Chapter 31
Well, this suuuuuuucks.
Tasha took the money.
I’ve only just made the frankly devastating connection when something with the heft of an alley rat skitters across my ankles and I leap up, making a break for the back
gate as if I need air, as if I’m not already outside, as if I can outrun this discovery. I start walking fast, and the dogs
trot to keep up. I half-heartedly collect their leashes as I bombard myself with questions. Does that mean Tasha also killed
Claudia? No, that can’t be. Can it? Could she do that and also be so amazing?
My eyes blur.
This whole time, I thought she was the hero, the champion of the underdog, but damn, it sure seems like she’s the villain.
I try to make it make sense. She is a total workaholic. She works on weekends.
Now that I think about it, the only times I see her are when I go to the alderman’s office, or if she’s coming from or going
to work.
She loves her job and clearly props Merle up when he’s struggling, sometimes literally. And it also tracks that she’d buy into a break-a-few-eggs-to-make-an-omelet philosophy.
Even if the omelet is a stupid parking garage?
Jean nudges my hand impatiently, and I give him a pat. “All right, yeah, ice cream.”
Fifteen minutes later, we are the proud owners of a couple pints from the corner store. I’ve settled into my pink velour chair,
a bowl full of slowly melting ice cream sitting next to me, while over in the designated “kitchen” area of my one room, the
dogs are devouring their regular dry food with a tiny bit of ice cream on top. Hopefully, Benny can’t get too mad about that.
I eat a spoonful of my fave—the peanut butter with jelly swirls—but I barely register its reassuring chemical tang.
Because I know what I have to do. I pull out my phone and type a quick message.
Me: Hey Tasha it’s Mo. I mean, obviously, because my name came up. If I’m in your phone. Which I assume I am. Seeing as how you’re
in mine
Oh my god.
How am I so bad at this?
I try again.
Me: Wanna hang?
I almost hope I don’t get a response. It would be easier.
But my phone pings immediately.
Tasha: Still at work, sorry!!! Crunch time
Me: Oh ha ha not like right now I meant tomorrow
Tasha: Oof tomorrow also a mess, what about weekend?
I know what’ll get her to see me. Unfortunately, I don’t want to do it any more than she does. My finger hovers over the text
screen.
I’ve got to get that money back and figure out how Tasha is mixed up in all this.
Me: I think we need to have that what-are-we relationship chat. Sorry!!!
Ugh.
Tasha: Got it. Of course
Tasha: Will shuffle some things around. 6pm work? You name the place, I’ll be there with bells on
Nope nope nope, don’t think about Tasha wearing nothing but bells.
Crap.
Too late.
Okay, this has to happen somewhere I won’t get distracted and try to jump her bones. And if I’m going to have the upper hand, I need to take her out of her element, out of the neighborhood. Somewhere no one knows her, where she might drop the act of dedicated public servant.
This is a job for the Petty Pig.
Memories flood my mind. The Pig is one of those rare coffee shops that stays open really late, so back in the good old days,
when Chris had his overnight shifts, sometimes I’d play hooky from work and nap with him in the afternoon. We’d just lounge
in bed, me wearing one of his old T-shirts, and then we’d throw on pants and go to the Petty Pig so he could get coffee and
wake up for his shift at the hospital.
I hate remembering the good old days.
Especially when it seems like I’ve used all the good days up.
Petty Pig, South Loop? I text.
I pull the bowl of ice cream onto my lap, and, now that Hannah hates me and UPGRADE has ruined my life, I decide to look up
my new inspirational guru.
I go to the Rodney O’Malley channel and open up the comments for the video titled, Begging the Question: Effective Interrogation
Techniques.
At precisely 6 p.m. the next day, Tasha peeks in through the door of the Petty Pig wearing a white V-neck tee, her hair in
pigtails, and it takes every ounce of self-control I can muster to focus on the missing money and the possibility of her murdering
Claudia. And specifically to not plaster my mouth all over her.
I wave at her from my place in line.
The Petty Pig, true to its name, reeks of stylish South Loop decor. White walls with one warm wood accent wall, vaguely industrial
tables, and a few vine-y plants dotting the walls.
But the baristas are chill, and the vibe is relaxed, and in the way back, there are several very private booths with tall seat backs and little plant canopies overhead, and tiny fountains and Zen rock gardens at each table.
Each table is like your own mini spa, and—bonus!
—the burbling of the fountain makes your conversation extra private.
Not every coffee shop has a secluded nook where you can chat privately about corruption and murder.
I’m sweating so hard.
“This place is cool,” Tasha says as she joins me in line.
What did she mean by that?
Does she know I know?
Why is my eye twitching?
“Oh yeah,” I say vaguely. “I used to live around here.”
The sexiest of her two eyebrows shoots up. “Ooh! You got a trust fund I don’t know about?”
Oh no! Straight to money banter! According to the comments under the Rodney O’Malley video, any kind of friendly banter is
good, because it can lead to a casual admission of guilt. But it’s way too soon. I’m not ready! I’m one second from making
a break for the door when the barista saves the day. “Can I help you?”
“Yes! Yes, thank you,” I say, maybe a little too emphatically. “I’d like a chocolate croissant and a coffee and also a house red, please. And
whatever she wants.”
“Hey, thanks,” Tasha says with a smile.
“No prob,” I say. You can’t investigate someone and ask them to pay for stuff. Even I know that.
We pick up our drinks and snacks from the counter (Tasha also gets a red wine—a good start to keep us both loose, perfect for interrogations I’m guessing, even though Rodney O’Malley
didn’t mention it), and we head straight for the hidden booths in back.
We’re passing the first secluded booth when I hear a voice over the burbling of the table’s personal fountain.
“. . . really hard to do intermittent fasting when you’re on call.”
It’s a familiar voice.
Really familiar.
“But on the plus side, there’s no better appetite suppressant than two a.m. in the ER.”
You have got to be kidding me.
Chris.
Perfect, of course he’s here, right now. When I am also here.
This will be fine. I’ll just stay the course. I am going to walk right by and pretend I never heard him. But then . . . there’s
a second familiar voice. Laughing at his dumb joke. And that’s the one that stops me cold.
The wine glass sloshes in my hand, and suddenly I’m turning toward the booth. I really don’t want to be doing this—stop doing
this, Mo!—but I can’t stop. And then, oh god, I’m roughly pushing aside the plant canopy to peek underneath.
I was right, obviously.
It’s Kendra.
And she is not acting like the head of a marketing agency right now.
She has her fingers intertwined with Chris’s.
She is wearing his faux vintage Bert & Ernie T-shirt from when they were remaking those like ten years ago, the one he sleeps
in.
She is feeding him a piece of oatmeal raisin cookie, which, gross on so many levels.
I haven’t seen her since I got fired. Actually, technically, I haven’t seen her since I was butt naked on a Zoom call, exposing
Chris’s man meat to a bunch of tool execs.
Oh.
I get it.
That was their meet-cute. MEAT-cute.
What the actual fuck!!
This all registers in the span of about a millisecond.
“Um, hi?” I say.
Chris squeaks in surprise.
“Mo, looks like this booth’s taken,” Tasha says with a frown.
“Ha ha, you’re right,” I say with an absolutely psychotic smile. “Pardon me, strangers.”
I hustle Tasha to the farthest possible booth and try to hide us as comprehensively as possible beneath the greenery.
Focus focus focus.
This is not about Chris or Kendra. This is about corruption and murder and—
“I’m going to get some napkins,” I say. “brB!”
I duck out from under the canopy of vines before Tasha can say anything and slink back to Chris’s table, looking over my shoulder
to make sure she’s not watching me.
I fling myself under their vine canopy again so I’m hovering over them with my ass sticking out the other side of the greenery.
“Oh! Hi! I guess it was Mo,” Chris says to Kendra.
“Good to see you, good to see you, yeah great place for a hot date, I too am on a hot date,” I blabber. “A killer date. Like—”
Don’t do it, Mo. Don’t—
I lick my finger and touch my hip with it and go tssssssss like my finger is putting out a fire.
Kendra coughs with embarrassment.
“You’re on a date with her?” asks Chris, pointing in the direction of my table with Tasha, even though he can’t see through the vines. He looks back
at me, waggles his eyebrows, and then offers me a high five. “Nice! Way to aim high!”
Honestly, I was hoping for more regretful longing.
“Yeah,” I say, bitterly finishing the high five. “It is nice. So. There’s that.”
I hover at the table for a second like a bisexual ghost of vengeance and then whisk away from whence I came.
Okay, that did not accomplish exactly what I was hoping for, which I guess was lots of apologies from both of them. Maybe
a little coffee/red wine combo will help me come up with the perfect zinger. And in the meantime, back to the recon I’ve been
prepping for.
“No napkins?” Tasha asks as I plop back down.
Shoot. Napkins.
“They’re refilling the, ah, dispenser,” I say. “So while that’s happening, there’s something I want to ask you.”
She bites her bottom lip and I can’t seem to look away. “Right. I’m ready.”
“Remember when we were talking yesterday at your office?”
“Mm-hmm,” she says.
“Well, I was just curious what you did after that.”
There’s a very long pause. She halfway smiles like she isn’t sure, then tilts her head at me. “What?”