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  Currently, there was something in his expression that said he had information.

  “What do you have?” I asked. “Is it the bartender?”

  Instead of answering, Reid said, “Stephanie has called for you three times. That woman’s nothing if she isn’t annoying.”

  I pulled my phone from my pocket. Stephanie was my number-one assistant in that office on Michigan Avenue. The screen came to life. “Well, she’s called me four times directly. I guess I need to turn my ringer back on.”

  Reid nodded. “Lorna said Ms. McCrie is awake. I’m glad.”

  “Me too. Any idea why Stephanie is calling?”

  “From the look of her computer screens...” Reid could screen share with anyone at any time without their knowledge. “...she’s spent the day rearranging your schedule. There were a few meetings you didn’t make.”

  “Fuck. Araneae has me all—”

  “Sparrow,” Patrick interjected, “it’s all right. Shit, after last night, we’re all spent. The three of us combined probably haven’t slept three hours.”

  “I doubt you two called me down here to remind me that I missed sleep and a few meetings.” As I waited for their information, I typed out a quick text to Stephanie, explaining that I’d be in the office after one o’clock. I didn’t offer any explanation or even an apology that her morning was fucked up. It was my name on the top of that building. Shit happens.

  “The bartender is...” He pulled up a picture on one of the large screens. “Amanda Smith.”

  “Sounds like a fucking alias.” I nodded toward the screen. “That’s her.”

  “It’s not an alias,” Reid replied. “She’s working at the club to pay for veterinary college in Urbana.”

  “That’s a long drive from the club.”

  “She only works weekends,” Reid answered.

  “And according to a very reliable source, she does more than bartend,” Patrick offered.

  “Tell me how she’s there.” No one got into the club as a patron or an employee without connections and a vow of silence.

  “Her aunt is Antonio Hillman’s maid. Officially she works for his wife, Clarice.”

  Antonio was Wendell Hillman’s son. Antonio’s dirty work for the McFaddens wasn’t as hands-on as his father’s. He excelled in money laundering. Offshore and dark-web accounting with enough shell corporations connected to him to cover a fucking beach. He was also—from many of his various entities in order to keep campaign-finance reports clean—one of the biggest donors to the McFadden campaigns. Antonio had his eye on some posh White House position.

  Cleaning money wasn’t limited to the McFaddens. The Sparrows did it too. Knowing the players on both teams kept the Sparrows in power.

  You weren’t in charge if you didn’t know what was happening across the entire city.

  The muscles in my neck tightened. “That’s too fucking close of a relationship.”

  “She drove back to Urbana last night,” Reid said, “but we have an interview crew on their way. They know not to be specific. We don’t want word getting out that Araneae was drugged. They’ll know if Amanda was involved.”

  I gritted my teeth.

  Women.

  That was my line—the one I hated to cross.

  Just because I hated it didn’t mean I wouldn’t do it. We now lived in the world of equal opportunity—women killed as easily as men. Women may be my line in the sand, but Araneae was my line in the fucking concrete. No one touched her. No one. “If it was her, tell the crew to take care of her. And don’t hide it. Clean their tracks, but make a statement.”

  “Got it, boss,” Patrick replied.

  I turned around to leave. “I’m getting back to Araneae.”

  “There’s something else,” Reid said, stopping me in my tracks and turning me back to him. “It’s Judge Landers.”

  Annabelle Landers, Araneae’s biological mother.

  “What about her?”

  “Her docket has been cleared for the next two weeks.”

  “And this is relevant...why?”

  “Because,” Patrick said, “she was admitted under another name to St. Michael’s Hospital in East Chicago, Indiana.”

  “Indiana? For what?” My mind swirled with the possibilities. “Why not Loyola, Rush, or Northwestern? There are highly acclaimed hospitals right here.” I reached for a chair, spun it around, and sat down, straddling the back. “Wait. Why was she admitted?” I recalled her reaction from last night at seeing Araneae.

  “Psych,” Patrick replied. “According to the patient records, she admitted herself.”

  “You’re sure it’s her.”

  “Yeah, it’s her. When patients admit themselves for psychological evaluation, they can leave whenever they want. I would assume the false name is to avoid the consequences to her appointment.” Reid took a breath. “There’s more. She has injuries that were documented on the admittance paperwork.”

  “Can we assume it was Rubio who helped contribute to her injuries?” I asked, knowing that there was no depth too low for that asshole to go.

  “No actual proof like a video recording,” Reid answered. “Using traffic cams, I can track him from the club to her place. Her home is deficient of technology. She doesn’t even have a dot or echo. The only way for the interior of her house to be seen or heard is via her computer, phone, or security system. By the time she and Rubio entered, all of that technology was surprisingly offline. According to our eyes on the street, the senator has a bandage on his cheek this morning. Shaving incident. He joked about it at a press conference.”

  “Right because I’m sure he shaves with a cheap-ass Bic. Fuck him. At least she fought back.” I stood. “Fucker needs to pick a fight with someone who knows how to fight back.”

  “I think he has,” Patrick said. “I’d be happy to kick his ass.”

  “We all would,” I agreed. The sad truth was that even killing him wouldn’t stop it all; however, it would make me feel better. No, our plan involved a lot more.

  “She’s not talking,” Reid began, “yet the staff is concerned that the injuries are self-inflicted. You know that I’ve been digging from the beginning into Ms. McCrie—for almost a decade. The reason she was presumed to no longer exist was because of one very strong firsthand witness.” He pulled up a photograph of an obituary from the Chicago Tribune dated five days after Araneae’s birthday.

  The McCries, Daniel McCrie and wife, the Honorable Judge Annabelle Landers, regret to announce the unfortunate loss of their daughter, Araneae McCrie. The infant passed away less than an hour after birth. The family has decided that there will be no public services. Condolences may be made in the form of donations in their daughter’s name to the University of Chicago School of Law.

  “I’ve seen this,” I said. “Obviously, it’s a lie.” I recalled my mother’s visit. “My mother said something today about this. According to her, she remembers when this happened and Annabelle was devastated.”

  “From eyewitnesses at the club last night,” Patrick said, “McFadden was livid after you two left, red-faced and about to blow. Landers was in shock—white as a ghost. Hillman—Wendell—got them out of there. McFadden’s driver was waiting. Hillman and his wife went to their own home. From Reid’s hacking into city cameras, McFadden’s driver took Rubio and Landers to her home.”

  “The driver waited for over an hour, drove McFadden home, and then returned to Landers’. He personally drove her to Indiana. From that point, she admitted herself. I’m not trying to make assumptions,” Reid added. “Maybe she’s known and stuck to the story for twenty-six years—that her daughter died after birth. If that’s the case, she has probably kept the truth from her lover too. He might have taken that deception out on her. Then again, if she didn’t know, it could have been more than she could handle.”

  “Why, if she knew, wouldn’t she have told Rubio?” I asked.

  “Because she can’t trust that son of a bitch,” Patrick offered.

&nbs
p; “Pauline McFadden was Daniel McCrie’s sister,” I said, putting the pieces of the puzzle together.

  Patrick shook his head. “We didn’t say it wasn’t fucked, but that information isn’t new. We all know the judge has been his companion since McCrie died ten years ago.”

  “I bet they have some great Thanksgiving dinners.” I shook my head. “For not the first time, I wonder what Daniel McCrie knew,” I said, thinking aloud. “I always figured he knew Araneae was alive. I guess I figured Landers did too. There are too many holes in this history.”

  “We’ll probably never know,” Patrick replied. “It’s hard to say. The birth happened at a small rural hospital. It was right after all the shit hit the fan.”

  Reid lifted his hand. “Boss, before you go back upstairs, let me mention again about the Marshes. This has been a thorn in my side forever. No matter what I try, I can’t find them. They existed for roughly sixteen years. Before Araneae and after, they evaporated into thin air.” Reid let out an exasperated breath as his palm slapped the desk. “Sparrow, I’ve spent over ten years on that quest. I don’t fucking fail. They are the ghosts in this story.”

  “What about the hit?” I asked. “There’s the rumor that Byron was killed, prompting Josey to hide Araneae. She confirmed that her adoptive father had died before her adoptive mother drove her to the airport.”

  “It didn’t happen,” Reid said, his head shaking side to side. “I’m not saying Ms. McCrie is lying. It was probably what she was told. Yet there’s no accident report. No coroner’s report. Not even a report of the car that he drove going to a junkyard. Nothing.”

  Reid pulled up the picture that Araneae carried with her of her and her two adoptive parents. On the giant screen it was grainy and the crease appeared to be a huge fissure.

  “Even facial recognition,” Reid went on, “doesn’t work. I have everything that should lead to them: their IDs from when she was with them, the résumé Byron submitted to Boeing, even passports. Nothing checks out. Everything on the résumé, from the references to the degrees, is unverifiable. Yet he was hired by Boeing. It’s not like a grocery store. You don’t get in there without verification.”

  “Not with all their government contracts,” I said. “It means one thing. I’m not saying to give up, but damn, they had help disappearing.” I leaned forward on the back of the chair.

  “And appearing,” Patrick said.

  “Ms. McCrie became Kennedy Hawkins days after Daniel McCrie died. I’ve got the timeline, just not the players,” Reid said.

  I ran my hand through my hair. “How do I tell Araneae that the parents she knew don’t exist and the one she doesn’t remember is in the hospital with a possible psychotic break?”

  “McFadden,” Patrick interjected, “is a powder keg ready to blow. He’d lined all his ducks in a nice row, and now the appearance of Araneae has set them all out of kilter.”

  “How is Araneae’s Chicago office?” I asked, changing the subject. We’d beaten this horse into the ground more times than I could count.

  “Almost ready,” Patrick answered. “Our guys are working on security. She’ll need an on-site assistant. I was thinking that instead of taking out a help-wanted ad or using a headhunting service, we put someone there we know is trustworthy.”

  I nodded. “Make it happen.” I returned the subject back to Landers. “You know, maybe we’ve misjudged the good judge. I’m wondering if she’s in bed with McFadden because of what she knows or because she didn’t have a choice?” I thought about that. “I don’t know. I’m thinking about what my mother said a little while ago. I’m not saying Genevieve Sparrow doesn’t lie, but she was pretty worked up too. Annabelle was extremely upset to see Araneae with me. If she was acting, she’s one hell of an actress.”

  “My fucking assessment,” Reid said, “is that everyone is lying in one way or another. Over the years, rumors became fact and facts were lost. Most of this shit happened when the three of us were kids. This mess was created by the generation before us, and like every other fucking mess they made, we’re the ones picking up the pieces.”

  Annabelle

  Twenty-six years ago

  The vaguely familiar man sitting across from me shook his head as he stared my direction. I was covered with only a hospital dressing gown. I wasn’t in the hospital but at my doctor’s appointment—my obstetrician—in an examination room smaller than my closet. The person who entered and was waiting for my reply wasn’t my doctor. Though I believed I’d seen him before, I didn’t know him.

  “Judge Landers?”

  I wrung my hands resting on my lap as my feet dangled from the examination table. This man wasn’t my husband.

  Daniel and I’d met in law school, the University of Chicago. A gregarious man, I found myself immediately in lust with not only his handsome face but also his personality. Daniel McCrie could, as the saying went, sell a glass of water to a drowning man. His finesse and manipulation of the English language was mesmerizing. In law school I used to chuckle to myself as he would orate his closing statement for a mock criminal defense. With a memory that surpassed the multitude of crib notes I’d taken, he would rattle off statutes and cases, defendants and dates, like he was singing a song. Not only accurate, his argument radiated passion that could be sensed throughout the large classrooms.

  He was going to be a great—no, the greatest—criminal attorney in the history of criminal defense. That was what I told my parents when I first introduced him.

  We were compatible in the way magnets attract.

  Opposites.

  While I was more patient and open-minded, when Daniel made up his mind, he saw no other options. I was an excellent student and felt no need to broadcast the news. He on the other hand thrived on recognition. Like the iron-rich material that made up real magnets, when we were too heated our attraction lessened, but our determination grew.

  The wedding happened in a quaint historic chapel in Cambridge, Wisconsin. It was a small fairy-tale wedding, timed directly after graduation and before our bar examinations. After a monthlong European honeymoon, the fairy tale ended as real life took over.

  The next years were filled with pressures and stresses as we each found our way in the real world. Daniel joined a well-known firm and worked to make his name in the world of criminal defense. With a keen interest in finance as well as his knowledge of precedent-setting case law, he thrived on the big cases—the ones that caught the interest of the public. At first, he was only a co-counsel until the day that one of the partners asked him to be lead.

  The case gained national prominence—and so did Daniel McCrie.

  There’s a saying that one case can make or break an attorney’s career. I’d seen it break others, reducing a competent attorney to nothing more than an ambulance chaser. That wasn’t the case with Daniel. That one case opened up a world of possibilities. He was asked to become a partner.

  To my utter shock, he declined, instead deciding to open his own practice.

  His bold move was stupid in my opinion. We had money. We both came from wealthy families, yet the costs associated with his decision were astronomical. He didn’t listen to me. His success was legendary.

  My passion had been prosecution.

  Where do attorneys go when that is their forte? To work for the state prosecutor.

  The office was nothing like Daniel’s nor was the pay. My compensation came in the form of administering justice. With the encouragement of Daniel’s family as well as the backing of a few of his clients, seven years after graduating law school, I ran for judge for the Illinois Circuit Court. To my disbelief, I won the election. At thirty-three years of age I was sworn in as a circuit court judge.

  Four years later, with Mother Nature knocking on my chamber door, I told Daniel the one thing I wanted that our marriage hadn’t provided.

  I wanted a baby.

  We had material possessions: money, houses, cars, and vacations. His legal/financial advising practice was booming.
With my time for re-election nearing, I was ready to take some time away from the bench and do what we hadn’t discussed since law school—begin a family.

  Though cautious, Daniel agreed. “A baby?”

  “Yes, I’m not getting any younger.”

  “Annabelle, you know who some of my clients are?”

  “Some. You don’t tell me much and that’s the way it should be. I can’t talk to you about a case I’m trying. You shouldn’t talk about your clients. The two worlds might cross.”

  Daniel nodded. “That’s what concerns me about a child.”

  “No.” I went to where he was sitting. “I’ll take time away from the court.” I shrugged. “It’s been an honor. If people are willing to re-elect me after some time off, I’ll go back. If not, we will do fine on your income.”

  He exhaled. “We can try.”

  And try we did. I took my temperature. We had charts. We scheduled afternoon “meetings.” His sperm count was checked and so was my ovulation. The hands of time continued to turn.

  Now, here I was, in my thirty-fifth week of a complicated pregnancy, my first to go this far—the miscarriages were heartbreaking—and I was being faced with a choice that threatened my dream.

  “How did you get in here,” I asked. “In my doctor’s office? Why are you here?” Tears leaked from my eyes though my voice held no emotion. Years on the bench had taught me to hide that shit.

  The older gentleman shook his head. “You wouldn’t answer our requests. We were running out of options. Judge Landers, your time to make this choice is about up. As we speak, raids are occurring at your home and your husband’s office. You’re an intelligent woman who knows the law. You understand the gravity of this situation.”

  I did.

  Was I willing to do this? Could I?

  I didn’t have an answer.