into Chicago?”
“I take the Metra train. It’s about an
hour and fifteen minutes from Round Lake Beach. I hate driving into Chicago and
only do it if I know I’ll be working late. During an ad campaign, the hours can
get pretty long.”
“Are you in the midst of a campaign
now?” Carl asked, his head cocked to the side, eyebrows raised in curiosity.
“No.” Richard sighed. “We just completed
our fall campaign for Aqua Power. They’ve got a line of fishing boats and boat
motors.”
Carl referred to his notes. “Do you take
a specific train when you commute?”
“Yes. Usually the 7:12 in the morning,
and try to get out of the office in time to catch the 5:00. It’s an express and
gets me home around 6:45.”
“You leave your car at the train
station?”
“Yes. I park it along the tracks on
Main.”
Kate was becoming more uncomfortable
with the tone of the questions, but Richard seemed unfazed. Perhaps she was
just being overly sensitive.
Carl flipped a page, running his finger
down the yellow, lined paper, stopping close to the bottom. “Were you in the
office all morning?”
“Yes.”
The single syllable was drawn out.
Richard’s voice was strained and Kate stared at him, surprised at the flush of
color high on his cheekbones.
Something was wrong.
Her eyes flashed to Carl. She didn’t
know when he’d changed position but he was no longer lounging back in the easy
chair but sitting upright, feet flat on the floor, the hand holding the pencil
poised above the yellow pad of paper.
“What time did you leave for lunch?”
“Around noon.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“No,” Richard responded shortly. “You
could ask my assistant, Candy Marshall.”
“She said you left while she was at
lunch.”
Richard’s head jerked up and for a long
moment he stared intently into the police chief’s expressionless face. Kate
glanced from her husband to Carl, hoping to discover some clue as to why
Richard had reacted so strongly. Both men ignored her, their eyes locked in a
nonverbal challenge that ended when Richard dropped his gaze to the coffee
table.
“Were you in your office on Tuesday
afternoon?”
“No.”
His response shocked her. “Richard?”
He turned, reaching out to squeeze her
hand. The gesture did little to reassure her.
“Perhaps you could give me some idea of
how you spent your afternoon,” Carl said.
With a final squeeze of her fingers,
Richard released Kate’s hand and pushed himself to his feet, walked to the
patio doors, and stared out at the backyard. When he turned back to the room,
his body was outlined against the light, the shadowed features of his face
almost skeletal.
“This is probably going to sound
stupid,” Richard said, “but I don’t know where I was most of the afternoon.”
He flopped down on the cushions. He
rubbed his hands back and forth along his pant legs, then propped the ankle of
his left leg on his right knee, pleating and straightening the material along
the cuff. Satisfied with the arrangement, he put his foot back on the floor.
He leaned forward, arms braced on his
knees. He faced Carl directly; eyes steady. His forehead was puckered as he
stared across at the police chief who waited in silence.
“It’s hard to explain the kind of
pressure that builds up during the last days of a major campaign. Everything
goes wrong. Film gets lost; scripts need rewriting; artwork stinks. The
deadline is constantly hanging over your head. Every phase has to be approved
by me. I’m the one responsible if the client hates it.”
Richard paused, his eyes focused on the
police chief’s inscrutable face. “Once the presentation is over, there’s a
tremendous letdown. Usually I’ve been penned up in the agency for long hours,
and when it’s over I feel claustrophobic. It’s almost like I’m suffocating.”
Kate had been aware of Richard’s
restlessness, but she had never heard him describe it. He was such a
“I take the Metra train. It’s about an
hour and fifteen minutes from Round Lake Beach. I hate driving into Chicago and
only do it if I know I’ll be working late. During an ad campaign, the hours can
get pretty long.”
“Are you in the midst of a campaign
now?” Carl asked, his head cocked to the side, eyebrows raised in curiosity.
“No.” Richard sighed. “We just completed
our fall campaign for Aqua Power. They’ve got a line of fishing boats and boat
motors.”
Carl referred to his notes. “Do you take
a specific train when you commute?”
“Yes. Usually the 7:12 in the morning,
and try to get out of the office in time to catch the 5:00. It’s an express and
gets me home around 6:45.”
“You leave your car at the train
station?”
“Yes. I park it along the tracks on
Main.”
Kate was becoming more uncomfortable
with the tone of the questions, but Richard seemed unfazed. Perhaps she was
just being overly sensitive.
Carl flipped a page, running his finger
down the yellow, lined paper, stopping close to the bottom. “Were you in the
office all morning?”
“Yes.”
The single syllable was drawn out.
Richard’s voice was strained and Kate stared at him, surprised at the flush of
color high on his cheekbones.
Something was wrong.
Her eyes flashed to Carl. She didn’t
know when he’d changed position but he was no longer lounging back in the easy
chair but sitting upright, feet flat on the floor, the hand holding the pencil
poised above the yellow pad of paper.
“What time did you leave for lunch?”
“Around noon.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“No,” Richard responded shortly. “You
could ask my assistant, Candy Marshall.”
“She said you left while she was at
lunch.”
Richard’s head jerked up and for a long
moment he stared intently into the police chief’s expressionless face. Kate
glanced from her husband to Carl, hoping to discover some clue as to why
Richard had reacted so strongly. Both men ignored her, their eyes locked in a
nonverbal challenge that ended when Richard dropped his gaze to the coffee
table.
“Were you in your office on Tuesday
afternoon?”
“No.”
His response shocked her. “Richard?”
He turned, reaching out to squeeze her
hand. The gesture did little to reassure her.
“Perhaps you could give me some idea of
how you spent your afternoon,” Carl said.
With a final squeeze of her fingers,
Richard released Kate’s hand and pushed himself to his feet, walked to the
patio doors, and stared out at the backyard. When he turned back to the room,
his body was outlined against the light, the shadowed features of his face
almost skeletal.
“This is probably going to sound
stupid,” Richard said, “but I don’t know where I was most of the afternoon.”
He flopped down on the cushions. He
rubbed his hands back and forth along his pant legs, then propped the ankle of
his left leg on his right knee, pleating and straightening the material along
the cuff. Satisfied with the arrangement, he put his foot back on the floor.
He leaned forward, arms braced on his
knees. He faced Carl directly; eyes steady. His forehead was puckered as he
stared across at the police chief who waited in silence.
“It’s hard to explain the kind of
pressure that builds up during the last days of a major campaign. Everything
goes wrong. Film gets lost; scripts need rewriting; artwork stinks. The
deadline is constantly hanging over your head. Every phase has to be approved
by me. I’m the one responsible if the client hates it.”
Richard paused, his eyes focused on the
police chief’s inscrutable face. “Once the presentation is over, there’s a
tremendous letdown. Usually I’ve been penned up in the agency for long hours,
and when it’s over I feel claustrophobic. It’s almost like I’m suffocating.”
Kate had been aware of Richard’s
restlessness, but she had never heard him describe it. He was such a
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