“Now to the microphones,” I said. “Can you bring up the microphone on the bishop’s special gossip cam?”
Rayshawn smiled. He ran his fingers across the keyboard, and the audio-recording graphic popped up on the screen. He moved the time code so that it matched the time code on the Seventieth Street cameras.
“Synchronize both the parking lot camera and the Seventieth Street cameras,” I said. “Start everything a minute before the Suburban comes into view, then let the tape roll. I want to make sure I don’t miss anything before it arrives.”
Rayshawn set everything up and hit “Play.” The room filled with natural sound as the Suburban rolled down Seventieth Street. A distant horn, a car door closing, the wind rushing through the trees—it was like standing outside. Just as the Suburban turned into South Wallace, I asked him to turn up the volume. The Suburban disappeared. I closed my eyes. Faint street sounds continued to fill the room. There wasn’t any loud popping, like you would hear from a gunshot. I closed my eyes again. I thought I could hear the slamming of a car door, but I couldn’t be sure. I opened my eyes again. The Suburban was backing up out of South Wallace. In seven seconds, it was back on Seventieth Street and through the viaduct.
“Can you capture some still photos of the Suburban?” I asked.
“Sure, which ones?” Rayshawn asked.
“The one with the fingers on the steering wheel. One from behind with the license plate in focus. One where it turns down South Wallace. And the last one when the driver backs out of South Wallace.”
Rayshawn went back to work on the computer, and in only a few minutes he had all the shots captured and printed.
“You think that Suburban has something to do with the dead guy?” he asked as I stood up.
“I can’t be sure, but doesn’t it seem a little suspicious?” I said. “It shows up early in the morning, and it’s moving down the street like it’s lost. Then it shows up late at night. Might not be anything, but something just doesn’t feel right.”
I walked to the door, admiring the quality of the printouts. Bishop had made a serious investment in the church’s technology. The photos were much clearer than what the CPD cameras had captured.
“Nice cars like that don’t drive through here very often,” he said. “And when they do, it’s usually a dealer.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” I said.
“If you need anything else, let me know.”
“Thanks for all your help.” I slipped him a twenty-spot.
“And about the microphone,” he said with a big smile. “Let’s keep that between you and me.”
I did the double chest tap with my right fist for solidarity and left.
41
“WE HAVE TO STOP meeting like this,” Carolina said, smiling her perfect set of whites. “Something you’ll never regret might actually happen.”
Carolina had pulled up behind me in her silver F-Type Jag convertible, a car she had splurged on after an entire year of working a ridiculous amount of overtime. Her hair fell to below her shoulders, and her skin glowed under the dim garage lighting. She looked like she was ready for a photo shoot. I had just gotten out of my car and was about to enter my building.
“People who live their lives worrying about regrets aren’t really living,” I said, walking over to her car and looking through her open window. She wore a small sparkly skirt and a sheer silk blouse that had been unbuttoned enough to get attention but not enough to give it all away. The way her hands gripped the leather steering wheel gave me adult ideas.
“The work-around with that phone number you gave me finally came through,” she said. “This will cost you more than a dinner at the top of the Chicago Stock Exchange.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Something like a weekend trip to a Virgin Island.”
“What if a weekend isn’t enough?”
“I’ve never been accused of not being reasonable.” She pulled her car in next to mine, then got out and walked to the garage door. Her skirt rode up her toned legs each time she stepped forward. The click of her heels echoed with great precision.
I looked at her in disbelief. She had never been inside my building, let alone my apartment. I wasn’t exactly sure what was happening, but I was quickly starting to like it and getting nervous at the same time. It would’ve been much easier if I didn’t like her so much. But no matter how hard I wanted to be ready for a new relationship, I simply wasn’t there yet. It had been almost two years since my fiancée had abandoned me. The wound was still too deep and too fresh. I had enough sense to know that a casual fling with Carolina would all but eliminate my chances of something more meaningful. I wanted the long play.
“I can’t get in without a key,” she said, turning toward me.
Once we had made it to my apartment, Stryker sniffed and accepted her. Good training. Carolina stood and watched as I rummaged through the kitchen, putting together a charcuterie board. I pulled out my nicest cutting block and began assembling cured meats, a variety of hard and soft cheeses, olives, grilled artichoke hearts, a pepper-and-fig spread, bruschetta, crackers, a combination of fresh and dried fruit, and a strawberry jam. My father had given me a bottle of Australian wine with the advice attached that I open it only on a special occasion. He cautioned it would be a terrible waste to drink it with someone who couldn’t appreciate all its subtleties. I set everything up on the table in my breakfast nook. We sat facing the balcony and a quiet city beneath us. I kept the lights turned down low.
“You never told me you had a perfect view of Navy Pier and the Ferris wheel,” she said, moving her head slightly, which caused her hair to
