After waiting for what seemed an eternity—in reality it’s about three weeks—we finally get a good tip: an Indian woman living in a high-rise on Kenmore is certain our John Doe is her neighbor. Apparently she had been out of town for a while and this is the first time she’s seen his face on TV.
So I bring backup and make my way downtown—again. The high-rise is located in Uptown, certainly not the best neighborhood in the city; not the worst, either. Far from it. It’s a mix of people who can’t quite afford the classier areas like Lakeview or Lincoln Park, and an eclectic mix of men and women who just stepped off the boat. It’s very diverse. Ethnic restaurants line the streets, and not just Chinese and Mexican; there’s Moroccan and Vietnamese and Ethiopian joints. Regardless of its diversity, nearly half the population of Uptown is still white. It’s relatively safe to walk around at night. Uptown is known for its nightlife of historic theaters and bars. Many well-known names have made the trip to Uptown to perform for nobodies like me.
I find the apartment building and double-park; last thing I’m going to do is donate another penny to the city of Chicago to park my car. The butch cop and I head inside and take the elevator to the unit. There’s no answer and the door is locked. Of course. So we beg the landlord to let us in. She’s an old lady who hobbles along beside us and refuses to let us borrow the key. “You can’t trust anyone these days,” she says. She tells us that the unit is rented by a woman named Celeste Monfredo. She had to look it up in her files. She knows nothing about the woman other than she pays her rent on time.
“But of course the unit could be a sublet.”
“How would we know?” I ask.
The old lady shrugs. “We wouldn’t. Tenants are required to sublet their own units or pay to break the lease.”
“There’s no paperwork?” I can’t pick up Sudafed at the pharmacy without having to sign away my life.
“None that I keep. The tenants are still required to pay rent. Anything happens, it’s their problem. Not mine.”
I take the key from her hands and let myself in. The landlord pushes her way into the apartment beside Butch and me. I have to ask her more than once not to touch anything.
I’m not sure what strikes me first: an overturned lamp, lights on in the middle of the day, or the contents of a woman’s purse scattered across the floor. I reach into my pocket for a pair of latex gloves and roam the apartment. There’s a stack of mail on the kitchen counter, hidden beneath an overdue library book. I check out the address label; every single one of them has been sent to a Michael Collins at a P.O. box in the city. Butch slips her hands in latex and heads for the purse. She delves in and finds a wallet, and inside, a driver’s license. “Mia Dennett,” she says aloud, though of course we both knew exactly what it would say.
“I want phone records,” I say. “And fingerprints. And we need to canvass the building. Every unit. Is there a security camera?” I ask the landlord. She says that there is. “I need everything you have from October 1.”
I examine the wall: concrete. No one would have heard a thing that happened inside this room.
Colin
Before
She wants to know how much I got paid for this. She asks too many questions.
“I didn’t get paid a damn thing,” I remind her. “I get paid for finishing a job.”
“How much were you offered?”
“None of your business,” I say.
We’re in the bathroom, of all places. She’s on her way in. I’m on my way out. I don’t bother to tell her the water is ice-cold.
“Does my father know about this?”
“I told you already. I don’t know.”
The ransom was to be collected from her father. That I know. But I don’t have a damn clue what Dalmar did when I didn’t show up with the girl.
She smells of morning breath, her hair a labyrinth of dirty blond.
She closes the door on me and I hear the water begin to run. I try not to imagine her stripping away her clothes and stepping into the piercing water.
When she comes out she’s drying the ends of her hair with a towel. I’m in the kitchen eating granola and freeze-dried milk. I’ve forgotten what it tastes like to eat real food. I’ve got all the cash spread out on the table, and I’m counting what we’ve got left. She eyes the cash. We’re not broke. Not yet. That’s a good thing.
She tells me how she always thought some disgruntled convict would shoot her father on the courthouse steps. In her voice I hear a different story. She didn’t think it would happen. She hoped.