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  “How about inviting her and her kids to our playgroup on Wednesday afternoon at Hamlin Park? That way all of us can work on her.”

  “That’s a great idea. I’ll do it Monday morning.”

  I shut down my computer and headed upstairs to watch the DVD of North by Northwest. I stopped in the kitchen and unloaded the dishwasher. As I put the plates away, I glanced at al-Turk’s house.

  Did one of his curtains move?

  I shut off the kitchen lights and peeked out our front windows at the house.

  Maybe he’s watching me through his front windows.

  Like I was with him.

  44

  “Kerry, would you like to go to Dinkel’s and buy a donut for Daddy?” I asked. “He sure has been working hard in our garden.”

  Kerry jumped up and down. “Okay, Momma!”

  No need for a bribe when a trip involves donuts.

  Carter tended to the plants in our tiny garden, a chore he delights in doing but rarely has time for. After twenty minutes in the oppressive Chicago humidity, his gray White Sox T-shirt had become soaked with sweat, but he’d kept working.

  I sat inside our air-conditioned home with Kerry who was busy pulling DVDs out of their jackets and joyfully flinging them around the family room. It was an activity she’d dreamed up on her own about two weeks before.

  We buy, or I should say Carter buys, DVDs, especially classic movies like Vertigo, or new indie films like Hank and Asha. He loves owning them as much as he does keeping the print copies of all the articles he’s ever written. I’ve tried to convince him that streaming movies would be cheaper, easier, and faster, but he won’t change. That’s the problem with marrying a man seven years older than me. Occasionally it seems like we grew up in different centuries.

  And raising an active two-year-old means our house is always in a state of disarray. There are often multiple DVDs on the floor of the family room making it impossible to walk around without stepping on several of them. Before we departed for Dinkel’s, I picked up the pile of glistening DVDs and slid them into the first empty jackets I found.

  It is a system I devised for quickly cleaning up our daughter’s mess, but Carter and I enjoy watching classic movies, and it makes finding our favorite films a challenge. The night before, I’d taken a DVD out of the Vertigo jacket and put it in the DVD player only to find out we were watching Marathon Man.

  My stomach growled and I was more than happy to buy donuts. I saw it as a win-win errand for all three of us.

  Come on, be honest.

  The donut run had little to do with being hungry or being kind to Carter. I was stress-eating because I was frustrated. If I were still actively employed as a full-time investigative journalist, I would have had a new story totally outlined by now or at least an idea of whether there was even a story to write. But I didn’t have time because I was busy doing mommy jobs like picking up DVDs and taking care of my sweet little girl.

  Thank God my friends are helping. Otherwise I might eat all the donuts in Dinkel’s.

  After ten minutes, we could walk around without stepping on the DVDs. I secured Kerry in her car seat in the mommy van. As I backed out of the garage, our alley appeared in the rearview mirror and an idea popped into my mind.

  Driving north on Paulina, I crossed Melrose and took the next left west into the alley behind al-Turk’s home. As I cruised by his property, I again scanned the garage and the back of the house on my left for security cameras.

  Don’t see any.

  Pulling out the other end of the alley, I turned right and headed to Dinkel’s. In Arlington, I’d sifted through trash to research the bomber’s story. From the bills, I figured out that he wasn’t the real laundryman. If al-Turk hasn’t been too careful with his discards, they might be the key here too.

  And I needed to find out if the second man in the Mercedes at Whole Foods lived with al-Turk. Or maybe even one or two of the other men I’d seen delivering boxes out of the white van. Discovering other fingerprints on the trash might be a way to do that. Any other details would be a bonus and might help me decide if I should pursue the story.

  I had to make certain Carter didn’t catch me doing research on a story that might be hazardous. The best way to begin was to have a stress-free family Sunday afternoon at Hamlin Park, including doing some knitting to relax.

  I texted my trash plan to Linda.

  She texted back: Be careful.

  45

  By midnight on Sunday, Carter snored heavily, thanks to the full bottle of Fourth Estate Pinot I’d made sure he finished while we watched the DVD of the original version of The Magnificent Seven.

  Dressing in the bathroom with the door closed, I shoved my hair under a black stocking cap and put on a shapeless, black top and baggy, black slacks. I tiptoed down the stairs, out the back door, and ran to the end of the alley where al-Turk’s house was located.

  I slipped into the shadows opposite his garage. Trash cans stood next to the closed garage doors of each house. Standing statue-still in the humid night air, I scanned the eaves of his house and garage for security cameras.

  No new ones.

  After putting on latex gloves I’d purchased at Walgreen’s, I crept across the alley. I was about seven feet from the trash cans when motion-detector floodlights in the eaves of the garage burst on.

  Do it now!

  I grabbed the can’s lid and flipped it up.

  The stench of the garbage bombarded me.

  Reaching into the can, I grabbed the first trash bag my fingers touched. I turned to my left to sprint home the way I’d come but saw a car’s headlights turning in to that end of the alley. The light bar on the roof flashed red and blue lights.

  Cops!

  The car screeched to a stop, blocking my escape.

  Looking to my right, I saw another car’s headlights appear in the far end of the alley. That vehicle slammed to a stop too.

  Hide!

  I retreated into the shadows behind me.

  My new plan was to open the gate and hide in the back yard of that home, like I did when I photographed the two men unloading the boxes into the garage across from me.

  I tried to lift the metal latch on the gate, but it wouldn’t move. I jiggled the latch, but it still didn’t budge.

  Dammit!

  When I reached over the top of the fence to open it from the inside, my latex gloves touched a locked deadbolt.

  No! I’m trapped!

  46

  My blood pressure skyrocketed when I saw a man wearing the uniform of one of Chicago’s finest climb out of a black and white at the left end of the alley where I’d entered a few minutes earlier.

  The car’s blue and red lights continued to flash.

  Do something!

  I pulled off my stocking cap, latex gloves, shoes, and socks. I threw them behind me.

  Yanking the lid off of the garbage can standing next to the locked gate, I tossed in the trash bag I’d just stolen and lowered the lid.

  The floodlights on al-Turk’s garage blinked off.

  The cop flipped on his tactical flashlight.

  I shook my sweaty hair free and rushed into the center of the alley, keeping my back turned to the advancing cop.

  “Harold! You come here this instant!” I began clapping my hands vigorously. “You naughty cat!”

  Taking two more steps away from the approaching cop, I scanned the alley acting like I was looking for my cat. “Harold? Where are you, sweetie? Come to Momma.”

  The sound of the cop pulling a gun out of his holster grabbed my attention.

  “Stop right where you are!” he shouted. “Hands on top of your head!”

  That really got my attention.

  I wheeled around. He pointed the gun at my chest and the light in my face.

  “What?” I asked, holding up my right hand to shield my eyes from the intense beam.

  “I said, ‘Put your hands on top of your head!’ ”

  I did.
r />   “Turn around.”

  “But…”

  “Turn around.”

  I complied. He patted me down.

  “Okay, lower your hands,” he commanded when he finished.

  I did.

  He put the gun in his holster and snapped off his flashlight. “What are you doing out here, lady?”

  “We have a cat. Harold’s his name. He loves to dig through the trash. Our new neighbor doesn’t know the garbage system around here, and he leaves the lids off of his trash cans.” I pointed at his can’s lid that I’d partially pulled off. “Harold can’t resist that. It’s like trash can-nip for him.”

  The cop didn’t laugh at my attempt at humor.

  “But anyway, I was up going to the bathroom, and I realized Harold was still outside. When I saw the neighbor’s security lights were on, I knew my bad boy was up to no good. I wanted to bring him back inside before he scattered the man’s trash all over the alley.”

  The cop stared at me. He wasn’t buying what I was selling.

  “Your neighbor’s security system has been going crazy tonight,” he said. “According to that rent-a-cop at the far end of the alley, this is the second time it’s gone off. That’s why he radioed us. But it seems a little farfetched to me that a cat would do that.”

  I didn’t correct him by telling him it had only gone off once and I had caused it.

  “You don’t know Harold. And the only things out here…” I waved my hand around, “…are trash cans full of, well, trash. In a neighborhood like this, it’s not like we have a platoon of homeless people dumpster diving for meals in our cans.”

  “I need to see your cat to verify this story.” He rested his hand on the butt of his gun.

  “See, that’s a problem. Harold’s a typical male, out all night chasing around. If you just put the lid on that trash can, he won’t be a problem. He’ll come home when he gets hungry.”

  The officer stared at me and then slid the lid in place and pounded it down on the top of the trash can. He checked the other can’s lid to make sure it was secure.

  “Luke, radio the rent-a-cop that this lady’s cat set off the alarm lights and to quit bothering us,” he yelled at his partner. He turned back and faced me. He took in a breath but didn’t say anything for a few seconds before he turned and walked to his cruiser.

  “Goodnight, officer,” I said to his back, as I shuffled toward the locked gate, pretending I was about to go into the backyard.

  They drove off. The security guard at the other end of the alley did too. I grabbed the stolen trash bag out of the can next to the locked gate. Hoping to get out of there as fast as possible, I put on the shoes and carried my stocking cap, latex gloves, and socks in my hands. I checked around to see if I’d forgotten anything and ran home.

  What else can go wrong?

  47

  I sprinted home from stealing the bag of al-Turk’s trash and crept down to the laundry room, the one place Carter never went and where my loot would be safe. I put on another pair of latex gloves and opened the trash bag.

  There were cigarette butts, empty carryout food cartons from Middle Eastern restaurants, soiled paper towels, used tea bags, coffee grounds, five empty boxes of Montblanc pen-and-pencil sets, six empty Crest toothpaste boxes, and four empty cartons for plastic mixing bowls.

  Huh?

  It all had to be checked for fingerprints, but other than that, who knew? Putting the trash back into the bag, I tucked it behind a box of Ultra Tide Free laundry soap and removed the gloves.

  I planned to hide the sack in the garage in the morning before it began to stink up the room and Carter noticed the smell. Seeing the soap reminded me to put in a load of laundry as long as I was down there.

  When I reached the top of the stairs, I ran face-first into Carter. He stood in the doorway and didn’t look happy.

  “What are you doing up at this time of night?” he demanded.

  A reasonable question for which I had no plausible answer. Stepping back, I began to shift my weight from one foot to the other. It was a tick I had when I was about to tell a fib. Carter called it the “Tina-two-step,” and if he caught me doing it now, he would know I was about to tell him a lie.

  I was saved when the washer clicked into its agitation cycle.

  Carter frowned. “Isn’t it a little late to be doing laundry?” he asked.

  Thank you, honey.

  He’d given me a viable alibi, and there was no reason to contradict him.

  “I couldn’t sleep and came down here to get a couple of loads of wash done.”

  Sounds truthful to me.

  “You’re sweating, and you never do that when you’re just doing laundry,” he said, stepping back as I walked past him into the kitchen. “And you’re not wearing your pajamas.”

  Got me there.

  “I can come to only one conclusion,” he continued.

  Filling a glass with water, my hand shook as I gulped it down. “Oh?”

  “You’ve been outside running.”

  Gotta keep this close to the truth.

  “Outside, yes, but I wasn’t exactly running.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “When I was up checking on Kerry, I looked out our front windows and saw a police car parked at the end of the alley across the street. My reporter’s instincts kicked in. I threw on clothes and ran over there to see what was going on. I didn’t even take time to put on socks.”

  He opened his mouth to object, but I held up my hand to stop him.

  “It wasn’t dangerous, Honey. A neighbor’s cat had set off the security lights of one of the homes by going through their trash. You can check it out when you get to work by accessing the police report.”

  He nodded, and I was positive that was exactly what he would do.

  “Looks like we’re both wide awake,” he said.

  A seductive smile crept across his face. I knew where this was headed, and I felt myself tense up. He is getting older and wants another baby, preferably a son. But I don’t want to get pregnant. With a toddler and a new baby, I would never have time to write a great story that could resurrect my career.

  But now my friends are helping me!

  “You’re right, Honey,” I said. “I’m not sleepy. Let’s go make a baby.”

  He arched his eyebrows. “You’re not too tired?”

  “The endorphin rush from interviewing the cop has me fired up. If you don’t mind missing your sleep, I’m ready.”

  His smiled widened. “I’ll go in late tomorrow.”

  Hand-in-hand, we walked upstairs to our bedroom. Maybe having another baby wasn’t such a bad idea after all. If we succeeded tonight, I would still have nine months to complete the story about Mr. al-Turk.

  Part 3

  48

  It was midmorning on Monday. Because of our nighttime lovemaking, Carter had gone in late, and I’d skipped my usual run. Instead, I baked up a double batch of M&M sugar cookies to deliver to Hannah’s home. The trash samples might help, but I needed a story pronto, and Hannah was the only other one I had.

  Kerry and I sampled them to make sure they were perfect and then headed off to Hannah’s. There was only one front step at her home, which might have been one reason they bought that house: easy access for Hannah to go in and out. I ignored the security cameras as I rang the doorbell.

  No answer.

  I rang it again.

  Still no answer.

  Should I knock?

  I did and waited.

  The door finally opened. It was Jason, her oldest child.

  “May I help you?” he asked. He wasn’t smiling.

  “Hi, Jason, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Gosh, I didn’t know you lived here. My daughter and I met you at Hamlin Park.”

  He stared at me and then his eyes flickered. “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Kerry and I always deliver cookies to our new neighbors to welcome them to the neighborhood.”


  He didn’t respond.

  I handed the wrapped plate of cookies to him. “And here they are.”

  He took the goodies and started to shut the door.

  “Ah… Jason, there’s one other thing. My friends and I, and our kids, meet weekly, usually at Hamlin Park. Would you please tell your mom we’ll be there after lunch on Wednesday? We would love to have you join us.”

  “Okay.”

  He shut the door.

  “Well, Kerry, that wasn’t exactly what I’d planned, but at least we made contact.”

  I pushed her back toward our home. I was glad I’d added a note on top of the cookies with my contact information and the time and date of our playgroup.

  Now if only Hannah will read it and show up.

  My cell phone rang as I pushed Kerry and her two friends toward our home.

  “What did you find in the trash?” Linda asked.

  I reported the details to her.

  “And your conclusion?” she asked when I finished.

  “Al-Turk is going to write a novel, but only after eating leftovers of Middle Eastern food that he stores in plastic bowls. And he’s concerned about his dental health even though he smokes way too much.”

  “Shouldn’t you have the trash examined for fingerprints?”

  “I’m going to call a Chicago cop I knew when I lived here fourteen years ago.”

  I didn’t tell her that Carter wouldn’t like me talking to that particular policeman: Tony Infantino, a hunk with whom I’d had a torrid affair.