Window of Guilt (11 page)

“My mama’s really into that.”

“Is your big sister home?” asked Laurie.

“Come on in,” the girl said, directing them to a brown cloth sofa. “Shakia,” she yelled up the stairs. She turned back to the two women. “Where’s Rory?”

“He went to the movies with his dad.”

The girl’s eyes sparkled. “It was fun playing with him at Shakia’s graduation party.”

“You on the girls’ basketball team at Evanston High School?” asked Mitzy.

“This is my second year. My mama’s hoping I get a scholarship.” An older girl in black framed glasses ambled into the living room. “Hey, Ms. Atkins.”

“I gotta get the dogs out for a pee before Mom gets home from work,” said Naijah. She gave Laurie a quick hug, waved goodbye to Mitzy, then scooted off.

“Clean this place up, too,” Shakia called after her. “Smells like a dog kennel.”

“I don’t get paid to do that,” her younger sister protested.

“I’ll tell Mama,” her sister threatened.

“Okay, okay,” said Naija, her voice echoing out the back door. “Shakia, this is my friend, Mitzy Maven,” said Laurie.

“Hey.”

“Thought we’d stop by and see how your new teaching job is going.”

“I’ve got third graders. They’re lots of fun.”

“Ah yes,” Mitzy said wistfully. “Those first few honeymoon months of teaching.”

“You teach, too?” asked Shakia.

“Seventh and eighth grade special ed.”

“Sweet,” Shakia said politely.

“Just had a couple of quick questions about the house in Wisconsin,” said Laurie.

The girl raised her eyebrows. “I cleaned the place best I could before I moved out.”

“The house was spotless,” Laurie reassured her. “You have any friends from the city come up to visit while you were renting?”

Shakia laughed. “Sure. My friends from De Paul and Loyola came up to visit me all the time. Anything to get away from their parents for the weekend, right?”

“You happen to give your roommate or any of your friends my home address?”

“Of course not.”

“What about your family members?” asked Mitzy.

“Just Mama.”

“How ’bout that guy you were having trouble with?” asked Laurie.

“Haven’t heard from Todd since we broke up.”

Todd. Laurie’s heart quickened.

Shakia looked at her strangely. “My mama taught me not to question my elders, but what’s this all about?”

“Did he go by a nickname?” asked Mitzy.

“TG.”

Laurie and Mitzy exchanged glances. “Did Todd have Mrs. Atkin’s address in Chicago?” asked Mitzy.

Shakia appeared lost in thought. “One time when I was sick, I gave Todd my rent check to mail to you. Can’t remember if I gave him your P.O. box or your home address. What’s wrong? Did my check bounce?”

“The last week of August, I found a dead man on my lawn,” Laurie blurted.

“Oh my god!” screamed Shakia.

“Something wrong?” Naija yelled from the kitchen, back from walking the dogs.

“Everything’s fine,” Mitzy called back.

“I checked his pockets for a wallet,” said Laurie. “He had none. Later, I found a folded napkin with both my home address and Wisconsin address printed on it.”

“And you think the guy was Todd?” Shakia asked, slipping into a wing chair.

“He own a sleeveless yellow jersey with his initials on the front?” asked Mitzy.

“Lots of guys do,” gulped Shakia.

“With the number ‘7’ on the front?” asked Laurie.

The girl’s eyes clouded with doubt.

“Why’d you guys break up?” asked Mitzy.

Shakia’s eyes flashed. “He wasn’t working. Always mooching money for drugs. Towards the end of our relationship, we got in a fight and he punched the bathroom door. Then he tried to punch me. Fortunately I know Tae Kwon Do! Only reason I stayed so long was ’cause he was good in bed.”

Laurie reddened.

“Sorry, Mrs. Atkins,” Shakia said sheepishly. “I’m sure Todd is fine. I’ll call him right now.” The girl pulled out her cell phone and punched in her ex-boyfriend’s number.

“By the way,” whispered Laurie, “the Wisconsin police say you gave them my cell phone number but listed it under your name.”

“I was paranoid that Todd was stalking me,” Shakia said defensively. “He’d camp out on the front lawn of the Wisconsin house. My mom doesn’t use a cell phone. I figured if something happened while I was up there, the police could reach you right away.” Suddenly Shakia’s face paled. “Todd’s number is disconnected.”

“How about his parents?” asked Mitzy.

Shakia scanned the White Pages on her Blackberry. “He’s in Chicago but they live on a farm in southern Illinois. There’s like a thousand listings for ‘Gray’ in that part of Illinois.”

“Do you know Todd’s license plate number?” Mitzy asked.

The girl shoved her cell phone in her jeans pocket. “I still don’t get why I should be telling you guys all this stuff about Todd.”

“If something did happen to your boyfriend, you could be brought in for questioning,” said Mitzy. “Does your family really need all that hullabaloo?”

Shakia shook her head.

“I’ve got this detective friend, Maggie O’Connor,” continued Mitzy. “She’s with the CPD. She can run Todd’s license plate number for us.”

Shakia looked at Laurie. “What do you think I should do?”

“Mitzy used to be an investigative reporter,” Laurie said. “You can trust her.”

A whiff of lavender swept through the front door. “Hey,” said Mrs. Williams, dropping her heavy purse on the hall table.

“Todd’s license plate number is ‘Fifty Cents,’” Shakia whispered furtively.

Laurie jotted the number on a scrap of paper, then rushed to embrace the buxom older woman. “Sorry, but we need to run.”

“Well fine then. Don’t you forget to bring your little boy and your husband over come Christmas, you hear?”

“I’ll remember,” Laurie said, as she and Mitzy strode out the entranceway.

Mitzy whistled. “Three months in advance. My mother didn’t send out her wedding invites until a month before the big day.”

Laurie passed the scrap of paper to Mitzy, then slipped into the silver Mazda 3. “Takes all kinds.”

Grinning, Mitzy pulled away from the curb.

*

“Harder,” commanded the personal trainer, standing spread-eagled before him, his flat-mitted hands raised parallel to his upper body.

The image of Brad Jr.’s taunting smile colored Ryan punches as he twisted from his core and whammed his right fisted mitt, then his left, into Frankie’s heavy leather pads.

“Three, two, and one.” The personal trainer yanked off his mitts. “Great workout.”

Ryan peeled off his gloves, then threw them into an empty laundry basket. “I got you to thank, dude.”

Kneeling, Frankie consulted his clipboard. “Seventy-five sit-ups, forty leg pulls, twenty reps of weights, and an hour on the Elliptical, three times a week. You’ve really come a long way in the last twelve months.”

In more ways than you know, thought Ryan. A wave of emotion zapped his chest as he extended his hand. “I want to thank you talking me through my panic attack last month.”

Frankie jumped to his feet. Then he shook Ryan’s hand. “You don’t need to go there, man.”

Ryan glanced at the muscular young man, then smiled. “My wife’s ragging on me about the cost of personal training. I’m thinking maybe I should take some time off.” Actually, Laurie had only inquired about his most recent credit card charge, but it was time he spent less time building up his muscles and more time building up his résumé.

The trainer raised his eyebrows. “Hate to see you break your stride.”

Ryan shuddered. Impossible not to when a kid shows up dead on your front lawn. Had he spent his last minutes gasping for air before succumbing to the heat? Had he thrashed about in pain as an internal vise took hold of his heart?

“Your leg cramping again?” Frankie asked, his voice concerned.

“What? Oh no, I’m fine.”

Together he and Frankie strode past a mass of stationary bicyclists staring at a variety of television channels as they pedaled imaginary slopes. “How ’bout we talk to my manager, see if we can do something for you,” Frankie offered.

“That would be great,” said Ryan. He was curious to see what they’d pull off, financially speaking.

Silently, they walked past grunting weight lifters. Even with the air conditioning at full blast, the scent of sweat permeated the air.

“You were a health insurance agent before the big slam, right?” asked Frankie.

“Something like that.”

“Hey, Frankie,” a twenty-something girl in short black shorts called from the mats.

“Hey, Vanessa,” the personal trainer shot back. They passed the Olympic sized pool. “Up for some laps?”

Ryan shook his head. “I’m swimming in memories.” The memory of Brad Jr. threatening him over the denied medical claims of eight young people with catastrophic illnesses. Rather than be part of corrupt insurance practices, Ryan had walked out the door. Shortly thereafter, he slit open a letter from the unemployment office only to learn he’d been turned down for benefits because he voluntarily left his place of employment.

One week later, non-government endorsed checks commenced appearing in his mailbox, a Griselda Jones as endorsee. Ryan suspected his benefactor was somehow connected to Great Harvest, more specifically, Brad Hamilton Jr. Yet he made no move to track her down. Allowing Laurie to believe he was receiving unemployment compensation, he deposited those checks into his checking account and kept the stubs.

“I know some dudes who can cancel those memories real fast,” offered Frankie.

Ryan stopped to watch the racquetball players. “If it comes to that, I’ll let you know.”

“This offer has no expiration date,” said Frankie.

Just then, a girl emerged from the racquetball court, her tank top soaked with sweat. “Hey, Frankie.”

“Hey, Mitzy. Nice game.”

Ryan groaned. Wasn’t it enough the nosy bitch was ensconced in his wife’s life? Did they have to share the same personal trainer?

“Thanks. Hey, Ryan. How did Laurie score on her real estate exam?”

“Uh, she should find out later today.”

“You guys know each other?” asked the personal trainer.

“I got to take off.” Ryan strode out of the club.

“Guilt is our helmsman

And our scourge.”

Leo Rosten

15

“Miss the Windy City?” came a deep-throated voice.

“
Who’s this?” Officer Gomez demanded into the phone.

“Lighten up, Carmen. It’s Maggie O’Connor, you’re old bud from CPD.”

“Mag Pie? You taking up smokin’? Your voice sounds as raspy as a pit bull.”

“It’s raw from yelling. I’m down at U.S. Cellular field. The White Sox just beat the Red Sox!”

“You sure it’s not from French kissing your partner?” Carmen teased.

“Monroe? He don’t go for chicks.”

“Seems like forever since I been to a game back home,” mused the Wisconsin detective. “So what’s up?”

“I understand you’re working on a John Doe found dead on a neighbor’s driveway.”

“Your days aren’t busy enough, you gotta go poking’ your nose up in my neck of the woods?” Carmen asked in a peeved voice.

“Chill, sugar. Remember Mitzy Maven?”

“The investigative reporter who used to hang around the police station?”

“Yep. She’s tight with Laurie Atkins.”

“A real winner, that one. Claims to have found the dead body on her lawn.”

“Any evidence to support her claim?” asked Maggie.

“Odds are she hallucinated the whole scenario.”

“You ID the vic?”

“Still waiting on the DNA match. A young woman by the name of Susie Gray showed up from Urbana, Illinois a few weeks back. She was worried the vic on the Internet posting was her brother, Todd. Fortunately for her, it wasn’t.”

“According to his license plate, the guy’s name is Todd Gray,” said Maggie.

“Didn’t I just say Susie Gray signed off on the vic?”

“Different Todd Gray.”

“It ain’t right to investigate behind my back, Mag Pie.”

“You ever known me to be anything but a team player, Carmen?”

“Always a first time.”

“First time, nothing. My friend asked me for a little help, is all. Evidently, she received that license plate number from a Shakia Williams. Atkin’s renter recently broke up with a loser whose face matched the photo.”

“Let me guess. The loser’s name is Todd Gray.”

“You got it.”

“What’s the story on the ex-boyfriend?”

“Dude’s been living in Uptown,” said Maggie. “Look, I’m taking a couple of days off from work to celebrate the White Sox winning the World Series. You want I should check out Mr. Gray in between games?”