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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  In Memoriam

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Also by Eleanor Taylor Bland

  Copyright

  In memoriam:

  Margaret Kaiser, 100 years old, whose memories of Waukegan contributed so much to this series.

  Eunice Fikso, thank you for the toad, it has made all the difference in my writing.

  Bill Spurgeon, we will all miss your continued and unwavering support.

  Hugh Holton, I didn’t know how much I would miss you.

  I bore you up on wings of eagles and brought you here to myself.

  —Exodus 19:4

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to:

  My editor Kelley Ragland, thank you for your commitment to Marti; to Ben.

  My family: Kevin Todd, Sr., Melissa, Anthony, La Taja, Todd, Jr., and Antonia. You keep me grounded in reality.

  Barbara Richardson, the real Janet Petroski, first recipient of the Ruth H. Rozenburg Victim Service Provider Award. You epitomize compassion.

  Tara Boryc, GSD, ADC/PC, German shepherd extraordinaire. To my readers: Trouble is now a female, in honor of Tara’s contribution to Trouble’s character development.

  The newest member of the Bland clan, Nathaniel Madden; Baltimore super fans: Shirley Johnson, Gloria Hilton, Ellen Gordon, Pat Ash, and Andrew Coles, who is a gift and a blessing. Everyone at Calvin College, especially W. Dale Brown and Annie Anderson, who is Mary’s daughter and Joan’s niece; the folks at the Kentucky Women Writers Conference, especially Shelda and Jan; Mary Alice Gorman and Richard Goldman at Mystery Lovers Bookstore; Sally and Doina, Mary Roberts Rhinehart Chapter, Sisters in Crime; John Doggett, the opinionated critic at Centuries and Sleuths Bookstore; and Shechter and Stu Shiffman, Stuart W. Miller, wherever you are, thanks much.

  For enriching my personal experiences of modern-day adolescence, Dr. Howard Atlas and Mr. Herb King, and retirement congratulations to Dr. Kurtz, Superintendent, Waukegan School District 60; Rudy Martin, Arturo Hernandez, Lake County Juvenile Probation; Mike Schack, Marilyn Burden, Cindy Zinaveah, Neal Schilling, Anthony Payne, Debby Brosnan, Becky Raik, and Ralph Strickland at Joseph Academy. To Dr. Mehta and his staff: Anita, Sharon, Nida, Mary Ellen, Patti, Suzanne, and Jill. Dr. Holmberg and his staff: Alberta, Amy, Mary, Jenny, Sue, Dianna, Elba, and Sonya; Dr. Baker and Dr. Kirch.

  Technical assistance: Hedy Hustedde, Bettendorf Library, Richard Hughes, former gubernatorial candidate, State of Iowa, Frank Winans, Lake County Sheriff, Retired, Shirlet Clark, R.N., Georgia Carrasco, Lake County Probation Department, Nanette Boryk, paralegal, Anthony Bland, teenager, Nathaniel Madden, adolescent counselor. Tracy Clark, copy editor, Chicago Tribune; Michael Allen Dymmoch, Phillip Corrigan, PADS Crisis Service; Patricia Jones, Supervisor, Waukegan Township; Diane Taylor, Director, Clara Weldon and Cynthia Alexander, Staben House.

  PROLOGUE

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 13

  As Adrian Quinn entered the Geneva Street YMCA, a janitor just missed touching his shoes with a wide, short-bristled broom. Superstitious, Adrian backed away. Luck was with him tonight; being touched by the broom would have meant going home and remaining there until tomorrow Safely inside, he could hear the sounds of people shouting and a whistle screeching in harsh blasts. He nodded toward the brown-skinned woman who sat at a desk behind a counter. When she raised her eyebrows, he said, “Sounds like I missed the tip-off,” even though he wasn’t there to watch a basketball game. Then he hurried toward the corridor where the noise was coming from.

  Adrian was the only person in the hall until a young Hispanic boy rushed out of the gym where the basketball game was in progress. He stepped aside before the boy could bump into him, avoiding being touched by a stranger, another bad omen. Once again, he felt lucky. When he passed the open doors of a meeting room and saw the backs of about thirty people seated in folding chairs, he stopped close enough to listen to what was being said, and leaned against the cinder-block wall. The crowd was too small, the room too confining. And he assumed everyone in the room was Hispanic. He would be conspicuous if he joined them.

  As he listened, Joseph Ramos said, “We must remember that we now represent forty-four point six percent of the population of Lincoln Prairie.” There was not even a hint of a Mexican accent in his precise English. “It is time for us to be represented in city government. It is time for us to register and vote. We begin today.” The people were silent until Ramos repeated “We begin today” in Spanish. Then there was rhythmic clapping as the small gathering took up the chant. “Sí, nosotros comenzamos, hoy!” Yes, we begin today!

  They were fools, all of them. Anyone who listened to Ramos was a fool. They were being used by a man who promised much but accomplished nothing for anyone but himself. They were being taken in by Ramos just as he had been. Ramos would climb on their backs to get where he wanted to go. Adrian was going to put an end to that. Ramos would not be elected alderman. Ramos’s people would not want him to be their attorney. He would see to it. He was going to take care of it tonight.

  Continuing to speak in Spanish, Ramos said, “They do not want us here, but we will not go back where we came from. This is our country now, also. When you hear them saying code enforcement, that does not mean that the landlords will be required to make repairs, or that the city will fill in the potholes. Code enforcement means that brother and sister, mother and cousin, cannot live together in the same house.” As Ramos’s listeners agreed, they were drowned out by the crowd watching the basketball game, who cheered and stomped their feet on the bleachers. Adrian thought the eruption of noise might cause someone in the room to come and close the doors, but it did not.

  “When my parents came to this country,” Ramos said, “they lived with two of my aunts. It was crowded in that little house, built for one family, not two. But because of my aunts, my father and mother were able to work while there was someone at home to take care of their children. Soon, my parents could buy their own house.”

  Ramos spoke as if he knew what poverty was. He was wearing chinos and a cotton shirt tonight while Armani suits hung in his closet. Ramos, always pretending to be what he was not, still convincing others that he understood where they were because he had been there himself. Ramos was still promising to help people. All he would do was betray them.

  “When Carmen and I married,” Ramos went on, his voice rising, “we moved in with two of my brothers and their families and lived in the basement of a one-family house.” As he spoke, his Spanish eased into softer cadences. “I helped my brother pay for that house until he could manage the payments on his own. Then I bought a house and my sister moved in with me. My parents raised nine children. Today we each have a house of our own.” Ramos paused, then said, “But only by sticking together, by being family, by not letting things like code enforcement force us to live separately and remain in poverty.”

  Lies, all of it. Adrian fumed. Too bad he couldn’t go in there right no
w and tell all of them what kind of man Joseph Ramos really was, but Ramos might recognize him.

  “Separately, we can get nowhere. Without each other, we are alone,” Ramos said, his voice strident. “Together we can achieve much. We begin today!”

  Again the people clapped, and again they chanted “Sí, nosotros comenzamos, hoy!”

  Their voices were louder this time, almost drowning out the screams of a crying child that came from the gymnasium. If only he could tell them how quickly Ramos would betray them. Instead he fingered the knife in his pocket. Even though it was closed, he knew the blade was razor sharp.

  As Ramos began speaking again, Adrian walked away, passing the doors to the room without glancing in. He’d already listened to the same speech twice. He had timed it. Ramos would speak for at least another half hour, then he would spend half an hour laughing and joking and shaking hands as his people, ignorant believers that they were, drank coffee that was too strong and ate cookies that were not sweet enough. When he got to Ramos’s house, he’d have almost an hour. If things went as planned, that would be time enough for what he was going to do.

  * * *

  Graciela Lara was in the kitchen of the Ramos home when she thought she heard a noise upstairs. She listened, wondering what it was, but the house was quiet again. The wind perhaps. This was her eleventh foster home in nine years. She had lived here since June. She was just getting used to the winter sounds of the house, the February sounds, when the wind blew the tree branches against the windows and the snow came. She felt safe here. It was the first time she could ever remember feeling safe. There were locks on the doors and the windows, and even an alarm system. But even if there were not, she would still feel safe here, although she did not know why.

  Graciela turned the heat on under the kettle and got out a packet of cocoa. Always before she had to ask for everything and perhaps be told no, she could not have it. But here, in this house, there was always enough food and she could have whatever she wanted as long as it was not close to mealtime.

  While she waited for the water to boil she put her backpack on the table, took out her school books and notebooks, then reached for the bag with the library books that she had just come home with. She had a desk in her room, but she liked working downstairs where they would not forget about her, where she could listen as the others made noise that was not fighting. She liked the smells here too, and how clean it was, and the bright red walls, and the cabinets and refrigerator where there was always enough for everyone to have as much as they wanted to eat.

  Mrs. Ramos and the Ramoses’ son, Francisco, were at their daughter, Micaela’s, basketball game. José, in foster care here just as she was, did not trust any of the Ramoses. Although he would have said no, the same as always, when they invited him to go with them to the game, José had lied and told them he had forgotten a sweater at a friend’s house so they would know that he did not need them, that he already had someplace to go.

  The kettle began to whistle. She turned off the heat and got out a mug. While the cocoa was cooling, she began her math assignment. She liked to do the easiest work first. The quiet was unusual. Usually Francisco was demanding everyone’s attention, talking and laughing and clowning, interrupting every time she tried to speak. She didn’t mind being alone in the house. Until she came here, that was often the best and safest way to be. She liked it better when it was just her and Mrs. Ramos in the kitchen. She missed Mrs. Ramos, who talked or hummed almost all of the time. Micaela pretended she was not embarrassed by her mother’s chatter and out-of-tune songs, and Francisco teased his mother. But Graciela would ask Mrs. Ramos the words to the songs, or ask her a question so she would talk to her. Mrs. Ramos didn’t ignore her unless those other two butted in.

  As Graciela put down her pencil and reached for the mug of cocoa, another noise interrupted, louder this time, a thump, as if something had fallen. José must have left his window open again. He was used to doing that when the room was too hot. Mr. Ramos had asked him to turn down the heat instead. José kept opening the window just to annoy him. Soon José would be sent back. He expected to be sent away, wanted to be sent away. But he acted first, giving others a reason to send him away so that he would not have to leave for no reason at all.

  This Graciela understood. No matter how good she tried to be, or how many times she made the honor role, she too was always sent away. She was certain José wanted to stay here just as she did, and Mr. Ramos liked José the best, as bad as he was. He liked José better than he liked her. She had to be nice to José, because if she was not, she was the one who would be sent away, no matter what he did. She would go up now and close his window, keep him from getting into trouble again. If José did have to leave, she was certain she would have to go also. She really wanted to stay here.

  The steps creaked as she went upstairs. A small night light greeted her when she reached the top step. There was another night light halfway down the hall, and one in each of their bedrooms. Although the light was dim, it was good to know that even in the middle of the night, she would not be alone in a dark place. She would not let anyone know, but she was afraid of the dark. Now she could see down the hallway. All five bedroom doors were open. Her room was at the far end of the hall. She frowned as she passed Micaela’s room. It was always a mess. Graciela tried to imagine what it would be like to always be wanted, no matter what you did, but she could not. Francisco’s room was worse than his sister’s. Mrs. Ramos would just close their doors if their rooms got too messy. Graciela’s was the only door that was always left open.

  There was another noise as she stopped to smooth the bedspread on her bed. Everything was in order on her bureau, and all of her clothes had been ironed and hung in the closet or folded and placed in the hamper. She went to José’s room, which was across from hers. That José. His bed was not made. And, just as she thought, his window was open. Papers were scattered about, but she could not see what had fallen on the floor, there were too many clothes everywhere. The window opened onto the porch and the Ramoses would not be pleased if they knew, but this time they would not find out.

  As Graciela stepped into José’s room a gust of wind made the half-raised blind bang against the window frame. Perhaps that was what she had heard. A cold blast of air made her shiver as she crossed the room to the window. As she stood there, pushing the curtains aside, she heard another noise right behind her. But before she could turn, she felt a sharp pain in her neck.

  CHAPTER 1

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 13

  Detective Marti MacAlister, and her partner, Matthew “Vik” Jessenovik, were completing a canvass of a neighborhood where a questionable death had occurred. The body had been found this morning. The preliminary report from the medical examiner indicated death by hypothermia. The state’s attorney wanted to know if there was criminal negligence on the part of the absentee owner of the house where the body was found. When contacted at his office in Barrington, the landlord insisted that the man had died because he chose not to turn on the heat, or simply forgot, since he was over seventy. Marti didn’t expect to prove anything one way or the other. The other two residents in the building had refused to speak with them. Those who lived in the houses on either side became fearful as soon as Marti and Vik identified themselves as police officers. They shook their heads and murmured “Nada, nada,” with nervous smiles.

  Now Marti headed for the apartment building directly across from the one where the man had lived, stepping into the ruts made by tires in the snow-covered street. Ice had frozen in patches. She watched where she walked, careful not to slip and fall. Vik trudged along beside her. They had both arrived at the precinct before daybreak this morning and worked through the day without going outside. The only daylight she had seen had been through the window. Now it was dark again, and late to be knocking on doors.

  “Damn, it’s cold,” Vik said. He had forgotten his gloves again and alternately blew on his hands and shoved them down into his pockets.
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  Winter had settled in early this year. There had been no January thaw and tonight’s cloud cover concurred with the weatherman’s prediction of snow. A few flakes were falling now. The wind blew hard and cold off the lake, making Marti’s face tingle. She tugged at her scarf until it covered her nose. Her cell phone rang as she reached the curb. Another body had been found at a house on Julius Street. She glanced at her watch. It was a little before 10:00 P.M.

  “Now what?” Vik asked. The brusqueness of his query implied that he didn’t want an answer, and Marti understood why. It was only mid-February and so far this year they had investigated sixteen questionable deaths.

  “We’ve got another one,” she said.

  “That’s great, just great,” Vik muttered. He sounded frustrated but didn’t remind her that “this isn’t Chicago,” because she had worked on the force there for ten years.

  “A suspect was found with this one and taken into custody,” she said.

  “You’re kidding.” Wiry salt-and-pepper eyebrows almost met across the bridge of his nose. His face was craggy, his beaked nose skewed from a break years ago. At six two, he was four inches taller than she was, but not more than ten pounds heavier than her 165. “Maybe our luck is changing.”

  “Let’s not get optimistic. Nothing else has been going our way,” she reminded him. “And nobody’s been to the scene yet, except for the uniforms who got the call. They’re waiting for the medical examiner and evidence techs. Janet Petroski is with the family.”

  Coroners were elected in Illinois and Janet believed that in that position, as a nonmedical professional, her initial responsibility was to the living. She visited with the bereaved and did whatever she could to help.

  “Well,” Vik said, “since there’s nothing we can do there yet, we might as well finish up here. Not that anybody will know anything about some old guy who froze to death, but at least they’ll still have some idea of what we’re talking about. By morning, he’ll be history.”