CHAPTER ONE
The day I can't forget began with a slap on my bare ass that stung me awake. Maggie Atley, dressed in a smile, jumped back from the bed, leaned her face toward mine, and said, "Get up you lazy bum. Have some coffee ready when I get back."
I turned away, buried my head in her pillow and assumed a fetal position. I made snoring noises and breathed in the fragrance of her apple-scented shampoo.
"Please," she cooed.
I moved to the edge of the bed, sat up and rubbed my eyes. She backed away and fought for balance as she hopped into a pair of faded red sweat pants. She pulled a matching sweat shirt over her short, auburn hair, shoulders, breasts and stomach. I faked a lunge. She grabbed running shoes from a chair and dodged away. She leaned against the door jam as she put them on. Musical laughter faded as I heard her prance through the basement apartment, the office, out the front door and up the steps for her morning run.
In the kitchen, as the coffee perked, a cumulus cloud cruised past the window in the vastness of a blue sky. It was a welcome change from the May rains that had drenched Central City and much of the rest of Illinois for four days.
I nursed a cup of coffee and anticipated the feel of Maggie's flesh when she returned. I'd peel off her sweat-wet clothes and...
The phone rang. I lifted the receiver reluctantly and heard Central City's one-man detective bureau, Andy Brown, say, "Got a body I want you to see before we move it."
"Where?"
"In the alley behind that tavern where you used to hang out."
"Right. I'm on my way."
I jumped into blue jeans, grabbed a fresh T-shirt, shoved my feet into a pair of worn Reboks and ran out of the office to the back of the building and my ancient red Escort.
He wanted me at a crime scene. A body, he had said. Probably some poor bum whose liver gave out. Hardly a major story. The Chicago Times, the newspaper that bought most of my free lance stuff, probably wouldn't print it. Still, I had to make the scene to satisfy Brown, my main police source.
I drove south on University Street, saw only one other moving vehicle, a white Nelson Dairy truck. It stopped and a young guy jumped out. He raced across the street in front of me, a bottle of milk in each hand. He waved after I slammed on the brakes. Three blocks later I turned left on Incline Drive. From there it was downhill for four blocks to Commerce Street. My car only stalled at one stop light.
My name is Nick Bancroft. Before meeting Maggie I had belittled myself for returning to Central City to escape the horror of reporting everyday crimes in Chicago. Now, back in my hometown, I pecked out a pressure-free living selling pieces to the Times and operating a half-ass one-man detective agency.
A young cop I didn't know stepped in front of my car and held up a hand as I eased into the alley behind Commerce Street. "Sorry sir, you can't use this alley now."
"Captain Brown called me. Where can I park?"
"You Nick Bancroft?"
I admitted it.
"He said you'd be coming."
He hesitated, pointed to a space off the alley entrance between two abandoned buildings and said, "There, I guess. You'll have to walk the rest of the way."
I parked, hoped there was nothing in the debris that would puncture my tires, wormed my way out of the car and trotted toward the other end of the block where a number of uniforms had gathered. One was writing in a notebook and Brown, with his arms folded across his chest, was talking to Coroner John Connor. An ambulance was parked off to the side. Paramedics stood by.
A uniformed arm blocked my path. I told the cop--I couldn't remember his name--"Brown sent for me."
"Over there." He pointed.
Yellow crime-scene tape blocked the way. Somehow, always in Chicago and usually here in Central City, whoever strung the damned stuff managed to get it high enough to make it difficult to step over but low enough to make it awkward to duck under. I managed to scissor over it.
"Ever see anything like this in Chicago?" Brown said as I approached.
His cigar, level with my chin, emitted foul smoke. I stepped back. He pointed at a pair of worn running shoes attached to the body of a teenage boy sprawled on its back in dirt to the side of the alley. The heels touched, the toes angled out. My gaze jumped past blue jeans to where the boy's arms sprawled from a soiled St. Louis Cardinals T-shirt, the hands clenched. The light brown face was tilted to one side. A galvanized spike extended from the left temple. Two flies nibbled on a bit of dried blood near the point where the spike violated the head.
Brown steadied me, and said, "Sorry. Didn't know this would shake you that much."
I knelt, tilted my head, and stared into Bobby Scalf's unseeing eyes. Tears formed in mine. I wanted to hold his head, rub the tight curls as I had only a few days before, but, of course, I couldn't disturb the scene.
"Have you identified the victim?" I repeated the question before Brown said, "Not yet. I wanted you to see this because, as you know, the Central City Press is going to play it down. Trudi Seymour wouldn't want to soil the image of her city."
I stood, wiped my eyes, and said, "I know this kid. He's Bobby Scalf. Was Bobby Scalf."
"Are you sure? I figured we'd spend half the day trying to ID him. How come you know him? You familiar with the gang murders in Chicago that involve spikes?"
"I've never been at the scene of one before, but I've heard of them."
"I'll want a statement from you, all the details of how you knew him. You're pale as a sheet. Come to the station in about an hour. I'll get your statement then."
I nodded. My eyes were drawn again to the spike protruding from the temple of the kid who wanted to be like me.
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