Читать книгу Mourn The Living - Henry Perez - Страница 25

Chapa didn’t bother opening the blinds or turning on any more lights in Jim Chakowski’s office. The lamp on the desk was enough for what he had to do, and he didn’t want to draw any attention.

Being in that office was a little like sitting in a man’s personal confessional. Whoever Jim Chakowski had been, and maybe all that he had been working on, was right there, somewhere.

Chapa studied the large shelving unit that housed Chakowski’s collection of LPs, at least what was left of it since any that he kept at home had been blown to shards. The records were neatly organized in alphabetical order by artist, except for the one that had been pulled out and played most recently. The disc itself, James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James, still sat on the turntable. Chapa wondered whether it was the last record Jim had ever listened to, or perhaps something his brother had played while he was there. Chapa thought about putting it back on the shelf, but that didn’t seem right somehow, so he dropped the needle on the first track, turned the volume down so that only he could hear it, and unplugged the headphones.

He made a call down to the archive room to request copies of every issue of the Chicago Record from the past two months that had included a Jim Chakowski story. After being told that would take a few hours to put together, Chapa decided to focus on the torn piece of paper.

Jim Chakowski’s scribbling didn’t get any more helpful with multiple readings. But the list of dates and places, that was something Chapa could research.

Cleveland (1990–1996)

Pittsburgh (1997–2002)

Baltimore (2003–2005)

Oakton (2005–)

Three large cities, followed by Oakton, a town of about 150,000. Why not Chicago? Or Milwaukee? Cleveland to Pittsburgh to Baltimore could be a natural progression of some sort. But Oakton?

What the hell did any of this mean?

He searched online for the four sets of dates, but came up empty. Then he began burrowing through Chakowski’s computer hoping to locate any stories or notes that might contain further details corresponding to the items on the page. He was ready to give up after an hour’s worth of frustration, when the phone rang.

Chapa thought for a moment about how best to answer. Who would be dialing up a dead reporter? Could be an old acquaintance who hadn’t heard the news, or had just found out and wanted more information. Probably Warren Chakowski calling Chapa to check up on him. Or maybe it was a source.

That thought made Chapa’s pulse race for a moment.

“Chicago Record.”

“Mr. Chapa?”

“Yes.”

A pause on the other end, then, “Are you in Mr. Chakowski’s office?”

“Two for two.”

“This is Maya, you know, at the front desk.”

“Yes, Maya.”

“Mr. Sullivan told me I would probably find you there and asked me to remind you about the Oakton Business Council meeting.”

“What about it?”

“You’re suppose to cover it, you know, like Mr. Chakowski used to. It starts in just under two hours.”

Chapa wondered what the hell he’d signed up for, and why Sullivan would go through someone else to remind him of his assignment. Chapa didn’t have to think about that for long. He understood. Fear was a great motivator, and in Chapa’s relationship with Sullivan it served to blur the line between writer and editor.

“Hey, Maya, do me a favor.”

“Remind you every day about your itinerary?”

“No, I can keep track of that, thank you. I’d like Mr. Chakowski’s mail here at the paper forwarded to me, to my office, or just hand it to me when I come in.”

There was a brief pause on the other end.

“Okay, Mr. Chapa, I’ve written myself a note.”

He thanked Maya and got back to work. After ten minutes of sifting though Chakowski’s stories about the Oakton Business Council meetings, Chapa concluded that his colleague had been writing them on cruise control. Not much in the way of probing news reporting, just a lot of who said what about which. Determined to do better, he spent the next hour taking a crash course in Oakton city business and politics.

The information Chapa found in some of Chakowski’s other stories turned out to be far more interesting than he’d expected. But his research came to an end when Maya called again, this time to remind him that the meeting began in forty-five minutes.

Again, he thanked her, and considered marching over to Sullivan’s office and pinning his ears back a bit. Two hours ago he may have done exactly that. Stormed in and reminded Sullivan that he was award-winning reporter Alex Chapa—though all of those awards were stuffed in a box somewhere—and explained that he knew how to do his job better than anyone, and didn’t need a reminder, let alone two.

Chapa might have done that earlier, but not now. Having his editor hide behind a receptionist was victory enough. Besides, after reading a few of Chakowski’s meatier stories about corruption and shady associations, he was almost looking forward to this assignment.