“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Nikki said, doing her best to sound sincere.
“All of the toys are up in your room, but you’ve probably outgrown them by now.”
“Some, yes, but not all of them. It’s okay, I’ve got my PSP to play with.”
As he led Nikki into the kitchen, Chapa made a mental note to pick up some games at the toy store in town. But as soon as he walked in and started looking around, Chapa knew he had more pressing issues than shopping for something to keep Nikki entertained.
The pantry and fridge looked like they belonged in an abandoned house. But Chapa managed to throw something together, at least enough to convince himself that it resembled breakfast. Twenty minutes later, Nikki was treated to a scrambled egg, a handful of Tater Tots, and some nacho-flavored Doritos.
“Interesting breakfast,” Nikki said, her lips gradually turning orange with each new chip she ate.
“We’ll have better food tomorrow. Pancakes, and bacon, and cereal.”
“It’s okay, I like this. It’s exotic.”
She shoved two Tater Tots in her mouth.
“You know what, those are like potato pancakes or hash browns, only smaller.”
Nikki laughed.
“Is this the type of breakfast you usually eat?” she asked.
“I don’t eat breakfast all that often. I work late, get home even later, and I don’t always get up in time.”
“I do, and I have fruit every morning. You know, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
“Yeah, I think I read that somewhere. Tomorrow will be different, Nik. I promise. There will be fruit.”
“Don’t worry about it, Dad.” The last bite of egg filled her mouth, but that didn’t keep her from talking. “And Mom never has to know.”
There hadn’t been much opportunity for Chapa to worry about what his ex-wife was thinking while Nikki was away from home. Though he didn’t want to spend too much time discussing the shaky start to Nikki’s visit, he wasn’t about to coax her into deceiving her mother, either.
“I don’t like lying, Nikki. We talked about this after what you did to that reporter yesterday.”
Nikki shook her head.
“I won’t, but Mom won’t ask, and I won’t tell her.”
She smiled a big toothy grin, and Chapa sensed he had more to worry about when it came to Nikki than the unconventional meal she’d just finished.
Chapter 19
Through the frosted window that filled the upper half of the closed door, Chapa saw there was someone sitting in Jim Chakowski’s office as he approached. It was dark inside, but the smattering of light slipping in through an outside window backlit the visitor, creating a silhouette. Chapa paused for a moment before opening the door.
“Come on in and close the door behind you, Alex. I have something to show you.”
Chapa couldn’t see the man’s face, and he didn’t recognize the thick voice, not right away. But he did as asked, anyhow.
“This arrived in my mail this morning,” the guy said, then leaned forward and turned on an old desk lamp.
Chapa looked at the man’s face, ignoring the envelope he’d just tossed on the desk pad. Maybe it was the low, unflattering light of the single bulb, but Warren Chakowski looked like he hadn’t slept since the night before. Probably hadn’t bothered to try.
“You look tired.”
“I don’t sleep much these days, never have. But that’s not important,” Warren said, pushing the thin package across the desk and toward Chapa.
“What is it?” Chapa asked, lifting the yellow, oversized envelope from the desk.
“You tell me.”
It had been torn open in a hurry and folded unevenly, as though Warren had shoved it into a pants pocket. Inside, Chapa found a piece of paper ripped from a yellow legal pad without much care. He unfolded the paper and saw a collection of what appeared to be random notes.
“Was there a letter explaining any of this?” Chapa asked.
“No, just that sheet of paper. But it’s Jim’s writing all right.”
The sheet was cluttered with various brain droppings, but Chapa’s attention was drawn to a list of names, some of which were familiar, as well as a list of cities and dates—Cleveland (1990–1996), Pittsburgh (1997–2002), Baltimore (2003–2005), Oakton, Illinois (2005–).
Scribbled in the bottom right corner was a series of numbers: ND93106.
“Why would he mail this to you?”
“Because Jim knew what was going to happen to him.”
Chapa tried to mask his skepticism, with mixed results.
“I know you don’t believe me, Mr. Chapa. But just a week or two ago, Jim told me how he was preparing a will.”
Chapa thought about the do-it-yourself kit he’d found in one of Chakowski’s desk drawers, but decided to keep that to himself for the time being.
“A lot of people in their fifties have a will, Warren.”
“Not my brother, he just wasn’t the sort to worry about that kind of thing. I asked Jim if something was wrong, physically, I mean. He said he was fine, but I could tell something was burning him up inside.”
Chapa studied the notes on the paper. Where to start?
“Jim was scared, and he wasn’t the sort to get scared.”
There wasn’t much more to say. How can you tell someone he’s wrong about a person he’s known his entire life? Chapa knew better than to even try.
“I’ll check out the names and dates and see if any of it means anything.”
Warren stood up from behind the desk and started for the door.
“But please understand, Warren, that this could take a while and will likely lead us right back to your brother’s death being the result of poor wiring.”
The man nodded, and Chapa continued.
“I know you’ve suffered a loss, but you have to try to put some of these thoughts out of your head. Give me a few days, and I will call you.”
Warren nodded once more as he let himself out of the office, but Chapa was certain he’d hear from him again, and soon.
Chapter 20
Chapa didn’t bother opening the blinds or turning on any more lights in Jim Chakowski’s office. The lamp on the desk was enough for what he had to do, and he didn’t want to draw any attention.
Being in that office was a little like sitting in a man’s personal confessional. Whoever Jim Chakowski had been, and maybe all that he had been working on, was right there, somewhere.
Chapa studied the large shelving unit that housed Chakowski’s collection of LPs, at least what was left of it since any that he kept at home had been blown to shards. The records were neatly organized in alphabetical order by artist, except for the one that had been pulled out and played most recently. The disc itself, James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James, still sat on the turntable. Chapa wondered whether it was the last record Jim had ever listened to, or perhaps something his brother had played while he was there. Chapa thought about putting it back on the shelf, but that didn’t