lived here until I was six. Then I went into foster care. I hardly remember my childhood.” My voice was the same monotone I’d adopted during the two years I’d spent in an abusive foster home right after Lola went to jail. The numbness faded when I’d landed with a nice, suburban couple who raised me as if I were their own.
Marco had been staring at the bloody mess but turned his focus back to me. God, I had to put an end to this blubbering. The last thing I wanted was for him to have insight into my psyche.
“So what are you doing here?” Marco asked. “Do you know anything about this?”
“No. I came because I was worried about her. Right before you came to see me, she said she was in some kind of trouble. But she didn’t get a chance to elaborate.” I didn’t let her, I thought with a sigh. “What I want to know is why you’re here. Don’t tell me it’s a coincidence you’re handling my mother’s kidnapping case at the same time that you’re investigating me.”
He slipped his hands into his pants’ pockets and briefed me like the cool professional he was. “Two undercover detectives were in a car outside. They saw the assailants enter and heard a commotion, but by the time they got up here she was gone. I had assigned the men to keep an eye on Lola.”
“As part of your investigation of me?”
He nodded.
I should have been angry, but the truth was, I didn’t feel much of anything. I was too good at numbing myself. “I’ll look at the body. Maybe I can identify her.”
“I doubt it,” he said but didn’t stop me.
I understood what he meant when he led me to the body and pulled back the bloodstained cover. All that remained was a trunk and limbs—no head, hands or feet. The victim wore one of those nebulous, sleeveless paisley frocks women wear when they give up all hopes of being glamorous.
“The R.M.O.,” I whispered. The Russian Mafiya Organizatsia was notorious for ruthlessly dismembering victims. No wonder the apartment looked like someone had put blood in a blender without a lid. “I see what you mean.”
“We’re running a quick DNA test now. We should know who she is later this evening.”
I nodded. My stomach twisted with regret. Lola had come to me for help. Said she was in big trouble. Now this. I should have listened. “Do you mind if I go into Lola’s parlor and look around?”
“Fine. That area has already been scanned and logged.”
While Marco and the death scene investigators finished up with the bloodbath, I wandered to the front room where Lola did her scrying. That was the fancy word she liked to use for reading her crystal ball. She claimed she could see scenes from the future reflected in the glass. What a crock. All she could really see was the money she was conning out of her unsuspecting victims. My guilt morphed into anger. She wouldn’t be in this trouble—whatever it was—if she didn’t hang out with lowlifes and thieves. That wasn’t my fault.
The perfectly round grapefruit-sized crystal sat on a small pedestal in the center of the table. I eyed it warily. I hated that thing. To me it represented all the painful lies my mother had told to me, to clients, and to D.C.F.S. when she was trying to get me back after her four-year stint in prison. I tore my gaze away and strolled around the room. With flocked wallpaper that was antique three times over and beaded fringe lamps, it looked like a Victorian whorehouse. Like the madam of a bawdy house, she had pictures of her most famous clients on one peeling wall.
Photos displayed the smarmy grins of a few lounge lizards who played in northside synthesizer bars. There was also Juan Villas, the Cubs’ star pitcher. I was impressed. When I saw a signed photograph of the mayor, I paused. She had to have bought that one on the Internet. I looked closer. It looked like the real thing. Or was that a forgery? Knowing Lola, it was forged.
The last baffling photograph was of Vladimir Gorky. I’d seen him in the news. He was head of the R.M.O. here in Chicago and a top lieutenant in the national neo-Russian mob. While he was a known mobster, he was so high up on the food chain that the cops could never tie him to the crimes committed by his underlings. And since he had been smart enough to launder his money in legitimate businesses, he was somewhat of a society celebrity. He was like a white-collar criminal who never does time in a luxury prison and just happens to have invisible blood on his hands.
Wow. Lola was either knee-deep in syndicate crime or she’d really improved her fortune-telling act.
I looked closer and saw scribbled in ink, To Lola, the best fortune-teller outside of Chechnya. With love, Vlad. I nearly stopped breathing. Lola had been scrying for Gorky himself. She’d done a lot of bookmaking for low-level mob types when I was young. But this was big-time. Unless this whole wall of fame was just another one of her scams.
I glanced at the crystal ball, then did a double take. Before it had been dark. Now it glowed orange. I snorted at my own superstition. Of course it couldn’t glow. It was just the reflection from the neon light outside the window. To reassure myself, I looked out the sullied window at the “Fortunes old” sign. It was set to blink on and off, on and off. I looked back at the ball. The glow was steady, clearly not a reflection.
I walked toward it, stopping at the edge of the round, velvet tablecloth where it sat in a black stand. Curious as hell, I reached out and touched the glass globe.
“Ouch!” I yanked my hand back. It was hot. Not enough to burn, but enough to surprise me. Hell, did Lola have this thing hot-wired to impress her clients?
I reached out again, this time letting my hand smooth over the ball. It was definitely warm. I sat down and pulled the ball and its small black tripod stand closer. No wires. I put both hands on the globe. Suddenly I heard her voice. Help me. I didn’t mean it. Her voice was in my head. The glass burned hotter in my palms. I looked down and saw Lola’s face in the ball. She was crying. Then someone hit her. I heard words I couldn’t quite understand. English, Russian, French, Chinese? All or none of these? Or just words played in reverse, comprehensible in a different direction.
I recoiled and pulled my hands away just as Marco entered the room. He drew back the curtain with a whoosh. Light from the living room flooded the parlor.
He looked damningly from me to the ball. “Does fortune-telling run in the family, Baker?”
Short of a snappy comeback, I was momentarily speechless. What if it did? No, I thought as I wearily rubbed both hands over my face, collecting myself, no it couldn’t, because Lola was a fake.
“What if I did inherit psychic abilities?” I finally managed to reply sarcastically as I stood. “You’re a shrink. Aren’t you supposed to appreciate the powers of the mind?”
“I’m also a cop. I appreciate the ingenuity of grifting in all its forms.” He cocked his head over his shoulder. “Let’s get out of here. The body has gone to the morgue. The evidence has been bagged. We’re the last ones out.”
“Look, uh, Marco, would you mind if I took this home with me?” I motioned nonchalantly to the crystal ball. “You know it…well, it has sentimental value.”
His mouth tugged in a cynical line. “Yeah, sure, what the hell. It’s against the rules, but you bend them all the time, don’t you?”
That stung, but I smiled sweetly. “Think whatever makes you happy.”
“Go ahead.
