from French kissing your partner?” Carmen teased.
“Monroe? He don’t go for chicks.”
“Seems like forever since I been to a game back home,” mused the Wisconsin detective. “So what’s up?”
“I understand you’re working on a John Doe found dead on a neighbor’s driveway.”
“Your days aren’t busy enough, you gotta go poking’ your nose up in my neck of the woods?” Carmen asked in a peeved voice.
“Chill, sugar. Remember Mitzy Maven?”
“The investigative reporter who used to hang around the police station?”
“Yep. She’s tight with Laurie Atkins.”
“A real winner, that one. Claims to have found the dead body on her lawn.”
“Any evidence to support her claim?” asked Maggie.
“Odds are she hallucinated the whole scenario.”
“You ID the vic?”
“Still waiting on the DNA match. A young woman by the name of Susie Gray showed up from Urbana, Illinois a few weeks back. She was worried the vic on the Internet posting was her brother, Todd. Fortunately for her, it wasn’t.”
“According to his license plate, the guy’s name is Todd Gray,” said Maggie.
“Didn’t I just say Susie Gray signed off on the vic?”
“Different Todd Gray.”
“It ain’t right to investigate behind my back, Mag Pie.”
“You ever known me to be anything but a team player, Carmen?”
“Always a first time.”
“First time, nothing. My friend asked me for a little help, is all. Evidently, she received that license plate number from a Shakia Williams. Atkin’s renter recently broke up with a loser whose face matched the photo.”
“Let me guess. The loser’s name is Todd Gray.”
“You got it.”
“What’s the story on the ex-boyfriend?”
“Dude’s been living in Uptown,” said Maggie. “Look, I’m taking a couple of days off from work to celebrate the White Sox winning the World Series. You want I should check out Mr. Gray in between games?”
Carmen laughed. “In all the time we worked together, you never took a personal day. Now you’re taking time off to celebrate the White Sox victory?”
“Eighty-eight years is a long time to wait.”
“Appreciate the help, Mag Pie.”
“Back to you soon,” said Maggie. “At the moment, there’s a string of neighborhood bars that require my presence.”
*
Erev Yom Kippur. Temple Emanuel on Chicago’s North Side overflowed with hundreds of congregates who solely graced their sanctuary on the High Holidays. Outfitted in their autumn holiday finery, they stood shoulder to shoulder with the regulars, one congregation before the Lord, acknowledging that the stroke of the Lord’s fiery pen would soon seal the fate of every Jew.
His eyes closed, Ryan breathed in the cello’s soulful strains of the ancient Kohl Minidress Prayer as it radiated throughout the temple. Enclosing Laurie’s smaller hand in his own, he observed the musician’s ankle-length, black velvet skirt, her otherworldly persona, her long golden hair, as the music flowed through his every pore.
Now the cantor beseeched God to show mercy on the congregation and the people of Israel. Awash in the cantor’s words, Ryan felt consumed by guilt. Twice he’d allowed Todd Gray’s life to be snuffed out, figuratively by following his health insurance company’s regulations against authorizing a heart transplant, and literally in carting his body to Helga Beckermann’s driveway and feigning no knowledge of the young man’s disappearance.
Rising to his feet along with the rest of the congregation, Ryan’s recited the prayer acknowledging, first in Hebrew, then in English, the Almighty’s presence. Hear oh Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One. Our Lord is One, our God is Great, Holy is God’s Name.
Unlike Laurie, Ryan defined himself as a cultural Jew, delighted to chow down his lox and cream cheese on a bagel, as well as contribute to the Jewish United Fund, which provided humanitarian aid to needy and religiously persecuted Jews and non-Jews
“Monroe? He don’t go for chicks.”
“Seems like forever since I been to a game back home,” mused the Wisconsin detective. “So what’s up?”
“I understand you’re working on a John Doe found dead on a neighbor’s driveway.”
“Your days aren’t busy enough, you gotta go poking’ your nose up in my neck of the woods?” Carmen asked in a peeved voice.
“Chill, sugar. Remember Mitzy Maven?”
“The investigative reporter who used to hang around the police station?”
“Yep. She’s tight with Laurie Atkins.”
“A real winner, that one. Claims to have found the dead body on her lawn.”
“Any evidence to support her claim?” asked Maggie.
“Odds are she hallucinated the whole scenario.”
“You ID the vic?”
“Still waiting on the DNA match. A young woman by the name of Susie Gray showed up from Urbana, Illinois a few weeks back. She was worried the vic on the Internet posting was her brother, Todd. Fortunately for her, it wasn’t.”
“According to his license plate, the guy’s name is Todd Gray,” said Maggie.
“Didn’t I just say Susie Gray signed off on the vic?”
“Different Todd Gray.”
“It ain’t right to investigate behind my back, Mag Pie.”
“You ever known me to be anything but a team player, Carmen?”
“Always a first time.”
“First time, nothing. My friend asked me for a little help, is all. Evidently, she received that license plate number from a Shakia Williams. Atkin’s renter recently broke up with a loser whose face matched the photo.”
“Let me guess. The loser’s name is Todd Gray.”
“You got it.”
“What’s the story on the ex-boyfriend?”
“Dude’s been living in Uptown,” said Maggie. “Look, I’m taking a couple of days off from work to celebrate the White Sox winning the World Series. You want I should check out Mr. Gray in between games?”
Carmen laughed. “In all the time we worked together, you never took a personal day. Now you’re taking time off to celebrate the White Sox victory?”
“Eighty-eight years is a long time to wait.”
“Appreciate the help, Mag Pie.”
“Back to you soon,” said Maggie. “At the moment, there’s a string of neighborhood bars that require my presence.”
*
Erev Yom Kippur. Temple Emanuel on Chicago’s North Side overflowed with hundreds of congregates who solely graced their sanctuary on the High Holidays. Outfitted in their autumn holiday finery, they stood shoulder to shoulder with the regulars, one congregation before the Lord, acknowledging that the stroke of the Lord’s fiery pen would soon seal the fate of every Jew.
His eyes closed, Ryan breathed in the cello’s soulful strains of the ancient Kohl Minidress Prayer as it radiated throughout the temple. Enclosing Laurie’s smaller hand in his own, he observed the musician’s ankle-length, black velvet skirt, her otherworldly persona, her long golden hair, as the music flowed through his every pore.
Now the cantor beseeched God to show mercy on the congregation and the people of Israel. Awash in the cantor’s words, Ryan felt consumed by guilt. Twice he’d allowed Todd Gray’s life to be snuffed out, figuratively by following his health insurance company’s regulations against authorizing a heart transplant, and literally in carting his body to Helga Beckermann’s driveway and feigning no knowledge of the young man’s disappearance.
Rising to his feet along with the rest of the congregation, Ryan’s recited the prayer acknowledging, first in Hebrew, then in English, the Almighty’s presence. Hear oh Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One. Our Lord is One, our God is Great, Holy is God’s Name.
Unlike Laurie, Ryan defined himself as a cultural Jew, delighted to chow down his lox and cream cheese on a bagel, as well as contribute to the Jewish United Fund, which provided humanitarian aid to needy and religiously persecuted Jews and non-Jews
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