Question of Trust. Laura Caldwell

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.

      “It’s true,” his partner said, who was apparently smart enough to sense his menace. “The Chairman of the Board used to hang out here. On occasion. We all know that. Thanks.”

      Freddie made a single motion with his hand, shooing away the bartender.

      The bartender gulped and had the sense to turn around and start rearranging a wine refrigerator.

      A moment passed. “So you think they’re freaked out?”

      “Hope so,” Freddie said.

      “Do you think they’ll get it?”

      “Yeah, I think they’ll get it. Left the downstairs entry system enabled. Let ‘em know it’s not so hard to find out their little code.” That was true, for him; he’d worked for the National Fire Alarm & Burglar Association and the Electronic Security Association just to learn how to master every kind of alarm. “Then messed up the panel by her door. Tells ‘em we can get in, easy. They’ll get that. They’re smart. She’s a lawyer, and he handles his own company.”

      “The company that can’t get itself together.”

      “Yeah. But even with all those moving boxes, they’re gonna know someone was in that house. And even though we didn’t find anything pointing our way, it’s a little message that says ‘be careful.’ Really fucking careful.” Freddie had taken another sip of his Scotch, when the dipshit bartender returned, nodding at the pictures of Sinatra.

      “Man, I wanna hang out with Sinatra,” the bartender said. “Or at least just have him at the bar here.”

      “He’s dead,” Freddie said. And you will be, too.

      “Hey, I’m just saying, somebody like him.”

      Freddie pushed his glass away. “There is no one like the Chairman of the Board.”

      “I know, but I’m saying someone—”

      “There is no one. That’s the point.” He looked at his partner. “I gotta get the fuck out of here before I hurt him.” There was no way he was going back to Stateville prison. He was hanging on, hoping to keep his natural violent flair pushed down inside. He was hanging on. Just barely.

      9

      “Hello?”

      “I heard you had a break-in.” The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it.

      “Who is this?” I asked.

      A laugh. “I guess I should be glad you’re over it. You’re clearly not traumatized by me any longer.”

      Recognition grew in my head as the man spoke—the slightly snarly way of talking, the sense that a cruel laugh was right behind his words ready to be shot in your direction.

      “Vaughn,” I said.

      Across the bedroom, I saw Theo’s eyebrows shoot to his forehead. “Whoa,” he said.

      He’d been pulling on a pair of jeans—we were heading out to meet his mother for Sunday brunch. After the break-in and then Saturday—one gray November day sliding into the next, barely a change in light—I’d jumped at the opportunity to get us out of the house, to maybe get back to that “us” that we’d apparently left sitting at the bar at Topo Gigio, along with our good humor and ease.

      “You remember me,” Vaughn said in a jokey tone.

      I said nothing. Detective Damon Vaughn had made my life a living hell twice in the past year—first when Sam disappeared, and second, when Vaughn suspected me of killing my friend Jane. The fact that I’d beaten up Vaughn on cross-examination in a trial a few months ago had helped. But I wasn’t close to getting over it.

      “So I heard you had a break-in,” he said again.

      “You heard?“

      “Yeah, I heard from someone around here.” His words sounded false.

      “‘Around here,’” I said. “What does that mean? You’re acting like you work at a small-town police station, where the guys all sit with their feet on the desks and talk about their ‘beat,’” I scoffed. “I think I know better than that.”

      “Oh, that’s right, ‘cuz you’re a criminal lawyer now,” he said with scorn.

      “That’s right,” I said, sharp on the heels of his words. “I am a criminal lawyer now. And next time I get you on the stand, I’m going to take you down. Again.” I stopped myself short of saying, How ya like me NOW?

      For a moment I let myself bask in the glory of that moment when I had Vaughn on the witness stand. I had executed what felt like one of the best crosses of my career.

      Vaughn interrupted my little reverie. “Jesus Christ, you’re a ballbuster! I take back that apology I gave you after court that day.”

      “Too bad,” I said quickly. Then in a nicer, calmer tone, “I already accepted it.”

      A pause. Then two or three.

      “So,” I said, pleasant tone still intact, “you were calling because …?”

      “Look, cops know what cases other cops worked. And so when you hear something about something—or someone—in one of those cases that someone else has—”

      “Then you tell your buddy, the other cop,” I said, answering for him. “Yeah, I get that.”

      “Good. I just wanted to remind you what I told you after court that day.” His voice was nearing pleasant now, too, but I didn’t fill in the blanks this time.

      “If you needed a favor or anything, I’m your guy,” Vaughn said simply.

      Something about his statement—the matter-of-factness, the authoritative assurance—made me feel okay suddenly. Safe. For a moment, the whirl of anxieties in my head stopped.

      All morning those anxieties had been like shrieking bats flying around under a bridge, yelling one thing after another in my head. Your house has been broken into. Again! But what’s worse is that you have a pretty strong feeling this break-in has to do with Theo. Because he’s the one who just moved in.

      But maybe it’s as simple as that? Maybe someone got in the condo building during the move and somehow hid.

      But that doesn’t make sense because there is nowhere to hide on the two flights of stairs.

       And hey, so what if it has to do with Theo?

      It was always at this point in the shrieking conversation (in voices that all sounded like mine) that a really angry version of Izzy McNeil entered the scene. “So what?” you ask? You’re in love with him. Do you get that?

      And quietly, I would answer internally. I get that.

      And then the voices would round around. Your house has been broken into. Again!

      But although his words had momentarily halted the cacophony in my mind, I didn’t entirely trust Vaughn. Not yet. Not after what he’d put me through, and not after what I’d learned about Chicago cops over the past few months—most of them are good, most have pure motives, but they don’t see evil the same way as everyone else. And when they believe something, they make things happen—practically appear out of nowhere—just to bolster their beliefs.

      The