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He shrugged his duffel bag up higher on his shoulder and pulled out his set of keys. Snow still covered the sidewalk and porch steps, and he was happy to see there weren’t any footprints in the fresh powder. At least, no human prints.
Vermin were an issue. He didn’t leave food here, but mice, squirrels, and raccoons liked the insulated walls and the quiet of an empty house. Every three months, he sent around a guy to check his attic. It was the only other person he had given the code to, but it was worth it to keep rodents from chewing on his wires.
It took him a few seconds to find the right key, and he took that time to listen for anyone approaching him from behind. Some might think he was paranoid, but having as many enemies as he did, he benefited from staying vigilant.
As soon as he fit the key into the door’s lock and twisted it to the right, a soft beeping emanated from the panel just inside the entrance. He kept a tally of the beeps in his he
ad. He had purposely shortened the timer in case any burglars managed to get past his first line of defense.
Dropping his duffle on the front porch, Zbirak waited until thirty seconds had passed before popping open the panel on the alarm system and typing in an eight-digit code. He pressed enter, and repeated the code one more time, changing the final number from an eight to a three. Upon hitting enter one more time, he closed the panel and turned toward his home, ears pricked to catch any unusual sounds.
Zbirak pulled his gun and stalked forward, sweeping left to right as he crossed the small living room. There was a sofa along one wall and a moderately sized television across from it. A few bookcases guarded the entrance to the kitchen, also empty. He peered out the back windows. At this point in the year, the snow wouldn’t melt until Spring. He was happy to see it was smooth and even, except for a few spots with animal tracks.
Retracing his steps, Zbirak swung back around and headed for the stairs. He stayed along the outside, avoiding the one in the middle that creaked no matter where you stood. When he reached the landing, he checked the bathroom, then made his way to the two bedrooms. Only one had a bed, and it was this one he checked first, careful to avoid stepping on the tripwire he had placed at the entrance.
Lastly, Zbirak pulled down the ladder to the attic, pausing to listen for scrambling. After a few seconds, he popped his head through the door for a visual confirmation. There were dozens of different sized boxes littered across the floor. But if anyone tried opening them, they’d be in for a nasty surprise.
Satisfied that his house had remained untouched, Zbirak lowered himself back down the ladder, closed the attic, and headed downstairs. He grabbed his duffel and took one last deep breath of the chilly outside air before closing the front door. Then he shut all the curtains on the first floor and got to work.
After spending most of the night on the road, he was happy to stretch out. He’d taken a few hours to sleep while pulled over along the shoulder, but it hadn’t been ideal. To loosen up his stiff body and get more blood pumping to his brain, he did a few calisthenic exercises in his living room. When he was satisfied, he flipped on the TV and pulled out his arsenal.
Zbirak wasn’t a religious person, but he believed the universe operated outside of his own desires. In other words, it would align itself to its own interests, regardless of his needs. As a result, he made sure not to take any more risks than necessary. That’s why checking his weapons after every job was so important to him.
Placing a towel on the floor, Zbirak pulled out the knife he’d used to murder the woman and the cops, and cleaned off every spot of blood. Then he moved on to his pistol, disassembling it and cleaning each part with precision. He let his mind wander to the reporter on the television, a large Black man in a gray suit and navy tie. As the man read the latest report, a frown creased his face.
“Boyd Weathers here, reporting for ABC 7 in Chicago. Adriana King, twenty-three, was killed early this morning after a bullet penetrated the bedroom window of her apartment on Chicago’s South Side. Those who knew her described her as a good friend and excellent mother. Her son, Andre, is four years old.”
Zbirak shook his head. What a waste. He wondered if the woman he had killed the night before had been a mother. She hadn’t been wearing a wedding ring, though that didn’t tell him much. Then again, her death hadn’t been an accident like Adriana King’s. She’d simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Rather, she had been in the right place at the right time—for him.
It would be enough of a curveball for the police. Now that he was no longer in Savannah, he was sure they wouldn’t be able to trace him to Chicago. This was one of his safest locations. And it was where he’d needed to go next.
Zbirak had been thorough when he had gone through Rose Sherman’s house. He was sure to make it look like it had been ransacked, but he’d only pulled one piece of evidence from her home. He took it out of his bag and smoothed it onto the coffee table as he shifted to perch on the edge of the couch.
It was a boarding pass, left behind in a moment of panic and confusion. He felt another wave of annoyance at Pisano for tipping her off. She’d left in a hurry, barely packing anything before abandoning her house and making a run for it. Normally, Zbirak would’ve stayed in town and done his research—what family did she trust most? Where would she be more likely to go? But he hadn’t needed to. The boarding pass was enough.
It was for a flight to O’Hare International Airport. Typically, that wouldn’t be too much cause for celebration. Chicago was a large city, and even someone like Mrs. Sherman would’ve been able to disappear if she was clever enough. But her mistake had been scribbling down a phone number on the edge of the pass. Even if the ticket had been fake, left behind on purpose and meant to throw him off her scent, he doubted the phone number served the same purpose. And it started with a Chicago area code.
Zbirak pulled out his laptop and typed the phone number into a program on his computer. Sure enough, when the name populated the results field, a small smile spread over his face.
Robert Sherman.
Zbirak opened an incognito window in his browser and typed in the name, the number, and the word Chicago. The results were easy to find. Bob Sherman only had one social media profile—Facebook. His wife, on the other hand, had accounts on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. She even had a burgeoning YouTube channel where she taught people how to crochet dolls for their friends and family.
Melissa was a pre-school teacher, and Bob an investment banker. They had one child, little Georgie, and made a modest income. But the internet could only tell Zbirak so much. He wanted to know Bob’s schedule, his habits and mannerisms, his greatest fears and deepest desires.
Zbirak hooked his cell phone to the computer and changed phone numbers, mimicking a toll-free automated text service. Then he sent a quick blurb about having a package at the post office with a link that said click here to see an image of your package.
Zbirak could follow Robert Sherman home from work, but that always posed a risk of being caught in the act. Rose had probably already made contact, so Bob was likely aware of her situation. If he’d decided to help her—and a family man like him would—then he’d be on high alert if he understood even a fraction of the danger his late cousin’s wife was in.
Sending an innocuous text was much less work and much less suspicious. Undoubtedly, curiosity would get the better of Bob Sherman, and he’d want to know more about the package. When he clicked on that link, it would take him to a page that never stopped buffering. Bob would wait for a moment or two, trying to see the package awaiting him, and in that time, Zbirak would get the information he needed to make his next move.
17
Cassie opened the Annex, LLC folder on her lap. There were maybe twenty sheets of paper inside. It looked like the company bought and sold property. They’d hold on to a piece of real estate for a month or two, then sell it again at a substantial increase in price.
“Something shady is going on there.” Harris gestured to the folder.
