almost laughed. Of course. The slot machines had nothing to do with it.
“How often did you go?” Cruz asked.
“Once a month, maybe. We’d get a sitter for the kids. It was fun.”
And probably pretty harmless unless she was losing big. “What’s the most you ever saw her lose?”
The woman shrugged. “Maybe a hundred dollars.”
A hundred bucks a month? Didn’t seem like much of a gambling problem. But Sam recalled what Claire had told him. She wanted to know how much money we had.
“Do you think she ever went by herself or with another neighbor?”
“I don’t think so. She was pretty busy with her kids. Fletcher worked a lot of hours and was gone a lot.”
They thanked her for the information and left. Three houses later, the consensus was that Sandy Bird was a good mom, a willing volunteer and a poor golfer. None of that helped them understand why she’d stormed her way into a stranger’s apartment and started shooting up the place. They did not go to see Fletcher Bird. His car was in the driveway, but they kept their distance out of respect. There’d be time to talk with him later.
They headed back downtown, toward the South Loop. Because it was Sunday, and the office buildings were mostly empty, they had no trouble finding a place to park right in front of the drugstore.
They flashed pictures of Nadine and Claire. All three of the clerks, all women in their forties or fifties, shook their heads. Pretty girl, said one woman, pointing to Claire’s picture.
Flat-out beautiful, really, Sam thought. Voluptuous. Not stick-skinny like so many women aspired to be. A man wouldn’t lose her in the sheets.
He stopped walking so suddenly that Cruz almost ran into the back of him.
“What?” Cruz asked.
“Nothing.” He waved a hand. “Let’s go.”
What the hell was he doing thinking about Claire Fontaine wrapped up in nothing but a silk sheet?
ON MONDAY MORNING, before Claire had a chance to stuff her purse in her desk drawer, Victor’s secretary was knocking on their cubicles, letting the creative staff know that Victor wanted to see them—post haste.
The buzz immediately started. Finalists for the Chicago Advertising Association’s Design of the Year contest were supposed to be announced today. Victor was the contact for all the entries. Was it possible that one of them had been nominated as a finalist?
“What’s this about?” she heard Pete Mission ask.
Juanita, who, just the week before, had roared past sixty without blinking an eye, sighed. “Who knows? For having a degree in communications, he doesn’t share much. All I know is that he’s been pacing around his office like a little kid waiting for Christmas.”
Claire and the others took the elevator from the seventh floor to the ninth floor, where all the executives had corner offices. One by one, they filed into the conference room and took their respective chairs. There were no name plates or assigned seats, but still, everybody had a spot. And if somebody tried to shake things up by taking a different chair, no one was very happy. Several had brought work with them. Others were just content to let their brains relax. They were prepared to wait. Victor hadn’t started a staff meeting on time since the beginning of staff meetings. There had been lots of jokes that he couldn’t actually tell time.
They almost fell over when Victor arrived within minutes. His cheeks were pink and his small eyes were bright. He was smiling. It was the first time Claire had ever seen him happy.
He didn’t waste any time. “We were notified this morning that two of our entries are finalists in this year’s contest.”
Two. Wow. The competition was incredible. If an agency had one finalist, they were generally ecstatic. Even the more nonchalant staff members were sitting up straight in their chairs.
“I’m delighted to share that both Pete Mission and Claire Fontaine will be competing for this year’s grand prize.”
Oh, my God. She’d only been at Alexander and Pope two weeks when the memo went around, encouraging everyone on the creative staff to get their entry completed and submitted. She’d reviewed the guidelines and worked like a crazy person to develop something.
Hannah stood up and pumped her arm in the air. “Two. Amazing. Congratulations, Pete and Claire.”
Everyone clapped and cheered. At least Claire thought it was clapping and cheering. Maybe it was just her heart clanging in her chest. She made eye contact with Pete. Even he looked stunned.
Victor held up his index finger, attempting to bring order to the room. “Their designs will compete against the other four finalists. The committee will announce the winners exactly one week from today at the awards dinner. This is big, people, really big.”
As they filed out of the room, there were more private congratulations. Claire looked for Pete to offer her congratulations to him, but he was gone.
“Where’s Pete?” she asked Hannah.
The woman shrugged. “Probably out arranging for a tux and a limo. He’s entered for ten years straight and this is the first time he’s been a finalist.”
Ten minutes later, Hannah was still hanging over the cubical wall that Claire shared with her. She was speculating on what Claire should wear to the awards dinner. Claire’s telephone rang and she reached for it, grateful for the interruption. Hannah smiled at her, before her face disappeared from view.
“Claire Fontaine.”
“Hi, it’s Sam Vernelli.”
Like she wouldn’t have recognized his voice. She cupped her hand around her phone, attempting to create some privacy. Hannah out of sight didn’t necessarily mean Hannah out of hearing. “Detective?” she said, her voice low.
“How’s it going?” Sam asked.
“I just…” She stopped. She couldn’t tell him about the contest, about how absolutely psyched she was about being a finalist. That was something you told a friend, a confidant. He was neither.
“You just what?” he prompted.
“Nothing. What can I do for you?” she asked, her tone purposefully brisk, businesslike.
“I wanted you to know that we’re releasing the scene. You can get your apartment cleaned up.”
She pictured the splattered wall and swallowed hard, suddenly glad that she’d skipped breakfast. “I’ll call the painter now. Maybe I can have him meet me there tonight.” She really didn’t want to return to her apartment, but unless she planned on living indefinitely in a hotel, she needed to do it. She needed to put the ghosts behind her.
All night, she’d tossed and turned, wondering about the woman, reliving every word she’d said. At about two, she’d given up all pretense of sleeping, booted up her laptop and forced herself to work on upcoming proposals.
