A series of unusual deaths are plaguing a ritzy high-rise, all of them caused by pets and other animals—spiders, rats, dogs, and more. Can Tom Jurgen and Rachel follow the scent and find the killer?
Sunday, April 18, 2021
Talk to the Animals, Part One
Stewart Garnick, 67 years old, balding, was late for a rare in-person meeting downtown. He tapped his foot on the hallway carpet and jabbed the elevator button for the third time. Even when the elevators in the building worked, they were too damn slow to come. He’d paid to $15 million for his 22nd floor condo—four bedrooms, granite kitchen countertops, jacuzzi in the master bathroom—and they couldn’t keep the goddamn elevators running?
The lawsuit would take care of that, and flooding, the noises in the walls, the bad cable—but that would take years. He was stuck here, at least until the damn pandemic was over and people started buying fancy condos again.
The button light turned off. He pulled his mask up to make sure it covered his nose. Some of the people here could really be assholes about masks and social distancing and all that—
A dog barked behind him.
Damn it! Everyone was supposed to take dogs in the back elevator, at the other end of the hall. Stewart turned, ready to confront Peterson or whoever it was—
But this wasn’t Peterson and his Dachshund. This dog was big, black, with no collar and no human beside him, and a wide jaw filled with dripping teeth.
Garnick lurched back as the dog snarled at him. He heard the elevator open behind him. Thank God, all he had to do was hit the >|< button before the dog got in. He stepped back as the black dog lunged at him.
His foot felt nothing underneath. Just empty air.
What the hell? The dog skidded to a halt in front on the carpet, snarling, as Garnick whirled his arms and fought frantically for balance.
The dog’s bright eyes were the last thing he saw before he plummeted down the shaft.
Mark Halverson came round the corner. “Paco? Here, Paco!”
The black dog ran toward his owner, barking happily, jumping up on his legs.
“Don’t run away like that, Paco!” Halverson knelt to snap the dog’s leash on. “Good dog.” He patted Paco’s head. “Good dog.” Then he stood and pressed the elevator button.
Paco wagged his tail.
A doorman in a gray jacket, a black cotton mask, and a button that said “Stellars Tower” in golden letters on his lapel made a phone call and then pointed to a bank of elevators. “Fifteenth floor.”
Two of the 12 elevators had signs printed with “Out of Service—Maintenance.” Water leaked from the bottom of one. I pressed the button with my knuckle, checked my mask, and waited.
The doors opened, and the man who came out in a camel-hair jacket and a mask with the Chicago Cubs logo on it glanced at me, glared at the water on the floor, and stalked to the front door. I got in and tapped 15.
At 1507 I pressed a doorbell, again using my knuckle, and heard chimes inside. Ellen Doyle opened the door—a woman in her fifties, in a dark pantsuit and a mask with pink polka dots. “Tom Jurgen? Thanks for coming.”
Her living room was bigger than my entire apartment. High windows gave a view of Lake Michigan, with boats in the water and clouds in the sky. I peeked in her kitchen as she brought me a cup of coffee—it could have served a gourmet restaurant. I clearly was in the wrong business as a private detective.
“The firm says they hired you for the lawsuit.” She sat on a black leather recliner, and I tried not to sink all the way down in a sectional sofa. “This is related. Or it may not be. I just think it’s something to look into.”
I was working for the law firm of Lloyd Williams Cooke. The tenants of Stellars Tower were suing its management, Powers Mackenzie Ltd., for multiple problems in the high-rise condo building—flooding in the elevators and basement parking garage, noises in the walls, mold in the air ducts, and garbage chutes that jammed repeatedly.
The building offered multiple amenities—and a ridiculous starting price for its condos. It boasted two exercise centers, a five-star restaurant on the top floor, a pharmacy, a Whole Foods, a McDonalds, and a Starbucks in the lobby, and more. Since the condos went for close to $20 million each, residents felt they had the right to raise hell—and the resources to hire one of the priciest law firms in the city to do it for them.
My job was to interview residents to gather facts and help decide who to depose and have testify if the case ever went to trial. This was an additional job—for extra pay. Always nice, even if it would never get me into one of these condos except as a guest or a hired hand.
“You know about all our issues with management.” She glared at the ceiling where paint had cracked from moisture seeping from above. “On top of that, there have been several, uh, unusual deaths in the building lately. Since we filed the lawsuit.”
“Unusual how?”
She sighed. “Connie Chin. A friend of mine down the hall, in 1506. They found her in her bed, with, uh, bite marks on her body.”
Oh hell. “On her neck?”
“No, no.” Ellen Doyle shook her head. “On her arms, mostly.”
Sigh of relief. Chicago’s vampires had mostly been lying low during the pandemic. I didn’t want to have to deal with them now.
Yes, I’ve seen vampires. And other supernatural stuff. It seems to come with the job. “So what was the cause of death?”
“I don’t know. But Stewart—Stewart Garnick, on 22—he fell down an elevator shaft. He was 67. And Jenny Klein fell in her shower.” She shuddered. “She was dead two or three days, and they said her cats—well, they’d started eating her.” She grimaced.
Yuck. I scribbled notes. On a notepad. Old reporters’ habits die hard. “Did they know each other? Have anything in common? A book group or something?”
“Their names are all on the lawsuit. I mean, there are 40 of us or so, but still . . .”
I’d have to cross check the names. “Have you talked to anyone else in the building about this?”
“Just Jenny’s husband. No one—oh.” She pointed a finger at her door. “And Mrs. Carver. She’s on the other end of the hall. She knows everyone.”
“Maybe I should talk to her.”
Ms. Doyle rose. “I’ll take you.”
The hallway carpet was blue with a subtle swirling pattern. Ms. Doyle led me to 1512. Again I heard chimes.
“Marilyn?” Ms. Doyle glanced at me as the door opened. “This is Tom Jurgen. He’s working for the law firm. Could we come in for a moment?”
Marilyn Carver wore a long black dress and a pink cotton mask. Her white hair was tied in a braided ponytail. Her furniture was well-worn and comfortable looking. She poured tea from a china teapot from the kitchen and then perched on leather recliner. “What can I do for you guys?”
“I told Tom about Connie. And Stewart, and, you know . . .” Ellen Doyle sipped her tea.
“We’re just wondering . . .” I hesitated, unsure what to really ask. “Ms. Doyle says you know a lot of people in the building. Do any of them talk about what’s going on?”
“Yeah, everyone’s mad at the management.” She kicked one of her slippers off. “This place is falling apart. But what happened to Connie, and Denny, and poor Liesl—”
“That’s Liesl Sanders.” Ms. Doyle nodded. “She fell down a flight of stairs and broke her neck. I guess she didn’t want to take the elevator after what happened to Stewart.”
“Her dog was barking the whole time.” Mrs. Carver frowned. “I heard it. I wonder what will happen to him.”
“Was she in the lawsuit too?”
Doyle nodded. “Like I said.”
“What do you think is going on, Mrs. Carver?” If she really knew everyone in the building, she might have some juicy gossip that could point me at a suspect.
Mrs. Carver smiled. “It’s like some weird serial killer, isn’t it? I’m afraid to go outdoors. I’m afraid to stay inside. Maybe the building will just fall down around me.”
Something bumped in the walls, like a pipe rattling. I wasn’t feeling very safe here myself, even without potential phantom murderers.
A cat wandered out of a bedroom, checked me and Doyle out skeptically, then jumped onto the chair. Mrs. Carver stroked black fur as it purred softly.
“This is Ozzie. Short for Ozymandias, king of kings.” She smiled. “The only cat I really like. People in this building don’t care take of their pets. Do you know there’s a man with a boa constrictor?”
I thanked Mrs. Carver for the tea. I was going to need a bathroom soon.
At the elevators I said, “I’ll see what I can do.” It’s what I usually say when I don’t have any idea where to start.
She nodded. “Call me if you need anything. I’m on the board here, so I have some pull with the residents.”
The door opened. I paused to make sure the elevator was really there before stepping in.
Ralk to the Animals, Part Two
Back home I took off my mask, doused my hands in sanitizer, used the bathroom, and headed to the office I share (along with the apartment) with Rachel.
“How’d it go?” She swiveled her chair and stretched. Rachel’s got red hair and hazelnut eyes. She was in a black T-shirt and jeans, barefoot.
“I want a bigger apartment.” I sat down at my computer. “Not there, though. It’s falling down. Plus, maybe cursed. I should have taken you.”
She curled her lower lip in a pout. “You only like me because I’m psychic. Jerk.”
“I like you because you’re hot. Your ESP is just why I put up with you.”
She threw a wad of paper at me.
First I called the law firm to report in. Hal Filani, one of the attorneys on the case, gave me the okay to go ahead. “Just try not to make it into another one of your ghost things.”
“Me? When does that ever happen?” All the time, really. Filani laughed and hung up.
I had lots of data from the firm, including contact information on everyone who’d signed onto the lawsuit. Before I started those calls, though, I went to the internet.
I have half a dozen sites for local obituaries bookmarked. I started with Connie Chin. Two hits, but neither one mentioned any bite marks, or even listed a cause of death. Obits don’t have to. The notice for Stewart Garnick did say he’d died after a fall—but not down an elevator shaft.
I settled for sending emails to each family, using the information I’d gotten from Lloyd Williams Cooke. My emails were short and as diplomatic as I could manage, asking for any additional information they could share about their deceased loved one’s death—making clear that this wasn’t part of the current lawsuit. Maybe it would be later, but for right now we had to keep it separate.
I’d follow up with phone calls later. Right now, I went back to calling residents for potential depositions.
I got a lot of answering machines. Either people were getting out more, or they were still screening their calls ruthlessly. The few who picked up complained about the elevators, flooding in the basement, and other problems, none of them new, although one woman said her neighbor’s cats smelled and meowed all night. I marked everything down on a spreadsheet—elevators were the No. 1 issue, followed by water leakage—and kept track of who might be a reasonable witness.
I was getting ready for lunch when the phone buzzed. “Jurgen? This is Steve Morell. I own a place in Stellars Tower. My tenant said you called her.” He didn’t sound happy.
“Uh, thanks for calling me back, Mr., uh, Morell.” I looked for his name on the spreadsheet. “Which unit is that?”
“Look, why do you guys have to be making trouble there? She’s lived here for two years, and it’s a great place to live.”
“Glad to hear that. So your, un, tenant haven’t had any issues with plumbing, or electricity, or—”
“You always get stuff that doesn’t work sometimes. Hell, I had a brand-new car that needed work done after two months. Most of these people, they just want to complain. They’ve got 10 cats, or a boa constrictor, and they think they’re special. Spoiled rich people, bored, and they think the world’s falling down if everything isn’t perfect. You know?”
It didn’t sound like Morell was going to join the plaintiffs. “Well, thanks again for calling—”
“People ought to be more careful, is what I mean. Like that one guy who didn’t make sure the elevator was there. How is that the building’s fault? Anyway, uh, good-bye.” Morell hung up.
Nice guy. I wrote up our chat, then checked the spreadsheet. It did have a line for pets. No one claimed to have 10 cats, but I did see the boa constrictor, which made me shudder. I can face vampires and zombies, but snakes sort of terrify me,
I ate a sandwich for lunch. Rachel had some soup. Back in our office I checked my emails.
Alyssa Stocker had responded. She was Constance Chin’s daughter. I gulped some fresh coffee and called back.
“I’m just still—in shock.” Her voice was low and steady. “I—what exactly do you want?”
I explained about the lawsuit. She knew about that. Then the strange deaths. Those didn’t surprise her. “Mom mentioned someone who was—well, when they found her, her cats had, uh . . . you know?”
Ms. Klein. “Yes. I’m sorry to ask you this, Ms. Stocker, but . . . what was the cause of death?”
She sighed. “Rabies.”
Huh? “Did they—did anyone know where it came from?”
“They just found these bite marks on her neck. Rats? Bats? I don’t know. It’s—weird.”
“Definitely.” And I’ve seen some weird things. Weirder. But this was definitely creepy. Rats in the building, though, could definitely belong in the lawsuit.
She gave me permission to share it with the lawyers. Before she hung up, she said, “There’s something wrong with that building.”
The rest of the afternoon passed slowly. Few people wanted to talk to me about the building or the lawsuit. Some of them sounded nervous about sharing anything that might get back to them. Two people hung up. One man complained about loud music next door.
The life of a private detective isn’t always exciting.
At seven or so I went out to pick up dinner—takeout from a nearby Chinese restaurant. When I came out of the elevator back home, a large man was knocking at my door. “Uh, can I help you?”
The guy had dime-size eyes and a red, white, and blue star tattoo on his wrist. A black mask hung loosely around his neck. “You Tom Jurgen?”
“That’s right.” I set the bag down. “And you are?”
“Just a friend.” His smile wasn’t very friendly. “With some friendly advice. Stop making phone calls.”
I stepped back. “To who?”
“Anybody. You don’t want to make trouble. Just some friendly advice.”
The door opened, and Rachel peered out. “Tom? What’s—who’s this?” Her hand darted toward her back pocket.
“He was just leaving.” I held up my hands. “Right? Message received. Okay?” I picked up the sack, waiting to see if he was going to pull a tire iron from his jeans.
But he just glanced at Rachel and grinned. “Have a good night, you two.” He headed for the elevator.
I scampered through the door. Rachel threw the locks. “Who the hell was that? A casting reject from The Sopranos?”
My heart was pounding more than it did when I had to stake a vampire. I pulled off my mask. “Let me get a beer.”
I calmed down after a few gulps, and we put the food on the table. “He wasn’t very specific. ‘Stop making phone calls’? All I do is make phone calls, especially these days.”
She tilted her head. “Occasionally you exorcise demons.”
“I don’t think that would have worked with him.” I pulled out my phone. “Too bad you didn’t get a picture.”
“I was about to, but he looked like he would have swatted it out of my hand. And I just got this phone last week.” She set hers on the table next to the cashew chicken box.
I called Filani at the law firm. The Stellars Tower case was the one I’d been working on most in the last few days. But he didn’t answer. A lawyer not working past 7:30? He’d never make partner at that rate.
We cleaned up dinner. I made a note of the “friendly” visit on my computer, and emailed it to Anita Sharpe—a Chicago PD detective I’d worked with on vampire cases, long story—just in case the guy made a return visit that wasn’t so friendly. Sharpe probably wouldn’t swear vengeance if I ended up dead, but she’d be pissed if anything happened to Rachel.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been warned off a case by someone scary—human or otherwise. And yeah, I was tempted to quit the case—assuming he was talking about Stellars Tower.
For better or worse, though, I’m tenacious. Or as Rachel calls it, a stubborn asshole. Either way, I don’t react well to someone telling me not to do something. Except for Rachel. Sometimes.
Still, I was nervous for the rest of the night while we watched The Crown. Neither one of us owns a gun, but we have plenty of pepper spray and the like. And the doors were firmly locked.
I didn’t sleep that well, though.
The next morning I made coffee, checked email and my messages, and reviewed everything I had on Stellars Tower.
The problems had already gotten some media attention, including a lengthy feature in the Sunday Chicago Tribune. It quoted some of the residents I’d already talked to, including Steve Morell, identified as a “unit owner,” who again defended the building: “It’s a nice place. Nothing’s perfect, but you can’t beat the views. Some people just aren’t ever satisfied, you know?”
It had opened for tenants three years ago. The main builder was one of the most prominent construction companies in Chicago, with around 40 subcontractors for welding, transportation, electricity, plumbing, heat/AC, food for the workers, and that kind of stuff. Powers Mackenzie, another bigtime firm, managed the property, again subcontracting things like security, maintenance, and the like. The building was jointly owned by two real estate firms with properties across the country.
I knew the law firm was looking at all the subcontractors, trying to determine who’d cut corners during the construction process. Four different companies were involved in the physical construction. Three handled plumbing. Only one company took care of carpet installation. A local cable company took care of TV and internet access. Two handled residential wiring and another one took care of the building’s electricity as a whole.
I don’t know anything about the construction business—I hammered a nail through my thumb one time hanging a picture—but I looked through the list of subcontractors, clicking links to their websites randomly. I figured the elevator people might not want me asking questions about how often their doors opened on an empty shaft. Or maybe–
My phone buzzed. Detective Anita Sharpe. “Jurgen, you still alive?”
“Detective! I didn’t think you cared.”
“I don’t, but your girlfriend would grief me to hell if I let anything happen to your ass. What kind of trouble are you in now?”
I described the encounter again. “He didn’t directly threaten me. But I didn’t get a warm and comfy feeling from him either.”
“What are you working on lately? Anything juicy?”
“Mostly the Stellars Tower lawsuit. A few background checks.”
“Huh.” Sharpe grunted. “Could be someone made a few bucks using bad equipment and put the difference in their pockets. It’s an old construction scam. The Outfit’s been in on a lot of them.”
The mafia? Great. “There’s some weird deaths going on in the building. They don’t sound like mob hits.”
“If there’s money in the game, don’t count the Outfit out of it. Stay out of their way. Hi to Rachel.” She hung up.
“Hi.” Rachel walked into the officer in T-shirt and shorts. “Anything happening?”
“Sharpe called. Says hi.” I checked out Rachel’s legs, and then I went back to my computer.
I found what I was looking for—and hoped not to find—a few minutes later. A company called Hastings Up/Down had done some early work on installing the building’s elevators, but they’d dropped out suddenly for noo obvious reason, and another firm, E&M Lifts, took over. I looked a little more closely into E&M Lifts, and found a Chicago Tribune story on the indictment of one Francis Emerson, the father of E&M’s CEO, Frank Emerson, Jr.
The senior Emerson had founded the firm, and several others—plumbing, waste management, and the like. He’d retired from E&M five years ago, leaving the son in the No. 1 spot. He’d been charged with fraud and extortion last year for lying on bids and pressuring competitors for a partnership he’d been involved with. That company was effectively shut down by the government on RICO charges. His trial was scheduled for later this year.
I clicked back to the E&M website and found something else—the M was for Morell. Steve Morell.
“Oh, hell.”
Rachel looked up. “What now?”
“The mafia.” Maybe E&M had threatened the Hasting company to get the Stellars Tower contract, done shoddy work, and collected the difference. That meant Steve Morell would know a lot about how the elevators worked.
“Oh, no.” She stood up and walked across the office. “Vampires and killer plants are one thing—no way you’re getting involved with the mafia, you jerk.” She punched my shoulder.
Ouch. “The Outfit doesn’t stand a chance with you around.” I rubbed my arm and them called Filani at the law firm. “Did you guys know that one of the elevator contractors at Stellars Tower might be connected to the Outfit?”
“We’ve got people looking at every contractor and subcontractor. I haven’t been keeping track.” I heard him click a keyboard. “What have you got?”
I filled him in. He grunted. “I’ll pass it along. Let me know what you find out.” He didn’t sound worried. Of course, no tattooed thugs had been knocking on his apartment door.
I was compiling all the information I could find online about Emersons junior and senior when my phone buzzed again. Ellen Doyle.
“Hi. I just wanted to let you know that, uh . . .” She paused. “Janice Finchloe died last night. Her neighbor says there were all kinds of, uh, spiders in her apartment.”
Talk to the Animals, Part Three
Janice Kinchloe had lived next door to Alison Zhang, who ran her late husband’s import-export business from an
office in her condo alone. She had straight black hair and glasses, and she was sipping white wine with a trembling
wrist when we showed up.
“I don’t usually drink this early.” It was 11:15. “I just—it was horrible. I’m not even that afraid of spiders.”
Rachel was with me. I’d asked her to come so she could check out the building for supernatural vibes. She complained, but I’d caught her playing Minecraft a couple of times yesterday, so I figured she was bored with her project. “This is my associate Rachel,” I said. “Associate” always sounds better than “psychic girlfriend.” “So what did you see?”
“Janice didn’t answer when I rang her bell.” She rubbed her nose, sniffling. “I hadn’t seen her for a few days, and she didn’t answer my texts, so—we traded keys a few months ago. Anyway, I opened the door, and . . .”
She shuddered. “Janice was on the floor. I thought she was moving, but—it was the spiders. All over her body. Her face, her arms, her feet. And one big hairy one, like a tarantula.”
“Yuck.” Rachel glanced around the floor, as if checking for spiders near her feet.
“I just stood there. The tarantula ran away, like it saw me or something, I don’t know. It ran under the sofa. I just stood there . . .” She gulped her wine. “I called 911. The spiders just—some of them were dead, some of them crawled away, but mostly they just stayed there.” Alison Zhang shuddered again. “I couldn’t leave her. Alone. Like that.”
“Of course.” I looked at Rachel, then stood up. “Is there any chance we could, uh, take a look?”
She handed the key to Ellen Doyle and poured more wine into her glass. “I can’t go back there. I’m sorry.”
Out in the hall, Doyle shook her head. “I just don’t understand what’s happening. Is there a curse?”
I looked at Rachel. “Anything? Angry ghosts? Ancient native American burial ground?”
She punched my arm. Doyle looked puzzled, but she turned the key and opened the door.
The apartment had a view of the skyline to the west, the blinds slatted to let in some sunlight. A few spiders—more than a few, maybe a few dozen—still crawled across the carpet, looking for crumbs or a way home.
A spot of blood stained the carpet next to the sofa. Maybe where Finchloe’s body had been lying? I crouched and peered underneath, looking for the big black spider. Wondering what I’d do if I saw it. “No tarantula.”
“Tarantula bites don’t kill people,” Rachel said.
“Maybe it scared her to death.” Doyle shivered. “It would scare me.”
I stood up, wiping my pants for any spiders, hoping none of them had crawled up my legs. I looked at Rachel again. “Well?”
Instead of punching me, Rachel knelt on one knee and held out a hand on the carpet. A spider clambered aboard, and she stood up, staring at it.
“Uh . . .” Doyle looked at me.
“She’s psychic.” I should have mentioned that earlier, maybe. But Doyle seemed to accept it without question.
“Hush,” Rachel hissed. She peered at the little brown spider as if listening to it. “Huh. Something’s talking to it.”
“What? Who?” I looked down at the rest of the spiders on the floor. “What’s it saying?”
She shook her head. “I can’t hear it. It’s fading. But it’s—something. Someone.”
I sat on the sofa. Rabies from rats, or bats. Cats eating corpses. Now spiders. I looked up at Doyle. “The man who fell down the elevator shaft—was he pushed by something?”
She clearly thought we were both crazy. I get that a lot. But she said, “Someone heard a dog barking in the hallway that morning. But that’s it.” She cocked her head. “What—who are you guys?”
“Apparently I’m Ace Ventura, pet detective.” I watched Rachel carefully return the spider to the carpet. “And my beautiful associate.” I stood up again. “And we’re looking for a murderous Dr. Dolittle.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “You think you’re funny.” To Doyle she said, “Don’t worry, this is the kind of case we tend to get. Never just a serial killer or ‘the butler did it.’ Why can’t you be a normal private who just gets shot at, Tom?”
“Hey, I got a hoodlum threatening us just last night.” Which reminded me—“Do you know Steve Morell? He owns a unit here somewhere.”
She frowned. “I don’t think so.”
Back out in the hall, I thanked her. She shrugged. “This is getting weird. I almost wish I could move, but I’d be afraid to sell my place to anyone else.” Her upward elevator came. “Good luck.”
A downward elevator opened its doors two seconds later. We made sure there was really an elevator when the doors opened. Rachel pressed the ground floor button inside.
I leaned against the wall. “The mob using killer spiders, huh? And whatever gave that woman rabies. What’s next, piranhas?”
The elevator stopped with a lurch. “Great.” The first-floor button had gone dark. Rachel jabbed it again. Nothing. She started stabbing other buttons. Then the alarm. Nothing. She reached into her jacket for her phone—
And then something long and heavy dropped from the ceiling onto my shoulders and neck.
“Hey!” Whatever it was, was big. I dropped to my knees as the thing squirmed around me. It had a tough, thick hide that slid down my body, and then it wrapped itself around my chest, firm and strong, as something tickled my ear. A tongue.
It was snake. A giant snake. A boa constrictor.
One of us screamed. It wasn’t Rachel. I would have screamed louder but I was already having trouble breathing. “Rach—Rach? Helllppp . . . “
“Don’t fight it.” She was on the floor next to me, her hands on the boa’s body. “It’ll just squeeze tighter. Try to relax.”
Easy for her to say. The snake’s tongue flicked across my face, and I closed my eyes. I fought panic, trying not to hyperventilate. Slow breaths. My heart thudded hard inside my chest, as if trying to loosen the snake’s hold on my body.
I heard Rachel muttering something, and then she was talking on her phone—“stuck in an elevator, and there’s some kind of snake trying to kill my boyfriend! Get up here now!”
I might have passed out for a moment. When I opened my eyes again I heard Rachel whispering—not to the phone, not to me. To the boa? It wasn’t getting tighter around my ribs. I could still breath, shallowly, blood pounding in my ears as I tried to focus on staying calm. At least Rachel was here. And she wasn’t the one getting squished. I swallowed and tried to zen out, wondering what would happen if I saw the white light and my dead relatives and—
The boa relaxed. I gasped, flooding my chest with air. “Whoa.” I still couldn’t move my arms with the snake clutching them, and I forced myself to lie still so it wouldn’t get mad at me again. “Hey . . .”
“Sssh.” Rachel leaned her face next to me. “I think it’s asleep.”
“So . . .” I kept my voice at a whisper. “What’d you do?”
“I talked to it.” She stroked the snake’s skin.
“You can . . . do that?”
“I could hear him. It. Like with the spider. I could hear a voice there, and I heard one from this fella. Shh, don’t get him riled up again. He was just scared.”
He wasn’t the only one.
From the floor I could see a panel hanging down from the ceiling.
The elevator started descending again five minutes later. Rachel stood up. When the doors opened, two EMTs stared down at me. “What the hell?”
“Don’t wake him,” Rachel whispered. “I think he’s asleep.”
The EMTs and a maintenance worker slowly unwound the boa from my body without freaking it out. People getting on and off elevators stopped to peer at the excitement. Most left quickly when they saw the big snake.
I leaned against the wall between elevators, shaking now that I could let my body move again. “You okay?” Rachel put a hand against my chest. “Breathe. In, out, in, out . . .”
“Thanks for . . . stopping him.” I was still catching my breath. “Does he have a name?”
“Randy!” The shout came from the lobby. “Randy! Are you okay? Where did you—” A man with a mask over short beard, in jeans and a Northwestern University sweatshirt, ran toward the elevators and skidded to a stop. “What’s going on?”
“Mr. Levin.” That was the maintenance worker, a tall Black woman. “This your, uh, snake here?”
“That’s Randy.” He stared at the snake, with half its lower body curled up, its eyes closed. “I don’t—what’s going on?”
I stepped forward, grateful my legs weren’t shaking anymore. “Mr. Levin? I’m Tom Jurgen. Do you have any idea how your snake ended up dropping down on me in the elevator?”
Levin stared at me. “I don’t—I was just out for coffee. How did he—Randy would never . . .” He took a step forward and started to crouch down, but one of the EMT’s blocked him.
“We’re calling Animal Control.” His face was stony.
“But—but—Randy wouldn’t hurt anyone! I don’t understand!” Levin glared at me. “Who are you?”
But then a woman in a gray business suit and a matching mask walked from behind the reception desk. “Mr. Levin? We’ve talked about your pets before.”
“This isn’t my fault!” His face grew red. Then he took a step back and took a deep breath. “Sorry, Ms. Bryers. I just don’t know. He was—I don’t get it.” He looked at me. “What are you talking about?”
I told him about Randy dropping through the panel and wrapping himself around me until I was fighting to breathe. Rachel nudged me to stop me from exaggerating how close I was to death. I finished with: “And then he relaxed. Rachel—this is Rachel—somehow calmed him down.”
“Can I—” He knelt down again, and this time the EMT let him reach out to pat Randy on the head. “It’s okay, boy. I’m sorry. It’ll be okay.”
Then Animal Control showed up, a man and a woman in khaki uniforms. Levin tried to argue, but they gently wrangled Randy into a large cage and locked it up. He tried to go along, but they told him he’d have to call the office for an appointment. He tried to argue, but they left. The EMTs followed. The maintenance woman went back to work.
That left the four of us in front of the elevators—me, Rachel, Levin, and Bryers. A woman said hello to Levin. A man looked as if he wanted to ask Bryers a question, but changed his mind when he saw the exasperation in her eyes.
“Maybe we could talk in your office?” I gave Bryers a business card.
“Tom Jurgen.” Her annoyance shifted. “You’re that detective. About the lawsuit.”
“And about the weird deaths you’ve been having.” I glanced at an opening elevator door. An elderly woman used a cane to step out. “Or we could talk here.”
Two minutes later we were in the building’s management office. One assistant was on the phone and another was photocopying something. Bryers closed her office door and sat behind a small desk.
“Well, Troy,” she said with a sigh. “How could Randy escape from your apartment?”
“I don’t know!” Levin gripped the arms of his chair. “The tank is locked. There’s plenty of airholes, but there’s no way he could get out without—” Levin looked at us. “Were you trying to kidnap him?”
“He just dropped out of the panel in the ceiling,” I said. “I don’t even know where you live.”
“How did he get there? Why would he— Levin shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense!”
“Someone told him to.” Rachel’s voice was quiet.
We all stared at her.
“What?” Levin’s eyes went wide.
“How?” Bryers’ tone was full of skepticism.
“Who?” That was me.
“I don’t know who—or how.” She glanced around the room and settled her hazelnut eyes on Bryers. “I’m psychic. Just don’t ask me to read your mind, okay?”
Bryers’ own eyes narrowed. “And you are?”
“Rachel Dunn,” I said quickly. “My associate. I work for Lloyd Williams Cooke—”
She groaned. “The lawsuit. God, some days I wish I’d taken that other job offer.”
“Yeah, this place is falling apart.” Levin cast his eyes upward, as if wondering whether the ceiling was going to fall in on him. “Just the other day—”
“Let’s stick to the subject, please. The snake?” She zeroed in on Rachel. “Someone told it to hide on top of an elevator and fall on your boss? Are you the snake whisperer?”
“Look, Ms. Brysers.” I crossed my arms. “People are dying in your condo building. Just today someone in your building was killed by spiders. And someone else—Mrs. Chin—something bit her and gave her rabies. And cats ate someone else—”
“I know.” She planted her arms on her desk. “Believe me—it’s more than you think.”
Uh-oh. Rachel and I exchanged a look. “What do you mean?”
She looked at Levin. “Troy? We’ll talk about Randy later.”
“Fine.” He stood up. “Let me check his tank. I’ll call you.”
After he left, Bryers poured herself a cup of coffee from a machine behind her desk. “I never should have taken this job offer. The manager before me? She quit after six months. The thing is . . .” She gulped her coffee. “I’m sorry. Do you want anything? Coffee? Tea? Water?”
“We’re fine.” I glanced at Rachel. She shook her head.
“I mean, I had other offers, but this place—the most elite building in Chicago?” Bryers rubbed her forehead. “That’s what they told me. Then the floods, and the elevators, and everything else. And now this.” More coffee.
I leaned forward. “A man named Steve Morell owns a unit here. Do you know much about him?”
“I’m not really supposed to do this, but I guess I’m going to quit soon, so—” She turned to her computer. “Morell, 1512. Tenant, Marilyn Carver. Pet—one cat. But she complains about other people’s pets a lot. Barking, not using the freight elevator, messes in the halls—”
“Wait a minute.” I looked at Rachel. “Mrs. Carver? Why is she living in the apartment if Morell owns it?”
“I believe . . .” Bryers tapped some more keys. “Looks like she’s Mr. Morell’s aunt. He stops in sometimes to visit her. Sometimes he calls for maintenance for her.”
“His aunt?” It seemed odd to think of a mobster having an elderly aunt. Of course, The Sopranos is all about family.
“She’s a nice lady.” Bryers took my card from her pocket to look at. “I’ll keep this.”
Rachel and I glanced at each other. “We’ll be in touch.”
Out in the lobby we stared at the elevators. I was nervous about getting in one again.
“What are you thinking?” Rachel peered over her mask at me.
I shrugged. “She’s related to Morell. She complained about people’s pets. She knew about Randy. Plus, she has a black cat.”
“That’s an old stereotype.”
“Yeah.” I pressed a button and adjusted my mask. “Let’s go.”
“Idiot.” But instead of hitting me she patted my arm.
“Hell, no.” I pressed the doorbell.
A moment after the chime, the door opened. Mrs. Carver smiled out. “Mr. Jurgen? Hello—who’s this?” She peered at Rachel over her mask, puzzled.
“This is Rachel, my associate. May we come in?”
Inside she gestured toward her big kitchen. “Coffee? Oh, this is my nephew, Steve. Steve this is Mr. Jurgen and his friend Rachel. I told you about him.”
Morell was tall and bulky, with a thick neck, sparse black hair and a heavy jaw. He stared at me from next to the windows. “Jurgen.”
“Yeah, we’ve met. Talked on the phone, actually.” I glanced a quick warning at Rachel. “How are you? You own this unit, don’t you?”
“He takes very good care of me.” Mrs. Carver sat down in her chair. The black cat, from nowhere, jumped onto her lap.
Morell crossed his arms. “What’s this about, Jurgen?”
“Just a few questions.” Rachel and I stayed on our feet. “Did you hear about Ms. Kinchloe?”
Mrs. Carver shivered. “We have trouble with all kinds of things here.”
“It happens everywhere.” Morell stepped toward her chair. “Shit happens.”
“Steven!” She shook her head. “You know I don’t like that kind of language.”
“Boa constrictors don’t fall from in elevators everywhere.” Confronting a gangster face to face scared me almost as much as Randy, but I managed to keep talking. “Do have any idea how Troy Levin’s snake Randy might have dropped on me an hour ago?”
Morell scowled. Mrs. Carver’s hands trembled as she stroked Ozzie. “Randy? Really? Is that his name? I didn’t—”
“What are you doing here?” Morell took a step forward. “You got no business bothering anyone, let alone my aunt.”
“Please calm down, Steven.” Mrs. Carver bit her lip, watching him warily. “Really, people shouldn’t keep snakes in the building. Or let their dogs bark at all hours. That’s all I know.”
Morell took a step forward. Then Rachel said, “That’s a beautiful cat. Persian?”
Mrs. Craver’s eyes sparkled. “My Ozzie. I don’t really know. A friend gave him to me when she got married. Her husband was allergic.”
Rachel reached out a hand. “May I—”
But Ozzie’s back suddenly arched and stiffened, and he hissed at Rachel. She dropped her arm.
“Ozzie! I’m sorry. He doesn’t like most people.” Mrs. Carver rubbed Ozzie’s cheek. “Be good, Ozzie.”
Rachel shot me a look. I nodded. “Well, thanks, Mrs. Carver. Mr. Morell.” Morell glared as I turned for the door. “Have a good day.”
Out in the hallway Rachel grabbed my arm. “It’s not her. It’s the cat.”
Talk to the Animals, Part Four
We sat in a socially distant corner of the ground-floor Starbucks with coffee in front of us. “So Ozzie is talking to all the animals in the building? And telling them to kill people?”
Rachel pulled up her mask for a moment to blow on her latté. “I could hear him. Not words exactly, but more than the usual ‘Get away from me, you stupid human’ vibe I sometimes get.”
“You never mentioned hearing animals before,” I said.
She pulled her mask back up and winked. “A girl’s got to have a few secrets. Just to keep things interesting.”
“As if being a hot psychic girlfriend isn’t enough. What’s it like?”
She shrugged. “It’s usually pretty basic—‘Go away,’ ‘Come here,’ ‘Give me food,’ ‘I wanna hump your leg.’” She grinned. “This was—more complex. I could feel things when Randy was all over you, like dropping, crawling, chewing, barking—squeezing. It was just a flash. I couldn’t sort it all out then.” She sipped some coffee. “But it’s like for a second I was inside Ozzie, and Ozzie was inside—other things.”
I tried to think. “What about Mrs. Carver? Was she in there anywhere? Or Morell?”
Rachel closed her eyes. “In the background, kind of. I just sort of felt her. No words.”
I nodded. “So she’s connected to the cat somehow.”
“Yeah.”
I lowered my mask to sip my coffee. “So Mrs. Carver, that nice, sweet old lady, is helping her mafia-connected nephew by telling her cat to get the animals in the building to kill people who are in on the lawsuit.” Finchloe was on the list; I’d checked this morning. “A little more artistic than dumping people in the Chicago River with cement overshoes.”
Rachel raised her hand for a high-five. “Yay! The case is solved!”
I snorted and slapped her hand. “Yeah. So what do we do now?”
“You’re the detective. I’m just the hot girlfriend with awesome psychic powers.” She finished her coffee. “Can we go home now? I’ve got work to do.”
I capped my coffee and adjusted my mask. Now what? I could write up a report for Filani and Ellen Doyle, and they might believe it—I’m used to people thinking I’m crazy—but even if they did, it felt incomplete. People were dead. I felt like I should do something about that.
Sharpe might believe me, but a cop wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. And it wasn’t like I could kidnap Ozzie and dump him in a bag in Lake Michigan, or do anything to Mrs. Carver. Or talk sense in Steve Morell.
Yeah, I’ve staked vampires and fought supernatural creatures, and even the occasional human monster. But that wasn’t my default setting. At heart I’m still a reporter. Find the facts, write the story, and move onto the next one. Still . . .
“Well?” Rachel stood up.
“Yeah.” I picked up my cup.
We headed for the door. Then I stopped. Steve Morell was standing in line for coffee.
This might be my last chance. “Hang on.” I handed my coffee to Rachel and grabbed my phone.
“What? Oh.” She spotted Morell, his arms crossed impatiently. “Oh no.”
“Yeah, sorry.” I tapped a quick message on my phone, sent it, then took a deep breath. “Cover me. I’m going in.”
Two people were ahead of Morell when I said, “Excuse me, Mr. Morell?”
He turned, saw me, and scowled under his mask. “What the hell?”
I swallowed. “Look, I know what’s going on. With Ozzie.”
His eyes bored into me. No blink of surprise or confusion. He knew what I was talking about. “So?”
“So if anything happens to me or Rachel—” I glanced at her. She clutched our two coffee cups in her hands, but looked ready to fling them at his face and grab for the pepper spray in her back pocket if necessary. “People will know about it.”
He kept his eyes on me. “Is that a threat?”
“Just—no more visits from goons, okay?” I looked around, but no entourage of thugs seemed to be standing nearby. Maybe I should have checked first.
“Then stay away from my aunt. That is a threat.”
“Next!” the barista called. “Next?”
I backed away. “Enjoy your coffee.”
I was typing up my report when Sharpe called. “Jurgen! What the hell?” It was her typical greeting.
In the Starbucks I’d sent her the quickest text I had time for: “Steve Morell. Aunt at Stellars Towers. Cat is telling pets to kill people. More later.”
“I’m finishing up a report now.” I was hungry, but I wanted to send this out before I ate lunch. I told her what I knew. I could almost hear her rolling her eyes, but she laughed when I told her about Randy. “A snake? I thought vamps were bad enough for you.”
“I’ll never complain about vampires or zombies again. Look, I know you can’t do anything with this. I just want it out there. In case Morell sends anyone else to my house again. Or I get pecked to death by a pigeon.”
She laughed again. “All right. I’ll pass the news about Morell to the right people. Just so they can make fun of me for hanging out with you. Be careful. Don’t let anything happen to Rachel.”
“Got it.” I hung up. “Sharpe says hi.”
“You going to eat?” Rachel called from her desk. “You get cranky when you’re hungry.”
I finished the report, checked it for clarity and typos, and sent it to Doyle, Filani, and Sharpe. I could figure out the invoice later.
In the kitchen I had a sandwich and a beer. Then another beer. What? I’d been half-strangled by a boa constrictor and confronted a mobster. I deserved something to take the edge off.
After lunch I went back to cold-calling residents of Stellars Tower, not mentioning the animal murders. It felt oddly calming.
Rachel made dinner—linguini marinara. She’s a vegetarian, but she’s also a better cook than me, so it was a nice end to a stressful day. At least I hoped so.
We were settling down to watch the latest Godzilla movie when my phone buzzed. I didn’t recognize the number. Telemarketer? “Just a moment—Tom Jurgen speaking.”
“Mr. Jurgen? This is—this is Marilyn Carver.”
Oh hell. “Ye-es, Mrs. Carver, what can I do for you?”
What? Rachel jabbed me in the ribs.
“I need you to come down here. Right away.”
I almost laughed. “Honestly, Mrs. Carver, I’d rather not do that.” I switched to speaker so Rachel could hear.
“But—look, I need your help. It’s important.” Her voice was low and tense. “It’s about Steven.”
I sighed. “Mrs. Carver, today I was attacked by a boa constrictor and threatened by your nephew, who, I hate to say it, does not seem like a nice man. If there’s something you have to tell me, I’ll listen, but I’m really not planning on coming down to Stellars Towers ever again.” Rachel nodded in agreement.
“I’m–afraid of him. Steven.” She took a breath. “Maybe you could meet me in the coffee shop? Downstairs?”
I looked at Rachel. She grimaced. But nodded again.
“Fine.” I frowned. “Give me half an hour.” Rachel punched me. “Us. Give us half an hour.”
“Hurry.” She hung up.
I groaned. “So what do you think?”
“Could this be a more obvious setup? I wonder if she’s ever watched a TV show.” Rachel stood up. “And I’m coming with you.”
I couldn’t talk her out of it, and I knew better than to try. “Bring your pepper spray.”
The Starbucks stayed open until 10 p.m. Marilyn Carver sat at a table next to the window. She wore a gray cardigan and a white mask, and a canvas cat carrier sat next to her feet. Ozzie meowed unhappily from inside the mesh lining.
I bought decafs for Rachel and me. We sat down across from her. “Why is Ozzie here?”
“I don’t like to leave him alone.” She smiled down at the carrier. “It’s all right, Ozzie, we’ll be home soon.”
Ozzie complained loudly. A woman at another table glared.
“So.” I sat back. “Why did you call me?”
She sighed. “My brother—Steven’s father—died when he was a kid. I helped raise him, with his mother and his other uncles. But they were all—some of them had trouble with the law. Some of them went to prison. We tried to keep Steven out of it, paying for college, helping him get jobs. But he couldn’t stick to anything very long, and after a while he, well . . .” She looked out the window. “Those guys took him in.”
“Outfit guys,” I said.
“He didn’t sell drugs! Or hijack cars, or anything like that.” She glared at me. “But he did jobs. Construction, things like that. He went to jail once for stealing supplies that other people sold. Eventually he got a job with this elevator company that one of my brother’s friends owned. But he did other things too. I don’t know, but he always had plenty of money.”
“Enough to buy you a condo here,” Rachel said.
“I think . . .” She shook her head. “I think that was part of how he got paid for working on the elevators here. They made a lot of money.”
“And he knew how the elevators worked.” I thought of Stewart Garnick falling down the empty shaft. And our elevator stopping right before Randy fell on me.
“But the building is sort of falling apart,” Rachel said. “The flooding, the elevator problems—”
“And people started complaining. You heard it all the time.” Mrs. Carver shook her head, irritated. “Some people just like to bitch, you know? But then there was this lawsuit, and Steven started to get worried.”
In the carrier, Ozzie meowed.
“And he knew about Ozzie.” Rachel looked down at the carrier. “Where did he come from?”
Mrs. Carver reached down to pat the top of the carrier. “He was—from a friend of mine, like I said. But her husband wasn’t allergic. This is before I moved here. Ozzie just scared them. Their grandson had nightmares about him when he stayed overnight for a visit. He killed lots of birds in their backyard. But I wanted a cat, and Ozzie just . . .” She looked away. “It was like he was talking to me. At first. Then, after I moved here, I could hear him more. I know it sounds crazy.” She closed her eyes.
“We’ve heard crazier stuff that turned out to be true,” I told her/
“He’s good company. Aren’t you, Ozzie?” She leaned down and smiled at him through the mesh. “I hate to leave him alone, even though he doesn’t really like the bag.” She waved, and Ozzie pushed a paw at the side, bulging it out. “And he takes care of me. There was a dog who always growled at me in the hallway. Ozzie . . . told it to stop. Then every time it saw me it ran away. When I took him to the park, no birds came near me. I don’t like birds. And no dogs came up to me when I was carrying him on the street. He knew I didn’t like that. Then one day Steven was visiting and he heard me talking to Ozzie . . .” Her voice trailed off. “I guess I forgot no one else could hear him.”
Rachel and I looked at each other. I said, “So he asked you to ask Ozzie to help him out.”
“At first I thought it was just scaring people. So we sent rats into Connie Chin’s apartment. Just to scare her. Maybe Ozzie knew what would happen, but she died. I didn’t know . . . she died.”
Rabies. “And you—Ozzie—did it again.”
“Steven made me!” She lurched back in her chair. “He said he’d put me and Ozzie out on the street! So we, uh, we kept doing it. I didn’t know he’d fix the elevator so Stewart would fall down when Paco barked at him. But he helped install the elevators, so I guess . . . And Jenny Klein, I think her cat was just supposed to make her trip and fall in the shower but instead . . .” Mrs. Carver shuddered. “Then you started asking questions—”
“And Ozzie sent Randy after me.” I’d have nightmares about that tonight.
She nodded. “I don’t know how he managed all that. And Janet with the spiders—why would anyone keep a tarantula for a pet? I didn’t mean—” She covered her face in her hands. “I mean, I did it, I guess. But I was helping Steven! And I didn’t think there was any way it could ever get back to me. Who would believe—” She dropped her hands and looked at me. “How did you know?”
Rachel answered. “He’s got this talent for uncovering weird stuff. Vampires, giant killer chickens, demons from other dimensions. It’s really annoying.”
“Plus, Rachel is psychic.” I smiled at her. “And hot.” She kicked me under the table.
Mrs. Carver sat back, her face stony. “What are you going to do now?”
“Good question.” I crossed my arms. “Like you said, no one would believe us if I told them you and your cat murdered five people—”
“I was just taking care of my nephew!”
“They had nephews too,” Rachel said. “And nieces and sons and daughters and all that. You’ve got to quit.”
She wiped a tear from her eye. “I know. I didn’t like it. I just—family is all you have. You understand that, right? Don’t you?”
She reached down and unzipped the bag. Ozzie meowed as she lifted him in her arms. “What about Ozzie? What about him?”
“Ma’am!” That came from the barista. “You can’t—”
But the door crashed open before he could finish. Steve Morell stalked through the door. His feet stomped loudly on the parquet floor.
Oh hell. I saw Rachel reach for the pepper spray in her pocket.
“I told you to stay away from her!” His mask dangled from one ear as he marched forward. Coffee drinkers edged their chairs back. The barista hesitated, as if she wanted to duck behind the counter, but then she darted out—“Sir! Sir!”
I stood up. “Look, Steve, we were just talking. Your aunt called me—”
“Steven!” Mrs. Carver pointed one long bony finger at him. “Calm down! You can’t come in here and—”
“Ozzie!” Rachel turned. “Ozzie . . .”
The cat jerked away from Mrs. Carver’s arm and jumped on the table. Then, when Morell was just three feet away, his arm raised, fist clenched. Ozzie leaped.
Morell’s eyes flared wide. He jumped back as Ozzie sailed through the air, his claws jutting out. He landed on Morell’s chest and dug in, howling as Morell screamed.
Before I could step forward, Morell staggered back, his arms flailing. His foot slipped on the floor and he stumbled backward, losing his balance, falling—
—hitting the back of his skull on the table behind him.
The table tipped over. Morell sprawled on the parquet, arms flung wide, legs twisting and twitching. His head rolled to one side as he gasped for breath, and then his eyes rolled up in his head.
Ozzie jumped away and scampered to Mrs. Carver’s arms.
“Steven?” Mrs. Carver stumbled forward. “Steven, are you . . .”
Rachel knelt and started performing CPR. I pulled out my phone to call 911.
The barista screamed.
Back home I opened beers for Rachel and me. “You okay?”
“Just let me wash my hands. For half an hour.” Morello had thrown up a little while she worked on trying to keep him alive. None of it had gotten on her, but I knew what she meant.
Paramedics had taken over. Morell still wasn’t responding when they carried him away.
I was half finished with my beer when Rachel wiped her hands. “I think I’m okay.”
“Any hope for Morell?”
She took a heavy gulp and shook her head as she swallowed. “He felt like he was slipping away. If he survives . . . I don’t know. I mean, he was a gangster, right? Doesn’t mean I wanted to watch him die, though.”
“Right.” I sat back, my nerves only now anywhere near settling down. “What a day.”
“Yeah.”
After a moment I had to ask. “Did you get anything from Ozzie?”
Another swig of beer. “He felt threatened. And Mrs. Carver was scared. He was protecting her. I don’t think he meant to kill Morell, but—I don’t think he cared.”
I nodded. “Let’s never get a cat.”
We clinked glasses. “Deal.”
###
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