First Star I See Tonight Read online

  The next morning, she showered, slipped into jeans and a T-shirt, and ran her fingers through her wet hair—no need for a wig. After she’d grabbed her coffee and a slice of three-day-old pizza, she set out.

  The second-story condo she couldn’t afford to keep much longer was part of a five-unit brownstone in the city’s Andersonville neighborhood and boasted its own private parking space. As she slung her bag into her car along with her travel mug and the cold pizza slice, she wondered whether she’d be in jail by the end of the day. It was a risk she had to take.

  Graham occupied the top two floors of a converted, four-story former seminary on a tree-lined street in Lakeview. Lakeview wasn’t Chicago’s most expensive neighborhood, but it was one of its best with great shops, trendy restaurants, a stretch of shoreline, and Wrigley Field. She wedged her Sonata into a semi-parking spot across from a postage-stamp park and took a few bites of the pizza and a swig of coffee. Her days of treating herself to a morning Starbucks were gone.

  She tugged on a blade of her real hair—short, choppy, the same chestnut brown Duke said her mother’s had been, before she’d been murdered in a sidewalk robbery. Piper was four at the time and barely remembered her, but the effect of her mother’s violent death had set the course of Piper’s upbringing.

  Duke had raised Piper to be tough. He’d enrolled her in one self-defense class after another, along with teaching her every trick he’d picked up over the years. He’d taught her to be strong, and even when she was very young, he’d freeze her out if she cried. He’d rewarded her toughness by teaching her to shoot and taking her to ball games, by letting her go with him on trips to the corner bar and laughing when she cussed. But no tears. No whining. And no visits to play at a friend’s house until he’d run a background check.

  That was the bewildering, contradictory part of her upbringing. At the same time he demanded strength from her, he was also maddeningly overprotective—a constant source of conflict between them as she’d grown older and he’d planted himself firmly between her and her ambitions. He’d raised her to be as tough as he was and then tried to wrap her in cotton.

  She wadded up the rest of her pizza and shoved it in the overstuffed litterbag hanging from her dashboard. She’d begged Duke to let her join him, but he’d refused.

  “This business is too dirty for a woman. I didn’t spend a fortune on your education to see you staked out in a car photographing some asshole cheating on his wife.”

  Her throat tightened. She missed him. The disturbing combination of his harshness and his overprotection had caused years of raging arguments between them and left her feeling as if she was never quite enough. Still, she’d never doubted his love, and she kept expecting to hear his voice on the phone warning her not to be walking around the goddam city at night or getting into a goddam cab without making sure the driver had a legitimate license.

  You drove me crazy, Dad. But I loved you.

  She forced a sip of coffee down her tight throat and tried to concentrate on transferring the last of yesterday’s handwritten notes to her laptop instead of thinking about her money-grubbing stepmother, who was now enjoying a town house in Bonita Springs bought with Piper’s money. An hour went by. She wanted more coffee, but that would mean pulling out the Tinkle Belle.

  Just as she’d begun to wonder if Graham would appear, his one-hundred-grand metallic-blue Tesla emerged from the alley that backed up to the building’s garages. But instead of pulling into the street, he stopped. The sunlight reflecting off his windshield kept her from seeing much, but she’d parked in plain sight, and he had to have spotted her.

  The moment of decision. Would he call the police or not?

  She made herself put the window down and give him a cheery wave, along with a thumbs-up, that she hoped signified Esmerelda was loony, but not dangerous, and that he should ignore her and go about his business.

  He still didn’t pull out, and she couldn’t tell if he was on his cell. If she drove away now, he wouldn’t have her arrested, but she’d also be giving in, and that wasn’t how she was made.

  His car began to move. She started her Sonata and followed him toward Uptown, straining all the time to hear a siren. She kept three cars between them, not trying to hide her presence, but also not crowding him. The Tesla abruptly swung into the right lane and squealed around a tight corner onto a narrow residential street. She veered into the right lane and made the same turn.

  Cars were parked on both sides of the street, and a man in an orange T-shirt pushed a hand mower across the wedge of grass that made up his front lawn. She drove another few blocks and spotted the Tesla on a cross street off to her right. Another quick turn and the car had disappeared. Graham wanted her to believe he could get away from her anytime he chose. Just as well he didn’t know Piper had been taking rigorous courses in offensive, defensive, and high-speed driving—another strain on her budget, but skills she hoped she’d need. Too much aggression on Esmerelda’s part would send the wrong message, and she backed off. Besides, she was fairly certain where he’d end up.

  Sure enough, he arrived at his gym not much later. She waved to him from her perch across the street. He threw her a glare, and she responded with the peace sign. Barmy, not dangerous. He stalked into the building.

  For the rest of the afternoon, she followed him. She gave him plenty of room so he wouldn’t get too uptight. He stayed away from the rougher parts of the city where she’d twice seen him in intimate conversations with street corner drug dealers. Hard to believe he’d have to buy his drugs off the street, but she’d jotted down each encounter in her log for her client to see.

  Late in the afternoon, he disappeared into a mirrored-glass building on North Wacker that housed a major investment group. She knew Graham was looking for financing to start a national franchise of high-end nightclubs with other famous athletes at the helm. Since he had more money than the Illinois treasury, he could probably finance a big chunk of it himself, but Graham wanted buy-in from the business community. She wished she knew more about what made him tick. Why didn’t he take over an island somewhere and live the rest of his life smoking dope on the beach?

  Eventually, he emerged. As he walked toward the parking lot, the sunlight played in his hair, and the building’s mirrored surface reflected his long, sure stride. She didn’t like noticing those things about a man with so many objectionable qualities: his smug self-confidence, his air of entitlement . . . his outrageous net worth.

  Afternoon rush hour had picked up. He knew Chicago’s shortcuts nearly as well as she did, and he took the side streets on his way back to Lakeview. For no apparent reason, his Tesla slowed to a crawl on a one-way street a few blocks from Ashland. His arm shot out through the driver’s side window, and he hooked what looked like a small grenade over the roof of the car. It landed in a barren patch of land between a nail salon and a bail bonds office. Three more of the missiles followed, and then the Tesla drove on.

  It had happened so quickly she might have imagined it if this weren’t a repeat performance. She’d seen him do the same thing two days ago in Roscoe Village. She’d noted the incident in her log but hadn’t known what to call it. Those pseudogrenades would go unnoticed unless someone was actively looking for them. What was he doing?

  Just as she decided to drive back to investigate, she heard a siren behind her. She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a squad car approaching. She moved over to let it pass. Instead, it settled behind her, lights flashing. The cop was after her.

  Cursing under her breath, she swung into a strip mall. That bastard! He’d been playing cat and mouse with her. From the beginning, he’d intended to call in the police.

  The squad car followed her into the parking lot, its flashing red lights smearing a path across the front windows of a Subway and a dentist’s office. The reality of the situation hit home. It was over. Graham was going to file charges against her. Every penny of her savings was gone, and she had no safety net, no other wealthy client
waiting in the wings to take the place of the one she was about to lose.

  Using all the curses she’d learned at her father’s knee, she retrieved her driver’s license—her real one—from her wallet. Her fake IDs were safely stashed in her underwear drawer. Not her Glock, though. Concealed carry was legal in Illinois, but she still kicked it as far under the driver’s seat as it would go, praying for a miracle.

  While the cop ran her plates, she extracted her registration and insurance card from the glove box. When he finally approached, she saw that he was about her age, early thirties, one of those super buff guys who should have been Mr. January on a Naked Cops of Chicago calendar. She put down her window and worked on her friendliest, most innocent smile. “Is there a problem, officer?”

  “Could I see your license, registration, and proof of insurance, ma’am?”

  She handed over the papers. As he examined her license, the smell of his cologne drifted through the open window. She was clearly coming unhinged because “It’s Raining Men” buzzed through her head. She wondered if his uniform was being held together with strips of Velcro.

  “Are you aware that it’s illegal to tape up a broken taillight?”

  This was about her taillight? Graham hadn’t turned her in? She went weak with relief.

  “I saw you were cited with a defective equipment violation in August,” he said, “but you didn’t get it properly fixed.”

  The swishy-haired nightclub blondes at Spiral could probably talk their way out of this, but Piper was so grateful for the reprieve that she didn’t even try. “I couldn’t afford it, but I know that’s no excuse. It’s not my habit to ignore traffic safety.” Except when it came to speed limits, but since he’d checked her plates, he’d already discovered her old transgressions, along with the fact that she had a Concealed Pistol License.

  “Driving an unsafe vehicle is dangerous,” he said, “not only to you but to . . .”

  She didn’t hear the rest of his lecture because a one-hundred-thousand-dollar metallic-blue Tesla had whipped into the strip mall. As the car parked in front of the dentist’s office, fresh dread swept through her. The officer knew her real name, and what had turned out to be a simple traffic stop had escalated into a major disaster.

  She wasn’t the only one who noticed the ex-quarterback unfolding from the driver’s seat like some kind of urban panther. The officer stopped talking. His chest expanded and his cop cool evaporated as Cooper approached, extending his arm, and introduced himself, as if such a thing were necessary. “Cooper Graham.”

  “Sure! I’m one of your biggest fans.” The hunky cop pumped Graham’s hand as if it were a backyard oil rig. “I can’t believe you’re not playing for the Stars this year.”

  “All good things come to an end.” Cooper’s drawl was straight out of the Oklahoma prairie. She half expected to see him poke a blade of switchgrass in the corner of his mouth to maintain the illusion that he was harmless.

  “That was some game you played against the Patriots last year.”

  “Thanks. It was a good day.”

  The two of them talked blitzes and pass rushes as if she weren’t there. For someone who was such a stickler about the rules of the road, Officer Hottie wasn’t nearly as exacting when it came to following proper police procedure for a traffic stop.

  Graham had his own agenda. He took in her short hair, which had been hidden by last night’s wig. “What’d she do?”

  “Didn’t get a broken taillamp fixed. You know this lady?”

  Graham nodded. “Sure do. She’s my stalker.”

  The cop shot to attention. “Your stalker?”

  Graham gave her a piercing look. “Annoying but harmless.”

  Suddenly, Officer Hottie was all business. “Step out of the car, ma’am.”

  A string of obscenities jammed against the back of her front teeth. Officer Hottie had heard her speak. He knew she didn’t have a British accent, but if Graham heard her plain midwestern speech, whatever slim chance she had of seeing this through would be ruined.

  “Lift your arms, please.”

  She clamped her jaw shut to keep all the words she couldn’t say from spilling out. Hottie didn’t order Graham to step back as he should. Famous football players could do whatever they wanted.

  Fortunately, the cop only did a visual body search. Until he spotted a suspicious bulge in the pocket of her jeans. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to search you.”

  She couldn’t say a word in her defense, not while Graham stood there taking this all in with sadistic satisfaction. She gritted her teeth as Hottie patted her down.

  He was professional. He only used the backs of his hands. But it was still humiliating. Here she stood, at the mercy of two virile men—one of them touching her, while the other might as well have been, considering how closely he was watching.

  The cop pulled the package of peanuts from her pocket, examined it, then handed it back to her.

  “We sure appreciate the great job you officers do to keep us safe.” Graham’s cornpone sincerity made her want to puke.

  “How long has she been stalking you?” Hottie asked.

  “Hard to say. I didn’t realize it until a couple of days ago. That taillight gave her away.” While she gnashed her teeth at her own stupidity, Graham was tightening the vise around her. “She was a chatty little thing when I confronted her last night, but she doesn’t seem to have much to say now.”

  Officer Hottie turned his attention back to her. “Do you mind if I have a look in your car?”

  She knew the law. He couldn’t search her car without probable cause, but Graham’s accusation had given him that. And would Cooper continue to believe she was harmless if he knew about her Glock? She needed to disclose where it was before the officer began his search.

  She started to cough, pounding her chest with her fist and doing her best to muffle her words so her lack of a British accent might go unnoticed. “Make him . . . go away . . . first.” More coughing. “Then you can . . . look.”

  The fake coughing made her choke for real, and the cop took her words as permission to search, but he was enjoying rubbing shoulders with one of the city’s most famous athletes too much to tell Graham to step away. Instead, Hottie ordered her into the back of his squad car.

  She watched through the smudged window with mounting dread as Hottie opened the passenger door with Graham observing. It took the cop less than ten seconds to find the Glock. Graham turned toward the squad car, and even through the window, she could see his fury.

  Hottie opened her trunk, exposing her tote bag bulging with disguises. Looking puzzled, he picked up her Tinkle Belle. A long conversation ensued between the two men. Finally, Graham shook hands with the cop and made his way to his Tesla without another glance in her direction.

  ***

  Hottie, whose name turned out to be Officer Eric Vargas, eventually confirmed Piper’s employment, and after three hours at the police station and a second ticket for failing to repair the taillight, she was finally free to leave. Normally, she loved the homey comfort of her tiny condo with its high ceilings, bowed window, and hardwood floors, but today, she was beyond comfort. As she pulled a cold Goose Island from her refrigerator, she heard a knock at the door. “Piper! Piper, are you there, honey?”

  Piper adored her downstairs neighbor, eighty-year-old “Berni” Berkovitz, but in the last few weeks, Berni had begun showing signs of dementia, and Piper was feeling too defeated right now to give her the attention she needed. Not that she had a choice. Berni was lonely, her eyes were still sharp, and she knew Piper was inside.

  Piper trudged to open the door. “Hey, Berni.”

  Berni didn’t wait for an invitation but came right in. Her neighbor’s short, Day-Glo-orange hair was uncharacteristically showing its gray roots, and her trademark crimson lipstick had gone missing. Before her husband’s death, Berni had worn exotic outfits, but now, instead of harem pants, a gondolier’s shirt, or a poodle skirt, she’d wrapped
herself in Howard’s old cardigan with a pair of sweatpants.

  Piper held up her beer. “Want one?”

  “Not after Labor Day. But I wouldn’t say no to a vodka on the rocks.”

  Piper had the remains of a bottle of Stoli Elit from her prosperous days, and she went to get it. “Your generation sure knows how to drink.”

  “A source of pride.”

  Piper forced a smile. In some ways Berni was the same person she’d been before her last cruise, when Howard had suffered a fatal heart attack off the coast of Italy. Piper wished everything could return to the way it used to be for Berni, but then Piper wished for a lot of things it didn’t look as though she could have.

  “You’ve been gone so much lately, I’ve hardly seen you,” Berni complained.

  “You’ll be seeing a lot more of me.” Piper tossed some ice into the glass of vodka and made herself say it out loud. “I bungled my big job.” Although Berni didn’t know the details of the case, she knew that Piper had an important client.

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. But you’re smart. You’ll work it out.”

  Piper wanted to believe that, but the reality was that tomorrow she had to let her client know Graham had identified her, and by the time that unpleasant meeting was over, she’d be fired.

  Another knock sounded on her door, a knock that was purely ceremonial because her neighbor Jen let herself in without waiting for an invitation. She was still dressed for work in a sleeveless emerald-green sheath that fit her slim body perfectly. Her dark hair swung to her shoulders, and her makeup hadn’t moved since she’d applied it early that morning.

  “Scattered showers tomorrow,” she said glumly. “We need the rain, so that’s good, but the ragweed count is going to be a bitch.” She sniffed, as if she were already suffering. Nineteen years ago, Jennifer MacLeish had been Chicago’s hot new television meteorologist, but she was forty-two now, no longer a fresh-faced girl, and she was convinced the recently appointed station manager was about to replace her with a younger model.

  “Howard had a lot of trouble with ragweed,” Berni said. “I wonder if he still does.”