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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