Back home we went right to bed. The next morning I was getting the invoice ready when Rachel came into the office, carrying coffee in her Wonder Woman mug.
She kissed my neck. “You okay?”
“Fine. You?”
“Yeah. That was fun last night.”
I yawned. “Yeah. Glad it’s over, though. I can’t take a lot of late nights in a row.”
“Yeah.” She sat down at her desk. “I was thinking I might go back tonight. Like Ronald said.”
I stared at my screen. “That’s fine.”
“Is that okay with you?”
I tapped some keys. “You don’t need my permission.”
I heard her sigh. “Look, I don’t have to be a psychic to tell you’re mad at me.”
I turned in my chair. “And you don’t need to be a psychic to know what Ronald wants.is a different kind of exploration.”
“Him?” She rolled her eyes. “Maybe trying to go skinny-dipping in an alternate universe works with some girls. I’m a little beyond that.”
“Even so . . .” I frowned.
“Even so what?”
Honesty is the best policy, right? “I just didn’t like him trying to flirt with you all night. You’re not my associate, you’re my girlfriend. Okay, I didn’t announce that—”
“You don’t mind me flirting if it gets you information, right? Or dressing sexy?” She crossed a leg over her knee.
“That’s—different.”
“Riiight.” She smirked.
“Anyway, I didn’t say you were flirting with him. I just didn’t exactly enjoy watching him try out his game on you, like a frat boy inviting a college girl up to his room to ‘listen to music.’”
Rachel laughed. “Did that work for you?”
I frowned. “No. Never mind. The thing is—”
“Tom, Tom, Tom.” She stood and walked over to me. “Look, even when I was in college I didn’t go for the frat boy type. Or the would-be artists with their daddies’ trust fund. I like the bad boys.” She leaned down to kiss me.
“I’m a bad boy?” I grinned.
“The worst.” She punched my shoulder.
“Okay.” I sat back. “Go if you want to. Be careful. I don’t trust him.”
“Oh, I know how to take care of myself around guys like him.” She rwalked back to her computer. “You really don’t mind?”
Of course I minded. But I couldn’t say that. “Have fun. Call me before. And after. Maybe mention that you have a boyfriend. Several times.”
She laughed.
Rachel left at 9:30. She wore jeans, knee-high boots, and a white blouse. “Don’t wait up,” she said as she kissed me.
“Oh, I’m waiting up.” I squeezed her arm. “Got your pepper spray?”
She punched my shoulder. “Don’t watch Station Eleven without me. Stick to porn.” She left.
I watched some TV, read a book, ate a snack, and turned on the TV again to watch some Steven Colbert. Rachel called at 11:35.
“There’s five of us,” she told me, her voice low. “I’m in the bathroom. Me, a blond girl named Cassie, an older couple—the Nelsons,—and a guy named Mark Quinnley.” She laughed softly. “Parked his red Miata in front of a fire hydrant 20 minutes ago. Doesn’t care about tickets. Acts rich. He tried to hit on me right away.”
Great. “What about Ronald?”
“Oh, he’s busy hitting on Cassie. I think he’s keeping me in reserve.”
I choked a sigh of relief. “Okay. Well, be careful. Like you always tell me.”
“And like you say, ‘Of course.’” She laughed again. “Love you. ‘Bye.”
I watched some James Corden, or whoever it was. I kept checking the time, feeling uneasy as midnight appeared on my phone, staring at it as the minutes passed: 12:02, 12:04, 12:10 . . .
I fell asleep. I dreamed of unicorns, and Rachel, and Rachel riding a unicorn, and then a stampede of unicorns across a raging river while a volcano erupted in the distance. Then I woke up.
It was 1:15 a.m. I checked my phone. No call from Rachel. I called her.
No answer.
I tried not to panic. Probably she was just busy. Talking to the others about whatever place they’d visited. Maybe Ronald made them all mute their phones, and she forgot to turn hers back on. Maybe they were all having an orgy upstairs. No, probably not. I got a drink of water, paced, then called again. Still no answer.
At 2:00 I gave in. Rachel had taken our Prius, so I called an Uber. Thirty minutes later, I was standing by the car and staring across the street.
The house was still gone.
My heart pounded as I crossed the street and walked to where the steps should have been. Just like last night, nothing invisible got in my way. I walked over the grass and weeds to the alley behind the backyard, then came back. I don’t know what I was looking for, but I found nothing.
A heavy pit dropped into my stomach. Rachel was gone.
Standing next to the car, fighting to breathe normally, I pulled out my phone. I hesitated before calling Fischer, but damn it, Rachel was gone. I punched in his number.
“H-Hello? Who is this?”
“It’s Tom Jurgen. Sorry to wake you, but the house is gone. Still gone. It should have come back.” I clenched my jaw to keep my voice from shaking. “Rachel’s there. Have you talked to your son today?”
“What?” I heard a voice behind him. “Just a minute—gone? What time is it?”
“It’s 2:30. He said the trip was only for an hour. Rachel is gone.”
“Okay, okay. I—I haven’t talked to Ronald today. Yesterday. Whatever. What happened?”
“Ronald had another trip tonight, with some paying customers. I don’t know what happened. I keep hoping maybe—” I stopped. “I’m right in front of the place. I’ll wait. Maybe it’ll come back. Maybe—I don’t know.”
I didn’t want to think about the possibilities. Something had damaged the clock? The house had sunk in quicksand or lava? Ronald was kidnapping people? Was Rachel safe?
“Is there anything I can do?” Fischer’s voice was raspy from sleep.
I leaned against the hood. “Let me know if you hear from Ronald. I’ll call if it comes back.”
“All right.” He coughed. “I got your invoice this morning. You can add this to it if you want.”
That was the last thing I was worried about. But it was generous of him. “Thank you. We’ll see.”
We hung up. I got into the car and crossed my arms, staring at the empty space. The bottle of water next to me was half full. I took a sip, looking up and down the street. Silent. Empty.
A car rolled by slowly. Looking for a parking space? Someone working the late shift, like me. It paused a few yards away, then moved on, passing a fire hydrant in its search for legal parking.
Wait. Rachel had mentioned someone—Mark something. Mark Quinnley. Parked his red Miata in front of a fire hydrant. I got out and walked up and down the street. No red Miata. No car parked in front of any hydrants.
Mark Quinnley, whoever he was, had gotten out.
I waited in the car until the sun came up at 7:41. Joggers puffed up and down the street, cyclists pumped their pedals, people walked their dogs on the sidewalk,and cars zoomed in both directions. One woman walking a small boy to school stopped to look at the empty lot. The little boy pointed and asked a question. The mother shook her head and pulled him along.
A jogger doubled back to take a second look at the bare space, jogging in place for 10 seconds before heading on his way. A car slowed to look until cars behind it honked impatiently.
I’d spent a few hours looking up Mark Quinnley on my phone. If I had the right guy, he was a retired VP of a bank in Arlington Heights, and he collected antiques. They were all over his Facebook page. Along with a photo of his red Miata.
I couldn’t do anything more from the car, so I started up and headed home. After a quick showeer and some coffee, I staggered to the office. My eyes felt fuzzy from lack of sleep, and my back ached from sitting in the car all night.
The office felt empty without Rachel. I rubbed my forehead and tried to focus. I couldn’t find a number for Quinnley, so I went on Facebook and sent him a message. Then I waited.
I fell asleep at my desk for half an hour. When I woke up my neck hurt. I stretched, got myself more coffee, and tried to think of something to do. I decided to look up Giuseppe Volpano, the clockmaker.
Born 1481, died 1537. Like Ronald said, he was rumored to be a wizard, an alchemist, and a troublemaker. He claimed to control space and time, talk to spirits, and—of course—turn lead into gold. But he did make fantastic clocks, apparently, fetching high prices from wealthy patrons. The ones that had survived were worth thousands of dollars to collectors today.
How did one of them turn up at an estate sale in Skokie? I scratched my head, trying to remember the name—Rosenberger.
I searched for estate sales using that name, and came up with it after a few minutes. The site was still up, promoting the company that had run the sale and was always looking for others. I called them.
It took a few transfers to reach a woman named Ellen who could answer my questions. “Yes, I worked that sale. It was quite successful. Are you interested in listing with us?”
Despite my fatigue and worry, I laughed. “My estate would fit into a showbox. No, I’m interested in the Rosenberger estate. There was a clock there, item number, uh, 121? Can you tell me anything about it?”
“Let me see . . . There wasn’t an unusual amount of interest in it. A few bids. I can’t tell you who bid on it, that’s confidential, but it went for a good price. Oh, here’s something.”
I waited. “Yes?”
“Well, I can’t explain too much. We have strict rules about confidentiality and clients. You understand.”
“Of course.” On the other hand, my job is to break those rules as much as I can. Legally, or at least without getting caught. “What can you tell me?”
“After the sale was completed, one person came in and, uh, expressed interest in the clock. We had to turn him away. There’s a note next to his name, but I can’t tell you what it is.”
“Or his name?”
“I’m afraid not.”
I nodded. “What if I gave you a name?”
“I don’t think—”
“Mark Quinnley.”
Ellen hesitated. “I—I can’t confirm that.”
“I understand.” I smiled even though she couldn’t see me. “Thanks for your help.”
So Quinnley wanted the clock. And he’d been at Ronald’s house last night. And his car was gone.
Ronald said the back door led back out into our world. Did he steal the clock?
I needed to talk to him.
I went hunting again, and this time found his number using a source that wasn’t strictly legal. I didn’t care. I called. No answer. I left a message.
I had his address from the same illegal source. Although the bank he’d worked at was in the Northbrook, a suburb, he actually lived in a condo only a few miles from Ronald’s house. So I rubbed my eyes to make sure I was awake, finished my coffee, and headed for my car.
Quinnley’s condo was in a high rise off Lake Shore Drive, called Lakeside Tower. I walked into the lobby, spotted the elevators behind sliding glass doors, and asked the doorman, a Black man behind a wide desk, for Mark Quinnley’s apartment. He lifted a phone.
After a few seconds he shook his head. “No answer.”
Damn it. “Is there any way you could do a wellness check or something? He’s not answering my calls, and I really need to see him.”
He looked me over. “Are you a relative?”
I considered being Quinnley’s brother, or cousin, or lover, or something, but that could get complicated too quickly. “It’s a business matter. It’s very important.”
The doorman shook his head again. “You’d have to call 911 then. We can’t do checks unless it’s a family member.”
I frowned and took a step back from the desk. The doorman would have to buzz me through to get to the elevators. No chance of sneaking in behind behind a resident with him standing right there. I sighed. “Thanks.” I left.
The building had an underground parking lot that charged roughly $17 a minute for public parking. Downtown parking in Chicago is ridiculously expensive, so I’d parked on the street, but now I drove in, got a ticket from a machine, and found an empty space in a corner. I changed into a blue blazer jacket and put on a black hat with a wide brim. Then I wandered around until I found a basement entrance to the building.
I patted my pockets like I was looking for my keys, aware of a camera on me from behind. Fortunately, the door opened in 10 seconds, and a woman carrying a small dog came out. I held the door for her, she thanked me, and I slipped inside.
I took the delivery elevator in the rear up to the 12th floor. Quinnley lived in 1204. The doors opened next to apartment 1212. I walked fast, thinking I’d probably been spotted by security cameras in the basement and didn’t have much time. I hurried past 1210, 1208, around a corner, then down that hall to 1206, 1202 and finally to 1200, with 1201 opposite.
I stopped. Wait, what?
I backtracked. 1202, then a long stretch of hallway to 1206, then the elevators—
I turned around again and walked back. There was no 1204. Just a longer than usual wall, with no door where 1204 should be.
The hallway was painted a pale blue, with flowered wallpaper in a border at the top and gray carpet on the floor. I planted my hand on the wall where a door would be. I knocked softly. Then hard. It sounded solid, felt thick. I ran my hand back and forth, feeling for what? An invisible opening? A secret passage?
A door opened on the other side. 1203. A woman came out in a long coat, varying a tote bag. She glanced at me, then looked away. Stranger. Suspicious. Better to be cautious.
“Excuse me.” I pointed at the wall.”Shouldn’t there be an apartment here? 1204?”
The woman stopped. She looked past me at the blank wall, puzzled. Then she nodded. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. Huh.” She turned and headed to the elevators.
Okay . . . I was about to ask her another question when one elevator opened and two uniformed Chicago Police officers stepped out.
“Excuse me, sir?” He was white, with a Black partner. “You’ll have to leave, sir.”
That was fast. “I was just looking for 1204.” I pointed. “It should be right here.”
Both cops crossed their arms. Quite intimidating.
“Okay, okay.” I lifted my hands, fingers wide. “I’m a private detective. I was just looking for the guy in 1204. He’s not here. It’s not here.”
The Black cop looked at the wall. He looked at the opposite wall. He cocked his head. “Yeah, that’s weird. You still have to leave, sir.”
“Of course.” Arguing would only get me in trouble. Possibly jail, and I couldn’t afford that. I let them take me down to the lobby, where they guided me past the wide reception desk.
“Can I just—” I looked at the doorman. “There’s no door for apartment 1204. Where Mark Quinnley lives? It just skips 1204.”
“He’s right,” the white cop said. “What’s up with that, anyway?”
The doorman shook his head. “I don’t know. Please leave, sir.”
I leaned forward, reaching slowly into my pocket, and dropped my card onto the desk. “If Mr. Quinnley comes back—”
The Black cop clamped a hand on my elbow. “Sir?”
“Yes, officer.” I didn’t struggle. “Uh, my car’s in the garage downstairs. I don’t suppose you can validate my parking?”
The doorman rolled his eyes.
No comments:
Post a Comment