The Undertaker

The girl got off on the fifth floor and walked to the door of what looked to be a small, but very exclusive art gallery. She pulled out a clunky set of keys from that big shoulder bag and opened the door. The name “Le Magnifique” was written across the window in a bold, gold swirl. She stepped inside, dropped the shoulder bag, the camera, the keys, and the sunglasses on a white and gold French provincial table that served as the receptionist's desk. When she turned around to lock the door, she found me standing in the open doorway with my best, warm, friendly smile.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Of spreadsheets, shoe boxes, and Lil’ Eddie…

She stopped in her tracks, eyeing me warily. “Excusez moi,” she said with a bad French accent and a forced a smile. “Ze store does not open until 10:00.”

“For a ‘tall, leggy blond in a pale-green business suit,’ that's some disguise.”

With the fastest set of hands I'd seen since Sugar Ray Leonard, she snatched an ornate gold letter opener off the table and dropped into a tight fighting stance, the long blade flashing back and forth in front of her.

I raised my hands in mock surrender. “Hey, you win. All I want to do is talk.”

“Talk, huh?” she answered as the accent disappeared and the letter opener flashed past my nose.

“Whoa!” I stepped back and raised my hands higher. “Don't do that, please?”

“Please, my ass. Try anything and you're gonna to bleed.”

“Whatever that guy told you, it's a lie.”

She feinted with the letter opener and jumped three feet in the air in a spinning karate kick. I leaned back as the heel of her shoe narrowly missed my nose. In the process, I knocked over a tall, brocade armchair and she knocked over a Chinese table lamp.

“Keep that up and we'll total the place. Look, I'm not leaving until we talk.”

She backed off and glared at me. The shock of black hair had fallen over her eyes again and she pushed it up and out of the way.

“What did they tell you?” I asked. “It must have been a beauty.”

“That you're the North Side serial rapist they've been after: a sicko-pervert who preys on helpless young women.”

“Helpless young women? That's funny,” I said, looking at the sharp blade and the killer expression in her eyes.

“They said you've already killed three women, three that they know of.”

“Jesus! And you believed that?”

“They were the FBI? Why shouldn't I?”

“For starters, if this really was a rape or murder case, it would be the Chicago PD knocking on your door, not the FBI. But why did you call them in the first place?”

“I didn't call them; they called me, right after you did.”

“Then they have your phone tapped.”

“The FBI? Tap my phone? Get real.”

“Yours, my friend Doug's in Boston, his home and office, and probably everyone else I know.”

She stared at me, wary, but a little less certain. “They told me they raided your apartment in Evanston and found my name and address on a slip of paper. They figured you were coming after me next, so they called to warn me.”

“Convenient, but I don't have an apartment in Evanston. I got in town about three hours ago from Ohio.”

“That's convenient, too.”

I pointed at her camera. “What's with that? The big photo op? “Feds Grab North Side Rapist.” “Local Woman Sets Up Vicious Killer.” Is that why the goon in the sunglasses got all uppity? Your camera?”

“The goon in the sunglasses?” I saw a hint of a smile. “No, he kept insisting I go with them. I declined. He got pushy, but he won't do that again.”

“Be careful with those guys. They can be nasty.”

“So can I. And I'm always careful with guys.”

So much for Midwestern hospitality, I thought. “I'll bet he didn't appreciate you taking pictures of them, did he?”

“That was one of his issues. I'm a stringer for some local papers and like I told that jerk, it's a living, it's mine, and it's not negotiable.”

“Good for you. Even if there is a North Side rapist, I'm not him and they know it. If I had shown up, there wouldn't have been any story and you'd have never seen your film or your camera again. That is, if anybody ever saw you again, or saw me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Hi, my name's Peter Talbott. Hi, I'm Sandy Kasmarek,” I said. “Pleased to meet you Peter. You too, Sandy. And now that we've been properly introduced, I'm tired.” I picked up the armchair and sat down on it. ”

“Great. Another fucking comedian.”

“No, I'm a systems engineer. I do computer programming.”

“Ah, pardon, a fucking rocket scientist. Me, I play third base for the Cubs, but today's an off day over at Wrigley, so I came in to sell some art... Gimme a break.”

I stared at her. “I do mathematical paradigms and systems design.”

“Yeah? Well take your pair-a-dimes downstairs and drop them in a fucking pay phone. Maybe somebody else will listen to your story, 'cause I'm not.”

“Sandy, I came here because I need your help. I don't rape women, and I sure as hell haven't killed any.”

“And I'm supposed to believe that because… ?” she fired back, holding out her hand. “Let's see some ID.”