Feeling like a fleshy chunk of her had been carved out, she ached for her missing partner. Her early-morning visit with Yolanda at the hospital hadn't remedied her concern. He'd had a bad night. Tony still wasn't out of the woods. But a familiar face drew her back into focus, warming her soul.
"Hey, honey, got any coffee for the old man? I could use a whole pot in a very large syringe." Lieutenant Sam Winters held a cardboard box in his arms, grinning ear to ear.
"Hey, LT. Thought you'd be sleeping?" she teased, glad for the distraction.
"Got to thinking about your daddy's old cases. Been searching through the archives after I got off shift." He set down his burden on Tony's desk. "Care for a temporary partner for today, while yours is on the mend?"
Sam spoke as if Tony had a bad case of the flu. Somehow, his denial reassured her, like everything would be all right.
"I'll get you that coffee. But the preferred method of dosing around here is Styrofoam. The syringe is up to you."
By the time she returned from the break room, he had settled into Tony's desk, laying manila folders in piles.
"Figured I'd go through these, set aside any that stick in my brain as possibles. I got your old man's case notes. You ever looked at 'em?" he asked. He handed her a black spiral notebook. Her father had kept them by year. "Your daddy was the best cop I ever worked with. I still miss him."
"Good partners are like that." She fought the lump in her throat. Her hands reverently brushed the top of a bound notepad.
She knew looking into his old cases would take time. But the malicious act of the bastard who'd invaded her home and destroyed her father's photo provided insight into the man's egotistical nature. And she was determined to capitalize on his mistake.
"This is gonna be a long shot, Sam."
"Yeah, but when you're a Cubs fan—" he replied with a crooked grin, setting her up. In unison, she joined him in one of her father's old sayings, "—long shots are what we do."
The waterfront off Lakeshore Drive glistened in the sun like a jeweler's case. The dazzle caught Christian's eye as he neared the Chicago Yacht Club. Boat masts normally speared the sky, but were noticeably absent. The vessels had been pulled from the lake and dry-docked for winter. Set near the Chicago Loop amidst a myriad of cultural offerings, the yacht club was a focal point to many sporting activities and home to Lake Michigan's finest regattas. Even with the change in season, the dock drew people to the waterfront and its adjacent trail system. Nature's tranquillity was a magnet. Compared to the hustle of downtown, the harbor reflected serenity, an oasis from a more hectic pace.
Christian turned his SUV into the Monroe Street parking garage, then walked across Lakeshore Drive toward the two-story Monroe Harbor Clubhouse and the sign indicating the marina office.
Seeing the harbor in the photo of Fiona's honeymoon had jogged his memory. At one time, he had heard that Mickey owned a boat and kept it in a slip at the yacht club. Perhaps the man still had a connection to the posh facility. As Christian neared the water's edge, a breeze humbled him, coming through his khaki cargo pants. The bright sun held little warmth. Winter heralded its arrival with the wind off the lake. He zipped the front of his leather bomber jacket, covering his ivory cardigan. His hiking boots echoed his approach along the wooden pier.
Just as he remembered, a set of glass doors revealed the location of lockers, near the guest shower facility. Although the area was open now, instructions printed on the door laid out the hours for the secured card key access. Then his eyes found one security camera, and another, his training made him a creature of habit. The upscale facility would have suited Mickey's taste.
Raven's mystery key might have a home after all. Still, he hadn't decided if he would share whatever news he might find with her. The thought sent a pang of guilt jabbing at his conscience.
He followed the walkway past the office, his eyes drawn beyond the shoreline. Without the narrow building to break the sporadic gusts, the chilly breeze stole his breath as he rounded the corner, tousling his hair. And the untainted smell of the lake carried on the wind, beckoning like a haunting siren's call.
The irresistible view drew him to the railing, his hands stuffed into his jacket. Even under dark glasses, his eyes watered with the cold. The expanse of water churned, mesmerizing him with its swells. Thoughts of Raven crept into his mind. Surely, such beauty was meant for two.
"She's like a mistress you can never forget." A man's voice interrupted his thought.
"Excuse me?" Christian turned to see an older man standing farther down the wooden pier. It took him a moment to realize the stranger had been talking about the appeal of Lake Michigan.
The man was dressed in layers. His gray hair peeked out from under a navy wool hat pulled over his ears, his bulbous nose red with the cold. The sparkle of the lake had been captured in his engaging eyes, despite the man's age.
"The lake. She's kept me coming here like an addiction." The old man's voice fit him, raspy and gnarled like his weathered skin. "You visiting? I haven't seen you here before."
Christian didn't offer a reply. A faint smile curved a corner of his mouth. He treasured his anonymity far too much to reveal anything to this stranger.
"Have a good one, mister. Enjoy your day." Turning, he walked back toward the office and left the old gent. Time to move on.
Down from the lockers, another set of glass doors under an awning led to the small marina office. Once inside, he slipped off his sunglasses, his eyes adjusting to the darker interior. An unrecognizable melody wafted from overhead speakers. The walls were covered with dark wood veneer and cork message boards. Sitting between a sofa and armchairs, an evergreen shrub had seen better days. Beyond the vacant counter, a small office with metal filing cabinets was abandoned. No one manned the desk.
Just then, the door behind him opened. And the old man from the wharf entered, sporting a grin on his face.
"What can I do for ya, young man? Folks consider me Father Confessor 'round here. Talk to me. You'll find I'm a good listener."
Christian returned his smile, sharing his subtle brand of humor. "Yes, sir. And I just bet they'd be right. Was wondering if you could tell me if Mickey Blair still leases a boat slip here? Or maybe has a locker?" He hoped no other information would be asked of him.
The man stepped behind the counter. The humor faded from his lined face. "That information is generally considered private, mister. Did you know him?"
"Not well," he cautiously replied. Christian narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to one side. "Couldn't help but notice you used the past tense. You hear what happened to Mick?" Christian followed his instincts. As long as he kept him talking, the man might eventually cooperate. The trick was to get more information than he had to shell out.
"Man's gotta keep up with things, right?" Aged eyes held Christian's stare. "Guy's dead anyways. Couldn't hurt, just talking. He used to keep a boat here. The Freelancer. But he gave that up earlier this year. Said he was going someplace warmer."
"No doubt." If there was a hell, Christian suspected Mick felt plenty of heat now. Mickey would have been as secretive about himself as Christian was, but somehow, this man had kept an eye on him—and had gotten him to talk. Interesting.
And the guy continued to amaze him.
"And as for a locker, he still has it until the end of the year. Membership has its privilege. But I guess you could say Mr. Blair expired before his locker did." The man's abrupt chuckle filled the room. "Anyway, I saw him down at the docks from time to time, carryin' a duffel bag like he still had business here."