All the Way Gone

Book 4: Detective Annalisa Vega

by Joanna Schaffhausen

Genres: Female Sleuths

Synopsis

The fourth installment in the beloved Detective Annalisa Vega series

Is there such a thing as a good sociopath? Newly minted private investigator Annalisa Vega is skeptical, but her first client, Mara Delaney, insists that some sociopaths are beneficial to society. Mara has even written a book titled The Good Sociopath centered around Chicago neurosurgeon Craig Canning. Dr. Canning has saved hundreds of lives so it shouldn’t matter that he doesn’t actually care about his patients, should it? But Mara has a more urgent problem, she is now concerned that Canning might not be such a good sociopath after all. A young woman in Canning’s apartment building mysteriously plunged to her death from a balcony, and Mara fears Canning could be responsible. She needs to uncover the truth about Canning before the book comes out, so Annalisa has little time to search for answers.
Annalisa quickly discovers that more than one person wanted the young woman dead. Canning insists he didn’t do it. His charming, unflappable demeanor suggests that either he’s telling the truth or Mara is right and he’s cold-hearted to the core. But the cops believe the girl’s death was an accident. The more Annalisa probes, the more she becomes convinced it’s a fiendishly clever murder, one only a brilliant psychopath could pull off. She draws deeper into a battle of wits with Canning, so determined to prove his guilt that she forgets Mara’s most important warning—that sociopaths only care about winning at all costs. When Annalisa finally peels back the layers of deceit to reveal the horrifying truth of the girl’s death, she may be too late to save herself..

Release date: August 13, 2024

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 352

Reader says this book is...: emotionally riveting (1) entertaining story (1) unputdownable (1)

Sample

ONE

The day the girl fell from the sky started like any other for Ruth Gold Bernstein because she preferred it that way. She ate the same breakfast Sunday through Friday, which consisted of a soft-boiled egg, a slice of wheat toast, and half of a navel orange. She and Marty used to split a grapefruit and the Chicago Tribune, but he’d had the temerity to develop pancreatic cancer and die on her three years earlier. Ruth blamed the bacon. She was an observant Jew and never touched the stuff. Marty had been less observant, although he’d often joked, “I’m observant. I observe bacon tastes damn good and I plan to eat as much of it as possible.” In the weeks after his death, Ruth had carefully wrapped up Marty’s half of the grapefruit to save it for the next day, right up until her daughter, Meredith, informed her that grapefruit didn’t mix with Ruth’s medications and forced her to switch to the orange—a small resentment Ruth choked down every morning with her toast and black coffee.

Meredith lived in California now, with her husband and Ruth’s two grandsons. She wouldn’t know if Ruth sneaked the occasional grapefruit, but Ruth gave her word she’d stick to oranges and Ruth’s word was gold like her name. After breakfast, she washed and dressed and opened the sliding balcony door to tend to her plants. In late April it was finally warm enough to move them back out into the fresh air. Weather permitting, Ruth took her afternoon tea on the expansive balcony, watching the comings and goings of the courtyard below, and she swore she could see the plants unfurl their tender green leaves toward the sun, exhaling at the arrival of spring.

She felt a touch upon her leg and looked down to see her white Persian cat, Duchess, meowing and sliding her ample furry body along Ruth’s charcoal-gray trousers. Duchess had been a surprise present from Marty the year before he died. They had never owned a pet before; it didn’t seem fair given the amount of traveling they did. Ruth didn’t like surprises, but surprisingly, she did like the cat. She admired the grace and fastidiousness of the animal, the way Duchess perched in a regal pose upon the cushion of the armchair, her front paws crossed and her fluffy tail licked into submission alongside her. Ruth had to admit, especially on cold nights, it was nice to have another beating heart in bed with her. Like the plants, Duchess welcomed the change of seasons because it meant that Ruth left the slider open to the balcony and she could watch the birds flit around from their vantage point, fourteen stories up.

Of course, Duchess had seen the girl, Victoria. Call me Vicki, she’d said to Ruth the day she’d moved into the apartment next door two years ago. Ruth could not understand why someone given the name of queens would instead choose to go by the moniker of a shopgirl, but she kept this opinion to herself. Vicki liked to lie out on her balcony, engaging in loud, chatty phone conversations about the various men in her life, all of whom were riffraff from what Ruth could make out. The girl was friendly enough, though, and helpful. Once, Duchess had seized on the open front door and zoomed out to have an adventure in the hallways. Before Ruth could stop her, the cat had climbed into an elevator and ridden it to Lord knows where. Vicki had helped Ruth track down Duchess by the pool area. Aren’t you the most gorgeous kitty, Vicki had cooed, which meant she had impeccable taste in felines even if this discernment wasn’t evident in her sartorial choices. Indeed, the girl had been wearing what looked like fuzzy hot-pink house slippers at the time. Ruth thought perhaps she’d been in such a hurry to help she’d run out of the apartment not yet dressed. But no. She’d seen the girl wearing the horrid slippers out on the street. Upon a closer look, Ruth noticed they said UGG on the sides and she thought that extremely fitting.

Still, she liked Vicki in a vague sort of way and she wished the girl could find a mate worthy of her. Sometimes Ruth would glimpse one of the no-good men slinking out of Vicki’s apartment before noon, unshaven and carrying his shoes. Ruth would fix him with her most icy stare so he’d know quite well what she thought of that behavior. But they need not have

bothered to sneak, Ruth knew. The girl was never awake in the early morning, certainly not before ten, which is what made her fall that day all the more mysterious.

Ruth took her walk as usual when the grandfather clock struck 8 a.m. She had a set one-and-a-half-mile route around the Gold Coast that she did in rain or shine precisely at the same time every day. The rest of the world did not adhere to her constancy. She had different companions in the elevator every day. This particular morning, it was that handsome doctor from across the courtyard. Dr. Canning. He’d received big press last year when he’d separated twin girls born in Thailand who were conjoined at the head. The manager of the property had cut the article out of the newspaper and pinned it on the community notices board by the mailroom, but of course, Ruth had already seen it in the metro section.

“Mrs. Bernstein,” he said, smiling down at her with his even white teeth. “You’re looking well turned out this morning, as always.”

She couldn’t really say the same. He wore jeans and sneakers and what was that frightful thing called again … oh, yes. A hoodie. She overlooked his wardrobe because no doubt he was on the way to the hospital to save someone’s life and that took precedence over one’s clothing, even in Ruth’s estimation. “Do you know the name of every single person in this building, Dr. Canning?” she asked as the elevator glided to a stop.

“No, just the cute ones,” he replied with a wink.

“Oh, get on with you,” she said, waving him off with both hands, but her face warmed at his words. She’d never turned a lot of male heads—Marty’s was the only one who mattered—and now at age eighty-four she was almost invisible.

Dr. Canning went to the garage entrance while Ruth walked to the front door. Damon Young, the doorman, hurried to open it for her, favoring her with one of his trademark wide smiles. “Morning, Mrs. Bernstein.”

“Good morning, Damon. How did your forensic psychology paper turn out?”

“Got me an A,” he said with pride.

“Of course you did.” Damon was taking night classes to earn a degree in criminal justice. He would be graduating soon and leaving them, which was the way of things. More change. If you lived as long as Ruth had, change became inevitable, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

“And how are things with your new lady friend? When am I going to meet her?”

Damon chuckled. “Aw, Mrs. B, you wouldn’t approve.”

Ruth peered up at him with a serious gaze. “You’re a young man, and it’s fine to have fun while you’re young. But be careful with your heart—it’s the only one

you’ll ever have.”

“You’re telling me. It’s a war zone out there. Not everyone gets lucky like you and Mr. B.”

Damon had not known Marty. What he knew of their relationship came only from Ruth’s tales. “You’ll know,” she told Damon. “When it’s the right girl, you’ll know.”

She left Damon and took her usual route over to Michigan Ave by the old water works, from there walking north toward the Hancock Center. Only it wasn’t the Hancock Center anymore, she had read in the papers. It was nameless now, just a number like any other building on the block. She remembered it being built in the 1960s, how excited Marty was to see it climbing to its towering one hundred stories. Ruth had never much cared for the skyscraper in its heyday. It was black and looming and the shape reminded her of that movie villain, Darth Vader. When she’d told Marty this, he’d laughed and hummed the theme music at her. Now when she saw the hulking, brutish structure it made her smile and remember his voice. Maybe she even pitied the poor anonymous building a little. The second-tallest building at the time, now it was only the fifth-tallest in Chicago. If you survive long enough, she thought, time will tell you—you’re not so special after all.

She took Oak Street toward home. The city had hung out cheery baskets of spring flowers on every light post and the riotous colors lifted Ruth’s mood. She was humming to herself and mentally preparing for her next task—catching up on her electronic correspondence—when she approached her luxury apartment building from the rear. The back entrance had no doorman, which meant Ruth had to carry her key card to get in through the gate to the courtyard, but she felt the extra bit of nonsense was worth it for the view. The large stone fountain in the middle was not yet operational for the season but was nonetheless intriguing to behold, with its three life-sized buffalo heads and the manicured bits of greenery around it. She made eye contact with one, was contemplating its laconic gaze, when a single terrified scream jerked her attention upward.

Ruth raised her eyes just in time to see the girl fall through the air and hit the pavement with a horrible noise that echoed off the marble façade of the U-shaped building. She froze in the moment because it felt impossible. Surely that had not just happened. It could not be. Ruth quivered, her bones shaking, and she thought she might fall to the earth herself. “Help,” she wheezed, tottering in the direction of the lobby. “Somebody help her.” She stumbled on the path and dragged herself into the building. She made it to Damon before collapsing in his arms. “Vicki,” she managed to say. “She—fell.”

Thus began a seemingly endless parade of fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars, a small army of men and women who arrived after the battle had already been lost. Ruth knew the instant she’d heard the awful thud that there would be no saving that girl. Still, she had to relive the death over and over as she recounted what she’d seen to a dozen different people in uniform. They asked her the same repeated questions, only some of which Ruth could answer. How had Vicki seemed lately? Was she depressed? She couldn’t say. She thought she had heard her weeping on the phone to someone last month, but Ruth had chalked it up to boyfriend trouble. Had Ruth heard anyone else in the apartment with Vicki that morning? No, but that wasn’t unusual. Vicki’s overnight guests often rose when she did, at midday.

Someone brought Ruth a paper cup of tea that went cold in her hands. Eventually a nice young man who introduced himself as Detective Carelli took the tea

from her and disposed of it. “I’m very sorry for what you’ve been through today,” he said as he took a seat next to her on the bench in the lobby. Ruth shuddered. They had carted out Vicki in a bag not a half hour earlier.

“I’ll be fine. I just can’t figure out what happened to that poor girl.” The idea that Vicki might have leaped to her death when she seemed so outwardly happy was almost too much to bear. Maybe Ruth should have paid more attention. Been more neighborly.

“We think it was an accident,” Detective Carelli said as he consulted his notebook. “Ms. Albright was apparently alone in the apartment, hanging wind chimes on her balcony when she slipped.”

“An accident,” Ruth whispered. “How terrible.”

Detective Carelli accompanied her back to her apartment. He offered to call someone for her but Ruth waved him off. What could Meredith do from California at this point? No. Ruth would make a pot of Earl Grey tea and put on some soothing music—no, maybe something raucous, like Saint-Saëns, loud enough to drown out the echo in her head of that poor girl hitting the ground. Ruth had scarcely removed her jacket when she felt an odd stillness in her home, a total silence she hadn’t felt since Marty died. “Duchess?” she ventured, beginning to explore the six rooms in search of her companion. “Duchess kitty, where are you?”

She looked everywhere, including the balcony, but Duchess was nowhere to be found. A great sob rose up out of Ruth, then a keening she’d been holding back all day. Vicki had helped her find Duchess the last time. Who would help her now? She was so overwhelmed with grief and worry she forgot the one bit of memory that had been niggling at her since her conversation with Detective Carelli. It had been silent in the courtyard before Vicki fell. Ruth had not heard any wind chimes.

TWO

The gold plate was so new and shiny that Annalisa could see herself reflected in it. She noticed her crinkled, worried gaze and rearranged her features into a smile before she turned around, drill still in hand, to face Nick and his teenage daughter, Cassidy. “Ta-da,” she said, gesturing like Vanna White to the nameplate she had affixed to the wall next to her office door. “What do you think?”

“Vista Investigations,” Nick read off, his brow slightly wrinkled. Cassidy had the same wrinkle. In fact, they even stood alike, their arms folded, fingers landing in identical fashion at the elbow, shoulders at the same slope. When Cassidy had appeared in front of Nick last fall saying she was his daughter from a long-ago affair, Annalisa had counseled him to get a DNA test to be sure. Nick had so far resisted and Annalisa had to admit it was pointless anyhow. They were plainly related. “Why not Vega Investigations?” Nick asked as he nodded at the name. “It’s a one-woman show here.”

“The A and the V are for me,” Annalisa replied. “The S and the T are for Sam Tran.” Her last case at the Chicago PD had been Sam Tran’s death and now she’d taken over his PI business. “The I is for what we have in common … investigation. Add it up and you get Vista.”

Nick smiled and moved to put an arm around her. “Proud of you,” he said, giving her a squeeze. Annalisa looked down at his hand and saw the wedding band she’d slipped on his finger just two months ago. There are no second acts, F. Scott Fitzgerald once wrote, and Annalisa hoped like hell he was wrong. She’d quit her job as a police detective to hang out her own shingle and remarried the ex-husband who’d run around on her like an alley cat during their first union. Annalisa had placed a lot of faith in sequels.

“Yeah, congratulations,” said Cassidy with a burst of enthusiasm and perhaps a touch of awkwardness. The teenager was a product of one of Nick’s earlier affairs, unknown to him for years, and now they were all trying to figure out a new family configuration. Their interactions so far were polite and careful. “I think it’s super cool you’re going to be a PI,” Cassidy told her. “All my friends agree.”

“Wait a sec. Are you saying a PI is cooler than a cop?” Nick pretended to be offended, and Cassidy immediately looked contrite.

“No, I meant—”

“Relax, kid, he’s just yanking your chain,” Annalisa told her and Cassidy relaxed.

“Oh, in that case … yes. Way cooler. Annalisa’s done the cop thing already and now she’s going out on her own to take on cases the police won’t. That’s badass.”

“I agree,” Nick said, eyeing the gold sign.

“Let’s not get carried away,” Annalisa said as she went back inside the small waiting room and then into the larger office. “I don’t even have any cases yet.” The lack of income made her nervous. Nick had moved in and they were trying to sell her condo, but the market had cooled and there were no bites yet. Nick told her not to worry, that he could float them both for a while, but Annalisa had always made her own way and did not want that to change now.

“Still, we should celebrate,” Nick said. “Take-out Thai and cheap wine?”

“That’s what we usually have on Friday nights,” Annalisa replied as she shifted through the paperwork that had somehow amassed on her desk.

“We’ll put the wine in real glasses this time,” Nick replied.

“Okay, it’s a date.” Annalisa eyed Cassidy. “Not like a romantic date,” she clarified. “You’re welcome to join…”

“Oh, no no. I have to be getting back to my mom’s anyway.” Nick’s phone rang and he excused himself to take it. Cassidy watched him go. “I think your date may be canceled,” she said to Annalisa. “That sounds like work.” 

Annalisa knew the drill. “You’re a quick learner.”

“I never realized that people got killed every single day.” Cassidy walked to the window and looked out at the street. “You only think about it when it happens to someone you know.”

Annalisa opened her mouth to reply but no words emerged. Cassidy’s mother was dying of ALS; no one was sure how many days she had left. Nick poked his head back in before Annalisa could formulate a response. “I’ve got to go. Shooting in West Garfield Park, and the guy they caught is one I’m looking for. Order the Thai anyway and I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

It was no fun drinking alone. “I will.”

He pointed at Cassidy. “You need a lift?”

“No, I’m good. I’ll hang here with Annalisa for a bit and then take the bus.”

Annalisa raised her eyebrows as Nick disappeared. She and Cassidy hadn’t really spent any time alone together, and she figured the kid liked it that way. “I’m not going to be doing anything very interesting,” she cautioned the girl. “I’ve got to do some paperwork and establish a filing system.”

“I can help you,” Cassidy answered brightly. “Actually, I was thinking I could help you on a regular basis.”

“What?”

“Nick said you were hoping to hire a part-time assistant.”

“He told you that?” Annalisa froze in her paper shuffling. Nick had been nagging her to spend some one-on-one time with the girl. Was this Nick’s idea?

“If it’s just filing and phone stuff, I can do that no problem.”

“But don’t you have … school?” Cassidy was a junior in high school, only sixteen.

Cassidy moved around the desk to face Annalisa, resting her hands with their chipped polish and bitten nails on the edge as she pled her case. “Yeah, but I’m done by two-thirty, and there’s nights and weekends and stuff.”

Eating off that nail polish isn’t healthy, Annalisa thought. My mother would have had a fit if I pulled that. Immediately as she thought of her own ma, Annalisa remembered why Cassidy’s mother wasn’t able to battle something as minor as her daughter’s nails. This kid shouldn’t be shuffling paper around right now; she should be with her mother. “But your mom must need you…” she said aloud and Cassidy’s expression turned stricken.

“Mom is fine,” Cassidy said, her chin lifting. “I mean she’s stable. She has aides to help her. She—she wants me to get a job. She says it will look good on my college applications.”

Annalisa bit her lip and tried to think of another excuse. Before she could come up with one, her gaze fell on a stamped envelope peeking out from under her new file folders. She cursed and grabbed it. “I can’t talk about this right now. I have to get this in the mail today.” It was her insurance paperwork and she couldn’t operate as PI without it.

“I can do it,” Cassidy said eagerly. “The post office is on my way home.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” Annalisa didn’t want to encourage Cassidy’s assistant idea; she wasn’t looking for her own personal Veronica Mars. She reached for her jacket, intending to shepherd the girl outside the office, when a

woman appeared in the doorway. Somehow, she had entered without making a sound, and she looked out of place amid the mess. Her pink headscarf, tailored beige overcoat, and large sunglasses suggested a Hollywood starlet who didn’t want to be recognized, but this was Chicago, not Los Angeles. Still, there was a diffidence about her, a vulnerability that triggered Annalisa’s protective instincts.

“Can I help you?” Annalisa asked.

“I hope so.” The woman’s mouth, set in a tense smile, gave an odd twitch. “I apologize for barging in like this without an appointment, but my situation is fairly urgent. The door was open so I just came in…” The tote bag hanging from her shoulder rose and fell with her helpless shrug. “You are a private investigator, yes?”

Annalisa glanced around at the chaos in the office, which included a filing cabinet without drawers assembled, the empty bookshelf, the papers on her desk, and the two paint swatches on the wall where she was trying to decide between olive green and desert sand for the new color. She had passed the licensing exam with no issues but had yet to receive the actual license in the mail. Technically she wasn’t yet open for business, and she still had that insurance check that had to be posted by five. “I have to run a time-sensitive errand at the moment,” she said to the woman. “But if you’d like to leave your name and number, I could get back to you after the weekend…”

“I need help now,” the woman insisted, clutching her bag. “Please. Next week will be too late.”

“I can run the errand.” Cassidy seized the opportunity. “It can be my first official task as your assistant.”

Annalisa hesitated. The woman checked her delicate gold watch. Whatever this woman’s problems were, money wasn’t one of them. She would be a paying client. “Unofficial,” Annalisa said as she grudgingly handed Cassidy the envelope. “We’ll discuss more later.”

“I won’t let you down.” Cassidy gathered her things in a whirl and left Annalisa alone with her mysterious visitor. The woman had yet to remove her dark glasses.

“Okay,” Annalisa said, taking a breath. “How can I help you?”

“First you have to promise me one thing.” The woman reached for her sunglasses and Annalisa half expected to see a black eye underneath. But no. The woman’s bright blue eyes were intense but unharmed. “Whatever happens, whatever you find out … you can never let him know I was here."

THREE

I assure you I keep all my investigations confidential.” Annalisa still assumed she was dealing with a battered spouse. The woman wore a wedding ring.

“All?” The woman sat across the desk from Annalisa and arched an eyebrow at her as she gestured at the paint swatches on the wall. Her lips twitched again but this time it felt like teasing.

Annalisa ducked her head with an answering smile. “Well, yes, that’s how I mean to do it going forward. You caught me on opening day, Ms.…” She still didn’t know the woman’s name.

“Doctor,” the woman supplied. “Dr. Mara Delaney. But please call me Mara.”

“Great. I’m Annalisa Vega.”

“I know. I saw the news stories about you a couple of years ago … when you caught the Lovelorn Killer? That’s why I’m here.”

Annalisa’s shoulders tensed and she forced herself to sound pleasant. “I see. And why is that exactly?”

“You’ve met one,” Mara replied flatly. “You’ve met one and you know it. I feel like that gives you a better starting place than most other people.”

“I’m sorry?”

The woman took out a hard-backed book and slid it across the desk to Annalisa. The glossy cover read The Good Sociopath in bold letters above a shadowed male figure rendered somewhere between a photo and an illustration. The lighting effect made his dark eyes stand out but the second o in Sociopath was colored yellow like a halo behind the man’s head. Annalisa set the book back down.

“If you read the news stories, then you know the Lovelorn Killer had nothing good about him,” she said coolly.

“No, of course not. But he was unusual.”

Annalisa chuffed. “I should say so.” The man had murdered ten people.

“I mean he was unusual among sociopaths. Most aren’t homicidal or even especially violent. In fact, they may be helpful to us in some capacity.”

“Good sociopaths,” Annalisa said with skepticism as she picked up the book again. This time she registered the author’s name: M. J. Delaney. “This is your book?”

Mara answered with a wry smile. “Yes, technically. I conceived the concept, carried out the research, and wrote the text. But he’s the reason the book exists.” She pointed at the male figure on the cover. “Craig Canning. Maybe you’ve heard of him. He’s a local neurosurgeon and the soon-to-be poster child for desirable sociopathy.”

Annalisa suppressed a shiver as she imagined the shadowy figure on the cover wielding a scalpel. “A surgeon? I’m not sure I’d want a sociopath operating on me.”

“You might be surprised. It takes a certain kind of nerve to cut into another human being—to crack open their skull and muck around in the blood and brain matter.” This time, Annalisa did squirm, and Mara pointed a finger at her. “Aha, see? You can’t even stomach imagining it, let alone going through with the act. But what if you had a brain bleed or a tumor that had to be removed? You’d be desperate for someone with a scalpel and the wherewithal to use it.”

“Enter Dr. Canning.” Annalisa fingered the edge of the book. In her experience, sociopaths were

 violent predators to be eliminated at all costs.

“Him and others. Sociopathy rates are higher among surgeons and other types of doctors.” She held Annalisa’s gaze. “They’re higher among police officers as well—around double the numbers you see in the general population, which is around one to four percent.”

“I’m sorry … you’re saying one out of every twenty-five people is a sociopath?”

Mara smiled again and nudged the book closer to Annalisa. “Intrigued yet?” When Annalisa didn’t answer, Mara sighed and leaned back in her seat. “Yes, that’s the starting point for my argument. If sociopathy weren’t somehow beneficial to society, why would it persist at such high levels? It turns out, once you start looking at some of the core traits in another light, you can understand why we might want them around. Think about a funeral director, for another example. To do his job well, he has to perform empathy for his clients—the deceased’s loved ones—but he cannot go to pieces every time a new family walks through the door. If he’s breaking down crying with them, if he cannot bring himself to embalm the body, then he’s useless to the family. They need him to retain a certain emotional distance.”

“So funeral directors are all sociopaths too?”

“Of course not. It’s possible for an empathic person to develop a hardened shell, to compartmentalize enough to carry out an otherwise difficult job. But my point is that sociopaths naturally fit these roles. They thrive in them. Craig Canning has saved hundreds of lives.” She hesitated a beat. “He just doesn’t care that he’s saved them. Not really. He’s in it for the skill and the challenge. He enjoys beating death at its own game, if you will. He views every patient saved as a kind of trophy, which is abnormal thinking, I grant you, but the end result is a win for the patient too.”

“This is fascinating, really,” Annalisa said as she pushed the book back toward its owner. “But I don’t know what it has to do with me.”

Mara glanced over her shoulder like she was afraid she’d been followed. Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. “My publisher is a university press. They’ve bet big on this book—on me and Craig—and they have sunk more money than usual into the print run. Needless to say, my grant money is tied up in this too. If the book sinks, my career is shattered. So I need to be absolutely sure.”

“Sure of what?”

Mara waited another moment before taking a newspaper clipping from her bag. “This young woman, Victoria Albright, fell to her death the other day from the balcony of her penthouse apartment.”

Annalisa didn’t need to read the newspaper article. Nick had mentioned the case at the Parkview apartment complex. “And?”

“Craig Canning lives in the same building. I need to be sure he had nothing to do with Miss Albright’s death.”

“What makes you think he was involved?” As she recalled, Nick had ruled the whole awful incident an accident.

“I don’t think it. At least, I don’t want to think it. Craig Canning has no record, no history of violence. I wouldn’t have centered the book around him if he did. He’s well-liked in his field, and most people who know him refuse to believe he could ever be a sociopath. He’s charming and delightful most of the time.”

“What makes you sure he is one?”

“I’ve run both brain

imaging studies and psychological tests on him. It’s as close to certainty as one can get about these things.”

“But you’re less sure he’s good, is that it?” Annalisa asked as she looked at the book cover again.

“We’re slated to appear on Good Morning America next month for the book’s launch. The New York Times is sending a reporter.” She sounded pressured. “There are going to be a whole lot of people out there trying to prove me wrong, looking for any kind of dirt they can dig up on Craig. I need him squeaky clean.”

“But this woman’s death … it was ruled an accident. Do you have any reason to believe otherwise?”

“Nothing concrete,” Mara admitted. “But the newspaper report says she was hanging wind chimes when she fell.”

“So?”

“So wind chimes are Craig’s go-to move when he’s trying to bed a woman, and he tries to score with all of them. He even tried it with me and he knows quite well I’m married. He has a charming story about how the wind chimes remind him of his grandmother’s farm back in Iowa. He says she hung a set she made herself, and he used to play in the yard with the baby goats and listen to the chimes blow in the breeze. He’ll tell you that the tinkling sound makes him feel like her spirit is watching over him.”

“Sounds sweet,” Annalisa agreed.

“It’s bunk,” Mara said flatly. “His grandmother worked at Marshall Field’s. But he’ll make you believe the story when he’s telling it.”

“So you think because Victoria Albright had wind chimes, she must have been involved with Craig Canning? And that he pushed her over the edge of that balcony? Why?”

“I told you—I don’t want to believe it. I am hoping you find out that the two of them never even rode in the same elevator together. But whatever you do, you can’t let him know it’s me who hired you. You can’t let anyone know. If it got out that I had doubts about my star subject…”

“But you do have doubts,” Annalisa pointed out. “Doesn’t that negate the whole premise right there?”

“No. I could very well be wrong. I probably am. Besides, it’s a proven fact that Craig saves lives. He—he’s ultimately a force for good no matter what his motives.”

Annalisa fingered the edge of the newspaper article. Victoria Albright’s smiling face peered out at her, a candid photo taken at some recent society benefit. “What do you think would happen?” she asked. “What would Craig Canning do if he found out you were investigating him?”

She gave a brittle laugh. “Sociopaths hate to lose. Craig’s hospital already didn’t want him doing this project, but he overruled them. It caters to his narcissism. He’s expecting a big bestseller and some bad-boy notoriety. If the project goes south, it will be my career but Craig’s ego will take a hit. 

 A hit that he can’t, and won’t, withstand.”

“What does that mean?”

“If he suffers, then I do too.” Her gaze flickered over Annalisa. “Me and anyone else he blames for the downfall of his big coming-out party.”

“Me?” Annalisa asked, sitting up straighter. A prickle broke out across her neck. She had barely survived her last encounter with a sociopath.

“You understand then why I came to you,” Mara said with a grim nod. “You know the risks. You’ll be prepared.”

Annalisa turned the book back around so she could study the dark, enigmatic eyes of Craig Canning. He didn’t look dangerous, but then again, they never did. Mara Delaney was right that Annalisa wouldn’t be fooled this time. “Okay,” she said with a long exhale. “I’ll take the case.”

 

FOUR

Annalisa picked up a brochure from the marble counter as she loitered in the lobby of the Parkview apartment building. Timeless beauty with the luxuries of modern living, read the cover. The glossy photos showed residents enjoying a crystal-blue pool, sitting in a landscaped garden, and admiring the skyline view from an expansive balcony. “Thinking about moving in?” asked the uniformed doorman in a friendly tone. “We’ve got a penthouse apartment opening up.”

“Uh, maybe,” Annalisa hedged. She and Nick were in search of a new place, but they could never afford to live here. Technically, Victoria Albright had lived and died in the same Chicago that Annalisa was raised in, but the ritzy Gold Coast bore little resemblance to the boxy, low-lying brick houses found in Norwood Park. The city’s priciest neighborhood had started out as undesirable swampland until tycoon Potter Palmer set his sights on it in the 1870s. He built himself a forty-two-room mansion, as big as a city block, which had then attracted his wealthy buddies to the region and sent real estate soaring. Now the place was a mix of sleek high-rise condos, row houses, and historic buildings with fancy façades that had been converted to luxury apartments years ago. If you still pined for an old-timey mansion, you could get one if you had a spare five million dollars lying around, which Annalisa assuredly did not. She put the brochure back down. “I’m not sure how safe it is here,” she confided to the doorman, whose name tag read DAMON. “Didn’t some girl die here just the other day?”

He made a sympathetic noise. “Yeah, Vicki Albright. But it was a freak accident, nothing against the building.”

“But I read she fell from her balcony,” Annalisa said, going wide-eyed at him. “That suggests there’s an issue with the building codes—or at least the railing.”

“Nah,” he replied. “Building’s fine. Vicki wasn’t always the most careful girl around, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

He looked like he considered saying more but then shook his head. “I just wouldn’t worry about the apartment being unsafe, that’s all.”

Annalisa gave him points for refusing to gossip. She tried another tack. “Well, if I were interested … do you know who might be selling?”

“Not sure. She had a brother, but he lives out in L.A. and I’m pretty sure he likes it that way. Doubt he’d want to move here away from all the sunshine and movie stars.”

“Movie stars!” Annalisa leaned over the counter and tried to act impressed. “Does he really get to hang out with them?”

“Sure does. He showed me a pic of him and that chick who just won the Oscar—like, from the after-party? He got to hold the statue and everything.”

Annalisa did not get to reply further because Nick walked in the front doors holding a folder in one hand and a hot dog in the other. “Really?” she asked him as she gestured at their tasteful surroundings. “You brought a street dog in here?”

“You said to meet you here for lunch. I assumed that meant I had to bring my own.”

“Hey, you’re that cop,” Damon said, pointing at Nick. “We met the other day when Vicki…” He trailed off and then looked at Annalisa with suspicion. “Does that mean you’re a cop too?”

“Nope,” Annalisa said, feeling freer at the word. “I’m just his wife. Thanks for all the information on the building. We’re just going to look around a bit if that’s okay.”

“Fine by me,” Damon replied, although he seemed faintly puzzled.

In the elevator, Annalisa snatched the folder from Nick’s hands as he finished off the last of his hot dog. She paged through the witness statements from the morning of Vicki Albright’s accident and winced as she got to the photos.

Vicki had landed face down on the stone pavers near the fountain in the courtyard. “Zimmer would kill me if she knew I was showing you this stuff,” Nick said, referring to her old boss.

“She’d hate it more if you missed a murder.”

“That’s the only reason I’m here. Hey, check it out.” He touched a handmade flyer tacked to the elevator wall. Lost cat, it said. Reward for safe return. “How much do you think the reward is in a place like this? Like, a week’s salary for you or me? Two?”

Annalisa glanced at the photo of the white cat with the blue eyes. “You’re a detective,” she told him. “Find the cat and you’ll have your answer.”

The elevator gave a soft ding as they reached the fourteenth floor. “It’s number 148,” Nick said as he fished the keys from his pocket.

“Wait a sec.” Annalisa stopped him before he pushed open the door. She pulled out two sets of latex gloves from her jacket pocket and handed one pair to Nick. He stared at them as she put on her gloves. “We don’t want to disturb the scene,” she said. “In case forensics needs to take a look.”

“They took a look. They found nothing. The same nothing we’re about to find.” He made a show of putting on the gloves and then entered the apartment. The scent of stale, slightly perfumed air hit Annalisa in the face. It only took a few days with no circulation for a space to feel alien and stifled, and Vicki had been dead for nearly a week. Annalisa stalked the perimeter of the huge apartment to get a feel for the layout. Burnished hardwood floors, cobalt paint on the walls with a white coffered ceiling. The place had to be three thousand square feet at least, and Annalisa counted three spa-like bathrooms. She repressed an eerie feeling at imagining Vicki at the vanity getting ready for her day. No matter how many times she had visited a deceased person’s home, Annalisa never got used to being a voyeur, an unwelcome guest. Vicki would have stocked the bar, picked out the oversized white sofa, hung the giant painting of Audrey Hepburn on the wall, never imagining these would be the artifacts left at the scene of her death.

“The front door was locked from the inside?” she asked Nick as she drifted to the kitchen.

“Correct.”

The kitchen was magazine-cover beautiful, with no dirty dishes to be seen. It had modern walnut-colored cabinets with brass pulls and a large quartz island. The huge fridge was dressed to match the cabinets. Annalisa opened it and found a bunch of expensive cheese, half-eaten, prewashed salad wilting in the bag, various types of alcohol, and three single-sized bottles of fancy pomegranate seltzer water. The freezer held stacks of Lean Cuisine entrées and Annalisa smiled a little as she saw them. Maybe she and Vicki had something in common after all.

“Who gets this place?” Annalisa asked as she moved to the living room. It featured wide glass doors that led to the huge balcony, which was presumably the point of Vicki’s demise.

“Not sure. Maybe her brother, Gavin. He’s out in California.”

Annalisa turned to look at him. “You spoke to him?”

“He took the news hard. Started sobbing on the phone.”

“Hmm. Still, if this is a murder, he’d have to be a suspect. The money’s all his now.” 

“That’s a big if,” Nick replied. “And like I said, he’s in California. He hasn’t seen her since Christmas and I got the feeling that was how she liked it.”

“Hmm,” Annalisa said again. She consulted the photos in the folder and went out to the balcony. Nick followed. “Nice view,” she remarked as she looked out at the blooming trees in Washington Square Park.

“I guess that depends on which way you’re looking,” Nick said, peering over the edge to the courtyard below. Annalisa looked too. Management had cleaned up any trace of Vicki’s fall. The garden was pristine.

“So,” she said to him, “walk me through it.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “This is supposed to be your show, not mine.”

“You say it was an accident. Tell me how it went down.”

He gave a heavy sigh. “She’d dragged one of the chairs over to this corner,” he said, pulling out a metal chair from the set Vicki had on the balcony. “You can see the hook on the ceiling here where she was hanging the wind chimes.”

Annalisa squinted where he’d indicated and saw a cheap-looking temporary white hook stuck to the bottom of the cement overhang. She pulled out the photo to compare and noted Nick had the wrong chair. The one in the photo was missing one of its tiny iron feet. “Use this one,” she told him, ...