* *
Her phone rang two more times as she sat in morning traffic on the Kennedy Expressway. She exited on Ohio Street and snaked through the grid-pattern streets of Chicago. She pushed through the congestion until she reached Grant Park, circled the side streets for fifteen minutes until she found a parking spot too small for even her tiny Honda. Somehow she managed a brave parallel parking maneuver, unsure if she’d be able to escape the twisting and turning and bumper kissing when it was time to leave.
She walked through the tunnel that cut under Lake Shore Drive and along the picturesque path until she came to the cusp of the park. Grant Park was a magnificent piece of real estate that separated the high-rise buildings of The Loop from the lakefront. The park was always a popular destination with tourists, and this morning was no exception. Rory walked through the crowds until she spotted Ron Davidson sitting on a bench near Buckingham Fountain.
Despite that her coat was already buttoned to her neck, she pulled it tight, lifted her collar, and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. It was a mild October morning and others around her wore shorts and sweatshirts, enjoying the lake breeze and bright sunshine. Rory was dressed for a brisk fall day: gray coat secured top to bottom, collar up, gray jeans, and lace-up Madden Girl Eloisee combat boots, which she wore everywhere, including during the dog days of summer. As Rory approached the detective, she pulled her slouchy fleece beanie down on her forehead. The edge of the hat touched the top of her glasses. She felt protected.
Without introduction, she sat down next to him.
“Well, Christ be the king, it’s the lady in gray,” Davidson said.
The two had worked enough cases together for Davidson to know all of Rory’s quirks. She shook hands with no one, something Davidson had learned after a few attempts where his hand floated in the air while Rory averted her eyes. She hated meeting with department personnel other than Ron, and she had little tolerance for red tape. She had never accepted a deadline on a job, and worked strictly solo on her cases. She returned calls at her leisure, and sometimes not at all. She hated politics, and if anyone—from an alderman to the mayor—tried to pull Rory into the spotlight, she disappeared for weeks. If her skills as a forensic reconstructionist weren’t so outstanding, Ron Davidson would never tolerate the headaches she caused.
“You’ve been off the grid, Gray.”
Rory allowed the corners of her mouth to curl slightly while she stared at Buckingham Fountain. No one but Davidson called her “Gray,” and over the years Rory had warmed to the nickname—a combination of her attire and her detached outward persona.
“Busy with life.”
“How’s Lane?”
“Fine.”
“Is he a better boss than me?”
“He’s not my boss.”
“Yet you spend all your time working for him.”
“Working with him.”
Ron Davidson paused for a moment. “You haven’t returned a call for six months.”
“I told you I was on hiatus.”
“There were a few cases I could have used your help on.”
“I was getting burned out. I needed a break. Why do you think most of the detectives who work for you aren’t worth a shit?”
“Ah, I missed your candor, Gray.”
They sat in peaceful silence for a few minutes people-watching the tourists who passed through the park.
“Will you help me?” Davidson finally asked.
“You’re a real bastard for doing it that way,” Rory said.
“You hadn’t returned a call for half a year. You’ve been too preoccupied with Lane Phillips and his Murder Accountability Project. So, I got creative. I thought you’d appreciate it.”
More silence.
“Well?” Davidson asked again when enough time had passed.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Rory kept her focus on the fountain. “Tell me about her.”
“Camille Byrd. Twenty-two-year-old gal who was strangled. Body was dumped in the park here.”
“When?”
“Last year, January. Twenty-one months,” Davidson said.
“And you guys have nothing?”
“I made some threats and banged some pots, but my guys are stumped on this one, Rory.”
“I’ll need the files on the case,” Rory said, still looking at the fountain, but noticing the bend in Davidson’s neck as the head of Chicago Homicide looked up subtly and exhaled in relief.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Who is Walter Byrd?”
“Wealthy businessman and a personal friend of the mayor’s, so there’s been some urgency on the squad to put this one to rest.”
“Because he’s rich and connected?” Rory asked. “There should be urgency for any parent whose child is killed. Where was her body found?”
Davidson pointed. “East side of the park. I’ll show you.”
Rory stood and allowed Davidson to take the lead as they walked. They made it through the park until they came to a grassy knoll off the walking path. A row of birch trees flanked each side of the area, and Rory’s mind calculated the ways someone could transport a body to this location.
Davidson walked onto the grass. “Her body was found here.”
“Strangled?”
Davidson nodded.
“Rape?”
“No.”
Rory walked to the location where Camille Byrd’s body had been found, and turned in a slow circle, taking in the lakefront and the boats resting on the water. She continued to turn and saw the Chicago skyline. Fat white clouds hovered like overinflated balloons in the otherwise-blue sky. She imagined the girl’s body found in the dead of winter, bloated and lifeless and frozen through. She imagined the bare trees of January, the foliage stripped by cold.
“Dump her here. Why?” she said. “It’s such a risk with no protection from the trees. Whoever did this wanted her to be found.”
“Unless he killed her here. Something got out of control. A heated argument. He kills her and runs.”
“That’s a lovers’ quarrel,” Rory said. “And I’m assuming your guys exhausted that angle. Talked to all her boyfriends, current and past? Workmates, old flames.”
Davidson nodded. “Covered and cleared, all of them.”
“Then it wasn’t someone she knew. She was killed
