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I hung up. Vito pawed at my leg. I couldn’t keep him in misery any longer. I gathered up my phone, put his camo harness on, and leashed him. We headed out.
Fall was coming. Although the day was sunny, there was an undercurrent of chill to it that made me shiver, thinking of what was around the corner. Would I be alone this winter? Could Marc have been the murdered man?
Even though I could tell myself—and I did—that it was unlikely that he was a crime victim, another part of me, the part some people called the gut or heart, or even intuition, told me it was him. My mother’s dream was the truth. As we headed toward Clark Street, I remembered unwillingly the times Mom had had a glimpse into the future—when my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Mateer, was on maternity leave, Mom had dreamed her baby was stillborn. And it was. She’d also known our dog, Missy, would be hit by a car the day before it happened. Fortunately, Misty was with us a few more years, but with a limp and a terror of automobiles that never abated.
Dreams weren’t reality, I told myself. Mom’s past dreams were coincidences and nothing more. Yes, she was right about an unidentified man being found in the grass near our gay beach, but that doesn’t mean it was Marc.
Vito and I walked for a long while, my stomach churning with dread. Finally, we reached another beach, the one at the end of Touhy Avenue, and I sat on a bench. Vito curled up at my feet, head up, sniffing. Since it was a weekday and cool, the beach was mostly empty. There was a woman with long dark hair flying a red and white striped kite, running across the sand. She looked as though she didn’t have a care in the world.
I longed to be that woman.
I raised my phone and called the non-emergency number for the Chicago Police Department. I didn’t want to—I dreaded what might be conveyed. But I told myself that it was even more likely I’d get news that would allow me to exit this state of suspense that threatened my sanity.
After going through multiple voice-mail-type prompts, being transferred twice, I finally got to talk to a live person.
“This is Detective Andrea Cawood. I understand you might have some information for me?” Her voice was gravelly, reminding me of Kathleen Turner.
“Uh, yes. I think so, but I’m not sure.” I sounded like an idiot. And in a way, I hoped that impression might continue because it would mean I was totally off the mark about this murdered man.
“How about you give me your name before we go on?”
“Is that necessary?”
“Uh, not absolutely. Is there a reason you want to remain anonymous?” She paused and I could hear clicks as her fingers ran over a keyboard. “You do realize your number came up on Caller ID?”
I sighed. “Samuel Blake.”
“And you’re calling in reference to?”
“Marc Cornish. He’s—”
The detective cut me off. “Did you say Cornish?”
“Yeah.”
“Would this be the Marc Cornish whose last known address was on North Wolcott in Chicago?”
I nodded and then hurried to add, “Yes.”
There was a long pause. I heard a cough in the background, garbled broadcast voices, and then, “Mr. Blake, are you available right now?”
I told her I’d be home in fifteen or twenty minutes.
I was about to ask if she needed my address, but she didn’t need it because her next question—and it was no question, not really—was, “Could you come into the station on N. Clark, just north of Devon? Do you know where that is?”
“I do. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Thanks. Just tell the officer at the front desk you’re here to see me. I’ll be expecting you within the half hour, okay?”
“Sure, no problem.”
“And if you’re not here within that time frame, I’ll come find you.”
I was surprised she’d say this, yet I imagined her smiling as she did.
II
By the time I got to the precinct, I was sick to my stomach. The nausea was so bad, it reminded me of last winter, when I’d gotten a horrible flu that had Marc contemplating calling an ambulance. From the chill and my own slick bodily dampness, I knew I probably looked as ill as I felt—whitish skin, slick, hair plastered to my head.
