The Doll and the Demon, Part Four

Rachel wasn’t kidding about the blanket fort. “There’s a chance it could confuse the demon. And it gives Lily a place to hide so she doesn’t have to see it. Especially if it manifests in its true form.”

                  “What’s its true form?” Tobie asked, nervous.

                  I showed her an image from Rachel’s laptop. Shedomar had a head like a goat, a slender body with backward-bending legs and hooves for feet, and a tail. Fortunately it had no genitalia that I could see.

                  Tobie curled her upper lip. “Yeah, I don’t want her seeing that. I don’t want me seeing it. Maybe I’ll stay inside the tent.”

                  Rachel wasn’t kidding about the pizza either. It came around 6:30, and although none of us had much of an appetite, we sat down and ate most of it in silence. Lily kept the doll in her lap.

                  I thought of a question I should have asked a lot earlier. “Where did the doll come from?”

                  Rachel thought for a minute. “Dad. He gave it to me. I was around Lily’s age.” She looked at Tobie.

                  Her mother shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I don’t even remember it. Maybe he got it from—” She bit the rest of her sentence off. “Never mind. It’s been a long time.”

I don’t know much about Rachel’s father. He’d left her mother after multiple affairs, and didn’t have much contact with them after that. He’d died from liver failure—alcoholism—shortly after Rachel graduated from college.

“I think—I think he said he found it at a shop somewhere. No, it was—I remember, it was on Maxwell Street, back when people used to set up and sell stuff. He liked to hang out there.” She took a sip of beer. “An old woman made him buy it, he said.”

                  “An old woman?” Tobie shorted. “More like a young—well, anyway.” She glanced at Lily. “Why do you like it so much? You only ever saw her today for the first time.”

                  “I don’t know.” Lily squirmed. “She talks to me.”

                  “What does she say?” I asked.

                  She looked down at the floor, uncomfortable. “That she’s going to take care of me. No matter what happens. And I should never let anyone take her away.”

                  Then she scooted her chair back. “Can I go sit in the fort now?”

                  Tobie nodded. Mike took her half-eaten slice of pizza as she left for the living room.

                  “Maybe it’s me,” Rachel said. “All this started when I got here.”

                  “No, it was before that,” Tobie said. “Before you even called me.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said.

“And—” Tobie shifted on her feet. “I do appreciate you being here. Trying to help.”
                  Rachel nodded. “Thanks. I just wish—"

Then Lily screamed from the living room.

We ran. The black cloud was back, swirling like a cyclone.  Cold air blew at the blanket fort, pushing pillows and chilling the air around us.

Mike dived into the fort, and Lily stopped screaming. The droning noise was back, a low growl that rose in fury as the cloud whirled faster and faster like an out-of-control merry-go-round.

Tobie started toward the fort with Mike, then stopped. For a moment she seemed frozen, as if she was fighting the urge to turn and flee. Completely understandable—I was feeling it too. But instead she turned her face, then took two steps and planted her feet on the carpet next to Rachel, breathing hard, the muscles in her face tense as looked at her daughter. She put a hand on Rachel’s shoulder, biting her lip and shivering in the chilly air. 

Rachel blinked, as if she was surprised to find her mother standing with her. Then she pointed to me, and I nodded. We pulled out our phones.

Rachel had found an incantation that had apparently been used against Shedomar in ancient times. Unfortunately, it was in an ancient form of Arabic, and we didn’t trust Google Translate to figure out the correct English version. So we were going to try reciting it in the original. We’d practiced it during the afternoon.

She nodded, and I nodded back. Then we started reading. 

The first part we read in unison. Roughly translated, it called on the gods to hear us as we begged them to send the demon Shedomar back to the pit. The only word I was sure I was pronouncing right was “Shedomar.” It came up three times at the end.

As we chanted, the cloud rose up and down, expanding and then pulling back as the air grew colder around us. 

Rachel paused, and it was my turn to read solo. I got through it as best I could, hoping a mistake wouldn’t backfire on us and making Shedomar even more powerful and alarming. 

I finished my part, and the cloud seemed to settle down a little in the brief silence. Then Rachel started, her voice loud and strong.

Before she got five words out, the cloud suddenly lunged at her, like a wave bursting on a shore. Tobie screamed. Rachel staggered and kept chanting, but the dark cloud enveloped her, whirling fiercely as her voice broke. She staggered, off balance, her legs wobbling.

I stepped toward Rachel, but Tobie already had her arms around her, holding her up as the whirlwind engulfed her. I couldn’t hear her voice, so I started reading again, feeling helpless and awkward as Tobie tried to hold her upright. I saw Rachel’s phone drop to the carpet, and then both women fell, and the cloud swooped over them.

I was about to drop my phone and plunge into the darkness when Lily ran past my legs, shouting. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she had the doll in her hands, and she darted past me and then stumbled into the cloud. 

“Rachel! Rachel!” Lily shouted, her small feet shaking on the carpet. “Take it! Take it!”

Mike pushed me aside and grabbed at Lily’s feet. Cursing, I dodged around him to look for Rachel somewhere in the billowing blackness. I knew what he was doing, but I was still angry. My own nightmares are always about losing Rachel. 

For a moment all of us were jostling and pushing against each other, trying to grab whoever we loved as the cloud pulsed and puffed like a balloon about to explode. I felt a foot—Rachel? Tobie? Mike kicked my leg, pulling on Lily. I heard Tobie grunt, and Rachel’s voice murmured something in the ancient language we’d been reading, as if she’d managed to snatch up her phone and start chanting again. Mike called for Lily. 

Then a roar rose above all of our shouting. Low and rumbling, like a grizzly bear angry at being caught in a trap. Through the cloud I saw Rachel clutching the doll under one arm, her lips moving as she kept trying to read from her phone.

Tobie had her hands on Rachel’s shoulders, shouting into her ear. Lily tucked her head down and let her father drag her away, crying. 

The dark cloud rose, but it seemed to thin out. I could see Rachel more clearly. Her eyes were closed but her lips were still moving, as if she was reciting from memory. I staggered toward her. Tobie was pulling her up, coughing and gasping.

The cloud shivered and shifted, black fading to gray, its roar dying down. In another moment it was white, like an ice storm swirling in the air. 

Mike picked Lily up and squeezed her to his chest as she tried to stop crying. Tobie looked up at me. “Is it safe?”

The icy white form was spinning, widening across the room like a ring of pale metal, and then it suddenly tightened around Rachel’s chest. An invisible wind pushed Tobie away as Rachel gasped, the doll slipping from under her arm.

Then the ring was gone, like sparkling dust, and Rachel lay on the carpet, breathing shallowly. I knelt next to her. “Rachel, you all right? Rach? It’s gone, I think—”

Rachel’s eyes popped open. They were white. No pupils or iris. White as arctic ice.

Tobie leaned over my shoulder as I reached for her arm. “Rach?”

“Shedomar.” Her voice was low, hoarse, ragged. “Shedomar.”

Oh hell. 

The Doll and the Demon, Part Five

Rachel’s body twitched as she sat up. She pushed me away, facing  forward with unblinking eyes. Blood dripped down her chin, as if she’d bit her cheek fighting the demon before it took her. Because she would have fought. I knew how she could fight.

                  She stood up slowly, licking the blood on her lips, gazing around the room as if it were an alien landscape and she was looking for prey.

“Oh God,” Tobie breathed. “Oh God, what do we do?” She looked at me. “What do we do?”

“I don’t—I don’t—” I looked for my phone. I’d dropped it. Maybe repeating the chanting? But looking down for it, I spotted the doll at Rachel’s feet. 

Anastasia. Amelia. Whatever. It had been protecting Lily from the demon. Maybe too well.

But maybe—

Before I could think through my very vague idea enough to talk myself out of it, I snatched up the doll. I saw Lily squirm in Mike’s arms, but he held her tight. I pushed the doll toward Rachel, thrusting it against her arm.

Rachel leaned back, spitting. Her sightless eyes glared at me like daggers, while the spit mixed with her blood dripped onto the doll. 

“My phone,” I snapped, holding my other hand out. “Phone!”

Tobie pressed my phone into my hand, and I blinked, focused my eyes, and started reading again, keeping the doll between us as I struggled with the ancient words. Rachel snarled at me, spewing words in a language none of us understood.

A moment later I heard Tobie. She was reading along with me, from Rachel’s phone. She was trying to hold onto Rachel’s arm but she kept twisting, and finally she had to let go and hold the phone with both hands.

“Wait,” I told her. “We take turns. Someone hold onto her!”

Mike came up behind Rachel and wrapped his arms around her stomach. Lily stood behind him, holding onto her leg as she kicked and lurched from one side to the other.

Tobie started reading. I waved the doll in front of Rachel’s face, feeling like a schoolkid taunting a friend. But mostly I felt terrified. Even at that moment, all I could think about was how Rachel was going to be mad at me if this didn’t work. 

Tobie finished her portion, and I took it up again. We were almost through the reading. Rachel kept fighting, sputtering what felt like curse words in whatever language Shedomar remembered. I had to drop the doll, and Lily knelt to hold it next to her feet, trying to keep it out of range of Rachel’s shoes as she tried to stomp and kick it.

I finished and looked at Tobie. “Okay, now, together.”

She nodded.

“Shedomar!” we said in unison. “You are cast out! You are cast out! You are cast—”

Rachel screamed. Her face seemed to turn black with rage, her eyes burning red instead of white. Mike looked down at Lily, frightened, and Lily clapped her hands over her ears, bending over the doll as if protecting it. Sweat ran down Tobie’s face. My own heart thudded like a drum.

“Out!” we finished. 

Rachel collapsed, sagging into Mike’s arms. Tobie reached out to grab her shoulder. I dropped my phone, bent down, and yanked the doll away from Lily, tossing it across the room. 

Its eyes were white.

 

Rachel sat at the kitchen table, gulping down bottled water. “Well, that was—intense.”

                  “Are you okay?” Tobie scooted her chair right up next to her, a hand on her arm, watching her like a mother hawk.

                  She sighed. “I guess. I sort of remember the thing—going into me. It’s not the first time that’s happened.” She glared at me. “But I could hear all you guys yelling. Your pronunciation was pretty bad—the demon couldn’t understand half of it, but the gist got through. It was fighting inside me. Like a bowl of bad chili.” More water. “Where’s the doll?”

                  “In a box. Outside.” I sipped some beer. 

                  “So Amelia was—bad?” Lily was still shivering. Mike was as close to her as Tobie was to Rachel.

                  Rachel didn’t answer. I tried to. “I don’t know. Maybe—I think Shedomar was trapped inside, and the doll was trying to keep it there. So it was protecting you, until the demon managed to reach out for you.”

                  “Why did it go to Rachel?” Tobie asked.

                  “Maybe because she’s psychic?” I shook my head. “Best guess. Rach?”

                  She sighed, tired and irritable. “Maybe. I don’t know.” 

                  “You want to go home?” I asked.

                  She rubbed her eyes. “Actually—could I talk to Lily for a minute?”

                  Mike stiffened and looked at his daughter. “Lily? Do you want to talk to Rachel? You don’t have to.”

                  “It’s okay.” Lily took a last slurp from her juice box. “In the fort?”

                  Rachel smiled.

                  Mike shifted chairs to sit next to Tobie, his arm around her, a glass of whiskey in his hand. “Well, thank you. For everything.”

                  I wasn’t so sure I’d helped them. Would the demon come back? Would Lily have night terrors? They could all get PTSD—I’d seen that before. “You should probably destroy the doll. Or bury it far away from here so it can’t follow you back.”

                  He nodded.

                  Tobie took his glass and swallow some whiskey. “I guess—you saved her, though. You saved Rachel. Thank you for that.”

                  I shrugged. “It’s what I do. Sometimes. She doesn’t usually need saving. More often she saves me.”

                  Rachel came back a few minutes later. “Everything’s fine.” She sat down and grabbed my beer. “I just—I ought to tell you . . .” Her voice trailed away.

                  Tobie frowned. “What?”

                  “As time goes on, Lily might—might, I’m saying, just might—develop psychic powers of her own.” Rachel bit her lip. “I asked her some questions, and I—tried to look into her mind. Nothing intrusive,” she said quickly. “I don’t read minds. But—there might be something there. Something that attracted the doll and the demon, after all this time.”

                  Tobie looked at Mike. He tensed for a moment, and I thought he might shatter the glass in his hand. Then he sighed. “Well, that’ll be interesting.”

                  “It’s just . . .” Rachel closed her eyes for a moment. “You’ve got to listen to her. Okay?  Believe her. Don’t—”

                  “Don’t do what I did?” Tobie’s voice was icy.

                  Rachel stifled a groan. “I wasn’t going to say it like that—”

                  “I know I did a lot of things. Or I didn’t do things right. Or, or, whatever. It was—I was—”

                  “Mom, it’s okay.” Rachel reached across the table to squeeze her hand. “It’s all good now. We all survived. And I’ve got Tom.” She patted my arm.

                  Tobie rolled her eyes. “Welcome to the family.”

# # #

Dead or Alive?

 A gangster is supposed to be dead—so who’s killing off his former crew members one by one? Tom Jurgen’s hunt for answers leads him face to face with a killer called back from the grave.

Dead or Alive? Part One

Quinn Hardy knew trouble was waiting inside when he opened his door.

            His apartment was small—one room, with a bathroom hardly wide enough to turn around in. Small enough for him to feel when anything was out of place. Not that he had many possessions to keep track off—just a mattress on the floor, a dresser with dirty clothes scattered across the top, a square table with a few books and a laptop for watching movies, a lamp. Just the basics.

            He stood in the doorway and flipped on the light, casting shadows over the walls. The room was still, silent. Hardy closed the door and reached around behind his back. He still carried the gun he’d stolen from his uncle in his 20s. “Who’s there? Who is it?”

            No answer. But he felt a puff of air across the back of his neck, and he whirled around. How could anyone get behind him?

            Before he could turn all the way, a pair of big hands shoved at his shoulder, and he hit the floor with a hard thud. A shoe kicked at his ribs. Hardy grunted, grabbed for the foot but missed, and punched at the air.

            Years ago he’d been able to beat anyone stupid enough to challenge him. Now he was old, weak, and on the floor, gasping for breath. What the hell? 

            He blinked. A face loomed over him. He rubbed his eyes, and a face came into focus. Hardy blinked again.

            “Howard?” His voice was a dry croak.

            Lips curled in a humorless smile. 

            Hardy stared up. “I thought—they said—”

            The figure leaned down, and Hardy saw the long knife in his hand. 

            “No. No! I didn’t tell anyone, I swear! No! No!” Hardy lifted his arms, tried to push the blade away, grabbed for the man’s wrist but it slid through his fingers. 

            Then the knife plunged down. Once into his chest. Hardy tried to scream, but the knife slashed across his throat. Once, twice. He stared up at the man above him in disbelief. It can’t be. Can’t be. Can’t—

 

Michael Chapman’s uncle was dead. “He was murdered last week.”

            “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. 

Chapman was in his 30s, the owner of a two small health clubs on the north side of Chicago. He was solidly built, with a short beard and dark eyes. We were in the coffee shop near my apartment where I meet with a lot of clients.

            “His name was Dan. Dan Hoffman. I was taking some food over to his place, and I walked in, and he was—” Chapman shuddered. “On the sofa. Covered in blood. But he was still alive. I was trying to stop the bleeding, but it was too much. I mean, the guy slashed his throat.” He paused for a sip of water and a deep breath. “The thing is, before he died, he managed to say something. Oakes.”

            “Oakes.” I waited.

             “My uncle, he was a, well, a crook.” Chapman rolled his eyes. “He was in jail a couple of times. Drugs, theft, firearms. He didn’t walk about it much, but I’m pretty sure he was involved with the Outfit. You know, the Mafia? At least around the edges. The thing is—” He leaned forward. “He used to talk about a guy named Howard Oakes. Just a little. He worked with him on a lot of ‘deals.’ He called them deals, but he meant—you know.” 

            “Right.” I was getting nervous. I’m used to running into vampires and demons occasionally, but I try to steer clear of the Chicago Mob. 

            “I told the cops, but the thing is—Dan always said Howard Oakes was dead. He was vague about what he did for him, but I definitely remember him telling me about Oakes being dead. He heard it from friends. It must have been two or three years ago.”

            I made a note. “So what did the police say?”

            “They think it’s a revenge thing, for something Dan did a long time ago. I don’t know for sure how, uh, how he made money these days. He was living in a garage apartment down the street from us, but I bought groceries for him a lot, and helped with the rent. Anyway, they didn’t think ‘Oakes’ means anything. But I know what I heard, and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

            “So how can I help you?” I hoped he wasn’t going to ask me to catch the killer. 

            “Can you find out if Oakes is really dead?” 

            That was something I could do. “I can try. I can’t guarantee a definite answer, but it’s usually easier to prove someone’s dead than prove they’re not.”

            “That’s fine.” Chapman seemed relieved that someone was taking him seriously. 

            He provided some background on his uncle, and we talked about the financial details. I got a retainer, he got a receipt, and we finished our coffee and left.

            Back home Rachel was working on some paperwork—she’s a therapist. She’s also my girlfriend: red hair, hazelnut eyes, and mild psychic powers. Plus, she’s my fiancée.

“My mom insists we come to dinner before the wedding,” she told me as I sat down at my desk. 

             “Well, if we have to.” I turned on my computer. “Honestly, you seem to be dreading it more than I do.”

            “You didn’t have to grow up with her.” I’d never met Rachel’s mother, and she didn’t like to talk about her childhood. I only knew that for several years after her parents’ divorce, Rachel’s life had been unpleasant, thanks to her mother’s succession of boyfriend and her psychic powers rising up before she could understand what was happening to her. 

            “We’ll just have to endure it. Or we could break the engagement off. That seems extreme, but—”

            “You getting cold feet? I knew it.” 

            I turned in my chair. “Hey, we can go down to city hall right now. Get a license, find a judge, say ‘I do,’ and be back in time for Jeopardy.”

            “Meh.” Rachel shook her head. “You’ve got a new client. I’ve got tons of paperwork. Maybe tomorrow.”

            “Any time.” I blew her a kiss.

            Actually I was relieved. We’d been engaged for a month, but we were having trouble setting a date. I guess we both still have issues we’re working out. 

            So we turned back to our computers and went to work.

First I looked up news reports on the uncle’s murder. There only one short article that just hinted at the details of the stabbing. No mention of his criminal past. Police were exploring leads. 

Then I started searching for everything I could find about Howard Oakes.

            The name was distinctive enough to let me filter out unrelated people. Yeah, Howard Oakes had been a crook, arrested multiple times for theft, robbery, assault, and other offenses. He’d served two terms in state prison, but dropped from sight after that.

            I dived deeper. Oakes really did have ties to the Chicago Outfit, mostly through one brother-in-law, who’d been a major player in the mob before going to prison for 15 years; he’d died shortly after his release. Oakes had apparently beaten some people up for the guy, but the charges never stuck. Then he stabbed another gangster in front of too many witnesses to be ignored. The victim lived, and the case got plea bargained down from attempted murder to assault. Oakes did three years. 

After getting out, he worked with a crew robbing restaurants and stores downtown and in the suburbs. I found the names of two others in his crew, but there were more who weren’t identified. Dan Hoffman wasn’t one of them. 

Then I noticed a cop’s name: Zack Getty, a detective with the organized crime unit. He’d spent more than a year investigating the robberies, looking at surveillance tapes, finding witnesses to testify, and finally tracking Oakes down in Rantoul to arrest him. Oakes spent seven years in prison. After getting out, he dropped out of sight as far as the internet was concerned.

Getty was retired, but I found an email address for him on social media. Then I did a quick search for the two members of Oakes’ crew, Jake Reilly and Quinn Hardy. Reilly worked at a bar on the west side, and Quinn Hardy—

Quinn Hardy was dead.

I read one article. It was just like the story about Dan Hoffman. The victim lived alone, and neighbors had found him stabbed to death after not seeing him for a few days. The story did mention that Hardy had done jail time, and police were looking at that angle.

I called my client. “Did your uncle ever mention a man named Quinn Hardy?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Who’s that?”

“He was stabbed to death a few days before your uncle. I don’t have a lot of details, but it’s—interesting.”

Rachel turned in her chair. “What was that?”

I gestured her to stay quiet. Chapman said, “What do you think’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Did you say something about your uncle’s throat?”

“Yeah, his throat was, uh, slashed, I guess. Is that what happened to this other guy?”

“I don’t know. I’ll check into it and let you know.” We hung up.

Rachel was next to my chair down, leaning down. “What kind of case are you working on, shamus?”

I lifted my arms in case she started to hit me. “So far, I’m just trying to confirm that an ex-mobster is really dead.” 

“And if he isn’t?” She cocked her fist. Rachel likes to punch me. Mostly it’s harmless fun. Sometimes it’s scary.

“I don’t know. He might not have anything to do with the two murders—” I stopped. 

She dropped her arm. “When we’re married, we’re going to have a rule about you taking murder cases without talking to me first. Or anything with the mob. Especially both.”

“Agreed.” I backed my chair away. “For right now, though—”

“Back to work.” She turned for her desk. “Just keep me up to date. My mom’s going to be really crazy if I finally get engaged and my fiancé gets killed.”

 

Dead or Alive? Part Two

Zack Getty had white hair that was thin on top, and wrists so skinny he could probably slip out of most handcuffs. We were in a downtown diner the next morning, eating breakfast at 10 a.m. “I don’t have to get up for breakfast early now I’m retired,” he told me. 

            I’d already eaten at seven, so I was just drinking coffee. “So what can you tell me about Howard Oakes?”

            “Howard Oakes.” Getty settled back in his chair and folded his hands across his belly. “Low-level gopher for Al Ravone, who ran most of the west side for 15 years until we got him on tape. Oakes was—well, he handled pickups and payoffs, gambling mostly, a little rough stuff on the loan sharking end. Nothing big time. He ran into some bad luck when a late customer pulled a gun on him, and he stabbed the guy.” He picked up his coffee cup and waved to the waitress.

            “So he went to prison, and when he got out, he started robbing stores?”

            He waited while we got out coffee refilled. “Guy he stabbed didn’t want to testify, but we didn’t need the details. He did a plea bargain. When he got out, Ravone was in prison and the new boss didn’t want anything to do with him, so he went into business for himself. Built himself a crew and started knocking over any place with cash. Stores, but some homes too, whenever he figured they were empty. And filled with stuff he wanted.”

            “Until you caught him.”

            Getty grunted. “Took me most of a year. I knew it was Oakes, but getting everything in place to arrest him? I needed witnesses, fingerprints, stolen property, surveillance footage—evidence. Then I had to find him. He knew I was on his ass, and he dropped out of sight for months. I finally found out he had a cousin down in Rantoul, and I went looking. I didn’t even expect to find him, but there he was, sitting in the living room when his cousin opened the door.” He chuckled.

            “Is he dead?” I figured I’d get to the point.

            Getty frowned, as if I’d interrupted his story at the good part. “As far as I know. I got the email when he was released, and I called his parole officer about him. About a year after, the parole officer called me and said he was in a car accident and died. That answer your question?”

            “I hope so.” I looked at my notes. Getty seemed to like the fact that I keep a notebook instead of writing stuff down on my phone. “What about his crew?”

            That seemed to cheer him up. “He had six or seven people. There was Jerry Carra, Tim Schrantz, Quinn Hardy—here, I’ll write them down.” He pulled my notebook away from me.

            “You remember every name?” I watched as he scribbled on the page.

            “You got to. And it was a big case, biggest case of my career.” 

            “Was Dan Hoffman one of them?”

            “Yeah, off and on. They weren’t all on every job.” He pushed the notebook back to me.

            I looked down the list of names. “Did any of them testify against him?”

            “We only got a few of them. They were all pretty scared of Oakes, so nobody wanted to cooperate. The rest walked, but those kind of guys—well, they’re going to go down for something eventually, you know?”

            “Was Oakes dangerous? Did he kill people?” 

            Getty hesitated. “They said—we could never prove it, but anyway, there were stories that he liked to use his knife on people. We could never corroborate that, but there were a couple murders he could have pulled off. People who owed Ravone money, or just pissed him off. The victims were all stabbed in the chest, and then had their throat slashed twice. Just twice. Messy. But we could never tie anything to him.”

            I thought of Chapman: The guy slashed his throat. “Do you have any information on the car crash that killed him?”

            “No. It would have been 2020, 2021. He got out in, uh, 2017 I think.” He looked up, thinking. “Yeah, that’s about right.”

            “What about his crew? Have you heard anything about them? Is there anyone else who knew him who might know?”

            “I don’t know about his crew. He had a girlfriend, Priscilla, what was her name? Priscilla Gallagher, that’s it. She had a hair salon business, did pretty good with it. She was his main woman.” Getty winked. “I mean, the one he was with longest, you know? I heard she got married to some rich guy.”

            “Anyone else?”

            Getty shook his head. “Not really. Why do you want to know? I mean, I appreciate the breakfast and everything, but what’s going on? Why are you asking questions about a dead guy?”

            I hesitated, but there was no reason to lie. “Two people from Oakes’s crew have been murdered in the last week or so. Quinn Hardy and Dan Hoffman. My client is Dan Hoffman’s nephew, and he heard Hoffman say ‘Oakes’ before he died. Both of them were stabbed and slashed in the throat. My client didn’t know about Hardy. He just wants me to make sure Howard Oakes is really dead.”

            “Huh.” He finished his coffee. “Could be anyone else. You talk to us about it? Us, the CPD, I mean.” He chuckled. “Can’t quite get it out of my skin.”

            “Not yet.” I had gotten some info on Quinn Hardy from Anita Sharp, a detective who works with me on vampire cases, but I wasn’t pushing any theories yet. “I mean, when you were a cop, would you have listened to someone like me?”

            Getty snorted. “Probably not. Most P.I.s aren’t much better than cockroaches, except they’re harder to step on. No offense.”

            “Yeah, I get that a lot.” I got out my credit card for the waitress. “Most cops I meet try not to be assholes, except some of them can’t help it. No offense?”

            Getty laughed. 

 

In my car I spent a few minutes looking for Priscilla Gallagher. I figured if anyone would know for sure that Howard Oakes was dead, it would be his girlfriend. Or ex-girlfriend, whatever. Surprisingly, I found her pretty quickly, mostly because her string of hair salons had her name attached to them. Even more surprisingly, when I got her on the phone, she agreed to meet with me at her condo whenever I could get there. “Bring a bottle of wine,” she said. “Something expensive.” 

            Rachel was at work, seeing patients in the clinic, so I sent her an email with the details. I like to let her know where I am in case I get killed. Or arrested. Or kidnapped. Or sucked into another dimension.

            Priscilla Gallagher’s condo on Clark Street was in a 12-story building with a convenience store across the street. I bought a $20 bottle of white wine, walked over, and gave the doorman inside the tiny vestibule my name. He nodded at the bottle as he lifted his phone. A moment later he replaced the phone. “Apartment 912,” he said in a flat voice. I thanked him as he buzzed the door open.

            At apartment 912 I knocked, and after most of a minute the door opened. The woman inside was tall, with silvery blond hair, in her 50s, wearing a loosely tied robe around blue silk pajamas, slippers on her feet. “Tom?”

            “Uh, Ms. Gallagher?” I tried to keep my eyes at the appropriate level. Her pajamas were somewhat translucent.

            “Priscilla.” She held out a hand, looking me over. “You brought wine? Come on in.”

            She led me into a living room with a view of the roof of the building next door. A bookcase held some plants and photographs, and a few books. A coffee table sat in front of the sofa, with cup of coffee and a bottle of Cointreau next to an ashtray and a pack of cigarettes. The morning paper sat on a corner, folded open to the astrology section.

“There’s a corkscrew in the kitchen,” she said as she flopped onto the sofa. “Bring two glasses.”

            It was 11:30 in the morning. Early for me, but I figured I could sip it to avoid offending her. I brought the corkscrew and the glass. 

             I opened the wine while Priscilla scrolled through her phone. “I have to stay on top of everything, even if I’m not there,” she said as she tapped out a message. She set the phone on her leg, picked up the wine, and took a swallow. “Nice.”

            “Thank you.” I perched on the edge of an armchair facing her. 

            “You wanted to talk about Howard.” She put her glass down and leaned forward. “What do you want to know?”

            I decided to cut to the chase. “Is he dead?”

            She blinked. “Well, yes. He’s in Rosehill Cemetery.  He died two years ago. No, three years. It was 2021. I remember it . . .” She took another sip of wine.

            “I’m sorry for asking it so bluntly.” I took as small a sip as I could. “Can you tell me what happened?”

            “It was a car accident. He was getting off Lake Shore Drive, and I guess he didn’t see the other car. He was drunk, of course.” She shrugged. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago, and we were—I loved him, and he loved me, I guess, but we had different lives. But Howard was into some bad things. Do you know about that?” She stared at me.

            “Yeah.” I nodded.

            “Yes.” Priscilla nodded back. “Then you understand. He could be wonderful. But he loved the booze, and the drugs, and he had a temper, and he had—bad friends.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking about him?”

            Before I could answer, the landline phone on the table next to her buzzed. She picked it up. “Yes? Who? All right.” She hung up and shook her head. “That’s odd. One of Howard’s friends. Is something going on?”

            I started to explain, but the knock came before I could get too far. Priscilla headed to the door, and a moment later a man in jeans and a battered leather jacket marched in. “Did you hear about Jerry?”

            “What about—who?” She came back to the sofa and lit a cigarette. “Jerry—”

            “Jerry Carra. He got killed.” He turned to look at me. “Who the hell are you?”

            Jerry Carra. Getty had mentioned his name—one of Oakes’ crew. “Tom Jurgen. You are—?”

            “This is Tim.” She gestured with her cigarette. “He’s an old friend.”

            “Tim Schrantz?” I recognized the name from Getty. “You were part of Howard Oakes’ team?”

            He planted his fists on his waist. “Who is this, Priscilla?”

            “He’s a private detective. He’s trying to make sure Howard is really dead.” She smiled. “He brought me wine.”

            “Howard’s dead, all right.” He looked from me to Priscilla, then back to me again. “You got that? You can leave now.”

            “What happened to Jerry Carra?” I stood up, hoping Schrantz wouldn’t try to throw me out. He was large and beefy, with bushy eyebrows and stubble over his chin, and I had no doubt he could hurl me through the window if he felt like it.

            “He got killed,” Schrantz said again. “This morning sometime. His cleaning lady found him.”

            “Stabbed? Throat slashed?” I asked.

            Schrantz glared. “Yeah. What do you know about it?”

            “The same thing happened to Quinn Hardy. And Dan Hoffman.” I looked him over. “You must be feeling scared.”

            He curled his upper lip. “You ought to be feeling scared, Mr. Detective. Get out.”

            “Calm down, Tim. Nothing’s going to happen in my house.” Priscilla blew smoke. “Although he’s right, Tom. There really isn’t anything I can do for you anymore. Thanks for the wine.”

            I wasn’t ready to give up yet. “The stabbing—one to the chest, two slashes across the throat? That was Oakes’ move, wasn’t it? The police never got him for anything, but I’ve been told—"

            “You don’t know anything.” Schrantz turned and walked toward a cabinet on the other side of the room, where he found a bottle of whiskey. “I did jail time because of him. If you think I’m going to tell you anything about Howard Oakes, you’ve got your head up your ass.” He poured some whiskey into a glass.

            “Please, help yourself,” Priscilla said with a loud sigh. “Tom, Howard is dead. I don’t know anything about these other people—”

            “You know who they are, though. Tim came right here to tell you about Jerry Carra. Why would he do that?” I turned to Schrantz. “Were you all close friends in the crew?”

            Schrantz gulped the whiskey. “Howard was the kind of guy you listened to. You didn’t ask questions. He told you to do something, you did it. Like that professor’s house at the lake in Gary—"

            “Tim, shut up.” Priscilla jammed her cigarette into the ashtray. “Tom, he’s right, though. His friends were very loyal to them. And Howard was good to everyone too, right, Tim?”

            Schrantz poured some more whiskey. “He was fair. I did my time for everything, so I don’t owe you anything.”

            “What about Priscilla? What do you owe her?”

            Suddenly he slammed his glass down and started a charge toward me. “You don’t get to—”

            “Tim, stop!” She was on her feet now, almost tripping in her slippers as she tried to shield me from Schrantz. “Tom, you really need to leave. Now.”

            I held up a hand in surrender. “I’ll go. Sorry for any trouble.” I waited until I was sure Schrantz wasn’t going to strike, then dropped my business card on the table next to the ashtray. “Thanks for your time.”

            Priscilla winked. “Anytime you’ve got wine.”

            I left.

 

Back home I got a cup of coffee and called my client.

            “Two people have told me that Howard Oakes died in a car accident,” I told Chapman. “His girlfriend says it happened in 2021. I can check further, maybe find a news article or accident report if you want.”

            Chapman didn’t answer right away. “What about that Quinn Hardy guy?”

            “I don’t know, but it sounds as if one more person on the crew with your uncle has also been murdered. I haven’t check into that yet, but I can.”

            Again he took a long time before responding. “I don’t know. It was just—hearing that name, and all that blood . . . I just doesn’t seem real. Let me think about it.”

            “That’s fine. Let me know what you want me to do.”

            After we hung up, I checked into Jerry Carra. I found only a short item on a neighborhood news site about the murder, with no details. Then, even though Chapman had told me to wait, I started looking for information on Oakes’s car accident. Because I was curious.

            Eventually I found what I was looking for: A crash just off Lake Shore Drive at Wilson that had killed two people. The fatalities weren’t named, but one of them was obviously Oakes. The crash had taken place on May 9, 2021.

Rosehill Cemetery, Priscilla had said. I look at my emails and my current cases. Nothing was urgent. I decided to eat lunch. Rachel called as I was making myself a sandwich.

“How’s the shrink business?” I asked, opened a Coke. “Did you tackle any unresolved Oedipus complexes this morning?”

“Freud would have a field day with you,” Rachel replied. “How’d it go with, uh, who was it? Priscilla?” 

“I’m a little disappointed that she didn’t try to seduce me, but it was productive.”

“You wish.” Rachel snorted. She can get territorial where I’m concerned—just like I get nervous when she’s around any handsome athletic young men. “So is the guy dead?”

“I’m going to go to a cemetery and check out his grave.”

“Well, don’t dig him up to make sure. Unless you really have to. How was the cop you bought breakfast for?”

“Informative. I got the names of Oakes’s crew. And I met one at Priscilla’s place.”

“Geez. You better not be getting involved with the Outfit. Or getting seduced by Priscilla. Either one, and we’ll be having problems.”

“Loud and clear.” I heard voices behind her.  “Do you need to go?”

“Yeah, we’re having a meeting now. See you tonight.”

We hung up. I finished my sandwich and headed for my car.

Dead or Alive? Part Three

Rosehill Cemetery on Ravenswood covers some 350 acres on the north side of the city. Inside the office, a Black woman in a crisp gray suit looked up Oakes’s name. The nametag on her chest read: Sayra Reynolds, manager. I downloaded an app that would use my phone’s GPS to guide me to the gravesite.

            After thanking her, I took a little chance. “You don’t know anything about Howard Oakes, do you?”

            She pursed her lips. “Are you family?”

            “No,” I admitted. I gave her my card. “I’m basically just trying to confirm for a client that he’s dead.”

            She studied the card. “You aren’t going to dig him up, are you?”

            “Would I find him if I did?”

            She cocked her head with a tight smile. “Most of him.”

            I raised my eyebrows.

            Ms. Reynolds chuckled. “Private means private, right? Whatever I tell you?” 

            “Well, I don’t have any legal protection like a lawyer. But I won’t tell anybody unless I absolutely have to.” I waited.

            She nodded. “Okay. You didn’t hear from me, right? I remember when he came in. They’re held in another location until it’s time for burial, and there was something wrong with the lid on the casket. When the guy was trying to make it secure, he somehow opened it, and—there wasn’t any head.”

            I frowned. “No head.”

            “Nope.” She shook her head. “I called the contact number, and they said they’d take care of it. Someone from the mortuary came out a few hours later, was in the building for five minutes, and left. The coffin was back secure, and he got buried the next day. No graveside service, I don’t think.”

            “Huh.” I tried to think. “So who was the contact number for?”

            “Some woman. I don’t remember her name. I didn’t even see the guy who came out, the other manager talked to him.” She shrugged. “Do you know how he died?”

            “Car accident.” It was possible he’d been decapitated in the crash. But why wouldn’t the head be with the body? “Well, that’s interesting. Thanks.”

            “Have a peaceful day.” She went back to playing something on her phone.

            I followed the app’s directions down a road that twisted and curved past the trees, family mausoleums and weathered gravestones, until my phone told me I’d reached my destination. I got out and walked, the grass soft and quiet under my heels, a chilly breeze across my neck.

            Oakes’s gravestone was about a foot high, granite, with just his full name—Howard Samuel Oakes—and his birthday and death date. I took a few pictures and sent them to Chapman. I didn’t mention Oakes’s missing head.

            I don’t know what I expected to learn, but the manager’s story at least seemed to confirm that something strange was going on. Maybe Oakes had faked his death? Or he’d come back from the grave to take vengeance on his former crew members? What for, though? 

As far as I could see, the soil over his grave was undisturbed, so if he’d risen like a vampire in the last few days, someone must have replaced the sod pretty carefully. I wished Rachel were here. She’d have been able to tell if there was any supernatural activity floating around the site. 

After a few more minutes I got back into the car to head for home.

Rachel was still at work. I reviewed my notes to start writing up my report, but then I remembered something I’d heard at Priscilla Gallagher’s apartment. I called Getty.

“Do you know anything about a house in Gary that Oakes and his crew went to?” I asked. “Owned by a professor?”

“Gary?” Getty chuckled. “No. Going across state lines, that would make it a federal case. I never heard about anything there.”

“Tim Schrantz mentioned it,” I said. “But Priscilla told him to shut up about it.”

“There’s probably places they hit that I don’t know about. We only got him for two robberies, and he pleaded down for a shorter sentence, but there are at least five more that we know about that we couldn’t prove. So yeah, he could have gone down to Gary, or lots of other places.”

Gary, Indiana is close enough to count as an unofficial Chicago suburb. I tried searching the news databases but didn’t get very far. In the end I couldn’t think of anything to do except risk getting stonewalled and/or yelled at, so I called the Gary Police Department.

The phone tree didn’t direct me to where I wanted to go, so I got a receptionist, who transferred me to records. After repeating myself a few times, the officer there finally put me on hold for two minutes, then another three minutes, and finally confirmed some of what I was looking for: a break-in at a house outside of town in October 2014. The officer wouldn’t tell me the owner’s name but did slip up and tell me the owner discovered the burglary after coming up from Lafayette, which meant Purdue University. Not close to Gary, so maybe the place was a vacation home. 

I thanked him and hung up. Then I looked up property records for the area and, after a lot of cross-checking, finally found the person I was looking for: Seth Laffey, professor of medieval history at Purdue. 

I didn’t know why I thought he was important, except that he didn’t fit the profile of Oakes’s usual targets, and Priscilla had cut Schrantz off pretty quickly when he started to mention it. Maybe it was nothing. But curiosity had made me a good reporter and a decent P.I., and it hadn’t killed me yet—although it had come close a few times.

I’d been prepared to leave messages and send emails, but Laffey picked up on the second ring. “Dr. Laffey.”

“Dr. Laffey? I’m Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective in Chicago, and I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about the break-in at your Gary house in 2014.”

“Huh? I’m just about on my way out of the office. Let me think.” He sounded harried. “Yeah, that was a nightmare. My wife was terrified to go back there. They didn’t do much damage, though. The cops said it was some gang out of Chicago.”

“What did they take?”

“A couple hundred dollars of cash I kept down in the basement. I thought I’d hidden it pretty well, but I guess not. A couple of books. My wife’s jewelry, some of it pretty valuable. Some pieces of art, paintings and statues that weren’t worth very much. It was a couple of thousand dollars in all, I think.”

“What books?”

“Mythology. Magic. I teach medieval history, and I collect some books from that period.”

Magic. “What kind of magic?”

“Uh, a book of witchcraft. Spells for making people fall in love, get sick, bring back the dead, that sort of thing.”

Uh-oh. “Did people know you had that book?”

“What? No, why would they? It wasn’t particularly valuable. Not the original, that one’s 400 years old. This was just a facsimile from the 1920s I picked up at a fair in—Why are you asking about this, of all the things?”

“It just, uh, stands out. I can’t really tell you anything more, but it’s nothing for you to worry about at all. Who was the book’s author?”

“It was compiled by a 17^th-century German named Johann Adelgrief. The spells were all from different sources. I’m sorry, it’s getting late and I still have some work to finish—”

“That’s fine, I apologize. Thanks for your time.”

We hung up. I spent a few minutes looking up Johann Adelgrief, a 17^th-century German prophet who claimed angels had told him to scourge kings and other royals with iron rods. He was executed in 1636, and all his writings were suppressed.

Rachel came home an hour later. “I know it’s my turn to make dinner,” she said, unpacking her laptop. “But I will trade you a night of great sex if you’ll do it.”

I chuckled. “We’ve got some leftover lasagna in the freezer. It’s a deal.”

She frowned. “For frozen lasagna, I’m only offering average sex.”

“You made it in the first place, so it counts as you cooking. Do I still get sex?”

“We’ll see.” She kissed me and went to the bedroom to change.

Over dinner I told her about the case. “As far as the client is concerned, I’m done,” I said. “Howard Oakes is dead. Except maybe he’s come back to life to kill all his crew.”

“With help from this book.” Rachel ate some lasagna. “Hey, this is pretty good.”

“This guy Adelgrief had his works burned and banned after they killed him, but some of them survived, naturally.” I sipped a beer. “There isn’t a lot known about them. I found one title that sounded like spells, but it turned out to be a cookbook.”

“So you’re going on with this? Without a client?”

“I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow I won’t care anymore, but right now—” I shook my head.

“Okay, so if someone is bringing this Oakes guy back to life to kill all his old friends, maybe the question is why?”

“The question is usually why.” I ate some lasagna. “What’s in this? Old family recipe?”

“My secret ingredient.” She grinned. “Do you think there’s a buried treasure?”

“Maybe, but I don’t see why someone would have to kill the entire crew.”

Rachel nodded. “Well, maybe work the little gray cells for a while.”

I leaned back and closed my eyes. “Good idea. Wake me if I start to snore.”

“I’ll throw lasagna at you.”

I smiled. “Even better.”

 

The next morning I called my client. Chapman agreed that the case seemed to be over, but I couldn’t help sharing my suspicion. “It does kind of look as if Oakes is, well, back from the dead. But I don’t have any proof of that, and it doesn’t really have anything to do with your uncle.”

            “You mean, like a zombie?” He didn’t sound as if he thought I was crazy. 

            “I don’t know. And I have no idea why. I’m still working on it, but that’s not what you came to me for. Shall I send you an invoice and a report?”

            “Yeah, sure. Just, uh—let me know, okay? If there’s something more.”

            “I’ll do that.” We hung up.

            Rachel was at her desk, and she swung around as I hit send. “What did he say?”

            “He didn’t laugh or question my sanity, so I’m counting it as a win.” I sipped some coffee.

“So what now, Sherlock?”

I didn’t know. I had other cases to work on, but nothing pressing. So I checked the list of names Getty had given me to see if anyone else had been killed. Nobody had been murdered in the last 24 hours, since Jerry Carra. Just for fun, I started looking up the rest of the names.

I found two of them quickly: Finn Burke and Jake Riley. The other one, Brian Serrano, was harder. His real named turned out to be Roberto, and he was currently doing three years in prison. I figured he was safe there.

Was contacting Burke and Riley a good idea? I couldn’t decide, and I was still thinking when my phone buzzed. Chapman again.

“Hey, I was just going through a box of stuff that my uncle’s landlord sent over to me from his apartment. There was this box of personal stuff—some pictures, letters, government papers, you know, and then there’s this one envelope with nothing on it, and inside it is an obituary.”

“Who is it?”

“Herman Brennan. He was, uh, 71, owned a lot of real estate, two ex-wives, a couple of children. There’s just no reason for this to be in there, I can’t think of why Dan would have kept it. I just thought maybe you’d want to see it. I can send you an image.”

In my business you grasp at any information that comes your way. “Yeah, send it on. It’s probably nothing, but I’ll take a look. Thanks.”

“The big break?” Rachel asked from her desk. “Busting the case wide open?”

“Yeah, it’s the Maltese Falcon for sure.” I went to get some more coffee.

The obituary came a few minutes later. It was a picture from Chapman’s phone, but I could read it. Herman Brennan, 73, died six years ago. No cause of death. Two ex-wives, plus one current wife who wasn’t named. Five children, two grandchildren. A real estate investor who owned multiple properties across Chicago, Indiana, and Wisconsin, an enthusiastic golfer, owner of two boats, etc. etc.  

What was this doing with Dan Hoffman’s belongings? I showed it to Rachel.

“Whoever wrote this didn’t like wife number three,” she said after reading it. “So she’s a lot younger and hotter than he was. I’m thinking silicon, butt lifts, the works.”

“Makes sense. No cause of death, though. Not even ‘After a long illness.’ Or a short one.”

“Foul play, inspector?”

“Or something embarrassing. Erotic auto asphyxiation, anyone?”

“Yuck.” Rachel punched my arm. “Don’t ever let me catch you doing something like that.”

“I like breathing too much.” I started searching for Brennan’s cause of death.

That was more complicated than I expected. I found the name of one of Brennan’s companies, but even though only a few years had passed, no one there had any personal knowledge about the founder. “We’ve had, I think, two different owners since then,” a woman told me. “I’m not even sure who the CEO is right now, but six years ago? Sorry.”

Finally I gave up and went to plan B: Finding one of Brennan’s relatives.

It’s something I hate to do. As a crime reporter, I had to interview grieving widows, mothers, children, and other family members in the wake of a devastating tragedy more times than I could count, and it never got easier. I always felt like scum afterward. 

For a moment I wondered if I really had to do it. The case as far as my client was concerned was over. Did I really need to bother Brennan’s family? The answer: No, I didn’t. But I really wanted to know. So I did.

That’s why people call me tenacious. Or, more often, a stubborn asshole.

I found one of Brennan’s sons, Justin. He was also in real estate, which made it easier. The receptionist put me on hold, then connected me. One buzz, two—“Justin Brennan, Stargold Realty, how may I help you?”

“Mr. Brennan, my name is Tom Jurgen, I’m a private detective here in Chicago. I’m very sorry to bother you, but I need to ask you a question about your father, Herman Brennan.”

I heard him take a sharp breath. “What’s this about?”

“It’s an investigation involving several murders that have occurred in the city over the past few days.”

“Murders? I don’t—” He paused. “What’s the question?”

“How did your father die?”

Brennan exhaled. “Well, that’s a hell of a question to ask a complete stranger. I don’t even know who you are. But—my father was murdered.”

“I’m very sorry.” And I really was. “Can you tell me what happened?”

He spoke fast, to get the conversation over with as soon as possible. “Someone broke into his apartment. Stole a bunch of his wife’s jewelry. Wife number three,” he said bitterly. “He must have come home in the middle of it, and the guy stabbed him three times. Once in the chest and twice across his throat. Jesus Christ.” He was breathing heavily. “Is that it?”

I sighed. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said before I could hang up. “I suppose you really are just doing your job. It’s been a long time, but sometimes it all comes back. Not just the—his death, but all the crap with his wife. That bitch. They had a prenup, and Priscilla just wouldn’t give up on it—”

Huh? “Priscilla?”

“Yeah. Wife number three. The prenup kept her from getting any real money from the estate. Oh, a couple of thousand, sure, but not the kind of money she was after. We ended up buying her a new condo just to get rid of her, and I hope she’s enjoying it.” The bitterness is his voice poured through the phone.

“Is it Priscilla Gallagher?”

“Yeah, that was her. Why?”

“Her name has, uh, come up.”

“Do you think she—I mean, all of us hated her, but still . . .” His voice trailed off.

“I’m not making any accusations,” I said carefully. “What was she like?”

“Oh God.” He groaned. “A nutjob. Everybody but my dad could see it. She met him once at an opening for one of his new buildings, and then she somehow got invited to a party he was at and told him she’d done his horoscope and destinies were connected, or some such bullshit. She talked about astrology and crystals and psychic energy and all that nonsense, and in the meantime she had her fingers dug into him until it was too late. I wouldn’t put anything past her, honestly. After he died, it was open warfare until we paid her off. I hope you’re not working for her. Are you? Is she your client?”

“No, no, not at all,” I said quickly. “She’s just—someone I’ve run into.”

“Well, you should stay away from her, as far as I’m concerned. And don’t bring her anywhere near this family, or there’ll be a shitstrom.”

“Absolutely not,” I assured him. “Thanks for your time.”

We hung up.

Rachel was watching me from across the office. “What up?”

“Brennan’s wife was Priscilla Gallagher.” I sat up, trying to think.

“The one you had wine with yesterday? The one that didn’t try to seduce you?” 

            “She tried to void the prenup after he got killed, but the family fought it and won. She ended up with a condo.” 

            Rachel nodded. “So you think . . . what do you think?”

            “You’re the psychic. You tell me.”

            She frowned. “If I was close enough I’d hit you.”

            I grinned. “That’s why I’m over here.” 

            “So seriously—what do you think?”

            I sighed. “I think I have to talk to Gallagher again.”

            “Not without me there, you don’t.”

            “Yeah. Not right away. Let me talk to some people first.” I turned back to my computer to start searching.