Free Deadly Interest by Julie Hyzy

Uncle Moose were just those people.
“Thanks,” I said again. “Lucy is going to love that, and it’s going
to make life a whole lot easier for me.”
    “ Good. And you two should
plan to come over for dinner tomorrow night. It’ll be just the
thing after that long drive.”
    “ That,” I said with
enthusiasm, “sounds fabulous.”
    I ran behind schedule for
the rest of the day but managed to leave the office for my
appointment with Detective Lulinski right on time. An accident on
the southbound Dan Ryan expressway slowed me down, and I watched
the digital clock in my car turn to two just as traffic opened up
at 35 th Street.
    Racing the rest of the way
to the station at 51 st and Wentworth, I got there about ten minutes
late. Not too bad.
    I gave my name to the uniformed black woman
at the reception desk. Sitting within a circular wall of chest-high
brick, she took my name, phoned the detective, and then motioned me
to a set of benches along the wall of windows to wait. Because the
day was unseasonably warm, I’d left my coat in the car. Little did
I know the station would be ten degrees cooler than the ambient
air. Worse, the fabric of my skirt was so flimsy that the cold from
the metal under my butt seeped into my body and made me shiver.
    I crossed my legs to maintain body warmth
and my airborne foot wiggled a nervous beat. I glanced at my watch:
two-twenty. I didn’t know how long the fingerprinting process took,
but I reasoned that as long as Detective Lulinski didn’t make me
wait too much longer, I ought to be able to make the three-thirty
meeting with a couple of minutes to spare.
    The female officer shared the circular area
with an older man, currently in conversation with two other
officers. They flanked a handcuffed fellow dressed in baggy pink
pants, a ripped orange down jacket, and a white knit hat pulled so
low on his downcast head that I couldn’t tell what he looked
like.
    I could tell that the officer standing
behind the counter was a sergeant; he had three chevrons on his
sleeve, a full head of white hair, bushy white eyebrows, and a jowl
that hung, wobbling, over his snug collar. He kept both hands palms
downward on the counter, and leaned forward, giving instructions.
An elderly black woman came through the glass doors, sending a rush
of cold air my direction. Moving as fast as she could, using her
three-footed cane to help her progress, she immediately started
shouting at the female officer. “My boy is gone. My boy is gone.
You got to help me find him.”
    Although the officer tried to keep her tone
low, the elderly woman, her gray hair tight in pincurls,
gesticulated with her free left hand and shouted over and over
about her son having gone missing.
    A flurry of activity expanded through the
rest of the station, behind this small group. It reminded me of our
hub, the only difference being that our people weren’t in
uniform.
    Since the woman’s son was an
adult—thirty-eight years old—the officer behind the counter tried
vainly to explain that he couldn’t be considered missing unless
there was evidence of foul play.
    “ But he’s not smart,” the
woman insisted.
    “ He’s
handicapped?”
    “ No.” She slammed her cane
on the floor. “He’s just not smart. He don’t go out by himself.
Never.”
    My heart went out to her and it dawned on me
that I’d be in just that situation if Lucy ever decided to take off
without telling me. I reminded myself to discuss safety issues with
her when I picked her up tomorrow.
    I eventually tuned out the shouting,
choosing instead to stare over the parking lot beyond the tall
windows. Trying not to think of the minutes ticking by.
    “ Ms. St.
James?”
    I jumped.
    Detective Lulinski, looking even thinner and
more haggard than he had the night of Mrs. Vicks’ murder, stood
before me, a bland expression on his face. Again he wore gray—a
suit jacket and pants in a crisscross pattern, and a white shirt
with a dark gray tie loosened and