An Image of Death (24 page)

“I just got it,” she said. “You called Saturday?”

“Yes, but since then, a couple of things have come up. First off, look at this.” I rummaged in my bag and pulled out Fouad’s envelope.

“What is this?” she asked.

“A note that came with the tape, I think. A friend who was shoveling my walk found it under the stoop. Check out the handwriting.”

Davis squinted and studied the note. Then she nodded, more to herself than me, it seemed. “I’ll keep this.”

“That’s why I brought it. But that’s not all,” I went on. “I ran into Lillian Armstrong this morning. Apparently, the maid service she uses has dropped off the face of the earth.”

She frowned. “Tell me.”

I repeated what Lillian had said about DM Maids. She nodded again and looked down at the note. Then she glanced at the door that led back to the brass’ offices. “You got a minute?”

“Sure.”

She pushed through the door. At the end of a corridor was an open office. I followed her down into a square, featureless room with gray walls, a gray desk, and gray carpeting. Deputy Chief Olson sat behind the desk. His fringe of gray hair blended nicely with the surroundings. He rose and shook my hand. “Ms. Foreman. Nice to see you.”

“Likewise.”

His seat cushion made a plopping noise as he sat down. Davis and I sat across from him. Davis motioned to me. “Tell him what you just told me.”

I repeated what Lillian had said. When I finished, Olson turned to Davis. “You’ll check it out.”

“Yes, sir.” She held up the envelope. “There’s something else. She just found this note outside her home and brought it in. It looks like the same handwriting that was on the envelope containing the tape.”

Olson’s expression grew curious. “Is there a name on it?”

Davis shook her head.

“It’s been lying in the snow for awhile,” I said.

Olson opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out an evidence bag. He handed it to Davis. She put the note inside.

“I’d like to try and lift some prints.”

“Give it a shot,” Olson said. “But don’t expect too much. It’s been out in weather.”

“There’s something else you should know,” I said. “I was in Philadelphia over the weekend and I met someone who might have seen the woman on the tape.” I told them about the diamond dealer who came into Willie’s shop in Antwerp three years ago. “She had the same tattoo as the woman on the tape.”

“Antwerp?” Olson’s chair squeaked as he leaned back.

“Belgium,” I said.

“That’s a little out of our jurisdiction,” he said dryly.

I shifted. “I realize that. I just wanted you to know.”

He looked over at Davis. “Where are you on ID’ing the tattoo?”

“Haven’t heard anything from the Bureau.”

“Give them another push.” He turned to me. “It’s probably just a coincidence. It could be a common design. Maybe your friend saw something that looked similar, but wasn’t exactly the same.”

“There’s no way to be sure?” I asked.

Olson shook his head. “Not without more information, time, and money. Which we don’t have.”

I changed the subject. “What about DM Maids? Is it possible there could be a connection between the woman on the tape and Halina Grigorev’s disappearance?”

Neither officer replied. I shifted again. “Sorry. I know you don’t want to talk about a case you’re still working.”

“No,” Olson said. “That’s not it.” He considered me for a long moment, then nodded at Davis.

Davis cleared her throat. “We found out that Halina Grigorev is—or was—a cousin of the dentists.”

“The owner of DM Maids was their cousin?” I felt a chill. “So they knew each other? How did you find out?”

Davis looked over at Olson. “We pieced it together from interviews with the dentists’ neighbors.”

I considered this piece of news. “If she and the dentists were cousins, and Petrovsky worked for her, is it possible she was the one who sent me the tape? And the note is from her?”

Olson leaned his elbows on the desk. “It’s possible. Maids talk. One of the women who worked at your neighbor’s might have heard something about you.”

I laughed. “If it came from Lillian, I can imagine what it was.”

Olson spread his hands. “Who knows? Maybe they heard you were a TV journalist and figured the tape would be safe with you…you know confidentiality…a source…that kind of thing. The note, if it’s real, would seem to imply that.”

“But how would they have known Lillian?”

Davis shrugged.

Olson went on. “Or maybe they were counting on the fact that you’d hand it over to us.”

“Why wouldn’t they have done that themselves?”

“The dentists were operating without a license for the second time in less than a year. Any brush with the law would have been big trouble for them.”

I thought for a minute. “Do you think that’s why they had a surveillance camera on the wall?”

“It’s a good bet.”

All three of us were quiet.

“They did anyway,” I mused. “Ended up in trouble, I mean.” I looked up. Why were the police suddenly so talkative? They’d never been before. “Do you think they were the ones who—who disposed of the body?”

“Hard to say,” Olson said. “But whether they did or didn’t, they clearly didn’t want to be fingered for the crime. They went to some length to avoid it.”

“You seem pretty sure she was killed at their place.”

“That’s the good news,” Davis cut in. “The lab says they got three different blood types from the samples.”

“The sister, the brother, and the girl with the tattoo.”

“Right.”

“So what does it mean?”

“Nothing conclusive,” Olson said. “It could be the dentists knew who killed the girl and didn’t want them to get away with murder.” He leaned back. “Or maybe Grigorev knew the real killers and talked her cousins into giving her the tape.”

“Which she then got Petrovsky to drop off at my house.”

Olson nodded.

“But it backfired.”

He nodded again.

“Because someone—the real killers—figured out the dentists gave me the tape? And decided to make an example out of them?”

“Something like that.”

“But who knew I had the tape? It’s not like it’s been on the news.”

Olson hunched his shoulders. Davis refused to make eye contact.

Of course. Celestial Bodies. Someone at the strip joint told the killers we’d been asking questions. Showing photographs. Distributing business cards. That’s how the word got back. Who was it, I wondered? Sofiya? One of the girls? The bouncer?

I studied the gray carpeting in Olson’s office. Our visit might have triggered the death of the dentists—maybe Halina Grigorev’s too. It also meant that someone at Celestial Bodies knew the killers. I almost asked Olson and Davis what they thought, but I stopped just in time. I didn’t know how much Davis had told Olson about that night. Or what she’d said in her report.

I stole a look at Davis, trying to tread cautiously. “Has anyone been back to Celestial Bodies?”

Olson nodded. “After the crime lab came up with zilch on the ballistics of that gun Davis found in the bathroom—” he flashed Davis an odd look—“Davis went back to nose around.”

I cleared my throat.

“The girls had heard of the dentists.” Davis took over. “Apparently, it’s where you go when you’re an immigrant and you don’t have much money. But no one knew them personally. Or at least admitted to it.”

“What about Petrovsky? Has anyone seen him?”

“We can’t find him.” She tossed her head. “If he’s smart, he’s on the run. Grigorev, too.”

“Unless they’re already dead,” Olson said.

“One of the ‘dancers’ seems to have disappeared, too,” Davis added.

“Which one?”

“The one that.…” She snuck a look at Olson. “The blonde. With the spiky hair. They said she didn’t work there anymore.”

The one whom I’d chased down the hall. Who had riffled through my bag. “You can’t track her down?”

“It’s not like she left a forwarding address.”

I swallowed. It was clear Davis hadn’t told Olson everything about our drop-in at the club. Still, two people were dead. And three more—Grigorev, Petrovsky, and the blond “dancer”—were missing. Were they dead? Was there a link between them and the tape?

I kept coming back to another question, too. Why did Petrovsky drive from Mount Prospect to Celestial Bodies in the middle of a snowstorm in the first place? Clearly, he had some connection to the place, beyond that of “customer.” He’d gone backstage as soon as he arrived, and he knew the layout well enough to make himself scarce when Davis questioned the girls. I wanted to ask Davis what she thought, but I didn’t dare with Olson in the room. I might have to explain how Davis “found” the gun in the bathroom. And what happened after that.

Olson ran a hand over the top of his skull as if he expected to find a full head of hair. “Maybe the girl on the tape ticked off someone. She gets killed. Then the dentists tried to blow it wide open, and they get wasted, too. These people have nasty tempers. You don’t want to piss them off.”

“So I gather.” I folded my arms. “At least the note’s a step in the right direction. Maybe it will help you get to the bottom of this. Especially if you’re able to get some prints.”

The cops exchanged another look. Then Olson spoke. “The truth is, we may never get to the bottom of this. Even with the note.”

“Why not?”

“Des Plaines is handling most of it now.”

“What does that mean.”

Olson shifted uncomfortably. “The case file will stay open.”

“I hear a
but
.”

“We won’t be actively pursuing it much longer.”

“But you don’t know who killed her. What about her family? Someone is probably going crazy wondering what happened to her.”

Olson sighed. “Ellie, we don’t have a body. Never did. Not that it makes a huge difference, although it might in court, if we ever got that far. But more important, we just don’t have the evidence. No one’s talking. To them, we’re as much the enemy as the scumbags who killed the girl. Unless that note shows some type of dramatic evidence, which, frankly, I don’t think it will, we just don’t have the time and resources to keep going.” He flipped up his palms. “I hope you understand.”

***

Davis kept her mouth shut as she walked me out of the police station. “I wish there was something more I could do.”

“You’ve done more than anyone else would have.”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t enough.”

“You’ve gotta stop getting down on yourself.”

She shrugged and opened the door. “Listen.…”

“What?”

She shook her head again. “Nothing. You be careful, Ellie, okay?”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-EIGHT

I got in the car and cracked the window, pondering what Olson and Davis had said. I understood why Olson was winding down, but I also understood Davis’ warning. It was clear in the note I’d handed over.

Please. You keep. Not safe for me to have. I come back.

The person who sent me the tape knew it was dangerous to keep it, so they passed it to me. Which meant that if someone wanted to eliminate anyone or anything that linked them to the tape, Rachel and I were an easy and—particularly now that the cops were winding up their investigation—unprotected target. Davis knew that. We were vulnerable. They—whoever “they” were— would be coming back. Whatever danger we had been in was possibly escalating. And the cops couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do anything to help. I rolled up the window, suddenly chilled.

There had to be something I could do. But what? I didn’t know who or what I was looking for: Petrovsky or the two men on the tape? Or someone else? I considered trying to trace the tattoo myself—a few e-mails, phone calls, some Web surfing might get me somewhere. But then what? What if I uncovered an organized gang or cell of the Russian mafia? And they learned I’d been nosing around in their business? How could I defend myself against that?

I turned south on Waukegan Road, weaving between a minivan and a bus, both of whom drove as if they owned the road. I’d been foolish to get involved in the first place. The woman on the tape, the killers, Petrovsky, were all strangers—the kind of strangers, it was turning out, most safely viewed from a distance. The vague notion of responsibility I’d felt now seemed misplaced and naive. If something happened to Rachel.… I chewed on a nail. The police were giving up. I should, too. I hoped it wasn’t too late.

***

I honked when I got to Susan’s. She came out, looking perfect, as usual. She’s the only woman I know who can wear a white turtleneck, flannel pants, and a Harris tweed jacket and not look like a Barrington horsewoman.

She settled herself in the front seat. “So, where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

I cut over to the Edens and headed downtown. Susan smeared lip balm over her mouth. She always takes care of herself. We chatted about inconsequential things, knowing after ten years of friendship not to force issues. But when I merged onto the Kennedy, she pointed to one of the green road signs. “You passed Peterson.”

“I know.”

Susan used to live in Sauganash, and Lakeview before that, and she knows Chicago as well as I. She shrugged. But when I exited on Kimball and drove east on Belmont, she whooped. “Cinnamon rolls!”

I grinned.

“I figured it was either that or pizza. When you passed the exit for Malnati’s, I knew.”

Ann Sather’s, a Swedish restaurant, is a popular place for plain, wholesome food, especially breakfast, which they serve all day. But they’re famous for their cinnamon rolls: dense, moist creations laced with cinnamon and topped with a dollop of icing. One of them has enough calories, cholesterol, and fat to kill you. But you’d die happy.

Although Sather’s has five restaurants, they make the rolls at the Belmont location, and real connoisseurs won’t go anywhere else. I parked around the corner, and we trudged down cracked sidewalks to the front door. The décor—clean, bright, and workmanlike—hasn’t changed in thirty years. We grabbed a booth near the fireplace.