Deadly Beloved

newfound celebrity meant we got work. It kept us afloat.”

“Yes, and your celebrity has only increased. But had that truly been an effective way to come to terms with your husband’s murder, Ms. Tree, you wouldn’t be in this office, right now....”

I took a moment.

Then I said, “You’ve accused me of burying my feelings, Dr. Cassel, my emotions...of not confronting this...tragedy.”

“Yes. I have.”

“Well, since I’ve seen you last, I have confronted it....In particular, I confronted the tragedy itself...the murder...by opening a door that I’d previously considered closed....”

My office was warmly masculine, having been my husband’s, and, though it was now mine, I’d chosen not to change it much, leaving up on the dark-paneled walls police citations of valor and framed photos of Mike shaking hands with local mucky-mucks and a few framed front pages, too—the Tribune and Sun-Times alike. Mike had always looked so natural, so at home, behind the massive dark wood desk; and now I felt the same way.

I was on the phone with Lt. Valer, who it was easy for me to picture in his own considerably less spacious and upscale office, running to a decor of Early Institutional as it did. I could see him at his work-filled but perfectly organized desk. Mine might have piles of this and piles of that, but so what? I knew where everything was.

I was saying to him, “You credit this ‘Event Planner’ with seven or eight murders, tied to the Muertas.”

A dry chuckle preceded his reply. “Chic thinks I’m overworkin’ my imagination.”

“I don’t. I think you’re onto something.”

“You do?”

“And I also think you owe me an explanation.” I couldn’t keep the irritation from edging my voice. “You failed to mention that one of those ‘events’ in question was my husband’s murder.”

The silence on the wire went on forever—a good five seconds.

Finally he said, “I figured you could add two plus two. I, you know...didn’t want to insult your intelligence.”

“Really. You are a friend.”

He sighed. “Michael...I told you about the Event Planner, didn’t I?”

“Yes. Almost a year after Mike’s murder, you told me.”

More silence.

Then his voice returned, the tone even, the words considered: “I figured...you needed time before you took that...journey. And, when that time came, you’d need to arrive at these conclusions yourself.”

My laugh was less than kind. “I already have a shrink for the touchy-feely crap. You’re supposed to supply me with inside facts. I’m the private eye, and you’re the goddamn police contact—remember?”

“And here I thought I was your friend.”

I said nothing.

“...Michael? Michael, are you there?”

“Yeah. Fine. You’re my friend. But answer me this, Rafe—what kind of friend sits on information like this for a goddamn fucking year?”

I could hear him swallow.

“The kind of friend,” he said finally, “who wanted more information before turning a lunatic like you loose on the world. Tell me you wouldn’t have gone off half-cocked...make that fully cocked...”

“I don’t even have a cock.”

“You don’t need one, lady, with that nine millimeter.” He turned up his volume. “Tell me you wouldn’t have been out there, a year ago, looking to take your revenge out on anybody who looked like half a suspect?”

“And I won’t now?”

“No. I don’t think you will. I think some time has passed and you can confront this coolly. Like the old Russian proverb says, ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’ ”

“I thought that was Klingon. Or is it Romulan?”

He laughed a little. “Look. I want Mike’s real killer, if he’s still out there, just as dead as you do. Of course, I’d prefer it to happen in some vaguely legal way...”

“Self-defense is legal.”

“Why am I not surprised to hear you say that?”

“Because you know me too well. And maybe you did do the right thing, waiting till you really thought you had something for me.”

“Thank you.”

“So. Knowing you too well, I’d say that after quietly working on this all year, you’ve probably got private, personal files on each of these ‘events.’ ”

Rafe let out a wry, weary laugh. “Really? Is that what you think?”

“Right. Neat, orderly files, just like your desk. And not computer files—nothing somebody could find and easily transfer. But hard copy, in a locked drawer. Possibly two copies, since some day I’d ask for them.”

A ten-second eternity passed.

Then: “...I’ll messenger ‘em right over.”

I smiled at the phone. “Thanks.”

“No problem. We here at Police Contact Inc. aim to please all our private sector clients.”

He hung up.

I pushed my chair back and stood and got around from behind the big desk to cross the room and join Dan Green, who was seated over on the dark-brown leather couch in the mini-conference area by the gas fireplace at the far end of the office.

This area consisted of two such couches and matching chairs arranged around a glass coffee table littered with magazines that included stories on either the late Mike Tree or the current Michael Tree.

Dan seemed very much at home, like Mike once had been behind what was now my desk. My young partner wore a dark brown sportcoat with an open-collar cream-color shirt and tan jeans, sharply casual, as usual. He’d gotten himself some coffee, and had a cup waiting there for me. He always took cream, but he knew to leave mine black.

He grinned up at me. “Kinda rattled ol’ Rafe’s cage there a little bit, boss, didn’t you?”

“Rafe gives as good as he gets,” I said, and settled myself into the nearby leather chair.

“Looking back,” Dan said, keeping his tone easy, “you think that just maybe we dropped the ball on our most important case?”

“Not sure I follow you.”

His eyebrows went up. “Mike’s murder?”

I took a sip of coffee. “...We may have. But, if this so-called Event Planner really exists, he...or she...is world class.”

Dan mulled that momentarily. “You know, if Mike’s murder was a planned ‘event,’ we’re going to need to look at every aspect of the other planned event, the one we were hired to look into—Richard Addwatter’s murder.”

“I agree. Where do we start?”

Dan sipped his coffee. “I’m thinking we need to look not only at Richard Addwatter’s life, but the other victim—that hooker, what was her name?”

“Holly Jackson. That’s the name the police came up with, anyway. Local girl. South Side.”

He hiked an eyebrow. “She was murdered, too, remember.”

“Just another unfortunate pawn of our Event Planner, probably.”

“Sure, but chess masters select their pawns carefully. We should look into it. Maybe it’s a chance to get Bea up off her pretty behind and...”

“Dan...”

He spread his hands. “I’m just saying, somebody needs to ask some questions about Miss Whozit. Bea’s the only other licensed investigator we’ve got right now. You can hire a temp to man, or woman or person or whatever,