Jim Chakowski’s scribbling didn’t get any more helpful with multiple readings. But the list of dates and places, that was something Chapa could research.
Cleveland (1990–1996)
Pittsburgh (1997–2002)
Baltimore (2003–2005)
Oakton (2005–)
Three large cities, followed by Oakton, a town of about 150,000. Why not Chicago? Or Milwaukee? Cleveland to Pittsburgh to Baltimore could be a natural progression of some sort. But Oakton?
What the hell did any of this mean?
He searched online for the four sets of dates, but came up empty. Then he began burrowing through Chakowski’s computer hoping to locate any stories or notes that might contain further details corresponding to the items on the page. He was ready to give up after an hour’s worth of frustration, when the phone rang.
Chapa thought for a moment about how best to answer. Who would be dialing up a dead reporter? Could be an old acquaintance who hadn’t heard the news, or had just found out and wanted more information. Probably Warren Chakowski calling Chapa to check up on him. Or maybe it was a source.
That thought made Chapa’s pulse race for a moment.
“Chicago Record.”
“Mr. Chapa?”
“Yes.”
A pause on the other end, then, “Are you in Mr. Chakowski’s office?”
“Two for two.”
“This is Maya, you know, at the front desk.”
“Yes, Maya.”
“Mr. Sullivan told me I would probably find you there and asked me to remind you about the Oakton Business Council meeting.”
“What about it?”
“You’re suppose to cover it, you know, like Mr. Chakowski used to. It starts in just under two hours.”
Chapa wondered what the hell he’d signed up for, and why Sullivan would go through someone else to remind him of his assignment. Chapa didn’t have to think about that for long. He understood. Fear was a great motivator, and in Chapa’s relationship with Sullivan it served to blur the line between writer and editor.
“Hey, Maya, do me a favor.”
“Remind you every day about your itinerary?”
“No, I can keep track of that, thank you. I’d like Mr. Chakowski’s mail here at the paper forwarded to me, to my office, or just hand it to me when I come in.”
There was a brief pause on the other end.
“Okay, Mr. Chapa, I’ve written myself a note.”
He thanked Maya and got back to work. After ten minutes of sifting though Chakowski’s stories about the Oakton Business Council meetings, Chapa concluded that his colleague had been writing them on cruise control. Not much in the way of probing news reporting, just a lot of who said what about which. Determined to do better, he spent the next hour taking a crash course in Oakton city business and politics.
The information Chapa found in some of Chakowski’s other stories turned out to be far more interesting than he’d expected. But his research came to an end when Maya called again, this time to remind him that the meeting began in forty-five minutes.
Again, he thanked her, and considered marching over to Sullivan’s office and pinning his ears back a bit. Two hours ago he may have done exactly that. Stormed in and reminded Sullivan that he was award-winning reporter Alex Chapa—though all of those awards were stuffed in a box somewhere—and explained that he knew how to do his job better than anyone, and didn’t need a reminder, let alone two.
Chapa might have done that earlier, but not now. Having his editor hide behind a receptionist was victory enough. Besides, after reading a few of Chakowski’s meatier stories about corruption and shady associations, he was almost looking forward to this assignment.
Chapter 21
This early in the day, the Record’s newsroom was a buzzing hive of clicking keyboards, phone interviews, and story meetings. It used to be like this throughout much of the day, but not anymore.
The cubicles and free-standing desks were aligned in rows—more or less—though reporters typically spent little time at their assigned stations. At the busiest times it was sometimes easier to grab the nearest phone or a sheet of paper from a nearby cubicle.
Privacy was not a priority in a working newsroom, except where the more established writers were concerned. They had their work space. They’d earned it, and even if it was just a cubicle or a desk, it was their private turf.
Zach was sitting at his usual workstation, surrounded by loose sheets of paper and ad fliers.
“What are you working on?” Chapa asked as he surveyed the newsroom and saw the usual cast, minus one.
“Research,” Zach said, lifting his hands from the keyboard and using two sets of fingers to make quotation marks in the air.
He was wearing a mud brown T-shirt with a cartoon advertising character on it that Chapa recognized from his youth.
“Nice shirt,” Chapa said, pointing to the image, “I was a Quisp man myself.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Where’s Wormley?”
“That’s who I’m doing research for. He’s at Annino’s Toys for the big launch of the new Our Heritage Doll line.”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
Zach shook his head. “I could not make that one up, boss. I’m researching how much everyone loves these dolls.”
“Well here, do this for me instead.”
Chapa pulled the yellow notepaper out of his pocket and handed it to Zach. He’d decided it was best to not leave it in Chakowski’s office. During the three years that Zach had been working as an intern at the Chicago Record, Chapa had come to trust the young man. Zach was a right guy.
“See if any of what’s on that sheet of paper matches up to anything.”
Zach smiled.
“Ooh, detective work.”
“Maybe, of a sort.”
Zach was staring at the notes as he brought up a fresh screen on his monitor.
“And, Zach,” Chapa started, then waited until he was certain he had the intern’s attention, “do not let anyone see this piece of paper or anything that you find out about what’s written on it. And don’t tell anybody that I asked you to do this.”
“I get it.”
“I know you do.”
“But can you give me a starting point?”
Chapa shook his head. “I wish I could.”
“How soon do you need to know whatever it is that you need to know about whatever this is?”
“How many days ago was Jim killed?”
Zach did not hesitate. “Two.”
“Then three days ago would’ve been nice, but I’ll settle for as soon as possible.”
It took a moment for Chapa’s words to sink in. When they did, Zach’s eyes got as wide as a startled deer’s.
“Oh shit,” he said, then hushed, “oh shit.”
Chapa