ONE
Thursday the 3rd: 11:00 a.m. CDT
The lights dimmed and Ethan Krol thought it had begun. His heart pounded in harmony with the uneven rattle of the elevator.
But it was just the lights.
The elevator doors wheezed open.
The twentieth-floor corridor of the Almeida Building, a seventies-era construct of concrete and tinted glass, was well maintained, anonymous. Yellow crime tape and the light blue of Chicago PD clashed garishly with the muted decor. Krol wrinkled his nose.
The passageway reeked of fish.
With a mumbled "Good morning" to the uniform at the door, he stepped past the tape and into a neat, nicely accessorized apartment, pulling on a pair of latex gloves as he did so. The bright blue of Lake Michigan was clearly visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He drank the view in for a moment, steadying himself. Only then did he look down.
There were three bodies on the floor. Only two of which were human. "What the hell is that?" he asked.
"It's a barracuda. Leastways, if you believe Carter over there." Detective Sergeant Raymond Yeung pointed a finger toward the uniform at the door. "Gotta be two-foot long if it's an inch." He looked like he wanted to pick it up.
"Uh-huh. And the other two?" He fixed Yeung with a mildly reproachful stare. "You could have told me the quote-unquote, kid, was just a baby."
"Sorry, lieutenant."
Ethan fought the urge to turn away. Dried the sudden pricking at the corner of his eyes.
"Shoulda taken the day off."
Yeung chuckled darkly.
"Father and son. Kid's name is Benedict Okoro."
The baby looked like he was sleeping. He was stretched out on the hardwood floor surrounded by a small puddle of water. His caramel skin was smooth and unblemished, no sign of trauma. His clothes, little tee shirt and jeans, were wet but appeared otherwise undisturbed. If you stroked his dark, tightly curled hair, it was easy to imagine he would wake up.
"About a year old by the look of him," Ethan murmured.
"Sounds right. Father is Amadi Okoro, Nigerian, twenty-five-years old. Med student at Northwestern."
Amadi Okoro was a small man, maybe five-foot-seven but athletic in appearance. He was smartly dressed in a polo shirt and khakis. As with the boy, the clothes were wet, though the surrounding pool of water was considerably larger. In death, his velvety, asphalt skin was tinged with gray. It was several tones darker than his son's.
"Mother's Caucasian I'm guessing."
"Yep. Jennifer Freeman Okoro. She was found unconscious in the bedroom. EMTs carted her off to Kindred. Uniform is posted at the bedside, so they'll give us the nod when she wakes up."
"Unconscious for real or just faking it?" Ethan allowed himself a wry smile. "Inquiring minds want to know."
"If it was fake, it was good enough to fool the EMTs." Yeung looked at his watch. "She's been gone almost an hour. She must still be under, or we'd have heard by now."
"You're assuming the uniform's paying attention. Who called it in?"
"Cleaning lady...Natalia Kowalczyk, not spelled like it sounds."
Ethan looked around the room, peered into the kitchen and the single bedroom with its rumpled sheets and crib within easy reach.
"What's with the fucking fish?" he asked. "It's too big for a tank, there's no tank in the apartment, and I've never seen barracuda on a menu, so I doubt they bought it for dinner."
"No reason they couldn't eat it, though. Looks tasty."
"And where'd they buy it? Not likely to be something from the fish market."
"You think the killer left it? Like a calling card?"
"I don't know what to think."
"Yeah, well I'll call around," Yeung offered. "Can't be many places in Chicago selling fresh barracuda."
"Uh-huh."
