Vendetta's Diary

“No, but we have reason to believe that this person may still be alive, using a different identity.”

“Is there any chance he could be my husband?”

Sturgess pulled back. The woman’s answers were obviously genuine. If his suspect were indeed Patrick Summers, he had chosen a life of lonely exile, rather than subject his family to what had been done to him.

“No, ma’am, I don’t think so. Let me give you my number anyway, so you can call me if anyone tries to use his name or your accounts. Just as a precaution.”

After he hung up, Sturgess gathered up the file and tossed it onto a corner of his cluttered desk. Maybe Patrick Summers was alive somewhere. If he were ever found, there wasn’t a jury in the country that would convict him for murdering the hideous Dr. Frankenwiener.

What would something like that do to a person, Sturgess wondered. If you survived what Patrick Summers had gone through, what would you be capable of?

* * *

“Two dry martinis,” Nash told the waiter at the exclusive restaurant. He had suggested as an alternative to drinks an early dinner, and she had accepted readily. They sat side by side in a plush leather banquet in a dark corner of the restaurant, and she touched his hand as he lit her cigarette.

“You’re a very beautiful woman.”

“Do you date all your clients?”

“No,” he lied easily. “In fact, this is the first time it’s ever happened.”

The waiter returned with their martinis, and he offered a toast as she studied her menu. “To you, and your new life.” Buddy, if you only knew, Pat thought to herself as they touched glasses. As she sipped her martini, Pat felt his hand touch her knee. Deftly, she lowered her hand to his, and slid it a few inches up her silky thigh. She noticed with detachment that having a handsome man’s hand up her skirt did nothing for her. No matter. Back to business.

“Are you seeing anyone,” she asked him.

“No, I’ve been so busy with my work, I haven’t been out in ages.” Smooth, Pat had to admit to herself, since she had been shadowing him for two months, as he squired Anne Summers around Chicago.

The waiter returned, and it occurred to Pat that she was about to have her first gourmet meal in five months. Resisting the temptation to order an enormous steak, as Patrick would have done, she selected whitefish with a potato soufflé, and asparagus vinaigrette as a starter. The waiter produced a wine list, and she sat back and watched Nash order an expensive chardonnay. This was going to be fun.

She steered the conversation to her imaginary money. “Where do you think I should invest?”

“Tech stocks continue to offer the best opportunity for long range growth, and that’s what I would recommend to a beautiful young woman with her whole life ahead of her.”

“Aren’t they awfully risky?” In her prior life as an investment banker, Pat had correctly anticipated the bubble, and she wanted to find out what Nash was doing with Anne Summers’ insurance money.

“We anticipate significant increases this year and for the foreseeable future.”

God, what an airhead, Pat thought to herself as the waiter produced her asparagus and his heart of lettuce drenched in blue cheese dressing. With a pang of envy, she cut a dainty forkful of asparagus as she watched him dive in. His cell phone rang, and he turned away from her as he spoke into it. Was it Anne, calling to ask why he hadn’t called? Or was she expecting him tonight? Pat strained to listen.

“I’m sorry, something came up at the office. No, I won’t be able to make it tonight. Sorry. Call you tomorrow. Bye,” he whispered.

“Have I taken you away from something important?”

He touched her knee again, this time sliding it up her thigh without invitation. “No, Pat, I’m all yours.”

Pat excused herself to visit the ladies room between courses, feeling the sudden need to get away from him for a few minutes. Nash was not only an idiot, he was a cad, taking advantage of Anne Summers and risking their daughter's financial security. Pat would have to act tonight, she decided.

A gorgeous brunette entered the ladies room, and Pat caught herself staring at the girl as she lifted her skirt and fussed with her slip and stockings. She felt a tingle between her legs, and suddenly it dawned on Pat that she might be a lesbian. She smiled at herself in the mirror as she freshened her lipstick. A custom engineered, limited edition, lipstick lesbian.

She returned to the table just as their entrees were being served. She steered the conversation to little things while they ate. Where did Nash live? An apartment in Streeterville. Did he have any roommates? He lived alone. Would she like to see his apartment? Pat blushed, with genuine embarrassment, and said yes.

After dessert (berries for her, fudge cake for him) and coffee, he drove her to his apartment in his BMW, and she took his arm as they walked from the garage into the lobby of his smart highrise. They were alone together in the elevator, and they rode silently to his floor. She followed him to his apartment, and after he opened the door, she paused nervously before entering.

“Maybe we’re rushing this,” she said.

“I’ll just show you my view, and then I’ll take you home, if you don’t want to stay,” he said. The view was spectacular, and she stood at his floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lights of Chicago as he put on soft music and loosened his tie. He came up behind her, and put his hands on her shoulders. She turned around and reached up to kiss him, draping her arms languidly around his neck. Then, as he started to tongue her, Pat brought her knee up into his groin with terrific force.

Nash collapsed onto the floor in agony, gasping for breath as he started to throw up his steak dinner. Pat picked up a brass table lamp, and swung it down hard onto the back of his head. He struggled to get to his feet, and she hit him again with the lamp, knocking him back down. A third blow, and he lay motionless on the floor.

After feeling for a pulse, Pat removed her scarf and wiped her fingerprints off the lamp. She used it to close the door behind herself. She was not observed leaving his apartment, although the doorman later remembered seeing an attractive blonde come into the lobby with Nash, and leave alone a few minutes later.

* * *

POLICE SEARCH FOR SLAYER OF CHICAGO MAN

CHICAGO: Police are searching for a mysterious woman last seen on the arm of a Chicago man before he was murdered in his luxurious apartment. Arnold Nash, 34, was found dead on the floor of his lakefront residence, the victim of massive head trauma and a ruptured testicle. According to a spokesman for the Chicago Police Department, Nash met earlier in the day with Patricia Exman, a Chicago woman who came to him for financial advice. They had dinner together at a restaurant on Rush Street before they were seen entering Nash’s apartment. The woman is described as about thirty, with blonde hair and extremely attractive. Here whereabouts are currently unknown.

Frank Sturgess put down his Daily News and looked out the window of his commuter train. Surely it was just a coincidence, he told himself, although there was something about that name…Patricia Exman. It would be interesting to find out if Arnold Nash had any connection to Patrick Summers. If one had the inclination.

* * *

Pat Summers, her hair cut and rinsed back into a mousy brown shag, pulled long wool socks over her stockings and laced up a pair of sneakers. She dropped her heels into her shoulder bag, and set off for her bus stop.

As she made her way in the cold winter air, she stopped at a newsstand to read the headlines. She had to run to her stop in order to catch her bus. Taking a seat on the way to her new job, she felt better about herself than she had in quite some time.