Betrayals (Cainsville 4)

"Their father died when the girls were young," I said. "Cancer. A profile piece on Aunika says insurance screwed them over, and the family was left in debt. Benefactors made sure her mother could continue running a nonprofit clinic for street kids. Their mother died two years ago. Also cancer. By that time, Aunika was working at the clinic full-time after getting her master's in social work."

"Did her sister have any connection to the center?" Ricky asked.

"According to the profile, Aunika said Lucy was 'instrumental' to it, providing donations and medical care."

"And two months ago she was stabbed to death a few blocks from the center," Ricky said. "Where her sister helped lamiae. And now the husband is killing lamiae."

"The obvious link is that Ciro somehow blames the lamiae for his wife's death. Or street girls in general, presuming he doesn't know what he's killing. He's murdering them, and his sister-in-law, ironically, is trying to bring those murders to the attention of the police."

"The alternative theory would be that Halloran murdered his wife," Gabriel said. "To do it, he lured her to that part of the city, which is easily accomplished if she has a prior connection to the area."

"The lamiae witnessed the murder, which gives him a motive to kill them. He makes it look ritualistic so their murders seem to not be connected to Lucy."

"Possible."

"Which is a working theory to add to any others," I said. "The point right now is that lamiae are dying and their killer is in the wind." I lifted my notebook. "Tomorrow I'll pay a visit to Ms. Aunika Madole."

CHAPTER TEN

I had no luck getting an interview with Aunika Madole during the day--her assistant blocked me--so I went by that evening instead. The drop-in center was in an industrial neighborhood that dated back to the days when the stench of livestock hung over Chicago and the city's gutters ran red with blood from the city's slaughterhouses. It was on the riverside, near equally old and equally empty docks. A tiny district--barely more than a few city blocks--nearly deserted at night but with city life thriving all around it.

From the looks of it, efforts had been made to revitalize this pocket, periodically, for the last hundred years--a building facade redone in a style from the forties, half a bar sign featuring a smoking girl with a sixties bob, long-dead neon from a later nightclub. The most recent effort was one strip of warehouses converted into office space, a weathered For Lease sign suggesting there'd been no new takers for years. Considering the stories I'd heard about the neighborhood, maybe the ghosts of dead mobsters didn't care to share their final resting place with the living.

There were a few lights on in those offices, as well as what looked like one successfully renovated building of condos for the brave and the antisocial. Madole's outreach center was located between the two, in a partially restored building that also housed an AA meeting place and a needle exchange. Cheap space for community services, near areas where those services would be needed.

Fog drifted along the street, the winds swirling it past. I could take that as an omen. It was certainly atmospheric. But the actual atmosphere was to blame for the fog, as a warm fall day gave way to a chilly night. With the window down, I could smell the river, adding to the night's haze.

A light shone from a window in the outreach center. There was also an older pickup truck parked out front. I got out of my car--I used the Jetta on the job, the Maserati not sending quite the right message for a PI. Rose keeps making jokes about some old TV show, calling me Magnum. I have no idea what she's talking about, but I humor her.

As I got out of the car, I realized how quiet and still it was. The surrounding empty buildings should be chock-full of transient residents, but if they were, those residents were as silent as...well, as silent as the dead.

As I thought that, a figure moved in the shadows, but when I peered into the foggy darkness, no one was there.

When my phone rang, I jumped like a scalded cat. I didn't recognize the number. I did recognize the caller's voice, as soon as she said my name.

"Pamela?" I said. "How did you get this number?"

"I only have a minute. If you really don't want to speak to me, hang up and let me call back to leave a message. I wouldn't contact you if it wasn't urgent."

"You aren't supposed to contact me at all."

"Don't. Please." Her voice was firmer than usual, and I realized there was something else odd about this call--no message warning me I was being contacted from an Illinois penitentiary.

Before I could comment, she said, "I need to see you. I know Ricky is in trouble, and that concerns me."

"Why? Don't you want him dead, too?"

A pause. Then her voice came, tense, as if she was struggling not to snap a reply. "No, I do not. I like Ricky."

"You've never met Ricky."

"I like what he's done for you. He makes you happy."

So did James, once upon a time. So does Gabriel, in his way. I didn't say that. After a while, no matter how valid the reasons, arguing starts to feel like petty bickering. So I told her to just get on with it, and she did. The summary? She'd heard about Ricky and had information. Critical information.

"Really, Pamela? Is that the best you can do?"

I hung up before she could answer. Then I turned off my phone, jogged across the road, and rapped on the door of the drop-in center. It creaked open at my touch.