Page 18 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name

The speakerphone on the table crackled to life, cutting through her thoughts. “What are we looking at?” came the voice of AUSA Malcolm Oates, calling in from his ivory tower at the Dirksen Federal Building.

Belinda exhaled. “Well, right now, I’m looking at about three-quarters of a man formerly known as Floyd Monaghan.”

A pause. Then, dryly: “Where’s the last quarter?”

She glanced at the photos again. “Still digging him out. Thankfully, the dumpsters on the South Side don’t get emptied too often.” She reached for a manila folder and flipped it open. “Doubt they’ll ever find the hands or the teeth, though.”

Oates sighed. “Of course not.”

“Luckily,” she continued, “the guy had titanium screws in his left tibia from a skiing accident a few years back. The coroner traced the serial numbers and got an ID that way.”

“So who was he?”

“Floyd Monaghan. Twenty-eight. DJ from Salt Lake City. Popular, apparently.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

Belinda resisted rolling her eyes. Oates was a forty-three-year-old Black man who wore tailored suits and listened to Coltrane. He was hardly the target audience for whatever Monaghan had been spinning.

“He had a hit last summer. Remix of that Bee Gees song,” she offered.

“‘More Than A Woman’?”

“‘Stayin’ Alive’.”

A short, amused exhale from the speaker. “You want to say it, or should I?”

“It’s been said,” she muttered. “Several times today.”

She flipped another page. “Monaghan was touring, doing clubs and festivals across the country. Three shows in Chicago. Last one was at a club in the Loop called Code. His manager reported him missing two days later. That was a week and a half ago.” She turned her gaze back to the photos on the board. “Fast forward to two days ago, and he’s in a bunch of trash bags in Canaryville.”

Oates sniffed. “Tragic. But what’s it got to do with us?”

“It hit our radar because the last place Monaghan was seen was a well-known LMN shooting gallery in South Lawndale. Place has a reputation for wild parties.”

A pause. Then she added, “And it’s also known to us as the long-time abode of one Daniel Castaño.”

Silence.

Belinda could feel Oates sitting up straighter in his chair.

“You have witnesses placing Monaghan there?”

“Not good ones,” she admitted. “Most of the people at that house that night were in no state to remember their own names, let alone who came and went. And those who do remember?” She shook her head. “Not exactly lining up to talk. Even the ones who don’t owe LMN a damn thing aren’t willing to get involved.”

Oates let out a slow breath. “And yet, you’re telling me we do have something.”

Belinda tapped the folder against the table. “Not yet. But we will. Someone saw something. Someone always does.”

SEVEN

He’s not coming.

Julia stood stiffly, arms locked around herself, her gaze fixed on the narrow gap in her bedroom curtains. Through the sheer fabric, she could see the front gate and the stretch of concrete bathed in the glow of the security lights.

Every time headlights flickered through the trees, her breath hitched, her stomach coiling tight. But none had turned down her drive.

It was after nine. He wasn’t coming.