An Image of Death (32 page)

“He told you?”

She canted her head, as if she wasn’t quite sure why he was so cold. But Jordan either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Why did you do it, Ricki?”

“Do what?”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t play coy. The wiring, damn it! The investigator told us the fire was caused by substandard wiring. Authorized by the contractor. Which was you.”

She pressed her lips together.

“Was it so important to save a few bucks?” Jordan kept on. “I hope so, because you destroyed Transitions.”

She drew herself up. Angry eyes spit fire at him. “I did it for you. You needed a place for your kids. Fast. I wanted you to have it. So I made it happen.”

Jordan searched Ricki’s face as if seeing her for the first time. I could tell he was surprised. And confused. Then his face dimmed. “If I ever thought I was putting my boys into any jeopardy on my watch, I would never have let them move in.”

Ricki tensed. I could tell powerful emotions were roiling just beneath the surface. I thought about the road to hell. Part of me wanted to believe her. Give her the benefit of the doubt. But then I remembered her father’s history, and I heard
my
father say “the apple don’t fall far from the tree.”

“I thought you were different.” Jordan’s voice cracked. He faced me, and for an instant I thought he was he including me in the you. Then he whipped back around and grabbed Ricki’s arm. “Come on, Ricki. I want you to see what you did.”

Half dragging, half pushing, he started to move her across the street. But then a remarkable transformation occurred. Ricki pried herself free of his grasp and planted her feet on the sidewalk. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she drew herself up. Her voice was like steel. “You need someone to blame, don’t you? You can’t accept this was an act of God. You have to hold someone accountable. Well, it’s not going to be me.”

My jaw went slack. She’d practically admitted to starting the fire a minute ago; now she was backpedaling. A curtain had suddenly come down on her compassion, and a different Ricki Feldman emerged. Arrogant. Haughty. The daughter of Stuart. Don’t let anyone challenge you. If they do, go on the offensive. Don’t give away anything. Had she learned that at her father’s knee?

I exploded. “An act of God? Christ, Ricki, the place was a ticking time bomb. You rushed through construction, paid off God knows who, and you have the nerve to call it an act of God? Don’t try to weasel out of it. I won’t let you.”

“You won’t let me?” She twisted around, her face a mask of fury. “Who are you to make demands, Ellie Foreman? Have you never made a mistake? Or are you so jealous that you’ll say anything to get at me?”

My mouth fell open. “I’m not jealous. And the only mistake I made is letting you dangle money in front of me and taking it.”

She glared. “That’s right. I forgot who I was dealing with. The sanctimonious video producer who doesn’t care about money but has a nice little shoplifting habit on the side.”

I froze. Jordan stared at me.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Her voice was cold. “I’ve known for years. So back off. And you,” she cried scornfully to Jordan. “You’re so naive you probably think things happen because you’re a good guy. And your mission is so goddamn noble.” She faced him. “You have no idea how many people it takes to do your dirty work just so you can look down from your idealistic perch and take credit for it.” She shook her head. “I should have known better. No one knows how to be grateful anymore. No one says thank you. More the fool me for trying to do something good.”

I cut her off. “This isn’t about altruism, Ricki. This is about salvaging your reputation.”

Jordan looked over at me, confused. “Reputation? What are you talking about?”

“Tell him, Ricki. Tell him what your father did and how you’ve been doing mitzvos to atone for it.”

She didn’t say anything.

Jordan spoke up. “What the hell is going on?”

“Ricki’s father built a housing development thirty years ago. Nice place. Near Joliet. Only one problem. He built it on top of a toxic waste dump. Which he knew about before he put up the houses.” I told him about the children who’d contracted cancer. How three of them died, how the resulting litigation nearly ruined him. How Ricki took over afterward. “That’s why she invested in Transitions, Jordan. She’s been throwing money at charities trying to become respectable again.”

“Ricki, is this true?” His voice was hard.

She wouldn’t look at him.

Suddenly his face cracked, as if a sheet of glass had shattered. He turned around and started toward my car, his body sagging.

“Jordan. Stop,” Ricki called after him. “We can work this out. I’ll fix it.” Her voice grew shrill. “Please…don’t go.”

He kept walking.

“What about us?” she pleaded. “You can’t end it. Not like this.”

He didn’t answer.

She watched him get into my car. I followed him over.

“Ellie.…”

I stopped. Our eyes locked. She looked at me without expression. Her anger seemed to dissipate, and she looked small and slight. Then, she squared her shoulders, as if deflecting the blow that had been aimed her way. I had the feeling she had made a decision. “There’s something you should know,” she said finally.

I couldn’t imagine what she planned to throw at me now.

“Max Gordon called yesterday. Asking a lot of questions about you. I—I don’t know why. He made me promise I wouldn’t say anything to you.” She hugged her elbows. “But…I thought you should know.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Where you live. Who your friends are. That kind of thing.”

I stood there for a moment, gave her a nod, and headed to the car. As we pulled away, the last image I saw was Ricki Feldman in front of the burnt-out shell of the building, gazing blankly at it, as if she still wasn’t sure how or why it had all come down to this.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-FOUR

I dropped Jordan at his apartment, wishing there was some way to temper his bitterness and disappointment, but knowing there wasn’t. I didn’t ask what his plans were. After he found new homes for his boys, I guessed he would be heading back to California.

When I got home, I took a nap. I woke up heavy and fatigued. The sky had surrendered to dirty gray clouds. Though it was mid-afternoon, I made myself eggs, toast, and coffee. Comfort food. No one had died in the fire, no one was hurt, yet I felt as if I was mourning.

After eating, I decided to clean the house, an activity that usually centers me. Arming myself with sponge, bucket, and cleaner, I started in on the bathrooms. While I was scouring the tub, I stewed over Ricki’s warning.

I didn’t like the fact Max Gordon was asking questions about me, particularly after what I’d learned from Frank. It made me wonder—again—about the construction worker with the limp. Was he some kind of hit man? Did Max Gordon know him?

I sprinkled cleanser into the sink. Maybe Gordon had a business relationship with the Russian dentists, a relationship that somehow went bad, and the woman on the tape was caught in the crossfire. But what business dealings would a banker of Max Gordon’s stature have with an illegal dentists’ office in the western suburbs? Even if he was laundering money from Russia, I couldn’t see him filtering the money through them, and I couldn’t imagine any reason he’d have to finance them. Why would he sanction the death of a woman in their office?

And what about Petrovsky, the man who delivered the tape to my house? Was he connected to Gordon, too? Maybe he and Gordon had a falling out, Petrovsky was out for revenge, and made sure the tape was exposed. Or maybe Petrovsky had been a construction worker before he started working for DM Maids. Maybe he harbored a grudge against the man with the limp.

I scrubbed down the counters in the kitchen. The Russians, the dentists, the idea of money laundering, even Max Gordon himself, were part of a parallel universe operating beneath the surface of my world. It was a strange, alien universe, of which I had no knowledge. I didn’t even have enough information to formulate reasonable theories. Except that a construction worker on the site of Max Gordon’s tower was possibly moonlighting as a hit man. And that Gordon was probing Ricki Feldman about me.

By the time I mopped the floor and cleaned the refrigerator, dusk was settling. Bilious clouds had moved in, bringing with them a brittle wind that made the morning’s dawn seem like a cruel joke. I lowered the shades. We’d gotten to that bleak point in winter where the thought of more cold weather is intolerable, yet there’s no hint of spring.

I sank down on the couch in the family room. If only there was a way to link or exonerate Max Gordon—or the construction worker—to the murder of the woman on the tape. I rubbed my eyes and stared at the silent TV, waiting for inspiration. But the screen just stared back at me, an empty black maw sneering at my predicament.

Of course.

I jumped up and ran into the kitchen. My bag hung over a chair. I rummaged through it and pulled out the tape we’d shot of the ground-breaking ceremony—I’d picked up a window dub earlier that week. Back in the family room, I threw the tape into the VCR. If I could find a cutaway of the construction worker, I could take it to Mike Dolan. By comparing the two images, he might be able to determine if the man at the construction site and the man on the tape were the same.

I fast-forwarded through shots of the mayor and Max Gordon waddling up to the podium at warp speed, past shots of other Chicago VIPs frenetically talking, motioning, and stamping their feet. I was three-quarters of the way through the cassette when Mac panned across the knot of men near the back of the fence. As the camera moved from right to left, I slowed the tape to normal speed. Then I hit Pause. There, in the background, was the man in the ski mask.

“Yes!” I said triumphantly. Brightly lit, sharply focused, Mac’s shot caught the man in the center of the frame. You couldn’t see his face, but his shoulders and torso were well-defined, and his clothes were in focus. Plenty for Dolan to work with.

I grabbed the phone and called Davis. She might be sick of hearing from me, but she needed to know what was going on. She wasn’t at the station—it was a Saturday night—but I left a message. I told her about Max Gordon, the video, and the construction worker.

“He was wearing a ski mask, Davis. Like one of the killers on the tape. I think Mike Dolan should take a look at it—first thing Monday—and compare the two shots. If you don’t want to pay for it, I will.” I didn’t know how, but I’d worry about that later. “I’ll call Dolan tonight. Oh—and I’ve discovered some other things about Max Gordon. We need to talk.”

I hung up. The house was quiet. Even the normal ticks and snaps and creaks were silent. I briefly considered going to Dad’s. No. I couldn’t run to my father’s every time I was nervous. My thoughts strayed to the Colt .45 in the hall closet. I’d borrowed it from my father a year ago but never returned it. I had protection.

I left a message for Dolan—he was out, too—and started watching an HBO movie. Either it was pretty lousy, or I was still tired, because the next thing I knew, a sweep of headlights spilling across the window jarred me awake. I watched the play of light on the blind. When a car passes the house, the lights slide from left to right and then fade away. But this time, the lights snapped off in the middle of their arc.

A car door slammed. I raised myself from the couch. The clock on the VCR said it was after eleven. Rachel was with Barry tonight. I went to the window.

A black Buick was parked at the curb. A chill ran up my spine. Petrovsky! What did he want? Did Max Gordon send him? I hurried to the hall closet and pulled out the Colt. I stood by the door, estimating the time it took to walk from the curb to the house. When enough time had elapsed, I aimed the gun at the door and tried to remember what Dad had taught me about using the gun. Something about pulling back the slide, chambering a round, assuming a shooter’s stance. I prayed I would remember how to do it. I prayed even harder I wouldn’t have to.

I was clutching the gun in both hands when the doorbell rang. A disconnect sliced through my brain. People who want to harm others generally don’t ring doorbells. Still, better to be sure. I released the safety, peered through the peephole, and sucked in a breath.

Standing on my doorstep was the blonde from Celestial Bodies. The one with crossed eyes who’d been lurking at the dressing room door. Who pawed through my wallet. She stamped her feet and gazed through the peephole. She was dressed in cowboy boots, jeans, and a thin leather jacket. With her wastefully thin body, she could have passed for a boy. Why was she here? I kept the latch hooked, but opened the door a crack.

She greeted me with a self-assured nod, as if dropping by my house was a routine event. I peered out at the Buick. I didn’t see anyone inside. She followed my gaze. “Is okay. I am alone.” Her voice was low and throaty.

“Is that your car?”

“It is friend’s. I borrow.” She motioned impatiently. “We go now and talk. I have not much time.”

I was still taking in her last comment. “Petrovsky is
your
friend?”

She looked like she wanted to forcibly pull me out of the house. “My friend. Yes.” She spotted the gun that was still in my hand. Her expression turned quizzical, as if she was surprised, even amused, that I felt the need to brandish a weapon. I lowered the gun.

“You come with me.”

“Go with you? Why should I go anywhere with you?”

“We must. Go talk. Have coffee.”

“I’ll make coffee here.”

She cast a furtive glance around the front yard. “No. Is not safe.”

“What do you mean?”

She looked at me. “Please. Is important. We talk.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because I know the woman on the tape.” She motioned to the doorknob. “Please. Open door.”

I didn’t know what to do. The last time I’d had contact with this woman, I’d nearly lost my life. Tonight, though, she looked purposeful. Intense. Even a little sad. And if she knew the woman on the tape.… I hesitated, then took the latch off the door.