Chapter 6
Chapa reached into the inside pocket of his black leather coat and pulled out his press pass. He draped the lanyard around his neck as he approached the police barrier that had been established half a block from what was left of Jim Chakowski’s house.
The smell of burnt wood and wet leaves punctuated the air in a way that reminded Chapa of every other autumn he’d spent in the Midwest. But in this case, the sharp scent of ashes that pierced his senses was not from discarded brush.
Under normal circumstances, Chapa would have waited for the right moment, ducked under the yellow tape, and walked toward the house like it was the most natural thing he could do. But having his ten-year-old daughter at his side made these circumstances anything but normal.
“That’s as close to the scene as you’re gonna get.”
Chapa turned and saw Sean Moriarity, a reporter for the rival Fox Valley Times, walking toward him. Moriarity was a few years younger than Chapa, but his reddish nose and last call eyes made him look much older.
“I see you have a sidekick,” Moriarity said, looking down at Nikki. “Has the Record relaxed its age requirements for interns?”
“This is my daughter.”
Nikki took that as a cue. She stepped forward and extended her hand to Moriarity, who responded by rubbing the top of her head.
“Tough break about Chakowski.”
Chapa nodded.
“Have you heard anything new while you’ve been here?” Chapa asked as he scanned the crowd.
A few of the faces seemed vaguely familiar, but after working as a reporter in the Oakton area for nearly two decades, seeing faces that he maybe recognized had become an everyday thing for him.
“No, Chapa, not this time.”
“Not this time, what?”
“You’re not going to milk me for info, give nothing in return, then scoop me,” Moriarity said, then leaned in close and pointed a finger at Chapa. “Not this time.”
Chapa grabbed Moriarity by the elbow and pulled him away from some of the folks who were trying to sneak a look at the action beyond the barrier.
“Do you really think this is about me beating you to a story?” Chapa said in a low, steady voice. “I thought you understood me better than that, Sean. Jim’s dead. He was a good man. He was one of us.”
Moriarity was looking down at his shoes.
“That’s what this is about, Sean.”
In any other situation, Chapa might’ve been delivering a line, just his way of playing the competition. He’d worked Moriarity for crucial details more than once before, but it wasn’t like that this time. He meant every word.
“The official story is that faulty wiring set off the blast,” Moriarity said, flipping through his palm-sized notepad.
“That must have been some blast.”
“Much of the electrical in the house was old, most of it original. As best as they can figure, there was a spark near the furnace, and that’s what blew.”
Chapa had already assumed much of this. Chakowski’s house, like the others in the neighborhood, dated back to the 1940s. Chapa had lived in a house like that once and knew how the various wiring, heating, and plumbing systems seemed to conspire and take turns breaking down.
“There’s something else.” Moriarity sighed. “One of the neighbors, a middle-aged woman named Laura Simpson, said she saw a guy who looked like a repairman walking around Chakowski’s house yesterday afternoon.”
“Did she give you a description?”
“He was dressed like a repairman.”
Over the years Chapa had often noticed that Moriarity wasn’t big on details, and even the standard Who, What, Where, When, Why, and How of a story seemed to elude him sometimes.
“Is she still around?”
Moriarity hastily scanned the crowd.
“No. She’s slim, has light-brownish hair.”
“Did you get her address or phone number?”
“Why would I need those?”
Nikki walked over to them. Chapa was pleased with the way his daughter had quietly waited while he talked to Moriarity, though he sensed she’d been listening to them the entire time.
“Hey, Daddy, didn’t you say we were going to go back to the police command center that we passed when we were driving in here?”
“Command center? They’ve set up a command center, and you didn’t tell me, Alex?” Moriarity said before Chapa could ask his daughter what we she was talking about.
Moriarity glared at Chapa, who was too bewildered to do anything but shrug, then he squatted down to Nikki’s level.
“Okay, little girl—”
“Nikki.”
“Right. Do you remember what direction you and your daddy came from?”
“Oh, you want to find the command center.”
Moriarity nodded, as his face produced something resembling a smile.
“You just go back down this street,” she said, pointing away from the crime scene. “Turn left, then I think you turn right, like a block or two later, and you can’t miss it. Right, Daddy?”
Chapa stood silent, mouth open wide, as he slowly and involuntarily shook his head in a neutral direction that suggested neither yes nor no.
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that, Alex?” Moriarity said, and started to walk away, then stopped. “Chapa, you are dirty people.”
With that, Moriarity disappeared into the crowd. Chapa turned to Nikki, who responded with a wide smile.
“We don’t tell lies, Nik.”
Her smile vanished.
“I’m sorry. I knew that you wanted to sneak past the policemen and you wouldn’t be able to do that as long as that other newspaper man was around.”
Chapa had imagined that their short time together would be filled with fun, bonding activities, the sort that would create new memories for Nikki to take back with her to Boston. Having to act as a disciplinarian had not been on his to-do list.
“We’re going to talk about this later.”
“Okay, Daddy. But in the meantime, it looks like the policemen have wandered off.”
Chapa looked back toward the barrier and saw that she was right. The nearest uniform was at least twenty yards away.
“Nikki, listen to me. Stay right here by the tape, and don’t talk to anyone.”
She nodded. “Stay here. Got it.”
Chapa took one last look around, zipped his well-aged black leather jacket up over his press pass, then ducked under the tape and started walking in the direction of Chakowski’s house as though he belonged there.
Chapter 7
Scraps from what had been the front of Jim Chakowski’s home just twenty-four hours earlier littered the street, sidewalks, and yards. The structure resembled a madman’s idea of a playhouse. Most of the first level was now exposed, and the upper floor threatened to come crashing down at any moment.
Except for the debris dotting the lawns, the neighboring homes appeared