Laura Caldwell - Question of Trust

Tick, tick, tick went the silence. It was, I realized, an old clock my mother had given me years ago in college. I’d never noticed the sound before.

“You want to go out for a drink?” I said.

He nodded fast.

Within fifteen minutes, we were seated at the bar at Topo Gigio, an Italian place on Wells. Thirty minutes after that, we were in high spirits, the owner having sent a bottle of champagne after hearing that we’d just moved in together. Soon, we were making plans for Theo’s condo, drawing game-room and bedroom designs on napkins and searching our phones for photos of furniture he could buy.

“Whenever you move to your new place,” I said, “it doesn’t matter.”

“ We are what matters, right?” Theo said, leaning toward me, moving his bar stool over.

“Exactly.” I stared into those eyes, nearly breathless in his presence, the whole of him. Any irrational slices of fear were no longer cutting me.

An excited look took over Theo’s face. “I just remembered,” he said. “I have a folder of pictures from magazines that I’ve been ripping out. You know, from home magazines?”

“You’ve been reading home magazines?” I adored him even more, suddenly.

“Yeah, well, my mom bought me a bunch of them. And I just remembered. I’ve got pictures of beds, and oh, these kick-ass chairs for a TV room.” He looked so excited then. “Let me run back and get them.”

“No, let’s just go,” I said, but right then, the bartender delivered the three plates of appetizers we’d ordered.

“It’s a few blocks,” Theo said. He pointed at the appetizers. “You start on these, and I’ll be right back.”

I watched him walk from the room, watched everyone else stare at him as they always did. As always, he didn’t notice.

“I love you,” I whispered. I was sure about it then, sure that he would return the sentiment. “I love you,” I said, trying the words again. And it was then I decided I would tell him as soon as he came back.

But a few minutes later, he was calling my phone.

“Hey,” I said softly, without having to say another word. Because I felt like every word I would say to Theo now would carry those three words in it.

“We had a break-in,” he said.

My mouth opened and closed. In front of me, the bartender told an apparently hilarious story, because the two people listening threw their heads back, their mouths open. But I couldn’t hear anything.

“Back the truck up,” I said into the phone, still trying to meet the anti-swearing campaign goals I’d set last year, despite the situation. “What did you say?”

“You need to come home,” Theo said. “Someone broke into your place.”

When I got home, the downstairs door was closed, the keypad still enabled since we’d turned it on before we left for Topo Gigio and Theo had obviously used the code to get in. So then how had someone broken into my place?

I took the stairs fast to the third floor, then stopped when I reached my door. Immediately, my eyes drew down to the keypad. The cover of that panel had been pried off, exposing the wires inside.

I felt something like fear sweep a cold brush over my body. I stopped and thought about the entry system. Many people knew the password to the keypad downstairs. But the keypad to my own condo was known to only a few. Theo was one of the few people who knew it, along with my mom and Q. Apparently whoever broke in didn’t have the code. Or wanted to make it look like they didn’t.

I pushed open the door and stepped into the living room. My eyes moved over the fireplace, looked at the coffee table, where mounds of Theo’s belongings were stacked. I let my gaze scan the couch, the yellow-and-white chair that was my favorite piece of furniture in the house. I looked into the kitchen. The bar counter with the two stools in front appeared the same as when we left it—piled with towels and sheets of Theo’s.

“Izzy?” I heard a voice that sounded like Theo but also a little like someone else.

I jumped, flinching in spite of myself.

Theo stepped into the room. “Iz. Hey. I came home and saw the door panel all fucked up.”

“Are you okay? Was anyone here?”

He shook his head.

“Was anything taken?”

“I was just going through the place, and it doesn’t look like it, but it’s hard to tell, you know? Since I just moved in.” He waved his hand behind him toward the hallway, which was filled with boxes. “And I wouldn’t really know if anything of yours was taken.” It seemed, then, we knew so little of each other.

“You must have been scared,” I said.

He shrugged.

I went to him. “Are you okay?”

He wrapped me in those arms, and I smelled that Theo smell —there it was .

“Did you call the cops?” His shirt, made of a soft fabric that could almost make me think nothing was wrong, muffled my words.

The answer came in a rap on the door. Then another rap. “Chicago police.”

The responding officers listened to our tale while their radios squawked.

“You’re a lawyer, Ms. McNeil?” Officer Potowski asked me.

I nodded. “Yes. Criminal law. With Bristol & Associates.”

“That’s a good firm. High profile. You guys get a lot of publicity.”

I nodded again. Since Q had arrived at Bristol & Associates, we had gotten even more. Q loved a good press release.

“Since nothing is missing,” the officer said, “this is technically just a B and E. A misdemeanor at best. There are no prints on the doors or number locks, either. We’ll file the report, but we can file it closed if you want. And we’ll just check in with you in a little bit—tomorrow or the next day—to make sure everything’s okay. What do you think?”

I almost told them to close the case. I had explained to the cops that I’d been the subject of intense scrutiny from the media before, a place I distinctly did not want to go again. A closed case would be one of the best ways to keep the media’s nose out of our business.

But then a lick of fear swept over me again. Of what? It had something to do with a feeling that this—whatever this was—was not done yet. I looked at Theo. Strange that this had happened tonight, when he moved in.

“Leave the case open, please,” I said to the officer. “And yes. Please check in on us.”

Twin Anchors was known for its ribs, but neither person who sat at the middle of the bar was hungry. The restaurant was also known for its love of Frank Sinatra and the fact that Old Blue Eyes had been in that very joint on more than one occasion.

A guy who called himself Freddie (he’d all but forgotten his real name) ordered a glass of Scotch.

His partner asked the bartender if he knew how to make something called a Michelada.

The bartender not only looked stumped, but he also said, “Huh,” then again, “huh.” He looked behind him, as if for backup. “I just took bartending school. I don’t remember that.”

“Don’t worry about it.” A Tecate beer was ordered instead.

They took a few sips, companionably sitting next to each other, not needing to speak right away.

The bartender returned. Apparently, someone at bartending school must have told him that chatting with the customers, whether they wanted to or not, would bring hundreds in tips. The guy pointed at some photos and articles pasted and shellacked behind the bar. “Those are all about Sinatra,” he said. “And the guy from Chicago who wrote a book about him.”

“So fucking what?” Freddie said, taking a sip of his Scotch. The guy had no idea that in Freddie’s past, he had waited in alleys and cut people for reasons much less serious than bugging the fuck out of him.