Rain Killer, Pt. Three

 I called Rachel from my Honda and told her Lillian’s description of the killer.

“That sounds like . . . wait . . .” Again I heard tapping keys. “It sounds like a Lamia.”

            “So what’s a Lamia?”

            “It’s a type of vampire from Greek mythology that feeds on human children. In some accounts she has a serpent’s tale and wings below her waist.”

            I shuddered. “She?”

            “That’s right, you sexist pig. The original Lamia was a mistress of Zeus, and Zeus’s wife Hera got jealous, killed her children, and turned her into a child-eating monster.”

            “Yuck.” But maybe it made sense. The Rain Killer always delivered the bodies of its victims back home. A mother might do that. Even a homicidal, mythological maniac of a mother.  “Anything else on Wikipedia?”

            “This isn’t Wikipedia, it’s . . . you probably don’t want to know. Anyway, later sources call them the lamiae. Maybe they’re descended from her, or maybe people made up to myth to account for them. It goes both ways with this sort of stuff.”

            Rachel has friends in the witch/wizard/wiccan communities around Chicago, but her familiarity with this kind of stuff still shakes me up a bit. “So how do we find this thing?”

“You’re the detective. I’m just your humble research assistant.”

            “Assistant?” I chuckled. “You’d punch my stomach if I called you that.”

            “I’ll keep researching, MacGuyver. You hit those mean streets. Just don’t let them hit back.”

            I sat in the car, processing the information. I could hardly drop this on Dudovich’s desk. Even if she was struggling to keep an open mind, she couldn’t very well present it to her hard-nosed commander. Besides, I didn’t even have enough facts for a theory.

            So I went back to the police station and sat down at my computer. Around me cops answered phones, filled out tip reports, drank coffee, cursed, and ignored me. I drank coffee and ignored them.

            I reviewed all the witness statements again, but I didn’t spot anything new. The bodies had been spread around the north and northwest side of the city, but nobody had found any kind of pattern to the locations. The murders had all taken place for about a month and half before stopping.

            So why had the killer stopped? And why was he starting again?

            I went back to the local papers ten years ago. I started with the date of the first murder and went back and forth, searching for some link between then and now. An unexpected death? A devastating fire? The Chicago Bears winning three games in a row?

I felt like I was looking for Waldo in a wet haystack twenty miles wide. Anything could be a clue. I leaned back and closed my eyes, trying to think. Then trying not to think.

I dozed in the chair. Rain sprinkled down on the windows. For a moment I was back in the alley, cold rain drizzling down over my scalp and shoulders.

Rain. I jerked forward.

I searched the weather reports for the days around the first killing. Sunny, then cloudy. Then scattered rain. Then a thunderstorm—

            Lightning.

            I zeroed in. The story was just a small item: Lightning had struck a tree in a cemetery on the west side. A very old tree—300 years. The photo showed a deep scar in the bark.

            I opened a new window and looked at today’s news.

            I’d heard it this morning, waiting for a David Bowie song. An Old Town church, the Navy Pier Ferris wheel—and an ancient tree in a cemetery. Struck by lightning.

            I cross-checked the stories. Same cemetery. Ten years apart.

            Oh god.

            I grabbed my cell phone. “Rachel? I think I’ve got it.”

            “What? Wait—” She gulped a drink. “Okay, what are you talking about?”

            “The Arcadia Park Cemetery. It’s right across the road from the Irving Park Cemetery. A tree got struck by lightning there ten years ago—right before the Rain Killer got started. And lightning hit it last night—” Christ, had this all started just today? I tried to remember what I’d been working on before Dudovich had called me.

            I lowered my head. “What if it’s been there all this time? Hiding—or hibernating. Until the lightning woke it up again?”

            “Damn it.” Rachel took a breath, “So what are you going to do?”

            I sighed. “How do we kill it?”

            “You idiot. The same way you kill any vampire. With a wooden stake, if you can get close enough before it kills you. Or cut its head off. Tell me you’re not going after it? Please?”

            “Not on my own, if I can get—oops. I’ll call you back.”

            Commander Hughes was looming over me, tall and menacing. “Who are you and what the hell was that?”

            Where had he come from? I’d figured he’d be in his office, talking to the mayor or yelling at reporters. Not out on the floor. But I didn’t have a choice now.

I pushed my chair back. “Tom Jurgen. Private investigator. Detective Elena Dudovich asked me to assist in your investigation. I think I’ve got—”

            “You’re talking to me now.”  Hughes crossed his arms in front of his chest. I could feel the fear he put into any gangbangers who’d ever tried to defy him.

“You’re saying there’s a monster hiding out in a cemetery?”

“Yeah.” I stood up. He still towered over me, but I managed to speak. “It’s called a lamiae. It’s a type of vampire that hunts children. And yeah, it’s there in that cemetery. The lightning strike woke it up. It happened ten years ago, and it happened last night. And today a kid got snatched. So if you want to stop this thing—”

            Hughes jabbed a finger at the door. “Get out.”

            Goddamn it. “They called me crazy before, you know? But it’s back! You say you’ll listen to anyone—all those tips on the phone?” I swung my arm. “How many of those calls are crazy? How come you’ve never caught this thing? How does it always get away? Hey, you!” I zeroed in a hard-faced cop sitting at a desk. Just trying to do her job. “Do you really want to stop this thing? Or are you just afraid of looking crazy like me?”

            I was sure Hughes was going to hit me. And it would hurt. Instead he just turned. “Hawkins? Escort this asshole out.”

            I lifted my hands. “Fine. I’ll go peacefully, officer. I’m crazy—not stupid.”

            Hawkins grabbed my elbow. “Come on, asshole.”

            “I’m going, I’m going.” I let him push me through the door. Then he leaned down, his face inches from mine. “Hughes is a good cop. He’s just doing his job.”

            “I get that.” I heard a door slam. “So am I.”

            Hawkins shrugged. “Yeah.”

            I took the elevator down and walked back to my car. Mad at Hughes and scared of what I was about to do.

            But mostly I was tired of people telling me I was crazy.

Rachel was waiting in her Prius inside the gates of the Arcadia Park Cemetery. Rain was starting to fall hard as I dashed to her car.

            “Are you sure you want to do this?” She looked ready to slug me as I slammed the door slid into the seat next to her.

            “You can stay back here if you want.” I caught my breath. “Did you bring the stuff?”

            She grimaced. “I was saving three stakes for a special occasion, like your birthday. And I bought a big jar of garlic and a sack of salt from the store. And that sword you keep under your bed. Why do you even have a sword, anyway?”

            “My father got it during the war.” It was a long curved Japanese sword. “I thought we were going to have to fight the voarkla with it, remember? And besides, you have to cut off a vampire’s head to make sure it’s really dead, don’t you?”

            Rachel groaned. “Sometimes you scare me.”

            A car pulled up behind us and flashed its lights. My cellphone buzzed.

            “Jurgen?” Dudovich sounded annoyed. “I’m putting my job on the line here. You’d better be right.”

            “Thanks for coming, detective.” I pointed forward. “Just follow us.”

            I’d figured out the location of the tree, based on the gravestone mentioned in the news stories from a few local news outlets. Rachel drove slowly through the cemetery, following the GPS directions, wipers flaring across her windshield until she found the proper turn.

            She stopped. “Right there.”

            I lowered the window. A hundred yards away I could see a tall tree, branches drooping down in the rain. A dark scar across its wet bark.

I stared for a long time, trying to get my nerve up. Then Dudovich honked, and Rachel jabbed my shoulder. “Hey, close the window! You’re getting my seats wet!”

            “Sorry.” I raised the window and opened the door. “Pop your trunk and wait here.”

            “Oh, no.” She got out. “I’m coming too.”

            I didn’t have time to argue. And she’d probably win anyway. So I grabbed the sword and the wooden stakes from her trunk, and she carried the salt and garlic.

            Dudovich parked behind us and slammed her door. She walked up, the rain pouring down on her CPD cap. “Hey, is that a sword you’re carrying?”

            I slung it over my shoulder on a strap I’d bought a few years ago. “Do I need a license for it?”

            She shook her head, probably wondering what the hell she was doing here with me. Then she looked through the rain at the tree. “Is that it?”

            “I hope so.” If not, she’d never believe me again. And I wasn’t sure I’d ever believe myself.

            The ground was flat and wet under my sneakers. Rain streaked down over my windbreaker, and my wide-brimmed hat was already soaked. The sword was heavy. I’d never actually used it on anything, but I kept it sharpened. Just in case.

            We reached the base of the tree. Between its thick twisting roots, a wide hole reached down into the earth.

Maybe I should have been relieved. I wasn’t entirely crazy. But I was definitely scared now.

“Oh god.” Rachel staggered back, a hand to her forehead. “She’s down there. Lamia.”

Dudovich looked at the hole. “So what do we do?”

            I looked at Rachel. “What about Nathan?”

            Rachel wiped the rain from her red hair. “He’s crying for his mother.”

            Dudovich pulled off her leather jacket. “I think I can get down there.” She reached for her handgun.

            For a moment I hesitated. Yeah, I could wait here. This was her job, not mine. But I had the sword.

            I groaned. “You and me. Take this.” I thrust a stake at her.

            Dudovich stared. “I think my Glock is going to be pretty convincing.”

            “You’ll need to stake it once it’s down. And cut off its head.” I jammed the second stake into my back pocket and handed the last one to Rachel. “Once we’re inside, shake the salt in a circle around the hole. It keeps vampires out. In case—”

            Rachel slapped me.

            I took staggered back in the dirt, more afraid of her than the Lamia. Rachel had punched me and jabbed me, but she’d never actually hit me. “What?” I rubbed my face.

“Just go.” She slammed the bag of salt at the ground. “When you come back, we’re going to have issues.”

“Uhh . . . sure.” I didn’t know what to say. But I couldn’t back away from this. Not after ten years. “I’ll be all right.”

            “You idiot.” Rachel kissed me. For a moment I was on the verge of changing my mind again. What the hell was I doing? I’m not a superhero, just a guy—

Then Rachel shoved me away. “Here.” She tossed the jar of garlic at me. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

I nodded. I wanted to remember her face, her eyes, her red hair in the rain. “Whatever you say.”

“Yeah, right.” She punched my arm. “Go.”

“Hey! Kids!” Dudovich was peering into the hole with a flashlight. “Come on, Jurgen! Are you coming or not?”

            I leaned down beside her. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

            I’m not very brave. Just stubborn. I wanted to see this thing. But I was scared.

            Dudovich bent over and pushed herself down the hole, head first. Her thick shoes kicked back at me. I gulped, made sure my sneakers were tight, and followed.

            I pushed down through the dirt and mud, checking to make sure my sword was secure on my back. Dad would never forgive me if I lost it in the muck. I heard Dudovich grunting ahead of me. The walls of the tunnel shook, and just when I was sure I’d panic from claustrophobia and basic terror, I felt my body falling. I managed not to scream.

            I landed in a shallow puddle of cold water with a wet plop. Thrashing around, I saw Dudovich on her knees, casting her flashlight right and left. “You okay there, Jurgen?” Her voice was a raspy whisper.

            “F-fine.” I staggered up. “What’s going—”

            “Mommy!” A little boy’s voice. “Mommy?”

            We were in a dark round pit. The air smelled rancid, like compost gone bad. Roots crawled up and down the walls as Dudovich flashed her light around. “Nathan? Where are you?”

            “Mommy . . .” His voice was weak. “Mommm . . .”

            Dudovich crawled forward. “Nathan? I’m coming, son. Keep talking. I’m—”

            “Wait!” I saw a shadow shift against the back of the pit. “Dudovich, over there!”

It rose up on a long thick serpent’s tail, laughing like a rabid hyena. A black shape, with a red glow twisting in the middle of its torso. Black leathery wings whipped around its hips

The Lamia.

            I whipped the sword from behind my back as Dudovich crouched and fired. The handgun boomed like a bomb, shaking the foul air.

            Even one of the lamiae couldn’t take a full clip from a Glock in the chest without suffering the impact. The thing staggered back, the scarlet coil shuddering as black blood dripped down its skin. Its mocking laughter churned into a high-pitched screech of fury.

            “Jurgen!” Dudovich ejected the clip from her handgun and slammed a fresh one in. “Give me that sword, and get the kid out of here!”

            The Lamia roared. Dudovich poured more bullets into it as I tossed the sword in her general direction, hoping she could find it in the muck under our feet.

I stumbled toward Nathan and pulled him to my chest. “Come on, Nate. Hang on to me.”

            Nathan whimpered. “Who are you?”

            “My name’s Tom.” I staggered toward the hole, my feet sloshing in the water. “I need you to climb up here. Can you do that?”

            Dudovich cursed behind us. “Jurgen, hurry up!”

Nathan flinched. “I’m scared.”

            “Me too.” I hoisted him up. “Get in there. I’ll help you.”

            Nathan was crying. “No. I can’t do it.”

            “Jurgen!” Dudovich shouted. “Get him out of here!”

            I shoved Nathan up into the hole. He screamed, but he scrambled up, his little legs pushing dirt down over my face.

             I looked back for just a second. Dudovich clutched her flashlight in one hand while she swung my sword with the other. Then Nathan began falling back, and I had to jam one wet foot against a root and force my body up into the hole after him.

            I had no idea how far down we’d fallen—or how far up we had to go. It felt like I was crawling up the side of a skyscraper, an inch at a time, my shake fingers and damp feet trembling with every step. Nathan was crying, and my shoulder hurt as I pushed it against him. I heard Dudovich swearing beneath us.

            “Come on, Nate.” I tried not to let him hear the panic in my voice. “Just climb. It’ll be okay.”

            “I’m—I’m trying.” He squirmed around, fighting to hold on to the loose earth around him. I dug my shoes into the dirt, pushing up at him.

            Then Nathan was gone. And I could see faint light over my head. Not stars, exactly, but not the unrelenting darkness below me.

            I lurched up and pulled my shoulders out of the hole. Rachel was holding Nathan, patting his back as he coughed dirt out of his throat. I climbed out, gasping, and rolled over, letting the rain pour over my face.

            “Tom!” Rachel kept Nathan in her arms as she crouched down. “Are you okay? Where’s . . .”

            I scrambled away from the hole. “She’s—right behind me.” I hoped.

            “Mommy,” Nathan moaned. “I want my mommy . . .”

            “I’ll get her.” Rachel grabbed for her cellphone. “You’re okay now, Nate—”

            “Nathan!” He screamed. “My name isn’t Nate, it’s Nathan!”

            Nathan wore a dirty T-shirt and tattered pajama bottoms. He was crying. Blood dripped down from a wound on his neck.

“Okay, all right.” Rachel fumbled with the keys. “Hello? I’m at Arcadia Cemetery, and I have that little boy who was kidnapped, Nate—no, Nathan Black. He’s all right, but there’s an officer down . . .”

             “Jurgen!” It sounded like a shout from the grave. Maybe it was. I stood on shaking legs as Dudovich’s head emerged from the hole. “Little help?”
            I grasped a wrist and pulled as she clambered up onto the wet ground. She still held my sword, stained with blood. 

I helped her up. “Did you—is it . . .?”

            “I don’t think I got its head off all the way.” She dropped the sword onto the grass. “But I staked it, and then I just slammed that jar of garlic at its mouth. It wasn’t feeling good when I got away.”

            She peered over my shoulder. “How’s the kid?”

            “He’s okay.” He’d need a lifetime of therapy, probably, but he was alive.

            “Damn it, I lost my gun down there.” Dudovich looked at the hole. “They’ll make me pay for a new one. Because no one’s ever going to believe this, Jurgen.”

            We looked each other over. Covered in mud, shaking with exhaustion, the rain on our faces and shoulders . . .

            Then Dudovich laughed. “You’re crazy, Jurgen.”

            “Yeah.” I staggered on the loose, wet dirt. “Thanks for bringing the sword back.”

           

So:

            CPD squad cars started rolling up almost immediately. Two cops wrapped Nathan in a blanket and took him straight to the nearest hospital. The rest of them brought Dudovich and me downtown, where we got coffee and paper towels to dry off. Rachel followed in her Prius, raising holy hell until Commander Hughes finally got tired of listening to her and let us talk alone for a few minutes.

            “Don’t you ever do that again!” Rachel punched my arm. Hard. “You know I’m no good with little kids!”

            “Sorry.” I gulped some coffee. Somebody had forgotten to brew a new pot. “I’m just glad Hughes isn’t locking you up for creating a disturbance.”

            “I think the rest of them are afraid of me.” She leaned down and peered at my face. “You’re filthy.” Then she kissed me.

            “You’re pretty hot yourself—Ow?” She punched me again.

            “You deserved that.” She straightened up as the door opened. Hughes walked in with Hawkins.

            “I need the room.” Hughes sat down. “You can wait outside. If you don’t make trouble.”

            “Me? Trouble?” Rachel smirked. “He’s the troublemaker. But you already know that.”

            I waited until she closed the door. “Can I get some dry clothes soon? Sir? Or at least some fresh coffee?”

            Hughes glared at me. So did Hawkins.

            Hughes sighed. “I’ve spoken with detective Dudovich. She tells me you’re a stubborn, sarcastic asshole.”

            And here we’d been getting along so well. “Did she mention I’m crazy?”

            Hawkins laughed. Hughes ignored him. “Detective Dudovich does, however, tell a story we can’t ignore. Not one we can release to the media, you understand. But she’s a competent professional. If she says you two fought and killed a vampire from Greek mythology—and she’s not obviously drunk or high, although believe me, we’ll test her pee and her blood for that, and yours too—I’m stuck accepting that.”

            I nodded. “So can I go?”

            Hughes dropped a printout on the desk, along with a blue pen. “Once you sign this.”

I scanned the document. Everything was in there. Some of it was even true.

I knew that the police, the press, city hall, and the FBI would never admit that supernatural forces were a danger on the streets of Chicago. Or any city. I’d figured that out 10 years ago. Fighting them would just end up with me in a hospital, or a homeless shelter.

I hated to go along with a coverup. But I didn’t have much choice if I wanted to keep working. And see Rachel without an overseer watching over us.

“You need to do something about its lair.” I picked up the pen. “Cut down that tree, pull out its roots as best you can, and fill the hole up with something that will keep that thing down there at least as long as nuclear waste.”

Hughes shrugged. “Not my call. But I’ll make the recommendation.”

Great. “If nothing else, watch the weather reports for the next lightning strike.” I signed. Anything to get out of here. “Oh, by the way—can I get my sword back? After you’ve tested it for blood and everything?”

He grimaced. “Any blood on that sword was washed clean by the dirt and the rain. You can pick it up tomorrow.”

So they weren’t even going to bother to test it. Fine. I signed. “Am I free to go?”

“Please do.” Hughes stood up. “Right away.”

Rachel was waiting for me. “I guess I’ll have to take you up to get your car.”

“Unless they towed it.” I rubbed my face. “Let’s just go home.”

“Wait a minute!”

Dudovich walked up behind me. Her clothes were still caked with mud and blood.

Now what? I was tired, cranky, and desperate to get out of there before someone thought of an excuse to lock me up. But somehow I managed to stay civil. “You okay, detective?”

 “They made me sign some bullshit statement about an anonymous tip.” She shrugged. “But that’s the way it goes.”

“What about Nate?” Rachel looked at me. “I mean, Nathan?”

“No serious blood loss. He’s in the hospital with his parents, and nobody will believe he was kidnapped by an evil creature with a tail and wings.” She shook her head. “Probably go home tomorrow.”

I nodded. “That’s good.” Saving a kid’s life made the whole coverup a little easier to take. I looked at the elevator. “Well, good night, detective.”

Then—oh my god—Dudovich hugged me. An actual hug. “Thanks, Jurgen.”

“Uh . . .” This was unexpected. And awkward. I patted her shoulder. “Thanks for believing me. This time, at least.”

“Oh, this doesn’t change anything.” She shoved me away. “I still think you’re crazy. And annoying.”

I smirked. “I like to make an impression.”

Rachel groaned. “You see what I have to put up with?”

“You have my sympathy.” Dudovich shook Rachel’s hand. “Take care of him. He doesn’t deserve you.”

She nodded. “I tell him that all the time.”

Oh god. “You guys aren’t going to start going out for coffee together, are you? Because that would be—”

“Elevator’s that way, Jurgen.” Dudovich pointed. “Get lost.”

Rachel pulled on my arm. “Come on. Let’s get sushi. After you take a shower.”

Yeah, I was hungry. And I needed clean clothes. But it was the best plan I’d heard all day.

The Rain Killer was gone. At least for now.

I hoped I wouldn’t dream tonight.

# # #

Tom Jurgen will return . . .

. . . Soon.

Apologies. Life and other things have slowed up the case reports. Some cases have yet to be resolved; other are moving forward.

Look for something new this weekend. If you dare.

Out of the Box

Tom Jurgen’s search for answers behind a mysterious death lead him and Rachel into a dangerous encounter with an angry force . . .

Out of the Box, Part One

As a private detective I’ve met prospective clients in their homes, at diners and coffee shops, and even once in a library. But this was the first time I’d ever done it over Skype.

            So Rachel had to help me set it up. The clients were Todd and Leslie Gunderson, a couple in their fifties living in Toronto who had sent an email about hiring me. Todd Gunderson had thin, grizzled cheeks and thick hands that looked like he’d worked with heavy tools all his life. His wife Leslie was a short woman with round glasses and a sad smile.

            “Mr. Jurgen.” Todd’s voice was low and heavy. “Thanks for talking to us.”

            I nodded. “What can I do for you, Mr. And Mrs. Gunderson?”

            “Our son Charley went to Chicago two months ago for a job interview there,” Leslie said. “He was staying downtown at the Bradford Hotel. It’s just off Michigan Avenue.”

            “I’ve walked past it.” A tall building with lots of glass and steel.

            “He . . . he disappeared.” Todd’s voice cracked. “They found him ten days later, , naked, in the basement. He’d starved to death.”

            Oh, god. “I’m so sorry.”

            “When Charley didn’t answer his phone we called a friend he was visiting, and then the hotel.” Leslie seemed to be less emotional than her husband, but I could see the tension in her face and shoulders. “They checked his room, but he wasn’t there. We called the police. They looked at the security videos from the elevators and stairwells, and they found one video.” She pressed some keys on her computer. “Here.”

            The image was grainy and full of shadows, but I could make out a young man in his twenties with long hair standing next to elevator door. He seemed to be talking to someone—then shouting. But no one else was with him. The timestamp at the button read 3:37 a.m.

            Then Charley turned and started pushing buttons. Every button. The elevator didn’t stop, though. He kept yelling over his shoulder, finally hitting one button over and over again.

            The doors opened, and Charley fled.

            “That’s all over the internet now.” Leslie sighed. “We couldn’t do anything about it. But there’s one of him running down a stairwell.” Leslie wiped her eyes with a tissue. Todd patted her knee. “Nothing else. They searched the hotel and the streets around it—”

            “Why they didn’t find him in their own damn hotel . . .” Todd growled. “I don’t get it.”

            “At any rate . . .” She adjusted her glasses. “We came to Chicago, and eventually someone at the hotel did find him. The police said it was a suicide. I don’t—I don’t know, but there just isn’t any explanation. Who was he talking to? What was he so scared of? Why did he run away and stop eating?”

            “We called one of the detectives we met, and she gave us your name. She said you specialize in—what did she call it? Unusual phenomena.”

            That was probably better than “weird shit.” “Elena Dudovich?”

            He nodded. “That was her.”

            “Well, I have investigated some pretty strange cases.” Involving vampires, zombies, and vengeful ghosts, but I didn’t think they wanted to hear that. “I’m willing to help, but I can’t make any promises.” They probably didn’t want to hear that either.

            But they both nodded. Todd patted his wife’s knee. “We’ll send you a check for your retainer.”

            “Thank you.” I took out my notebook. “Let’s start with some questions.”

I started by calling the Bradford Hotel. Not surprisingly, the top executives weren’t eager to talk to me, but they also wanted to avoid a lawsuit from Charley’s parents. So in the end a lawyer agreed to let someone show me around the hotel the next morning.

So then I called Rachel to ask her to come with me. “What time? I’ve got to work late on this project.” She does graphic design when she’s not helping me. “And do I get paid?”

Rachel’s my upstairs neighbor, my girlfriend (she doesn’t get mad when I say that lately), and kind of psychic. Which comes in handy on my paranormal cases.

“Nine o’clock? And I’ll buy you dinner.”

“Ten. And you make me breakfast.”

So we got to the Bradford at ten, after waffles and grapefruit. The guy at the front desk eventually figured out what I wanted, and in a few minutes a young woman emerged from a door behind the check-in counter.

“Mr. Jurgen? I’m Linda Palmer.” She looked to be in her late twenties, black hair tied back in a tight ponytail, and she wore a nametag with her name and the words ASSISTANT MANAGER on the lapel of her blue blazer.

“Tom.” We shook hands. “This is Rachel. She’s my associate.”

            Rachel’s got red hair and hazelnut eyes. She looked Palmer over as they shook hands. “Nice hotel. I usually just stay at the Super 8.”

            “I’m just working here for the summer. I started school again in a few weeks.” She lifted a hand. “This way?”

            We took the last elevator Charley used up to the 29^th floor—where his room was. I didn’t ask Rachel outright if she sensed anything because I didn’t want Palmer to think I was crazy. When I shot a glance at her in the elevator she just shook her head. Nothing. But two months had passed.

            We couldn’t go into the room, naturally, so Palmer took us down to where they’d found Charley’s body.

            The sub-basement was small and cramped, but not as messy as the one I’d explored with Rachel on vacation in Wisconsin a few months back. Bright fluorescent lights illuminated the clean tile and tall steel lockers lined the walls.

Palmer led us to the rear of the basement and pointed to a tall locker. “He was behind there. I didn’t see him, but that’s what they told me.”

            I grabbed a handle and tried to push it, but it weighed like an armored car. Or I just needed to work out more. “How’d he move it?”

            Palmer shrugged, staring at the metal. “No idea.”

            Rachel put a hand on the door. “He was scared.”

            Palmer blinked, surprised but willing to listen. “Of what?”

            Rachel shook her head. “I don’t know.”

            “Is it still here?” I stepped away a little too quickly.

            “No. Just the—residue. It’ll be here for a long time.” She smiled at Palmer. “I’m kind of psychic.”

            “Oh.” She nodded as if Rachel had told her she was an Aries. “I have a friend like that. Doesn’t help her in Vegas, though.”

            Rachel laughed. “I haven’t tried that yet.”

            I was glad Palmer wasn’t telling us to get out. “What’s in there?”

            “Nothing, right now. It’s just heavy. They emptied it out after—after they found him. It had uniforms and cleaning supplies. Nothing important.”

            I couldn’t think of any more questions. “Well, thanks for your time.” I looked at Rachel. “You okay?”

            She shivered in her jacket “Yeah. But let’s get out of here.”

I’d called the company where Charley had his interview—Benson Gaynor, a small mortgage bank looking for an IT manager—and made an appointment with the manager who’d interviewed him.

            I also contacted Charley’s friend: Miles Lerner. He worked at Benson Gaynor too. He invited me to his apartment in Bucktown. Rachel had to work—she does graphic design—so I drove over later that morning.

            Miles was about Charley’s age. He had blond hair and a sharp nose, and he wore a short-sleeved shirt with a red necktie yanked loose. “Hi! You want a drink?”

            “Just water, thanks.” His apartment was small and tidy. Hardwood floor, ceiling fan, a big screen TV, and a bookshelf crammed with computer manuals and think Stephen King novels on the bottom shelf, anchoring it down, and rows of DVDs at the top. The DVDs indicated a fondness for horror movies and Japanese anime, with a few romantic comedies in the mix based on the works of Nicholas Sparks and Danielle Steele. A small box shaped like a four-sided pyramid sat on the top of the bookcase, between pictures of—I assumed—his parents.

            “Here.” Miles handed me a glass of water and ice. He held a glass of red wine. “I don’t know what to tell you. Charley was my best friend. We met in college—U of I—and we kept in touch. I just can’t understand what happened.”

            “You helped him get the interview with your company?” That’s what Charley’s parents had told me. They didn’t know Miles very well, but he’d visited them for Thanksgiving once. Todd liked him. Leslie wasn’t so sure.

            “Yeah.” Miles nodded. “I’m an IT manager there, but they’re setting up a new unit. It’s a complicated business. There was a job opening, and I emailed Charley. It was perfect for him.”

            “So what happened when he got here?”

            “Well, he had the interview.” Miles sipped his wine. “I guess it went fine. Then we went out that night to celebrate. This little bar in Lincoln Park where we go sometimes. We all had a little too much to drink.” He grinned and lifted his glass. “You know how that goes.”

            We all? “Just you and Charley? Or people from work?”

            “Oh.” Miles looked embarrassed. “No. Me and Charley and my girlfriend. Sharon.”

            “Was that the night he disappeared?”

            “Yeah. I tried calling him the next day, but . . .” He shrugged. “I never heard from him after that.”

            I sipped my water. “Did anything unusual happen while you were out that night?”

            Miles leaned back on his sofa. “Unusual . . . how?”

            Monsters, ghosts, texts from aliens . . . “I don’t know. I’m fishing around here. Did Charley seem scared of anything?”

            “N-no.” Miles shook his head. “Nothing at all. He was on top of the world.”

            I nodded. “So you were all fine when Charley went back to his hotel?”

            “Yeah. I didn’t think anything was wrong. I wish . . .” Miles shrugged. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”

            “Have you seen the video?” I had to ask.

            “Yeah.” He looked guilty. “I just don’t get it. Why would someone put that out on the internet?”

            “So.” I put my glass down. “Is there any reason you can think of for why Charley barricaded himself behind a heavy steel locker and stayed there until he starved to death?”

            “What? No!” Miles leaned back. “What is this? Charley was my best friend! I couldn’t believe—I can’t believe he’d do anything like that! I just . . .” He took a breath. “I don’t know. It’s all so crazy, you know?”

            “Could I talk to Sharon?”

            Miles flinched. “We broke up.”

            “Sorry to hear that.” But still . . . “I’d like to get her take on that night.”

            “Well, I, uh . . .” Miles looked trapped. “I guess. But I deleted her number from my phone.”

            “What’s her last name? Where does she work?”

            “She’s, well . . .” He leaned forward. “Look, Mr. Jurgen, it wasn’t a good breakup. I just don’t want you poking into anything. All right?”

            I had a bad divorce, years ago. “Of course. I’m only interested in that one night.”

            “Well, uh—” Miles looked nervous. “Her name’s Sharon Young. She works at a car dealership in Oak Park, it’s called Mike’s Deals. But really, you can’t ask her any questions about, you know, us? Please?”

            I stood up. “Don’t worry. I have no interest in anything except for what happened to Charley.”

            “Okay. Good.” He shook my hand. “I hope you can do that. Except—I mean, it doesn’t seem like there’s any chance of figuring that out. Right?’

            I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll be in touch if I have any more questions.”

            “Right.” He walked with me to the door, a distance of about eight steps. “Good luck.”

            I sat in my Honda, making notes on my laptop: Best friend, no idea, IT manager, new unit . . . and Sharon Young. Mike’s Deals. Miles didn’t want me to talk to her.

           

In the afternoon I went downtown to Benson Gaynor. Their offices were halfway up a building on Madison and LaSalle—half the floor and a lot of busy people.. I checked in and the front desk and the receptionist made a call, and three minutes later I was one floor down, where the technology lived.

            A young blonde woman named Becky Immas met me at the elevator and led me to a small conference room where she sat down and opened her laptop next to an office phone. “I conducted the interview with Charles Gunderson. But I’m not sure what I can tell you. It went well. We were getting ready to make him an offer. But then . . .” She rolled her eyes. “I heard all that on the news, about how he disappeared. I’m sorry. I wish I knew what more to say, but that’s it.” She seemed eager to get out. “What can I tell you?”

            I looked at my notes. “Miles Lerner recommended him for the job?”

            “Miles suggested he apply. We have a referral bonus plan—if someone refers a friend or colleague and that person gets hired, there’s a cash payout.” She seemed defensive. “But we interviewed Charles based on his résumé and an initial phone interview.”

            “Right.” I nodded. “How did he seem that day?”

            “Uh, fine.” Immas peered at the laptop. “Relaxed. A little nervous, but that’s typical. Like I said, it was a good interview. He asked about working with Miles—they’re friends, and he seemed concerned about competing for promotions. But the teams are separate. I don’t think that was a problem.”

She frowned and closed her laptop. “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. Miles works for me, and he’s a complete professional. He didn’t try to influence me in any way.”

I nodded again. “Is there a video of the interview?”

She looked down. “Actually, yes. But I can’t show it to you. It’s proprietary.”

That made sense. Lots of companies did it, and it probably wouldn’t show me much anyway. “So that was the only time you met with Charley? Charles, I mean.”

            “Well . . .” Immas looked at the door behind me. “I went out with some friends that night, and we went to a bar in Lincoln Park where some of us go after work. I didn’t—I mean, Charles was there with Miles and another woman, his girlfriend I think. But I didn’t talk to them. Everything seemed fine. They were having a good time. But that’s it. I don’t think that counts.”

            Probably not. I’d left messages for Sharon Young at Mike’s deals, and I’d managed to track down her cell phone. She hadn’t called back yet. “Have you filled the job?”

            Immas crossed her arms. “That was two months ago. We hired a woman from a publishing firm. She had all the right credentials.”

            “What’s the job like?”

            “It’s technical.” She hesitated. “Dealing with the servers and making sure everything runs smoothly. We handle a lot of confidential data, so we have to protect the firewalls. A few minutes of downtime can cost thousands of dollars. And the usual stuff—fixing computers, tech support. The position actually calls for someone who can deal with customers and also our staff with problems. It’s a pretty demanding job.”

            “So what does Miles do?”

            “Well . . .” Immas shifted, uncomfortable. “He’s in charge of a programming team. It’s a completely separate function, like I said. He supervises three people, and he’s very good at his job.”

            “He’s working from home today, I take it? I met with him this morning.”

            “Actually, I think he called in sick. But he does work from home often.”

            He’d seemed fine to me. But “calling in sick” sometimes means you just don’t want to work today. Not that I ever did that when I was a report. More than a few times.

            I stood up. “Well, thanks for your time.”

            “I hope you find out what happened.” She lowered her voice. “I saw the video on the internet. He looked so scared.”

            “Yeah.” I shoved my notebook into a pocket.