My alarm radio had been singing for quite some time, though I was barely aware of it. “Oh my God!” I sat up and looked—eight-fifteen. I hate being late to work! This was exactly why I never drank on a weeknight. The room swam in circles as I reached for my cell and called Perry. “I’m going to be late today. I woke up with a huge . . . headache. It’s probably a cold.” She’d never suspect I had a hangover.“I’ll call with any messages, Ms. Robert.”“Thanks, Perry.” The sunlight shining on my comforter hurt my head. I covered my eyes and went back to sleep. Around ten in the morning I crawled out of bed, my stomach queasy and grumbling. I plodded to the kitchen and forced down a granola bar while making coffee. Advil too. Without turning the television on—the noise wouldn’t have helped—I sipped the hot brew to nurse my headache. While preparing for work, I tried to recall the conversation with Richard. What seemed clear to me was our evolving, growing relationship. I let that soak in
Richard called me from his office. The next morning. Picketers had gathered outside PPS demanding an arrest. Also, PPS stocks had dipped. Stock market specialists blamed it on bad press surrounding Richard and the murders. He asked me to meet someplace private.That evening, Richard’s driver, Assad drove us to the Blackbird Restaurant. When we arrived at the exclusive eatery, a wild crowd had gathered in the street outside their doors as if they knew we were coming.“Mr. Mackenzie, you might want to see this,” Assad suggested. He had trimmed black facial hair that only guys in their twenties can pull off.With cameras and cell phones raised, people filled the sidewalk and alley. Someone held a large photo of Dr. Schakowsky high in the air. Signs read: Find the Killer!Who Killed Dr. Schakowsky? JT Mackenzie is a Murderer!From the Mercedes, we peered out at the insanity. Four news cameras and several boom microphones hovered in the air. From the entrance of the restaurant, a young r
The list of executives from Fortune 500 companies who attended the Children’s Hospital fundraiser was long. But maybe Whitney would remember Irene. Yes, it had been over a year ago, but Whitney had met Irene Davidson there. That was clear from the photo of the two talking at the bar. Maybe Whitney was one of the last people to speak to Irene. I retrieved Whitney’s card from my purse and crawled into bed with my laptop to do some research. Whitney Crewe bore no connection to the name on the business card—Madam Ella Crewe. Publicly, she was identified as Jack Barnes’ partner. The PPS founder was more well-known than she. Whitney lived with him in a very nice five-bedroom home in the middle of upper-class suburban Illinois. Jack owned a small yacht that he kept in Fort Lauderdale, and Whitney owned a condo in Aspen, Colorado. She appeared to be the wife of a rich businessman. Her secret life showed a completely different side of her, however. In her website photo, her long blackish hai
Richard was involved in Leung’s and Valerie’s murders; of that I was sure. The reasons I found him guilty, I could list on one hand. One, he had called and asked for representation before Leung’s body was found. Two, he had inserted himself into the investigation. Three, he had something to lose over the victims’ involvement with the Chinese. Four, if they had been involved in international espionage, he had everything to gain from their deaths. And five, he had the money and means.At work on Monday morning, my cell phone vibrated against my desk. I reached for it and saw that it was Richard. Dread filled me, and my shoulders drooped as I sank into the chair. Again, I was representing a cold-blooded predator. “Richard.”“I warned you to stay away from Whitney.”Pure ire filled me with confidence and puffed my chest out. Rage that I’d felt toward Peterson and other clients spilled out with my feelings of Richard’s betrayal. “Why is that Richard? Why did you tell me to stay away from h
For the next forty-eight hours I existed in a fog. Though I had acted out of anger, I regretted transferring my client to Domie. An underlying feeling of guilt niggled me. I missed Richard. I missed his calls and his low, calm voice. I could only wonder how our relationship would have developed over time. I sank even lower as time passed, and Richard left no messages. Perry knew I was going out of town for six days. She thought I was visiting family in Normal, however. And so without telling a soul, I left for Sydney. My sturdy backpack contained everything I’d need for hiking and tombstoning. This short vacation was overdue. In the Southern Hemisphere it was winter. There would be fewer tourists. I purchased a wetsuit for the colder water and decided that this time I wouldn’t camp outdoors. I booked a hotel room in Wollongong—a coastal city known for daunting cliffs and forested hiking trails. The flight to Sydney took an entire day, and while in flight I scheduled my short visit
I’d never flown in a private jet before. From Sydney, I flew to Hawaii, where I switched planes and pilots. The second flight took me to Dallas’s Love Field, where I changed pilots and planes again. No waiting. No lines. No delays. I made the normal twenty-hour return to Chicago in under fifteen. When the plane landed, I limped slightly as I walked down the jetway. Sitting for an entire day had stiffened my body. The bruises on my palms and rear end ached. Sore muscles complained when I collected my backpack from the attendant. On the tarmac, a black Mercedes waited with the driver standing beside it. Travis took my backpack and pretended to sink under the weight of it.Though he relieved my ankle, I said, “I can carry that. It shouldn’t be too heavy for you.”“Did you pack rocks in here? How long were you gone?” Travis joked. “Two days. Three if you count the flights.”“We missed you.” With a smile, he heaved the bulky backpack into the trunk of the car.“Thanks, Travis.”Once on
Something was different. With a bounce in my step, I entered the elevator going down. From the lobby window, I looked for Travis, but didn’t see him. “Ms. Robert?”I turned to see a young man with an artfully trimmed black goatee standing behind me. “My name is Assad Ridhwaan. Mr. Mackenzie sent me.”“Where’s Travis? “He had a family emergency and couldn’t come to work today.” Assad led me to the Mercedes. I snapped my seatbelt into place and said, “I would have called a cab. Thanks for stepping in.”“Mr. Mackenzie wouldn’t stand for that. Besides, it’s my pleasure,” he said with a grin. Assad navigated Chicago traffic, turning toward downtown.At work, a bouquet of summer flowers arrived. Perry placed them on my desk. “There’s no card. Who do you think sent them? Was it. . . ?”The arrangement brightened my office. Perry and I both hoped it was Richard. “I don’t know,” I said. After I’d returned from Australia, I sensed that Richard wanted more from our relationship. And I felt th
In the days that followed, a weight lifted from my shoulders. It was as if I dove from the orange cliff at Navajo Falls into the spring waters of Lake Havasu. Our relationship had begun again with a fresh start. Tonight, I skipped my evening swim to stop at the grocery because I’d invited Richard for dinner. Since cooking took unnatural effort for me, I kept it simple and planned a meal of pasta Alfredo and a salad. I’d even bought new plates to serve dinner on. On the way home, I stopped at a liquor store for a bottle of white wine. The clerk talked me into a pricey California Chardonnay. It was more money than I had ever spent on wine. But I wanted to impress Richard, whose knowledge of wine far exceeded my own. And though he didn’t drink, I would. With alternative rock music playing, I swept the floors and wiped the counters. I straightened stacks of books and lit a few candles. I washed vegetables and shredded lettuce for the salad. At seven o’clock precisely, the phone rang. Th