Laura Caldwell - Red Blooded Murder

Maggie knew I wasn’t a runner, like her. She knew I didn’t like to work out at all. Sweating in public reminded me too much of my flop sweat spells. But Mags also knew I always felt better when I did some kind of exercise.

And so I went to Lincoln Park, and now, I walked fast with my iPod loud, playing a song by the Kooks-“She Moves in Her Own Way.” I loved that song. It was Sam who used to blare it while he waited for me to get ready for an evening out. But it seemed too upbeat. I stopped, pulled out the iPod and scrolled backwards, looking for something different. The Killers came up. I almost clicked on it, but then I registered the word-Killers-and it chilled me, made me think of Jane’s battered body.

I started walking again, scrolling through my iPod, and landed on a hard-edged song from Liz Phair. I clicked on it and headed for the North Avenue bridge that would take me to Lake Michigan.

When I reached it, I trotted up the stairs and ran across the bridge, and right then I felt something release inside my body, breath finally flooding into my lungs.

I wanted to harness the feeling, to let it consume me, and so I went to the middle of the bridge, suspended a hundred feet over Lake Shore Drive, and I hung over it, playing my music loud, watching the cars zip by in the south lanes, sucking in breath after breath after breath, letting the heat of the sun sink into me. I don’t know how long I stood there, and I was only aware of time passing when the cars began to slow. Rush hour. I looked up at the stately apartments that hugged the curve on Lake Shore Drive, as if clinging to their views. I raised my face farther and looked at the skyline. I loved that skyline. Always had. Even when I was a kid, it reminded me that the city had been there for so much longer than me. And now it reminded me that people in this city had survived worse than what I was experiencing.

But, unfortunately, Jane hadn’t survived at all. Jane, who loved this city, too.

My eyes filled with the tears I hadn’t let myself cry at the memorial. I thought about the fact that Jane would never again see this skyline; never again sit on a rooftop deck of a Chicago restaurant and drink wine, gazing at the lights glittering around her; never again roast in the sun on the bleachers at Wrigley, slurping a yeasty beer; never again jostle through crowds at Taste of Chicago or Jazz Fest or Old Town Art Fair; never again see the symphony play at Millennium Park on a crisp summer evening; never watch the tulips magically appear in the mid-lane boxes of LaSalle Street; never again witness the massive Christmas tree at Daley Plaza next to a two-story menorah.

I wasn’t even sure Jane had loved all those things. They were things I loved about Chicago. Jane probably had her own list. But that list was gone with her.

So, on behalf of Jane, who couldn’t do it, I raised my hand, and just for one second, I waved goodbye to the city.

J ackson Prince walked the underground tunnel that led from his office to Trattoria No. 10.

Technically, this tunnel was called the Pedway. Its official purpose was to link various El trains with various downtown buildings. Not that Prince ever rode the El train. Each morning, a driver picked him up from his East Erie apartment, where he owned the penthouse, and dropped him off at his office building. To Prince, the best thing about that building was not his massive corner office or the fact that it had a view of Daley Plaza. No, the best thing about his building was that he could access the tunnel and take it right to court, where he pitied the other lawyers who arrived flushed from the summer heat or shivering from the arctic winter and who had to juggle trench coats and umbrellas when they stepped up to the bench.

The next best thing about the tunnel was that it led him to Trattoria No. 10, a subterranean Italian restaurant and bar that was a favorite among Chicago’s legal crowd.

But tonight, he wasn’t meeting a lawyer. Tonight was about Jerry Hay and thanking the good doctor. Now that no one was looking over Prince’s shoulder on this matter, he could enjoy it again. He could properly show Dr. Hay his appreciation, which would make them both very happy.

Dr. Hay was already at the bar, a highball in front of him. Hay was an average-looking guy-medium height and a nondescript face that was probably similar to many of the guys Hay grew up with in Bridgeport. Prince had done his research on Hay, and he knew that Hay had done better than many of the guys in his neighborhood, most of whom had gone the cop or fireman route. At thirty-five, Hay operated his own rheumatology practice. Yes, Hay was successful. Or at least he appeared so to the outside observer. But Prince knew that the early, external success of a young doctor like Hay didn’t translate immediately to financial success. There were the astronomical student loans, the ever-soaring malpractice premiums and the ever-dwindling Medicare payments on behalf of older patients, which made up most of Hay’s practice. Which all meant that Hay’s lifestyle with his Northbrook home, his Lake Geneva summer house, three kids, his stay-at-home wife and his three expensive cars became harder and harder to afford.

And that was where Prince stepped in.

He stepped up beside the doctor now and stretched out his hand. “Jerry.” He shook the man’s hand, warmly patting his shoulder.

Prince liked to call doctors like Hay by their first names. He thought it helped to let Hay know he was above him, that his J.D. had brought many more riches than Hay’s M.D. Not that Prince liked to gloat. He just liked people to know their place in his world.

“You ready for your trip next week?” he asked Hay.

The doctor smiled, one of the first lighthearted grins Prince had seen from him. “Very ready. Betsy is already packed. And of course she’s told everyone in the neighborhood that we’re taking a private plane. I can’t thank you enough.”

Prince patted him on the shoulder again. “I’m happy to do it. It’s nothing.”

That wasn’t exactly true. Technically he’d already paid Hay for services rendered, and a week at Prince’s home in Palm Springs for Hay’s family, along with the use of Prince’s plane to take them there, wasn’t exactly cheap. But compared to what he’d gained from the assistance Hay and the other docs gave him, it was a drop in a very, very big bucket.

W hen I rounded the corner, the band O.A.R. on my iPod, I saw him.

He was on my stoop, leaning against the doorjamb. He looked at his phone, typing something with the thumb of one hand. The sight of him stopped me and at first I felt only elation. But that feeling was short-lived. I stood just looking at him, trying to sort out combative thoughts. One said, I love him. I’ll always love him, while the other said, You can love someone and still not have it be right for you, for right now.

I didn’t know which was stronger. I called out to him.

He didn’t hear me, and for some reason, this seemed like a portent. I walked toward him. Still, he didn’t look up. Finally, when I was nearly next to him, he saw me, and his face split into a grin, teeth gleaming.

“Sam,” I said simply. We hugged tight. “I didn’t even know you were coming.”

“You would have if you’d checked your messages in the last hour.”

“I’ve been walking by the lake.”

“Good.” His olive-green eyes took in my face. “You needed that, huh?”

“I did.” I stuck my keys in the front door. “What are you doing on the street?”

He followed me up the stairs, smacking me playfully on the ass like he usually did. “I didn’t have your keys with me.”

I stopped and turned. “Since when did you stop carrying my keys?”