An Image of Death (27 page)

A limo pulled up to the gate, and Max Gordon climbed out. Rounder and shorter than I remembered, he was wearing a camel’s hair coat and muffler, but no hat. He was accompanied by a woman, his PR person, no doubt, and a linebacker-sized man who I assumed was a bodyguard. Why did he need protection, I wondered.

People usually mill around chatting before an event like this, but the temperature had plunged overnight, and the frigid air snatched clouds of vapor, siphoning them off like a powerful vacuum. People burrowed into their coats, stamped their feet, and looked longingly at two space heaters flanking the podium.

A second limo, with city of Chicago flags fluttering on both sides, pulled up, and the mayor emerged with a coterie of aides. I craned my neck, wondering if my old friend Dana Novak was with him. I didn’t see her. The mayor greeted Gordon with a hail-fellow-well-met routine. Gordon’s head barely reached the mayor’s chest. A moment later, yet another limo drove up, and the governor appeared with his entourage. Max Gordon was clearly a player.

Ricki Feldman was there, too, looking stunning in her sable coat and matching hat. She kissed Gordon on the cheek and shook the mayor’s hand, after which the mayor leaned over to an aide who whispered in his ear.

Mac started rolling when the speeches started. We’d discussed it on the way down. Speeches, cutaways, a little B-roll. Straight news style, nothing fancy. I scanned the program, searching for B-roll possibilities or, at least, familiar faces to shoot. A list of twenty names, the investors it turned out, was printed on the back. Gold Coast Trust was the lead, but I recognized several other banks and development companies. Feldman Development was number twelve.

After introductions, the mayor stepped up to the podium. “Good morning. Usually when a crowd gathers outside in this kind of weather, somebody is in trouble.” The audience tittered. “Today is a happy exception: We’re here to break ground on Gordon Towers, a welcome addition to the skyline of Chicago.” He cleared his throat. “This facility will be much greater than the sum of its bricks and mortar, plumbing and wiring, windows and furniture. This is an important economic development project. Gordon Towers will bring hundreds of jobs to the area. It will attract retail businesses, too.…”

He went on to list all the economic and social benefits that would accrue to the city because of the building. Then, “A diverse group of dedicated community leaders have contributed to the development of Gordon Towers, but none of this would have been possible without the leadership of the man standing to my right. Max Gordon was willing to step in at a crucial juncture. He staked not only his reputation, but the future of his bank. Why? Because he is committed to the city of Chicago. Lucky for all of us, he prevailed. Thus, today, as we slip spades into the soil, we celebrate not just the construction of an edifice, but the future of our great city. Thank you, Max Gordon.”

Hearty applause followed. Then the governor rose and came to the podium, where he made some incomprehensible but, mercifully, brief remarks comparing Gordon to the state of Illinois. “Like Gordon,” he said, “Illinois not only invests overseas, but tries to attract foreign investment to our shores so the state can provide decent jobs for our citizens.”

I looked over at Gordon. His eyes were glazed with delight, and his smile was wide enough to sprout wings. When the governor was finished, he glided up to the podium. Before he stepped up, someone scurried behind it and bent down. Suddenly Gordon was six inches taller.

In his remarks, Gordon said this was the culmination of a lifelong dream. He thanked everyone from the mayor to his late father, an illiterate immigrant from central Russia, who, nonetheless, instilled a sense of ambition in his children. Then he and the mayor put on the golden hard hats. With the governor happily smiling behind them, Hizzoner picked up the shovel, dug into the soft mound of dirt, and scooped up a mound of earth. Cameras clicked, tape recorders whined. Milking the moment, the mayor flung the dirt, put down the shovel, and clapped Gordon on the back. The crowd cheered.

I glanced over at Mac. He nodded, signaling he had it on tape. I made a circle with my index finger, signaling back that he could get off sticks for cutaways. As he started into the crowd, the wind kicked up. Thick clouds were moving in from the west. The banner behind the podium flapped, and bits of trash blew across the ground. I pulled my hat low on my face and tightened my scarf. Others were putting on gloves.

A group of men in work clothes, heavy boots, and parkas—construction workers by the look of them—huddled near the fence. Gordon walked over and started to shake their hands. I motioned to Mac. Nodding, he made his way over to grab the shot. As Gordon worked his way through the group, one of the men moved out of the way to let his buddy greet “the boss.” The man, tall and bulky, pulled out a ski mask and slipped it over his face. It was a navy blue mask, with red circles around the openings for eyes and mouth. As he backed up, I noticed he walked with a limp.

An uneasy feeling slid around in me. I pushed it away. The crowd started to disperse, and the news crews packed up, heading off to the next story. Mac came back to the risers, gave me a thumbs-up, and began breaking down the camera. I looked at the construction worker now making his way toward the exit. He was favoring his right leg.

Frowning, I turned around, but before I could say anything to Mac, Ricki planted herself in front of me. “Thank you for shooting this, Ellie. It means a lot to me.”

I nodded, wishing she would go away. Instead, Ricki raised a gloved hand and waved at someone behind me. I twisted around. Max Gordon was wandering back across the construction site, the glow of celebrity, no doubt, keeping him warm. He acknowledged her wave with a dip of his head and started over. As he drew near, he slipped his hand inside his coat with a Napoleonic flourish.

Ricki introduced us, making sure to say that we’d met in the restaurant several weeks before. Gordon gave me a blank stare.

“It was only a minute. There’s no reason you should remember,” I said, trying to be gracious.

He tipped his head to the side. Though the top of his head was bald, he had curly sideburns that refused to lie flat. “Yes. So you’ve been taking pictures?”

“We have.”

“Are you with one of the news organizations?”

“No.” I was about to explain why I was there when Ricki moved behind Gordon and mouthed: “It’s a surprise!” She put her finger on her lips. I improvised. “I—I’m a freelance producer. We’ve been interviewing folks about the project for a possible show down the road.”

“I see.” His expression dimmed and he turned around as if to leave. Ricki held on to his arm.

I turned back to Mac. “Did you get any cutaways of the construction workers while he was doing the benevolent boss thing?”

“I did.”

“You get a shot of the guy in the ski mask? The one with the limp?”

Mac looked over to where the men had been standing. “I think so. Why?”

I hesitated. I hadn’t told Mac much about the situation up to now. “I don’t know. I keep thinking I know him from somewhere.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He seems familiar. Something about him.” I shook my head. “Never mind. It’s not—”

I stopped in mid-sentence. Mac had broken eye contact and was focusing on something behind me. I spun around.

Max Gordon was behind me. When our eyes met, he rocked back on his heels and gave me a thin smile.

I looked back at the construction worker. He was almost at the gate, still limping, the ski mask covering his face. Gordon followed my gaze. Then Ricki stepped between us. Flashing me an impatient look, she tugged on Gordon’s arm. Gordon looked back at me. His smile had disappeared. He allowed her to lead him away.

***

I was almost at Montrose on the Drive when the snow started. Heavy fat flakes slapped the windshield. Angry whitecaps roiled the lake. I wasn’t sure what I’d witnessed, but I didn’t like the feel of it. Max Gordon had been eavesdropping on my conversation with Mac; that was clear. His reaction to it, though, wasn’t. For once, I was grateful to Ricki for hustling him away.

Mike Dolan, the forensic video guy, had said there were hundreds, if not thousands, of ski masks like the one worn by the contstruction worker. And what killer would knowingly wear the same clothing he’d had on when he was murdering a woman on videotape? No one could be that foolish—or arrogant. It couldn’t have been the same mask. Or man.

Still, a veil of disquiet, as thick as the falling snow, settled over me. I cranked up the heat and turned on the radio. The weather people were predicting three new inches. I kept driving. It wasn’t until I rounded the turn onto Hollywood that I realized I was wrong about something. There was no reason for the killer on the tape to have thrown away his ski mask. Or be reluctant to wear it. He never knew he’d been recorded on tape.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY

Arin gazed at the plane tickets in Yudin’s hand. “Why?”

“You deserve a vacation.” He held them out. “You have earned it, my dear. These past few years have been most rewarding.”

She knew that. Yudin had been bringing her stones on a regular basis; they were both making good money. She had moved her family to a small house and installed her parents on the first floor. She and Tomas lived above. They had ample food and clothes, and they went on vacation every year. Tomas, almost twelve now, loved soccer and hockey, and played both, thanks to the equipment she could afford.

Yudin still lived on the Vaziani base. Arin didn’t see why. He rarely wore his uniform, and she never saw him involved in Army matters. However, as an envoy of the new Russian government, he still traveled extensively, meeting with representatives from various industries and governments. It was after these “conferences” that he usually brought her a supply of stones.

Arin still traveled as well, mostly to European cities. Sometimes when her business was completed, she would take a sightseeing tour on those large buses that clogged the streets. As the bus rumbled through unfamiliar neighborhoods, she’d watch people she didn’t know and would never see again going about their lives. She’d wonder whether the woman with the baguette in her string sack was content, whether the man, his shoulders hunched against the chill, was happy. Afterwards she would shop for trinkets for her family.

Still, tickets to the Caribbean? A hotel, as well? And all of it a gift? “I’m extremely grateful, Dimitri”—they’d stopped addressing each other by their family names long ago, except around Tomas—“but I cannot accept. I have my work at the factory. And Tomas. My mother should not be burdened with him. What would I do, in any case?” Never one to idle, Arin could hardly get through a week at Lake Sevan every summer. What would she do in the Cayman Islands?

Yudin insisted. “You will find much to do. Sleep late. Eat well. Shop. Go diving. Please, Arin.” He looked kindly at her. “We have come a long way together. I am indebted to you. This is just a small way to show my gratitude. Please do me the honor of accepting.”

She studied him. Over the years, she’d developed a fondness for Yudin. It had taken time, but she’d come to realize that Sacha’s death had destroyed his family, too. His wife, unable to recover from her grief, had left him; Sacha had been their only child. Arin and Tomas were his only relations. She and Yudin had come to a mutual acceptance, a kinship forged out of sorrow. And, of course, there was the business.

She considered the offer. Despite her travels, she’d never been west of London. She looked out at the gloomy, bitter day in Georgia, picturing white sand, clear water, tropical sun. Rich Germans and British flocked to places like this. She’d hear them in cafes and restaurants casually drop the fact they were flying in for a week or two. Why not her? The truth was that her mother could easily care for Tomas. He was nearly old enough to fend for himself. Maybe Yudin was right. She deserved it.

***

She landed in Miami, and once through customs, transferred to a small plane for the flight to Grand Cayman. After collecting her bags, she climbed into the car that would take her to the hotel. Waves of heat shimmered up from the tarmac, and within five minutes, the back of her neck was damp. She rolled up her sleeves. She’d read up about the tropics. The natives referred to the sun as “the fire in the sky.” Now she knew why.

As they drove through Georgetown, she felt as if she had stepped into another realm. She’d never seen so many shades of green, nor such brightly colored blossoms. She smiled as she passed shops and buildings painted in such whimsical colors they might have come from a child’s coloring book. She noted the British and American flags fluttering in the breeze.

Near the ocean the breeze dispersed the curtain of thick, steamy air, and when she arrived at her private villa, with a private swimming pool steps away and the beach just a few more, she sighed in delight. She unpacked and sampled a mango from a basket of fruit on the dresser. The card read in Russian, “Compliments of a friend.” Yudin had attended to every detail.

At sunset she strolled along the water’s edge, watching the sky turn pink, then coral, then purple. Tiny waves lapped at her feet. The smell of salt mixed with the tang of hot sand. Later that night she dined alone on the terrace of the hotel. She noted the appreciative looks from waiters and busboys. She hadn’t thought about her appearance in years, but she must still look presentable. At one point, she thought someone on the beach might be watching her, but when she turned her head, she saw nothing except the fronds of a palm tree swaying in the sand.

It was on the evening of the second day, after a morning of shopping and an afternoon spent scuba diving with two Germans and a Swiss businessman—she didn’t speak the language, but it was charming what you could do with gestures and smiles—that Arin realized she’d never felt so relaxed. Even carefree. Yudin was right. She should have done this years ago. Perhaps tonight she’d try the restaurant the Germans had been so excited about—they’d written the name down for her. And tomorrow she’d take a Jeep ride around the island.