Authors: Bianca Sloane
K
elly didn’t realize she’d dozed off until she rolled over and looked at her watch. How was it nine? What time had she gotten there? Had she really been here that many hours?
She sat up, disoriented, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. She got off the bed and walked into the bathroom in search of a tissue. When she turned on the harsh, fluorescent light, for the second time that day, she saw a mess staring back at her in the mirror. She grabbed a tissue and dabbed her nose with it before pushing the faucet towards cold and dousing her face. She picked up the same towel she’d used earlier and patted her face dry.
Well, it was too late to go anywhere for a sweater. What now? Her mind clicked into high gear as she thought about what lay ahead. She’d get a lawyer who would negotiate her surrender. Then what? She dropped her head into her hands. So many things to think about—things she never in her life thought she’d
have
to think about.
Well, one thing she knew; she’d want a shower in the morning. She’d run out to the Walgreens across the street for a toothbrush and some deodorant and let the rest figure itself out tomorrow. She sighed and gathered up her purse and the room key, leaving the TV on. She felt better knowing she wouldn’t come back to a dark and quiet hotel room.
The air held a slight chill as she walked out onto Clark Street. Shivering, Kelly looked north and waited for the traffic to clear before she darted over to the Walgreens. She threw a few things into a basket, shooting surreptitious, jumpy glances over her shoulder the entire time. She sprinted back to the hotel, ran up to the room, and looked at her watch. It was almost ten. The news. Would the story be on the news?
Kelly perched on the edge of the bed in front of the TV and punched up Channel Seven. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until the opening music for the news came blaring across the screen. She let her breath stream out in a long, slow exhale, her heart jack-hammering her insides. Sherry Burnet’s head filled the screen.
“Breaking news tops our newscast tonight. Mark Monroe, an attorney with the Bell, Banks, and Crawford law firm, was found dead in his Gold Coast condo. Channel Seven reporter Mel Hayes is live with the latest. Mel?”
The camera shifted to a reporter standing outside of her high-rise, where there was a swarm of cops, onlookers, and news crews.
“Sherry, police say thirty-three-year-old Mark Monroe was stabbed to death earlier tonight. According to police, a call was placed to 911, indicating there was an accident. However, when paramedics arrived, Monroe was already dead.”
The TV cut to a taped story.
“Mark Monroe was one of Chicago’s most high-profile attorneys and most visible residents. As an attorney with Bell, Banks, and Crawford, he specialized in sports and media law and could count some of the sports industry’s biggest names as clients, including Cubs pitcher, Curtis Marshall and Bears quarterback, Ted Stanley. Monroe made headlines last week when he brokered a multi-million dollar endorsement deal with Spike Shoes for Bulls superstar, Kenny Barrows. Monroe was married to former supermodel, Kelly Ross, founder, president, and CEO of Chicago-based Runway Cosmetics.”
Kelly gasped at the publicity picture of herself they had gotten from Runway’s website.
“Damn,” she muttered. She hoped she hadn’t been recognized during her little jaunt across the street. Or worse, by the girl who had checked her into the hotel. Shit.
Then a young blonde guy appeared on the screen. Cop.
“According to Detective Bill Hanson, robbery doesn’t appear to be a motive.”
“At this time, we haven’t ascertained what possible motive there is. I can tell you we will be investigating all viable leads and conducting interviews with all of Mr. Monroe’s acquaintances. This case will be a top priority for the Chicago PD.”
Kelly hadn’t realized she was chewing on her nail until her teeth scraped against flesh. She almost laughed at that bit about no motive. It was a smokescreen, of course. Anyone who walked into her living room would know right away what had happened. She leaned in closer.
“The Monroes were one of Chicago’s most prominent couples, rubbing shoulders with the city’s high-powered citizens. Tonight, some of them are expressing shock over Mark Monroe’s death.”
Donna Dean, CEO of Sellers Publishing, was on the screen, her loose brown waves blowing gently in the breeze, green eyes clouded with disbelief. Kelly and Mark had been to Donna’s Gold Coast mansion many times for parties, which were must-attends. Starving artists chatting up Fortune 100 CEOs; aging Playboy Bunnies regaling everyone with tales about the original club and mansion; PR princesses trying to impress attendees with their client list; aldermen engaging in spirited debates with Cubs players. Donna’s parties were like trolling through the pages of a Chicago version of
Vanity Fair
. Kelly and Mark had always made it a point to attend soirees at Chez Dean.
“I’m in shock. Mark was such a joy to be around. Always a quick smile and a joke, truly one of the nicest people you would ever meet. I can’t imagine who would do this. Such a shame.”
Chuck Parker, the former running back for the Bears. Mark had landed him a lucrative gig doing color commentary for one of the networks years ago and netted a tidy percentage of the deal in the process. Recently, Chuck started doing speaking engagements around the country and kept Mark on retainer for doing his contracts. His brown eyes revealed fresh tears for his friend and agent.
“Man…Mark is…was…I can’t believe I’m talking about him in the past tense…he was just a great guy. I mean, he was the kind of guy you were glad was in your corner because he was real. He just kept it real, man. I’ll miss him.”
Mel Hayes came back on the screen.
“While police don’t have any suspects at this time, they are looking for Kelly Ross, Mark Monroe’s wife, who was not at home when paramedics arrived. She was last seen returning home this afternoon around three-fifteen. Police ask that if you have any information, contact Area Three Homicide at 312-555-0237. Reporting live from the Gold Coast, Mel Hayes, Channel Seven News.”
Kelly flipped over to Channel Five. Yet another reporter was doing a stand-up in front of her house.
“Police are looking for Kelly Ross, Mark Monroe’s wife. It is not known if she was home at the time of her husband’s death. For Channel Five, I’m Angela Henning live in the Gold Coast. Marilyn, back to you.”
Kelly let out an abrupt sigh and flipped to Channel Two, already onto the next story. She slid off the bed and onto the prickly carpet. She was terrified…absolutely terrified about what had happened and what would happen.
Just then, the shrill ring of Mark’s cell phone pierced the air. Kelly’s head whipped around. Should she answer it? Who could it be? Her hands shaking, she crawled across the barbed wire carpet to her purse and rummaged through it to see who was calling. It was a 708 number. Who the hell did Mark know with a 708 number? Wait. Wait! It had to be her. So it wasn’t Lindsay the beautiful, Lindsay the brilliant after all. She lived in Lincoln Park, so she wouldn’t have a 708 number.
Kelly held the phone, captivated by who could be on the other end.
The voice mail indicator beeped.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. She’d left a message. She had to hear it. Kelly hit the voicemail button, and Mark’s outgoing message began to play. Her heart lurched at the sound of Mark’s voice.
“Hi, you’ve reached Mark Monroe, please leave me a message after the tone, and I’ll call you back.”
The phone then beeped several times, indicating it was going to the voice mailbox.
“You have one new message. To hear your message, press one.”
She pressed “one,” impatient now. She was so close to finding out who she was.
At first, all she could hear were crowd sounds.
And then Kelly heard the woman her husband had been having an affair with.
“H
ey, baby! I’m just out hangin’ with my girls. You know how it is on a Saturday night. But I was callin’ to tell you I can’t stop thinkin’ about you and how goooood it was to see you this morning, baby. I know you said you would call me, but I just wanted to hear your voice. I can’t wait to see you again. When are we gonna see each other again, ‘cause you know I don’t like to go too long without seeing you. Call me, Boo. Bye.”
“To erase this message, press one, to save it, press two. To hear this message again, press three.”
Kelly couldn’t help it; she had to hear it again. She replayed it two more times before she saved it to the archives. She let out a slow breath, her head spinning from shock, anger, and a little bit of disgust. This woman was ghetto with a capital “G.” Kelly could hear in her voice that she and this…“woman” were nothing alike. She probably dyed her hair to match her outfits.
Kelly sat on the bed trying to comprehend this bit of information. She hadn’t really thought about what kind of woman she would be. Maybe she thought she’d be like her. This just didn’t make sense to her at all. She knew some of Mark’s ex-girlfriends, and for the most part, he definitely had a type. Usually tall, drop-dead gorgeous, and always involved in some sort of high-profile career: doctors, lawyers, and the like. He’d once dated a world-renowned physics professor from the University of Chicago. Another was a newscaster at FOX.
This
woman…she was loud, nasty-sounding, like a hood rat.
She chewed on her nail. Obviously, Mark had some secret life she knew nothing about, but this just didn’t fit. Then again, you always heard about men who led these secret lives and the families were always shocked when they found out what the men were really up to. Wealthy men who were cross dressers, happily married businessmen who cruised seedy bars for boy toys, men of the cloth who contracted AIDS because they slept with prostitutes.
She rubbed her eyes. As far as she was concerned, Mark fell into that category; someone she thought she’d known better than herself who turned out to be someone else completely.
D
etective Bill Hanson let out a heavy sigh as he stepped off the elevator on the fifty-third floor of 1043 Lake Shore Drive. He’d finally caught up on his delinquent paperwork and was just about to head home when this call came in. He’d spent the bulk of Friday testifying in the trial of a woman who had killed her fifteen-year-old daughter’s boyfriend when she discovered the girl was pregnant. He had three other active cases, and now this. His captain had made it crystal this one had top priority, all part of his CO’s master plan to make him a lieutenant sooner rather than later.
Hanson didn’t know if that was his plan. He kind of liked pounding the pavement, working his contacts…being out with the people. Of course, being an LT would mean more money, something his wife would love. Hanson just didn’t think the higher profile was worth the political minefield. Not to mention the extra paperwork.
Hanson had a deceptive look about him. With his spiky blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and a waistline that, no matter how much beer he drank or how many White Castle sliders he devoured, refused to bulge, he was often mistaken for a young kid instead of a twelve-year veteran of the Chicago PD, eight as detective. He ducked under the yellow tape stretched across the front door and nodded at the uniform, pulling on his rubber gloves as he crossed the threshold of the Monroe residence. He stopped in front of the monument Kelly Ross had built for her husband. He peered at the condom perched on top of it all and shook his head. The crime scene techs were taking pictures of the living room, and Hanson saw the rest of the team in the kitchen with the body. He shook his head again as he looked back at the pile. Poor bastard.
“What have we got?” he asked as he walked into the kitchen.
“Black male, looks to be early thirties, single stab wound to the abdomen.”
The tech lifted back the sheet to show Hanson the body.
Hanson frowned. “Single stab wound?”
“Probably hit the abdominal aorta.”
“What do you estimate time of death to be?”
“Rigor hasn’t set in yet, so within the last few hours at the most.”
“Where’s the weapon?”
“Right here.” The tech pulled out a bloody knife already sheathed in a plastic evidence bag. Hanson’s head swiveled from the victim to the rather long, rather thick, rather sharp kitchen knife, and he shook his head again. The tech handed the knife to Hanson, who scanned the rest of the room. There was a bottle of red wine on the counter that had been knocked over, its contents splashed across the surface and onto the now-sticky floor. The knife block was missing one knife. Trails of blood had oozed out of the poor fool and co-mingled with all the red wine. He could also see bits of glass strewn in every direction. He continued his survey of the room. The kitchen was larger than his living room and bedroom put together. Marble countertops, huge pots and pans hanging in a rack over the butcher-block table in the center of the room, maple cabinetry with frosted glass inserts and pewter cabinet pulls. Hanson began to walk around the table, careful to sidestep the bits of glass. He opened some of the cabinet doors. Well-stocked with an abundance of plates and glasses, and he noticed one missing wine goblet. The one scattered across the kitchen floor. A wine rack stood majestically in the corner opposite the pantry. He walked over to examine it. It was about half-full. He began to amble back to where the tech was still taking photos.
“I’m gonna have a look around. Don’t go anywhere.”
The tech let out a snort. “Riiight.”
Hanson walked back out into the living room, taking in the scene. So, the guy was having an affair, the wife found out, and boom—she sliced him up. Hanson continued to look around. This place was really something, like a page out of a magazine. He still couldn’t get over how huge it was. It was the kind place his wife was always yammering about: “sleek,” “modern,” “nice.” There were vases of fresh cut flowers on the glass tabletops, a lot of funny looking sculptures—artistic, he supposed—and a sweeping view of Lake Michigan. It was the kind of place he would live in if he had three other jobs and had won the lottery.