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“There’s no need. I did it myself.”
Pisano turned back to him. “The woman? You found her?”
“No, your nephew.” Zbirak pushed his plate away. The smell emanating from the sweaty man across the table had ruined his appetite. What a shame. “I took care of him.”
Pisano groaned, but Zbirak couldn’t decide if it was agony over losing his nephew or the agony in his gut. “My sister is going to kill me.”
“I assure you she is not.” Zbirak wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and tossed it on the table next to his plate. Standing, he wrapped one of his large hands around Pisano’s fleshy arm, trying not to recoil at the dampness of the man’s shirt. “Come on, I’ll help you to the bathroom.”
“How do you know?” Pisano was sweating profusely. Every word sounded like a struggle.
Zbirak didn’t answer right away. First, he led Pisano into the men’s room and directed him to the last stall. It was wheelchair accessible, which allowed both of them to fit comfortably at once. Pisano collapsed to the floor and crawled on his hands and knees until he slumped over the toilet, his nose almost touching the water in the bowl. Zbirak closed the door behind them.
“I know your sister will not kill you because I already have.”
Pisano lifted his head enough to look at Zbirak, but the light in his eyes was fading. “Wh-what? Wh-why?”
“As I said,” Zbirak responded, taking a step closer to the man. He didn’t want Pisano to misinterpret his words, even with death looming overhead. “When I make a request, I expect it to be fulfilled.”
“I’ll find her,” Pisano blustered. “I-I’ll do it. Please.” He coughed, and blood-laced spittle ran down his chin. “Help me.”
“You’re far beyond help.” Zbirak tried not to revel in this man’s undoing, but it was difficult. It was not the first time he had considered killing Pisano. “I had a simple request, Joseph. Kill Mrs. Sherman. I sent you because you are a cop. Instead, you employed your nephew with as much tact and brains as you have and no badge to back it up. He scared her away, and now she’s in the wind. I will find her eventually, but I will waste valuable time and resources to do so.”
“I-I’m s-sorry.” Pisano’s breaths were wet and gasping. Red blooms filled the toilet water, having dripped from his mouth and nose. “P-please—”
“Don’t beg.” Zbirak didn’t hide his disdain now. “You should’ve known better, Joseph. The only thing I hate more than having my time wasted is a loose end. Mrs. Sherman is a loose end that my employer expects me to trim. I entrusted that job to you, and you failed. I killed your nephew because you gave him information that was not yours to share. I killed you because you have been a pain in my ass for two decades, and my patience has run thin.”
Pisano was purple in the face. Mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for oxygen, but the sound of air moving through his lungs was absent. The man only had a few moments left, and he would spend them in excruciating pain. It was a blessing, all things considered. If Zbirak had more time, he would’ve dragged out Pisano’s death for days.
“You’re a disgusting, arrogant bastard who only made it this far in life because of the handouts you received along the way.” Zbirak wanted to spit on him but resisted. “If you had a modicum of self-awareness, you would’ve come here begging for your life instead of maintaining your mask of false bravado. Perhaps I may have even considered sparing you.”
Pisano’s body had gone still, and the smell emanating from his pants indicated he could no longer hear Zbirak’s words. It would take a few hours before anyone realized there was a dead body in the stall, and that would be more than enough time for Zbirak to put distance between himself and the restaurant.
As he exited the restroom and returned to his seat, Zbirak motioned for the server. “My friend is ill.” He rearranged his face into a frown. “Which means I’ll take this time to pay the bill.”
“Oh no.” She glanced down at Pisano’s empty plate. “Do you think—”
“Doubtful.” Zbirak transformed his frown into another brilliant smile. “He’s got a sensitive stomach. I keep telling him he’ll eat himself into an early grave.”
Following his cue, she laughed at the joke, then pointed to his plate. “Would you like a box for your steak?”
Zbirak couldn’t stomach the idea of trying to reheat his meal without overcooking it. He’d rather see it go to waste. “Just the check, please.”
The woman took their plates, but when she reached for Pisano’s beer bottle, Zbirak’s hand shot out to stop her. He wrapped his fingers around the neck and smiled up at her. “This can stay.” If the woman thought his actions were strange, her face didn’t betray her. Bounding away, she returned a few moments later with the check. Waiting for her to retreat once more, he dropped a wad of cash on the table, slid the beer bottle into the pocket of his jacket, and strode out the front door.
Once the staff realized Pisano was still in the bathroom, they would send a busboy in to check on him. When the kid discovered the dead body, they would call the Atlanta PD, who would question Zbirak’s server. She’d describe the man at the table as white, with brown hair and a kind smile. He had an average build with no distinguishing features, likely in his forties. By then, the kitchen staff would have washed away any evidence of fingerprints from their leftover food. He’d wiped off the lock on the stall and the handle on the door before exiting the bathroom. Not to mention he’d tossed the beer bottle in a dumpster three miles across town. Any traces of the poison he’d poured into its open mouth while Pisano was distracted would disappear in a matter of days.
And just like that, Zbirak would slip back into the shadows like he had the past twenty-five years. His spirits were soaring as he merged onto the highway half an hour later, certain no one had followed him. His only regret was that he’d let Pisano ruin his dinner.
No matter. Once Mrs. Sherman was out of the picture, he’d sit down for another steak dinner. And this time, he wouldn’t make the mistake of inviting anyone else to the table.
2
The Chicago Historical Society was founded in 1856 to study and interpret the city’s storied past. After pieces of their collection succumbed to fire—twice—the CHS moved their museum and library to Lincoln Park, boasting over twenty-two million items exploring the city’s influence on American history. With the city backdrop to the West and Lake Michigan to the East, the Chicago History Museum collects snapshots of time and preserves them for all to witness.
One of the great ironies of Cassie Quinn’s life was that she loved museums. The smell, the atmosphere, the people, the history, the influence—all of it. You could walk into a museum and transport yourself to Ancient Egypt, where a toilet was merely a hole in a stool, then fast forward to a time in which a man named Marcel Duchamp could place a urinal upside down in a gallery and call it a fountain. Nowhere else in the world could you find such a strange amalgamation of historically and intellectually significant objects. It placed the breadth of human
achievement under a single roof.
