A Dark and Deadly Deception Read online

  A DARK AND DEADLY

  DECEPTION

  Also by Eleanor Taylor Bland

  A Cold and Silent Dying

  Fatal Remains

  Windy City Dying

  Whispers in the Dark

  Scream in Silence

  See No Evil

  Keep Still

  Done Wrong

  Tell No Tales

  Gone Quiet

  Slow Burn

  Dead Time

  A DARK AND DEADLY

  DECEPTION

  ELEANOR

  TAYLOR

  BLAND

  A DARK AND DEADLY DECEPTION. Copyright © 2005 by Eleanor Taylor Bland. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bland, Eleanor Taylor.

  A dark and deadly deception : a Marti MacAlister mystery / Eleanor Taylor Bland.—1st St. Martin’s Minotaur ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-312-32667-X

  EAN 978-0-312-32667-8

  1. MacAlister, Marti (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Police—Illinois— Chicago—Fiction. 3. Actresses—Crimes against—Fiction. 4. African American police—Fiction. 5. Motion picture industry—Fiction. 6. Chicago (111.)—Fiction. 7. Policewomen—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3552.L36534D37 2005

  813’.54—dc22

  2005051186

  First Edition: December 2005

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  IN MEMORIUM

  My brothers-in-law, Sterlin Bland and Lee Bland.

  My “Little” nephew Carl Douglas Richardson, whom I miss

  terribly and dearly love.

  Louis J. Boryc, and his beloved Tara, who will always be in the

  hearts and memories of those who love them.

  Daniel Drew, mayor of Waukegan. So many of us will always

  remember you.

  I BORE YOU UP ON WINGS OF EAGLES

  AND BROUGHT YOU HERE TO MYSELF.

  —EXODUS 19:4

  Welcome John Carlo, Megumi, John Paul, and Jackson.

  A BABY IS GOD’S OPINION THAT

  LIFE SHOULD GO ON.

  —CARL SANDBURG

  Congratulations to Pat and Judy Clyne on their fiftieth wedding anniversary.

  A special thank-you to my agent, Ted Chichak, whose support and encouragement are appreciated more than I can say; my editor, Kelley Ragland, for her enthusiasm and support; and to Toby Yuen, copy editor, whose job 1 seem to have made easier this time, and whose thoroughness and competence were greatly appreciated.

  I would also like to thank family: my sons, Kevin and Todd, whose constant and unconditional love and support mean more to me than I can say; my grandchildren, Anthony, LaTa’Ja, Todd Junior, An’Tonia—time passes so quickly and you are growing up so fast. I am most grateful for the time we spent together while you were young; also my four-footed grandchildren with fur, Geronimo and Maxie, Teddy and Sydney, my little angels in disguise.

  To my dear and special friend Nanette Boryc, who not only encourages me, but insists that I write, and does a fantastic job doing all of my Internet research.

  Three very special people have recently come into my life: my cousin George Gershefski, whom I spoke to for the first time this year; my “Polish” cousin Lou; and my sister-cousin, Phyllis. I am so grateful and blessed to have found them.

  To everyone at the Waukegan Public Library, especially the research librarians, for their cheerful assistance.

  I especially want to acknowledge Chief Biang, Deputy Chief Yancey, and Commander Richard Davis; through their leadership and example, our Waukegan Police Department exemplifies professionalism and compassion. I would also like to acknowledge Chief Gallager and our fire department—firefighters and paramedics. Every time I hear a siren or pull over for an ambulance I know that whenever necessary they will put their lives on the line to save others, and always do everything medically possible to save a life.

  To the Robert Sabonjian Lake County Board, for those moments of sanity and common sense, for courage and persistence in pursuing the dream.

  Superfans: Dee and Jamie O’Meara; Augie, at Centuries and Sleuths; and Judy Duhl—our writer’s group will never be the same without Scotland Yard Bookstore.

  For technical assistance: Charles Schaller, former consul, United States Embassy, Bucharest, Romania, and his wife, Pat; Danny Diaz, City of Waukegan; Wayne Munn, Carnegie Restoration Committee; Patricia Jones, Waukegan Township supervisor, for bravery, determination, and also the tour of the Genesee Theater; Daniel Foust, licensed clinical counselor; Teddy Anderson, Waukegan Downtown Association; the staff at Haines Museum; the staff at Staben House and LaCasa; Maxie’s Writing Studio; Mary Ann Curtis, Catholic Charities; Frank Phillips, Meals on Wheels; Mary Bolin, food pantry coordinator; also, AnnMarie Stohl, Marcia Portnoy, and Lucy Rahn.

  A DARK AND DEADLY

  DECEPTION

  CHAPTER

  1

  FRIDAY, MARCH 19—LINCOLN PRAIRIE

  An loud snap awakened him. Wood scraped against brick. Another branch from the elms planted close to the house must have broken. Thomas Newsome pushed the heavy blanket aside and, mindful of the stiffness in his hips and knees, pushed himself up from the armchair. Leaning on his cane, he shuffled to the window and pulled back the heavy velvet curtain. The wind had picked up. Snow, large flakes falling thick and fast, whipped past the leaded glass, moving horizontally. Winter, the stripping away of things past, a time for the seed to lie fallow within the frozen earth: his favorite time of year. Like the animals that slept through blizzards, and cold, and rivers dammed with ice, he, too, chose to hibernate, staying inside with a fire in the hearth but wakeful—watching and waiting, for what he didn’t know.

  Loath to turn away from the storm that raged outside, he stood there until the cold from bare glass and the chill from a draft began to permeate his bones, stiffening his joints, making his back ache. He sighed. Today was his birthday. He was seventy-nine years old. Perhaps there wouldn’t be many more winters. Perhaps soon, he would lie beneath the snow awaiting resurrection. He turned from the window and went to a tall, narrow cupboard. He touched the dark wood, older than he was, and scarred. The veins on the backs of his hands stood out like cords. He rubbed the knots in the wood with fingers that had never known a callus.

  There were no tremors in his hand now. Was it the medication? Or . . . the Theotokos—Mother, Madonna, Birth-Giver of God. He opened the cabinet, looked at the icon placed at eye level.

  The icon was small, five inches by eight. A border of blue-and- red paint that might once have been bright was now dull and scarred. Bare wood was exposed where the paint had chipped or peeled. He thought the light surrounding the Madonna’s face and head must have been gold. Now it was a mottled brown-green. Her face was the color of old parchment. Her dress made him think of a brown wool coat he had worn as a boy.

  “Mama,” he whispered. “Mother.”

  She was a tormented mother, looking toward some distant place far beyond his line of vision. There was no Christ child in her arms to love, no crucified Christ to mourn. She leaned forward, lap empty, arms empty. Her hands palms up, a silent plea or a mother’s prayer? The anguish in her eyes was too deep for him to fathom or to even begin to understand. “What do you see, Mama?” Again he asked that question, again the answer came, “I see forever.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  SUNDAY, APRIL 25—BUCHAREST, ROAAANIA

  Vladimir entered the sacristy alone. Even now, after thirty-four years as a priest, he liked to linger after vespers. It was the last prayer of the evening and the first prayer of the new day, a quiet celebration of the end and an- other beginning, as if they were one, a promise that existed be- yond the confines of mortality.

  Vladimir extinguished the last candle. He took deep breaths as the scent of smoke mingled with the aroma of incense. He listened to the silence until it became a prayer, a meditation.

  No, this was a respite. He would not think about the Romanian senate’s decision to allow a cathedral designed a hundred years ago to finally be built. He would not consider the financial con- cerns involved. He would not ponder the reports of miracles bestowed by the Virgin of Germany, when her icon visited the

  Romanian church in Berlin. Many had come in pilgrimage to their Theotokos—their Mother. Many had touched the drops of myrrh that flowed from her image. Vladimir believed that the most meaningful healing was that of the soul. He knew that for many, the certainty of physical healing would be as fleeting as the religious fervor awakened by Her visit. He also knew that for those few, there would indeed be a miracle. But now there were more immediate concerns.

  Tomorrow he would meet with Josef yet again to discuss this visit to Canada and the United States. Meetings had been arranged with Bishop Petre in Michigan and Archbishop Gabriel in

  Illinois. What remained to be decided were which churches and missions he would visit. This was a tedious task for Josef. These were decisions rife with political implications for Vladimir. Balance, Josef kept saying, balance. Peace, Vladimir thought, peace. This was not just about the unification of all Orthodox Romanians. This was not another at
tempt to clarify ecclesiastical relationships. If peace and unity and a charity that exceeded justice could not flourish within the Church, then where in this universe could it even begin to grow roots?

  Vladimir massaged the dull throb stirring at his temples, then bowed low to the image of the Christ. Not a crucified Christ, not a risen Christ, but the battered, beaten, broken body of the Christ who died for the sins of the world. He looked at this Jesus until all other thoughts faded and a quiet joy and gratitude began filling his heart. Now, in these moments of prayer, he was not Vladimir, Archbishop of Bucharest, Metropolitan of Ungro-Wallachia, patriarch of the Romanian Orthodox Church. He was just Vladimir, the servant of God.

  CHAPTER

  3

  wednesday, may 5—lincoln prairie

  Detective Marti MacAlister waded through the water that had overflowed the banks of the Des Plaines River. Just a few days ago she would have been able to drive down this street to get to Gurnee Mills or Six Flags Great America. Now this road and all nearby roads were flooded and closed to traffic and the river hadn’t crested yet. Cloud cover made the sky look like a solid gray mass. The air was dense with moisture. Soon it would rain again. Not the usual thunderstorms, just a drenching deluge that would last for several hours and raise the water level even higher.

  She had borrowed a pair of boots from a fireman on standby. They were a little too big and she was surprised by how heavy they were. She made her way to the railing at the side of the road, where a bridge allowed the river to flow beneath the street. Standing there, she looked north. The placid, slow-moving Des Plaines had become a swift-moving stream rushing toward her and spreading east and west as it overflowed its banks. Water covered what had been a grassy floodplain and slapped at the lower branches of a stand of burr oak.

  Less than half a mile away sailors from the nearby naval base, local residents, and other volunteers were filling sandbags. The locals seemed to have become accustomed to the occasional flooding, but this was the worst it had been in fifteen years. The curious, or perhaps those with homes too far away to be threatened, stood alone, arms folded, or in groups of three or four chatting and gesturing toward the houses that were in danger. Marti couldn’t hear what anyone was saying.

  Her husband, Ben Walker, a fireman paramedic, was in the water wearing a wet suit, working to free the body that had become trapped in the thick branches of an uprooted tree. Ben’s partner, Allan, waited alongside in a small boat. Evidence technicians were in a second boat, taking pictures. Two techs wearing diving suits were in the river looking for anything that might have belonged to the victim or provide information as to who she was or how she died. Just beyond the water’s edge, uniformed officers kept onlookers away.

  Water swirled as Marti’s partner, Matthew “Vik” Jessenovik, came over and stood beside her. He was wearing hip waders.

  “I see you came prepared,” she said.

  He was four inches taller than her five feet ten and looked down at her as he spoke. “These belonged to my old man.”

  “Took you long enough to get here.” Usually, when they were called at home, he was the first to arrive. “Sleep in this morning?”

  “I took Mildred to the Sunrise for breakfast.”

  Marti smiled. Vik’s wife had multiple sclerosis. Eating out could only mean she was feeling good.

  Vik nodded toward the recovery team and the forensic techs. “Just what we need,” he said. “Another body.”

  “Things have been slow,” Marti reminded him. They had been working on cold cases for over a month and Lieutenant Gail Nicholson insisted that they work on the three cases least likely to be solved. Neither of them liked the lieutenant, nor did she pretend to like them. They were here as members of the Northern Illinois Regional Task Force, which was under Frank Winan’s command. This would take precedence over the Lincoln Prairie cold cases.

  “Male or female?” Vik asked. “Or do we know?”

  “Woman.”

  “Do we know anything else?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me. Anything that did go in with her is probably miles downstream by now. Just our luck that tree snagged her or she would be, too.”

  “Is that a complaint?”

  Vik considered that. “Nah. Thanks to whoever it is or whoever did it, we should be able to tell Nicholson to shove it for at least a few days. Who found her?”

  Marti pointed toward two boys. Neither looked older than twelve. The younger boy had short blond hair. He was wrapped in a blanket. A woman, also blond, was at his side. They were standing in a grassy area that wasn’t underwater. The woman was rubbing his hair with a towel.

  The boy who looked to be the older of the two had a mullet cut, short on top with the long hair in the back pulled into a ponytail. He and a man, who also had a mullet, were almost close enough to the water’s edge to wade in. The man refused to move back when one of the uniforms suggested it. He kept leaning down to speak to the boy and jabbed the boy’s shoulder with the heel of his hand whenever he caught the boy looking away from the felled tree, where Ben was working to free the body.

  “The blond was going for a Huckleberry Finn ride in an inner tube,” Marti explained. “The one with the ponytail was on one of those inflatable rafts. It capsized, he swam for the tree, saw the body, and almost drowned getting away.”

  “Stupid, both of them,” Vik said. “We could be fishing them out.” Despite the gruffness in his voice, Marti knew how he felt when kids witnessed a homicide or found a body. “Not too many vultures out today,” he added, nodding toward a lone reporter who was scanning the scene with a video camera. A bag with a tape recorder was slung over his shoulder.

  Marti was keeping an eye on him, too. When he had enough film he’d begin interviewing for voice-overs. Once he identified her and Vik as homicide cops he’d be all over them. Otherwise there was just one local newspaper photographer with a camera and telephoto lens.

  “The governor’s not flying in by helicopter until tomorrow to check out the flood damage,” Marti reminded him.

  “And meanwhile, what’s one more body?” Vik grumbled. “A live politician, now that’s news.”

  Marti wasn’t sure how long Ben had been in the water when he signaled Allan to bring the boat closer. She knew he was tired. They had stayed up late last night, more interested in each other than in sleep as vanilla-scented candles burned down and flickered out. As the boat moved in, someone in the small crowd gave a loud, nervous laugh. Someone else gave an equally loud shush. Marti turned to look at the two boys. The blond boy’s mother shielded him from what was going on. The other boy was shivering, but did not look away.

  “Macho,” Vik muttered. “That kid’s seen more than most adults out here.”

  By the time the boat reached the edge of the river, the body was covered with a blue plastic tarp. Two firemen brought a stretcher and carried the body to where a gurney waited on dry ground. They transferred the body and wheeled the victim to the ambulance. Marti and Vik did their best to avoid the onlookers as they made their way to where Ben stood, still dripping water. The three of them entered the ambulance. Ben pulled back the tarp, exposing her face. The woman’s skin was the color of pecans. There wasn’t much damage to her face. Her eyes were open and a startling shade of brown at least two shades lighter than her skin. Her hair was permed. The hair on the left side was pulled behind her ear and secured with an ornate barrette. It had come loose on the right side and a black mesh hairnet clung to wet strands. Marti guessed her age as mid-thirties.

  Ben lifted the tarp to give them a look at the body. The trench coat the woman wore had been lavender. Now it was covered with silt and mud. It was belted and buttoned, but Marti could see that the woman had on a soggy, pink angora sweater. There was no obvious body trauma. Marti looked at Ben.