An Image of Death (7 page)

I toweled off, got dressed, and went into my office. A tiny purple ceramic shoe sits on top of my computer monitor, a birthday present from Susan. She’d attached a card to it that said: “No one will ever fill yours.” I sat down, booted up, and went online.

A few minutes later, I found an article about video forensics written by someone in the Chicago area who started out as a videographer but was later “certified”—whatever that meant—as a forensic analyst by the Cook County Sheriff’s Department. When I looked him up, he turned out to be in Park Ridge, a village about twenty minutes away. I punched in his number.

A gravelly voice answered. “Mike Dolan.”

I put on my most charming voice. “Good morning, Mr. Dolan. My name is Ellie Foreman, and I have a digital tape that needs some work. I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

“What law enforcement agency are you with?”

“I—I’m not.”

“You with the press?”

“No.” I hesitated. “I’m a video producer.”

He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his voice was even more scratchy. Years of smoking, probably. “If you have evidence that a crime has been committed, you should be talking to the police.”

“I did,” I blurted out.

“And?” His voice sounded stern.

“I—I was just wondering, if I wanted to have it looked at privately, how much are we talking about?”

“Four hundred an hour,” he said, not missing a beat. “And another five for setup.”

“Are you kidding? Nine hundred just to walk in the door?”

“You’re a video producer, you say?”

“That’s right.”

“You’ve got a client, right? It’s not coming out of your pocket.”

“But I—I don’t have—my budget doesn’t have that kind of flexibility. I can’t afford nine hundred dollars.”

“Sorry.” He sounded almost cheerful.

“I can tell.” I disconnected and tossed the phone onto the chair.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

I thought I’d stepped back in time when I walked through the door in Evanston the next day. Tucked away in an alley off Sherman Avenue, the building looked like an old carriage house that had been renovated once before but needed another go-round. The entry hall had high ceilings, crown moldings, and a massive door, but the moldings were chipped, the walls needed paint, and the carpeting looked like it had been there since the Vietnam War.

It wasn’t just the architecture that evoked an earlier era. The walls were papered with colored fliers advertising everything from adoption counseling to yoga for couples. As I squeezed past a couch so battered even the Salvation Army would reject it, I imagined a Movement office next to the Organic Food Coop, which would be next to Benefits for Returning Vets.

A sign on one of two offices down the hall identified the occupant as Jordan Bennett, PhD, MASC. Underneath his credentials was the word
Transitions
. The door was partially open, so I pushed through, anticipating a guy with a full beard in scruffy jeans and Birkenstocks.

The only thing I got right were the jeans, but they weren’t scruffy. Sitting behind a desk was a leaner, lankier version of Denzel Washington. A blue crewneck sweater set off his skin, and when he smiled, which he was doing now, he was definitely “hot,” as Rachel would say.

“Thanks for rescheduling the meeting.” I pushed a lock of hair behind my ear. I was glad I’d worn the new sweater she’d given me for Hanukkah.

“Ricki said you were a busy person.” He gave my hand a businesslike squeeze, almost as if he knew what his effect on women was and didn’t want it to interfere with his agenda. He motioned to one of two chairs facing the desk. “Please, sit down.”

I sat and checked out the office. Despite the high ceilings, the room had a musty smell, intensified by an excess of steam heat spewing out of the radiator. Stacks of folders lay on the floor, and cartons were pushed into corners. A framed poster leaned against the radiator. Nails protruded from the walls, with rectangular discolorations around them, which made me think the previous occupant’s artwork had hung on the walls until recently.

“You just move in?”

He glanced around. “Not exactly. As a matter of fact, up until a week ago, I thought I was moving out.”

“Oh?”

“I came east from California about a year ago to set up the Chicago office of Transitions. We got up to speed pretty fast, but then—”

“Transitions? I thought it was called WISH.”

He looked puzzled.

“WISH,” I repeated. “Women for Interim Subsidized Housing.”

He paused, then leaned back. “Is that what the women are calling themselves?”

I frowned. “Am I missing something?”

“The organization’s name is Transitions. But we’re new and relatively obscure, as nonprofits go. One of our strategies is to build networks and partnerships. Ally ourselves with other groups.”

“The women.”

He nodded.

“I thought they were your fund-raising arm.”

“Frankly, I’m not sure how they’re set up. Or why they call themselves WISH. I’m just grateful they’re around.”

I grinned. “Transitions, huh?” The women probably didn’t want their mission to be misconstrued as a menopause support group.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“Nothing.” I wiped off my smile. “How…how did you hook up with them?”

“Through Ricki Feldman.” He gestured to the mess on the floor. “It’s her fault the office looks the way it does.”

“Now you’ve lost me.”

“This was the cheapest space I could find. I signed a two-year lease, but then last month I get a letter saying the owner wanted to buy out my lease and tear down the building. I met Ricki when I went to her office to persuade her not to.”

“Feldman Development owns this building?”

“That’s right.” The radiator clanged and hissed.

“I get it.” It was my turn to pause. “But you’re still here.”

Bennett pushed up his sleeves to his elbows. “We struck a deal. She said she’d wait until we had the money to move.”

“Which she’s now helping you to find.”

He grinned. “You
do
get it.”

“She’s something else.”

“Yes, she is.” His smile deepened.

It occurred to me Bennett hadn’t said anything about a family moving east with him. It also occurred to me that Ricki Feldman wasn’t the type of person to let any opportunity pass her by. And with his intelligence, charm, and killer looks, Jordan Bennett had opportunity written all over him.

“But we’re grateful for support from any quarter. Including video producers.”

“You’ve been checking me out.”

“You passed.” He rocked back in his chair.

“So, tell me about Transitions. Or WISH. Or whatever it’s called. And how you got involved with them.”

He squared a piece of paper on his desk. “I grew up in foster care.”

“I thought you said the organization was relatively new.”

“That’s right.”

“Then how did you—I mean.…” I waved a hand.

“A woman in Marin County took me in. Taught me how to dress, how to talk, how to eat with a knife and fork. She had connections. It was through her I got a scholarship to UCLA.” He paused. “I was lucky. Some kids aren’t.” He paused again.

“Did you know almost twenty percent of the homeless were in foster care at some point?”

A door opened and closed down the hall. I shook my head.

“Most people don’t. Once a kid is eighteen, he’s supposed to be out of the foster care system. But a lot of them have been bounced from home to home, or they’ve been depending on lawyers and social workers to solve their problems. They don’t have a clue how to rent an apartment, how to buy groceries, how to open a bank account. It’s all too much for them. When they go out on their own, they give up.”

“Give up?”

“Some get pregnant and go on welfare. Others get involved with gangs or end up on the street.”

“You didn’t.”

“Like I said, I was lucky. I’ll never forget the thrill the first time I bought my own groceries. Or put the clothes I bought myself in my own dresser. It’s a high, you know? I decided other kids should experience it.”

“I thought this was just about subsidized housing.”

“We also want to teach them how to live on their own. At least to know what’s expected of them.”

“And you want the video to raise awareness of their plight?”

He nodded. “We want opinion leaders and legislators to see it. We’re lobbying for changes in the housing codes. Of course, with this administration, it’s like spitting in the wind.”

“How come?”

“There’s an Undersecretary at HUD—a holdover from the Clinton years. But he’s fighting an uphill battle, and I’m afraid if we interview him, he’ll lose his job. We need every friend we can muster in that town. Happily, there’s a congressman who’ll say that a few well placed grants will save money in the Section Eight programs. And he’s from southern Illinois.”

“You want to interview him.”

He nodded and launched into an explanation of federally funded housing programs and how they were geared toward families, not singles. My mind wandered. David had grown up in foster homes all over Pennsylvania. Had he felt the same way as Jordan Bennett? David had the proper social graces, but I never thought to ask how he’d learned them. In fact, it occurred to me I didn’t know very much about his life before we met. A brown leaf, somehow left over from fall, drifted past the window.

“My…a close friend of mine grew up in foster care.”

He looked at me with new interest. “No wonder Ricki wanted you in on this.”

I was about to tell him Ricki couldn’t possibly have known about David’s background. Then again…. I kept my mouth shut.

***

“You said you could run an eight-minute mile,” Rachel called out as she sprinted past me on Voltz Road.

“I could, once upon a time.” I picked up my pace, but it was hopeless.

“You’re slipping, Mom,” she yelled over her shoulder.

I laughed and let her widen her lead. Rachel’s always been built for speed. I remembered her at six, streaking across the front lawn one Sunday morning chasing a rabbit. It was spring, and she was wearing her
Beauty and the Beast
nightgown—the one she refused to take off for about a year. She thought we’d bought her a bunny for Easter. We had to let her down easily. Not only did we not buy it, but we didn’t celebrate Easter.

Now though, watching her pass me on the bike path, her cheeks flushed, eyes bright, I felt unaccountably grateful. She was a child of divorce, and she hadn’t been raised with the extras that others consider their birthright, but she hadn’t been shunted around to strangers. She had loving parents and family, good friends, and was even starting to think about her future. I blinked. Maybe there really was a God.

Rachel turned around, jogging in place. “Oh, I almost forgot. Is it okay if I spend the weekend with Sara? Her parents invited me to go to their house in Galena.”

Galena, a small town on the Mississippi at the western edge of the state, has become a trendy vacation spot. With skiing in the winter and boating in the summer, it’s an all-purpose, inexpensive resort, assuming you can bear its refurbished nineteenth-century charm. “The whole weekend?”

She nodded. “We’ll leave after school on Friday. Be back Sunday night.”

David was coming out Friday. We’d have the house to ourselves. For two days. And nights. Yes, there really was a God.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

My dear Herr Meyer,

In the hope that this letter finds you healthy and well, I beg your indulgence for this intrusion. I have been reluctant to pose these questions heretofore—perhaps I did not want to know the answers. However, life has led me to a juncture in which it is necessary that I make the effort.

Sixty years ago the Gottlieb family lived a few buildings down from the synagogue in the central part of the village. Herr Gottlieb was a tailor; he and Frau Gottlieb had four children.

The family was assumed to have perished during the war—with the possible exception of the eldest daughter, Lisle. It was thought that her parents arranged passage by steamship to a relative in Chicago, Illinois, USA, in 1938.

Herr Meyer, I would be most grateful for any information about Lilie and her progeny—from any quarter. Indeed, it is most urgent that this occur. Please direct any persons with information to reply to the following address.

P.O. Box 58 (Antwerp 11)
B-2013 Antwerp
Belgium

I handed the letter back to David. He folded it and put it into his pocket.

“What do you think?” he asked.

We were eating dinner at a village restaurant that seems to reinvent itself every five years. A French bistro in its current incarnation, it has art deco walls, white floor tiles, and plenty of attitude. But neither of us was paying much attention to the milieu.

“Tell me again how you got it.”

“Meyer read it over the phone to a woman at the bank. She translated it for me.”

“Meyer?”

“Mrs. Freidrich and Mr. Meyer are neighbors. He got the letter. She called me.”

“So he told her about it?”

“I assume so,” he said impatiently. “But that’s not important. What do you think?” he asked again.

“About what?”

“Do you think it could be from my uncle?”

“I’m not sure I can answer that. I have no way to tell. Why would he be in Antwerp?”

Our waiter, who’d been hovering a few discreet feet away, asked if we wanted another drink. When I nodded, he whisked our glasses away.