We drank coffee around the kitchen table.
“Sometimes
ghosts are trapped in the place where they died.” I rubbed my forehead. “They
mostly talked about their son.”
“But he’s
alive.” Kate crossed her arms, angry. “And this started before he came here
tonight.”
“Yeah.” I gulped
my coffee, hoping it would cleanse my brain. “And they didn’t explain what
happened—”
Mitch shot
up from his chair. “What’s that?”
Noises
outside the door. He peered through the peephole. Then he made sure his
sweatpants were secure and unsnapped the lock.
Out in the
hallway, a pair of EMTs pulled a cart from an apartment across the hall. A
black body bag was strapped inside it.
Freeman
stepped out. “What’s going on?”
A uniformed
police officer glanced back at him. “Just go back inside, sir. We’re handling
this.”
Then a
second cart came out. With another bag.
Freeman
looked at me.
I pushed
past him down the hall. “Hi. Tom Jurgen. And you are?” I eyed the name on his
uniform. “Officer Abelson. Who’s handling this homicide?”
Abelson
glared. “Go home, whoever you are.”
“Is it
Mario Beach? Anita Sharpe? Hawkins? They all know me. They don’t like me, but—”
“Jurgen!” A
detective stalked down the hall, jostling against the carts. I didn’t know this
one, but apparently he knew me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Hello,
officer.” I gave him a business card. “Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective, and
I was just here with a client—”
“I know who
you are.” The detective was tall and lean, with thin black hair and a long
crooked nose. “I’m Rodriguez. Just stay out of my way.”
My old reporting
instincts kicked it. “What happened here? Two body bags coming out of an
apartment—”
“None of
your business.” Rodriguez looked at Abelson. “Is it secure?”
The
patrolman nodded. “Yes, sir. The techs are inside now”
A door
opened. Down the hall. An elderly woman looked out into the hallway, spotted the
police presence, and then ducked back, locking her door.
“Do you see that?” I pointed.
“Tomorrow morning everyone in this building is going to start calling the
management office to ask about—”
Rodriguez
growled. “That’s their job. Just let us do ours.”
“Okay.
Fine. What about the dog?”
Rodriguez
stared at me, confused. “Abelson?”
Abelson
shrugged. “What dog? No dog.”
“There was
a dog barking in that apartment a few hours ago. Not loud, but—”
“Go home,
Jurgen. Get some sleep.” He shoved me toward the elevators.
I leaned
against the wall and looked down at Freeman and Kate. “I’ll call you.”
Freeman
nodded. Kate pulled him inside the door. I heard the lock snick as I staggered
to the elevator.
Back in my apartment I slept for three hours until my phone
alarm jarred me from sleep. The sun glared through my blinds. After a shower
and some fresh clothes, I drank some coffee and opened my laptop.
The murders
were already up on some of the news websites. It was a double murder—a young
couple apparently attacking each other with steak knives and machetes.
I skimmed
through the articles, trying to eat a bowl of cereal, but my stomach wasn’t
ready for food. I kept seeing Mona Ayres, drenched in blood, out of the corner
of my eyes.
So now
what? I wasn’t sure what my job was now. The Freeman family had hired me to
find out about the murder in their home. I’d done that, sort of.
But I’d
never been able to let things like this go.
So I
hunched over my laptop and started typing words into search engines.
Rachel unlocked my door at 9:30, holding my copy of the
Chicago Tribune in her arms.
“What the
hell happened?” She slammed the door. “You call me from your car and tell me
something about ghosts covered in blood, and then what? Nothing! I could barely
get back to work.”
I stood up,
my knees weak from sitting all morning. “I’ll get you some coffee.”
“You’d
better.”
Rachel has
red hair and hazelnut eyes. She was wearing tight jeans, boots and a black
T-shirt, and she slouched in a chair at my kitchen table as I brought her
coffee and refilled my own cup.
I sank back
down. “There have been 12 murders in that building over the last 20 years. All
of them either murder-suicides, or just unsolved murders. Throw out the
unsolved ones, and there are still at least six, maybe seven, without any
motive.”
Rachel
stared at me. “And you spent the night there? You idiot!” She punched my arm.
“Ow.” I
rubbed my shoulder. Her punches have been getting lighter lately, but they
still hurt. “The killings in the Freeman place weren’t even the first. Twenty-eight
years ago an 81-year-old man shot his wife and then killed himself on the 11th
floor. My clients live on the 11th floor. Twelve years before that a
pregnant woman and her husband—”
“Stop!”
Rachel planted her hands over her ears. “I get it! The place is a deathtrap!
Did you tell your clients yet?”
I looked at
my phone on the table. “I guess I’d better.”
Freeman
sounded groggy. “I’ve got a meeting in a few minutes. What’s up?”
“You might
want to move.” I told him what I’d learned.
“Oh, hell.”
He sighed. “I was afraid of this. The whole building is—what? Cursed?”
“I don’t
know.” I looked at my search results. “Maybe just the 11th floor.”
“Shit.” He
was silent for a moment. “I have to call Kate.”
“I’m still
looking into this. I’ll be in touch if I find out anything.”
“Okay,
fine.” He sighed again. “We’ll start packing.”
Rachel
looked at me. “Have you got a plan?”
“Hell, no.”
I gulped my coffee. “Just a list of names to call and questions to ask. Do you
want to stay?”
“No.” She
stood up and stretched. “I’ve still got work to do. Call me before you go after
any more ghosts. Don’t get slimed.”
I nodded. “I’ll
add that to my to-do list.”
The nice woman at the management office refused to answer
any questions when I called. “You should check our statement on the website.
Are you a resident?”
“I’m working
for one of your residents. Are you aware of the number of murders that have
taken place in your building in the last forty years?”
“Uhh . . .”
She swallowed. “Sandler Mullins has only been managing this location since
2011. I suggest you contact the previous management company, Keller Smithwick?
In the meantime, as I said, please look at our statement. That’s all.” She hung
up.
I found the
statement:
TO OUR RESIDENTS
As you may know, a serious incident
occurred in an apartment on the 11th floor of our building last
night. Two of our residents were found dead. Police were called, and they are
investigating the circumstances. Everything is under control as of this
morning.
Out of respect for the families
involved, we are not releasing the names of those involved.
Please be assured that your safety
and security are our top priority. We will be cooperating fully with the
Chicago Police Department, and we will share information as soon as it becomes
available.
My next call was to the Anita Sharpe, Chicago police
detective. We worked together on vampire cases. She wouldn’t be happy to hear
from me on this, but she was one of the few cops I knew who wouldn’t
immediately hang up on me.
“Jurgen?
What?” Sharpe sounded ready to strangle someone close by. “It’s daylight. There
can’t be a vampire, can there? Can there?”
“Calm down,
detective.” There hadn’t been a vampire killing in weeks. “I just need some
information on a murder-suicide in a condo last night. Anything you can tell
me.”
“You want me
to do your work for you? I’ve got another shooting on the south side and a
gang-banger to question.” She grunted. “I’ll code it as a vampire case if I
can. Just make it quick.”
“I don’t
have the names. Rodriguez was in charge.” I gave her the address. “I owe you
one.”
“You owe me
a lot, asshole.” I heard her fingers tapping. “Hang on.”
We’d been
through a few bad times together. Sharpe didn’t exactly like me, but we’d
managed to build up a certain amount of trust.
I still
missed Dudovich.
“Okay.” Sharpe
talked slowly. “Victims’ names were Alex and Bryan Gomez. Early forties. No
previous reports of domestic disturbance. Last night a neighbor heard crashing
in their apartment and a dog barking. Officers arrived, a maintenance man
opened the door with a key, and the two victims were found dead. A machete and
a knife. No sign of forced entry, no evidence of sexual assault. The TV was on.
Seinfeld.”
“What about
the dog?”
“There
wasn’t any . . .” Sharpe paused. “There’s nothing about any dog.”
“But there
was a dog barking inside the apartment.”
“I’m just
telling you what’s in the report, Jurgen. And you didn’t get it from me.”
“Who are
you again? I just called a random number inside the CPD.”
Sharpe
laughed. “Go to hell, Jurgen.” She hung up.
I had at least one more call to make. I didn’t want to do
it, but I had to.
Will Ayres
worked in a Target on the near north side. He couldn’t talk immediately, but he
called me back fifteen minutes later. “What happened? Did you see my parents?”
His voice was a desperate whisper. “Just tell me.”
I had to
tell him the truth. Some of it, anyway. “Your father said he loves you. Your
mother says she’s sorry.”
“Oh god . .
. oh god . . .” I could hear Will crying. “I’m sorry . . .”
I waited.
“Uh, you can call me back if you want.”
“No, I’m
okay.” He sniffed. “I’m in the bathroom. What did you want?”
“It’s about
your dog, Sparky. Where did he come from?”
I heard the
toilet flush. “I don’t really remember. He was just there. And then he wasn’t.
Like I said, I never saw him after I went to stay with my grandma. She didn’t
say anything about . . . anything.”
I shifted
in my chair. “Thanks. I’m sorry to bother you.”
“No, it’s
fine. Just . . . what did they look like?”
Covered in
blood? I couldn’t tell him that. “I saw them looking like a wedding picture.
They looked . . . happy.”
I waited.
Hoping it wasn’t the wrong thing to say.
“Okay.” Will
cleared his throat. “I just hope Sparky is happy too.”
NIneteen
years? Sparky was probably dead. If he’d ever been alive.
But I
didn’t want to say that. “If I learn anything more, I’ll be in touch.”
“I have to
get back to work.” His voice lowered. “If you see them again, tell them . . . I
don’t know. Tell them anything that sounds good.”
Will hung
up. I drank some coffee and tried to think of my next move.
I could
walk up and down the 11th floor, knocking on doors, asking
questions, and listening for barking dogs. But that could get me kicked out and
possibly arrested.
I went back
to the condo association’s website. The manager was Patricia Carnes. The
picture showed a woman in her 30s with light brown hair and wide lips stretched
in a smile. I wrote down her email address.
Then I went
to the previous management company’s website. And there, under a “Meet Our
Team” Link, I found Carnes again. Her
brown hair looked a little darker, but her smile was just as wide.
Interesting.
I poured
myself another cup of coffee and dug deep into real estate management firms. It
took a while. But before Keller Smithwick, the Freemans’ condo building had
been owned by a company called Taylor & Taylor, back in the 1980s. Taylor
& Taylor was out of business, but I found an archived site with a list of
executives and managers.
She was
there, under the name “Pat Carnes.” Shorter hair, her smile a little less
prominent. But the same person.
It wasn’t
unusual for companies to basically sell a property manager to another company
when they got bought out. But it seemed unusual for the same manager to stay
with a property for 30 years—and for a string of murders to take place in the
same building over all that time.
I called Freeman
again. This time his wife picked up. “We have to move?”
Were they
already packing boxes? “Maybe. I need you to make an appointment with Patricia
Carnes. Your property manager? I doubt if she’ll see me alone.”
“Is this
about—what Mitch said? All these murders?”
“Yes.” I
sighed. “I’m sorry. It might be important.”
I heard
Kate whisper to her husband. Then: “Okay. I’ll call her. I never liked her.”
Yeah. “She probably
won’t like either of us before this is over.”
So at 3:30 we were all sitting in the management office on
the first floor. Me, Kate, and Patricia Carnes.
She had
short brown hair, and she looked to be in her 40s, even though she’d apparently
been managing the building for almost 30 years. Maybe she worked out a lot.
Kids on
bicycles rode through the courtyard outside the window. Carnes moved her chair
back and shut the blinds. “What can I do for you?”
Rachel burst through the door. “Sorry I’m
late! There was a traffic jam. And I was working.” She sat next to me and
jabbed an elbow at my arm. “Jerk.”
I’d asked
her—begged her, actually—to join the meeting. Her psychic powers might help me
pinpoint what was going on.
Carnes smiled, her red lips tight.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Freeman?”
“We’re moving out.” Kate’s voice
was calm. “After that murder last night—”
“We are
instituting new security measures after last night.” Carnes folded her hands on
top of her desk. “More cameras, more guards. You have nothing to worry about—“
“Wait a
minute.” I shook my head. “So how are extra cameras and rental cops going to
stop residents from killing themselves inside their own units?”
Carnes stared at me. “Who are you
again?”
I reached
into my pocket and dropped a card on her desk. “Tom Jurgen. I have some
experience with this sort of thing.”
“With condo
security?” Carnes seemed legitimately puzzled. “”We have our own security firm,
you know. A&X Services. They’re very reputable.”
I leaned
forward. “Do you know how many people have been killed in this building in the
last 20 years? I can give you names: James and Tammy Levine, 1999,
murder-suicide. Bradley and Rebecca Wallings, 2003, another murder and suicide.
Linda Crump, pregnant, 2004, suicide. All in your building, all on the 11th
floor, none of them killed by intruders. This place is . . .” I hesitated.
“It’s haunted. Cursed. Something like that.”
She
blinked. But before she could say tell me I was crazy, a dog started barking
underneath her desk.
“Ozzie!”
Carnes snapped her fingers. “Come back here!”
Ozzie was a small beagle with black
ears, shirt legs, and a white snout, but instead of obeying Carnes he burst
around around the corner of the desk and started running in circles around the
carpet.
Ozzie darted under my chair, dashed
behind Kate, and then jumped up at Rachel, its long red tongue hanging out.
Rachel shoved her chair back.
“Don’t slobber over me. I hate that. What’s your name?”
“Ozzie, get back.” Carnes walked
around the desk and pulled on the dog’s collar. “She usually stays quiet when
I’m working.”
Kate stood up, her legs ramrod straight.
“We’re moving out. I’ll call about the freight elevator.” She stalked to the
door.
“Wait—wait!” Carnes picked the dog
up. “Quiet, Ozzie. What’s going on?”
I took out my phone. “Can I take a
picture?”
The little dog barked at me. I
managed a shot. Then another one. Then I slipped the phone back into my pocket.
“Thanks for your time.”
“Wait!” Carnes let Ozzie drop to
the floor. “What’s going on in my building? You have to tell me!”
Ozzie barked again, and then ran
back underneath the desk.
I stood at the office door. “You’ve
been here for 30 years. Didn’t you ever wonder?”
“This my job.” She sat back in her
chair. “My building. I live here. And all I have is Ozzie.”
The little dog barked at her feet.
“How old is Ozzie?” Rachel asked.
“The first manager gave him to me.
She’s been here ever since.”
“So he—she’s over 20 years old?” I
glanced at Rachel. “Pretty active for a dog in old age.
Carnes shrugged. “I don’t know.
Tell Ms. Freeman and her husband I’m sorry.” She sat down, Ozzie squirmed at
her feet.
ageless is supposed to be a compliment, not a reality.
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