstairs, but a woman who came out told me he worked down the street at a shipping store.

            A man and a woman were behind the counter wearing blue aprons with the store’s logo on them, and the woman was helping one customer while the man grinned at videos on his phone. He put the phone down as I walked up. “Help you?”

            The nametag on his apron said “Gary.” “Gary Dillon?”

            He blinked. “Yeah?”

            “Tom Jurgen.” I handed him a card. “I’m trying to locate Dominick Slipko.”

            He took the card. “What for?”

            “I’m not really free to disclose my client. It’s not a criminal matter.” I wasn’t strictly sure that was true, but I went past that quickly. “Just some questions.”

            “About what? I know.” He waved a hand. “You can’t say. It’s just, Dominick’s a friend. I don’t want to get him in any trouble.”

            “Close friend?”

            He snorted. “Not that close. I mean—” He glanced at his co-worker, who’d finished with her customer and was trying not to look like she was listening in on us. “Give me a minute, okay, Gretchen?” He led me to a corner of the store, next to a wall of locked mailboxes. 

            Dillon leaned back. “Look, me and Dominick, I’ve known him a couple years. We used to work together at a bar over in Old Town, a club with music. We both liked the hot—I mean, the same singers and stuff. You know?”

            “Yeah. Have you been in touch recently?”

            He squinted, thinking. “Not in a while. Maybe six months? Or more. Sometimes he has stuff sent here.” He rapped his knuckles on a mailbox. 

            ‘What kind of stuff?”

            “Books. Electronic stuff. Drugs. Not, like, illegal drugs. More like supplements and stuff. He’s into some weird shit. Eastern philosophy, stuff like that. I don’t know. I guess he didn’t want his aunt seeing it. But I don’t know all of it. He keeps a lot of secrets.”

            “About what?”

            He looked at me closely, trying to guess what—or who—I meant. “I don’t know. But I’m not sure I’d tell you either way. I already told you more than—more than he’d like, I think.”

            “So you have no idea where he is now?”

            “Like I said, I haven’t seen him in months.” The front door opened and two people walked in carrying packages to send. “I gotta get back to work, okay?”

            “Do you know anybody who might know?”

            “Just—” He stopped, as if he’d answered without thinking. But Gretchen was glaring at him. “Julie. Julie Springer. Not exactly his girlfriend, but—Yeah, I’m coming!” He darted around the counter. “Hello, how can I help you today?”

            “Where can I find her?” I asked.

            “She teaches art—Longview Academy—yes, ma’am, sorry, let me weigh that for you.” He took a package from the customer and set it on a scale, avoiding my eyes. Gretchen switched her glare over to me, so I left before she could kick me out.

 

Longview Academy was a private school in the Logan Square neighborhood. It was close to 3 p.m., so I figured I had a shot at seeing Julie Springer at work without barging into a class. I went through a metal detector while a security guard glowered at me, and in the office I asked for Julie Springer. 

“Are you a parent?” the secretary asked, a black woman in glasses thick enough to stop bullets.

            “Just a concerned citizen,” I said. She rolled her eyes but picked up a phone. After speaking too low for me to hear for a few moments, she hung up. “Room 223.” She pointed a pencil toward the ceiling. “Upstairs.”

            The door to room 223 was half-open. I knocked. “Julie Springer?”

            She was twentysomething and tall, with a streak of purple through her blond hair, and she wore slacks and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. “Yes?” She sat on a window ledge, a laptop perched on her knees, the late afternoon sun streaming in over her shoulders.

            I introduced myself and showed her my card. When she heard Dominick’s name, she flinched. “Him.”

            “Are you friends?”

            “We used to date, yeah.” She closed her laptop. “About a year. We broke up about six months ago. It wasn’t a big breakup or anything, we just kind of faded away. Stopped calling, stopped making plans. I get busy during the school year, and he gets these obsessions that take over everything.”

            “What kind of obsessions?”

            She peered at me as if I was a student who hadn’t turned in his homework. “What’s this all about?”

            “I—we—my client only wants to talk to him. But I can’t tell you who that is.”

            Julie grimaced. “Right. I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him in at least a couple of months.”

            “Do you have any idea where I might find him?”

            She blinked, as if I’d asked the stupidest question she’d heard today. “You might try his apartment.”

            His apartment? First I’d heard of it. “Where is that?”

            Julie slid off the ledge and sauntered to her desk. “You don’t know anything about Dominick, do you?”

            “I’ve talked to his aunt,” I said, a little defensive. “His friend Gary. But, well—no, not really.”

            She laughed and sat behind her desk. “I could tell you things. But I’m at work, even though it’s after school, so all I’m telling you right now is that Dominick is—he’s not like you or me. Or most people. He might be bipolar, I don’t know. I teach art, I’m not a shrink.”

            “My wife is a shrink,” I told her.

            “Then maybe ask her. The thing with Dominick is he’s really smart—I mean, he’s maybe the smartest person I’ve ever known, and when he wants something he gets so focused on it that he doesn’t let anything stop him. Which is fun sometimes. Sometimes.”

            “What does he get obsessed about?”

            She sat back, looking up at the ceiling lights. “Oh, Eastern philosophy, Northern Italian cooking, comic books, music—”

            “Any particular kind of music?”

            Julie’s eyes came back down, zeroing in on me. “A.J. Garcia, for one.”

            “Just her?”

            She nodded. “Pretty much. For weeks that was all he listened to, all he’d watch. Bootleg CDs, concert videos, interviews, in the car, eating, having sex—” She stopped suddenly and glanced at the door to make sure no one was standing outside. “Oops. It’s a private school, but I still have to be at least a little careful.”

            “So he was obsessed with A.J. Garcia,” I said.

            Julie nodded. “That’s not why we broke up or anything. Like I said, we just drifted apart. He might still be listening to her. Or he might be into pottery now. You never know with Dominick.”

            She looked down at the floor, making up her mind. Finally she reached for a pad of Post-its. “Here. It’s not under his name, so don’t tell him how you found it.”

            I took the note. It read Jay Sylvester, with an address on Ashland Avenue. “Thank you.”

            Julie stood up. “Don’t let him suck you in. He can be pretty compelling when he wants.”

            I nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Soul Survivor, Part Three

I found the address, a five-story apartment building on Ashland near Irving Park Road. The street had a taco restaurant, a shoe store, two hairdressing salons, and an eyeglass store. A parking structure stood on the corner down the block.

            The name J. Sylvester was next to a button. I looked at it, but didn’t press it. I stepped back and looked up the building for a moment, wondering which window was his, or if his window even looked down on the sidewalk. Then I walked back to my car across the street.

            I hadn’t actually been told to make contact with Dominick. Just to find him. So I called Monica and left a quick message. She called me back five minutes later: “I have to check with Phil. Let me call you as soon as I get him. Is that all right?”

            “Fine,” I told her. “I haven’t seen him yet. I’m just waiting outside the building.”

            It was a little past 5 p.m. People were starting to go home. I texted Rachel that we had yesterday’s lasagna in the refrigerator in case I was late. She texted back: If you’re too late you’ll be having soup.

            Fifteen minutes later I got a call from Monica. “Phil says he’ll take care of it. You can go home.”

            “Personally?” Phillip Chapin, management agent to the stars, didn’t seem like a guy who’d be visiting a neighborhood like this. 

            “I—I guess.” She sounded doubtful herself. “That’s what he said. Thanks for your work. That was fast.”

            “He’s not trying to hide very hard,” I said. “That makes it easier. Luck helps a lot too.”

            “Well, you came highly recommended from AG, so that makes a difference too. Call me tomorrow and we’ll finish everything up.”

            “I will.” We hung up. 

            I started the car and started to pull out. Then I turned the engine off. I really ought to wait and see if Dominick really lived here, right? That’s what a conscientious P.I. would do. Or a stubborn one. Whatever. I couldn’t charge them for this, since Monica had officially told me I was done with the case, at least for now. But I didn’t feel like I’d done my job yet. 

            So I waited.

            Time passed. I was glad I’d used the bathroom at Longview Academy, and that I had a few stale granola bars in the glove compartment. More people headed to the train or boarded buses or biked or scootered down the street. I kept the radio low on my favorite classic rock station and wondered what Rachel was doing. And what she was wearing.

            At 7:05 I was about to give up when the front door opened. I quickly checked the picture on my phone to confirm that it really was Dominick Slipko—or at least someone who looked a lot like him. Close enough to be worth following. 

            I got out of the car and crossed the street as quickly and inconspicuously as I could. Dominick was half a block ahead of me, but not walking very fast, not looking back as if he was worried about being followed. I managed to send a quick text to Rachel without too many misspellings as I kept my eyes on him. 

            He crossed at the corner, and I managed to beat the light. Now I was only a few yards behind him, but I stopped and paid close attention to a shoe store window as he hesitated in front of the door to the parking structure. He went in, and I watched through the window as the elevator came as he got in.

            Inside the vestibule I watched as the elevator rose. It stopped on the third floor, then started back down. I hoped Dominick wasn’t getting a car. I knew I couldn’t rush up three flights of stairs, so I waited and took the elevator up. Probably I’d lost him, but I had to at least make the attempt.

            At level three I stepped out and looked around. I was surrounded by cars, naturally, but didn’t see any people. Lights in the ceiling cast long shadows across the concrete, and a chilly wind swept through the wide gaps in the walls. I walked slowly, close to the cars, trying to stay low without looking like I was doing a turtle impression.

            I heard voices. I turned a corner and saw two men arguing in front of a big Lexus. One was Dominick. The other was a guy with gray hair, wearing a long tan coat, his back to me. But I recognized his voice. Josh Heider. The lawyer from A.J.’s agency.

            I ducked down behind the hood of a minivan and tried to listen in, but I couldn’t make out the words. They were arguing. Dominick was shouting. Heider kept his voice lower, but he seemed just as angry. I reached for my phone to get some video—

            And then a gunshot cracked the air.

            Heider fell back, his arms flailing, and hit the concrete with a thud. I saw Dominick holding a pistol, his face red. He fired again, and again, and the lawyer’s body twitched with each shot. 

            I had my phone but I was more concerned with making myself invisible behind the minivan to worry about trying to get a video. After the third shot Dominick took a few steps forward to look at the lawyer on the ground, and then suddenly seemed to remember that anyone could drive up and see him. He jammed his pistol into his belt and ran. 

            I knelt on the concrete until my heart stopped pounding, then forced myself to straighten up and walk over to the body. I knew who it was, but I had to make sure.

            Heider’s sightless eyes looked up at me as blood seeped across his shirt. 

            Oh hell.

 

“But you didn’t call the police?” Rachel looked ready to strangle me.

            “Monica explicitly said they wanted everything kept confidential.” I said, gulping some whiskey and coughing. “You were there.”

            “I’m pretty sure that didn’t include the murder of their top lawyer.” She took the bottle away from me. I rarely drink hard liquor, but witnessing a murder tends to shake up my nerves.

            “I called her.” I shoved the glass away. “From the car, down the street. By that time the cops were already there. Someone else obviously found the body—”

            “But you saw the murder! You know who did it.”

            “Twenty-four hours.” I took a deep breath. “That’s what I told her. I stay quiet for 24 hours and if the cops don’t have him by then, I will go tell them everything.”

            That stopped her. For a moment. “And they said yes?”

            “She told me they’d be in touch.”

            Rachel groaned. “It’s a good thing I managed to get you on my health insurance. Maybe you’ll like being a telemarketer or something.”

            “With you by my side I’ll be happy doing anything.”

            She snorted. “Shut up and eat your cold lasagna.”

 

Monica Welles called me at 7:25 the next morning. Fortunately I was out of the shower. “Can you come meet A.J. at her apartment? Without telling anyone?” She sounded ragged, as if she hadn’t slept last night.

            “Uh, sure. Give me the address.” I reached for my notebook next to my side of the bed. “This morning?” 

            “As soon as you can. Remember, don’t tell anyone at the firm.”

            “Got it.” This sounded ominous.

            “What’s that?” Rachel came out of the bathroom. “Cops outside to arrest you?”

            “A.J. wants to meet with me. Without telling anyone else. Just Monica.”

            “Good. I’m coming.” She opened her underwear drawer.

            “Don’t you have work? I mean—great.” I reached for my boxers.

            “I don’t have any clients until 11. We’ll take both cars if I have to leave before you. Or if you have to go out and fight a monster somewhere.”

            “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” I looked for my socks.

Soul Survivor, Part Four

For a rising star on the music scene, A.J. Garcia’s condo was pretty modest. It did have at least four bedrooms, but the living room seemed small and dark—maybe because the blinds were closed against the eastern sky. No TV, but the room did have a nice sectional couch and lava lights in the corners. 

            A.J. looked sick. She laid on the couch in a T-shirt and underwear, wrapped in a blanket, her face pale, her scalp sweaty. She had a guitar in her lap, though, and she was strumming the strings softly, eyes closed behind her dark glasses, as Rachel and I sat down. 

            “Coffee?” Monica asked. “Tea? Water?”

            “Monster.” Cans of the energy drink were scattered across the carpet. A.J. plucked one guitar string. “More.”

            Monica sighed. “Okay. I really think you should drink something else, but—okay.” She disappeared into the kitchen and brought back another can, along with coffee for Rachel and me. She sank down in a chair, looking exhausted, as if she’d been up all night with A.J. “Thank you for coming.”

            I nodded. “How can we help you?”

            “Dominick.” A.J.’s voice was flat and faint. “You have to find him. You just have to.”

            “What’s wrong?” Rachel. Asked. “Are you sick?”

            A.J. gave a soft bitter laugh. “I ain’t doing great.” She looked down. “Don’t worry, it’s not COVID. It’s not contagious. It’s—something else.”

            “Do you want me to explain it to them?” Monica asked her.

            “No.” She rubbed her face. “I have to tell this. They ought to hear it from me.” She looked down at her feet, away from us. 

            I waited. Rachel watched her closely.

            A.J. sighed. “About two years ago, I was starting to do really good. More people coming to see me sing, more money, more fun. Then I got new management. Phil Chapin.” She took a swallow of her drink. “Things were going okay. Better than before. Then Phil said he had a way to really get me going, start getting really big, make lots more money. He knew this guy. Dominick.”

            I nodded. “Okay.”

            “Dominick said—he could do something. It would be kind of, uh, magic, and it would make people want to hear me, more people, all over the world. All I had to do was—give him something. Just one little thing, he said.”

            “Your soul,” Rachel said. 

            I saw A.J. blink through her purple lenses. “Yeah. How do you . . . “

            “I’m psychic,” Rachel said. “At least a little. When I met you yesterday, I could feel there was something—missing. I didn’t know what it was. Until just now, listening to you. I’ve never run across anyone who lost their soul before, but I can feel it now. Something essential, a basic part of you. It’s gone.”

            A.J. looked at the floor. “Yeah.”

            “So Dominick took your soul,” I said slowly, “and in exchange, you started becoming a bigger star?”

            “I guess. Bigger shows, more money.” She scratched her almost bare scalp. “I don’t know how it worked, but it was fun at first. Playing my music, and everybody loving me. Phil was happy, everyone was happy. But after a while . . .” A.J. sighed again. “I tried to write some new songs. And they were—I couldn’t. Nothing came out. I took a break from writing for a while, but singing wasn’t fun anymore. Something was gone. I didn’t have any inspiration. It was all gone. And now . . .” 

She took a deep breath. “A few weeks ago, I started having seizures. They couldn’t find anything wrong. I couldn’t get out of bed some days. I couldn’t eat, or keep anything down. I feel like I’m always hung over. I feel like everything’s shutting down inside me. And I realized I can’t go on like this.”

            Rachel and I looked at each other. “So you contacted Dominick to get your soul back?” I asked.

            She nodded. “Yeah. He told me to go fuck myself. We went back and forth a couple times. He got pretty vile, but when I had enough emails, I went to Phil and said he was harassing me.”

            “But Chapin knew about the deal.”

            “Yeah, but if I could make it look like Dominick was making trouble, I figured he’d do something about it. He said he didn’t know where Dominick was, so he ended up hiring you to find him.”

            I looked at Monica. “How much of this did you know?”

            She stiffened, defensive. “I do PR. I’m not upper level. I didn’t know what was going on until A.J. started talking about getting emails from him. But she said—” She looked at the singer. “You didn’t tell me you emailed him first.”

            “I didn’t trust anybody.” A.J. took off her glasses. Her eyes were deep blue, but cloudy. She wiped the lenses on her shirt. “I sold myself, all right? I knew what I was doing. I made the deal. Like any whore.”

            “That’s not what you did,” Monica snapped. “They lied to you—"

            “I would have done it anyway,” A.J. adjusted the glasses on her nose. Her voice was still quiet, without emotion. “Back then, I would have done anything for all this.” She lifted her arms to the room, then let them drop. “Okay, I sold myself too cheap. But I right then I wanted it so bad would have signed up even if the Devil himself was standing right behind Dominick’s shoulder.”

            I glanced at Rachel. She took a breath. “I’m not exactly looking for patients, but if you want to talk to somebody—”

            “I don‘t need a goddamn shrink!” A.J.’s eyes blazed for a second, and then her voice faded, as if her outburst had burned up too much energy. She shook her head. “Sorry. Nothing personal. That’s not the problem right now. I feel like I’m dying. Without it, I’m just—fading away. Inside.”

            “I don’t understand something.” Actually I didn’t understand a lot of things, but this one came first. “Usually, doesn’t selling your soul work the other way around? Seven years or whatever of good times, and then it’s gone?”

            “I don’t know.” A.J. shook her head. “I mean, yeah, I kind of thought about that for a minute, maybe. But I didn’t think too long.”

            “This doesn’t sound like the actual Devil was involved,” Rachel said. “Maybe just a demon.”

            “And Chapin didn’t know where to find him? He brought him to you in the first place.”

            “He said he hadn’t seen him in years. I had to throw a fit to get him to hire you.”

            Given her general lack of emotion, I wondered what that would have looked like. But I looked at Monica. “Did you give Phil the address I left when I called you yesterday?” 

            She blinked, thinking back. “Yeah. He just said he’d take care of it. Nothing else.”

            “So why’d he send the lawyer there?” I asked.

            “Along with, why did Dominick kill him?” Rachel said. 

            “Unfortunately, another excellent question.” I looked at A.J. “Do you have any idea what Dominick wants with your soul? Is he holding it on layaway for Satan or something?”

            She shook her head. “I didn’t ask any questions. Not the right questions. Stupid.”

            “You’re not stupid,” Monica said quickly. “People lie in this business. Someone should have—”

            “I knew that. I didn’t care.” She squeezed her mostly-empty can silently, spilling some energy drink on the carpet. “I just wanted to be a star.”

            I looked at Rachel. She checked the time. She’d have to leave for work soon.

            “So what do you want me to do now?” I asked, dreading the most likely answer.

            “Get my soul back, you know?” A.J.’s voice was soft, but I could hear a whisper of something desperate from deep within it. “I can’t go on like this. Nothing feels good anymore. Nothing feels bad, either. I just don’t feel anything. I remember—” Her voice faded. “I just can’t do this anymore.” She closed her eyes, dozing. 

            Again I looked at Rachel. She frowned at me. I knew what she was thinking, even without being psychic. 

Finally she nodded. “Do what you have to do,” she whispered. Then she stood up. “I have to go. A,J., Tom will help you. Just don’t get him killed.” She punched my shoulder. “See you tonight. Jerk.”  She left.

            A.J.’s eyes fluttered open. “Sorry. I just—Mon, will you get me some tea?”

            “Sure.” Monica stood up. “Is there anything you need?” she asked me.

“I’m going to have to talk to Phil Chapin. Is that going to be a problem for either of you?”

            Monica bit her lip. “He won’t like that I’m here for this. I could get fired.”

            “I’ll give you a job.” A.J. turned her head to me. “And I’ll hire you too. How much do you charge?”

            “I probably should send my invoice to Chapin Jacobs before we talk about that.” 

            “Actually, untangling your money from the firm could be complicated,” Monica said. “I mean, I don’t know how your finances are set up—”

“Just get me a lawyer. We’ll figure it out. I don’t care about the money.” Her eyes flickered and faded. “I just want my soul back.” She closed her eyes again and fell asleep.

Monica looked at her, then at me. “Hurry.”

 

Three hours later I was still waiting to see Phillip Chapin.

            No, I’d told Sabrina, his gatekeeper and administrative assistant, I didn’t have an appointment. She suggested I make one, and I suggested I wait. She suggested I suit myself.

            Since then Sabrina hadn’t taken a peek in my direction. She was young and sexy in boots and a scarf over her blond hair, and I wouldn’t have minded an occasional glance or smile my way—though I’d never admit that to Rachel. But she ignored me as completely as if I were a dead bug. 

            I played games on my phone, wishing I’d brought a book to read—one of these days I’ll finally finish Gravity’s Rainbow. Sabrina answered the phone with a friendly voice, tapped quietly on her keyboard, and sipped water from a bottle, all without paying me any attention at all. 

            Finally, when I was starting to wonder how Sabrina would react if I ordered a sandwich from DoorDash, her phone buzzed. She answered, sighed, and nodded grudgingly. “Mr. Chapin will see you now.”

            “Thank you.” I try to always be polite to the help. It sometimes pays off later.

            A guitar hung on one wall of office behind a sheet of glass, above a brass plate embossed with “Nils Lofgren, E Street Band.” Around it hung other pieces of memorabilia from other musicians with Chicago connections: a blues harmonica from Buddy Guy, an autographed photo of Chance the Rapper, handwritten lyrics from a Warren Zevon song in a frame, and trophies from other artists I’d never heard of. Who or what was Poi Dog Pondering?

Chapin sat behind a sleek metal desk, his necktie loose, looking frustrated and irritable. “Mr. Jurgen. Please don’t waste my time. It’s tragic about Josh, but—it’s been a very long day and I don’t have any patience for bullshit. I’ve had the police giving me enough already.”

            I wondered if I knew any of the police he’d talked to. I’ve met a lot of cops. Most of them think I’m crazy because I insist on telling them about the vampires or demons I run into all too frequently. “What did you tell them?”

            He frowned. “That’s none of your business.”

            “What about Dominick Slipko?”

            He leaned forward, gripping the arms of his chair. “What about him?”

            “You sent your lawyer to meet with him, didn’t you? Do they know about Dominick?”

            I was taking the risk that he’d throw me out, but it was the only lead I had. I watched Chapin peer down his nose at me, his mind working through the angles. “What are you talking about?” There was no confusion in his voice, or denial. He knew exactly what my question meant.

            “I found Dominick yesterday and reported to Monica Welles. She told me she spoke to you and you’d handle it. Later Dominick left his apartment, went to the parking structure, and argued with Heider. Then he shot him.”

            A vein in Chapin’s neck throbbed. “What do you want, Jurgen? Money? You’re blackmailing me? It won’t work. I’ve got lawyers on speed dial, all of them who’ve got cheap P.I.s like you ready to dig up every ounce of dirt on you that’s out there. Your wife, too. Yeah.” He nodded, confident in his menace. “We will go there.”

            I held his gaze. I’ve been threatened a lot, by people and monsters scarier than him, but I still have a healthy instinct to run from danger when it rears up. But I didn’t like him threatening Rachel.

            “The only money I want from you is on my invoice,” I told him. “I saw Dominick shoot Heider. I was told not to do anything about it, but I only agreed to 24 hours. Maybe the cops will find Dominick on their own. But I can still testify that you sent him there. What for? To make another deal with Dominick for A.J.’s soul?”

            Chapin’s face abruptly turned ashen. He sank back in his chair, his neck pulsing some more. “I have a—a heart condition.” His voice was a whisper. As if someone might be listening.

            “I’m sorry to hear that. But what about—”

            “I can’t tell you anything about that.” He clenched his jaw. “I just can’t.”

            I hesitated. He wasn’t just being defiant. For a big-time music mogul—at least big-time in Chicago—Chapin actually looked scared. “Okay. Why not?”

            He leaned forward over his desk. “I think I can tell you this.” His eyes were blinking furiously, as if he was trying to signal me in code. “Don’t talk to Josh’s ex-wife. Jackie. Just don’t ask her any questions. Got it?”

            What the hell? But he looked serious, like a mobster wearing a wire. I nodded. “I think so.”

            “Now get out.” He sat back and closed his eyes. “Don’t come back.”

            I stood. “I’ll be sending my invoice.” It wasn’t a very dramatic exit line, but it was the best I could do. I winked at Sabrina on my way out. I don’t think she even noticed.

 

I found Jackie Heider, now Jackie Murphy, online in about 10 minutes, and arranged to meet her in her real estate office an hour later. That gave me time for lunch and to send a few texts to Rachel. She only texted back once: She better not be pretty. Rachel can still get territorial where I’m concerned. It’s kind of nice.

            Jackie Murphy was indeed pretty, a woman in her middle 40s like me, her blond hair streaked with a little gray, She wore a sharp suit that reinforced her image as a serious pro. She had a full office, not just a cubicle facing a store window, and she offered me coffee before sitting down and looking me over. “This is about Josh?”

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

            She shrugged. “We’ve been divorced for three years. I’m sorry he’s dead—especially like that—but it’s not really my loss anymore. I don’t know if he’s seeing anyone or—anything like that. I’ve had to move on.” She pointed to the wall of her office, where her awards and photos with celebrities were displayed. “I’m doing pretty good. Now what do you want?” She had her own coffee, thick with cream.

            “It’s about A.J. Garcia. Do you know anything about your husband’s—sorry, ex-husband’s dealings with her?”

            Jackie frowned. “Who told you to come to me?”

            “Nobody. Actually, Phillip Chapin explicitly told me not to ask you. I think he was telling me the opposite.”

            “Phil.” She said the name with distaste. “If anyone interfered in our relationship, it was Phil.”

            “How so?”

            Jackie’s lips tightened. “He kept Josh on a leash like a miniature poodle. You’d get arrested for animal cruelty if you did what he did to a dog. And I have two dogs.” She pointed the shelf behind her, where I spotted a photo of her with a Sheltie and a Yorkshire Terrier. “It was 24/7, always there, never say no, no matter what else was going on. One Sunday afternoon we were literally in the middle of—well, never mind.” She looked away from me, embarrassed. “You get the idea. I have to work a lot to stay on top—” She gestured toward the rest of the office behind her door.  “But nothing like what Phil did to him.”

            “What about A.J. Garcia?”

            “That singer?” Jacki’s eyes flickered, as if she was fighting off an intruding memory. Then she shook her head. “Yeah, I know her. I hear her on Spotify sometimes.”

            “You don’t like her music?”

            “Not especially.” She stared down at her coffee. “Josh had some kind of a thing for her.”

            “Like what? A crush?”

            “Not like that. I can’t really—you never know with men, am I right?” She cocked her head at me, accusingly.

            “Speaking as a man myself, yeah.” It seemed wise to change up the subject. “What about a man named Dominick Slipko? Ever heard of him?”

            Her upper lip curled. “Josh talked about him. I only met him once. It was enough.”

            “Why? What bothered you about him?”

            “It was at a party. I had to go, Josh insisted, and then he ignored me all night, doing things for Phil and hitting on every folk singer and wannabe rock star near the bar. I asked someone who the creepy guy in the corner was, and they said, ‘Dominick Slipko, steer clear of his ass.’ I didn’t need much warning. He looked like he’d borrowed his older brother’s leather jacket and was hoping one of the older kids would buy him beer at the liquor store.” She leaned back and opened a drawer. “I’m going to have a cigarette.”

            “It’s your office.”

            “Yes, it is.” She lit up. “Is this helping you at all?”

            “I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure out why he sent me to talk to you.”

            “Well, I did sleep with him. One time. That was a mistake.” She inhaled. “Don’t get me wrong, we both cheated, but Josh had the winning score.”

            “Did he cheat with A.J. Garcia?”

            Jackie was silent for a long time. “Not really. But—there was something.” She looked out the window, tapping her cigarette on the ashtray.

            “What do you mean?”

She blew smoke. “I’ve never told anyone this. Not my lawyer, our daughter, my therapist. Oh, wait—yeah, I hinted at it to Phil. Right before—you know.” She sighed. “I’m not sure what it was, really. Sometimes I think it was a bad dream. You’ll think I’m crazy.”

            “I’ve heard a lot of wild stories. I have a high tolerance for crazy.”

“Okay.” She set her cigarette down in an ashtray. “I walked into his office one night, three in the morning, because I thought I heard something. I don’t know what. And this girl was there, tied up, hanging from the ceiling somehow, and he was—doing things to her. I can’t even . . .” She closed her eyes. “It wasn’t really her, but it was, sort of, her. I didn’t realize who it was until later, maybe the next morning. Her face was all red and she was crying, and bleeding from the ropes around her wrists, and she saw me but Josh was too busy—doing it. I was watching it, watching her, and she sort of flickered in and out, like she wasn’t really there all the time. In, out, gone, back.” 

She lit another cigarette. “I don’t know how long I stood there. I don’t even remember going back to bed. That’s why I think it was a dream sometimes. But then I remember the look on her face, and—I don’t know.”

            “Is that when you left?”

            Jackie laughed without humor. “No. I wish. No, it was six months later. I just got sick of him one day. Our daughter’s in college, and she knows almost everything about her father, so I just realized one day there was no point in staying. One morning I called my lawyer while he was at work and moved out. Just two suitcases. And, okay, the checkbook and all the cash we had in the house. I’m not stupid.” She slowly inhaled more smoke.

            “Did you ever ask him about what you saw?”

            “Of course not.” She exhaled. “But I think he knew. Everything was different after that. I don’t know how much he did it, but I could tell he was into some weird shit. And he knew I knew, but he wasn’t going to ask me about it. There was a lot we never talked about it. It’s why I didn’t leave sooner.”

            “How long ago was the, uh, the incident?”

            “About a year ago. The divorce was final this January.” She picked up her coffee. “Is there anything else, Mr. Jurgen?”

            I was being dismissed, and I couldn’t exactly blame her. But I had to take one last shot. “Do you have any idea where Dominick Slipko might be? I really need to locate him.”

            “Well, I certainly don’t know where he lives.” She frowned, irritated that I was still bothering her. “Josh didn’t like him. He called him a slimy cockroach, and then he said that was an insult to slimy cockroaches. But he went out to meet with him at night more than once. There was a place . . .” She sighed, thinking. “I think it was called Amber. Up on Belmont or somewhere. It was some kind of a music club, you know, dancing, DJs, drugs. It sounded pretty sleazy.” 

            I could tell I was reaching the end of her patience. “All right, thank you. I’m sorry to bother you with all this.”

            Jackie sighed. “It’s funny. I didn’t want him dead. I just wanted—I don’t know.” She picked up her cigarette. “Good luck.”

            “Thanks.”

I spent a few minutes out in my car, thinking. Before I could decide on anything more constructive than finding a restroom, my phone buzzed. Monica. “Something’s wrong with A.J. I had to take her to the E.R.”

            “What happened?”

            “I don’t know. I mean—she had a seizure, and she came out of it, but ever since she’s just been sort of floating in and out. She doesn’t really talk or say anything I can understand. She’s weak and they say her blood pressure is way down. They let us go home, and all she wants to do is watch TV. Something’s wrong. It’s like she doesn’t want to be alive anymore.”

            I felt a twist in my gut. How long can someone live without a soul? It had been years for A.J., but nothing lasts forever. And it felt like the end was coming soon. 

            I used my phone to search for the club Jackie had told me about. Amber. A.J. had been photographed there, with Dominick, several years ago. It had closed more than 12 months ago, which wasn’t surprising. But when I looked into the company that owned it, 21Music, D. Slipko as listed as one of its three owners. The company currently owned a new club, Neoplasm, on Milwaukee, and identified that location as its HQ. I called the number.

            “Hi, I’m trying to reach Dominick Slipko?”

            The woman sounded suspicious. “Uh, he’s not with the company anymore. I can’t—”

            “That’s okay. How about, uh—”  I switched phone screens for a moment. “Mr. Loreham? Or is it Ms. Loreham?” All the owners’ first name were just initials.

            “Just a minute.” I heard a click, then another click. “Yes? This is Earl Loreham, who’s this?”

            “My name is Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective, and I’m trying to locate Dominick Slipko, your business partner. Or former business partner, I guess. Can you tell me how I could get in contact with him?”

            Loreham’s laugh was a humorless bark. “Former is right. I don’t know why I can’t get that changed anywhere, we haven’t been in business together for two years, but his name is still attached to everything I do. Who are you again? I already talked to the police once.”

            The police? Maybe they were more on top of Heider’s murder than I realized. “I’m a private detective, not the police. When did you talk to them?”            

            “This morning sometime. Look, I don’t know where Dominick is. And I don’t care.”

            He was about to hang up. I managed to give him my phone number and email. Just in case he heard from his ex-partner. I hoped he was really taking them down. 

            I used the restroom in a nearby Starbucks, bought a coffee, and sat in the car for a few minutes. I was about to start up and head home when my phone buzzed. Unknown number. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Jurgen? This is Dominick Slipko.”

            His voice was low and hoarse, as if he’d been whispering for so long he’d forgotten to speak normally. I tensed. “You got my number.”

            “Yeah, Earl just wants to get rid of me any way he can. I know you’re working for A.J. You probably know what’s going on.”

            “I know you killed Josh Heider.” I remembered the sound of the gunshot.

            “And you know I’ve got something A.J. wants. We can make a deal.”

            “What kind of a deal?” A plane ticket to a country without an extradition treaty?

            “Just a minute.” I waited while I heard him doing something with his phone. Then another phone buzzed. Two buzzes. “Hello?” Monica’s voice.

            “Monica? This is Dominick. I’ve got your friend Tom Jurgen on the line. Is A.J. there?”

            “Dominick.” Her voice was steely. “She’s sleeping. She was in the hospital today. What do you want?”

            “There’s some song lyrics on the wall in Phil Chapin’s office. By Warren Zevon. Either of you ever heard of him?”

            I rolled my eyes, feeling old. “I know his work. Why do you want it?”

            “Never mind that. Get them. I’ll call you in four hours. If you don’t have it, A.J. never gets back what she wants.”

            “She’ll die without it,” Monica said, her voice trembling. “Is that what you want? After all this time?”

            “Help me and I’ll help her, and we’ll all be happy. Four hours.”

            He hung up, leaving me on the line with Monica.

            “He’s scared,” I said. “The cops are after him. That’s why he wants to make a deal.”

“But we can get A.J.’s soul back,” she said, as if she’d given up hope.

            I thought about what Heider had been doing with that soul. Would she even want it back? It wasn’t my decision, but A.J. deserved a warning, at least. But first things first. “Okay. Meet me at Chapin’s office. But I’m not sure how easy it’ll be getting him to hand the thing over.”

“We’ve got to try. If the cops catch him, we might never get it back.” She paused, taking a breath. “A.J. has been my responsibility for a long time. I’m more of her personal assistant than a PR hack. I can’t just let her go like this.”

            I couldn’t argue. We hung up, and I texted Rachel. Maybe getting AJ’s soul back. Wish me luck. A moment later she replied, I’m free in an hour. Don’t do anything more stupid than usual. 

            I texted her a heart and started the car.