After, uh, lunch, I went back to my computer again and started looking up Marcus Diego. He had a Facebook page and an Instagram account, but neither one had been updated in nine months or so. His photos showed a young Hispanic man with a beard, along with some friends—including Lavoy—and various small apartments. Also a dog, food, birds, and a few vacation photos.
His last job had been in a Target, but that ended close to a year ago. His phone went straight to voice mail: “Hi, this is Marcus, I’m doing something else, so leave me a message if you want.” I didn’t, for now. If he hadn’t responded to Julie he probably wouldn’t call me back. I could try again later when I had more to go on.
Rachel came in, in sweats and a T-shirt. “This is better.” She kissed the top of my head and then dropped into her chair. “Back to work. Darn it.”
The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully, until I had to go tail Alan Lavoy again. “You’re getting out of making dinner again?” Rachel complained as I packed up supplies—drinks, water, an umbrella.
“Duty calls.” At least it wasn’t raining.
I started at Lavoy’s office in River North, waiting across the street from a building that housed two art galleries on the ground floor. A light rain fell, making the air muggy.
At 5:30 Lavoy walked down the front steps, turned, and headed north. He was tall, lanky, with short black hair and a wide chin. He wore a raincoat and carried a leatherbound briefcase. Like he usually did, Lavoy stopped first at one of his Redburn shops nearby, spending 15 minutes talking to the manager. I watched through a window. Then he left and walked east toward the next. After that he caught a cab that headed north again, and I grabbed a cab and gave the address of the Redburn in Lincoln Park.
I’d been following Lavoy for a few days, so I knew his pattern. Until last night, he always went back to his condo on the north side after visiting the last café. Fortunately he stuck to his routine tonight. I caught up with him at the next Redburn, and followed on foot for another two hours. At least I was getting my exercise in.
We reached one of his last stops, near Wicker Park, by 8:30. I rested on the edge of a big planter in front of the restaurant next door, rain dripping down from green leaves over my shoulders. I was trying not to look inside the coffeeshop, but when Lavoy took a seat at a table in the front window I couldn’t help myself.
Sitting across from Lavoy was Marcus Diego.
He was wearing the Redburn uniform, a red apron over a brown T-shirt, and a red cap. His scalp was almost bald. A wide nametag was pinned to his chest, and I could see MANAGER under his name. I might have seen him last night, but I didn’t know him then. Now I watched as inconspicuously as I could. I couldn’t risk a picture, but I didn’t need one. I waited until they stood up, then backed away when Lavoy headed for the door. Diego went back behind the counter to take an order.
I followed Lavoy to one last shop. Then he called a Lyft, so I figured he was going home—not back to the Mortime house. So I turned around and headed back to Diego’s shop. It closed at 10:00. I went in, got a coffee, used the restroom, and called Rachel. When Diego announced closing time I threw my cup in the trash and crossed the street to wait.
Rain drenched the streets, and my raincoat. No thunder, just clouds and chilly wind. I popped my umbrella as Diego came out, hiding my face as he locked up. He hurried up the street through the pelting drops to a bus stop, ducking into the shelter until the bus came.
I joined him, shaking my umbrella and hoping he wouldn’t notice me, and we rode the bus several blocks until he pulled the cord and made his way to the rear door. Out on the street the rain was harder, and Diego ran faster until he reached an apartment building and yanked the door open, flinging himself inside.
At least he’d been too busy trying to beat the rain to notice me. I made a note of the address and started looking for a cab.
The next day at 4:30 I was in the Wicker Park Redburn with Julie Lavoy. I’d called her at 9:30 to tell her I’d found Marcus Diego, and she told me she wanted someone with her when she talked to him. I remembered her “funny feeling.” I just hoped it didn’t mean trouble. Based on my experience, though, it probably did.
“Call me,” Rachel had ordered me before leaving. “Before. And after. And during. Is she cute? Maybe I should come too.” She’s got a possessive streak. I assured her I’d be fine alone with another woman for 45 minutes. She didn’t quite believe me, but she went back to work muttering under her breath.
Rain started falling, light but steady, as we entered the café. Two people were in line ahead of us, ordering from a young Black man behind the counter. A middle-aged woman poured coffee and mixed the more exotic blends. Both wore the Redburn uniform, red apron, brown T-shirt, but no cap. Apparently only the manager got to wear a cap. I didn’t see Diego.
Julie ordered a tall latté. I asked for a small coffee, and then I said, “Is Marcus Diego around? We’re friends.”
“Uhh . . .” He looked nervous, as if we were cops or process servers. “I think he’s in the bathroom. Take a message?”
“We’ll wait.” I paid, and we took our coffees to a table.
Seven minutes later Diego emerged from a back room, wiping his hands on a paper towel. The barista gestured toward us.
His face froze for a moment, and then he forced a smile. “Julie? How you doing?”
She stood up and introduced me. Just my name, nothing more. They sat down.
“I, uh, like I said . . .” Diego sighed. “Sorry about you and Alan.”
“You said you hadn’t seen Alan in years, and now here you are, working at one of his shops?” She crossed her arms.
“I ran into him in August. I needed a job. What’s going on?” Now Diego was confused.
“I know Alan went to that guy Mortime’s house the other night.”
Diego blinked. “Okay. Wait. How do you know that?”
“I followed him there.” I handed him a card. “Tom Jurgen. I’m working with Ms. Lavoy’s attorney regarding the divorce.”
He stared at the card, then at me, then at Julie. “Like I said, I’m sorry. Alan can be an asshole sometimes. I know. But what’s that got to do with Harold?”
“Why were you guys looking for him?” She circled her hands on the table around her latté. “How is it that Alan could just go into his house? After he’s dead?”
Diego pushed his chair back. “Look, I don’t know. I ran into Alan, he gave me this job, we didn’t—I mean, I heard about Mortime being dead, but—”
“Did you two talk about it?” I asked. “Ms. Lavoy says you talked about him a lot.”
He looked over at me, irritated. “I saw it in the paper. Alan mentioned it, but that’s it.”
“Why were you so interested in him?” I glanced at Julie. She nodded to me. “He was just a prof at your college, wasn’t he?”
Diego pushed his chair back again and stood up. “I have to get back to work. Thanks for, uh, stopping by.” Then he turned and headed toward the back. The middle-aged barista behind the counter watched him leave, then gave us a threatening look.
I picked up my coffee. “Sorry. Did I push too hard?”
“No.” She blew on her latté. “That’s what I wanted to ask. Look . . .” She took a long sip and wiped her lips with a napkin. “Isn’t it kind of crazy that they both got killed by lighting? Harold Mortime and then—Warren? Lightning?”
I’d been thinking about that. “Yeah. It’s a hell of a coincidence.” I let it hang there.
“What—what do you think?”
I smiled. “I’ve seen a lot of strange things. If this is one of them, it’s not even the weirdest.”
Julie looked puzzled. “Okay. What can you do?”
Outside thunder rumbled. I picked up my cup. “Research.”
After eating my cereal the next morning I started looking into Harold Mortime. And Marcus Diego. And Alan Lavoy for that matter, even though I had lots of data on him from Lenore Grayson. Might as well be thorough.
Rachel came in at 9:05, carrying coffee and wearing sweats. “Sorry, no cheap thrills for you today.” She yawned. “Did you hear the news? Some guy got hit by lightning again. It was on the radio just now.”
“What the—” I opened a new tab and found it right away on the Chicago Tribune site: “Local Businessman Killed in Lightning Strike Outside Shop.”
Kenneth Dunne had been waiting for an Uber at 8:00 p.m. last night in the middle of the thunderstorm. Bystanders were momentarily blinded by a flash of white light and a deafening burst of thunder, and then Dunne was on the sidewalk, burns on his face and hands, dead.
I read a few paragraphs down looking for some kind of connection to Mortime and Lavoy, and then I found it—Dunne owned a small string of coffeeshops called, not very creatively, Dunne’s Coffee (& Tea & Snacks). I’d noticed some while following Lavoy the last few days.
“Huh.” I started clicking links for the Dunne’s site.
“What?”
“The guy who got struck by lightning owns another coffeeshop chain.” He had six stores in Chicago.
“Oh-kay.” I heard her sip coffee. “And your client’s boyfriend? And that other guy, Mortime? They got hit by lightning too?””
“Yeah.” I sat back. “I wonder what the odds are on that.”
“So you think somebody knows how to sling lightning?”
I nodded. “Interesting way to murder somebody.”
“It’s kind of creative. And hard to take to the cops. Even Sharpe.”
Anita Sharpe of the Chicago PD worked with me sometimes, usually with great reluctance. “Yeah, she’d tell me to go to hell. She does that anyway.”
“So what are you going to do?”
I sighed. “Find out more about lightning.”
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