CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Marika and I were eating breakfast Saturday morning when I got a call from Bram. I’d heard from him late the night before when we were both too tired to do more than whisper a few words of worry and affection. But I could instantly tell from his tone of voice that this would be a different kind of conversation.

“This is Bram Cortez,” he identified himself, his voice formal, carrying a warning note. I wondered if Tony Siracusano was sitting nearby, listening in—or already monitoring my calls.

“Hi. What’s up? How’s Quentin?” No need for me to act guilty or strange. Not yet, anyway.

“Quentin’s about as you might expect. But doing all right.”

“I was thinking about coming over today to keep him company.”

There was a small pause. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he said and did not explain why. Because I was under suspicion? Because Quentin was under suspicion? Who was he trying to keep safe?

“What’s happened?” I asked directly.

“Your DNA was found on the murder weapon. A Trellin-X laser owned by the victim.”

I nodded, though he couldn’t see me. “I handled that gun once. When Quentin and I were looking at his father’s collection.”

“That’s what Quentin told Siracusano.”

“But I guess I can’t prove that that’s the only time I picked up that gun. Any gun.”

“There are still a lot of other traces on it,” he said. “We haven’t identified them all.”

“Well, in this day and age, anyone who commits a premeditated murder and doesn’t wear gloves is just plain stupid,” I said. Marika, who was lifting a coffee cup to her mouth, paused to give me a look of amazement. I went on, “I would think anyone whose prints are on the gun is less likely to be your suspect than someone who didn’t leave any evidence behind.”

“That’s assuming it was premeditated,” he said. “Could have been someone who came in at that hour to make some kind of top-secret deal. And that person got into an argument with Duncan Phillips. And whoever picked up the gun shot him on the spur of the moment.”

I kneaded the base of my neck. I could feel a headache coming on. “Is there anything else you can tell me?” I asked. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“That might be wise.”

His careful, indifferent tone left me even more convinced that Siracusano was listening. “I wish I could be there,” I said, meaning with him, meaning with Quentin. Hoping he knew how to interpret the vague words.

“I’ll call you again when I know something more,” he said and disconnected.

I found that I was clutching the edge of the table as if trying to keep myself from collapsing to the floor. Marika set down her coffee cup and watched me. Neither of us said anything.

*

Domenic called about an hour after Marika had left for the lunch date with my mother. I had declined the offer to join them. The world was already too strange.

“What the hell’s going on with you?” were Domenic’s opening words. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you’re off shooting people.”

I had to wonder what Siracusano might think of that bit of byplay. Maybe he hadn’t started monitoring all my calls yet, just the ones from Bram. “I didn’t shoot anybody. Jason thinks you might know a lawyer. Seeing as how you know all sorts of people.”

“Woman I dated a couple of times last year was a hotshot attorney with some criminal law outfit. I’d recommend her.”

“Does she have warm feelings toward you, or is she one of those people you dumped without a word after the first night you slept together?”

I could hear the grin in his voice. “No, man, she broke up with me. Said she was too busy for a relationship.”

“And you said, ‘But wait! I’m too shallow for a relationship! We’d be perfect together.’”

“You know, I don’t have to help you out here.”

“Yeah, you do, or Jason would never speak to you again. He’s up at my mom’s today, by the way, introducing Marika as his girlfriend.”

“Looking to be sort of a pivotal week in the lives of the Kendall siblings,” Domenic observed.

“So what’s this woman’s name and how do I find her?”

“I’ll call her for you and get back in touch.”

“Thanks, Domenic.”

“Anytime you’re wanted for murder, you just count on me.”

*

The next call came from Caroline Summers. “Taylor? Thank God. Are you all right? I saw the news.”

“I’ve been afraid to watch,” I said. “What are they saying?”

She sounded genuinely upset, rocked hard from her normal icy poise. I suppose sensational news about one of her direct reports would unnerve even the calmest woman. “That Duncan Phillips was shot and they think it was by someone who knew him. Taylor, the news sites are running all sorts of speculative stories. They’re naming suspects and they’re giving odds on who the likely murderer might be.”

“Oh, shit,” I muttered. “Look, Caroline. I know this is bad. I mean, I didn’t kill him, but the fact that I’m entangled in a murder investigation is just—I’m sure the dean is upset—”

“He called me this morning.”

I was silent for a beat. “Does he want my resignation?”

“Of course not. Unless, of course, it turns out you had something to do with it.”

“If I had something to do with it, I imagine I’d be in jail before the next semester,” I said baldly. “But if he’s concerned about how things look—”

“I think he’s more concerned about losing the money Duncan Phillips donated every year,” she said with a flash of her usual cool. “He seems more interested in the reading of the will than the apprehension of the killer.”

“Just what I love,” I said. “People who behave entirely in character even in the face of catastrophe.”

“Look, Taylor, I have to go to Houston tomorrow evening and I probably won’t come back until the middle of next week. Is there anything you need? Anything I can do?”

Just believe in me, I wanted to say, but that sounded so melodramatic that I couldn’t bring myself to voice the words. “I don’t think so. Thanks for calling, Caroline.”

“I’ll talk to you in a day or two,” she said and hung up.

I stared at the walls for a few minutes and thought I might go mad. How do you occupy yourself when you think you’re about to be accused of a heinous crime? I was too jumpy to read a book or watch TV. Doomscrolling through social media sounded like the worst idea ever. Shopping, my usual palliative, didn’t appeal at all. I made another phone call.

“Hey, Quentin,” I said when he answered. “How are you doing this morning?”

“Hi, Taylor,” he said, sounding pleased to hear my voice. “Oh, I’m—you know, things are pretty weird. I talked to my aunt, though.”

“Yeah? The one in Australia?”

“Yeah. She says she wants me to come live with her once everything’s settled down here.”

“And do you want to do that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s so far away, and I’m afraid I’d never get to see you and Bram and Dennis and Francis again. And Bordeaux.”

My heart absolutely broke for him, but I tried to keep my voice light. “Well, hey, I’ve always wanted an excuse to go to Australia! I’ll come visit you. I bet everyone else would, too.”

“Yeah,” he said, sounded young and uncertain. “Bram says you’re not coming over today, though.”

Why? Why was I not to come over? “I’ve got some things to take care of here,” I said.

“Bram says the police are monitoring your calls.”

I opened my mouth, then shut it hard. “Well,” I finally managed, “I guess that means I should be careful what I say.”

“Bram says they’re monitoring mine, too,” he added.

I was sure Lieutenant Siracusano was happy to learn, as he audited this conversation, exactly how much information Bram Cortez had supplied to the primary suspects. But I was pretty sure Bram had told Quentin specifically so the news would be passed on to Dennis and Bordeaux and me. “I guess we should all be careful, then,” I said.

“Yeah, and did you know your EarFone could be used as a locator device?” he asked. “So if you’re trying to hide from someone and you have it turned on—even if you’re not using it, Bram says—people can find you.”

“Gosh, maybe I should turn mine off,” I said lightly. But I felt sick with fear. Why did Bram want me to know that? I had thought Jason was overreacting. Maybe it was a guy thing, cops and robbers, intergalactic space war, all those macho childhood games they played. Think of the worst-case scenario and act accordingly and with great bravado.

“If you turn it off, I won’t be able to call you,” he pointed out.

“Call Marika. She’s going to be visiting Chicago for a while, so she can get me a message.”

“Sure, I could do that.”

“So what are Bram and the cops doing today, do you know?” I asked. “Or do they tell you?”

“I think they’re looking through the computer records. They got some of the information back early this morning. Door codes and stuff. So I guess pretty soon they’re going to know who came in Thursday night.”

Which should have been good news for me, since I hadn’t come to Duncan Phillips’ house early on the morning in question. But if Bordeaux had . . .

“Okay, well, I wish them luck,” I said, since I couldn’t think of anything else to say. “I’ve got to go now, but let Marika know if you need anything, all right, buddy?”

“All right. Bye, Taylor.”

I had scarcely disconnected when the chime sounded in my ear again. “Get off the damn phone,” Jason said furiously.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I told you—don’t use the phone. Put on your WristWatcher.”

“Look, I’m just sitting here in my house. If anyone was looking for me, that’s where they’d start, anyway.”

“Right. Turn off the phone, put on your WristWatcher, read what I’ve sent you.”

“How’s it going with Mom?”

“Great. She cried. She thinks we’re getting married.”

“Are you?”

“We’ll think about that after we’ve cleaned up this little mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“That is so unfair.”

“Turn it off, Tay. For real. Bye.”

So I disconnected and powered down, which made me feel strange. Isolated and alone, adrift and on my own in a world suddenly peopled by threats and terrors. I was used to being able to establish contact with someone by speaking a few words aloud into thin air. Now, everyone I knew and loved and trusted seemed separated from me by unfriendly distances. I felt like I’d snapped a lifeline, and I didn’t think there were too many left to keep me afloat.

I picked up the WristWatcher, which I’d left on the dining room table last night, and strapped it on. Only then remembering to check for the message Jason had sent. With a groan, I saw that he had sent it in code, so I had to find the stupid sociology book and flip through its pages.

“Go to Domenic’s,” was the note I finally deciphered. “His key code is 7-1-1-5.”

I didn’t bother to encrypt my reply, though I made it vague enough that only Jason would understand it. “Does he know about this?”

The answer came back in seconds, so Jason was obviously sitting there waiting for me. “Yes. Go.”

“Tonight,” I replied, because I wasn’t about to spend a whole day just sitting in Domenic’s high-rise downtown apartment, waiting for the world to implode. I’m never really comfortable at Domenic’s. He’s decorated with black leather furniture and chrome accents and strange lighting, and every time I’m there I look around and wonder who has been seduced where. When I said this to him once, he laughed and said he usually kept women out of his place, preferring to romance them on their own turf. Somehow, this didn’t make me feel better.

While I was contemplating exactly how to pass the hours before trundling over to Domenic’s, the doorbell rang. My last unexpected visitor had arrived with roses in hand, but an instinctive reaction of trepidation led me to expect a much different caller this time. I was right. When I opened the door, I found Lieutenant Siracusano before me, his bulk mostly blocking my view of two younger cops standing behind him.

“Ms. Kendall,” the big man said. “Had a couple more things I wanted to ask you. Can we come in?”

I felt the blood frisk madly through my body, a yelping little terrier of an adrenaline response. “Don’t you need a search warrant to go through my house?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I wasn’t planning on searching. But I can get the warrant, if you like.”

I did not step back from the doorway to admit him. “What do you want?”

“Just wondering what you were doing at Olympic Stadium Thursday night. Or rather, Friday morning. Thought you were supposed to be at a party.”

I swallowed against a dry throat. “I was at a party. Most of the night.”

“According to the records generated by the credit system at Olympic Terminal, your thumb chip was presented there around 12:40 Friday morning. Do you have a recollection of using it then?”

I nodded, unable to speak.

“So, there’s no problem with your account? There’s been no duplication or unauthorized use of your chip?”

I shook my head.

Siracusano watched me with those unwavering dark eyes. Behind him, his attendant cops peered at me over his big shoulders, fascinated by the sight of this potential killer. “What were you doing at Olympic Terminal at that hour, Ms. Kendall? Where were you going?”

I found my voice, small and choked though it was. “A friend from the party was nervous about teleporting by herself. I accompanied her to the station—watched her get in her gate—and went back to my party. I didn’t come to Chicago.”

He held out a small recorder for me to speak into. “And I’m sure you have that friend’s name and address?”

“Her name is Sylvia McAllister. She lives in California. I can get her address and phone number and everything.”

“Good,” he said. “We’ll be needing that information.”

“I didn’t come to Chicago and kill Duncan Phillips.”

Siracusano didn’t answer that, just pocketed his recorder. “We’ll be in touch,” he said and swung away from the door. Neither he nor his companions looked back at me as they marched down the hall.

I went inside and packed an overnight bag. Left a message for Jason— Following the plan. Tell M I need Sylvia’s address —and headed out the door for Domenic’s.

*

That was a strange day, a strange night, alone in Domenic’s apartment worrying about my life. I arrived a little before five in the evening, my duffle bag slung over my shoulder and a bag of groceries in my arms. Domenic never stocked any food in his refrigerator. I’d stopped at a store in my neighborhood since—if Siracusano was tracing my purchases—I didn’t want my thumb chip registering anywhere near my secret hideaway. As I checked out, I requested fifty bucks in cash just so I could make a few sundry purchases in the future without leaving an electronic record behind. I was pleased that I thought of this. I was less pleased that I had to haul a bag of groceries with me through two teleport gates and down the crowded streets to Domenic’s place.

Where, truth be told, I didn’t feel all that safe. After I’d put away the perishables, I stood at the window of his apartment and looked at the panoramic view of Chicago spread out before me. Soaring glass buildings, squat dirty brick ones, neon signs, sidewalks, streets, cars, buses, L trains, people—viewed from this perspective, it was a layered, textured, industrious ant farm metropolis.

When the lights came up as darkness fell, it would be a glittering black ballroom of a city. Easy to hide in, you might think. Too big to be tracked through. But Siracusano must know everything about me by now, the addresses of all my family members, the addresses of all my friends. How long would it take him to figure out where I was?

I turned away from the window to the chilly comfort of Domenic’s apartment. He had laid towels and sheets on the black leather sofa, an inviting gesture, and placed on the coffee table the operating instructions to his entertainment center. I turned on his computer and visited a few news sites, all filled with hyperbolic accounts of the Duncan Phillips murder. Pictures of me were everywhere, most of them snapped yesterday when I rode in the golf cart from the gate to the house, but a few of them culled from old sources. My official Sefton ID photo was posted, for instance, as well as a couple shots from formal university functions that had been covered by the Houston press. In none of them, I thought, did I look particularly murderous. I particularly liked the one of me standing next to Nancy Ortega at some dinner where she had won a writing award. I looked caring and warm and supportive, I thought. Not at all homicidal.

Photos of Bram and Francis and Dennis also appeared throughout the reports, though images of Bordeaux and Quentin were conspicuously absent. Because they were legal minors, I supposed, and protected by law from defamation. I couldn’t keep myself from reading the personality profiles accompanying some of the photos, about my one divorce, Bram’s two, and Dennis’ “stormy relationship with a well-known Chicago-area clothing designer.” In fact, I learned more about Dennis’ personal life from these reports than I ever had from him, though I dismissed most of it as fabricated. Certainly, details about my own “spectacular financial disasters and complete emotional breakdown following the end of a contentious four-year marriage” were completely made up. I wondered if Danny was reading these passages right now. I wondered if he thought I was capable of murder.

I wondered if any of the people I knew were capable of murder. I thought several of them might be.

I shut off the computer.

As the hours dragged by, I flashfried a light dinner and forced myself to eat it. I turned on the television and surfed for distraction, watching about five minutes each of fifteen or twenty shows. I picked up books and put them down. I took a long shower, using many of Domenic’s expensive skin-and health-care products. Eventually, for lack of anything else to do, I stretched out on the couch and tried to sleep.

Instead, I spent a long time staring at the moving pattern of lights on the ceiling. I wanted desperately to call Marika or Jason, to hear a friendly voice soothe me with promises that all would be well. I wanted to call Quentin, just to say I was thinking of him, worrying over him, would rearrange the world, if I could, to make him happy.

More than anything, I wanted to talk to Bram Cortez. I wanted to hear his voice, deep and rumbling in my ear, have its low echoes filling up the dreadful accusatory silence. I wanted to ask him why, through Quentin, he had warned me to keep my distance. Was it because he feared for my life and freedom and couldn’t figure out how else to keep me safe? Or was it because he thought I might have killed Duncan Phillips?

I wanted to ask if he was the one who had done it.

I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want to know. But I was so hungry for the sound of his voice that I actually curled up on the couch in pain.

I couldn’t call him. I couldn’t talk to a soul, couldn’t jeopardize my fragile safety with any kind of unencrypted communication. I was alone, in danger, and afraid, and the world had never seemed like such a hostile and perilous place.

*

Morning surprised me. That’s because, lying awake and watching the hours flip slowly past, I had become convinced the night would never end. I had also believed I would never sleep again, so the fact that I had been wrong on both counts made me sit up in wonder. It was nearly ten, in fact, so I had slept a good long while. I had the vaguest memory of hearing Domenic come in sometime in the very early morning hours. He had crept up to me in the dark and kissed me on the cheek, then turned away without speaking and headed to his bedroom. I had slept much more soundly after that.

Shaking my head to clear it, I got up and contemplated my options. I simply could not spend another full day in this apartment, staring out the windows and slowly going mad. Plus, I didn’t want to risk waking Domenic, who had put in a full night working at the Evanston hospital. I decided I would have breakfast here and then head out for the day. Chicago’s a big city, after all—how hard could it be to amuse myself for a few hours? So I ate, dressed, left a note for my host, and departed.

Domenic’s place was close to the heart of the city, so I headed over to the high-end shopping district on Michigan Avenue. It felt good to be strolling along on this pretty Sunday morning, dodging pedestrians and admiring the buildings, a careless hybrid of the very old and the strikingly new. In high school, Marika and I had taken a class called Chicago Architecture, which had consisted mainly of field trips to the Loop to gawk at the elegance and craftsmanship of the old brick structures. Couldn’t remember a single thing I’d learned except to always look up when I passed one of those 19th- and 20th-century edifices—note the changing detail that marked each story, the graceful points of the Gothic windows, the ornamentation at the rooflines, the unexpected gargoyles. Our teacher had had no respect for the fantastical glass and metal confections created in the last hundred years, though Marika and I had been enthralled with the curving lines and disorienting reflections that broke the city into a thousand moving parts. To this day, when I walk downtown, I lift my eyes to the tops of the skyscrapers, and I always see something beautiful.

But glimpses of inspired architecture couldn’t keep me occupied for long, so my next stop was the Art Institute. I found a special exhibit of Pre-Raphaelite art, so I lost myself for a while in the dreamy romantic figures in their faux medieval pursuits. “‘I am half-sick of shadows,’ said the Lady of Shalott,” I murmured, feeling a certain sympathy for the imprisoned heroine who threw caution to the winds and rushed out to meet her doom.

Done with art, I still had hours of daylight left, so I slipped into a LucaPlex to watch a double feature. Usually at one of these cinemas, I feel physically transported to another place, another persona; the full-body effects are enough to make me forget who and where I am. But today my mind drifted and my senses did not respond. I did not believe I was running through the forest or ejecting from the spaceship or blowing away my enemies with my high-tech weapons.

Though it would have been nice to blow away my enemies, I thought. I looked at the screen and pictured Siracusano melting in agony. The smile made my face feel strange.

My WristWatcher vibrated two separate times while I sat in the darkened theater and watched the movies. Jason was either checking in or offering more dire news. I didn’t get up; I stayed seated until the last starship whirled through the last wormhole, and then I left with the hundred or so other movie-goers who had thought this might be a pleasant way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

In the main lobby, a massive construction of mirrors and pulsing lights, I found an unoccupied bench and sat down, pulling out my code book and a scrap of paper. Sure enough, Jason’s first message was all numerical, and I had to figure it out word by word. But when I finished and read back the message, my heart stood still.

“Q called M. Your door code used Thursday night. Cops looking for you. Respond.”