The Governor's Wife (16 page)

O
n January 6, 2011, Rick Beckerman went out to pick up a pizza and some beer. Beckerman was a sixty-eight-year-old cardiologist who had decided to hang up his stethoscope and move to Santa Fe. He and his wife, Julie, had just accepted an offer on their Hinsdale home that afternoon and set a closing date. The Beckermans were planning to toast the house they raised their three kids in, then look at pictures of the place they were building in the desert. Moving on. Moving out. Beckerman jumped on the Ike for the six-mile drive back from Pino’s Pizza. He’d gone about a mile and a half when his left front tire hit a crack in the blacktop and split wide open. Beckerman’s BMW was on its side in the time it took to change the radio station. The last thing he felt was hot asphalt crushing one side of his face. The last thing he saw was the cold steel of the guardrail.

I sat on West Hickory Street in Hinsdale and stared at number 741. Julie Beckerman had never made it to Santa Fe. After her husband was killed, she decided to keep the house and live with her ghosts. A lot of people played out their lives
that way, wrapping themselves up in their pain and dying a little bit every day.

I got out of my car and walked down Hickory. Marie’s Lexus was parked in front of the Beckerman house; all the shades were pulled tight. No matter. I knew she was in there with her black bag. Doing what was another story.

She came out an hour later. I tried to get a look at Julie Beckerman, but all I got was the flash of a white head before the door swung shut. Marie jumped in her car and started driving again. I didn’t let her get too far ahead this time. I was out of addresses and had no idea where she might be going next.

We drove a half mile and stopped at a quick mart. Marie went in and came out with a sack full of groceries. We jumped back on the highway and drove south into neighboring Willowbrook. Marie got off at Sixty-Seventh Street and turned down a small street called Old Harbor Road. She left the satchel in the car this time and took the groceries instead. I watched as she walked up to house number 254 and hit the doorbell. The door was opened by a teenaged girl with reddish hair. Behind her was another girl, younger with blond hair. I snapped a picture as Marie stepped inside and jotted down the address in my book. Then I plugged the address into Google, but couldn’t find out who lived there. I rechecked my notes on the accidents O’Donnell had given me. There was nothing with a Willowbrook address, but that didn’t mean someone hadn’t moved. I thought about the satchel. And the groceries. Maybe Willowbrook was different. I idly considered breaking into the Lexus and seeing what was in the black bag, but I had a hunch I already knew. Marie was funneling cash to victims of the Beacon accidents. The question was why. And on behalf of whom. I hit a couple of buttons on my CD player and Springsteen’s
Nebraska
filled the car. I leaned back in my seat and stared at the front door to 254 Old Harbor Road. And waited.

T
he professional sat a half block away and ran through a menu of possible weapons. A rifle with a scope. A heavy-caliber handgun for stopping power. The .22 with its customized pearl-handle grip. A smartphone buzzed on the dashboard of the car. It was a text confirming the job. The professional trashed the text and studied the target. Kelly was slumped in the front seat, staring down the street, waiting for Marie Perry. The professional didn’t know why the house mattered to Kelly and didn’t much give a damn. He’d been warned off, but it didn’t take. And so it went. The money had been deposited in the account. The job was a go.

The professional began to build an image of the kill. Details shifted and locked into place. Contingencies and angles. Movement, action. The job seemed like an easy one. The professional knew, however, not to trust that too hard. Marie Perry appeared on the steps outside the house and began to walk toward her car. The professional took the .22 out of the glove compartment. Kelly was up in his seat, engine running.

I
listened to
Nebraska
in its entirety before the door to 254 Old Harbor swung open again. Marie walked down a short run of steps, fumbled for a moment with her keys, and turned to scan the street. Her eyes flicked over my car, but I was too far back for her to see anything but a dark lump. I’d just slipped the engine into gear when I caught a flash of something in my rearview mirror. I turned to look as a man came up on the passenger’s side and knocked on the window. His ring made a heavy, dead sound on the glass. I lowered the window and leaned over.

“Excuse me,” the man said and reached under his coat. My fingers brushed the grip on my gun as he pulled out a small blue notebook. “My wife noticed you’ve been sitting out here for a while. May I ask what you’re doing?”

I fished out a card with a name on it that wasn’t mine. “I’m a private investigator. Former cop.”

The man put on a pair of reading glasses and studied the card. Then he copied down some information in his notebook.

“A cop, huh? Why would a cop be in this neighborhood?” He smiled in that faux-friendly, suburban sort of way. “You wouldn’t happen to have some sort of identification?”

Up ahead, Marie was pulling away from the curb.

“I do have an ID,” I said. “It’s in my hip pocket, right beside my gun.” I gestured to the piece and watched his eyes widen. “Unfortunately, I’m not gonna have time to show it to you. You see that Lexus?” I pointed at Marie’s car, about to turn the corner at the end of the block. “I’ve got maybe thirty seconds to get on her tail or I lose her altogether. Okay?”

“Well…” The man frowned down his nose and looked like he wanted to call a meeting. He seemed like a meeting kind of guy. I, on the other hand, was not.

“Tell your wife I’m sorry, pal. Gotta run.” I raised the window and hit the gas, glancing at my friend in the rearview mirror and wondering if I’d get out of Willowbrook before he called the cops. Fifteen minutes later, I was safely back on the highway, tailing the Lexus east, down the throat of the Ike and back into the city.

As we hit the Loop, I eased back and gave the Lexus some room. We cruised past the arched windows and watchful owls atop the Harold Washington Library before cutting across Grant Park and up onto Lake Shore Drive. The Lexus exited the drive at Belmont and took a left on Southport Avenue. I watched from a half block away as Marie parked the car and walked down the street, black bag in hand. Then I got out and followed. She ducked into the front door of Saint Alphonsus just as I hit the corner at Lincoln. I grabbed a cup of coffee at a diner called the Golden Apple and found a window seat with a good view of the church. Ten minutes slipped by. I finished my coffee, walked across the street, and went inside.

The stone floor felt rough under my feet; the smell of melted wax and incense hung in the air. I touched my fingers to the holy water and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. To
my right was a small wooden door with a Celtic cross carved into it. I opened it and crept up a flight of stairs to a loft that held the church’s freestanding organ. I sat on a bench reserved for the choir and looked down.

Soft light filtered through stained-glass windows, throwing painted shadows across row after row of empty pews. An Asian woman knelt in the very front, staring at a crucified Christ hanging behind the altar. In a side nave, an elderly couple sat together before a couple of confessional boxes. A red light burned above one of them. I had a pretty good idea who was inside.

Five minutes later, the light clicked off, and the door to the box opened. Marie came out and went straight to a pew where she knelt and bent her head to pray some more. Eventually, the elderly couple left. Then the Asian woman. A priest came out of the confessional wearing a long black cassock trimmed in red. He walked up to an altar lit by a single candle, genuflected, and disappeared into the sacristy. After that, it was just me and Marie. Her praying. Me watching. A side door scraped open to Marie’s left, and two men came in wearing cloth coats and dark caps. One took off his cap and poked the other to do the same. The men looked awkward, out of place. They trudged up and down the aisles, scanning pews and ignoring Marie, who sat on the bench and stared straight ahead. When they were done, the two men disappeared underneath my perch. Neither of them ever bothered to look up.

The candle on the altar danced and flickered in an invisible breeze before expiring in a gray thread of smoke. On cue, the side door scraped open again, and Bones McIntyre walked in. He kept his hands in his pockets and made his way straight for Marie. The two talked for twenty-five minutes. Bones appeared to be doing the heavy lifting. Marie mostly shook her head yes or no. Father and daughter never touched the entire time they were together.

Bones went out the same door he came in, Marie’s black satchel tucked under his arm. Ten minutes after he left, she followed. I stayed long enough to mumble a handful of Hail Marys and an equally rusty Our Father. Then I left, too. And the church never batted an eye.

The professional studied Kelly in the rearview mirror as he exited the church. The detective’s hands were slouched in his pockets, and his head was down, but Kelly’s eyes were alive. He walked across the intersection with a fluid grace; the gun sat easy on his hip. The kill would have to be quick. And Kelly couldn’t see it coming. The professional thought about the pearl-handled .22, sitting once again in the glove compartment. It was perfect for the job. Everything else was just a matter of time and circumstance. Kelly climbed into his car and swung into the stream of early evening traffic. The professional let a bus go past, then tucked in behind it and followed.

I
parked my car on Addison and walked down Lakewood Avenue toward my apartment. I thought about what I’d seen inside the church and tried to fit it into a larger picture. I was tired, however, and my hand ached. Not to mention my head. I wanted nothing more than a glass of whiskey, a couple of Tylenol, and an early night in bed.

I was crossing Eddy Street when I felt a car come up behind me and slow. My neck began to tingle, and my fingers started to twitch. I drifted toward the cover of an open doorway and reached into my duffel bag. It was still full of the paperwork I’d taken from the trunk of Ray Perry’s car. Underneath that was a .40-caliber Glock. I took out the gun and kept it at my side as I turned. The car was a late-model Honda. The woman behind the wheel beeped her horn once and waved. I slid the gun back into my bag and raised my bandaged hand. Karen Simone got out and walked over.

“What happened to you?” she said, touching her own hand and wincing.

“I cut myself. What are you doing here?”

“I live on Racine, just south of Belmont.” She gestured back to the Honda, parked in front of a hydrant with its blinkers flashing. “I stopped at the Jewel for a few things. That’s a hell of a bandage, Michael. How did you do it?”

“Long story.”

“Were you working on Ray’s case?”

“Another time, Karen. Right now, all I want to do is get some dinner and go to bed.”

“Okay, I’ll let you go.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She leaned in and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Take care of yourself.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you.” I turned toward my building and took out my keys. I’d just gotten the front door open when Karen pulled up and rolled down her window.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“I just bought the fixings for chicken parmigiana. Thing is, I always make too much.”

“And?”

“Jeez, do I have to send up smoke signals? Come over and eat. I’ll do all the work, and you can lie on the couch like a bum.”

My first thought was no. Then I reviewed the current contents of my refrigerator—to wit, four slices of wrapped cheese and three kinds of mustard. I also had beer and a loaf of stale bread.

“I have to feed my dog.”

“I can wait.”

“Do you have whiskey?”

She frowned. “I have wine.”

“Good. I’ll bring the whiskey.”

I let Karen into my building just as another car swept past.
The driver, a man with coarse stubble covering his cheeks and jaw, stared at us intently. I felt the tingle again at the back of my scalp and watched the car until it disappeared down the block.

Karen lived in an old warehouse that had been converted into lofts. The floor plan was open with a kitchen and living room on the first floor and a single bedroom up a short flight of stairs. As promised, Karen sat me on a soft couch with a TV and a glass of Oban single malt. Pretty soon the apartment was filling up with the nut smell of melted butter mingled with garlic. I got up off the couch and took a seat at a long granite counter that looked into the kitchen. Karen had pulled her hair back and put on an apron.

“Smells great,” I said.

“Garlic, onions, and butter. Hard to go wrong.” She chopped up some olives and added them to the pan, then stirred the whole thing with a wooden spoon.

“You need some help?” I said.

She pointed to the refrigerator. “You could get the chicken out.”

I pulled out a couple of boneless chicken breasts. Karen got me a small wooden mallet and showed me how to pound the chicken flat.

“I didn’t know you could cook with a hammer.”

“Go to it.”

I beat the bird into submission…or at least into cutlets. Karen opened a can of crushed tomatoes and dumped them into the pan. Red sauce spattered her arms, neck, and cheeks.

“Oops,” she said, and we both laughed. I found a towel and watched as she wiped off the sauce.

“Glad you came over?” she said.

“It’s kind of fun.”

Karen seasoned the sauce and stirred.

“How long have you had this place?” I said.

“I got it as a sublease once everything went crazy with the stories about me and Ray. I can get out with a month’s notice.”

Like her office, the apartment was sparsely appointed and devoid of any personal touches. Karen Simone didn’t allow a lot of baggage in her life. I remembered when I used to be that way.

“You’ve got a pretty good gash over your eyebrow,” she said and pointed with her spoon.

“I was thinking it adds character.”

“Really?”

“You don’t think so?”

“I guess it goes with the hand. Just try not to bleed on anything. Now, go and watch TV. We’ll eat in a half hour, give or take.”

I went back to the couch and poured another finger of Oban, savoring the traces of woodsmoke and peat. On ESPN, they were running highlights of the Cubs figuring out new ways to lose baseball games. I watched for a few minutes, then wandered back to the kitchen.

“You come out here, I’m gonna put you to work.”

“I’m all yours.”

“Pull out the black pot for pasta. It’s in the top cabinet.”

I filled the pot with water, salted it, and set it to boil. Karen dredged the cutlets in flour, egg, and bread crumbs, then began to brown them in a skillet. I tasted the sauce.

“How is it?” She turned one of the cutlets over and adjusted the heat under the pan.

“Perfect.”

Karen pointed to a baking dish she’d put out on the counter. “Do me a favor and cover the bottom of that with a layer of sauce.” I did as I was told. Karen transferred the cutlets
from pan to dish, ladled another layer of sauce over them, then topped the whole thing with slices of mozzarella, fresh basil, and a dusting of Parmesan cheese. Finally, she popped the dish in the oven.

“Fifteen minutes and it’s done.”

“Looks pretty good.”

“Thanks. You want to grab some plates and silverware.” She nodded to a set of drawers. “And pick out some wine for dinner. There should be a couple of bottles in the cabinet.”

I found the silverware and opened a bottle of red. Karen dumped a fistful of pasta into the pot of boiling water and stirred. Ten minutes later, a timer went off. Karen took out the chicken and put it up on the stove top. The pasta was drained, and a green salad appeared from nowhere. She made a few final adjustments, and dinner was ready.

We ate at the counter. The chicken parm was perfect; the sauce, amazing. Or maybe I just hadn’t eaten a decent meal in a week and a half. Either way, I dug in. Karen picked at her food and sipped her wine.

“Sorry,” I said. “Guess I’m hungrier than I thought.”

“Please. You compliment the chef.”

“Where did you learn to cook like this?”

“TV. Books. It’s not hard. And it takes my mind off things.”

“What kind of things?”

“You know. Nothing. Everything.”

I could see the strain in her eyes and wondered what it meant.

“Does it hurt?” she said and touched the back of my hand.

“It looks worse than it is.”

“It looks pretty bad.” She cut off a small piece of chicken and chewed. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“No.”

“Are you going to update me on Ray?”

“No.” I tore off a piece of French bread and used it to soak
up some red sauce. The room went quiet, save for the rub of plates and silverware.

“You asked me to keep an eye out for anyone coming into the charity claiming to be from a company called Beacon.”

I felt my head snap up. “And?”

“Are they still part of your case?”

“This isn’t a game, Karen. Did someone come in?”

“Was it Beacon who hurt you?”

I put down my knife and fork and leaned across the counter. “Who came in?”

“No one. Not a soul.”

I studied her for a moment, then leaned back. “Good.”

“You’re really worried?”

“It’s dangerous. And I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I’d prefer neither of us gets hurt.”

“Me, too.”

“You won’t let me help?”

I shook my head.

“And you won’t let it go?”

“I wish it was that easy.”

She reached out and touched my cheek. I felt the distance in her fingertips, the callus of someone who understands the business of being alone. Even if she doesn’t like it. “Are you done?”

I nodded and helped her clean up. When we were finished, she took my arms and wrapped them around her waist. “I just want you to be safe, Michael. That’s all.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will.” She leaned in to kiss me. Long and slow and full. Then she took me by the hand and led me upstairs.