A Cross to Bear (7 page)

“We are standing on sacred ground. This is my Maggy’s funeral. So I’m going to use my words for now. But if you don’t let go of my daughter and get your sorry ass out of my sight, I’ll take this gun and pistol-whip the shit out of you. I imagine the Lord won’t mind, and I know my Maggy wouldn’t either.”

Derek gulped and slowly released Gabby. His eyes didn’t leave the general’s. He sidestepped the man without a word and hurried to his car.

“Did he hurt you?” Gabby’s father asked, watching him go.

She could only smile at her father and give him a big hug. “I love you, Daddy.”

After a long day of speaking with people she didn’t want to talk to and holding back emotions she needed to set free, Gabby returned to her sister’s house alone and fell upon the bed, sobbing.

When she awoke early the next morning, she made herself a coffee the way Maggy had made it and smoked a cigarette, determined to get to work. She couldn’t spend her days wallowing in sorrow.

“What would Maggy do?” she asked herself out loud.

What would Maggy do if I died under such strange circumstances?

She didn’t have to think long on it—if their roles were reversed, Maggy wouldn’t wait for the police. She would hunt down the killer and pin his ass to the wall.

Gabby got to work.

Maggy was found at the base of Steele Tower, so that is where the search began. Gabby googled the tower and found that it was owned by one Michael Steele. His company, Lunaris, bought up endangered forests so that they could be preserved.

On the surface, the company looked like a legitimate nonprofit, however, the more she looked into Michael Steele, the more suspect he became. The man was by all estimates one of the richest men in Chicago. Indeed, he was one of the richest men in the country. He had a personal jet, a penthouse on the top floor of Steele Tower, owned more than fifty million acres of land all over the world, and was said to be worth over $20 billion.

Had he been the man at the cemetery? Was he Maggy’s mysterious “John”? Gabby became more excited by the moment. She made herself a double espresso and cozied up with the laptop for the rest of the day, obsessed with the small lead.

Then something occurred to her, and she shot up from the computer chair and rushed to the kitchen. She grabbed the flower vase and fumbled for the note attached. The initials stood out to her in living color—
M.S.
Michael Steele. Could it be?

It was a good lead, but she needed more. If she had learned anything as a reporter, it was to not let what she wanted to see blind her from what was actually there. Gabby needed to be diligent; she needed to be thorough.

With newfound life coursing through her veins, she went to her sister’s bedroom and began methodically checking the place. She started with the nightstand and quickly wished she hadn’t. There was all manner of sex toys stuffed in the drawers. She found as much in the closet. There was even a leather sex swing hanging there, and on closer inspection, she found the bolts to fasten it to the ceiling over the bed.

Moving on, she searched the other drawers and side tables, but found nothing. Lastly, she checked under the bed. It was surprisingly clean. Beneath it, she found a fireproof box with old documents, insurance papers, a birth certificate, and other essentials. Deeper still, she found a small oak chest. Reverently pulling it from under the bed, she laid the chest on her lap and opened it up with excitement.

She stopped dead.

Inside were dozens and dozens of the same florist cards with the initials
M.S.

“I’m on to you, Michael Steele,” she said. “I’m on to you, you son of a bitch.”

Gabby awoke the next morning with her face on the computer desk among a small mountain of notes and printouts. A picture of Michael Steele stared back at her. It was one of the tall, dark, and handsome billionaire getting off his private jet. His suit was impeccable, and his winning smile was perfect.

She got up and made coffee, trying to piece together what she knew.

Someone named M.S. had been sending Maggy flowers for a long time. Therefore, it was likely that they knew each other well. Maggy was also found at the base of Steele Tower, and the police had determined it to have been the place of the murder, though Maggy hadn’t fallen from the rooftop, and none of the windows on the lower floors even opened, nor were they broken. Being that Michael Steele was the owner of the building and the notes bore his initials, Gabby thought that it wasn’t much of a leap of faith to put the two together.

In her mind, Michael Steele was the mysterious John that Maggy had been out with, and he was likely also her murderer. Who knew what kind of freaky stuff Maggy’s clients were into? Perhaps he had fallen in love with her, and for whatever reason, Maggy hadn’t loved him back. It was true that he was a billionaire, but Gabby knew her sister. Money didn’t mean much to the carefree woman. Sure, she liked some of the finer things, but she had no illusions or princess delusions. And the fact that Maggy had never mentioned Michael Steele to Gabby was suspect—further proof that he wasn’t a big deal in her life. Or was he a secret?

Either way, he was suspect number one.

Gabby showered and dressed, had a small breakfast of Special K—the kind that was supposed to make you skinny—and set out to gear herself up. If she were going to perform a proper stakeout, she would need some things. Most of what she needed was at her house, but Gabby wasn’t prepared to return there anytime soon.

At the local Walmart, she picked up a pair of high-powered binoculars, a device for listening at far distances, and a high-def camera with a zoom lens. On second thought—and feeling slightly goofy—she bought a pair of black capris and a black hoodie, just to top off the look. She might need the outfit should she find herself doing any late-night recon.

***

Sitting in her sister’s cherry-red 1972 Nova SS, Gabby felt every part the badass. She had parked across the road next to a bank where she could get a good look at the front of the building.

Steele Tower loomed overhead like a monolithic phallus. Its first floor leading to the lobby was constructed entirely with glass. The many windows of the one-hundred-story building shone like mirrors in the afternoon sun.

Gabby watched the front door, occupying herself by looking through the binoculars, though there was far too much going on. People came and went every few minutes from the building, and Gabby tried to capture them all on her fancy camera. She doubted she would ever need the photos, but it couldn’t hurt.

Around noon, Michael Steele finally emerged. His pictures didn’t do him justice. Michael Steele was a man who seemed to have been chiseled in stone. He wore a suit like a panther wears its fur, and he filled it out just as impressively. His shoulders were broad and straight, his chest thick, and his hair perfect. A few days of thick black stubble lent shadows to an already sharp jawline. Piercing blue eyes swept across the street.

Gabby ducked down in her seat, sure that he had looked right at her.

When she dared a peek over the dashboard, he had disappeared into a waiting limo, which began slowly moving west. She noted the Escalade that pulled out of the parking garage and followed.

Careful to keep a safe distance, she followed them through the city to an upscale restaurant. Gabby had seen enough movies to know how to successfully tail someone. When they parked, she found a spot not too far away from which to spy.

Michael Steele went into the restaurant, followed by two beefcakes who looked to have the agility of a refrigerator.

Gabby waited for five minutes, then ten, but soon became restless. She knew she wasn’t going to find anything out by following the guy around for a week.

What would Maggy do?

Gabby laughed. Maggy would walk right in there and introduce herself.

Before she lost her resolve, Gabby bravely got out of the car, grabbed her little white purse, adjusted her white dress, and strode across the road with an air of confidence she had seldom known.

What would Maggy do?
She said to herself over and over as she walked toward the restaurant.

The doorman nodded and let her in. She ignored him, playing the part of a person of power. At the reception desk, she blew past the hostess with a fake British accent and found Mr. Steele sitting at a table with a Chinese man. The two beefcakes and the other man’s two guards stood off in the distance, facing each other with unyielding stares.

Michael Steele saw her coming. He looked to her just as she was approaching. Gabby strode forth with confidence, sticking out her large bosom and holding her head high . . . and crashed into a passing waiter.

Gabby went down hard, spun around by the collision. She landed on her ass right between two tables. The tray the waiter was carrying went up into the air slowly, tilted, and came crashing down, covering her in champagne.

A gasp escaped her, and a hand took hers. Someone strong pulled her to her feet and offered her a white napkin. Gabby tossed back her hair and found her chivalrous hero—Michael Steele, who stood there staring at her.

His face was expressionless.

She met his bright eyes and began to speak, but found that she could not find the words.

“Are you all right?” he asked in a voice with a hypnotic timbre.

“I . . . uh, I’m . . .”

“I’m so sorry, miss,” said the waiter once he had righted himself.

“We do not need apologies. We need seltzer water and reimbursement for the dress,” said Michael, never taking his eyes off her.

The Chinese man whom Steele had been sitting with was on his feet, offering her quick bows and an apologetic smile.

“If you would come with me, miss,” the waiter began, “you can freshen up in the—”

“I’m quite all right. The seltzer water please,” said Gabby, pulling herself together.

The waiter disappeared to the back, and Gabby dabbed the wet parts of her hair.

“Is there anything else I can do?” Steele asked.

“Actually, before that clumsy waiter ran into me, I was coming over here to introduce myself,” she said, extending her hand. “My name is Sarah Shepard, I work for . . . I’m a blogger. I have a blog . . . I am very interested in interviewing you for my blog.”

Michael seemed amused. His lunch partner did nothing to hide his irritation.

“Very well, Miss Shepard. How is noon tomorrow?”

Gabby was taken aback. She had expected him to dodge her.

“Um, great. I mean, great. I’ll see you then.”

Michael smiled faintly and returned to speaking with his guest as though nothing had happened.

Slightly flummoxed, Gabby left the men to their scheming, not exactly sure how she should feel about Michael Steele.

***

Gabby returned to her sister’s house . . .
her
house—it was hard for her to think of it as really hers—and made herself a big steak dinner. She felt powerful, like she had done something for once, rather than rolling over like a coward.

What would Maggy do?
She laughed at the memory. If she hadn’t slammed into the waiter, it would have been perfect. The look on Michael Steele’s face when he first saw her was priceless regardless. He had seemed surprised; indeed, everyone around was startled by the ruckus. But the surprise that he had expressed was not due to the collision, but upon seeing Gabby’s face.

Gabby began uncorking a bottle of wine but then thought better of the idea. If she was going to find Maggy’s killer, she would need a clear head. She had her dinner with water instead and considered that strange look from Michael Steele. He seemed to act as if he knew her.

You’re being paranoid,
she told herself. Though she thought that she was a liar.

And what had her father been talking about at the nursing home? His strange riddle about wolves at the door had more than unsettled her. He had seemed so lucid—more than she had seen him in years.

After she finished her meal, she set the dishes in the sink and began habitually rinsing them for the dishwasher. Through the window she spotted a black sedan parked at the end of the road. She looked closer, thinking that she could make out two figures sitting in the front seat.

Gabby instinctively scanned the street and found an identical black sedan parked at the other end of the road as well. A shiver passed through her spine.

A million possibilities ran through her mind, but the only one that mattered was that Michael Steele had his goons keeping tabs on the place, and at any minute, they would burst in and finish her off. She ducked down behind the sink and frantically thought of what she should do. Keeping low, she turned off the kitchen and living room lights and even slapped off the computer monitor. She then crept to the window very cautiously.

They were still there.

Gabby could just feel their eyes on her, watching, waiting.

Quickly she ran to the bedroom, retrieved her .38 Special, and returned to the living room window. The cars hadn’t moved, but Gabby thought that she saw only one figure in the original car, rather than two. That gave her pause. Where had the other mysterious man gone? What if he was even now closing in on the house? Gabby could just imagine him screwing on a silencer to a pistol.

She rushed through the house, closing and locking all the windows and doors. Phantoms leaped and snuck in the corner of her eye when she scanned the outdoors. At any moment, she thought a face would spring out at her from the shadows.

Returning to the couch, she peeled back the curtain slowly, just enough to ensure that the cars were still there—and no one else was missing. Though the cars were parked on opposite ends of the road, when Gabby situated the curtains just right, she could keep an eye on both of them at the same time.

In the morning, Gabby awoke on the couch with an awful kink in her neck. Remembering the cars, she quickly peeked out of the window.

They were gone.

Relieved, she tried to get some mobility worked into her neck as she dragged herself off the couch to prepare for her big interview with Michael Steele. She showered and stood before the mirror, staring sideways at her too-big belly.