Читать книгу Mourn The Living - Henry Perez - Страница 24

Through the frosted window that filled the upper half of the closed door, Chapa saw there was someone sitting in Jim Chakowski’s office as he approached. It was dark inside, but the smattering of light slipping in through an outside window backlit the visitor, creating a silhouette. Chapa paused for a moment before opening the door.

“Come on in and close the door behind you, Alex. I have something to show you.”

Chapa couldn’t see the man’s face, and he didn’t recognize the thick voice, not right away. But he did as asked, anyhow.

“This arrived in my mail this morning,” the guy said, then leaned forward and turned on an old desk lamp.

Chapa looked at the man’s face, ignoring the envelope he’d just tossed on the desk pad. Maybe it was the low, unflattering light of the single bulb, but Warren Chakowski looked like he hadn’t slept since the night before. Probably hadn’t bothered to try.

“You look tired.”

“I don’t sleep much these days, never have. But that’s not important,” Warren said, pushing the thin package across the desk and toward Chapa.

“What is it?” Chapa asked, lifting the yellow, oversized envelope from the desk.

“You tell me.”

It had been torn open in a hurry and folded unevenly, as though Warren had shoved it into a pants pocket. Inside, Chapa found a piece of paper ripped from a yellow legal pad without much care. He unfolded the paper and saw a collection of what appeared to be random notes.

“Was there a letter explaining any of this?” Chapa asked.

“No, just that sheet of paper. But it’s Jim’s writing all right.”

The sheet was cluttered with various brain droppings, but Chapa’s attention was drawn to a list of names, some of which were familiar, as well as a list of cities and dates—Cleveland (1990–1996), Pittsburgh (1997–2002), Baltimore (2003–2005), Oakton, Illinois (2005–).

Scribbled in the bottom right corner was a series of numbers: ND93106.

“Why would he mail this to you?”

“Because Jim knew what was going to happen to him.”

Chapa tried to mask his skepticism, with mixed results.

“I know you don’t believe me, Mr. Chapa. But just a week or two ago, Jim told me how he was preparing a will.”

Chapa thought about the do-it-yourself kit he’d found in one of Chakowski’s desk drawers, but decided to keep that to himself for the time being.

“A lot of people in their fifties have a will, Warren.”

“Not my brother, he just wasn’t the sort to worry about that kind of thing. I asked Jim if something was wrong, physically, I mean. He said he was fine, but I could tell something was burning him up inside.”

Chapa studied the notes on the paper. Where to start?

“Jim was scared, and he wasn’t the sort to get scared.”

There wasn’t much more to say. How can you tell someone he’s wrong about a person he’s known his entire life? Chapa knew better than to even try.

“I’ll check out the names and dates and see if any of it means anything.”

Warren stood up from behind the desk and started for the door.

“But please understand, Warren, that this could take a while and will likely lead us right back to your brother’s death being the result of poor wiring.”

The man nodded, and Chapa continued.

“I know you’ve suffered a loss, but you have to try to put some of these thoughts out of your head. Give me a few days, and I will call you.”

Warren nodded once more as he let himself out of the office, but Chapa was certain he’d hear from him again, and soon.