“No. He said no crime had been committed.”

He grunted. “He was right. Doesn’t sound like much of anything to me.”

I crossed my fingers and leaned forward-the pose I always took during contract negotiations or depositions when I sensed things were about to get tough. “It doesn’t sound like anything? He gets these letters and then a homeless guy tells him to be careful or he’ll join his dead wife, and then he dies, suddenly, and that doesn’t sound like anything to you?”

Vaughn raised an eyebrow. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Did you want him to step down?”

“No!”

Vaughn glanced around my cluttered office, then stared warily at my law-school diploma hanging on the wall. “You’re pretty young to be handling all this legal work for Pickett, aren’t you?”

“Technically, yes.”

“How did you get it?”

“Forester. He chose me to be his lead attorney.”

He glanced at my chest, then back to my face. “Why?”

A good question. He must have seen the hesitation in my face. He leaned forward, his eyes lasering onto mine. “You sure you didn’t want him to step down?”

I was overwhelmed with the work. It was too much. But I didn’t want it to go away. I didn’t want Forester to go away.

“No, of course not. Forester is the reason I have this job,” I said.

The detectives looked at each other again, then back at me.

Schneider shrugged. “Look, at this point, our investigation into Mr. Pickett’s death is really just a formality, given the autopsy.”

“The autopsy results are already available?” I knew from some medical cases I’d worked on during law school that autopsies usually took a couple of days, sometimes a week.

“Yeah.” Schneider flipped through his notebook. “Mr. Pickett’s son got somebody to push that through.”

Why, I wondered, would Shane want to rush the autopsy? “What were the results?”

Schneider glanced back down at his notebook. “Acute myocardial infarction.”

“Heart attack.”

“Yeah. Likely caused by the usual-high blood pressure, age, history of smoking.”

“But Forester’s blood pressure was under control. He hasn’t smoked in years.”

“He had all the classic signs-he was slumped over when the EMTs found him, and he was clutching his chest.”

I squeezed my eyes shut at the image.

“We did get a tip that something might not be right with this guy’s death,” Schneider said.

“Wait, you got a tip about Forester’s death?”

Vaughn shot his partner a shut-up kind of glance, but Schneider just lifted his massive shoulders up, then let them drop. He nodded at me. Why did I get the feeling their little exchange was just for show?

“Who left the tip?” I said.

Another shrug. “Anonymous. We tested his food from that night. Clean. And Mr. Pickett’s cardiologist saw him in the emergency room after he coded. He signed the death certificate saying it was a heart attack.”

“But Forester had recently had a stress test. He said he passed with flying colors.”

“The guy had a heart attack before. You’re always at risk for another one. Could happen to anyone.”

But Forester wasn’t just anyone.

“Now, having thirty million dollars in corporate shares stolen,” Vaughn said, speaking up, “that’s a little unusual.”

I met his eyes. I felt a blush creep over my neck, but I didn’t move an inch. An uncomfortable silence filled the room as Detective Vaughn and I stared at each other. If he thought I would flinch first, talk first, he was absolutely wrong. I might doubt my legal abilities on occasion, but in a staring contest, I would always win.

Ten seconds passed, then twenty, thirty.

Schneider cleared his throat again. “You were engaged to Sam Hollings?”

“I am engaged to Sam Hollings,” I said without moving my eyes from Vaughn’s.

“When is the last time you saw him?”

“Yesterday. After work. We had a meeting with our wedding coordinator.”

Vaughn chuckled, scornfully it seemed. Still, we stared at one another.

“He was supposed to take you to some shindig last night, huh?” Vaughn said with an upward flick of the corner of his mouth.

“That’s right.”

“Didn’t show up?”

I felt my intensity melt away. “No, he did not.”

Vaughn nodded, very slowly. Finally, he dropped his gaze downward. But I felt no sense of victory. It was like winning a game deliberately thrown by the opponent.

“Any idea where he might be?” Schneider asked.

“No.” My voice came out soft.

“Any idea why he’d take the thirty million in those shares?”

“I’m not even sure that he did.”

Vaughn smirked.

Schneider looked at me for a long minute, then looked down at the form in his lap. He asked me a bunch of questions in a monotone voice. What was Sam’s height, weight, build? Did he have sideburns? A beard? A mustache? What were his hobbies and pastimes? Did he have any skin disorders? What kind of car did he drive?

I answered all his questions quickly.

When he was done, Schneider placed his hand on top of the form. “We’re going to turn over the Panamanian-share thing to the feds.”

“What will happen?”

Schneider shrugged. “The feds will do whatever the feds do.”

I took a breath and sat back in my chair. “And what about Forester’s death. Will you look into those letters?”

“Nah,” Schneider said. “Doesn’t sound like much. We’ve got a man who died of natural causes. We’re closing the matter.”

“What about the homeless guy?” I couldn’t believe they wouldn’t be looking into Forester’s death. If they didn’t, who would?

“You find that homeless guy, you let us know, okay?” Vaughn said. He stood. The meeting, apparently, was finished.

Schneider shifted his heft to one side and fished a business card out of his pocket, handing it to me. It had the Chicago skyline on it. “Be careful if you see him.”

“The homeless guy?”

“No, your fiancé.”

“What do you mean, ‘be careful’?”

“You didn’t expect him to do something like this, right? Take off with those shares?”

“I’m not even sure he did.”

“Well, you didn’t expect him to disappear, right?”

“No.”

“And he has. Apparently.” Schneider opened his big hands wide. “So who knows what else he’ll do. Maybe it’s of his own volition, maybe not. Until it’s all settled, keep your eyes open, be careful, and call us if anything changes.”

I am rarely a speechless girl, but his warning had hijacked my words. Be careful of Sam?

Schneider stood with his partner. “Thanks, Ms. McNeil.” His expression softened. If I read it right, it was one of pity. “And good luck.”

14

John Mayburn followed the navy-blue Mercedes down Hubbard Street and watched as it turned in to the parking lot of the East Bank Club. He drove past the lot, found a spot on the street, threw quarters in the meter and hustled to the club.

When he was a few hundred feet away, he saw Michael and Lucy DeSanto entering the place. For once, he wouldn’t have to sneak around or talk his way into an establishment in order to follow a subject. He was a member of the East Bank Club, although he rarely showed his face there anymore. He’d joined the club, the ritziest gym in the city, eight years ago when he was in his early thirties. The fact was, the East Bank Club, or simply “East Bank,” as its members called it, was also a social club. It boasted a grill, lounge and spa and, in the summer, a rooftop pool that could have been outside a Miami hotel with all the beautiful bodies splayed around it.

Mayburn had joined East Bank when he’d first started out in the world of private investigations. Out of college he had initially started work as a claims analyst for an insurance company. He spent a few years there, then a few more following that as an independent adjuster, digging up evidence about malingering in personal-injury cases. It all bored him. So one day, when a lawyer he’d worked with asked if he did investigations for other types of cases, he lied and said yes. He quickly got his P.I. license and hung up his own investigative shingle. Once he was a P.I., he needed to meet potential clients in a discreet way and, when someone hired him, he needed to buy them drinks and meals in a not-so-discreet way. Which brought him to East Bank.