“That’s not what I want to hear.” I flicked through the file on DiMarco, wishing the answers would jump out at me, hoping I’d missed a vital clue. “There has to be something that proves DiMarco is involved. Something that shows he had a hand in killing Fittler. The other deaths had a long time between them, but this time, it’s only been a week. Maybe they made a mistake with the added time pressure?”
“A troubled defense lawyer takes on difficult cases, and it all gets to be too much so he shoots himself in his apartment. In isolation, it sounds simple. It sounds like an open and shut case.” Casey leaned her head against the top of the office chair, and stared at the ceiling. “But the similarity between the now four deaths? Everyone has to question that connection. Everyone. That has to be obvious to all involved. I would question that, and I think the cops will start to have questions as well. They can’t keep ignoring all these coincidences.”
“They’re not going to make more work for themselves.” I slumped into a chair, almost defeated. “DiMarco has a lot of connections still in the force, so Williams can’t get involved in the case unless he has evidence. It’d be his job on the line if he pushed this too hard. It’s all there in front of them, but they won’t investigate it any further than they have to.”
“So, what do we do?”
“Surveillance footage is the key.” I tapped my finger on the table again. “Without it, we can’t prove any of them was even close to the sites of the murders. We need something solid. Anything that shows them near Fittler’s place.”
We talked about ideas for another twenty-five minutes, before we both conceded that we didn’t have a lot to go on. We had to manage Daley’s expectations, we had to work within the confines of our costs, but there were lives on the line. If we didn’t find the killer, then any more deaths would be on my conscience if I didn’t do everything possible.
After a long silence, a look of concern washed over Casey’s face. She leaned forward on her chair, bit her fingernails, and crossed her legs.
“What’s wrong?” I questioned.
“Murderers like this are known to escalate quickly when under pressure. It’s been studied so many times. As soon as they’ve got a real taste for it, then the rate of murders escalates. At some point, the killer will snap, and start killing more and more, perhaps even daily. They’re trying to get that rush and beat the system while they can.”
Casey was right. The next death was nearing closer by the second. “We need evidence, Casey. We can’t just go and accuse them because of a hunch.”
“What’s making me nervous is wondering who the next person is on the killer’s list.” She bit her fingernails again. “If the killer knows we’re close, and we’re the only ones who are investigating the murders…”
“Then we’re targets.” I turned and looked back at Casey. “Which means that our names have moved to the top of the hit-list.”
Chapter 20
The ballroom of the historic Chicago Athletic Association Hotel was the height of modern affluence—tall ceilings, polished wood flooring, and two crystal chandeliers sparkling overhead. In the grand hall, the wealthy mingled, fueled by their need to prove their wealth to each other. The who’s who of Chicago politics conversed and talked about the latest rumors, the latest business appointments, and the latest high-end backroom deals. Gossip thrived, allegations were suggested, and stories snaked through the room. The two hundred and fifty people in attendance of the criminology lecture were all dressed in their best suits, or their best dresses, and wearing their most expensive jewelry. This room would’ve been a pickpocket’s dream, if only they could get in the front doors.
I’d managed to snare a pass through a friend of a friend of a friend. I was wearing my only dinner suit, the most uncomfortable I could manage to be. My chest felt like it was going to pop off the buttons on my crisp white shirt. I walked around, nodding hello to anyone that looked in my direction, melting into my surroundings. As a waitress walked past, I acquired a champagne glass, and waited for the right time to interrupt Jonathon DiMarco.
I had a plan, but I needed to talk to DiMarco directly. He’d been refusing to take my calls, and even blocked my phone number.
“Jack Valentine.”
The voice came from behind me. I knew that voice, but I never wanted to hear it again. Standing behind me, sipping champagne, was a figure I knew too well. It was Hugh Guthrie, the man who gave the school shooter the gun that killed my wife. Guthrie was in his fifties, weak, and sly. His hair had grayed since the last time I saw him, or perhaps it grayed a long time ago and he was only now starting to reject using hair dye. He deserved to be behind bars, not only for the hand that he had in my wife’s death, but also, he murdered newscaster Brian Gates in a moment of passion. Those charges were dismissed in court, expunged from his record, and he was now snaking his way back into the circles of the wealthy and famous. Money seemed to help people forget a lot of things.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” Guthrie took a long sip on his champagne. “But here we are, like two old friends hanging out, reminiscing about our past.
